Category: English

“In the aftermath, we all got our Talents. Some could conjure fire, others could command the tides. My Talent? I can take away the power of anyone named John Smith. That’s it. That’s the whole damn thing. Only people with that exact first and last name. Three years went by. Not only had I never met a single John Smith, but my useless Talent had made me a target. A punching bag. A Blank. Then, one day, while I was scavenging in the filth of the Warren, I found my best friend again. She was begging for scraps. We held each other and just sobbed. Through her tears, she wailed, “”Why did everyone else get something so damn cool? Why is my only Talent… renaming people John Smith?”” I froze. “”What did you say?”” 1. After the world ended, I made a living picking through the garbage heaps of the Warren. My days were a blur of wind, rain, and a gnawing hunger that came and went like a stray dog. Getting robbed was just part of the routine. I watched the rat-faced man snatch the stale protein bar I’d just unearthed. My feet felt like they were encased in concrete, immovable. That was his Talent. He kicked me over with a laugh. “”Can’t believe there are still Blanks out there. How the hell are you still alive?”” A retort died on my lips. It wasn’t worth the beating. I scrambled to my feet, forcing a grin that felt like cracking plaster. “”That’s an amazing Talent, man. Seriously. What do they call you? I find anything good from now on, I’ll save it for you.”” “”Smart girl,”” he sneered. “”If you find anything, bring it to the alley behind the old pharmacy. And the name’s John… Strong.”” My eyes shot wide. “”…Strong.”” After the son of a bitch swaggered off, the tears finally came. When the Change happened, the world went crazy. Animals mutated, plants turned predatory, and every surviving human woke up with a Talent. Society recalibrated itself overnight, with the powerful at the top and everyone else at the bottom. Some Talents were god-tier, like pyrokinesis or weather control. Others were mundane, like duplicating paper clips or moving small objects with your mind. And then there was mine. The power to strip any man named John Smith of his Talent. Three years. I hadn’t met a single one. That was the closest I’d ever come, but of course his name had to be John Strong. What good was a Talent like that in this eat-or-be-eaten world? Before the Change, I was a graphic designer in a high-rise. Now, I was less than nothing. I didn’t know how much longer I could last. Cursing under my breath, I started back toward my shelter—a collapsed corner of a bus station, open to the elements. As I left the alley, I saw a bag someone was carrying tear open. A box of Pop-Tarts tumbled out. My eyes lit up. I dove for it, my fingers just brushing the cardboard when someone else lunged from the other side, grabbing the other end. Neither of us let go. Suddenly, the other person let out a desperate howl. “”Please, just let me have it! I haven’t eaten in five days, I’m going to die!”” That voice… I looked closer. The person in front of me—hair matted, face gaunt and smudged with dirt, reeking of stale sweat—was my long-lost best friend. “”Anna?”” Her eyes widened. “”Chloe?”” We fell into each other’s arms, the stupid box of Pop-Tarts forgotten as we cried. “”Where have you been? I looked everywhere for you!”” I sobbed into her shoulder. “”Some group grabbed me,”” she gasped. “”For research. They let me go when they decided my Talent was useless.”” Anna explained her ordeal while demolishing the stale pastries. Shortly after the Change, some shadow organization started kidnapping people to study their Talents. But Anna’s was so pathetic, they deemed it worthless and threw her out. I had a hard time believing that. More pathetic than mine? “”Don’t say that,”” I said, trying to comfort her. “”No matter how useless your Talent is, it can’t be worse than mine.”” She shook her head emphatically. “”Impossible.”” “”Trust me,”” I insisted. “”No, you don’t get it. Mine is the bottom of the barrel.”” We were still arguing about who was the bigger loser when a little kid floated past us down the street. Actually floated. Flight. That’s when Anna completely broke down, snot and tears and pastry crumbs flying from her mouth. “”Why?! Why does everyone else get to be a goddamn superhero, and all I can do is rename people John Smith?!”” The hand patting her back stopped dead. My whole world tilted on its axis. “”What did you say?”””

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My sister died, and then she moved in. Not into her old room, but into my body. At first, my parents didn’t believe me. Then, they got used to the switch. And then, they found a hypnotist to erase me. 1 I destroyed the living room. Anything I could lift, I threw. Anything I could break, I shattered. The floor glittered with a thousand pieces of my soul, each one a silent scream. Mom covered her mouth, tears tracking through her makeup. Dad’s face was a mask of fury, but he didn’t stop me. “Why?” I screamed at them, my voice raw. “It’s my body! Why do I have to give it up for her?” Dad pressed the heels of his hands into his forehead, a gesture of someone who has finally made a terrible decision. “We saw a therapist, Chloe. This… arrangement. It isn’t working. Neither of you can live a full life this way. We have to choose.” He tried to soften his voice, but it was rough with false pity. “This is tearing us apart. You’re our daughter, too. We wouldn’t do this if there were any other way. You have to understand.” I snatched a water glass from the end table and hurled it at his feet. It exploded, and he flinched back. He opened his mouth to yell, then shut it, remembering he needed something from me. “I understand you,” I spat, the words tasting like poison. “But who understands me? You’re in pain? You have no other choice? So I’m the one who has to die? This was always my body. If anyone should disappear, it should be her. It should be Stella.” Rage and despair were a storm inside me. Just days ago, they had been my parents, the people who loved me. Now they were my executioners. My words made Mom sob harder. But Dad’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “Don’t be so dramatic. Stella will live on through you, using your body. And it doesn’t matter if you agree. The decision has been made.” He had no more patience for this. He took Mom’s arm and pulled her out of the house, leaving me in the wreckage. After another fit of destruction, I collapsed onto the floor, a single question echoing in the ruins of my mind. Why me? 2 I had a sister, Stella, three years older than me. I was six when she died. Mom and Dad came home late that night, their faces hollowed out by grief. Mom saw me, crumpled to the floor, and pulled me into a suffocating hug. “Stella’s gone, sweetie,” she choked out. “Chloe, you don’t have a sister anymore.” I didn’t understand, but her grief was contagious, and I started to cry, too. Through my tears, I pointed to a pile of dolls in the corner. “But she’s right there.” At first, they didn’t believe me. They scolded me for making things up, for being cruel. But then I started repeating conversations they’d had in private, whispered behind their bedroom door. They accused me of eavesdropping, but over time, they realized I couldn’t have heard. They finally accepted the truth. I wasn’t lying. Stella was always there, a shimmering outline only I could see. She slept in her old room, walked to school with me, and told me everything our parents said. She knew she was dead. But when I told other people, they looked at me like I was broken. “The Millers?” I heard a neighbor whisper once. “Such a shame. One daughter dead, the other one crazy.” Friends at school called me a liar, an attention-seeker. They’d play with me on the playground, then I’d hear them laughing about me behind the slide. Stella would fly at them in a rage, but she was only a ghost. The most she could do was make them sneeze. Eventually, I stopped talking about her to anyone but my parents. At home, life went on, a strange new normal. They got used to me speaking for her, a living telephone to the dead. They couldn’t see her, but they would buy two of everything—one for me, one for the ghost of their other daughter. No distance, not even death, could stop them from loving her. I was their bridge, the translator for their grief. Then, on my sixteenth birthday, she vanished. I couldn’t see her anymore. At the same time, I lost two days. One moment it was Tuesday, the next it was Thursday. Mom and Dad explained it to me later. Stella had woken up. Inside me. The two days I couldn’t remember were the days she had been living in my body. After that, it became a regular thing. I’d go to sleep and wake up days later, with no memory of what had happened. We shared a life, documented in a spiral-bound notebook, leaving notes for each other about where we’d been and who we’d seen. We lived like that for three years. I never imagined that in just three years, my parents would decide she was worth more than me. 3 Maybe it was the pure force of my resentment, but I could feel Stella deep inside me, sleeping soundly. It was a relief, but then I remembered my parents’ words, and the air I’d just inhaled caught in my throat. After yesterday’s explosion, my mind was unnervingly clear. I’m not explosive by nature; that’s Stella’s territory. The rage was an aberration, born of pure terror. I showered and dressed, knowing what I would see when I went downstairs. The disappointment. I steeled myself and opened my bedroom door. And there it was. In the instant they saw it was me, Chloe, the hope in their eyes died and was replaced by a flat, weary resignation. To be rejected by your own parents is a unique kind of pain, a blade that twists in your very core. The wreckage from yesterday was gone. The house was clean, broken things replaced with new, unfamiliar ones. I walked downstairs, trying to look calm. Dad snorted and turned away, staring pointedly out the window. Mom opened her mouth to speak, then just sighed. My nose stung. And beneath the smell of my own silent grief, another scent filled the air. Flowers. There was a vase of lilies on the dining table. Another on the coffee table. More in the bathroom, and even a small bouquet on the kitchen counter. Lilies everywhere. Stella’s favorite. It was a passive-aggressive welcome mat for a ghost, and a clear message for me: You are not the one we want. I could almost hear the sound of their love for me cracking, the sound of my own heart breaking right alongside it. The cloying, funereal scent and the suffocating silence were too much. I grabbed my bag and ran. It wasn’t until I was outside the neighborhood gates that I realized my face was wet with tears. I got on the bus for school automatically, my body moving while my mind was stuck. Sobs shook my shoulders as I watched the scenery blur past the window, a perfect metaphor for the last three years of my life. When I walked into my art history lecture, my classmates stared. “Chloe? What are you doing here? We heard you transferred.” In that moment, a fire I didn’t know I had burned away the last traces of love I felt for my sister. 