Category: English

I was the quintessential bad girl. I spent five years chasing Carter Sterling, the flawless golden boy everyone admired. He was aloof, arrogant, and constantly looked down on me. “You smell like smoke. It’s disgusting.” I would just shamelessly wrap my arms around his neck, bite his lip, and pass the nicotine lozenge from my mouth into his. After dating for a year, I hand-crafted a pair of custom rings. I ran off to find him, ecstatic, only to overhear someone asking what he thought of the Dupont heiress. His eyes were indifferent: “Not bad. Pretty obedient.” My breath caught in my throat. Then, I heard them ask what he thought of me. “Too wild. She’s not marriage material. I like good girls.” I was wild. She was good. I figured, since the answer was out, it was time to let go. 1 When Carter got home, he saw me chewing on a mint. He frowned. “Smoking again?” Usually, when I saw that look on his face, I would’ve already thrown myself at him, hanging off his shoulders and kissing him over and over, forcing the man who seemed as cold as the winter moon to flush with desire. Then, I’d smile and ask, “Can you taste the smoke?” His eyes would darken, his thumb subconsciously rubbing my waist, but his face would remain stern. “It’s the middle of the day. Stop messing around!” “Can’t you have a little decency as a woman?” When facing the guy I’d loved for seven years, what did I know about decency? I would just loop my finger around his tie and give it a gentle tug. “Baby, why don’t we go to the bedroom so you can teach me?” A faint blush would quietly creep up the tips of Carter’s ears, brighter than the lipstick smudged on the corner of his mouth. His voice would grow husky, though he’d still try to sound proper. “Teach you what?” I would give a wicked smile, my red lips curving as I pulled him step by step into the bedroom. But this time, I didn’t have the energy. I swallowed the crushed mint and walked right past him. His Adam’s apple bobbed. His gaze was dark and unreadable, as if he was expecting something. I chased him for five years and we had been together for one. I had seen disappointment, disgust, and impatience in his eyes. When it came to me, the only things missing were love and anticipation. He only agreed to be my boyfriend because, when his startup company was first getting off the ground and he was cornered by debt collectors, I called up my guys from the bar to bail him out. Using a mix of threats and cash, I threw down a hundred grand to settle his debts. At the time, he looked at me with distant, detached eyes. “What do you want?” I rested my chin on my hand, my eyes carefully tracing his features. He had lost some of the boyish charm from seven years ago. I smiled, looking as captivating as I could. “I like you. Be my boyfriend.” It was my twentieth confession. He was silent for a long time. Just when I thought he was going to reject me again, a soft “Yeah” broke the silence. I was instantly overjoyed, practically jumping up to kiss him on the cheek. My friends from the bar all cheered, hyping us up and chanting for a real kiss on the lips. My face felt hot. I looked at Carter. But his icy, frostbitten expression was like a bucket of cold water. He didn’t like me. He looked down on me. But I thought it didn’t matter. Time would change everything. I was so stupid. I suddenly laughed. Carter tugged at his collar with his long, articulate fingers, looking impatient. “What are you acting crazy for now?” “I don’t have any contact with Chloe Dupont anymore. If you keep throwing these baseless tantrums, then let’s just break up.” Over the past year, he had threatened to break up with me countless times. If you smoke again, we break up. If you drink, we break up. If you dye your hair, we break up. To keep him, I willingly shut down my bar, kicked the habits he deemed trashy, and tried my best to learn how to act like a refined, high-society lady. After all, my wildness was originally born because of him anyway. But this time, I was just tired. “Okay, Carter. Let’s break up.” 2 A flicker of turbulence flashed through Carter’s indifferent eyes. Then, he lazily pulled out his phone and tossed it on the table. “Spit it out. Who do you want me to delete this time? Who do you want me to fire?” Once, I made him fire an assistant who “accidentally” spilled coffee on him just to touch his chest, and I made him delete the Dupont heiress who was constantly making eyes at him. Back then, he looked at me with pure exhaustion. “It’s like explaining color to a blind person.” I panicked. Carter wasn’t born into extreme wealth, but he became a rising star in the business world through his sheer intellect and Ivy League degrees. And me? I dropped out of a garbage community college. We were worlds apart. People around us constantly dropped hints, telling me to let Carter go so he could step into a broader world. And that “broader world” was Chloe, the Dupont heiress. Carter and I hadn’t been together that long, and I didn’t want to break up. So, when I caught them on a date. Sitting in the high-end, exclusive restaurant I had wanted to go to for ages but could never get a reservation for. I didn’t even dare to go up and expose them. I didn’t dare question him. Late that night, Carter came home. I kept my tone casual. “What were you up to? You’re home so late.” Carter took off his jacket, answering carelessly. “Had dinner with an important client.” My heart trembled. My eyes instantly welled up with tears, and I turned my back to him, refusing to speak. He quietly walked up behind me and suddenly wrapped his arms around me. “It’s just that the liaison I was meeting with happened to be a woman, the Dupont heiress. Just out of basic courtesy, I drove her home, so it got a little late.” His tone was deep and gentle. Carter rested his chin in the crook of my neck, his hot breath hitting my skin. Even though it wasn’t an overtly romantic gesture. I still couldn’t stop myself from blushing. “Oh? So who’s prettier? The Dupont heiress or me?” It was just meant to be a flirty question, but it made Carter think for a long time before he finally answered. “You guys have different styles. You can’t just objectively say who is prettier.” His attitude snapped back to his usual serious demeanor, his tone turning cold. “You shouldn’t ask questions like that. Saying anyone is unattractive is just demeaning.” I was stunned by the lecture and pulled myself out of his embrace. “But saying I’m pretty doesn’t mean you’re saying Miss Dupont is ugly. Why would it be demeaning? It’s not like Miss Dupont is going to hear our private conversation, right?” He pressed his lips together and stared at me, his eyes dark. I felt incredibly wronged. From the day we got together until now, he had never once complimented me, nor had he shown any real affection. I just wanted a little bit of favoritism. A tiny bit of proof. But he just stood up in silence and walked upstairs without a moment’s hesitation. I got mad too. I wrapped myself in a blanket and slept on the living room couch all night. For the entire night, I didn’t sleep a wink, and Carter never came downstairs. He just left me down there, completely alone. 3 The only reason I stopped being mad at Carter was that he bought an SUV. He knew I loved driving heavy-duty trucks, but after getting together with him, I stopped going off-roading in the countryside and sold my old rig. My anger vanished into thin air. I made a pot of soup, walked into his office, and said excitedly: “Baby, I made chicken soup. Let’s eat together.” Carter rejected it immediately. “I can’t. I have a lunch meeting.” I frowned. “Alright, then have some when you get home tonight.” “Carter, that Thai place on West Street is actually pretty good,” a woman said as she suddenly pushed the door open. She looked a little surprised to see me. “And who is this?” “My girlfriend,” Carter stood up, then turned to me. “This is Miss Dupont.” Chloe Dupont stepped forward, incredibly poised and natural, and shook my hand. “I always wondered what kind of amazing woman could tie Carter down. I finally get to meet you today.” I just smiled and stayed quiet. Carter put his hands in his pockets. “Tara, head back first. Miss Dupont and I have business this afternoon.” But Chloe took the initiative to invite me. “Oh, don’t be like that! It’s nothing serious, just grabbing lunch. Let Miss Evans come with us.” “Alright then,” Carter agreed. Turns out, the “lunch meeting” was just a meal between the two of them. The way Carter agreed made me acutely aware of the difference in his attitude. He was never that accommodating with me. On the way to the restaurant, they walked side by side, chatting animatedly. Every time I tried to interject. Chloe would miraculously find a topic Carter was deeply interested in and talk right over me. Gradually, I fell behind, putting distance between us. At the restaurant, Carter pulled out Chloe’s chair for her first, paused, and then pulled out mine. I could see it clearly. I was only enjoying Carter’s gentlemanly behavior by riding on Chloe’s coattails. The waiter handed the menu to Carter. Carter raised a hand to stop him. “Give it to the ladies.” The waiter looked enlightened and handed it to Chloe. “My apologies. The girlfriend should order first.” As soon as those words hung in the air, everyone froze for a second. Anyone with eyes could see that they looked like the perfect match. And neither of them bothered to explain the misunderstanding to the waiter. We finished the meal in suffocating silence. As we were leaving, Chloe grabbed my hand. “Miss Evans, please don’t mind what happened. You’re Carter’s real girlfriend.” I pulled my hand away. “I know.” Carter frowned. Chloe playfully stuck her tongue out, turning to look at Carter. “Carter, I hope your girl doesn’t put you in the doghouse tonight!” Carter’s brow relaxed. “Don’t joke like that. Tara isn’t that petty.” I finally got a compliment from him, so why didn’t I feel happy? Watching the picture-perfect harmony between the two of them. I felt like a complete third wheel. 4 After that meeting with Chloe. The Chloe that he described as “obedient” and “proper” started appearing between us with increasing frequency. Consequently, my alone time with Carter dwindled to almost nothing. We started fighting all the time. After another nasty argument over me demanding he fire an assistant, we barely saw each other for almost a month. Carter finally took the initiative and offered to take me on a vacation. I wanted to make up too, so I naturally agreed. But it was ruined by a single phone call. Under the dim light, Carter’s profile looked exceptionally handsome. After hanging up, he kissed my lips, sweeping away the peppermint lozenge I had gotten addicted to. Just as I was about to kiss back, he pushed me away. “Chloe says she’s coming to Miami too. We’ll hang out together when we get there.” When did “Miss Dupont” turn into “Chloe”? My face fell. “Again? You’re running a business, not selling your soul to her.” Carter withdrew his arms from around me, his tone hardening. “Don’t speak so crassly.” “If something was actually going on between me and her, do you think I’d be contacting her right in front of your face?” They seemed entirely transparent. Carter reported to me every single time he was alone with Chloe. But can the things you see—and the things you don’t—really be explained away so easily? I rolled over and turned my back to him. Carter sighed, turned off the lamp, and hugged me from behind. “The Dupont Group is currently assessing whether our company is worth investing in. Chloe just moved back from abroad and doesn’t have any friends here. She just sees me as an older brother.” “I merely treat her like an investor. I’m just being respectful. I don’t have any other intentions.” “I don’t want to fight anymore. Can we just have a good trip?” His body temperature was naturally high. Leaning against him felt warm and comforting, just like the heat radiating from his palm when he saved me seven years ago. I understood how hard it was for him to build his startup, so it made sense that he treated Chloe differently. After all, having the backing of the Dupont family was a massive temptation for any ordinary company. I temporarily choked down my anger, but by the very next day, it flared right back up. Chloe basically took my place for the entire trip. One minute it was Carter, I need water, the next she couldn’t open a bottle cap, and then she was cold and needed a towel. I couldn’t lay on my beach chair anymore. I bluntly said I was getting in the water. Carter said he’d come with me. Chloe, who had been lounging perfectly fine, immediately jumped up and said she wanted to join. I ignored her and headed straight to the cabana to change into my swimsuit. Chloe and I finished changing and walked out at the same time. Carter’s eyes landed on me first, then quickly shifted to her. She excitedly twirled in her sundress. “Carter, does it look good?” But before she could spin even a few times, Carter stepped in and stopped her. Chloe instantly put on a pitiful, pouting face. Carter sighed helplessly, his explanation laced with comfort. “It’s dangerous to spin like that. You need to be careful.” His tone was gentle and totally doting. Standing under the blazing sun, I suddenly felt freezing cold. I turned to leave. Chloe obediently said “Oh,” straightened her knee-length skirt, and then casually glanced over at me. “Ah, is Tara wearing that…? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” I stopped in my tracks, just about to snap back at her. But Carter beat me to it, his tone lazy and detached. “That’s just how she is.” “She’s not like you.” I froze. I didn’t understand what he meant by that. By the time I snapped out of it, their two silhouettes had already dove into the ocean. The blinding sun hung high in the sky. Every ray of light felt like a red-hot steel needle, piercing my eyes until they ached. I trudged gloomily toward the shoreline. I saw Carter abruptly let go of the arm he was using to support Chloe. He turned and waved at me: “Tara, come teach Chloe how to play in the water.” It felt like he was desperately trying to overcompensate and explain something. But why be so nervous in the first place? I watched them for a few seconds, calmed my breathing, and slowly waded over. Seeing me approach, Carter visibly put more distance between himself and Chloe. “It’s much better if Tara teaches me! Carter is too clumsy.” Chloe smiled sweetly, grabbing my arm with fake affection. My face was completely blank. I just started giving her instructions on how to float, telling her to relax her body. She tried lifting her feet off the ground a few times but kept failing. Carter looked like he wanted to say something, but ultimately walked out of the water and headed back to the beach. Miraculously, the second Carter was gone, Chloe successfully floated. Her expression instantly went cold, and she yanked her arm back without warning. “Thanks, Tara.” My hands hovered awkwardly over the water. “You’re not used to it yet. Let me hold onto you.” Chloe gave me a sideways glance, a sneer curling her lips. “Cut the act. A street rat who’s been hustling since she was a teenager definitely knows what she’s doing.” “Clinging to a guy who’s completely out of your league… isn’t it exhausting?” “Tara, you really have a high tolerance for humiliation.” My brow furrowed tightly. My hands, hidden beneath the water, clenched into fists so hard they hurt. Suddenly, a massive wave crashed into us without warning. Caught off guard, Chloe and I both tumbled under the water. I quickly stabilized myself and started treading water. “Chloe!” A roar echoed from the shore. I whipped my head around and saw Chloe being dragged out by the receding wave. It scared the hell out of me. I immediately adjusted my angle and started swimming toward her. But I was violently yanked back by a brutal force. “Don’t you go near her!” Carter’s eyes were bloodshot and bulging. It was a pure, hostile warning. Because of his sudden, violent pull, I was caught entirely off guard and swallowed huge mouthfuls of seawater. The bitter, stinging saltwater felt like tiny, jagged knives. It left my throat burning in agony. But compared to the physical pain, it was the freezing chill spreading from the very bottom of my heart that made me grit my teeth. This time, I saw it with absolute clarity. From the very beginning, Carter’s concern for Chloe was on an entirely different level.