4 My academic advisor said it was too late. My major, a specialized fine arts program, was impossible to transfer back into once you’d left. I walked to the Business School in a daze. I sat in a cavernous lecture hall, listening to jargon about market caps and shareholder equity that sounded like a foreign language. The room buzzed with the chatter of strangers. I felt like I was on another planet. I endured the class and then, with the sun still high in the sky and no desire to go home, I just walked. I wandered the campus aimlessly, my thoughts a tangled mess. But one thing was clear: Stella had been planning this. That’s why her journal entries had become so sparse. She didn’t want me to know what she was doing. My legs ached. I sank onto a bench, exhausted, with no idea what to do next. On one side was a major I knew nothing about. On the other, a family who wanted to steal my life. I leaned back, letting the sky fill my vision. And then I saw it. Three words carved above a stone archway: University Library. By the time I left, my arms loaded with books, the sun had set. When I got home, Mom was setting the table. She saw the stack of business textbooks and her expression flickered with guilt. She knew. Of course she knew. It was probably her and Dad’s idea. Dinner was silent and heavy. I picked at my food, only taking a few bites of the roasted fish, one of my favorite dishes. Mom forced a laugh, trying to break the tension. “Look at that, honey. Chloe’s just like us, loves fish. Stella never would touch anything from the water.” Her words made it worse. The silence that followed was even more profound. Dad put down his wine glass. “I hear you got some business books. So you know Stella switched your major. Just listen to me, Chloe. Stella’s brilliant. She has the mind for this, for helping me at the company. You, even if you started now, you’d be in over your head. You wouldn’t be any help. You understand what I’m saying.” I nodded, pushing a few grains of rice around my plate. Seeing my compliance, they brightened. “So you’ve come around?” Dad said, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “Good. I’ll call the hypnotist in a few days. Finally, you can have a normal life.” I looked up, my eyes meeting his directly. “Will I be normal, Dad? Or will Stella?” He frowned for a second, then his smile returned, slick and practiced. “She’s your sister. You share a body. Her being normal is you being normal.” I nodded again. Then, as they beamed at me, I spoke each word with cold, clear precision. “I would burn this body to the ground before I let her have it.” The sound of his wine glass shattering against the wall echoed my father’s rage. He pointed a trembling finger at me, sputtering, too furious to form words. Mom rushed to his side, stroking his arm and glaring at me. I couldn’t stay here. Living with two people who were actively plotting my demise would drive me insane. I packed a small bag and moved into the dorms that night. 5 Campus life became my sanctuary. I spent my days in lectures and my nights devouring knowledge in the library. Dad always thought Stella was the genius, but he never noticed my gift: a nearly photographic memory. If I wanted to learn something, I only needed to see it once or twice before it was permanently etched in my mind. Mom called repeatedly. At first, she pleaded. Then, she accused me of being ungrateful. I didn’t understand. All I wanted was to live. We were both their daughters, but because Stella had died once, their guilt demanded a sacrifice. My sacrifice. When pleading failed, they sent in someone I couldn’t refuse. Leo. My childhood friend. The boy I’d had a hopeless crush on for years. “Chloe, please,” he said, his voice strained. “Just give her back to me.” A chill shot up from the soles of my feet. My own voice was a trembling whisper. “What do you mean… your Stella?” He didn’t seem to notice my shock. “I’ve known for a while, Chloe. About you and her. And I knew you wouldn’t agree to this. That’s why I’m begging you. I can’t lose her again. You’ve had all these years to live, but Stella… she died so young. She’s only had three years in your body, and who knows when she might disappear again. The thought of it… I can’t breathe, Chloe. So please, just agree. Your body, her soul… you’ll be one. Why are you being so selfish?” I was too stunned to speak, the world tilting on its axis. He pressed on. “We grew up together, Chloe. I’ve never asked you for anything. I’m asking now. Do you need me to kneel?” And then he did. He dropped to one knee on the damp grass. My hand trembled as I reached for him, but he grabbed it, his grip surprisingly strong. His eyes were bloodshot. “Chloe, just say yes.” His ferocity scared me. I tried to pull away, but he held fast. Panic clawed at my throat, and the words tumbled out before I could stop them. “You’re trying to kill me, too! All of you! Well, you won’t. I won’t die. Stella’s the one who should be dead!” I regretted it instantly. The words were a stupid, brave mistake. Leo’s handsome face twisted into something ugly. He stared at me with pure venom. “Then you leave me no choice. I will not lose her.” The last thing I felt was his hand, hot and heavy, clamping over my mouth. We were in a secluded corner of campus. No one could hear my muffled screams. No one saw as my world faded to black. 6 Leo looked down at the unconscious girl in his arms, a flicker of remorse in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Chloe. I’ll spend the next life making it up to you.” He carried her out of the school gates and into a waiting car. The room was dim, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood. The gentle hiss of a white noise machine seemed to smooth the deep furrow in the sleeping girl’s brow. Mr. and Mrs. Miller sat nearby, their anxiety a palpable force in the room. They didn’t dare make a sound. Leo stood frozen, his eyes glued to the figure on the recliner. Time crawled by. The hypnotist’s voice was a soft, continuous murmur. Outside, it began to rain. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, and in the following clap of thunder, the girl’s eyes slowly opened. She sat up, her gaze clouded with confusion. The three of them surrounded her. Their hands were trembling, betraying a mix of hope and terror. They were afraid of being disappointed, terrified that the person they wanted was not the one who had woken up. The girl on the recliner looked at their tense faces, and the fog in her eyes cleared. A bright, infectious laugh filled the room, a sound like sunshine breaking through clouds. “Dad? Mom? Why so serious? What day is it? And where are we? Leo, you look terrible.” The words were a release. The three of them sagged with relief, a collective, shuddering exhale. Mrs. Miller burst into tears. “Oh, thank God. Stella, you’re back. Don’t you ever leave me again.” Leo’s face was a study in adoration. But Stella looked confused. “Mom, what are you talking about? Was I asleep for a long time? When… when was the last time I was awake? I can’t remember.” As she tried to think, a sharp pain shot through her head, and she cried out, clutching her temples. The sound made her mother jump back. Leo rushed forward, pulling Stella into his arms. “Shh, it’s okay. Don’t try to remember. It’s okay.” Mr. Miller looked at the hypnotist, who offered a placating explanation. “We have effectively erased a personality. Given the long-term alternation, her own psyche was already unstable. This process can cause some memory fragmentation. It may come back over time, or it may not.” That was good enough for Mr. Miller. He could live with gaps in her memory. Stella was brilliant. She learned everything so quickly. He could reteach her whatever was lost. She was his daughter, after all. She would not disappoint him.

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1 I married into the Clarke family as the bride of their guardian deity, a merman. The only problem? He had issues in the bedroom. After he kicked me out of bed for the hundredth time, I’d had enough. In a fit of anger, I asked the clan elder to dissolve our contract. Just then, a series of comments popped into my vision, like a live-stream chat. 【He just doesn’t want their first time to be during his heat, right…?】 【Did she seriously not notice he hides in the pool the moment she enters the room?】 【But if a merman holds back his heat for too long, he’ll die! If she won’t do it, the female lead is about to make her grand entrance!】 I froze for a second, then my hand drifted towards his magnificent, shimmering tail… “What are you doing?” Adrian Clarke sucked in a sharp breath. His iridescent, slender fish tail tightened reflexively in the water, but his voice was as cold and detached as ever. A pang of guilt hit me. I quickly hid the annulment contract behind my back. “I just came to see if you were sick…” The pop-up comments scrolled frantically. 【Oh, he’s sick alright! He needs you to get in the pool with him to get better!】 【I can’t believe these two are so dense. With a setup this steamy, this is all we get to see?!】 【It’s because she’s always thought he hated her. If she hadn’t been caught planning to go out drinking tonight, he’d be so wrapped around her finger there’d be no room for the female lead.】 “Can you leave?” Adrian sank deeper into the water, only his faintly defined collarbones visible above the surface. “Oh.” He really did despise me. I’d grown numb to hearing those words. But the pop-up comments seemed to read my mind. 【He doesn’t despise you! If you keep staring, he’s going to drag you into that water!】 【A human would drown if they went in the water before mating with a merman. He’d never let that happen to her…】 【Still, a merman’s tail is his most sensitive part. His wife just touched it. He’s probably dying of pleasure right now!】 The cool, smooth sensation still lingered on my fingertips. I looked at the comments, my face flushing scarlet all the way to my ears, and fled the room. That evening, Adrian finally emerged from his chambers, wrapped in a bathrobe. His tail had transformed back into human legs. “There’s a clan ritual tonight. We’ll go together.” As the clan’s guardian, his presence was mandatory every year. Me? I was a different story. Every year, I was forced to stand in a corner as punishment until dawn. “I don’t want to go. Find someone else.” Adrian’s eyes fell. I expected him to revert to his usual self—a cold silence, a mumbled “do as you please,” and a swift exit. But after a long moment, he did something unusual. He stepped closer, his eyes shimmering with a watery vulnerability. “Please… just this once.” A new comment flashed across my vision. 【The most skilled hunters always appear as the prey!】 【Such a shame. His seductive gaze is wasted on a fool. Not only will she reject him, but she’ll tear up the contract right in front of his face…】 【The author is so cruel to him! Good thing he sees her messing around later. After he loses control and the female lead saves him, this side character’s role is pretty much over.】 【Oh, she’ll be back. At the end, when she’s cast out by the family and used as a living sacrifice…】 A chill ran down my spine. My mouth moved faster than my brain. “Fine… but only because you begged me.” I thought he’d be angry, but a flicker of joy ignited in his eyes. Could the pop-up comments be true? Did Adrian actually like me? He felt my intense gaze and awkwardly turned his head away. I found this fascinating. My hand, as if with a mind of its own, drifted to the small of his back. “So… can I see your tail again?” Adrian froze completely. The pop-up comments, which had been scrolling wildly, fell silent for a half-second. 【Did I hear that right?! Not only did she agree to go to the ritual, but she wants to see his tail?!】 【Ahem… you can’t blame her. She skipped every clan lesson about this. She has no idea that’s a merman’s mating proposal…】 Adrian, still in the pool, was breathing heavily, as if he were about to drown. But he was a merman, an ancient deity from the depths of the sea… “You! You have no shame!” I was stunned. Adrian was not at all what I had imagined. 2 I licked my lips awkwardly. “Fine, don’t show me then.” 【She’s calling your bluff! Adrian, don’t be a coward!】 【If you push her away now, you’ll just be back in the pool later, crying and hugging that doll of her…】 It was hard to imagine Adrian crying. And what doll? I was so absorbed in the comments that I didn’t notice Adrian had grabbed my hand. “Not here… I can only transform in the water.” I was too shocked to speak, letting him lead me back into his chambers. This was the first time we’d had any physical contact since our wedding day. As the Clarke family’s guardian deity, Adrian had slumbered at the bottom of the sea. The Clarkes had built their maritime empire over generations, their legends of the mermen growing more fantastical with each telling. But I was a skeptic. I had to see for myself. So, I went diving. I had no idea. Mermen were real. Adrian was sleeping among the lush seaweed, his upper body bare, his long, iridescent tail refracting the light into a rainbow of colors. He looked like a god. No, he was a god. I’ll admit it: I was smitten. I was so captivated that I almost used up all my oxygen. Suddenly, just an inch from my face, Adrian’s eyes snapped open. They were clearer and more brilliant than the ocean itself. “You’re about to die.” That was the first thing he ever said to me. After he brought me to shore, I begged the clan elder to arrange our marriage. I was blinded by lust at the time, never imagining that after the wedding, I wouldn’t even get to touch his hand… but now… The tips of Adrian’s ears were blood-red, but he obediently slipped into the water, his long, slender tail materializing. “Come here.” He was too far away. I held out my hand to him. Adrian slowly pressed his face against my palm, his voice tinged with a hint of grievance. “A merman is not a pet…” My heart exploded. He was just like a puppy! His warm, moist breath tickled my palm. I instinctively pulled my hand back, but he seized the moment, pulling me into the water with him. I let out a startled cry, my body plastered against his. “You… are you trying to rebel?!” My tongue was tied in knots. A cunning glint flashed in Adrian’s eyes. He looked like a predator who, after a long, patient hunt, had finally caught his prey. “I told you.” His voice was a low growl. “A merman is not a pet.” My heart pounded. I don’t know if it was the rising water temperature, but my head was growing fuzzy. Suddenly, a shrill ringing pierced the air. I scrambled to turn off my phone, but my wet hand accidentally hit the answer button. “Babe, I’ve got something good for you!” my best friend’s voice chirped. “A six-foot-two college hunk, table’s booked. You’re gonna love him!” I felt an unprecedented wave of pressure from behind me. I quickly hung up. By the time I turned around, Adrian had already wrapped himself in a bathrobe and left without a word. 【He’s so mad. As if he’s not six-foot-two himself, hahaha.】 【Looks like the plot is back on track. A leopard can’t change its spots!】 3 【If she’d just turn back to him, Adrian would be her loyal dog. He’d just lick her hand and give a little woof.】 【Yeah! Can some human model really have as many tricks as our little merman?】 How would I know how many tricks Adrian had… Besides, who said anything about a model! I called my best friend back. “Don’t call me for this stuff anymore. I’ve got a strict one at home now.” There was a long silence on the other end, followed by a burst of hysterical laughter. “June Clarke, are you hallucinating from starvation? Didn’t you say you haven’t had a decent meal since you got married?” Well… she wasn’t wrong. “Things have changed. Gotta go. I’m off to reclaim what’s rightfully mine!” “What the hell are you on about…” I hung up before she could finish and set off. According to the pop-up comments, tonight’s ritual was where Adrian was supposed to meet the female lead for the first time. I had to see for myself what kind of sacred being she was. On the way, the clan elder called. “June Clarke! Where are you messing around now?! You were the one who begged for this contract, and now you’re making excuses to skip the ritual?!” Marrying a merman was a tradition in our clan. But the merman lineage had been broken for centuries, leaving only the slumbering Adrian, so the tradition had faded. After Adrian reawakened, many in the clan coveted this marriage. After all, a woman who had been intimate with a merman, aside from not growing a tail, was said to become like one of them. Not to mention, Adrian was far more handsome than the portraits of his ancestors… He was a hot commodity. “Elder, don’t worry.” I found a place to pull on my diving suit and checked all my equipment. “The ritual is in the same waters as always, right?” The last time I’d been in these waters was when I first met Adrian. The memory made my heart race. I quickened my pace towards the sea. 【Is she really going?】 【This was supposed to be the first meeting between the male and female leads. How is this supposed to work with three people?】 My husband is about to fall in love with someone else? Who gave him permission?! I hopped on my jet ski and sped off. A large ship was anchored in the target area. “Elder, am I late?” Before the elder could speak, a middle-aged woman pointed a finger at me. “Your presence here pollutes the sacred waters! The clan’s shipping routes have had unprecedented problems this year. You must have angered the Merman God, bringing this heavenly punishment upon our family!” The elder frowned. “That’s enough!” So, not sleeping with Adrian brings heavenly punishment? I pulled on my mask, about to jump into the water, when someone stopped me. “Only one human is allowed in the ritual waters. Someone has already gone down in your place. You can wait on the ship.” My hand froze. After a moment, a wide smile spread across my face. “I am Adrian’s wife. Why should I wait here?” Splash! To everyone’s astonishment, I dove headfirst into the water. The calm surface of the sea instantly churned into a massive whirlpool, pulling me deep into its depths… 4 The whirlpool looked fierce, but it didn’t harm me in the slightest. After some time, I saw Adrian in the distance. A slender figure floated nearby. As I got closer, I realized there was a thick, shimmering barrier between them. The woman’s oxygen was running low, but she showed no intention of leaving. “I can help you, just look at me…” the woman signed frantically towards Adrian. Adrian’s brow was furrowed in extreme displeasure. “Not needed.” I could hear his voice, cold and distant. The woman must have heard it too. I swam closer. Just as I was about to touch the barrier, the woman grabbed my arm. “How did you get down here?!” she signed. “It’s dangerous. I’m enough. You should go back.” The next second, as my fingertips brushed against the barrier, I felt a powerful suction pull me straight through. Adrian’s condition was even worse than yesterday. Faint scales had begun to appear on his neck, opening and closing with each breath. “What are you doing here?” he grumbled, not looking at me, but the tips of his ears were bright red. “If I didn’t come, someone else would have snatched you away.” I opened my mouth and found I could speak freely, just like Adrian. The woman outside, watching this, turned red with frustration. Or maybe it was from lack of oxygen. “Aren’t you going to save her? She’s about to die,” I said. Adrian glanced at me from the corner of his eye, then slumped against my arm, completely limp. “I don’t know her.” He leaned against me, unmoving, until the woman finally gave up and floated to the surface. 【What’s happening?! Wasn’t the female lead supposed to save him? Why did she just leave?】 【Is the first steamy scene going to be underwater?】 【Is our little merman going to do it with her until she suffocates?】 Reading the comments, my heart hammered against my ribs. Just as I was mentally preparing myself, Adrian suddenly pulled away. “I’ve delayed you today. Let’s go.” I was surrounded by water, completely bewildered. What did he mean, he’d delayed me? I was all ready to go, and now he wanted me to leave? “Are you in a hurry to go see that girl?” Adrian’s back stiffened. Suddenly, the surrounding water began to churn violently. 5 I was swept into even deeper waters… It was pitch black all around, like being trapped in chaos. Suddenly, a faint, eerie light appeared before me. Of course. A merman belongs in the deep sea. In this moment, Adrian radiated a dangerous divinity. “Adrian?” I called out tentatively. The only response was the powerful flick of his tail fin. He wrapped me in a tight embrace. “Adrian, what’s wrong with you?” I wasn’t a sea creature. In a place like this, it was impossible not to feel a sense of panic. I pushed against him with all my might. Adrian’s dangerous, predatory pupils instantly became moist and chaotic. “I was wrong… don’t push me away.” 【The main couple is officially dead. Is he apologizing for accidentally letting the female lead go down the drain today?】 【Serves you right for leaving her in a huff. You almost lost your wife!】 【I don’t care anymore! I am the First Emperor of Qin, and I demand to see their underwater play!】 My heart softened. I let myself fall back into his arms. “I’m human. I’ll die here…” It was as if Adrian had blocked out all sound. He extended the sharp fin on his elbow and sliced a large gash in my wetsuit.