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Three years ago, an accident took my life. Or rather, it should have. Instead, a soul from another world hijacked my body to perform some ridiculous “favorability mission.” She failed. Miserably. It took every ounce of my will to bargain with the new System overseer to claw my way back. I traded everything for a single chance to reclaim what was mine. The System’s mechanical voice echoed in the hollows of my mind: [Host, you must successfully conquer the target, Zack Blackwood, within 30 days.] Then came the cold ultimatum: [Failure to complete the mission within the allotted time will result in permanent erasure.] I tightened my fists, glaring at the translucent blue interface only I could see. “This is a joke,” I hissed, my voice rasping. “That interloper spent three years turning my body into a two-hundred-pound disaster. Forget Zack Blackwood—at this point, a blind man wouldn’t look at me twice, let alone an elite CEO.” The System seemed to falter, a momentary glitch in its processing. [Well…] it paused, searching for a logical out. [Perhaps Zack Blackwood prefers a… more substantial presence?] … I let out a harsh, dry laugh as I faced the full-length mirror. My thighs were like pillars. My midsection looked like I was wearing a permanent life buoy. Two hundred pounds of soft, neglected weight. That brain-dead transmigrator had abandoned my company, ignored my legacy, and spent every waking hour playing the part of Zack’s pathetic, groveling lapdog. When she realized her “mission” was going nowhere, she gave up entirely, drowning her sorrows in grease and sugar. She had taken my supermodel frame—the body I had spent years honing with Pilates and discipline—and turned it into a mountain of grease. Looking at the mirror, seeing that I barely fit in the frame, I felt a wave of existential dread. “No more sugar. No more carbs,” I muttered. “I’m welding myself to the treadmill.” [That is wise, Host. This System will assist in your weight loss. After all, conventional data suggests men prefer a leaner aesthetic. It will aid the mission.] “Shut up,” I snapped. I started the treadmill, the belt groaning under the unfamiliar weight. As I felt the first beads of sweat break across my skin and the agonizing tremor of my muscles, I gritted my teeth. “Whether I ‘conquer’ him or not, I refuse to spend another second trapped in this version of myself. And another thing—why did that idiot get three years while I only get thirty days? Is your software refurbished or just cheap?” The System bristled. [Host! This unit has been ranked number one in the Central Bureau for three consecutive months!] I suspected it was lying, but I didn’t have the energy to argue. I hadn’t even finished five miles when my secretary’s name flashed on my phone. A crisis at the office. I showered quickly and moved to the walk-in closet. The moment I slid the doors open, I nearly had a stroke. Neon pink lace dresses. Tight, leopard-print spandex leggings. What kind of deranged, tacky aesthetic had that girl been sporting? Resisting the urge to set the entire wardrobe on fire, I settled for an oversized black tracksuit—the only thing that didn’t make me look like a burst sausage—and headed straight for the company. In the back of the car, I scrolled through the archived chats. Every single message was a masterclass in desperation. [Zack, are you tired at work? Did you eat lunch?] [Zack, it’s okay if you don’t reply. I’ll always be right here waiting for you.] It wasn’t just the words. She had attached “cutesy” selfies to every single text. I felt a surge of nausea so violent I had to look away. At least she had stopped the photos after she’d put on the weight, or I might have thrown the phone out the window. When I stepped into the Rossi & Co. headquarters, the lobby went silent. The staff looked at me with a mix of pity and suppressed laughter. For three years, that waste of space hadn’t set foot in the building. She’d forgotten where the entrance was, let alone how to read a balance sheet. The fact that the company hadn’t folded was a testament to the sheer grit of my senior VPs. I ignored the stares and threw open the boardroom doors. One look at the disastrous financial reports and the veins in my forehead began to throb. I spent the morning like a hurricane, firing two executives who had been cooking the books within the first hour. By noon, the whispers of ridicule in the halls had shifted back into the terrified, reverent silence I remembered. The System chimed in, opportunistic as ever. [Host! Reclaiming the company is fine, but Zack Blackwood is the priority! You have 27 days left before total erasure.] [First Sub-Mission: Straighten Zack’s tie. Reward: One ‘Metabolic-Accelerant’ pill.] “That’s it? That’s the mission?” I asked, skeptical. [Host, do not be deceived. The previous occupant failed this simple task for three years straight.] I paused, surprised. [Zack Blackwood is notoriously untouchable. Despite being married to the previous occupant for three years, he never allowed her within three feet of his person. Their marriage has been entirely in name only.] A strange, sharp spark of satisfaction flickered in my chest. So, my old protege had kept his standards high. Good for him. “Fine. I’ll take the mission.” [Excellent! Let us go find him immediately!] the System chirped. “Not yet. I have a company to stabilize first.” Conquering Zack was a matter of survival, but I wasn’t like the girl who came before me. I wasn’t going to set my empire on fire just to warm a man’s hands. The System went quiet, sounding distinctly disappointed. I worked until nine in the evening before finally heading back to the villa. To my surprise, the lights in the living room were on. I stopped in the doorway, taking in the man sitting on the sofa. His charcoal-gray suit was impeccable, draped over a frame that had grown broader and more imposing in my absence. Three years hadn’t aged him; they had simply polished him into something lethal and expensive. The moment he heard me, he stood up. For a split second, I saw a flicker—a shimmering ghost of a look in his eyes—before he masked it. “You went to the office today,” he said. His voice was like a low cello note, vibrating with something that sounded suspiciously like a tremor. I didn’t answer. I walked straight up to him. I reached out and grabbed the lapels of his jacket, pulling him slightly forward as I smoothed the silk of his tie. Zack froze. He didn’t pull away, but he went rigid, his breath hitching in his throat. The System began to scream in my head. [WAHHH!! Host, you did it! Mission accomplished in one move!] [But be careful! Records show the target prefers gentle, domestic women. Don’t break character!] I took a deep breath, swallowing the sharp, sarcastic retort that was already on the tip of my tongue. For the sake of my life, I could play nice. Just for a moment. I forced a smile—one I hoped looked soft but probably looked like I was baring my teeth—and pitched my voice into a breathy, feminine lilt. “Zac, darling… I just wanted to see how things were going at the firm.” The silence that followed was so thick it felt like the air had turned to lead. The light in Zack’s eyes vanished instantly. He looked at me with a cold, piercing detachment, seasoned with a heavy dose of disappointment. “Don’t do things that don’t suit you,” he said, his voice flat. He stepped back, breaking my hold and creating a vast, chilly distance between us. “I have work at the office. I won’t be back tonight.” He turned on his heel and walked out without a second glance. I stood in the middle of the room, fuming, while the System wailed. [What happened?! It was going so well! Why did his face turn like that?] I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “Because you told me to act like a ‘gentle’ idiot. He was probably repulsed.” I collapsed onto the sofa, the plush velvet straining under me. Memories of the old Zack surfaced unbidden. In high school, he hadn’t been this untouchable titan. He had been the “bastard son” of the Blackwood family, the one his half-brothers used to kick into the dirt behind the gym. I had picked him up because he had a face that belonged in a museum and eyes that looked like they could burn the world down if someone gave him a match. I made him mine. I made him my shadow. Back then, I was the only one allowed to bully him. I remembered making him walk across the city in a blizzard just to get me a specific brand of hot chocolate. I remembered making him kneel in front of the entire student body to tie my loose shoelaces. He had been a silent, loyal dog, never once flinching, never once complaining. Who would have thought that after graduation, his brothers would meet their ends in a “tragic accident”? He had been plucked from the shadows and made the sole heir to the Blackwood fortune. And when my parents died, and I needed a strategic alliance to save the company, I chose him. Now the tables had turned. I was the one who had to play nice? The thought made my blood boil. I swallowed the Metabolic pill the System awarded me and headed for the treadmill. The next morning, the scale showed a ten-pound drop. The System’s tech was apparently more reliable than its romantic advice. I was still a “substantial presence,” but I could breathe a little easier. I went back to the office and spent the day tearing through the restructuring. The System, unable to help itself, popped up again. [Second Sub-Mission: Deliver a ‘Meal of Love’ to Zack Blackwood. Reward: One ‘Metabolic-Accelerant’ pill.] “Busy. I have a board meeting.” I had three days to complete the mission. I decided to let Zack stew for two. In those forty-eight hours, fueled by a murderous workout regime and the lingering effects of the System’s pill, I dropped another twenty pounds. By the third day, the System’s countdown was driving me insane. [Life span: 27 days! Deliver the food NOW or face the consequences!!!] “Fine! Stop nagging.” I picked up a high-end takeout container from the most exclusive bistro in the city—the kind where you need a three-month reservation—and headed to the Blackwood Building. Even thirty pounds down, I felt like a tank moving through the sleek, minimalist lobby. I could hear the whispers as I passed. “She’s here again? God, give it a rest.” “Two hundred pounds of desperation in a tracksuit. If I were Mr. Blackwood, I’d lose my appetite too…” I stopped. My gaze swept over the cluster of receptionists like a cold blade. I looked them dead in the eye. “Is Blackwood Industries paying you to provide a lunch-hour commentary, or are you just naturally this unprofessional?” They turned pale, scurrying back to their monitors. I wasn’t in the mood to swallow insults today. [Host! Calm down! They don’t matter! Remember: Be gentle when you see Zack!] “I know!” I hissed. I shoved open the door to the penthouse office. Zack was behind a desk that probably cost more than a suburban house. He didn’t even look up at first. “What do you want?” Cold. Harder than the System’s voice. I set the bag on his desk, forcing a pleasant expression. “Zack, I brought you lunch.” Zack’s eyes flicked to the bag. His face darkened instantly. With a sudden, violent motion, he swept his arm across the desk. CRASH. The expensive meal hit the trash can with a wet thud. “I hate that place,” he said. His voice wasn’t just cold now; it was lethal. I stood there, my hands curling into fists. You ungrateful little… Back in school, I was the one who made sure he ate. He used to eat the scraps I gave him in the corner with tears in his eyes. Now he was too good for the best bistro in the city? [AHHH! Host! I told you to cook it yourself!] the System shrieked. [The previous occupant’s cooking was terrible, but he never threw it away! Look at what you’ve done!] I don’t cook, I snapped back internally. That bistro had been my favorite place. Back in the day, I used to make Zack stand in line for an hour to get me their signature tartare. Looking at the trash can, it clicked. He didn’t hate the restaurant. He hated that I was bringing him something the real me loved. He thought it was a sick joke. “Stop this,” Zack said, looking up at me, his eyes full of warning. “We agreed to a marriage of convenience. Stay on your side of the line.” [Host! Say something sweet! Fix it!] Sweet? There isn’t a sweet bone in Diana Rossi’s body. “A marriage of convenience, right.” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh, suppressing the weird ache in my chest. “I was just checking the ‘Dutiful Wife’ box on my way to a real meeting. Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Blackwood.” I turned and slammed the door behind me. [You’re insane! You can’t talk to him like that!] the System wailed. [No man likes a woman with a temper like yours! You’re going to fail!] “Shut up and give me my reward.” [But you made him angry—] “The mission was to deliver the meal. I delivered it. Give. Me. The. Pill.” I swallowed the second pill. Between that and the grueling hours at the gym, I lost another twenty pounds over the next two days. My face was starting to emerge from the puffiness—the sharp line of my jaw, the high set of my cheekbones. I was still “big,” but I was starting to look like a version of myself again. [New Mission: Create a grand birthday surprise for the target!] I rolled my eyes. A birthday surprise? I’d never thrown a party for anyone but myself. I delegated the entire thing to the house staff. That evening, the villa was transformed into something out of a Pinterest nightmare. Balloons, flowers, a three-tier cake. I even found his bedroom covered in rose petals. It was the first time I’d stepped into his private suite. On his nightstand sat a framed photo. I froze. It was a photo of me from high school. I didn’t even know it existed—it was a candid shot, taken from a distance. I glanced at a half-open drawer and saw a flash of color. A deep burgundy silk ribbon. My favorite hair tie from years ago. I pulled the drawer open fully. My breath caught. Next to the ribbon was a stack of photos. All of them were me. Me sleeping on a desk in senior year. Me laughing on the university track. Me, me, me. He had been stalking me for years. I moved to the closet. One side was filled with his suits. The other side? It was filled with my old clothes. The ones from before the accident. A strange, heavy emotion settled in my throat. I dialed his number. “You need to come home. Now.” There was a five-second silence. Then, a clipped, “Fine.” I couldn’t fit into those old clothes yet, so I just took my old silk ribbon. I needed to confront him about the photos. But ten o’clock came and went. The food grew cold. The candles on the cake melted into stubs. Not a soul came through the door. [Don’t be sad, Host. He’s probably just stuck in a meeting. Call him again?] the System whispered. “Waste of my time,” I snapped. I tore off the restrictive floral dress I’d forced myself into. I put on my gym gear—a sports bra and leggings—and tied my hair up high with that burgundy ribbon. If he wasn’t coming, I wasn’t going to waste the night. I still had three miles to run. I ignored the System’s nagging, put on my noise-canceling headphones, and cranked the treadmill to a sprint. I let myself drown in the music and the burn of my muscles. Suddenly, a hand yanked my hair from behind. The ribbon was torn away. My hair tumbled down. At that speed, I lost my balance instantly. I gasped, stumbling back, waiting for the impact of the floor. It never came. I slammed into a solid, warm chest. Zack caught me, but he didn’t hold me. The second I was stable, he shoved me away like I was radioactive. I staggered, catching my breath, ready to tear his head off. But when I looked up, I saw his eyes. They were bloodshot. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. He was clutching the burgundy ribbon in a white-knuckled grip. “I warned you,” he hissed, his voice trembling with fury. “Stay. Out. Of. My. Room.” In that moment, every ounce of “playing nice” evaporated. Everything the System told me about being gentle went out the window. I have spent my entire life as the sun that everyone else revolved around. No one—no one—shouts at me. No one lays a hand on me. And especially not the boy who used to follow me around like a shadow. My body moved faster than my brain. I lunged forward and snatched the ribbon back out of his hand. I shoved my finger into his chest. “Zack Blackwood! Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? This is my house! This is my ribbon! You have no right to tell me which room I can or cannot enter!” Zack stood frozen, stunned. “You…” I wasn’t finished. I was tired, I was hungry, and I was done being pushed around. I hauled off and kicked him—hard—right in the shin. “OW!” His six-foot-two frame buckled. He groaned, doubled over, his face turning a ghostly shade of pale. Oh. Oops. I might have aimed a little… high. Zack looked up at me, his eyes watery and red. I couldn’t tell if it was from the pain or something else.

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Seven years. That’s how long it took for time to slip through my fingers. The voice memo from my girlfriend, Bianca, played through the phone’s speaker, her tone thick with a lazy, satisfied exhaustion. She was complaining that the “workout” last night had left her lower back aching and her legs weak. She told me to be gentler next time. My face remained entirely devoid of emotion. I swiped left, deleting the audio. Then, my thumb moved on muscle memory. I opened the Temu app and ordered her a three-pack of clearance cotton underwear for $4.99, free shipping included. 1 Bianca always told me that startup life was a brutal grind, that we needed to practice extreme minimalism and curb our material desires. It was the reason she gave for moving into the guest bedroom, and the reason she had me fronting the rent for our apartment. To support her vision, I juggled three jobs. Even when I was burning up with a fever, I just swallowed cheap ibuprofen and powered through my shifts. Until today. She had gone to take a shower and left her phone unlocked on the bathroom counter. That was when I found the sugar baby spreadsheet. It was a masterclass in accounting, detailing the exact maintenance costs of the men she was keeping. One hundred and ten thousand dollars. In a single month. I scrolled through their group chat. They called me the “free live-in maid.” They laughed about how she bled me dry to fund their five-star dinners and weekend getaways. I didn’t feel a spike of rage. I didn’t see red. With an eerie, floating calmness, I simply gathered the three pairs of cheap underwear I had just bought, along with her packed luggage, and shoved them all into the trash can. When Bianca pushed the door open and saw her burner phone sitting squarely on my desk, her face froze. It lasted exactly one second. Then, the mask of habitual, defensive annoyance slipped right back into place. “Who told you to go through my phone?” Her voice was sharp with reprimand as she lunged forward to snatch the device. I turned my body, letting her hand grasp empty air, and stared back at her with eyes like dead winter. “Aren’t you going to explain?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly soft. “Why a ‘Tristan’ from the assistant pool is sending you voice memos like that?” Bianca let out an exaggerated sigh, running a hand through her damp hair, instantly pivoting to the exhausted, misunderstood entrepreneur. “Joel, can you stop being so damn paranoid? That’s for a client. It’s a corporate escort service arrangement.” “He sent it to the wrong chat by mistake. Do you have any idea what I do out there? I spend my days kissing the rings of venture capitalists, begging for seed money, killing myself so we can have a future.” “And you? You sit at home, work a few gigs, and suddenly you think you’re the king of the castle, running interrogations on me.” Her volume steadily climbed, a desperate attempt to drown her own guilt in righteous indignation. I felt a sharp, stabbing cramp in my stomach—the physical toll of back-to-back all-nighters—as I looked at the woman I had loved for seven years. Seven years. She said the startup was bleeding cash, that we had to sacrifice, pouring every dime into her company’s R&D. To lift the burden off her shoulders, I had quit my stable agency job for three grueling freelance hustles. I covered the rent, the utilities, the groceries. Everything. When my fever spiked to 102 degrees, I didn’t even dare to go to urgent care because of the copay. I just rode it out in sweats and shivers. And her? She claimed the pressure of being a CEO required “independent breathing space,” using it as an excuse to sleep in a separate room for an entire year. I didn’t let her gaslight me. My voice was steady. “If it was sent to the wrong chat, why are you shaking?” Bianca blinked, completely thrown off by my total lack of hysteria. Her eyes darted over my shoulder, landing on my open laptop screen. It was still sitting on the order confirmation page for the clearance underwear. She marched over. When she registered what she was looking at, her features twisted into something ugly and dark. “What the hell is this?” “You bought me five-dollar clearance rack panties? Are you trying to humiliate me, Joel?” She pointed at the screen, her voice shrill, bouncing off the thin apartment walls. “I am a CEO. I sit across the table from investors worth hundreds of millions of dollars every single day.” “You expect me to wear these cheap rags to pitch a ten-million-dollar Series A? Do you know absolutely nothing about maintaining an image?” I looked at her face—contorted by a bizarre, misplaced entitlement—and felt a laugh catch in my throat. It was just so incredibly absurd. “Last month’s rent was paid because I pulled three consecutive all-nighters doing simultaneous translation for an overseas tech conference,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “That haute couture dress you’re wearing right now? I maxed out my credit card to buy it for you.” “And you’re standing in my apartment, lecturing me about your image?” I took a step forward, holding her gaze until she was forced to look away. “I thought every penny was going toward ‘curbing our material desires’?” “I literally cover your Uber Eats orders. How is a five-dollar pair of underwear beneath you?” Bianca choked on her words, a dull red creeping up her neck. She ground her teeth, visibly swallowing her temper, and shifted to her most effective weapon: emotional blackmail. “Joel, you were never like this,” she murmured, her voice softening into a wounded purr. “You used to be so patient. So understanding. I know you’re burned out lately.” “Just let me close this funding round. I swear, the minute the ink dries, I’m buying us a gorgeous house. We’ll get married. A huge wedding, just like we talked about.” She closed the distance between us, reaching out to wrap her arms around my waist. I stepped back. The physical revulsion was so strong it was almost violently magnetic. I couldn’t bear the thought of her skin touching mine. At that exact moment, the phone lying face-down on the desk vibrated. The screen lit up. Another message from Tristan. Boss, I really, really want that limited-edition Daytona. Please? The blood drained from Bianca’s face. She snatched the phone, turning her back to me as her thumbs flew across the screen. “One of the partners is hounding me about the project timeline. I have to put out a fire.” “Just… stop picking fights, okay? Go make dinner. I’m starving.” 2 She didn’t look back. She practically sprinted to her separate bedroom and I heard the heavy, metallic click of the deadbolt sliding into place. I stood alone in the living room, staring at the closed door. There was no screaming match. No falling to my knees in tears. I just felt nauseous. A deep, bone-deep, biological rejection of the space I was standing in. The woman who had built her life alongside mine had, somewhere along the way, been replaced by a stranger whose breath smelled of lies. Pressing a hand against my aching stomach, I turned and walked into the kitchen. I didn’t start chopping vegetables for her dinner. I poured myself a glass of room-temperature water. Through the thin drywall, I could hear the muffled cadence of her voice on a phone call. Even distorted, I recognized the desperate, cloying tone of her apologies, the eager-to-please lilt. It was a voice she had never, ever used with me. I drank the water and set the glass down on the granite counter with a quiet clink. Seven years. It was over. The autopsy was finished; all that was left was to bury it. Bianca stayed locked in her room for half an hour. When she emerged, she had pasted on a serene, affectionate smile. She hovered around the kitchen for a bit, eventually setting a bowl of watery instant ramen down on the table in front of me. “Joel, honey, I was out of line earlier.” “I’ve just been under so much pressure. The VC guys are aggressively trying to lower our valuation, and it’s keeping me awake every single night.” She sat across from me, her eyes heavy with manufactured exhaustion, laced with a practiced pleading. “Consider this bowl of noodles my peace offering, okay?” “Your stomach is acting up again. Eat it while it’s hot.” I looked down at the bowl. Broth and noodles. Not even an egg cracked into it. This was the grand extent of her compensation. I picked up the chopsticks, lifted a few strands of noodles, but didn’t put them in my mouth. My voice was a flatline. “When you say you’re under pressure… is listening to Tristan’s voice memos how you relieve it?” The smile shattered on her face. She let out a heavy sigh and reached across the table to cover my hand. I pulled mine away before she could make contact. “Joel, do you really have to be this relentless?” “I already explained, it was a misunderstanding. If you’re going to suffocate me with this toxic paranoia every single day, I don’t know how I can do this.” It was her classic pivot. The moment I asked a legitimate question, she flipped the board, making me the villain, making me feel like I was the one poisoning the water of our relationship. The old Joel would have spiraled into an anxious pit of self-doubt, analyzing his own behavior. Tonight, the new Joel just found her incredibly, pathetically transparent. I set the chopsticks down and met her eyes, my expression utterly blank. “Fine. I’m done arguing. I ate the noodles. You can go back to building your empire now.” Bianca let out a breath she’d been holding, clearly believing she had won. She was just opening her mouth to launch back into her startup manifesto when the phone on the table violently vibrated. Not the burner. Her main iPhone. The caller ID was a string of digits. No name attached. Bianca glanced at the screen, and I watched the muscles in her neck tighten. She hit the red decline button without a second thought. Two seconds later, it rang again. The relentless, blaring marimba ringtone echoed off the kitchen tiles, deafening in the quiet room. I watched her, a detached observer at a train wreck. “Why aren’t you answering that?” She forced a tight laugh, holding down the power button to shut the phone off entirely. “Spam callers. So annoying.” But the beads of sweat breaking out along her hairline told a different story. A minute later, the burner phone pinged. An incoming WhatsApp audio call. Bianca shot up from her chair like she’d been electrocuted, grabbing her blazer off the back of the sofa. “One of the investors just pulled together a last-minute dinner. Urgent strategy pivot.” “I have to go. Right now.” She didn’t even bother pulling her heels on all the way, practically crushing the backs of the leather as she bolted out the front door. The door slammed shut, rattling in its frame. I sat at the table, staring at the swollen, soggy mass of ramen, and let out a dry, hollow chuckle. I stood up, cleared the table, and went to move the leather tote bag she had dumped carelessly on the couch. As I lifted it, a crumpled piece of thermal receipt paper slipped out of the side pocket and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a point-of-sale receipt from a luxury boutique on Fifth Avenue. 3 The item: A men’s watch. The price: $12,000. The timestamp: 2:15 PM, today. At 2:15 PM today, she had texted me complaining that she was locked in a boardroom with investors and hadn’t even had time to chew a protein bar for lunch. I pulled out my phone, snapped a crystal-clear photo of the receipt, folded it back up, and tucked it perfectly into the pocket of her bag. I didn’t scream. My eyes didn’t sting with tears. My brain had never felt sharper. The fog of the last seven years had burned away, leaving a blinding, clinical clarity in its wake. Our entire history was nothing but a punchline. I wanted to know exactly how deep the rot went. I sat at my desk and booted up my laptop, logging into the shared Google Drive we had set up years ago. I had never once snooped. I believed in boundaries. I believed in her. Looking back, that trust was nothing short of suicidal. The drive was cluttered with folders. I bypassed the ones labeled Pitch Decks, Q3 Financials, and Meeting Minutes. I dug until I found a hidden, password-protected subfolder titled Overhead. I guessed the password on the first try. It was the date she incorporated her LLC. Inside was a graveyard of electronic invoices and Zelle screenshots. Confirmations for corner suites at the Ritz-Carlton. Receipts for omakase dinners. And page after page of massive cash transfers. Every single recipient name belonged to a young man. I stared at the numbers glowing on the screen, and my hands started to shake. Not from heartbreak. From an all-consuming, white-hot rage. I had agonized over adding a $3 avocado to my grocery basket to save her money. Meanwhile, she was taking the cash I bled for, the money I traded my sleep and health for, and throwing it at college boys. This wasn’t just infidelity. This was systematic, parasitic financial abuse. I took a slow, deep breath, selected every single file, and downloaded the entire archive directly onto my encrypted external hard drive. For the next few days, I played the part of the oblivious, supportive boyfriend. I woke up early to brew her coffee. I paid the Wi-Fi bill on time. Believing she had successfully pacified me, Bianca grew reckless. She started coming home at 3 AM, or not coming home at all. The excuse was always the same: late-night client entertainment, networking drinks, sealing the deal. I followed the digital breadcrumbs she left behind and found the lease agreement for a Porsche 911 in her name. Monthly lease payment: $8,000. My monthly grocery allowance from her: $100. One night, she walked into the apartment reeking of expensive cologne and stale cigarette smoke. I was sitting in the dark on the couch, watching her struggle to unzip her dress. “Where were you today?” I asked. She froze, her eyes darting away from mine. “I told you this morning. I was playing 18 holes with Richard Caldwell. God, networking is exhausting.” She kicked off her shoes and headed for the bathroom. “Do you need to rent an $8,000 Porsche to play golf?” The words hung in the air. She stopped dead in her tracks, rooted to the center of the living room rug. Slowly, Bianca turned around. Her face was a mask of pure, venomous fury. “Are you auditing me, Joel?” She closed the distance between us, jabbing a manicured finger at my chest. “I leased that car to project success! Do you think these venture capitalists are idiots?” “If I don’t look like I already have money, who the hell is going to write me a check?” Her voice echoed off the walls, pitching higher, leaning into the performance of a deeply wronged martyr. “I am working myself into an early grave for our future.” “And instead of having my back, you’re sneaking around like a rat, digging through my finances.” “You disappoint me, Joel. You really do.” And then came the history lesson. The classic redirection playbook. “Have you conveniently forgotten who slept in the uncomfortable plastic chair at the hospital for three days when you had your surgery two years ago?” “Have you forgotten who supported you for six months when you got laid off from the agency?” “Do you have a single shred of gratitude in your body?” I sat there, perfectly still, watching spit fly from her lips as she performed her outrage. When I had my surgery, yes, she was in the room. She spent those three days sitting in the corner, playing Candy Crush on her iPad, and didn’t so much as pour me a cup of ice chips. When I lost my job, I lived exclusively off my own savings. Her version of “supporting me” consisted of bringing home lukewarm, half-off takeout from the deli downstairs on her way home from work. I let her finish. Then, I cut through the noise with a flat, even tone. “Since you’re out there hustling so hard… you can cover the rent from now on.” 4 Bianca’s jaw practically hit the floor. She hadn’t expected me to touch the money. Her eyes widened in genuine disbelief. “Excuse me? What are you saying? You’re nickel-and-diming me now?” “You lease a Porsche,” I replied smoothly. “Surely a couple thousand for rent is pocket change for a CEO like you.” I stood up, towering over her, holding her gaze. She hit the impenetrable wall of my stare, and her aggressive posture deflated. The fire went out, replaced by a panicked backpedaling. “Joel, please, don’t throw a tantrum over this.” “The company accounts are locked tight right now. Once the liquidity frees up, I will reimburse you for every single cent, I promise.” She slapped on that sickly-sweet, placating smile, trying to smooth over the crack in the ice. I didn’t say another word. I walked past her, went into the guest bedroom, and locked the door. The next morning, I woke up to an Instagram DM request. It was a photo. A young guy, barely out of his twenties, sitting in the passenger seat of a Porsche. Resting casually on his steering wheel hand was the $12,000 watch. The caption was a masterclass in provocation. Sugar mama privileges hit different. In the background of the shot, I could clearly see the custom leather car freshener I had bought Bianca for her birthday last month. I clicked on the profile. It belonged to Zane, the new “marketing intern” at her company. I stared at the glowing screen for a long time. Then, I laughed. A cold, hard sound in the empty room. Bianca thought she was a criminal mastermind, moving her pieces seamlessly across the board. She had no idea that her little toys were getting restless in the dark. They were eager to mark their territory, desperate to push the boring, live-in boyfriend out of the picture. But I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of a screaming match. I wanted them to have front-row seats when their glamorous, deep-pocketed sugar mama was stripped down to absolute zero overnight. I took a screenshot of the DM and dropped it into my encrypted hard drive with the rest of the arsenal. I had everything I needed. It was time to pull the trigger. That weekend, Bianca came home shockingly early. She walked through the door carrying a sleek bakery box, her face plastered with an eager, fawning smile. “Joel! Happy seven-year anniversary.” “Look, I went all the way across town and waited in line for that dark chocolate truffle cake you love.” She set the expensive box in the center of the dining table, frantically trying to engineer a moment of domestic bliss. I stared at the intricate ribbons on the box. I felt absolutely nothing. Seven years. A monumental block of my life, traded for a mountain of cheap lies. “Thanks,” I said. My voice was utterly dead. Bianca faltered, clearly unsettled by the ice in my tone. She rubbed her hands together awkwardly. “I’m gonna jump in the shower, I smell like the subway. Let’s cut the cake when I get out, okay?” She practically fled into the bathroom, in such a rush she didn’t even grab a change of clothes. The shower turned on. I walked slowly toward the bathroom door and looked at the vanity just outside it. Her main iPhone was sitting right there by the sink. The screen was still illuminated. In her haste to play the loving girlfriend, she had been texting someone and forgot to lock it. I didn’t even have to guess a passcode. I picked it up. The messaging app was open. Pinned at the very top was a group chat titled Core Operations. There were six members. Besides Bianca, the other five avatars were all selfies of young, attractive guys. Zane was in there. So was Tristan. I scrolled up lightly. The conversation was jarringly explicit. Ten minutes ago, Bianca had dropped a massive Apple Cash payment into the group with the caption: Happy weekend, boys. Play nice. Zane had instantly claimed his share, replying: Thanks baby. You coming over tonight? Tristan chimed in right beneath him: Hey, you’re playing favorites, Boss. You spent all day yesterday with Zane, it’s my turn today. 5 Bianca’s reply: Down boys. The schedule is pinned in the files. Everyone plays by the rules. I tapped the pinned file. It was a Google Sheet labeled Q3 Logistics. It was a meticulously color-coded calendar. Monday through Friday, it detailed exactly which bed she was sleeping in. Weekends were blocked out in gray: Home base. Maintenance duty. — Meaning, come back to the apartment to keep me docile. The spreadsheet included columns for their preferred luxury brands, dietary restrictions, and their fixed monthly stipends. The combined total was bleeding $110,000 out of her accounts every thirty days. And there, in a little notes column next to my name, was a single phrase: Free maid / ATM. The chat history was a graveyard of insults directed at me. There was a voice memo from Zane. I held the phone to my ear. “Can’t believe the idiot still thinks you’re broke and grinding for VC money. He bought you dollar-store underwear? What a pathetic loser.” Tristan’s text followed: Just keep him on a leash. A free maid is a free maid. Once your series B clears, we’ll kick him to the curb. And Bianca’s final message in the thread: Don’t worry about him. He’s incredibly naive. He’ll never leave me. I stared at the blue and gray bubbles. The familiar nausea rolled through my stomach, heavy and dark. No tears. No heartbreak. Just a freezing, arctic rage. This was the woman I had given my twenties to. This was the “entrepreneurial dream” I had sacrificed my own career to fund. I walked away from the vanity, phone in hand. I stepped into the living room, picked up the new underwear she had bought to replace the ones I threw away, grabbed the designer coat draped over the chair, and shoved all of it into the kitchen trash. Then, using her unlocked phone, I took screenshots of the Core Operations chat. Every voice memo transcription, every Apple Cash drop, the entire color-coded schedule. I attached the screenshots, along with the PDF of the luxury receipts from the hidden Dropbox folder. I selected all contacts. Her angel investors. Her VC partners. Her suppliers. Her parents. Her aunts and uncles. BCC: All. Send. I watched the little blue bar shoot across the top of the screen. Delivered. I walked into the bathroom, dropped her iPhone directly into the toilet bowl, and pressed the flush lever. I walked back to my bedroom, pulled my duffel bag from the closet, and shoved my essentials inside. Laptop, documents, three changes of clothes. I locked my bedroom door from the inside. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I pulled out my own phone, navigated to the SEC whistleblower portal, and the local authorities’ white-collar crime division website. I uploaded the raw files of her fraudulent expense reports, the diverted corporate funds used for her escorts, and the forged invoices. Submission Successful. I leaned my head back against the wall and let out a long, slow exhale. Enjoy the weekend, Bianca. It’s your last one.

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I spent five years training Oliver into a docile, obedient boyfriend. Yet, on his twenty-third birthday, he still leaped into action to save a beautiful girl in a wheelchair. I finally believed it: no matter what I did, I couldn’t stop him from meeting the true “female lead” and falling in love with her. So, I broke up with him. I even told our mutual friends: “Oliver? He’s just an ungrateful stray dog. Whoever pets him, he follows.” Rumor had it. When Oliver heard those words, he bought a plane ticket out of the country that very day and completely dropped off the grid. Three years later, on a random night. I was pinned against my front door by a violent, unhinged man. He handed me a switchblade, grabbed my right hand, and guided it toward the leather choker around his neck. “Hazel, I am your dog. Yours alone.” “If you don’t want me, then kill me.” 1 I had a crush on Oliver for exactly ten years. But just yesterday, I had an awakening. I realized I was just cannon fodder in a romance novel. And Oliver’s destined soulmate wasn’t me. Just as I was agonizing over whether to bury this decade-long love deep in my heart forever… Oliver used our college graduation party as an excuse to publicly confess his feelings to me. I was ecstatic, but I didn’t dare say yes right away. Because I knew the truth. By the end of the novel, the male lead would only end up with the female lead. Even if I accepted his confession now. I would inevitably be dumped later. I was terrified of heartbreak, and even more terrified of ending up like my character in the original book—abandoned by Oliver in the pouring rain. So. I didn’t reach out to take the roses he offered. “Oliver, I don’t think we’re a good match.” “My tastes are a bit unconventional. You probably wouldn’t be able to handle it.” Oliver immediately insisted: “I can handle anything.” I took a deep breath, curling my lips into a wicked, playful smile: “I’m extremely dominant. I want a future boyfriend who is gentle, unconditionally obedient, and willing to be my dog.” “Bark for me.” Amidst the roaring crowd, Oliver dropped to one knee in front of me and gently hooked his finger around mine. “Master, take me home.” “Please?” 2 The scene from that day spread through our entire social circle like wildfire. Oliver’s iconic “willing to be a dog for love” moment was recorded by a classmate, posted on TikTok, and blew up. It hit a million likes overnight. It drew in countless people who actually knew Oliver. [Holy crap, I know Oliver. He’s our varsity basketball captain. Handsome, straight-A student, 6’2″, and old money. How the hell did he end up barking like a dog?!] [Bro, who’s more pathetic than me? Oliver was my crush. I simped for him forever and got rejected. Now I know: simps don’t like other simps.] [Manifesting this exact kind of boyfriend. Just once before I die, please.] [Can you guys drop the details on what exactly he does as a ‘dog’ behind closed doors?] … Everyone cheered for our relationship. But I was the only one with a lingering sense of dread. I was counting down the days every single second. According to the original plotline… How many days were left until Zoe made her appearance? Over the course of five years, I trained Oliver into an incredibly obedient and attentive boyfriend. Oliver even created a couple’s account for us to vlog our ridiculously sweet daily lives. In just a few short years, it grew into an empire with tens of millions of followers. Even the internet unanimously approved: [OP, you know the internet usually tells everyone to break up, right? But your boyfriend is too perfect. If you ever dump him, pass him to me.] [I have sensitive skin, can I also get this exact brand of boyfriend?] [Girl, how did you manage to bag the best guy in the world? Drop the link, I’m ordering ten.] [After doom-scrolling through so many toxic relationship videos, seeing OP and her boyfriend literally cured my depression.] I finally breathed a sigh of relief. I figured… Even if Zoe showed up eventually, it shouldn’t cause any real damage. But on Oliver’s twenty-third birthday, the inevitable accident happened anyway. 3 Oliver had just closed his eyes to make a wish over his birthday candles. Suddenly, he bolted out the door like a madman, sprinting straight toward the steep incline across from the cafe. On the hill, a girl’s wheelchair had lost control and was rolling backward at terrifying speed. Just as the wheelchair was about to tip over, in the absolute nick of time… Oliver threw himself forward, using his own body to catch Zoe. Zoe fell into his arms, completely unharmed. But Oliver’s forehead hit a stone in the planter, and blood started streaming down his face. Watching the entire scene unfold, I literally forgot how to breathe. Oliver is a cold person by nature. He doesn’t toss spare change to the homeless, he doesn’t help girls open water bottles, he doesn’t help the elderly cross the street, and he certainly doesn’t give up his seat on the subway. For such a selfish, indifferent guy to suddenly turn into a hero… My heart, which had been hanging by a thread for five years, finally died. I ran out the side door of the cafe like I was fleeing for my life. I wandered aimlessly down the busy city streets. The pale sky suddenly dropped a few scattered raindrops. In that moment. I finally believed that no matter what I did, I couldn’t stop the universe from forcing Oliver and the female lead to meet and fall in love. So what were these past five years? Just a long, pathetic joke in Oliver’s life. Oliver finally realized I was gone and sent a text: [Hazel, where did you go?] I typed out a massive paragraph, deleted it, typed more, and eventually whittled it down to a single sentence: [Let’s break up. I’ve wanted to for a long time.] I felt that even if I told him the truth about the novel, it wouldn’t matter. Maybe at first, he would swear up and down that he would never change his mind. But as time went on… The scales in his heart were fated to tip toward Zoe. Just like in the original book. Today, Zoe was supposed to be in a run-down neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, miles away from here. And Oliver was supposed to meet her there. See? Even though I kept Oliver far away from that neighborhood… Zoe still appeared. They were the destined pair. I was just an insignificant glitch in the matrix. The next day, when I saw Zoe getting added to a group chat that Oliver and I were both in by one of our mutual friends… I wasn’t even surprised. She was the female lead, after all. She was meant to slowly infiltrate his life. My friends would probably all become her friends in the end. 4 Oliver, completely blindsided by the sudden breakup, was frantic. He texted me: [Hazel, listen to me. I swear to God I have no idea why I suddenly ran out there to save that girl today.] [I didn’t even see her at first, do you believe me?] […Hazel, please reply. I’m begging you.] I sat by the bay window, leaving my phone on the cushion, letting the screen light up and go dark over and over again. The phone was on silent, vibrations off. No calls would make a sound. Just like that. I sat there and watched the pouring rain all night. The next morning, I put on flawless, sharp makeup and went to work like usual. My coworker Becca was a mutual friend of Oliver and me. She had somehow heard through the grapevine that Oliver and I were fighting, and she tried to play peacemaker: “Hazel, what’s going on with you and Oliver? Is it really over that wheelchair girl?” “She’s just a random stranger. Oliver was probably just acting on instinct.” “If you break up with him over this, you’re punishing him for the rest of his life just for doing one good deed.” I smiled faintly: “You don’t understand him.” “Oliver? He’s just an ungrateful stray dog. Whoever pets him, he follows.” “I set my terms. I said I wanted a boyfriend who was obedient and submissive. If he can’t follow my rules, he’s out.” Honestly, when I said those harsh words… My heart was breaking more than anyone else’s. But I had already tried my best. It didn’t work. So be it. I might as well clean up the mess and salvage what was left of my pride. That way, years from now, when he and Zoe were lying in bed talking about me, my memory would at least be cold, aloof, and untouchable. 5 I got home from work. And saw a new string of texts from Oliver. He was confronting me about what I had said to Becca: [So, Hazel, in your eyes, I’m just a dog you throw away the second you get bored, and then you have the nerve to call me an ungrateful stray?] [How did I never know you were this kind of person!] I replied instantly: [Well, now you know.] [I really am that despicable.] Oliver shot back: [I want to fucking bite you to death, Hazel.] [I refuse to break up. Get back together with me. Right now.] I responded with a swift, merciless ‘Block’. Starting the very next day, Oliver completely vanished from my world. It wasn’t until two weeks later that I found out the truth. Rumor had it, the night I blocked Oliver, he bought the earliest flight out of the country the next morning. Becca said Oliver had asked her to pass on a message. “What did he say?” I asked, flipping through some files, feigning total indifference without even looking up. “He said he hates you to death.” “He left the TikTok account to you. You can rebrand it and monetize it however you want, and you can delete all the old videos. He said he doesn’t care anymore…” After finishing, Becca tried to comfort me: “Hazel, how did things blow up this badly between you two?” “I really feel like he just said all that out of anger. Don’t take it to heart. Once you calm down, just snap your fingers and he’ll be crawling back to apologize…” “No.” I shook my head, cutting her off: “We are really, truly over.” On the outside, I was a picture of perfect calm. But those words echoed violently in my head. From the moment I got to work until the second I went to sleep, they haunted me. I sat paralyzed on my sofa, staring blankly into space for hours. It wasn’t until the washing machine finished its cycle and beeped that the trance broke. And two streams of scalding tears finally rolled down my cheeks. Goodbye forever, Oliver. Just hate me. Never forgive me. 6 One night, three years later. I dragged my exhausted body, on the verge of fainting, and finally made it to my front door. My boss was a tyrant. He knew my period cramps were making me want to die, but he absolutely refused to let me take a half-day off. To make it worse, he intentionally scheduled a “last-minute meeting” right at clock-out, torturing me for two extra hours. Maybe I was already delirious. I dug through my purse for an eternity but couldn’t find my keys. I also completely failed to notice the long, dark shadow looming over my head. Before I knew it, I was violently slammed against my own front door. I jumped out of my skin, stammering in terror: “M-Mr. Mugger, let’s talk this out.” “I have an infectious disease, so assaulting me is a bad idea. How about you just rob me? I have 67 bucks in my Venmo, I can send it to you right now. Do you have a QR code? If it’s not enough, I can try to scrape some more together.” “Heh.” The violent, brooding man let out a dark, mocking scoff. He lowered his gaze and pulled down his face mask. I hadn’t seen him in three years. I don’t know what country Oliver had been living in. But he looked incredibly dark, melancholic, and dangerously unhinged. I strained to look up at him. He was so tall. He towered over me by more than a full head. “Oliver, could you duck down a bit? My neck hurts.” Oliver froze for a second, but obediently lowered his head. I pushed my luck and asked: “What do you want from me?” “I just need you to do me a favor.” Oliver pulled a folding pocketknife from his jacket and handed it to me. Then, he wrapped his large hand tightly around my right hand, slowly guiding the blade toward the leather choker around his neck. “I spent three years figuring it out.” “Hazel, I am your dog. Yours alone.” “If you don’t want me, then kill me.”