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1 The headline blasted across every screen, a push notification that shattered my quiet world: A-LIST STAR’S LOST ID LEADS TO SECRET MARRIAGE. That’s how I found out Julian Wilder had forgotten he’d married me three years ago. The internet, in its infinite and terrifying power, launched a manhunt. Within hours, they had unearthed me, a single mother raising my little boy, Leo, in obscurity. Then, Julian himself tagged me in a public post: @VictoriaHollister I get the fan enthusiasm, truly. But maybe we could schedule a time to get this marriage annulled? Let me know. I replied: Fine. But we scheduled the appointment three times, and three times, Julian was a no-show. The first time, his assistant called. “An explosion scene on set ran late. Julian’s so sorry. We’ll have to reschedule.” The second time, his agent texted me. “Julian’s been hospitalized with a sudden high fever. We’ll be in touch.” The third time, it was my son, Leo, who showed me the news on his tablet. “Mommy, Daddy was in a car crash. He hit his head again.” … Before the fame, before the sold-out stadiums and screaming fans, we had been a secret. In the breathless innocence of our youth, he had dragged me to City Hall. His eyes had shone brighter than any star in the night sky. “This little book,” he’d said, his voice thick with a certainty that felt like it could bend the world to his will, “it ties us together. Not even God can tear us apart now.” He’d tipped my chin up, a roguish grin spreading across his face as if he’d just conquered the world. “And you’re mine in the next life, too.” But that very day, the car crash had stolen me from him. His family, who had always disapproved of us, seized the opportunity. They scrubbed every trace of my existence from his life, erasing me so completely it was as if I’d never been there at all. So when the news broke, I wasn’t surprised. This had his family’s fingerprints all over it. With Julian’s memory a blank slate, they could write whatever narrative they wanted, couldn’t they? They painted me as a deranged, obsessed fan who’d found his lost ID and gone on a psychotic spree at City Hall. It was a perfectly plausible, even entertaining, story. I stared at the blurry screenshot of the marriage certificate on the trending page. My driver’s license number was circled and magnified. The internet did the rest. A few hours later, the address of my small rental apartment and a haggard-looking photo of me with Leo were plastered all over social media. I’d found out I was pregnant after Julian lost his memory. Leo was two and a half now, and he looked just like me. No one would ever suspect he was Julian Wilder’s son. Not even Julian himself. @VictoriaHollister I get the fan enthusiasm, truly. But maybe we could schedule a time to get this marriage annulled? Let me know. The world was watching, waiting for the tearful, desperate pleas of a scorned woman. My DMs flooded with over 99+ messages of pure venom. They called me delusional. They called me a low-life, a nobody punching leagues above her weight. For the past three years, I’d watched him. I’d seen the breakout roles that catapulted him from a reckless boy in a foreign city to the untouchable “god” he was now. At his level, a wife and a child were liabilities, not assets. And after three years, he still hadn’t remembered. I’d given up hope a long time ago. He would probably never remember me. Never remember the four sweet, tangled years we’d lived together. I stared at the screen for five minutes, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then I typed one word: Fine. My heart had died three years ago. It was long past time for a burial. 2 The truth is, Julian wasn’t the first Wilder brother I knew. I met his older brother, Sebastian, first. I was the real heiress, swapped at birth, and at seventeen I was finally brought back to my wealthy parents’ home. I was a country girl, a hick who knew nothing but how to study. I was oil to the water of the polished young men and women of high society. To make matters worse, there was an old family agreement that I was to marry Sebastian Wilder. Everyone mocked me for it, the girl from nowhere who was supposed to marry the most eligible bachelor in the city. But Sebastian, he sought me out in private. “I intend to honor our families’ agreement,” he’d told me, his voice a low, steady comfort. “Focus on your SATs. Get a good score, and you can come study in the States with me.” In that world of casual cruelty, I didn’t have a single friend. His words were a lifeline. Even my own parents were ashamed of me, refusing to publicly acknowledge my identity. The “fake” heiress, the girl who had taken my place, used the opportunity to spread rumors at school. She told everyone I was the daughter of their housekeeper. My parents didn’t deny it. The entire school believed I was a charity case, a poor girl on scholarship. They isolated me, shunned me, whispered behind my back. “I’m not the housekeeper’s daughter,” I tried to explain. “I’m the real Lockwood heiress. Isabelle is the fake one.” A group of girls cornered me in the bathroom and slapped me, hard. “A housekeeper’s daughter playing princess? Isabelle doesn’t even bother to argue with a clown like you, but that doesn’t mean no one will put you in your place.” The leader grabbed my hair, trying to force me to my knees. “Take a good look at yourself. Do you really think you’re worthy?” I went to my teacher, my face red and swollen. She looked at me with cold dismissal. “Why do they only bully you, and not others? You should start by looking for the problem within yourself. And stop pretending to be a Lockwood. That family is kind enough to pay for your education. You should be more grateful.” In those days, I spent my nights drowning in a silent despair. And in between the waves of sadness, I memorized vocabulary for the SATs. I had to save myself. I had to escape. My score was good enough. Sebastian flew back personally to speak with my parents. He was taking me with him. They agreed. And so, it was by following Sebastian Wilder to a new country that I met Julian. 3 In the States, Sebastian rented a quiet, one-bedroom apartment for me near the school. Whenever he visited, his questions were always the same, a gentle, protective mantra: “Do you have enough money?” “Are you keeping up with your classes?” “Is anyone bothering you?” “You have to tell me if you’re in any trouble.” Sebastian was five years older than me. I was starting high school; he was finishing his university degree. He was like a perfect older brother, always maintaining a respectful distance, never crossing a line. One evening, as he stood on my small balcony watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of orange and purple, he laid everything out on the table. His voice was soft, but clear. “I brought you here to see a bigger world, Victoria. Not to chain you to some old promise. They called you a hick, so you should live a life so dazzling it blinds them. As for our family agreement… in my eyes, it’s a responsibility I must handle with care, not a matter of the heart. Do you understand what I mean?” I understood. He didn’t love me. He would never marry me. But I was still grateful. He was the one who had pulled me from the mud, given me a wider sky and the wings to fly in it. He was a gentleman, and my savior. I respected his decision. I just never expected his brother, Julian, to come crashing into my life. Julian was a hurricane, a force of nature that tore through the long, lonely quiet of my life abroad, leaving chaos and a strange, thrilling warmth in his wake. We lived together for four years. 4 It all started because I could cook. Like, really cook. The kind of soul-warming, classic comfort food that feels like a hug from the inside out. I remember it was a weekend, and a relentless rain was hammering against the windows. A knock echoed through the small apartment. I opened the door to a figure in a baseball cap, pulled low to shadow a face that was far too handsome to be left unconcealed. His arm was in a cast. When he looked up, his eyes were wild and restless, like a rain-soaked wolf, starved and impatient. “My brother said you’re a hell of a cook,” he announced, not asked. “I’m starving. I need a real meal. Something like… a perfect roast chicken. And that incredible four-cheese mac and cheese you make.” “Who’s your brother?” I asked. “Sebastian Wilder. My actual, blood-related brother.” Before I could even process it, the drenched figure had squeezed past me, storming into my kitchen and flinging open cabinets and pot lids like a one-man raiding party. Finding nothing, he turned to me with a desperate, pleading look that made it clear he wasn’t leaving until he was fed. I called Sebastian to verify. He sighed on the other end of the line, a note of weary amusement in his voice. “So that’s where he went. He snuck out of the hospital. I’m on my way to get him now.” By the time Sebastian arrived, dinner was ready. Julian didn’t say a word, just grabbed a fork and devoured the food like a man starved for weeks. He shoved forkfuls of steaming food into his mouth, hissing through his teeth at the heat but never stopping. The entire plate of chicken vanished, and he scraped the casserole dish clean. Full and satisfied, he slapped his damp hat back on his head and obediently followed Sebastian out the door. But not before snatching my phone to add himself on a messaging app. That night, a message popped up with his first demand: [Tomorrow. Lasagna.] After he was discharged from the hospital, he insisted on moving in with me. We were the same age but went to different schools. His was an hour’s drive from my apartment, but for a good meal, Julian would brave any storm. He was domineering and infuriating, but he was also the one who, on nights when I was afraid of the dark, would deliberately make noise in the living room and mock me gently. “What’s there to be scared of when you’ve got me here?” He was even the one who, when I got my period, would disguise himself like a ninja, with only his eyes showing, to go buy me pads from the store, only to come back and grumble, “That was so humiliating.” Of course, most of the time, he was just a pain. When I wanted to read quietly, he’d be in the living room, controller in hand, waging epic digital wars with guttural yells. Whenever I finished cooking, there was always a shadow at my elbow, ready to snatch the best pieces, eating with a ferocious and yet deeply satisfying gusto. Across countless meals and changing seasons, a young man and a young woman sharing a small space… the lines were bound to blur. Until one day, Sebastian suddenly changed his mind. He brought up the family agreement again. “The engagement,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument, “is back on. Tomorrow, you’re coming back with me. After the engagement party, you can return to finish your studies.” 5 Julian’s agent contacted me soon after. She was a powerhouse, a sharp, no-nonsense woman who had single-handedly orchestrated his rise to stardom. “What time works for you?” she asked, her voice brisk over the phone. I closed my eyes, fighting to keep my own voice steady. “I’m free anytime. It depends on Julian’s schedule.” “Let’s say next Wednesday, nine a.m., then. Meet at the entrance to City Hall. And… would you be comfortable with the press being there? This whole situation has been a major blow to Julian’s image. We’d like to livestream the entire proceeding, and we were hoping you could make a public apology for the harm you’ve caused. To clear his name.” Clear his name. His innocence had been lost to me on a couch in a foreign country when we were eighteen. He’d been the eager one, a willing participant, his face flushed with a nervous excitement that matched my own. He’d cupped my face in his hands as we watched some cheesy romance film, the atmosphere growing thick and hot until he finally whispered, “Should we? Are you scared?” And I’d whispered back, “The only thing I’m scared of is you being a coward.” Years later, his agent was asking me to give him his innocence back. I wanted to say, Sorry, no returns or exchanges. We have a two-and-a-half-year-old receipt for that transaction, and we explored every possible position. Silence stretched over the line. The agent’s voice sharpened, taking on a threatening edge. “Ms. Hollister, I’ve done my research on you. You were the daughter of the Lockwood family’s housekeeper, taken in on their charity. You pretended to be their real daughter at that private school until you couldn’t keep up the lie and dropped out in your sophomore year. You didn’t even finish high school. We’re being generous by not pressing charges. I suggest you take this opportunity to cooperate and offer a sincere apology.