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After my mother was gone, I finally understood the manipulative, sweet-faced tactics those women had used to destroy her. Now, I was going to take every single one of those textbook moves and use them to dismantle my father. Watching him drown in the relentless spit and venom of public opinion, I felt a sensation blooming in my chest that I couldn’t quite name. He stood there, his mouth opening and closing as he desperately tried to explain himself, but the panic choked off every syllable. It was a beautiful thing to witness. When he stared at me, his eyes wide and unrecognizing, a sharp pang of grief hit me—immediately swallowed by a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated vindication. He must have forgotten. Without my mother playing the role of his tragic Leading Lady, the bulletproof aura of his Leading Man persona was destined to shatter. From this day forward, we were all going to crawl back down into the muddy reality of ordinary people. None of us gets to be the main character anymore. 1 I was very young when I realized my mother was the Leading Lady, and my father was the Leading Man. I knew because the words hovered in thin air right above their heads. I had dragged our housekeeper, Marta, through every picture book we owned, sounding out the shimmering letters until I pieced them together: The Heroine crowned my mother, and The Hero floated above my father. I asked Marta what those words meant. She laughed, her eyes crinkling. “It means they’re like the prince and the princess, Birdie.” She pulled a beautifully illustrated copy of Cinderella from the shelf and read the whole thing to me, letting her voice dip and soar. And they lived happily ever after. I decided I liked that story. My parents were deeply in love, our home was a sanctuary, and aside from my Grandmother Davenport occasionally dropping passive-aggressive hints about wanting a grandson, we were the picture of a perfect family. But the weather in a storybook can turn without warning. When I was five, the atmosphere in our house shifted, thick and suffocating. That was the day I saw another person with words suspended above her head. She was devastatingly beautiful. My father had brought her home from the airport, and the moment they walked through the door, she collapsed against his chest, weeping softly into his tailored lapel. My mother and I had just gotten home from kindergarten. We opened the front door and froze, taking in the sight of them tangled together in the foyer. They froze, too. My father started talking, his words rushed and defensive. The woman started explaining, her voice breathy and fragile. But my mother’s face just grew paler, her expression turning to stone. Meanwhile, I was busy studying the glowing letters hovering above the weeping woman’s head. The… Wicked… Other… What was the last word? I couldn’t read it yet. With my parents distracted by the escalating tension, I tugged on Marta’s apron strings. We consulted my children’s dictionary. Woman. The Wicked Other Woman. The Villainess. I asked Marta what it meant. She burst out laughing, thinking it was the cutest thing in the world. “Oh, listen to our little Birdie! Five years old and she already knows about the wicked other woman in the soap operas!” She repeated it as a charming anecdote over dinner that night, expecting the usual chorus of affectionate laughter from the family. Usually, my childish misunderstandings were the seasoning to our family meals. But that night, only my grandmother laughed. My father’s face darkened, a storm brewing in his jawline. My mother stared blankly at her plate. The beautiful woman looked like she had been struck. She put down her fork, her eyes instantly swimming with tears. “Sylvia, I’m so sorry. I… I’ll leave right now. I won’t ever come back and ruin your peace.” She pushed her chair back and ran out the front door into the night. My father didn’t hesitate. He shot up from the table and chased after her. My grandmother’s laughter abruptly vanished. She slammed her hand on the mahogany table, glaring at my mother. “Is this how you raise your child, Sylvia? To be so venomous?” Marta quickly scooped me out of my chair and hurried me out of the room. I felt the hot prickle of shame. I had caused a disaster. But… why was my mother the one getting yelled at? Later, sitting on my bed, I pressed Marta. “What does a villainess actually do?” Marta sighed, sensing the mood in the house had irrevocably shifted. “In the stories, Birdie, the wicked woman is the one who tries to break up the hero and the heroine. They usually pretend to be very innocent and pitiful so everyone feels sorry for them. Then, they trick everyone into bullying the heroine. But don’t you worry, sweetie. It always works out in the end. The wicked woman gets what she deserves, the hero realizes how wonderful the heroine is, and he fights to win her back.” She sounded so certain. I believed her completely. But real life didn’t seem to be following Marta’s script. The woman’s name was Angelica. She was an adopted daughter my grandmother had taken in years ago, making her my father’s adoptive sister. It was pouring rain outside. When my father returned, he was carrying her in his arms. She was soaked to the bone, wearing his suit jacket over her bare shoulders, her long, pale legs exposed. She looked breathtakingly fragile as she shivered in his grip. “Sylvia, I’m so sorry,” she whimpered, her teeth chattering. “Richard was just so worried about me, he wouldn’t let me leave. I promise, as soon as I’m better, I’ll go.” Her words sounded perfectly reasonable. So why did my chest feel so tight? Why did it feel like a heavy stone was pressing against my windpipe? I wanted to say something. I opened my mouth, but my vocal cords seized. I couldn’t make a sound. That night, I woke up to the damp warmth of my mother’s tears falling onto my cheeks. I lay perfectly still, my eyes closed, listening to her whispered, broken voice in the dark. “Did I ever say she couldn’t stay here?” my mother cried to my father, her voice trembling. “If I had said it, I would own it. But I didn’t. Why are you putting words in my mouth? Why do you automatically assume I’m so petty that I can’t tolerate her presence? Richard, is that really who you think I am?” No, I wanted to scream. She’s not! But as I opened my mouth, the air vanished from my lungs. It was as if an invisible hand had clamped over my face. I was physically incapable of speaking. It wasn’t until the desperate urge to defend my mother faded from my mind that the terrifying, suffocating sensation released me. Over the next few months, it happened again and again. That was when I realized the horrifying truth: I was not allowed to change the plot. We had all been sucked into the gravitational pull of a predetermined narrative. I was just a single drop of water trying to swim against a raging whirlpool. It was pathetic, really. But this was my mother. My gentle, warm, brilliant mother. She was the one who read to me with a voice like honey. She was the one who painted my scraped knees with iodine, blowing on the sting with tears in her own eyes. She woke up at dawn to make pancakes in the shapes of animals, crept into my room at midnight to tuck the blankets under my chin, and carried me through the ER doors in a frantic sprint the one time my fever spiked. She was so inherently good. She didn’t deserve to be misunderstood. She didn’t deserve to be bullied by the narrative. And so, this tiny drop of water decided to see what it would take to tear the whirlpool apart. 2 My parents were fighting again. It was because Angelica had fallen down the grand staircase. My mother hadn’t laid a finger on her. Even Angelica didn’t explicitly accuse my mother of pushing her. She just lay at the bottom of the steps, her eyes red, her voice trembling like a frightened bird. “Richard, please, it wasn’t Sylvia’s fault. I just… I lost my footing…” My mother stood at the top of the stairs, her face an absolute mask of shock. “I didn’t touch her.” My father’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter. “Right. Of course you didn’t!!!” He shot my mother a look of pure, glacial disgust, scooped Angelica up, and rushed toward the door to take her to the hospital. I grabbed my father’s pant leg. I opened my mouth, screaming in my head: Mom didn’t push her! I saw the whole thing! She threw herself down the stairs! Nothing came out. My voice had been stolen again. The universe had pressed the mute button on me. In that moment of forced silence, a spark of absolute fury ignited in my chest. I wanted to thrash, to bite, to scream until the windows shattered. But I couldn’t lose my temper. Marta had told me once—when dealing with sweet-faced vipers, losing your cool just makes you look crazy. Instead, I looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Daddy, don’t leave. Can’t we just call a doctor to come to the house?” His expression only grew darker, his eyes hardening as he looked past me to my mother. “Sylvia, using our child as a pawn? Don’t make me despise you.” My mother swayed like a tree about to snap. She bit her lip until it bled, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Richard, you should have the doctors check your head while you’re at it.” Once again, the scene ended in wreckage. I couldn’t understand it. Why? Why was it always like this? Why was the truth so impossible to communicate? Why was it always her fault? My small body was carrying a weight far too heavy for my spine. It wasn’t until a minor incident at my kindergarten that I truly understood how impenetrable the barrier of human bias could be. Once a narrative is set, facts bounce right off it. A new girl, Evie, had transferred to our class. During lunch, she decided she wanted the chicken nugget on my plate. She could have just asked. Instead, she lunged across the table to snatch it. She was clumsy, missing the plate entirely and falling hard onto her bottom. Instantly, she wailed, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. “My nugget! Birdie, please don’t take my food! And why did you push me?” Every teacher in the room rushed to her side, cooing and comforting her. Then, they turned their stern, disappointed eyes on me. “She tried to steal my food!” I yelled, my voice cracking. “I didn’t touch her!” But Evie just blinked her massive, tear-filled eyes. With trembling fingers, she picked up a half-eaten, soggy piece of chicken from her own tray and placed it on mine. “It’s okay, Birdie. Don’t be mad. You can have mine if you’re that hungry.” It was a piece she had chewed on and spit out. The sheer, calculated malice of it took my breath away. “I’m not eating your garbage,” I snapped, and swatted her hand away. Evie’s plastic tray clattered to the floor. My favorite teacher, the one who usually brushed my hair after naptime, glared at me with absolute fury. “Beatrice Davenport! That is utterly unacceptable behavior!” I froze. And then, I saw red. I was not going to be my mother. I was not going to swallow the injustice. I grabbed Evie’s tray and hurled it. Then I grabbed my own tray and smashed it against the wall. I went down the table, flipping the plates of every kid who had rushed to comfort her. If I wasn’t allowed to eat in peace, nobody was eating. It became a massive ordeal. The administration called our parents. My mother arrived first. She looked at me, looked at the mess, and immediately chose to believe me. She stood tall, her voice cool and authoritative, demanding they pull the security footage. The cameras didn’t lie. Clear as day, it showed Evie lunging to steal my food and falling on her own. But then, Evie’s parents arrived. It was my father. And Angelica. Evie burst into fresh tears and buried her face in my father’s neck. “Daddy, I thought it was my nugget that fell on her plate! I was just so hungry, Daddy. Please don’t be mad at me.” The truth of the incident was proven. But somehow, everything got worse. The principal, looking deeply uncomfortable, suggested I had “anger management issues” for destroying the classroom over a misunderstanding. My mother and father erupted into a screaming match in the hallway. My mother demanded to know why Angelica had a child, and more importantly, why that child was calling my father “Daddy.” Angelica burst into hysterics, sobbing that she was a burden and wanted to die, before dramatically fainting in the hallway. They rushed her to the hospital, where doctors gravely announced her heart condition had severely deteriorated due to stress. My Grandmother Davenport arrived and coldly told my mother she was a failure of a parent. She lectured me about generosity and grace, shaking her head that I could be so petty over a piece of food. Everyone—my father, my grandmother, the teachers—flocked to the hospital to check on Angelica. Only my mother stayed behind with me. We sat in the empty kindergarten classroom, staring at each other. A heavy, suffocating depression settled over us. For the first time, I viscerally felt the profound, terrifying isolation my mother lived with every day. The absolute impossibility of defending yourself against a reality everyone else had already agreed upon. I looked down at my hands. “Mommy,” I whispered. “Did Daddy become Evie’s dad because I’m a bad girl?” What I really wanted to ask was: Mom, did I ruin everything? Did I make it worse for you? 3 My mother’s breath hitched. She dropped to her knees in front of my tiny chair, gripping my shoulders. Her eyes were fierce, blazing with a protective fire. “No,” she said, her voice dropping to an intense, solemn whisper. “No, Birdie. This is your father’s failure. It is his fault for indulging Evie, for deceiving her into thinking he is her father. It is his fault for prioritizing another woman’s child and abandoning his own. You did nothing wrong. The fault is his. We are not staying in that house anymore. We are leaving.” She packed a single suitcase and drove us straight to my Uncle David’s house. My uncle welcomed us with open arms. He saw the dark, exhausted shadows beneath my mother’s eyes and immediately swore he would go demand justice for her. My mother begged him not to engage. But David was proud. He said he was her older brother, and he would never let anyone disrespect his little sister. He marched off to the hospital to confront Richard. He didn’t come back that night. Or the next. My mother and I stayed at his house for three days. She didn’t send me back to kindergarten. We just existed together in this quiet, stolen bubble of time. We watched the clouds drift past the skyline, traced the frost on the windows, and sat on the balcony at night watching the city lights blur. It was the only time I remember us truly breathing. On the fourth day, my uncle returned. He looked like a ghost. His clothes were rumpled, his face unshaven, and his eyes darted away from my mother’s gaze. When he finally spoke, the words shattered our fragile peace. “Sylvia… could you maybe just… compromise with Angelica? She’s very sick…” I stared at my uncle, my jaw practically on the floor. My mother froze. She told me to go play in the guest bedroom. A few minutes later, the walls shook with the sound of them screaming at each other in his study. Not long after, my mother emerged, her face the color of ash. She grabbed my hand, and we walked out of my uncle’s house. We wandered the city streets for hours, aimless. The world was so vast, yet there wasn’t a single square inch we could claim as ours. We passed a florist, and my mother stopped to buy a bouquet of white lilies. We took a cab to the cemetery, to my maternal grandmother’s grave. My mother laid the flowers down and finally broke. She wept with a raw, agonizing sound that clawed at my chest. “Mom,” she sobbed into the cold stone. “I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you.” I knew the lore of my parents’ romance. Marta had told me the fairy tale. The ruthless, untouchable young CEO and the brilliant, untainted college student. Worlds colliding, sparks flying, a love that defied the odds. Marta had swooned over it. But fairy tales are poison. It had only been six years, and their epic romance had been entirely dismantled by the presence of a third person. I stood in the graveyard, trying to push the words out of my throat: Mom, let’s go. Let’s divorce him. We don’t need him. But the invisible vice clamped down on my jaw again. It was like a cinderblock resting on my chest. I couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. Then, my mother wiped her eyes and looked at me. “Birdie. If I divorce your father… who do you want to live with?” In an instant, the pressure vanished. The plot’s hold over my throat released. I burst into tears, furious and relieved all at once. “I’m staying with you!” She pulled me into her chest, holding me with a grip that felt like steel. She did ask my father for a divorce. He treated it like a child’s temper tantrum. “Stop being ridiculous, Sylvia,” he scoffed, not even looking up from his phone. “I’m trying to find a heart donor for Angelica. I don’t have the bandwidth for your drama right now. Don’t cause trouble when things are this critical.” My mother looked at him, and I saw the last ember of her love turn to ash. “Sign the papers, and I’ll disappear. No one will ever bother you again,” she said quietly. She tried to take me and leave the house. But my grandmother stood blocking the grand entryway. “Beatrice is a Davenport,” the old woman snarled. “You can walk out that door, Sylvia, but my granddaughter stays.” Four massive security guards stepped forward, physically tearing me from my mother’s arms. In that moment, I wanted my grandmother dead. I screamed, kicked, bit the guards’ hands, thrashing like a wild animal. My mother panicked, her eyes wide with terror as a guard accidentally bruised my arm. “Birdie, stop! Don’t hurt yourself! Please, don’t hurt yourself. I won’t go! I’m staying, I’m staying!” I stopped fighting instantly. I couldn’t be the chain that kept her in this prison. “Goodbye, Mommy,” I said, forcing my voice to be steady. “I’ll be a good girl. I’ll wait right here for you to come back.” I broke free from the guard, bolted up the stairs, and locked myself in my bedroom. I pressed my face against the window glass, looking down at the driveway. She was weeping. But she wiped her tears away, squared her shoulders, and looked up at my window. I ducked behind the curtain, my heart hammering against my ribs. When I peeked out again, her car was gone. 4 I declared a cold war on my father and grandmother. I acted as if they were invisible. If they entered a room, I left it. At kindergarten, I became a ghost. Evie, with her sugary smiles and tragic backstory, quickly became the darling of the classroom. I didn’t envy her. I knew I was different. I could see the glowing titles over their heads; I knew the mechanics of the universe we were trapped in. She was blind to it all. And frankly, I didn’t want any love that required me to perform like a trained circus animal to receive it. At home, my only ally was Marta. She stepped into the void my mother left, reading to me, validating my feelings, and sneaking in to double-check my blankets at night. One afternoon, I woke up from a nap to find Marta sitting by my bed, giggling quietly at her phone screen. I crept up behind her to read over her shoulder. [Call off the engagement party tomorrow. I refuse to be a burden to you.] [I never agreed to a breakup. You don’t have the right to walk away from me.] I was a sharp kid, and I’d been practicing my reading. I puzzled out the dialogue. It hit me like a lightning bolt. It sounded exactly like the script my parents were trapped in. “Read it to me,” I demanded. Marta jumped, nearly dropping her phone. “Birdie! You’re awake!” “Read it,” I insisted, crossing my arms. Marta hesitated. Reading trashy romance web-novels to a five-year-old was definitely above her paygrade. She tried to redirect me, but I went on a hunger strike. By dinnertime, Marta caved. She leaned in close, conspiratorially. “This is our secret, okay? You can’t tell your father.” I nodded solemnly. From that day on, the covers of the books on my nightstand were The Girl Who Drank the Moon or Where the Wild Things Are. But the actual stories I was hearing were The Billionaire’s Runaway Bride, The Alpha’s Forced Vow, and His Innocent Obsession. I devoured book after book. I quickly realized they all shared the exact same skeleton. The Male Lead was powerful and arrogant. He constantly misunderstood the Female Lead, inflicted unimaginable emotional trauma upon her, and then, after some catastrophic event forced him to “realize his mistakes,” he would grovel and win her back. It was a terrifying prophecy of my mother’s future. If she stayed on this track, she was doomed to this endless cycle of abuse disguised as passion. As her daughter, I couldn’t see the romance. I only saw the horror. A few days later, my mother came back. She looked hollowed out. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. When my grandmother threw barbed insults at her in the hallway, my mother just took it, staring blankly at the wall. I found out later that my father had systematically destroyed every job opportunity she lined up. Every time she got hired, he made a phone call, and she was let go. She had returned to the house to protect the people who had tried to help her. And those divorce papers? My father had run them through the paper shredder in his office. My mother was a bird in a gilded cage, and the man holding the key didn’t see her as a living, breathing thing to be respected, just property to be secured. When she saw me, she fell to her knees and crushed me to her chest. “Birdie. Are you okay?” “I’m great. Are you okay, Mommy?” “I’m perfectly fine.” Liar. I could smell the despair on her skin. She radiated defeat. I went to my room, dug a paperback out from beneath my mattress—a trope-heavy novel about a wife faking her death to escape her abusive billionaire husband—and solemnly placed it in her hands. I figured maybe she could take some notes on the escape logistics. My mother stared at the garish cover, let out a startled laugh, and then burst into tears. “Oh, Birdie. You’re trying to take care of me? I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m making you worry.” I wanted to tell her I didn’t care about the worry; I just wanted her to be free. The bedroom door swung open. My father stood in the frame. His eyes instantly zeroed in on the trashy romance novel in her hands. “Sylvia, what the hell are you letting her read?” 5 “I gave it to her!” I shouted, throwing my arms out to shield my mother. “Leave her alone!” “Do not yell at her,” my mother said, her voice eerily calm but vibrating with tension. My father looked at her, looked at me, and his expression shifted into something unreadable. He quietly closed the door. It was bizarre. We had practically bared our teeth at him, and he hadn’t exploded? I decided then that maybe there was a glitch in his programming. If he was supposed to be the “Hero,” maybe I just needed to feed him the right script. I emptied my piggy bank and begged Marta to order books from Amazon. How to Be a True Partner, The Engaged Father, 9 Rules for a Healthy Marriage. I arranged them perfectly on the desk in his study. When he got home from work, I waited in the hallway, took his hand, and led him inside. He looked shocked. I hadn’t let him touch me in weeks. His posture softened immediately, and he scooped me up, carrying me into the study. Then he saw the books. A low, self-deprecating chuckle escaped him. He kissed my forehead. “Did you buy these, Birdie? Or did your mother? Have I really been that terrible?” My eyes welled up. Months of fear and suppressed anger bubbled to the surface. He panicked. He awkwardly wiped my tears away with his thumbs, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry, Birdie. I am so sorry. Daddy messed up. I never should have ignored you or your mother.” He actually sat down and read the books. He made a visible effort to soften his edges, and he finally sat down with my mother to explain the truth about Evie. “Evie is the product of an assault,” he confessed, his voice heavy with shame. “Angelica was attacked years ago. She has severe heart trauma, she physically couldn’t handle an abortion, and mentally, she couldn’t bond with the child. She left Evie with nannies. Evie was so traumatized, so desperate for a father figure, that I stepped in. I thought I was protecting her.” My mother’s posture lost some of its rigidity, but she held her ground. “You should have told me. Instead, you let me find out in the worst way possible. Evie’s situation is tragic, Richard, but her tragedy shouldn’t be weaponized against my daughter. You allowed Birdie to be publicly humiliated to protect a lie.” My father didn’t argue. He just looked down, his jaw tight. “I know. It won’t happen again. No more secrets.” For a few weeks, the ice began to thaw. It felt like we were stepping back into the light. But in a narrative built on melodrama, peace is just the setup for a bigger disaster. Angelica was discharged from the hospital. My father went to pick her up himself. She walked through the front door, laughing softly at something he said. Then she saw my mother, and the color violently drained from her face. “Why is David Hastings’ sister in this house?” Angelica shrieked, backing away toward the door. “Make her leave! I will not breathe the same air as the sister of the man who raped me!” 6 My mother looked as if she had been struck by lightning. She stood frozen in the foyer, her hands trembling.

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Five years later, across a mahogany conference table that smelled of expensive wax and corporate indifference, I looked into the eyes of Daniel West again. As the representative for the vendor, he shook my assistant’s hand with a practiced, oily charm. Then he turned his gaze toward me, his expression curdling into a look of patronizing superiority. “Working for someone else must be exhausting, Laura,” he said, his voice smooth, as if there were no jagged glass between us. He leaned back, the king of his small hill. “If you’re done throwing your little tantrum, you can come back. I’m willing to waive the company’s ‘no dating’ policy just for you.” I didn’t blink. I didn’t even offer him the courtesy of a frown. I simply closed my portfolio with a sharp thud and dialed my team on speaker. “The client’s attitude is unprofessional and stalling. Terminate the negotiations immediately.” The shock on his face was a balm. My mind flickered back to that absurd corporate retreat five years ago—the night it all burned down. We had gone “wild foraging” in the Pacific Northwest. One of the new interns, Brianna, had supposedly ingested some toxic mushrooms. She “lost control” and threw herself at Daniel, my fiancé, kissing him with a desperate, frantic hunger in front of the entire department. What broke me wasn’t the girl. It was Daniel. He didn’t push her away. He held her. Later, he used a damp towel to tenderly wipe her face, dismissing my fury with a wave of his hand. “She’s poisoned, Laura. She’s not in her right mind. Don’t be so dramatic.” When I finally cornered him, asking why he had leaned into the kiss, he had actually smirked. “Did I use tongue? No. So get over it.” Then came the ultimatum: “If you can’t handle it, quit. Out of sight, out of mind.” He never expected me to actually do it. On the day Brianna was promoted to a full-time position, I handed in my resignation and vanished from his life. Looking at his stunned expression now, I felt nothing but a cold, distant amusement. Five years was more than enough time for a clinging vine to grow into a towering oak. … I stood up to leave, but Brianna—now apparently his right hand—pressed her palm down on my documents. “Laura, honey, we just got here! Don’t be so hasty. We haven’t even started the pitch.” “This is Harrington Global, a Fortune 500 company,” a former colleague named Brad snickered from across the table, crossing his arms. “The standards for entry-level staff shouldn’t be this low. Does she really think one phone call decides the fate of a multi-million dollar contract? She’s probably just the glorified coffee runner.” “Oh, Brad, don’t be mean!” Brianna pouted, though the look didn’t reach her eyes. She glanced at Daniel, her voice dripping with performative sympathy. “She and Mr. West have… history. It’s understandable that she’s bitter. Seeing us together probably reopened some old wounds.” I checked my watch. “Fine. You have twenty minutes before my next board meeting. Make them count.” “Laura, are you still playing this part?” Daniel spoke up, his tone lazy. He reclined in his leather chair, watching me with a predatory sort of boredom. “If you want to play games, I’ll indulge you. We’re old friends. Just don’t be too cutthroat on the pricing.” His eyes drifted over my plain silk blouse, settling finally on the ring finger of my left hand. I was wearing a simple, hammered silver band. No diamonds. No gold. Brianna followed his gaze, her lips curling into a smug smile. “Are you actually married, Laura? How sad that you didn’t invite us to the wedding.” “Speaking of weddings,” Brad interrupted, nudging Brianna with his elbow. “When are you and Daniel finally going to make it official? I saw you browsing for those three-carat rocks on your lunch break.” “Brad!” Brianna swatted his shoulder, her cheeks flushing a performative pink. “Stop it. We’re strictly professional.” Daniel smiled, a slow, deliberate thing. He reached out and tucked a stray hair behind Brianna’s ear. The gesture sent a ripple of suggestive murmurs through the rest of their team. I looked down at my notes, my heart a flatline. I had seen this play before. Five years ago, one woman faked a mushroom trip to claim a man, and the man claimed he was “forced” while leaning into the heat. Back then, I thought my heart would stop from the pain. Now? It was just bad theater. The door opened, and a server entered with a tray of lattes. I didn’t want to stay for the second act. I turned to walk out. “Wait, Laura!” Brianna lunged forward, but “accidentally” collided with the server. A cup of scalding coffee flew through the air, splashing across my back. The white silk of my blouse was instantly soaked in a dark, spreading stain. “Oh my god!” Brianna gasped, though her eyes were dancing. “Laura, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” The server panicked, thrusting napkins at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am! I—I felt someone push—” “It’s fine,” I said, my voice like ice as I took the napkins. “I know exactly who pushed you.” Brianna’s face hardened. “What is that supposed to mean? You’re so clumsy you’re going to blame me?” “Seriously,” Brad chimed in. “We all saw it. You turned around too fast.” I caught my reflection in the glass partition. The wet silk had become translucent. It was a mess. “Laura,” Daniel said, his voice tinged with a familiar, weary annoyance. “Stop making a scene.” He grabbed his blazer from the chair and tossed it onto the sofa nearest to me. The implication was clear: Cover yourself up with my protection. I didn’t touch the jacket. I simply turned. “I’m going to the restroom.” I managed to scrub most of the stain out with cold water. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from my husband: The car is downstairs. I typed a one-word reply: Soon. As I stepped out of the restroom, I heard hushed voices around the corner. “…I heard she quit back then because she was caught sleeping around with the mailroom guys. It was a huge scandal.” “Shhh, keep it down… but yeah, I heard there was some legal trouble too. Something about embezzlement that Daniel covered up for her…” They went silent the moment they saw me. Brianna adjusted her collar, her expression shifting back to ‘concerned colleague.’ “Laura, Daniel says he’ll give you one more shot. Sign the contract at our price, and he’ll make sure you’re taken care of on future projects.” I walked past them without a word and pushed back into the room. Daniel was flipping through my project files. He didn’t stop when I entered; he just looked up briefly. “The reporting is solid. Impressive, actually.” He slid the folder back toward me. “Come back to Apex. I’ll double your current salary.” “No thank you,” I said, retrieving my files. “This negotiation is over.” “Laura!” Daniel’s voice cracked like a whip. “Do you think working at Harrington makes you untouchable? They only hired you because you’re a bargain. Where’s your supervisor? How could they entrust a hundred-million-dollar deal to a glorified clerk like you?” I didn’t answer. I walked toward the door. As my hand hit the handle, he yelled, “Laura, it’s been five years! When are you going to stop being so dramatic?” I paused. Dramatic? Was he really so arrogant that he thought five years of silence was just a long-form tantrum? “Mr. West,” I said quietly, “my time is far more expensive than yours.” His face contorted. “Stop acting so high and mighty. If it wasn’t for me, you never would have made it to team lead. You’re nothing without the resume I helped you build.” I ignored the lunatic and stepped into the elevator. The air outside was thick and humid, the sky bruising purple before a storm. Safe inside the car, I watched my alumni group chat explode with notifications. The Class President: @Everyone! Dinner tonight at The Grand. Plus ones encouraged! Our old mentor, Professor Miller, will be there! Of course it was tonight. After five years of radio silence, it turned out Daniel had clawed his way to the top of Apex. He wasn’t even supposed to be at the meeting today—a VP named Marcus was scheduled, but there had been a last-minute swap. I had inadvertently stepped in sht. Someone tagged me: Laura, you haven’t RSVP’d! You have to come! Professor Miller always said you were his favorite. I stared at the screen and finally typed: I’ll be there. Professor Miller had been a father figure to me. I wasn’t going to let Daniel’s ego rob me of a chance to see him. ——– That night, Daniel had rented out the Imperial Suite at The Grand. He was throwing money around like it was confetti. Out of a class of thirty-six, nearly everyone had shown up. The moment I opened the door, Brianna’s high-pitched laugh cut through the music. She was draped over Daniel’s arm while a circle of former classmates fawned over them. “Look who finally showed up! Laura!” “I heard you’ve been freelancing since you quit? Tough market out there,” someone remarked, their voice a mix of pity and judgment. “You and Daniel started at the same firm—you should have held onto him tighter. He’s the Golden Boy now.” I smiled politely and found a corner to sit in. The Class President, already three drinks in, slammed his hand on the table. “You guys have no idea! Laura… hic… back in the day, she actually tanked her placement exams just to get into the same grad school as Daniel. She had Ivy League scores!” “No way! Really?” “Totally true! Her parents went ballistic, but she wouldn’t budge. She followed him like a lost puppy.” The room erupted in whispers. Daniel swirled his scotch, a smug, distant look on his face. “Everyone makes choices,” he said smoothly. I looked at my tea, thinking of that lost girl. At eighteen, I believed some things were worth sacrificing logic for. Hearing him now, so dismissive of the girl who had burned her future to stay by his side, I felt a wave of cold clarity. Brianna laughed loudly. “Well, you have to admire that kind of devotion. It’s so… brave. Let’s toast to Laura’s ‘bravery’!” The sycophants followed suit. “Brianna is so graceful. You and Daniel are the real power couple. Some people choose the wrong path and have to live with the consequences.” My phone buzzed. It was my mother. I stepped out onto the balcony to answer. “Where are you?” she asked, her voice sharp with stress. “The baby needs to be picked up from my place.” I leaned against the railing, keeping my voice low. “I’m leaving soon. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” As I hung up and turned around, two former classmates were standing in the doorway, watching me with predatory curiosity. “Laura, did you get married? We never saw a wedding announcement.” I shook my head. “We didn’t do a big ceremony.” “But I heard you mention… picking up a child?” I smiled, offering a half-truth. “Yeah. My life pretty much revolves around school runs these days.” They exchanged a look. “Oh. So… stay-at-home mom?” I didn’t bother correcting them. When I walked back inside, I heard that Professor Miller had a family emergency and wouldn’t be coming. I grabbed my coat. “Goodnight, everyone. Enjoy the party.” As I walked out, a loud voice trailed after me. “Better hurry, Laura! The nanny needs to get to the employer’s house!” The room erupted in laughter. I looked back at the girl I’d spoken to on the balcony. So that was how she had translated ‘picking up the kid.’ I didn’t have the energy to argue. Outside, the rain was a deluge. I stood under the awning, waiting for my ride. The partygoers began to trickle out behind me. Daniel stepped out, holding a large black umbrella. “Where do you live? I’ll drop you off.” “No thanks.” He stared at me, his jaw tightening. “Laura, what is it going to take? What do you want from me?” I looked at him like he was a glitch in the software. “I don’t want anything from you, Daniel. But shouldn’t you be worried about your fiancée? She might get jealous if you’re seen giving me a ride.” He frowned. “The thing with Brianna back then… it was a mistake. She was intoxicated. What was I supposed to do? If there was really something between us, we’d have kids by now.” I looked at him, truly seeing him for the first time in years. “Is it too late to wish you a happy life and many children, then?” “You—” I didn’t wait for the rest. I stepped into the waiting car and closed the door. A few days later, a headline broke in the financial news: Apex Media’s Landmark Deal with Harrington Global Collapses. My phone was immediately bombarded with calls from unknown numbers. I knew it was Daniel. I had blocked his main number years ago. The only way he could reach me was through new burners or public shaming in the alumni group. The project could have been a win-win. I hadn’t intended to let personal history interfere with work, but Daniel’s insistence that I was “unworthy” of the negotiation had made the decision for me. If he couldn’t respect the person across the table, he didn’t deserve the contract. “Laura?” I froze on the red carpet of a business gala a week later. I turned to see Daniel and his team standing by the entrance. Brianna was in a shimmering, over-the-top gown that caught every flashbulb. “You need an invitation for this,” Brianna said, her voice carrying over the crowd. “Did you sneak in with your employer, Laura? Are you here to hold someone’s coat?” Brad laughed. “Should I tell security to let you in so you can go find your boss? You look a little lost.” Daniel frowned, looking at my dress—a custom, minimalist piece in a deep charcoal. “Enough, Laura. Don’t embarrass yourself. If you come back to work for me, you’ll get to attend these events properly. Don’t do this just to spite me. There are reporters everywhere.” I pulled my hand back as he tried to grab my arm. “Mr. West, it seems Apex has a lot of free time lately. Shouldn’t you be worried about your plummeting stock instead of my social life?” His face darkened. “All this because a server spilled coffee on you? Are you really that petty? Did you learn nothing at Apex? Harrington was insane to put someone like you in charge of anything.” A colleague behind him sneered. “Don’t give her too much credit, Daniel. If she actually had the power to kill a deal, she wouldn’t be dressed in no-name labels at a gala like this. She looks like a charity case.” Daniel seemed comforted by that. “True. I doubt a low-level staffer could dictate terms to the board.” Brianna smirked. “Exactly. That dress probably came from a thrift store. She’s just living in a fantasy world where she’s the boss.” I adjusted my cuffs. The dress was from my mother’s boutique—a small, high-end label that specialized in traditional craftsmanship. It was perfect. “Are you done?” I asked calmly. “Because I’m on a schedule.” Daniel looked annoyed. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re delusional.” Then, his tone softened into that fake, protective warmth. He reached out and snatched Brad’s guest pass. “Fine. If you want to see the inside so badly, just stay close to me. Don’t talk to anyone.” Before I could respond, Mr. Thompson, the event organizer, came running toward us, breathless. “Ms. Whitlock! There you are. Your keynote speech is ready. Mr. Beaumont is asking if you’d like to review the teleprompter one last time?” Daniel froze. Brianna’s smug smile shattered. She looked at Thompson, then at me. “I think you have the wrong person. Keynote? There are only three speakers tonight, and they’re all C-suite…” I took the folder from Thompson. “Mr. Thompson, these people are not on the guest list for the VIP section. Please ensure they remain in the general lobby.” Daniel grabbed my wrist. “What is this? What are you doing?” “I’m working,” I said, gently removing his hand. He looked at me with a rare flicker of doubt. He probably still thought I was the girl who melted whenever he brought me a coffee or “helped” by rewriting my reports after screaming at me in front of the office. He didn’t realize that those “favors” felt like insults now. I walked toward the green room. My phone buzzed—a video call from my mother. “He fell and scraped his knee,” she said, sounding frantic. “He won’t stop crying for you.” I ducked into a private lounge. “I’m here, baby. Mommy’s right here.” I spent ten minutes soothing my son over the screen. By the time I hung up, I realized I was cutting it close. I messaged my colleague: If I’m not on stage in two minutes, play the intro video. I’ll be right there. As I hurried back toward the hall, I passed a semi-open VIP suite. Daniel’s team was inside. “I can’t believe she kicked us out of the VIP area. I had to bribe a waiter just to get these passes. Daniel, you have to reimburse me for this!” “Laura is just bluffing,” Brianna’s voice was sharp. “She’s not on the speaker list. I checked the website this morning. She’s probably just a ghostwriter for the real executives.” “Who cares? How does she have the pull to bar us? Is her ’employer’ really that powerful?” “Maybe she’s sleeping with him,” Brad suggested. “The Beaumonts are old money. They wouldn’t marry a nanny, but they’d certainly keep one as a mistress.” “Shut up!” Daniel snapped. “We’re here for networking. Focus. In thirty minutes, I have an interview with Business Weekly in the lobby. Make sure the press kit is ready.” I shook my head and walked onto the stage. The speech went perfectly. Afterward, as I was heading to the exit to get home to my son, I passed the lobby where the live broadcast was happening. Daniel was sitting in the interview chair, looking every bit the ‘Rising Star.’ The host smiled. “Mr. West, your rise has been meteoric. But you’ve kept your private life very quiet. Any special lady?” Daniel gave a humble smile. “My focus has always been the work.” “I heard there was a first love,” the host teased. “Someone who didn’t make the cut. What do you think about women who try to use marriage as a ladder to success?” Daniel looked pensive. Brianna, sitting in the front row of the audience, suddenly spoke up. “Oh, don’t make him uncomfortable! He was almost fooled by a social climber once. But she’s hit rock bottom now—last I heard, she’s a nanny for a wealthy family.” I stopped in my tracks. A nanny? The interview was being live-streamed. The comments on the monitor were already vicious: Typical gold-digger. Daniel is too good for her. Bet she’s trying to seduce the dad of the kid she watches. I pulled out my phone and opened the stream. I saw Brianna catch my eye in the crowd. She pointed. “Oh, look! Speak of the devil. There she is now, probably waiting to pick up her employer’s dry cleaning.” The cameras swiveled toward me. Reporters, sensing a scandal, rushed forward. “Ms. Whitlock! Did you fail your exams on purpose to follow Mr. West?” “Is it true you were fired from Apex for misconduct?” “Are you here tonight to try and win him back?” Brianna was beaming. The business interview had turned into a tabloid circus. Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the ballroom burst open. A small boy in a tailored miniature suit ran into the room, dodging security. “It’s the Beaumont heir!” someone whispered. The room went silent as the little boy scanned the crowd. Brianna, seeing an opportunity to look maternal in front of the cameras, knelt down. “Hey there, little guy. Are you lost?” She reached out to pat his head, but the boy dodged her. His eyes lit up when he saw me. “Mommy!” he chirped. The silence that followed was deafening. Brianna’s face went white. The cameras caught her frozen, hand mid-air. “Mommy?” she stammered. “You… you’re his mother? You’re married to a Beaumont?” The boy ignored her and jumped into my arms. “Mommy! Daddy says you’re playing the ‘don’t know us’ game again!”