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “I understand. Next Wednesday. I’ll be at City Hall, in front of the cameras, and I will personally apologize to Julian Wilder for finding his ID and ruining his good name.” “I’ll see you then,” she said, and hung up. Leo tugged at the leg of my pants. “Mommy, why are you crying?” I wiped at my eyes, surprised to find them wet. A real tear. I forced a smile and scooped him into my arms. “It’s nothing, sweetie. The wind just blew something in my eye.” 6 I thought I wouldn’t see Julian until next Wednesday. But in the dead of night, as I was deep in a restless sleep, I heard a soft knocking at the door. I grabbed a baseball bat and crept to the entryway, peering at the digital peephole camera. A man stood outside, shrouded in a black hoodie and a black mask, with only his eyes visible. But I knew those eyes. I would know them if he were reduced to ash. Julian. How did he find me? And what was he doing here at three-thirty in the morning, skulking like a thief? After a long moment of hesitation, I opened the door. I feigned ignorance. “Hello? Can I help you?” He pulled his mask down for a fleeting second. “It’s me. Julian Wilder.” He quickly pulled it back up. “Just a couple of questions, then I’ll go. My brother said we’ve never met. That you just… found my ID and scammed the system. But something about it just doesn’t feel right.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I just had to come and ask you myself. Are you really just some deranged fan who found my ID and decided to marry me?” My gaze fell to his feet. He was wearing a pair of old sneakers, the laces frayed and worn. I’d seen them in countless paparazzi shots. The anti-fans always mocked him for it. “Can’t he afford new shoes?” “Why do you like those shoes so much?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. “Huh?” He looked down, a small, self-deprecating laugh escaping him. “Oh, these? They’re just comfortable. What, you think there’s some dramatic backstory? A gift from a long-lost love I can’t bear to part with? It’s not that deep. A shoe either fits or it doesn’t. And these just… fit.” The silence in the entryway felt heavy, suffocating. I was dangerously close to tears. He’d lost the memories, but his body still remembered the comfort of the shoes I bought for him. Suddenly, two fingers were under my chin, tilting my face up. “You still haven’t answered my question,” Julian murmured, his eyes boring into mine. “Are you just a fan?” Forced to meet his gaze, to look at that unfairly handsome face, a wave of grief washed over me. “Why are you asking? Did you… remember something?” He was too sharp, instantly seizing on the key word. “So, I am supposed to remember something?” His eyes narrowed, searching my face, desperate for a clue, a crack in my composure. I slapped his hand away. “No. I’m just a fan, like you said. You’ve asked your questions. You should go.” I tried to shut the door, but he blocked it with his foot. “Do you have anything to eat? I’m kind of starving. I just drove five hours straight from the film set, and I have to drive five hours back. I’m worried my blood sugar will crash. It’s not safe to drive like that.” 7 Just like old times, he squeezed past me before I could say no. “I don’t have anything,” I said flatly. Julian was quiet for a moment, then a slow, knowing smile spread across his face, hidden mostly by the mask. “You’re not a fan.” “What?” “No real fan would ever turn down a request from their idol. You didn’t ask for an autograph. You didn’t whip out your phone for a selfie. A true ‘deranged fan’ wouldn’t look at me with that… dead-inside expression. Yeah,” he nodded to himself, “I was right to come here.” As if on cue, his stomach let out a loud, pathetic gurgle. He looked at me, his eyes wide with a theatrical helplessness. “See? I’m really hungry. Can’t you just whip something up?” I ended up making him a bowl of rich tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches on the side—the ultimate comfort meal. But just as Julian picked up his sandwich, before he could take a single bite, Sebastian arrived. Julian looked up, stunned. “Seb? What are you doing here?” “I should be asking you that,” Sebastian’s voice was tight with frustration. “Your assistant is going crazy. He called me in a panic when he couldn’t find you anywhere.” “Then how did you find me?” “Phone tracking. What are you doing here, Julian?” Julian pointed a thumb at me. “Just wanted to see her for myself. I don’t know, man. I just feel like… I knew her before.” Sebastian’s gaze flickered to me for a cold, hard second before he answered, his tone firm and absolute. “You don’t know her. Let’s go. Home.” Julian had no choice but to follow, grumbling as he went. “Don’t know her, fine. Why are you so serious about it? She made me food, Seb. I haven’t even had one bite. Can’t I just eat first?” “Is there a shortage of food at home?” Sebastian shot back, his voice low and commanding. “I’ll make you something myself when we get back.” “But I’m hungry now,” Julian whined. Then, in a flash, he snatched the other half of the grilled cheese from the plate and wrapped it in a napkin. “Waste not, want not. I’ll eat this on the road.” As he was leaving, he grabbed my phone again, tapping furiously. “There, I’m on your contacts now. Later, wifey. We’ll text about the divorce details.” I froze. My ears must be playing tricks on me. What did he just call me? Sebastian, standing beside me, was just as stunned. “What did you just call her?” Julian shrugged, a picture of nonchalant innocence. “Wifey. I mean, she’s technically my wife on paper right now, isn’t she? What’s the problem?” Sebastian’s voice was a low growl. “Not for long.” Julian, ever the carefree charmer, just grinned at his brother. “But she is for now. And look, my wifey even made me grilled cheese. Why haven’t you gotten a wife yet, bro?” The door closed, but I could still faintly hear their voices fading down the hall. First Sebastian’s: “I want to. But she’s married.” Then a pause, followed by a chilling addendum. “But she’ll be divorced soon.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “393852”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day my parents died, I threw my sick sister out on the street. She was left homeless, starving, and freezing, and I turned a blind eye. My relatives called me a heartless monster. I ignored them. I forced her to sign away her inheritance, and she knelt on the floor, begging and sobbing until she could barely breathe. “Mom and Dad are barely cold in their graves,” she cried. “How can you be so cruel?” I laughed. “What are the dead going to do about it?” When she collapsed on the street from her illness, I cheered. I was ecstatic. The next day, the hashtag #ViciousSisterStealsInheritanceAndAbandonsDyingSibling went viral. I leaned back on my sofa, scrolling through the thousands of death threats, and casually sipped a glass of red wine. “Cry all you want. Curse me all you want,” I murmured to my phone. “The house, the money… it’s all mine now.” 01 At our parents’ funeral, I made my sister, Ruby, sign a waiver forfeiting her entire inheritance. The moment I had the signed papers in my hand, I started throwing her luggage out the front door, piece by piece. One of the suitcases cracked open on the pavement, her clothes spilling out onto the dirty ground. Ruby’s lips trembled, her eyes wide with disbelief and helplessness. “What?” I said, crossing my arms. “You really think a charity case like you gets to stay here?” She bit her lip so hard I was surprised it didn’t bleed, her whole body shaking. “Ava… how could you do this to me?” “What else did you expect?” I cut her off impatiently before she could say more. “Mom and Dad are gone. I’m not carrying a dead weight like you.” Her tears stopped instantly. Her face went deathly pale. I took a step closer, my gaze cold. “Are you going to get out, or do I have to make you?” Despair washed over her face. She couldn’t process it. “Ava, why? We’re sisters… we’re family…” “Get out,” I said, pointing to the door. “I won’t say it again. You are not my problem anymore.” “Ava, you’ve gone too far!” My sudden outburst stunned everyone into silence. After a moment, one of our aunts finally found her voice. She stepped forward, her face red with anger. “Your sister is so pitiful. How can you be so heartless?” “You feel sorry for her?” I raised an eyebrow. “Great. You can take her home and look after her.” The aunt’s mouth opened, then closed. She didn’t say a word. “What’s the matter? Scared?” I scanned the room, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “She’s a bottomless pit of need! Any of you saints want to take her off my hands?” The faces of my relatives soured, but no one dared to speak. I let out a cold laugh. “Since none of you want her, what right do you have to tell me what to do?” Ruby’s sobs grew louder. She clutched the waiver, tears splashing onto the paper as she crumpled to the floor. I was done wasting my breath. I strode over, yanked her up from the ground, and shoved her out the door. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” I slammed the door on Ruby’s wailing and the muttered curses of my relatives, locking them all out. If she lived or died, what did it have to do with me? 02 Alone in the spacious house, I had the best night’s sleep I’d had in years. I woke up to my phone vibrating itself off the nightstand. #ViciousSisterStealsInheritanceAndAbandonsDyingSibling One of my relatives had posted a video of me throwing Ruby out. It was the number one trending topic, a furious, viral red. I clicked on it. A tidal wave of hatred washed over me. “Is this sister a demon? Kicking out her own sibling? Is she even human?” “So she’s rich and powerful, so what? That poor girl was sobbing her heart out, and she didn’t even flinch.” “Someone find this trash. We need to dox her. Don’t let her get away with this!” The comments section was a warzone. And below it, someone had already posted my personal information. My full name, my phone number, my home address, and even my work address had been leaked. My phone started ringing incessantly, one unknown number after another. I answered one. As expected, a torrent of abuse. “Ava, you’re going to burn in hell!” “You deserve to die alone!” “I hope you get struck by lightning, you piece of scum—” Click. I hung up and blocked the number. My screen kept flashing with notifications. My relatives were making the rounds on the news channels, weeping dramatically as if they’d just witnessed a murder. My uncle pounded his chest for the camera. “I just can’t understand how she became like this! She used to be such a good, sensible girl!” My aunt dabbed her eyes, going through a whole pack of tissues. “That poor child… kicked out by her own sister. What is she going to do now?” The camera then cut to Ruby. She was looking down, tears falling one by one, her voice choked with sobs. “Does my sister… does she really not care about me at all anymore?” Tsk. She looked so pathetic. A reporter gently prompted her, “Is there anything you’d like to say to your sister?” Ruby sniffled. “Ava… I really need you… Please, can’t you stop being so cruel?” On screen, she was a picture of frail, helpless beauty, her face stained with tears. The internet absolutely erupted. “Damn, that made me want to cry.” “She just wanted her sister, and she got kicked to the curb. How broken must she feel?” “How has this monster not gotten what she deserves yet?” I leaned back on my sofa, sipping my coffee, and slowly scrolled through my phone. Ruby was useless. Why should I pity her? BANG! Someone was pounding on my front door downstairs. I peeked through the curtains. A mob had already gathered outside, holding signs. “HAVE YOU NO SHAME?” “JUSTICE FOR RUBY!” “GIVE BACK THE INHERITANCE!” A few angry-looking men were trying to break down the door. Someone else threw an egg at my window, the yolk slowly dripping down the glass. My phone buzzed again. It was a text from my boss. Ava, the company has received too many complaints. Don’t come in for now. Let this blow over. Ha. He caved quickly. Another call came in. A reporter. Her voice was trembling with rage. “Do you know your sister slept on a park bench last night? She hasn’t had a single hot meal! You cold-blooded monster, does your conscience not hurt at all?!” I glanced out the window. The crowd of protestors was growing. I picked up my phone, let out a lazy yawn, and murmured into the receiver. “It’d be easier if she were dead.” The line went silent. Then came a hysterical scream. 03 After two days of relaxing at home, I decided to go to work. The moment I pushed open the office door, the entire floor went silent. A few coworkers pretended to be busy, but their eyes darted away nervously. The office gossip, who normally lived for this kind of drama, wouldn’t even look in my direction. I smirked, walked to my desk, and had just turned on my computer when my manager called out, “Ava, the director wants to see you.” In the conference room, the director’s face was grim. “The company is aware of your situation.” I smiled. “Okay.” He frowned. “This has had a huge impact. Our partners are questioning our company’s values.” “And?” I stirred my coffee slowly. “You need to find a way to resolve this yourself. Don’t drag the company down with you.” “So you’re telling me to resign?” He didn’t answer. That was answer enough. I nodded, put down my cup, and stood up to leave. As I walked out, the security guard at the front desk gave me a long, complicated look. I pulled out my phone and clicked on a news alert. VICIOUS SISTER SCANDAL CONTINUES TO EXPLODE. VICTIM SISTER HOMELESS, SUSPECTED MENTAL BREAKDOWN! The comments were on fire. “Scum. Animal! A person like this doesn’t deserve to live!” “For the love of God, fire her already! Do corporations have no soul?” “Hasn’t anyone beaten her up yet??” Such a bunch of busybodies. I shook my head, a cold smile on my lips. As I approached my apartment building, I was hit by the sharp, acrid smell of spray paint. Someone had vandalized my front door. “DEMON SISTER” and “DIE IN HELL” were scrawled across the wall in crooked, dripping red letters. Someone had also intentionally scattered trash and dead flowers all over the hallway. A gust of wind from an open window sent debris swirling around my feet. Tsk. Such poor taste. I stepped over the mess and was about to unlock my door when I heard a commotion from the stairwell. My relatives had arrived. My aunt was in the lead, flanked by a few of my cousins, all of them looking furious. “Ava! You cold-hearted bitch! If you don’t bring your sister home today, we’re not leaving!” My uncle slammed his cane on the floor. “Even an animal has more humanity than you! Your sister is starving and cold, where is your heart?!” One of my male cousins rolled up his sleeves, his eyes full of menace. “Maybe we should throw her out on the street, see how she likes it.” “Are you done?” I yawned, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You’re all so righteous, aren’t you? She’s so pitiful, right? Fine. Which one of you is taking her in?” Silence. “What? No takers?” I sneered. “So easy to talk big, isn’t it? You don’t want the responsibility, so you try to force it on me?” My aunt’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato. “You’re going to get what you deserve!” she shrieked. “Is that so?” I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “I’d like to report a home invasion and multiple threats against my person.” The police arrived in less than ten minutes. My relatives were escorted out, cursing and grumbling, but they scattered. But then came the real pests: the reporters. A whole pack of them was blocking the building entrance. They swarmed me, shoving cameras and microphones in my face. “Ms. Ava, how do you respond to the accusations online?” “Your sister is penniless. Do you feel no guilt whatsoever?” “Can you explain why you forced her to sign away her inheritance?” The camera flashes were blinding. I casually brushed a strand of hair from my face and gave them a lazy smile. “You all feel so sorry for her, don’t you?” Facing the cameras, I slowly tilted my chin up, my tone dripping with disdain. “Fine. Then you can pay for her.” The reporters’ faces froze. The air grew thick. And then, the viewers watching the live feed lost their minds. “IS THIS WOMAN INSANE???” “DOES SHE LITERALLY NOT HAVE A HEART???” “I WANT TO KICK DOWN HER DOOR AND DRAG HER OUT BY HER HAIR!!!” The internet’s rage hit a fever pitch. My haters organized, launching a campaign to “socially execute” me, digging into every corner of my past. “I heard her grades in elementary school were terrible. Her teachers probably knew she was evil even back then.” “Her college roommate needs to speak up! I bet she was a manipulative snake!” “What about her boyfriend? Why hasn’t he dumped her yet?” Within a day, my social life was nuked from orbit. A former coworker: Are you crazy? An old classmate: Do you have any conscience at all? My ex-boyfriend: Delete my number. Don’t ever contact me again. They all thought they could break me with their moral superiority. How naive. That evening, I posted a photo to my social media. A lavish dinner. Steak, foie gras, truffles, and a bottle of expensive red wine. The caption: Delicious. 04 After a few days of quiet, the online narrative began to shift. It was no longer just about cursing me; the main theme was now “pity for the sister.” Because Ruby had posted a long, personal essay. I Don’t Want the Inheritance, I Just Want a Home. It was accompanied by a blurry selfie. She was wrapped in a thin, filthy blanket, curled up under a bridge. Her eyes were helpless, her face smudged with dirt and tear tracks. “I never wanted to fight with my sister over money. After our parents passed, I thought she was all I had left. I never imagined she hated me so much.” “I have no money. When I’m hungry, I have to dig through trash cans. I sleep under a bridge at night, and a homeless man stole my jacket… Sometimes, I really don’t see the point in living anymore…” In just a few hours, the post was shared over a hundred thousand times. “Omg, I’m actually crying…” “How can a sister be so cruel? Making her own flesh and blood sleep under a bridge?!” “Can someone please help her?” In the comments, hordes of people offered to send her money. Someone even started a crowdfunding campaign for her to rent an apartment. The funny thing was, these “Good Samaritans” were sending her $5 or $10 at a time. Not a single one offered to actually take her in. Even funnier, my relatives were back at it. They cornered me in a cafe near my apartment, putting on a grand show of a “righteous tribunal.” “Ava!” my uncle slammed his cane on the table, his face livid. “Your sister is living on the streets! Are you really going to let her die out there?” “What do you mean, ‘let her die’?” I stirred my tea, my voice lazy. “Be specific.” “The house, the savings,” my aunt interjected. “You have to give her half of what your parents left!” I let out a short, sharp laugh and slapped the notarized document I’d brought with me onto the table. “Legally, she gets nothing.” The air in the room went still. “You—” my uncle’s hand was shaking with rage. “She’s your sister! If your parents knew you were doing this, they’d be turning in their graves!” “Don’t use the dead to guilt me,” I said, my voice calm. “My parents are ashes. They can’t control me anymore.” No one spoke. I looked around at them. “I’m her sister. I can do whatever I want with her. What business is it of yours?” The cafe was so quiet you could hear the tea bubbling in the pot. The relatives looked sick, but before any of them could speak, I cut them off. “So,” I said, holding my hands out. “You all feel so sorry for her, right? Who’s taking her home?” No one answered. “What’s the matter? All talk and no action, as usual?” I laughed mockingly. “You’re not willing to take care of her yourselves, so you try to force me to? How noble.” Silence. Anger. Finally, my aunt slammed her teacup on the table, splashing hot tea everywhere. “Ava, you will get what’s coming to you!” I clapped softly. “I’ll be waiting.” The family meeting ended as expected. Not a single one of them was willing to actually help Ruby. But the wave of online sympathy was turning into a tsunami. The next day, the story was trending again. This time, it was a live, exclusive interview with my sister. In the video, Ruby was sitting on a park bench, pale and shivering in thin clothes. She kept her head down, her eyes red, her fingers twisted together in her lap. The reporter’s voice was gentle. “Your sister claims you’re only after the inheritance.” Ruby shook her head frantically, tears rolling down her cheeks. “No, that’s not true! I never wanted to take anything from my sister…” She looked up, her voice trembling. “I just… I just want a home…” The live chat exploded with fury. “Her sister is a monster! She doesn’t even want the money!” “This poor girl is so broken. Does Ava have a heart at all?” “AVA, GET ON HERE AND APOLOGIZE TO YOUR SISTER!!” My phone was buzzing nonstop. I opened the live stream and posted a comment under the interview. If you can’t handle living, then just die. You’ll be doing everyone a favor. The internet saw my comment. There was a moment of stunned silence. And then, a deluge of curses. But a second later, their rage was cut short.

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The real heiress returned, and I was thrown out. Sobbing, I called the fiancé from my arranged marriage. “I’m sorry,” I choked out, “I’m not your fiancée anymore. We should break up.” His reply was firm. “Break up? No way. We’re not breaking up.” And now, he’s standing in front of the tiny apartment I just rented, loaded down with bags, staring at me as I stare back at him. He stated it simply. “Because I’m a fake, too.” 1 Landon and I stood there, face to face, in the cramped doorway of my new apartment. Tears clung to my lashes, threatening to fall, but the absurdity of the moment held them back. The fake heiress and the fake heir. A matched set. I stammered, “You… when did you find out?” Landon thought for a moment. “They told you this morning, right?” I nodded. “For me, it was this afternoon.” The tears wouldn’t come anymore. When I first found out, my immediate thought was that it was over between Landon and me. He was handsome, wealthy, and didn’t mind my quiet, reserved personality. He was the perfect partner I had always dreamed of. Without my status as an heiress, our future was impossible. But now, it wasn’t over. Or maybe it was. Honestly, it might have been better if it were. Landon bent down and started effortlessly moving his bags inside, leaving me stunned. “Let me crash here until I find a new place, okay… fiancée?” He was tall and lean, with a strength that didn’t fit the image of a disowned heir. I sniffled. “Don’t call me that.” Landon paused, turning to look at me. The lump in my throat grew. “It makes us sound pathetic. Poor and trying to pretend we’re not.” I was being honest. This whole scenario felt like some tragic indie romance with a CEO trope. People online would laugh at us for days. A laugh escaped Landon’s lips. “Sloane, I never realized you were such a proud little thing.” I covered my face with my hands. 2 I sat on the sofa, surveying the room. The small space was now cluttered with luggage and boxes. And a very long-legged Landon. The apartment was tiny to begin with, but with him in it, it felt like there was no room to even stretch. The more I thought about it, the more miserable I felt. Tears began to stream down my face again. “Hey, don’t cry.” Landon’s voice was gentle as he reached out with a tissue to dab at my tears. “Your eyes will get all puffy.” I turned my head away. “Back then… when I cried, how did you used to comfort me?” Landon considered it carefully. “Well, I’d come find you. We’d go out to eat, go shopping, see a movie. I’d help you bake your little cakes, and then I’d eat them.” Baking was my escape, and Landon was my most willing taste-tester. No one else in my family would touch my sweet, decadent pastries. Too sinful, too bourgeois. I shook my head softly. That wasn’t what I meant. Back then, when I cried, he had to cross half the estate just to wipe away my tears. Now, his arm was practically too long for the short distance between us. Landon’s shoulders started to shake. I thought he was crying, too. I looked down. He was smiling, a wide, brilliant smile. “…” I retreated to a corner, wrapped in my misery. 