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1 It was a perfectly ordinary day. Out of sheer boredom, I was searching Richard Sterling’s name on Instagram. Most of the results were just official business articles and press releases, but after scrolling for a long time, I accidentally stumbled upon his ex-wife’s account. How was I so sure she was Richard’s ex-wife? Because her profile picture was a photo of the two of them. It had to be a very old photo, though, because both of them looked so young and green. The post that popped up on the Explore page was incredibly mundane: she had shared a food blogger’s restaurant recommendation, tagged an account, and demanded in a spoiled, playful tone, “@richard_s, I want to eat here. Take me.” Except, it was posted eight years ago. That tagged account must have been Richard’s private one. I clicked on it first, but it was blank—probably deleted a long time ago. Then, I clicked into his ex-wife’s profile. Why did I click it? Because I was Richard’s girlfriend, and we were currently planning to get married. I had tried to indirectly ask Richard about his past with his ex-wife before. But every time I brought it up, he always looked like he didn’t want to dive into it. Eventually, I took the hint and stopped asking. When Richard and I got together, they had already been divorced for nearly three years. I had debated it for a long time before finally agreeing to date him. Lately, he would occasionally drop hints about marriage plans. Barring any surprises, we were highly likely to tie the knot within the next two years. I believe any woman is naturally curious about her current partner’s ex, regardless of whether they just broke up or got divorced. What women excel at most is filling in the blanks, using tiny details to mentally reconstruct every little moment of their past relationship. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I was harboring a secret thrill, eager to satisfy my inner gossip, as I began to snoop through this woman’s Instagram. Her most recent post was from two years ago—just a simple “liked” dynamic. Her update frequency in recent years was very low. Going further back, it was just normal, everyday life. I kept scrolling and scrolling; I wanted to start from her very first post. I don’t know how long I scrolled, but I finally hit the bottom. Her first post was from May 2011. I stopped, then slowly started scrolling back up. It was her daily life from eleven years ago. Reading between the lines, you could tell she was someone who loved life—positive, optimistic, with a harmonious family. She was obsessed with astrology, loved good food, and had two dogs. It was obvious she came from a wealthy background. But none of that was what I wanted to see. After swiping for a while longer, I finally found what I was looking for. That was the first time Richard appeared on her feed. It was Richard from eleven years ago. The photo quality was terribly blurry, but you could still trace the outlines of his current face—handsome, tall, and straight-backed, just a bit more youthful. They were at a café. He was looking toward the camera, smiling, and his joy seemed to pierce right through the low-resolution image. On the table sat a coffee and a milkshake. Her caption read: Iced Americano and Banana Milkshake. His iced Americano. Her banana milkshake. My heart skipped a beat. Honestly, I never expected they had once shared such ordinary, simple happiness. I knew from my own social circles that their families were of equal status. People had told me their marriage was just a union of two wealthy families, so I had always assumed it was strictly an arranged marriage of convenience. I never imagined they had shared the daily life of a normal, loving couple. After scrolling for a while longer, a dull ache started to form in my chest. Almost every single one of her posts bore the traces of their sweet, passionate romance. When he took her out to try a new food truck, she’d take a cute photo, tag him, and playfully complain about what tasted bad and what she liked. When he was out of town on business, she would tag him from across the country to tell him she missed him… Sharing every single meticulous detail like this pulled me right back to eleven years ago, dragging me directly into the era when they were deeply in love. The imagery was so vivid and concrete that it made my chest feel tight and suffocated. This was the Richard from eleven years ago—a Richard I didn’t know. A Richard who belonged to someone else. 2 There was a significant age gap between Richard and me. He was eleven years older. I was a dance instructor, and we first met at an industry gala where I was performing as a guest dancer during the intermission. Later, at the evening banquet, he politely came over and asked me for a dance. Since he was the only one there without a female companion, I gracefully accepted and danced with him. That was our first encounter. To be honest, men around Richard’s age are the most captivating. They possess a wealth of life experience—they are mature, grounded, intelligent, yet maintaining a polite distance. They know exactly how to perfectly cater to their partner’s emotions, their every movement exuding impeccable manners. Not to mention, he was incredibly handsome. With deep-set eyes, whenever he looked at you intently, it was like a whirlpool sucking you in. He was so captivating… and so dangerous. Not long after that, he showed up to invite me to dinner, claiming it was to thank me for my help that night. I was on high alert at first. Because of the nature of my profession, I frequently ran into scumbags—especially married men who liked to package themselves as deeply affectionate, romantic gentlemen. I mercilessly rejected Richard. He just smiled faintly and didn’t pester me. Later, he had someone deliver a bottle of perfume to me. It wasn’t obscenely luxurious—just a nice brand I could actually afford myself. I didn’t want to be overly dramatic, so I accepted it. Just like that, we were even. But it didn’t take long for me to owe him another favor. The circle we operated in was only so big. I frequently did commercial gigs with my friends from the dance studio, and it wasn’t uncommon to run into wandering hands. However, the men at these events, whether they were actual thugs or just newly rich developers, usually cared about their public image. If rejected, they wouldn’t normally cause a scene or throw a tantrum in public. But there are exceptions to every rule. When Richard walked over, a sleazy real estate developer, Mr. Dawson, was gripping my wrist, desperately trying to drag me into his chest. His mouth was foul: “I had my eye on you the second you got on stage. Look at this tiny waist, you really know how to move it. How much money do you even make dancing? Just get with me. I’ll give you ten grand a month, and I’ll even buy you a condo…” I looked around frantically for help, but everyone just stood by, smiling silently, watching the show. That is, until Richard walked over. He firmly grabbed Mr. Dawson’s wrist, smiled politely but with absolute, unquestionable authority, and said, “Mr. Dawson, didn’t you see she was saying no?” It was such a cliché hero-saves-the-beauty trope. But that was the beginning of everything, and like anyone else would, I inevitably fell for him. I was completely certain that the reason he and his ex-wife divorced had nothing to do with any flaws in his character. By the time we met, I knew he had been divorced for over two years. While dating him, it became obvious he wasn’t a player who just liked to fool around. Before me, he was the only man who attended every business gala without a date. He was always a solitary figure. Sometimes, in a massive ballroom filled with roaring music and deafening chatter, he would just stand there quietly, looking like a lonely outsider who didn’t belong in the scene at all. I didn’t know what he was so lonely for. His business empire was massive, his family background incredibly prominent yet understated. Wherever he appeared, people flocked to him, treating him like the center of the universe. Later, when I finally gave in and agreed to be with him, he gave me a profound sense of security. He never crossed my boundaries, though he had normal desires for intimacy, like holding hands and kissing. But he always, always asked for my consent first. Because it was my first real relationship, he controlled the pace and rhythm of everything. He even told me, “If you ever feel like we’re moving too fast or you’re uncomfortable, you have to tell me.” He would be the first to tell me good morning, and he’d wait for me to go to bed just to say goodnight. He reported his itinerary to me without fail. I picked out all the profile pictures for his social media accounts. We used matching wallpapers and matching cover photos. And I was absolutely certain I was the only woman in his life. He gave me every little detail, all the security in the world, and spent all his free time outside of work on me. Once, he was out of the country for a conference. During that time, I booked a massive New Year’s Eve performance for a major television network, but I was completely stuck trying to choose the right background music for my choreography. Despite the brutal time difference, he stayed on the phone with me at 1:00 AM his time, sharing a Spotify playlist with me. As I stood in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling mirror trying to find the right feeling, he manually skipped tracks for me, one by one. Every time I asked hesitantly, “Richard, are you still there?” He would always reply promptly, telling me he was. I had read a quote once: If you want to know if a man loves you, see if he’s willing to spend money on you when he’s broke, and see if he’s willing to spend time on you when he’s rich. After dragging himself through a brutal, mentally exhausting day of conferences in a different time zone, he stayed up deep into the night, keeping me company and skipping songs for me until I found the perfect one. I honestly didn’t know what could possibly express his sincerity more than that. He loved me. He truly loved me. He wasn’t just playing around, and he wasn’t just trying to sleep with me. I was absolutely certain of it. But now, I wasn’t so sure. Did he love me? Or rather… did he really like me? 3 The Richard on his ex-wife’s Instagram was a Richard I didn’t recognize at all. In December 2011, he was on a business trip to Chicago. His ex-wife posted a pathetic-sounding update, tagging him: Someone’s out of town, and now my breakfast, lunch, and dinner are completely compromised. Just two days later, she posted again at 3:00 AM. The photo was a bowl of noodles topped with a poached egg and some greens. The caption read: Someone rushed back overnight! I whined that I was starving, so he didn’t even take off his suit before heading into the kitchen. We didn’t have many ingredients left tonight, so we just had to make do! For the next consecutive week, her feed was filled with different, lavish meals. There was even a photo of Richard in the kitchen, simmering soup. In the spacious, brightly lit kitchen, he was wearing comfortable loungewear, standing tall and handsome by the counter. He held a ceramic ladle in his hand, his side profile entirely focused as he watched the soup in the pot. The comments were flooded with their mutual friends teasing him, all calling Mr. Sterling the “perfect 24/7 boyfriend.” It was such a noisy, vibrant, warm glimpse into their life. How happy they must have been. The happiness was so overwhelming that, even eleven years later, it still bled through the screen, making my eyes turn red and allowing jealousy to completely blind my heart. I had no idea Richard knew how to cook. We always went out to various high-end restaurants. He employed three private chefs at home, each specializing in a different cuisine. Once, while we were waiting for our food to arrive at a restaurant, I casually asked him, “Do you know how to cook?” He had just smiled, looked at me, and said, “A little.” I had looked at him with eyes full of expectation. I really wanted to ask, Then can you cook something for me? A man as smart as him definitely knew what I was hoping for. But he didn’t follow up on the topic, so I didn’t push it. I wondered, if I had just bluntly asked him to make a dish for me right then, what would he have said? He might have agreed, or he might have refused. I wasn’t sure. By early 2012, they were preparing for their wedding. The wedding logistics, the dresses, the honeymoon destination, how to handle the receptions in their respective hometowns. Naturally, there were occasional arguments. For instance, over the color palette for the floral arrangements. She wanted blue, but Richard wanted red. She wrote on Instagram: He said blue is a cold color, but red is romantic and passionate. It’s fearless. He said he wants me to be passionately happy forever. Such a romantic, fiercely direct Richard. He never discussed anything with me. Perhaps it was his sheer breadth of experience and vision, but every decision he made for me was always the right one. I rarely argued with him. I was already used to obediently accepting all of his perfectly arranged plans. He would just go ahead and handle everything that was good for me; I never had to worry or ask about a single detail. I used to think this was his way of spoiling me. But now, looking at this, I was so incredibly envious. I was envious of the woman who had that version of Richard. She complained online about his Virgo perfectionism because, for the wedding balloons, he bought ten different types and personally compared their thickness and texture until he found the one he was most satisfied with. I could never reach this grounded, everyday version of Richard. Nowadays, there were very few things he ever needed to do with his own hands. All he had to do was blink, and countless people would scramble to anticipate his needs. He probably no longer had the energy or the patience to meticulously handle every tiny detail like that anymore. Then, I saw their wedding photos. Various locations, various color grades. Without exception, every single photo radiated pure bliss. That was the first time I had ever seen Richard smile with his guard completely down. His eyes were crinkled deep at the corners. He was unbelievably handsome and charming, radiating an overwhelming, spirited energy. Of course, he smiled at me often, too. But that was the composed, measured smile of a mature man who had been weathered by time. The corners of his lips would turn up slightly, but no matter the occasion, his eyes were always calm and collected. Plus, he didn’t like taking pictures. On my birthday, he spent the whole day with me. I pulled out a Polaroid camera to take a photo of him, but he instinctively reached out and covered most of the lens. With a gentle but unquestionable smile, he rejected the idea, telling me, “Baby, be good. I don’t like taking pictures.” I put the camera away, and I never tried to take another photo of him again. Yet, his figure appeared in countless photos on her feed. He had never compromised with me. The principles and boundaries of a fully grown man aren’t something you can shake just by acting cute and whining. They had a set of wedding photos taken at Richard’s alma mater. They were alumni. His ex-wife wrote in the caption: I want to go back to my freshman year, walk into the finance department, grab the hand of the guy who didn’t even know me yet, and ask him: If I told you we were going to get married in seven years, would you believe me? Piecing the clues together, I could map out the entire storyline. Such a classic romance. Families of equal standing, attending the same Ivy League college, studying abroad together. In a foreign country, they looked out for each other. Richard’s impressive cooking skills were probably honed while they were living abroad. Just so he could cook for her. She could re-post random recipes on Instagram, tag Richard, and righteously demand: Make this for me. These were their memories. I felt like a rat in a dark sewer, a cockroach scuttling out only at night, the evil stepmother in Snow White, secretly spying on their entire sweet past. It was such a disgusting thing to do. But I couldn’t stop myself. 4 Richard said he wanted to marry me. It happened late one night. I woke up in the middle of the night and found him smoking on the balcony. I walked over barefoot and silently leaned against him. In that moment, the loneliness radiating from this man was so palpable. I just wanted to keep him company. He put out his cigarette and raised his hand to stroke my hair, over and over. Neither of us spoke. We just quietly looked at the night-blooming cereus flowering on the balcony in the dead of night. A fleeting beauty, but breathtaking. It bloomed silently under the moonlight. I was a bit sleepy, so I laid my head down on his lap. I don’t know how much time passed, but just as I was dozing off, he suddenly asked me, “Once I’m done with this busy period, let’s get married.” I snapped awake instantly, looking up at him in utter shock. He looked down at me, perfectly calm. It didn’t seem like a joke or a spur-of-the-moment impulse. But looking deep into his eyes, I couldn’t read his emotions or figure out what he was actually thinking at all. He gave me a promise and a future. I had actually daydreamed about our wedding scene, but he didn’t like it. He didn’t want a high-profile, lavish spectacle. Because of his status, throwing a wedding required considering entirely too many variables. Beyond the wedding details, there were the complex political and corporate relationships to manage. His second marriage would inevitably be heavily scrutinized by the media, which brought in a whole other layer of social politics. He just didn’t want to waste his energy on it. His idea was that we should just go to City Hall and sign the papers. Of course, when he brought it up, he used a very consultative tone. He acted like a gentleman, willing to listen—if I didn’t like the idea, we could do it my way. But I loved him. I loved him so much, and I was terrified of causing him frustrating trouble. So, despite being incredibly disappointed, I agreed. I figured, as long as he loves me and genuinely wants to marry me, what else could possibly be more important? Sometimes, the saying is really true: Ignorance is bliss. For example, knowing the sheer amount of time and energy he had poured into his other wedding. Or the romantic, wildly sweet honeymoon they went on afterward. After they got married, they traveled to countless cities and countries. Maui, Aspen, Miami, Sedona, Yellowstone, New Orleans… They traveled to Italy, Australia, Denmark, the UK, France, and Japan together. They went skydiving, swimming, rock climbing, scuba diving. They did so many things together… After finishing one stop, she would immediately tag Richard online, playfully ordering him to plan the itinerary for the next destination. And under her command, he would meticulously arrange everything. That kind of love—answering every call, granting every request. It had been eleven years. I knew I shouldn’t be jealous of an eleven-year-old ghost. What was I to him back then? Even now, what did I truly amount to? Richard would never have that kind of time for me. What I mean is, he would never carve out the time to purely and entirely accompany another person to re-do all those locations and activities. Our dates consisted of operas, dance recitals, art exhibits, and VIP restaurants. Everywhere we went, we were surrounded by people who had already arranged everything perfectly. He didn’t have to lift a finger or spend a single minute planning. Our dates were standard, by-the-book routines. After the wedding, their love and daily life were filled with trivial, ordinary moments. He did so many childish things with her. They signed a “Marriage Contract” promising never to divorce, even though it had absolutely no legal weight. She knew the PINs to all of Richard’s bank accounts, knew the passwords to all his social media. He remembered every anniversary, every holiday, and every single gift managed to surprise and thrill her. Perhaps because their family backgrounds were so similar, their social circles completely overlapped. Their mutual friends were the absolute elites in their respective fields. Richard had taken me to his social gatherings before, but they only ever spoke about investment strategies I couldn’t understand. I had absolutely no interest in it. I loved the art of dance; I loved Isadora Duncan. We had nothing in common to talk about. I was visibly bored, and after that, he stopped taking me to those events I disliked. I didn’t think much of it back then, but now, it felt like a fishbone lodged in my throat. For the first time, I clearly realized that his world was a world I could never truly enter. Richard would let her look through his phone. He would hold her hand constantly. He went shopping with her, walking block after block. When her feet hurt from her heels, they traded shoes. She shuffled along in his oversized dress shoes, and he walked behind her, carrying her high heels. They worked out together, walked the dogs together, went for night runs together. They debated home renovation designs and went furniture shopping together… We had a shared property, too. I had contributed a small portion of the down payment. Even though it was a drop in the bucket, I continued to deceive myself into believing it was “our” shared home. The renovation was entirely outsourced. The design firm’s proposal was so detailed it included five different tile patterns for the master bathroom alone. During the process, neither of us asked a single question or participated in any of the design details. Three months later, the bare concrete shell was transformed into a sophisticated, luxurious turnkey mansion. This was not the Richard I knew—the man who handled everything with effortless ease, who was always breezy, distant, and unbothered. He had dated, married, and spoiled his partner just like a regular, ordinary man. He devoted his entire heart and soul. He spent massive amounts of time and energy maintaining the relationship. He paid attention to makeup brands and categories. He personally simmered herbal, restorative soups for her. He took beautiful photos of her. He stayed awake all night by her bedside when she was sick. He scoured every street and alley to take her to eat foods he thought she might like… When it came to her, he handled everything personally, leaving no stone unturned. These tiny details were deeply rooted in the long river of time. This was his youth. These were the vanished years that I could never touch, no matter how hard I tried. As much as I hated to admit it, I had to accept the truth: in my relationship with Richard, I was the subordinate one. I depended on him, constantly terrified of losing him, forever anxious and insecure. I only accepted what he gave me, but I never dared to open my mouth and ask for anything. Because I was afraid he would find me annoying. I never dared to rightfully demand he do anything for me. I never touched his personal belongings. I certainly never threw tantrums or demanded he coddle me. Perhaps out of psychological pride, I never swiped his credit card either, even though Richard had explicitly told me I was allowed to be demanding and that he would always catch me. But I still didn’t dare. Because I was terrified that if I acted out even a little bit, this man would abandon me. God knows how much I envied that woman. I was so, so incredibly jealous of her. Because in a relationship, a woman will only make reckless demands when she is absolutely certain the man loves her, when she knows he will never leave her.