3 I never would have realized how capable Landon was if we hadn’t been thrown out. While I was still drowning in my sorrow, he had already unpacked, organized everything, and cleaned the entire apartment from top to bottom. I was flabbergasted. Unfazed, he smoothed a sheet over the mattress and asked me the most important question. “Didn’t they give you any money when you left? Why did you rent a place this small? Can you even sleep here?” There was only one bed. All my valuables had been confiscated. That morning, when Scarlett and my mother—no, her mother—walked in to break the news to me, she had ordered me to leave everything behind. She said Scarlett had suffered for too many years in my place, and now it was my turn to taste that same hardship. Scarlett’s expression had been placid, a mirror image of her mother’s. No wonder she’d always suspected I wasn’t her biological daughter. We were complete opposites. I was an introvert, mild-mannered and quiet. She was a social powerhouse, decisive and commanding. My adoptive mother had never shown me much warmth, and now, knowing the truth, she’d retracted what little affection she had left. “Sloane, what’s your plan now?” Landon asked. The only plan was to take it one day at a time. I could survive on my own. I had to. He finished with the bed. “There’s only one bed. I’ll take the couch.” I was silent for a moment. I hadn’t really planned on him staying. But then… I pictured Landon’s long legs cramped up on that tiny sofa. It was just too pitiful. I slowly edged closer to him. “Landon, how long have we been together?” “We’ve known each other for 1,342 days. We’ve been a couple for 312 days.” I was shocked. “How do you remember that so clearly?” “Sorry, Sloane. It’s the OCD. I have to be perfect about everything.” Ah, that explained it. I cleared my throat and adopted a serious tone. “Well, since we’ve been a couple for over… three hundred days… I guess sleeping in the same bed isn’t a huge deal. You don’t have to take the couch.” I was worried he wouldn’t sleep well. It was the old me, always worrying that everyone around me was uncomfortable, even if I couldn’t provide them with the best conditions. I didn’t want him waking up with an aching back. Moonlight streamed through the window, casting one half of his face in shadow and making the strong line of his nose even more pronounced. He sat up. “Sloane, do you know what you’re saying?” For the first time, he looked genuinely serious. “What’s wrong?” I asked, confused. Landon softened his tone. “If you were with any other guy, you should never, ever agree to share a bed just because you’ve known him for a while.” But I wouldn’t be with any other guy. Tears started to well up in my eyes again. I thought I understood his hidden meaning. “Are you trying to break up with me?” I would understand. Just as I had never expected our engagement to last after the news broke. Oh, I couldn’t call it an engagement anymore. That was just pretending. Landon moved closer to me, his voice a low murmur. “Forget it.” He nodded slightly. “Because that other guy is me. And that will never change.” I was even more confused now. What was he even talking about? 4 We lay stiffly in bed. Or maybe it was just me. Landon was already asleep. His long, dark lashes rested against his cheeks. He had the most beautiful eyes. I reached out a hand to touch them, but in the next second, he pulled me into his arms. I froze. “Cheeseball…” he mumbled in his sleep. Cheeseball was his cat. Had he been kicked out without even a chance to find a place for his cat? How tragic. I lay nestled in his arms, not daring to move, afraid of waking him. His scent was light and clean, a comforting fragrance that made me feel dizzy and safe all at once. I drifted in and out of a light sleep all night. In the morning, Landon saw the dark circles under my eyes and asked if I hadn’t slept well. What did he think? I forced a laugh. “I’m okay… I’m just not used to sleeping with someone else.” I looked down, hiding my face. The truth was, I had woken up very early. I opened my eyes to find us tangled together like an octopus, and my heart had nearly skipped a beat. It took all my effort to untangle myself without him noticing. Thankfully, Landon acted like nothing was out of the ordinary. “Habits can change. Come on, let’s have breakfast.” What did he mean, habits can change? Before I could ponder it, the scent of a delicious breakfast captured my full attention. “Landon, you can cook?” He sat down, placing a piece of toast on my plate, and raised an eyebrow. “You still don’t know me very well, do you?” I ate in shame. On the 312th day of our relationship, I hadn’t even known that he could cook. “It’s not your fault, Sloane,” he said, gently wiping a crumb from the corner of my mouth. “We never really had a chance to get to know each other in that environment.” All we had were clinking glasses and formal dinners. Our marriage was a bargaining chip for our families. Every meal was a business meeting, with a table full of people talking shop. We never had a moment alone. In the three years we’d known each other, we had remained polite strangers. Before, after a meal like that, I would have retreated to my little kitchen to experiment with baking, never having to worry about where my next meal came from. Now, I was stuck in this tiny apartment with nothing to do. I felt like such a failure. If I were just a lucky, useless person, I could have been useless forever. But fate had taken back its joke, and now I was just a useless person with bad luck. A tide of anxiety and insecurity washed over me, pulling me under. I braced myself. “Landon, I can’t support you. There’s no future for you with me. Maybe we should just…” Forget it. “Sloane.” Landon cut me off, his gaze intense. “If you’re trying to kick me out, I really have nowhere else to go.” I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Would you really do that to me?” That handsome face, those deep, beautiful eyes, were mesmerizing. Would you really do that? I have to admit, my heart softened. A flicker of pleasure crossed his eyes. He lowered his voice, making it soft and pleading. “Sloane, you’re all I have.” 5 Honestly, that one sentence gave me a new surge of strength. No one had ever needed me so desperately. In the Sutton family, I was always on the periphery. I struggled with the decision. But if I let Landon stay, how was I supposed to support both of us? Have a handsome husband to feed. Am desperate. Landon sat beside me, his voice a soft, alluring whisper. He told me he could cook, he could clean, he would wait for me to come home, and he could even go out and earn money himself. He could do anything. He added one last thing. “I just want a home I can come back to.” A tingling sensation shot up from the soles of my feet. I turned my head and found our noses were almost touching. His handsome face was right there. No one understood the power of eye contact better than Landon. He was devastatingly good-looking. Everything looked good on him. Even a simple white t-shirt and jeans looked like couture. I remembered how he had always been the center of attention in our circle, a golden boy from birth. If the Sutton family hadn’t been a suitable match, and if the Conrads hadn’t wanted a less… flashy… partner for their son, the engagement never would have been offered to me. When we first met, he had been so considerate, never making me feel like there was a gap between us. Everyone expected his fiancée to be a sophisticated, capable woman. And then he introduced me. A girl who didn’t quite live up to anyone’s expectations. Well, now it was even worse. I wasn’t even a real heiress. And if Landon was broke… well, a lot of people would probably be thrilled to see him broke. “Landon.” “Hmm?” I clenched my fists. “I think… I think we can make this work.” His eyes seemed to light up. I gritted my teeth. So what if we were a fake heiress and a fake heir? Just because we’d lost our golden ticket didn’t mean we couldn’t live, right? 6 I threw myself into finding a job, working hard, and taking on overtime. Supporting myself wasn’t as difficult as I’d thought. Before I left the Sutton manor, I overheard Scarlett say something. “Sloane Sutton won’t survive. She doesn’t know how to do anything.” My adoptive mother’s voice was flat. “I know.” She knew. I forced a smile and pretended I hadn’t heard, feeling a strange mix of anger and resignation. She saw me as insignificant. She had never thought much of me. But look at me now. I’m surviving. I can even support Landon. Once the dust of my glamorous, empty life had settled, I discovered there were actually a lot of things I could do. Landon was more invested in my job than I was. Every day, he’d have dinner ready when I got home, and he’d start his daily interrogation at the dinner table. I’d answer all his questions in detail, but I was curious. “Why do you want to know about all these trivial things?” “My adoptive parents were very strict with me.” He rested his chin on his hand, his eyes dimming slightly. “The way I was raised always confused me. But I think a family… should be about sharing. Your life, your joys, your sorrows… as your family, I should know more about those things than anyone else.” A boy broken by his demanding parents. So that was it. Landon’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “It’s okay, Sloane. If you’re tired, you don’t have to tell me anything. Just relax and eat. I was just asking.” My head spun, and I quickly waved my hands, assuring him it was fine. My ears felt hot. He considered me family. And he wanted to hear about all the random little things in my day. That made me happy. Landon’s lips curved into a smile. He seemed happy, too. 7 Landon told me that his parents had given him some startup capital when they kicked him out. He wanted to use it to open a cake shop for me. I refused. I couldn’t take his money. His eyes fell. “Don’t be sad,” I said, panicking. He shook his head. “I’m not sad. I know you have your concerns, Sloane. We were only engaged in name before. Now, even that is gone. What right do I have to do this for you?” I didn’t know what to say. For the past few weeks, whenever I tried to pull back and create some distance, he would do that—he’d look down, just so. Landon’s lashes were long and his eyes were beautiful. When he lowered them, he had this melancholy look that I couldn’t quite describe. He was never like this before. He used to navigate business dinners and social events with a flawless smile, making it impossible to tell if it was genuine or a mask. He turned his face away, looking even more dejected. I felt a surge of anxiety. My priority was to cheer him up. “Okay, okay, I promise! I’ll do it. Just please don’t be sad.” He slowly turned back to me. “Really?” “Really.” His eyes curved into a smile. “Okay.” “…” Something felt a little off. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. 8 After the cake shop opened, I kept a meticulous record of the money I owed Landon. I planned to pay him back as soon as I started making a profit. But I couldn’t deny my gratitude. What was once a hobby had become my passion, and I found myself completely immersed in it. I simply loved to bake. Mrs. Sutton used to say my “little hobbies” were undignified and that she didn’t want to see me wasting my time on them. So, I baked in secret. I had no talent for piano, or ballet, or the cello—none of the skills that would have allowed me to compete with the other heiresses. Even when I tried, Mrs. Sutton would just scoff. I was once filled with anxiety and sadness, unsure of what to do or who to be. When they told me the heir of the Conrad family wanted an arranged marriage with me, my first thought was—Does he know how painfully average and boring I am? I didn’t dare ask. For the first time, Mrs. Sutton smiled at me. “Sloane,” she said, “you’re finally useful.” In that moment, I felt a wave of relief. I saw Landon, and the Conrad family, as my lifeline. I had seen countless arranged marriages in our circle, and most ended badly. But they always resulted in powerful alliances. That was enough. I was useful now. All I had to do was be a proper, obedient wife, and I could bake my little cakes in peace for the rest of my life. But Landon surprised me. He was a good person. A very, very good person. So good that I was starting to truly fall for him. 9 The cake shop was quiet, but business was steady. Perhaps years of dedication to my hobby had resulted in a genuine leap in quality. I received a lot of positive reviews. Many of them said things like this: [The owner is super sweet, beautiful, and so patient, just like her cakes. I get lost just talking to her.] Huh? What was that supposed to mean? My face would flush whenever I read comments like that. Maybe it was just a new way of expressing happiness? I’d been so sheltered and subdued in the Sutton household that such open displays of emotion made me a little shy. Landon, with a straight face, would periodically delete comments like these from the shop’s page. He was particularly sensitive to any sentence containing the word “owner.” “I don’t think they mean any harm,” I’d say quietly. “They sound like compliments.” “I know. They really like you,” Landon would reply with a small smile. “But Sloane, we should set these aside for now. If we get too many comments, it clogs up the feed for new customers.” Oh, I see. That made sense. Landon was probably right. The positive reviews kept pouring in. But for a while after that, Landon’s smiles seemed forced. I figured he was just exhausted. He was always so busy, and he had to take care of me, too. I made an effort to talk to him more, to share happy things from my day. If he was unhappy, it made me sad, too. It worked. Landon’s mood visibly brightened. He was even gentler and better than I could have imagined.