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That stifling summer, I spent most of my time sitting in the second row by the window. Maybe you never even noticed me in my corner. Let’s just call him “J.” It feels more appropriate that way. In the dead of night, a viral post suddenly flickered onto my phone screen. … [I was deeply saddened to hear about your current situation.] [You were the golden boy of our class. The math teacher’s favorite, the one the physics teacher used to joke was his “star disciple.”] [And yet, you chose to drop out for the sake of the “it-girl” from the rival school.] [After all these years, I only have one question.] [Are you doing okay now?] The delicate prose never explicitly mentioned unrequited love, yet every syllable was drenched in it. The comment section was a sea of sympathy for the author and vitriol for “J’s” decision to throw his life away. The “it-girl”—sketched in just a few strokes of the pen—was being torn apart by the masses. I was so irritated that I nudged my husband awake. He was snoring softly beside me. “Are you doing okay now?!” I hissed. Blinking away sleep, Jude instinctively pulled my arm toward him and kissed it. “Honey… mmm… so tired.” Seeing the dark circles under Jude’s eyes, my heart softened. He had just pulled three consecutive all-nighters for his research and had finally managed to crawl home for a few hours of shut-eye. “Go back to sleep,” I whispered. Jude seemed like he wanted to say something, but the pull of exhaustion was too strong. Within seconds, he was out again. In the minutes that followed, that post racked up over a million likes. The internet was in a state of collective mourning. [Young love is like a spring rain,] one comment read. [Fine and persistent, soaking into your heart until it’s cold. Every year you ask yourself: do you regret never speaking up?] [Sweetie, I think he definitely liked you back. This is so tragic.] [This was clearly a mutual pining situation. If either of them had taken one step forward, that other girl wouldn’t have stood a chance. J wouldn’t have ruined his life.] [Youth is nothing but a collection of regrets. The author’s words are breaking my heart at 2:00 AM. I hope you find someone better.] A few skeptics chimed in. [Maybe the author’s feelings for J weren’t romantic? Not everything has to be a soulmate drama.] [How could she not love him?] someone shot back. The writing was exquisite, the emotions raw. It focused on those small, agonizingly vivid moments that define a crush. I should have been moved. But there was a problem: the “fallen hero” of the story was my husband, Jude Callahan. The author’s description of “J” was so meticulous that I recognized him instantly. But I wasn’t just some bystander in this narrative. I was the “it-girl.” The one who supposedly dragged the protagonist into the mud and ruined his future. And according to the comments, I was the villain. [I always had a bias against girls who spent too much time on their appearance back in school. Turns out, I was right.] [The prettier they are, the more dangerous they are. Look at this—his whole life, destroyed.] [The author says their school was the top public academy in the state, but the ‘belle’ was from the private school next door. Tell me you see the red flag.] [Poor J. A brilliant life wasted on a girl like that.] [He’ll regret it. He probably already does. He didn’t have the courage to be with the author, but he threw away his future for a distraction.] [Haha, J is probably sitting in some cramped rental right now, cursing that girl for wasting his potential.] [He didn’t know what was worth holding onto until it was too late.] Almost everyone blamed me for Jude’s “downfall.” The author included. Between her lines was a thick layer of resentment and “what-ifs.” In her story, Jude was a sun that had been eclipsed. I was the one who pulled him into the abyss. [May 2018. Sunny. The teacher was explaining the final physics problem. No one understood it, but you got it right on the first try. I wanted to ask you about it, but I was afraid my ignorance would make you laugh. So, I started working harder.] Short, poignant entries detailed how the author pushed herself academically just to keep Jude in her sights. [Sweetie, you’re such a good soul.] [Your hard work wasn’t for nothing. Loving someone means rising to their level, not letting them sink into the shadows with you.] [That’s the difference between you and that other girl. You would have walked beside him toward his future. Instead, his future is gone, and you’re the one who succeeded.] [I can’t stop sighing. J chose the wrong person.] The “J chose the wrong person” comment became the top-rated response, with thousands of people nesting their agreement beneath it. But then, one user asked: [Did J actually like the author?] [He could drop out for the ‘it-girl,’ so why didn’t he ever confess to the author?] A debate erupted. By 2:00 AM, the author appeared in the comments. She didn’t say much, just a simple “Goodnight.” She told everyone not to argue. “My story with J ended ten years ago. Our paths won’t cross again.” But her words only fueled the fire. [It’s 2:00 AM and you’re still awake. What are you thinking about?] [Probably thinking about the teenage version of J.] [I counted. This post is 8,976 words. Darling, how long did it take you to write this?] [Remember, everyone, this is just a snippet. Her teenage diaries are probably filled with nothing but him.] [Are you okay now, honey? Have you found someone better than J?] The author didn’t reply again. I turned off my phone. I believed her words—or at least, her memory of them. In my mind, Jude had always been a kind, warm person. The next morning, Jude was already gone before I headed to the office. He was wrapping up the final stages of a research project and was likely already at the airport for his flight. While I was getting ready, I reflexively opened the app again. The author—who had previously claimed this was a burner account and wouldn’t be updated—had posted again. It was a selfie video. Under the bright sun, a girl in a white-and-blue dress was beaming at the camera. [Holy crap, she looks like a first love!] [She has such a pure, cute smile. She’s precious.] [Her bio says ‘Single.’ Does she still love J?] [She’s this beautiful and J didn’t go for her? How stunning was that other girl supposed to be?] [Ugh, probably the ‘mean girl’ type. I’m a girl, and I definitely prefer the author’s vibe.] [Let’s not pit women against each other. Let’s just love the author and let J have his ‘it-girl.’] I thought about it for a second and then hit “Follow.” The internet is a double-edged sword. Moving prose deserves its traffic. But I wasn’t about to stay the villain in a story I didn’t write. Within hours, her face-reveal video had hundreds of thousands of likes. Her “burner” account had transformed into a million-follower platform overnight. With just a few thousand words, she had become a sensation. The comments attacking me grew more vicious, and they didn’t spare Jude either. [Birds of a feather. Trash belongs with trash.] [Did the ‘it-girl’ even finish high school?] [Poor J probably didn’t even get his GED.] [The right person walks with you toward your future. You made the right choice by not ending up with him.] [Are you a college grad, honey? Where did you go?] The author replied: “I graduated from a top-tier state university. Ivy-equivalent.” The hype reached a fever pitch. [Wow! A genius!] [Man, J could have been at Harvard or MIT. He was the star.] [So impressive. J was the golden boy, but you’re the golden girl.] [Maybe the author is romanticizing J too much. Maybe he wasn’t actually that great.] [Exactly. The author herself is the real catch here.] Amidst the praise, the author responded again: “No, he really was brilliant.” She replied to comment after comment. She talked about how Jude was always at the top of the rankings, how he swept every academic competition. In her telling, Jude was a rare, once-in-a-generation talent. “A talent like that shouldn’t have been allowed to fade.” [Your writing still loves him.] [Your writing still hates her.] [That girl was the rot that spoiled the whole harvest.] [Otherwise, J and the author would be standing at the top of the world together today.] [You’ve held onto this for so long. Do you really just want to ask him if he’s okay?] People started asking for her location, trying to help her “find” J. She didn’t answer. But eagle-eyed users noticed she had liked a specific comment from the night before: [Sweetie, I think he definitely liked you back. This is so tragic.] The comment section exploded. [Even the author thinks it’s a tragedy. We have to find him.] [Anyone have J’s contact info? I want to give him a piece of my mind.] [Give me the contact for the girl who dragged him down. I have a few choice words for her.] [So, are you still single because you’re waiting for him?] Seeing that people were starting to doxx Jude and me, I sent the author a private message. “I hope you can respect people’s privacy.” Her response? She went live that very night. In the livestream, she shared a screenshot of my message. The viewers went ballistic. [I don’t even need a second to guess who this is.] [It’s the ‘it-girl,’ isn’t it?] [She’s not afraid of her privacy being leaked; she’s afraid of the truth. She knows she ruined him.] [Wow. The author is just sharing her life story. What does it have to do with her? What a loser.] [Talk about guilty conscience. She was barely a footnote in the essay, and now she’s acting like a victim. She’s probably just jealous the author is going viral.] In the stream, the author—Annabel—bowed slightly toward the camera. “I’m sorry for taking up everyone’s time. I wanted to address the recent content I’ve posted.” “First of all, I haven’t leaked anyone’s private information.” [Exactly! Where’s the leak?] [God, she has such ‘main character’ energy. Love it.] [The Ivy League intellect is showing. So articulate.] “I’m also very grateful for the love you’ve shown my writing. It was just a late-night reflection. I never expected it to blow up like this.” A few alumni from her school recognized her in the comments. [Annabel was the commencement speaker for the class of 2018! She’s amazing.] [Yeah, she came back to visit the teachers last year. She’s as kind as she is smart.] Annabel looked directly into the camera, her eyes clear and defiant. “I wrote the story. It was my experience. And yes, I know who sent that message.” “Perhaps you’re watching this right now. I want to say: my conscience is clear regarding Jude. But do you owe him an apology?” [Mic drop!] [The ‘it-girl’ is just lurking because she’s scared of being called out. We see you!] [Since when is writing a memoir against the law?] [Some people think being pretty in high school means the world revolves around them forever. You’re just a supporting character in Annabel’s world, honey.] [A villainous supporting character, at that.] Annabel then urged her followers not to leak anyone’s info. “Please keep the discussion civil. Words can hurt. Thank you.” [Okay, okay, if the queen says so, I’ll stop.] [I’m done. She’s not worth the energy anyway.] [What a class act. If my son meets a girl like this, he’s lucky.] Someone asked about Jude again. [Is there really no sequel for you two?] Annabel went quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. “My story might cause him trouble, so I won’t be updating this account anymore.” After that livestream, I stopped following her. Internet fame is a flash in the pan. Jude was busy, and I wasn’t exactly sitting idle. My subsidiary company was preparing for an IPO. Two weeks later, Jude returned from his trip. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes deeper than before. The moment he saw me at the airport, he practically melted into me. “I missed you so much,” he mumbles against my neck. I poked his forehead. “We’re at the airport. Get off.” He wouldn’t let go, so I laughed and took his hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.” As we waited for our Uber, I felt eyes on me. A prickle at the back of my neck. In the car, I remembered the viral post and asked, “Do you remember an Annabel?” Jude nodded. “Yeah. She was in my homeroom junior year, I think.” “Oh… so you do remember her.” Jude caught my tone immediately. “I remember everyone’s name from high school. Why? Do you know her?” I gave him a playful huff. “I didn’t. But I do now. Apparently, the two of you were hopelessly in love with each other in secret.” Jude looked horrified. “What? No! I never liked anyone else. Since we were kids, it’s only ever been you.” Because I wasn’t just a “footnote” in Annabel’s story. I was the girl who grew up next door to Jude. We were childhood sweethearts. But Annabel’s story got one thing right. Jude really did drop out of high school because of me.

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In my third year working the VIP lounges of the city’s high-end clubs, the name Beckett Clifford meant absolutely nothing to me. I was mid-shift, the air thick with expensive cologne and the clink of ice, when a stranger’s hand began to slide up the hem of my skirt. Before I could deploy my practiced “polite deflection,” the heavy oak door of the private suite was kicked open with a violence that silenced the music. A man stormed in. He didn’t say a word before his fist connected with the guest’s face, leaving him a bloody mess on the velvet upholstery. That was Beckett. He stood there, chest heaving, his eyes a turbulent storm of rage and a jagged, inexplicable pain. “This is what you left me for?” he hissed, his voice trembling. “To do this?” I didn’t recognize the emotion in his voice, let alone his face. I did what I always did: I masked my confusion with a practiced, predatory smile. I stepped toward him, letting my body graze his in the way that usually loosened a man’s wallet. “You look new, handsome,” I purred, my voice a low honeyed drawl. “Is this your first time playing? Around here, we don’t care where the money comes from, as long as there’s enough of it.” Beckett froze. Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. I took the opportunity to slide my arms around his waist, leaning in close. “You seem like you have a lot of pent-up energy. Want me to help you blow off some steam? But let’s be clear—you’re going to have to outbid the guy you just sent to the ER.” He shoved me away then, his expression curdling into pure disgust. “You really can’t live without a man’s hand on you, can you? All that ‘pure and innocent’ bullshit from before… it must have been exhausting to maintain the act.” The smile stayed plastered on my face. Inside, I felt nothing. Three years ago, an “accident” had wiped my slate clean. I woke up in a hospital with no past. Who he was, what we had been—it was all gone. … The force of his shove sent me staggering. My hip hit the edge of the mahogany table, a sharp bloom of pain radiating through my side. As a professional, I didn’t let my expression flicker. I knew exactly what I was in this world. If a client was angry, it meant I hadn’t performed my role well enough. I straightened my skirt, smoothed my hair, and turned to the back bar. I grabbed a bottle of the most expensive Louis XIII cognac on the shelf. “Don’t be like that,” I said, walking back to him with a swaying gait, my eyes wide and pleading. “That gentleman was about to tip me a thousand dollars. You chased him off, and my rent is due. Help a girl out?” I pulled a roll of crumpled bills from my clutch and, keeping my eyes locked on his, tucked them slowly into the neckline of my dress. Beckett stared at me as if he wanted to peel my skin off just to see if there was anything real underneath. “Is this a game to you?” he laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. “Faking amnesia? Norah, you’ve hit a new low in your little performance.” I didn’t understand the name he called me, but I understood the contempt. I’d seen it a thousand times. “Whatever the boss says,” I whispered. I poured a glass to the brim and held it out with both hands, letting my body go soft as I leaned into his space. “For the right price, I can be whoever you want. Want the shy college girl? Or the heartless siren? I’m very versatile.” Crash! With a violent sweep of his arm, Beckett sent the entire display of premium spirits flying. Shattered crystal and amber liquid rained down, soaking my hair and my dress. I didn’t flinch. I just stood there, dripping, watching him. “You want money?” He pulled a black Amex from his wallet and flicked it at my face. The sharp plastic edge grazed my cheekbone, a stinging heat following in its wake. “There’s a fifty-thousand-dollar limit on that,” he said, pointing to the floor covered in jagged glass and spilled booze. “Get on your knees. Lick it up. Drink every drop off the floor and finish the rest of the bottles, and the card is yours.” Fifty thousand. My heart hammered against my ribs. Just that afternoon, the hospital had sent another final notice. My brother’s specialized care, the imported neuro-nutrients… they were going to pull the plug tomorrow if I didn’t pay. Fifty thousand would buy him months. I didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t afford to let him change his mind. I let my knees drop directly onto the broken glass. The shards sliced through my stockings and into my skin instantly. It was a white-hot, sickening pain, but I didn’t make a sound. I leaned down, bracing myself on the floor like an animal. The raw alcohol hit my throat like a razor blade. I forced myself to swallow, glass pricking my palms, my stomach churning. My diet had been coffee and cigarettes for weeks; my stomach was already a wreck. This was torture. But I kept going. I reached for the card at his feet. It was my brother’s life. “Cough… cough!” A sudden, metallic heat bubbled up in my chest. I doubled over, a violent coughing fit racking my body. When I pulled my hand away from my mouth, there were flecks of bright red mixed with the cognac. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and gripped the black card tight. “Thank you, sir,” I said, forced a wobbly, flirtatious smile as I struggled to stand. “Need me again tomorrow? I can work on my tolerance. I can wear whatever outfit you like… just name it.” Beckett looked paralyzed. He stared at the blood on the floor, shock flickering in his eyes before it was swallowed by a fresh wave of fury. “You’re pathetic!” He kicked the table over, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the small room. “You were always a damn good actress. Before it was the ‘innocent girl-next-door’ routine, and now it’s this amnesiac martyr act. I wonder how long you can keep it up, Norah!” He slammed the door so hard the walls vibrated. The second he was gone, the mask shattered. I curled into a ball on the glass-strewn floor, clutching the card to my chest. My heart felt like a hollowed-out cavern. I didn’t know him. I didn’t want to know the “past” he kept throwing in my face. Was it good? Was it bad? It didn’t matter. Nothing could be worse than the present. If my past was beautiful, remembering it would only make this hell unbearable. I’d rather be a brainless girl in a short dress, smiling for monsters. Because as long as Evan was in that hospital bed, my dignity was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I’d give my life for him. The next day, I was fired. “You pissed off Beckett Clifford,” the floor manager said, not even looking me in the eye. “No high-end club in this city will touch you now. Get out.” I didn’t even get my last paycheck. Evan’s medication couldn’t stop. Two thousand dollars a day. Just to keep him breathing. With nowhere left to go, I went to the Underground—a windowless basement casino on the South Side. It was a place for the desperate and the predatory. I put on the “Bunny” uniform. It was little more than scraps of satin, fishnets, and six-inch heels. The air was a thick sludge of cigar smoke, cheap perfume, and the sour sweat of men losing money they didn’t have. I carried trays of chips through the crowd. Rough hands pinched my thighs; someone slapped my rear as I passed. I never flinched. I just turned back with a wink, placing their hand firmly onto a drink glass. “A touch is a hundred-dollar chip, honey. A drink is a thousand. Which one are we doing?” Usually, my wit was enough to get me through the night with a pocket full of tips. Until Beckett showed up with a group of his friends. He sat in the center VIP booth, his legs crossed, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. He watched me through the haze. The men with him—the city’s golden boys—looked at me with a sickening mix of recognition and malice. “Well, look at that,” one of them sneered, fanning out a stack of hundreds. “If it isn’t the campus sweetheart herself.” They knew me. I didn’t know them. The man looked at Beckett, saw the coldness in his eyes, and took it as a green light. He whistled to a busboy, who brought over a slop bucket used for clearing tables—filled with cigarette butts, half-eaten appetizers, and the dregs of a dozen different drinks. It smelled like rot. He tossed the stack of hundreds into the bucket. “Need the cash, right? Fish them out with your teeth, and the pile is yours.” The table erupted in laughter. A crowd began to gather, circling me like I was a circus freak. The smell made my stomach roll. But I saw the money. It was thick—at least two thousand. One day of life for Evan. I swallowed my bile and sank slowly to my knees. I leaned over the bucket, held my breath, and lowered my face toward the gray, oily liquid. My lips touched something slimy. I bit down on the edge of a bill. “Enough!” A hand clamped onto my shoulder and yanked me back. I looked up to see Beckett standing over me, his face a mask of distorted rage and something that looked almost like grief. He was always so angry at me. “Is the amnesia act that fun for you? Who are you trying to get sympathy from?” He spat the words out. “You make me sick.” He walked out again. I spat the bill into my hand and wiped the grime off it with my sleeve. Moody prick, I thought, my mind already calculating the remaining balance. A few days later, Margot arrived. She walked into the casino like she owned the air we breathed. She was Beckett’s fiancée—the socialite princess of the city. She stopped in front of me, looking at my tattered satin ears with a look of pure venom. “My engagement ring is missing,” she announced, her voice cutting through the noise. She pointed a manicured finger at me. “She’s the only one who’s been near me. Search her.” I hadn’t been within ten feet of her. But the bouncers were already moving. Rippp— The cheap fabric of my uniform was torn open, buttons flying across the floor. My skin was exposed to the cold air and the leering eyes of a hundred gamblers. Men whistled. I didn’t fight. I covered my chest as best I could and dropped to the floor. “Ma’am, I didn’t take it!” I begged. “Please, don’t let them fire me. I need this job. I really need the money…” I couldn’t be blacklisted again. I couldn’t lose this. Beckett stepped through the entrance at that exact moment. He stopped dead. He saw me on the floor, half-naked and crying, and he looked away, his jaw tightening so hard I thought it might snap. “The ring is in the car, Margot,” he said, his voice strained. He grabbed her wrist. “Why are you wasting your time with trash like this? Let’s go.” They left without a backward glance. I crawled into a bathroom stall and locked the door. The “siren” mask evaporated, and I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. I tried to pin my uniform back together, my fingers shaking too hard to work the safety pin. Evan, I’m so tired. I don’t know if I can do this anymore. But Margot wasn’t done. She had seen the way Beckett looked at me. It wasn’t just hate; there was a flicker of something he couldn’t control. A week later, I received a mysterious invitation for a private party. Appearance fee: Three hundred thousand dollars. I didn’t even hesitate. When I arrived at the sprawling lakeside estate, I realized it was Margot’s birthday party. The room was packed with the city’s elite. Margot sat in the center of the room and tossed a black leather dog collar at my feet. “Put it on.” She smiled, a cold, sharp expression. “Tonight, you’re our pet. Act like a good dog, and the check is yours.” I did the math in my head. Three hundred thousand. That was the surgery. That was the recovery. That was everything. I picked up the collar and buckled it around my neck. A pair of diamond-encrusted stilettos stepped onto my back. The sharp heel dug into my spine through my thin dress. “Such a good girl,” Margot laughed, pressing down. All night, I was their footstool. I was kicked, tripped, and humiliated. My ribs throbbed with every breath, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. But I kept my eyes on that check on the mantel. Hours later, the physical abuse seemed to bore her. She crouched down, grabbed my hair, and forced my head up. “Why the act, Norah?” she hissed. “Were you this ‘innocent’ when those naked photos of you were plastered all over the internet? Did you look this pathetic then?” My mind went blank. Naked photos? When? Even in the clubs, I had never crossed that line. “And your mother,” Margot continued, her voice like a viper’s. “Like mother, like daughter. A homewrecking whore in life, and a pathetic corpse in death. Your whole family is trash.” I stared at her, uncomprehending. Mother… is she dead? My only memory was Evan. My confusion only enraged her. “Still playing dumb!” She kicked me hard in the shoulder. I was kneeling at the edge of the grand staircase. The world tilted as I lost my