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My daughter’s new homeroom teacher started something she called the “Progress Prize Swap.” For every rank a student climbed in the class standings, they could swap a gift with any classmate of their choosing. The student chosen for the swap was not allowed to refuse, or they’d be accused of “disrupting class unity.” A cheap little hair clip was traded for a limited-edition Sparkle Kitty charm necklace. A half-used, grimy eraser was swapped for a brand-new set of watercolor paints. And a flimsy plastic baggie was forcefully exchanged for my daughter’s precious gold locket, a family heirloom. My daughter, the one I had cherished and raised with all the love in the world, had become a walking, talking “prize machine” for the underachievers to plunder. 1 For the past few days, my daughter, Monica, had been visibly wilting. Every afternoon when she came home from school, her little face was as wrinkled and distressed as a crumpled piece of homework. Even her favorite meal, honey-glazed chicken wings, sat untouched before her, failing to spark any interest. She’d poke at her rice with her fork, not a single grain eaten, before disappearing into her room. I knew something was wrong. I decided it was time for a heart-to-heart. Carrying a glass of warm milk, I stood before Monica’s door and knocked gently. “Monica-bug? I warmed up some milk for you. Is it okay if I come in?” I heard a faint rustling from inside. Monica’s voice was muffled and small. “Mommy, I don’t want any milk today.” My heart sank. I knew it. Something was deeply troubling her. “Well then…” I pressed lightly against the door, my voice even softer. “Mommy got a little beaten up by work today. Do you think I could borrow my little Monica’s ear for a minute?” The door creaked open, revealing a thin sliver of the room. Through the gap, Monica’s small face, framed by the warm yellow light, was tear-streaked and her eyes were red-rimmed. “Who bullied you, Mommy? I’ll go beat them up!” A wave of warmth and pride washed over me. I gently took her small hand in mine and followed her into the room. Monica clutched a fluffy teddy bear to her chest. I sat cross-legged on the rug beside her bed, my eyes level with her long, downcast lashes. “Sweetheart…” I began, lightly stroking the fuzzy fur on the teddy bear’s ear. “Can you tell Mommy what’s been dimming our little sunbeam lately?” Monica didn’t say a word. She buried her face deep into the bear’s soft belly. I raised my hand, my fingertips gently brushing through the stray strands of her hair. “Did something happen at school, Monica? Like… like that time someone snatched the new crayons Mommy bought you?” Monica finally lifted her face from the teddy bear. She was clutching its fluffy paws so tightly they were bent out of shape. I gently took her little hands, which were still gripping the toy. “You know, when I was a little girl,” I said softly, “I used to tell my teddy bear all my secrets. Because teddy bears are the best at keeping them, right?” I paused, then leaned closer to her ear. “But I’ve learned something new, honey. Telling a secret to someone you trust can make your heart feel so much lighter.” Suddenly, tears like broken strings of pearls began to fall from Monica’s eyes, splashing onto the teddy bear. She clutched at my sleeve, her voice choked with sobs. “Mommy… if I tell you… will the other kids and the teacher think… think I’m a tattletale they all hate?” 2 My heart clenched violently, a hot fury churning in my chest. But I managed to keep my voice a gentle, soothing whisper. “Monica, you are Mommy’s precious daughter. How could telling me what’s in your heart ever be tattling?” I raised my hand and carefully wiped the tears from her cheeks with my thumb. “Look, your teddy bear is starting to cry, too. He wants to hear what’s wrong.” Monica’s eyelashes fluttered, and then with a great “Waaah,” she threw herself into my arms. “Mommy, our new teacher, Ms. Grant, she started this… this ‘Progress Prize Swap.’ The students who improve their grades get to swap for other kids’ things.” She let out a hiccupping sob. “Yesterday, Jasmine used a hair clip to take the Sparkle Kitty charm my godmother gave me. And today… today Charlie used a dirty eraser to take the whole set of watercolor paints you just bought me… I said I didn’t want to trade, but Ms. Grant said I was disrupting class unity… and-and she made me copy pages from the textbook as punishment.” Monica scrambled off the bed and walked over to her desk. From the very bottom of her school bag, she pulled out a crumpled plastic bag. My heart twisted painfully as she emptied its contents onto her desk. A pencil snapped in half. A butterfly-shaped barrette with most of its rhinestones missing. A filthy piece of an eraser, worn down to the size of a fingernail… My gaze fell on a few stickers, clearly torn from an old notebook, and a dull ache spread through my chest. These weren’t gifts. This was the shredded dignity of my daughter, scraped away piece by piece over the last few days. Monica clutched the plastic bag, her lip trembling. “Luna Grant said this plastic bag was a ‘limited edition’… and she used it to take the little gold locket Grandma gave me.” The realization hit me like a physical blow. I looked at my daughter’s empty neck. That locket… my own mother, on her deathbed, had gone to the church and prayed over it, a charm to keep Monica safe and blessed. And it had been taken, traded for a cheap, worthless plastic bag. I took a deep breath, fighting to keep my rage from boiling over. “Monica, was the teacher there when this happened?” Fat tears splashed onto her bedsheets. She slowly opened her little hand, revealing several deep, crescent-shaped nail marks in her palm. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I couldn’t protect the locket Grandma gave me…” Monica sobbed. “I held on to it so tight… but Ms. Grant… she pried my fingers open, one by one.” “She said Luna Grant had shown the most improvement, so she deserved to wear it! She said that a girl as selfish as Monica was bound to have her grades slip.” Monica’s body was shaking violently. “I-I looked up at Ms. Grant… and she was glaring at me… like a monster from a cartoon. And she said… she said that tattletales are hated by everyone in the class!” I quickly wrapped my arms around her, patting her thin back. Only then did I realize her school shirt was soaked with sweat. She was like a terrified fledgling, every bone in her tiny body trembling. “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s all over now.” I kissed her damp forehead. “Mommy’s here. Don’t be afraid. Mommy will defeat the big, bad monster who bullied my Monica.” 3 After I tucked Monica into bed, I softly closed her door. Staring at the blue glow of my phone screen, my stomach churned. The class parent group chat was buzzing with activity: [Charlie’s Mom]: “Ms. Grant, you are too kind! My little troublemaker came home today showing off his new watercolor set, said it was a prize from you for his progress!” [Jasmine’s Dad]: “What a brilliant teacher! My little Jasmine won’t let go of that Sparkle Kitty charm, she even sleeps with it in her hand. She said Ms. Grant picked it out especially for her! ” [Ethan’s Grandma]: “Ms. Grant is a true saint! My Ethan brought home a box of imported chocolates, a reward for his improvement. The boy has never had anything so fancy in his life! ” [Mason’s Mom]: “Thank you, Ms. Grant, for your dedication! Mason brought back a beautiful set of hardcover storybooks today, his little face was flushed with excitement. This kind of motivation is so effective! His enthusiasm for studying is through the roof! ” Then, a series of messages from [Isabelle Grant (Grade 1, Class 4 Teacher)] appeared. “Seeing the children’s progress is my greatest reward!” “Truthfully, the key to this kind of ‘incentive program’ is to cultivate a spirit of sharing among the children.” “Children today can be so self-centered. I just thought that by letting items circulate, they could learn the joy of giving.” [Charlie’s Mom]: “Ms. Grant, you’re amazing! For this year’s ‘Teacher of the Year’ award, I will definitely get all my relatives to vote for you!” [Jasmine’s Dad]: “You are such an innovative educator! You deserve a national teaching award!” [Ethan’s Grandma]: “When the school board officials come for their review, we parents will absolutely nominate you!” [Mason’s Mom]: “Yes! We should all write a letter of commendation, get the local news to come and report on your progressive methods!” Every new message of praise felt like a poisoned needle, jabbing directly into my nerves. All of those “rewards” that Ms. Grant had so generously “prepared,” the ones the parents were gushing over… they were all Monica’s. I typed out a message. Just as my finger was about to hit ‘send,’ the doorbell rang, sharp and piercing. Through the video intercom, I saw my next-door neighbor, Madeline, standing at the door, her hand clamped firmly on her son Leo’s collar. The moment I opened the door, before I could even speak, Madeline kicked the back of Leo’s knee. He stumbled forward with a thud, landing on the marble floor of my entryway. Madeline shoved a crumpled gift bag into my hands. “Eve, I’m so sorry. I’m here to make this little grifter of mine apologize to you.” Before I could process what was happening, Leo held a pencil case out to me. Inside, neatly arranged, were Monica’s stolen belongings: her Cinnamoroll eraser, her cartoon ruler set, and her favorite rainbow-colored highlighter pen. “Mrs. Miller, I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his face red. “I shouldn’t have forced Monica to trade with me.” Madeline explained, her voice tight with anger. “I was checking his homework tonight and found this ridiculously pink pencil case on his desk. It’s obviously a little girl’s. He had the nerve to say Ms. Grant gave it to him as a prize.” “But one glare from me and the truth came out. What a load of crap! A ‘Progress Prize Swap’? Using another kid’s most treasured things as rewards? What kind of monster is this Ms. Grant?!” 4 I tiptoed back into Monica’s room and retrieved the crumpled plastic bag from her desk. Under the warm, yellow light of the living room, I laid out its contents on the coffee table, one by one. The barrette with the missing rhinestones, the broken pencil, the wrinkled stickers, the grimy shred of an eraser… Each item was a silent, heartbreaking indictment. Madeline’s face went from flushed with anger to pale with shock. “Those… those little monsters… and that woman, that Grant…” She took a deep breath. “Eve, we can’t let this go. I have a contact at the District Superintendent’s office, and I can rally the other parents in the group chat. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll back you up completely.” I stared at the pathetic collection of broken objects on the table. Suddenly, an idea sparked in my mind. “Wednesday is the school’s annual Field Day,” I said, looking up at Madeline, my voice firm. “I’m going to call Monica’s dad and have him invite his colleagues from the ‘Education Watch’ news program to do a special feature.” “I want to ask this Ms. Grant, in front of all the parents of the school—who gave you the right to use students’ personal property as prizes for your ‘program’?!” “Yes! That’s how you handle her!” Madeline raised her hand, about to slam it on the coffee table for emphasis, but then remembered Monica was asleep. She redirected the motion, giving her son Leo a sharp rap on the head instead. “Leo, you keep your mouth shut. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, you’ll have me to answer to!” The boy flinched, rubbing his head and nodding vigorously. “Oh, right.” Madeline leaned in, a waft of her perfume following her. She pressed something small into my hand. “This is the latest model of a button camera. Have Monica clip it into her hair.” Her finger pressed a tiny button, and a faint red light blinked from the center of the strawberry decoration on the hair clip. “It’s high-def. It can capture the words on the blackboard and the mole on Ms. Grant’s face. It also streams live. Perfect for documenting her vile behavior.” I thought of the tear-stained teddy bear still clutched in Monica’s arms. I pushed the clip back toward her. “Before I get justice, I will not let Monica set foot in that classroom again.” Madeline reluctantly took the clip back. Then, her eyes lit up as she turned to her son. “Oh, Leo, your hair is so soft! This would look so cute on you!” Leo instinctively recoiled, his ears turning