balance. Thump. Thump. Thump. My head cracked against the marble. Warm blood began to trickle into my eye, blurring my vision. Through the haze, I saw a pair of polished leather shoes. Beckett was here. “Beckett!” Margot cried out from the top of the stairs, her voice suddenly trembling with fake tears. “I invited her to be nice, but she tried to blackmail me! She said if I didn’t give her money, she’d tell people I pushed her! I… I felt so bad I gave her a check…” “Yeah, we saw it, Beckett,” her friends chimed in. “She’s a total grifter.” Beckett’s eyes turned to ice. I knew he wouldn’t believe me. “You’d risk your life for a paycheck?” he sneered, looking down at me with pure loathing. “Extortion now? You really are addicted to the gutter, aren’t you?” “Get out. Don’t bleed on the rug.” He didn’t ask for my side. Not a single word. I just folded the check, tucked it into my pocket, and limped out into the night. The mountain air was freezing. As I walked down the dark, winding road, a flash of a memory hit me. A tall silhouette holding me, a voice deep and tender: “Don’t worry, Norah. As long as I’m here, no one will ever hurt you.” I clutched my head, dropping to the curb in pain. Who was that? Why did it hurt so much to remember? I squeezed the check in my pocket. Don’t think. Just save Evan. “Insufficient funds.” I stared at the bank teller. Margot had given me a fake check. My ears began to ring. I ran back to the hospital, clutching the useless piece of paper. The head nurse met me at the door of the ICU, her face a mask of professional detachment. “Ms. Vance, we aren’t a charity. Your brother’s life support and the imported meds cost a fortune. You’re fifty thousand in the hole.” “If the balance isn’t cleared by 8:00 AM tomorrow, we have to move him to a general ward and discontinue the specialized treatment.” Moving him meant a death sentence. I looked through the glass at the man covered in tubes. “Evan…” I whispered, hot tears finally breaking through. “Just wait. I’ll get the money. Don’t leave me.” My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. [Private Yacht Mystery Game. Female participants needed. $2 million for one night. Rule: Absolute obedience. Risk: Personal safety not guaranteed.] Two million. I didn’t think twice. I dialed the number. To save my brother, my life was a small price to pay. That night, the sea air was biting. I was escorted onto a massive, three-story luxury yacht. When I stepped onto the main deck, my heart stopped. Beckett. Again. He was sitting with Margot, their bodies pressed together in an intimate, heated display of affection. “Oh, look, our star has arrived!” Margot giggled. She pointed to a transparent glass walkway suspended over the side of the yacht, dangling over the churning black waves of the Atlantic. “The game is simple,” Margot said, tossing a box of lingerie at me. “Put that on. Walk the length of the glass bridge. No holding the rails.” “The guests will be throwing ice cubes at you to keep things interesting. If you make it to the end without falling in, the two million is yours.” The yacht lurched in the swells. One slip, and the current would pull you under the hull. It was suicide. “What? Scared?” Margot mocked. “Then get lost.” I looked at the briefcase of cash on the table. I thought of the nurse’s cold words. I thought of Evan’s pale face. “I’ll change,” I said. I picked up the box. It didn’t matter. I’d lost my dignity years ago. Slam! The dressing room door was kicked open. Beckett shoved his way in and locked it behind him. The small space was immediately filled with the scent of his cigar and a suffocating, heavy tension. He grabbed my wrists and pinned them against the steel wall. “Are you really this obsessed with money?!” he roared. “You’d wear that for those men? How much lower can you go?” I looked at his face. I saw the rage, but for the first time, I saw the raw, bleeding agony underneath. It was almost funny. I didn’t smile. I didn’t flirt. I just pried his fingers off my wrists, one by one. “Mr. Clifford,” I said, my voice dead. “Keep your morality to yourself.” It was the first time I’d ever spoken to him without the mask. “My brother is in a hospital bed. If I don’t have fifty thousand by tomorrow morning, they pull the plug. He dies. Period.” My eyes burned, but I refused to cry. “A man like you—born with a silver spoon—will never understand what ‘no choice’ feels like. To save him, I’d let them throw stones at me, not just ice. I’d cut my own heart out and sell it if there was a buyer.” “You think I’m trash? Fine. You think I’m disgusting? Great.” I pushed past him and began to pull on the scraps of lace. “This is my life. Get used to it.” I walked out of the room, leaving him standing there like a statue. The deck was filled with catcalls. I stepped onto the freezing, wet glass of the walkway, barefoot. Below me, the ocean was a roaring black abyss. I was shivering so hard the glass vibrated. “Pelts!” Margot screamed, laughing. Handfuls of ice began to rain down, stinging my back, my legs, my face. I gritted my teeth, staring at the end of the bridge. Ten steps. Five steps… Evan is going to live. A large block of ice struck the back of my knee. My foot slipped on the wet glass. “Ahhh!” “NORAH!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “446527”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day Liam Sterling’s underground romance blew up and trended at number one on Twitter, our shipping fandom was an absolute wasteland of tears. Because the girlfriend exposed in the photos… wasn’t me. 1 When the paparazzi video of Liam’s secret relationship hit the internet, my manager Dave was practically glowing with joy. For no other reason than this being the perfect opportunity to “convert” the fandom. The ship name for Liam and me was “Starbrook,” and right now, that tag was a chaotic mess of grief. Some people were cursing Liam for being a jerk, others were crying about how they had wasted their emotional investment, vowing never to ship actors again. And then there were the people who pitied me. They declared they were unstanning Liam and would only support me from now on. A few big fan accounts were still desperately trying to hold the line, arguing that since Liam hadn’t released an official statement, things could still turn around. Some fans were even analyzing the grainy, leaked video frame by frame, desperately trying to match the mystery girl’s outfit and silhouette to me. But unfortunately, it wasn’t me. I clicked on the video and watched it. It was short, only about a dozen seconds. A girl heavily bundled up in a jacket and wearing a face mask wrapped her arms around Liam’s waist as they got into a car parked by the curb. Then, they drove straight back to the Sterling family’s private estate. I watched it over and over again, until Dave explicitly warned me: “I’ve already heard from industry insiders. Liam’s team is planning to confirm the relationship, but to protect the girl, they aren’t going to reveal her identity.” Dave couldn’t control the smirk on his face. “We’re just going to sit back and reap the benefits. You don’t have to do a single thing, and an army of fans will shower you with sympathy. Later, I’ll leak a few PR articles about how heartbroken and haggard you look. Say nothing. We’ll weaponize the angst to turn those shippers into your hardcore solo fans, plus grab a wave of general public sympathy. It’s a massive win.” He looked at me with burning ambition, fully intending to mold me into the perfect victim. I didn’t say a word. 2 Eight hours after the paparazzi video went viral, I refreshed my feed and saw Liam’s official statement. He apologized to his fans with genuine sincerity. He admitted that he was indeed in a relationship, but because his partner wasn’t in the entertainment industry, he wanted to protect her privacy and keep her identity hidden. He asked for the fans’ understanding. The top comment under his post was from a fan asking: So you never loved Riley Brooks? All that protection and sweetness, all the care and affection you showed her… was it all fake? He replied directly to that comment with a single sentence: It was just editing. Please don’t take it seriously. Liam and I had been the number-one trending ship for ages. Our fans dedicated their lives to analyzing every variety show, behind-the-scenes clip, and drama episode for “crumbs,” editing together diabetes-inducing videos to prove our love was real. They always said, “If there is only one real couple in Hollywood, it has to be Starbrook.” I completely understood why the shippers were having a meltdown. They had invested real feelings into this for so long, only to suddenly realize that the leading man in this fairytale never intended to give the rose to the leading lady. I sat under the massive chandelier of the makeup room, staring at the words It was just editing. Please don’t take it seriously, and felt a wave of dizziness wash over me. Because I had to admit the truth—the fans weren’t the only ones who got too deep into the role. I did, too. But he had a girlfriend all along. All the protection, the care, the affection he showed on set and during press tours… it was all written off as “editing.” The fans weren’t the only ones suffering from unrequited delusions. I was, too. 3 I met Liam on the set of a massive epic fantasy series. Liam had been famous since he was a teenager. He came from an incredibly powerful, wealthy family and only acted because he genuinely loved the craft. He was low-key and humble. After starring in a high school coming-of-age movie at sixteen, he skyrocketed to fame, and the media spent a decade trying—and failing—to dig up dirt on his background. He had almost zero scandals and was famous for his professionalism. I had idolized him since I was sixteen, looking up to him the way a fan looks up to a superstar. That was until I was 23, fresh out of NYU Tisch, and walked onto the same set as him. It was a big-budget fantasy show. He was the male lead, and I was, at best, the fourth female lead. I had very little screen time. I played his young apprentice mage, quietly harboring a secret crush on him, following him everywhere. My shining moment in the script was sacrificing myself to take a fatal blow meant for him. The day I finally met Liam was my first day on set. He was tall, lean, and somehow even more handsome in person than on screen. He practically glowed in the crowd. Everyone had that jittery excitement of meeting an idol. The extras and crew were whispering on the sidelines, but no one dared to approach him. The first time I spoke to him was at the cast and crew kickoff dinner. Dave dragged me over to toast the director and producers. Liam was sitting next to the director, holding a cup of tea, looking down and listening quietly to the director speak. It’s hard to describe the feeling of that moment. We were in a loud, glamorous room full of networking and chatter, yet he was as calm as the tea in his hands, wrapped in his own invisible barrier that kept the noise at bay. I was so nervous during the toast that I stuttered through my introduction. The director laughed and pointed me out to Liam. “This is your little apprentice. The one who dies for you later. You two have scenes together next week.” He looked up, gave me a soft smile, and politely nodded. “Nice to meet you.” My palms were sweating the entire time. 4 Our first time talking alone was right before our first scene together. It was a simple scene, but this was Liam Sterling—the man I had looked up to since I was sixteen. I hid in a corner with my script, pacing and muttering my few lines over and over again until I heard a laugh behind me. It was a warm, forgiving laugh. I turned around and saw Liam standing there, watching me. He was very tall, and I was sitting on an apple box, so he was looking down at me, but it didn’t feel intimidating at all. Maybe it was the effortless, deep-rooted good manners he possessed that made people feel comfortable. His tone was incredibly gentle. “Don’t be nervous. It’s a very simple scene. Just relax.” My heart pounded like a drum. It was the overwhelming thrill of seeing your longtime idol standing right in front of you. I looked at him nervously and asked, “When we’re done shooting this, could I… get your autograph?” We gradually got to know each other. He was someone who naturally kept his distance, but everything about him screamed “good upbringing.” When interacting with the cast and crew, he was politely detached but incredibly considerate, never once making life hard for the staff. Yet, no matter how aloof his natural aura was, the moment the director yelled “Action,” he instantly slipped into character—becoming the bold, charismatic mentor. No matter how viral our “Starbrook” ship became later on, the truth was, during the six months I spent on that set until I wrapped, there was no secret romance. No hidden sparks. Our ship only blew up because of an accident. 5 It happened while the fantasy series was airing, a full year after we finished shooting. The female lead of the show, Vanessa Thorne, got caught having an affair with a married studio executive. The executive’s wife found out, and suddenly, hit pieces and leaked dirt on Vanessa were everywhere. Among the widely circulated leaks was a behind-the-scenes video of Vanessa and me. It was a scene where she was supposed to push me into a freezing river. She seemed to be in a terrible mood that day, and I was shoved into the icy water over and over again. Filming a summer scene in the dead of winter is pure agony, especially when you have to repeatedly plunge into a freezing river. She curled her lips into a smile. She had the face of an innocent heroine, but her smile made my skin crawl. Without a shred of apology, she looked down at me and said, “Sorry, I’m just not feeling it yet. Let’s do another take, okay?” We belonged to the same talent agency, but she was the reigning queen of the company. I couldn’t afford to cross her. I stayed silent, shivering uncontrollably as I dragged myself out of the freezing water. Just as we were setting up for the next take, Liam happened to walk by. He had incredible self-control. He was the kind of person who could get angry without ever raising his voice. He looked at my face, which was bruised and blue from the cold, and then turned to Vanessa with a polite, icy detachment. “How about you get in the water yourself to ‘find the feeling’? It might actually help improve your acting.” Vanessa’s face flushed crimson from humiliation, but she didn’t dare offend Liam. She had to swallow her pride. The video ended with Liam reaching a hand out to me, saying, “Get up. Go change your clothes. I’ll talk to the director. We’re cutting this scene for today.” I looked up at him from the muddy ground, looking exactly like a stray dog staring at its rescuer. At first, the comments under that leaked video were normal. People were mocking Vanessa’s fake nice-girl persona crumbling. But gradually, someone left a comment that started it all: Does anyone else think these two have insane chemistry? Maybe it was because the massive status gap between Liam and me perfectly fit the Prince and Cinderella trope. He was too perfect, and I checked every box of the underdog. Everyone loves a story about being saved. At first, it was just harmless jokes. None of us intentionally tried to push a fake romance. Liam didn’t need to, and my team didn’t dare try to leech off his fame—especially since I was a total nobody in Hollywood. People were mostly just having fun playing matchmaker. That was until someone made a deadly serious fan-edit of our characters: the timid apprentice who quietly loved her mentor, following him faithfully until she died in his arms. The video was gut-wrenchingly sad, paired with a hauntingly tragic song, and it completely broke the internet. And so, the internet started digging through our interviews and press tours. The moment that pulled thousands of fans down the rabbit hole was during a press junket for a streaming platform. The host handed out cute plushies to the main cast. I was the lowest on the call sheet, so I was seated at the very edge of the stage. But at the end of the interview, before the cameras cut, Liam held up his plushie, leaned past the female lead, the second lead, and the third lead, and handed it directly to me. “You younger girls usually like these things, right?” he asked. Then there was the reality show. Because I wasn’t famous, I barely got any screen time. But eagle-eyed fans noticed something in the background of another guest’s shot: Liam, ignoring the burning heat, using his bare hands to peel a roasted sweet potato for me, before dropping the softest, sweetest part of the core right into my bowl. The aloof, untouchable A-lister, and the D-list actress he spoiled rotten. That was how the fandom was born. But it turned out… it was all just a giant misunderstanding. 6 The next time I saw Liam was a week after his relationship was exposed. It was a pre-scheduled cast interview. Normally, only the big stars attend these promo events. The only reason I was invited was, undeniably, because our ship was so incredibly popular. But with his secret relationship now out in the open, my presence was deeply awkward. I saw him backstage before we went on. He had a private dressing room. I only caught a glimpse of him through the cracked door as I walked by. He was in profile, talking to his publicist, looking calm and at peace. He didn’t seem affected by the media circus at all. He had been in this industry long enough. Fan culture and internet traffic didn’t dictate his life anymore. His talent was his armor. I looked away. I played the role of a beautiful, decorative vase on stage. The producers had scrapped all the ship-baiting questions, and I tried my best to stay silent and invisible. But Liam, acting as if nothing had changed, continued to look out for me. He tossed conversational cues my way and made sure the camera caught me. The hosts exchanged knowing looks, and finally, chasing the inevitable clickbait, they asked about his love life. His expression shifted almost instantly. The sharp, cool lines of his face softened into something incredibly tender. Just thinking about her seemed to pull a smile to his lips. “I never intended to hide it,” he said. “She just didn’t want the public exposure.” “We’re childhood sweethearts. We’ve been together for ten years.” “When I was sixteen and defied my family to become an actor, she was the one who supported me. Through every low point and every highlight of my life, she’s been there. She is my light.” The camera panned to my face. I held my smile perfectly, cheering and clapping along with everyone else, showing absolutely no cracks in my armor. That is, until the very end of the interview, when the show decided to give Liam a “surprise” for the sake of ratings. It was a pre-recorded segment. A video tour of my college dorm room at NYU. The walls were plastered with Liam Sterling. Posters of his first movie, tickets to his fan events, cutouts from magazines. And then came an interview with my old college roommate—someone I barely spoke to—acting like my best friend. “Oh, Riley? She’s been obsessed with Liam since she was sixteen! She used to say Liam was her light. The only reason she became an actress was to follow that light.” Liam looked over at me in surprise. The host smiled politely, but her words were laced with venom. She asked Liam, “Did you know your little apprentice was your biggest fan?” Liam shook his head. “I had no idea.” He paused, then added, “She never mentioned it.” The host laughed, digging the trap deeper. “We all assumed you took such good care of her on set because you knew she was a super-fan! You’re usually known for being pretty distant, so we’re all very curious… why were you so protective of her?” The entire studio seemed to hold its breath. He smiled—open, handsome, and completely devoid of any romantic undertones. He answered simply, “She has a certain spark to her. It reminded me of myself when I was younger.” He paused, smiled again, and added, “Plus, she’s the exact same age as my little sister. We just clicked.” He was so painfully honest that the room went dead silent. Eventually, everyone forced a laugh, and the interview wrapped up awkwardly. I sat in the corner like a prop, trembling uncontrollably. I knew exactly what was going to happen. Those two quotes of his were going to be spliced together in a thousand different videos. Liam’s fans were going to use them to repeatedly slap the “Starbrook” shippers in the face. I knew the massive gap between us. I never dared to demand anything. I just wanted to quietly guard my tiny, insignificant, embarrassingly out-of-reach fantasy. Before he started treating me differently, I never had any delusions. He was the one who handed me that pathetic sliver of hope. But the light I had chased since I was sixteen had a light of his own. And my closely guarded, decade-long secret had just been ripped open, gutted, and put on display under the blazing studio lights for everyone to see. This pathetic, one-sided crush of mine was going to be dragged through the internet, dissected like a dead fish, making me look like an absolute clown for everyone to judge. But in front of the cameras, I had to keep smiling. A polite, flawless, impenetrable smile, no matter how many times I was scrutinized or asked about Liam Sterling. 7 The first time I saw Liam on a screen when I was 16, it wasn’t a movie or a TV show. It was an interview. At the time, my mother had just jumped off a building and killed herself after finding out my dad was having an affair. I was suffering from severe clinical depression. I slit my wrists and submerged myself in the bathtub. The small TV across from the bathroom was playing Liam’s interview. He was 20 years old. He had experienced the rollercoaster of Hollywood—skyrocketing to fame with his first movie, followed by a brutal dry spell, before finally winning Best Actor with a gritty indie drama. It was a very raw, deep interview. He looked striking, his eyes intense and mature. He carried an aura of quiet stability, the kind of calm that only comes after surviving massive highs and lows. I don’t remember what the host asked, but I will never forget what he said next. He smiled and said, “I get lost sometimes, too. I’ve wanted to quit a million times. But then I realized, no matter how hard things get, if you just grit your teeth and survive it, you’ll look back one day and realize it was just a bump in the road.” “There is nothing in this world to be afraid of. We only get to do this once. As long as you stay alive, you have infinite possibilities.” I don’t know where the courage came from, but suddenly, I wanted to stay alive long enough to see karma destroy my father and his mistress. So, soaking wet and bleeding, I dragged myself out of the tub, found some gauze, wrapped my wrist, and dialed 911. For a very long time after that, Liam Sterling was the light that saved me. He was my psychological anchor. Until the day I finally stood in front of him. How could my heart not race? How could I not have delusions? When you cross mountains and oceans to finally stand in front of the person who saved your life… When you discover that the real him is somehow even better than the version in your head… When he looks at you differently on set, on reality shows, in crowds, and specifically takes care of you… Even if the moon doesn’t belong to you, for a brief second, it feels like the moonlight is shining down just for you. With so many people editing romance videos of us, writing fanfiction, praying for us to get together, you slip into the illusion. It feels like if you just reach out your hand, you could touch the moon. It felt that close. But it was time to wake up from this one-woman play. After the show wrapped, Liam actually connected me with a few casting directors. He even gave me his private phone number, telling me to reach out if I ever needed anything. The director happened to be there when he gave it to me, and he looked shocked. “Liam, you really do adore your little apprentice.” The director turned to me with a grin. “Not many people get Liam’s private number. He seems friendly, but his standards are sky-high. Kid, you better hold on tight to your mentor.” See? All those mixed signals gave me false hope. But to him, he truly just saw me as a little sister, an established veteran looking out for a rookie he respected. He said I reminded him of his sixteen-year-old self—obsessed with acting, pure in his dedication. So he wanted to help me. But he didn’t know that the thing I was obsessed with, the thing I was dedicating myself to… was never acting. It was him. I stared blankly at our text thread. Honestly, I could have pretended nothing was wrong. I could have kept playing the innocent apprentice, utilizing his admiration to stay close to him. Maybe one day, I could have used his complete lack of defenses to climb my way to the top. But a long, long time later, I finally replied to his last text. I was direct and entirely honest. “Liam, you don’t need to look out for me anymore. I feel guilty.” I once read a book where a character is told to just have a clear conscience, to ignore what people say, and let the rumors bounce off her. And she replies, “But what if my conscience isn’t clear?” You are just a generous senior actor helping a rookie. But Liam, what if my conscience isn’t clear? What if I want more? I think Liam understood. He never texted back. And after that, he never looked out for me again. The moon is supposed to hang high in the sky, meant only to be looked at from afar.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “446543”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel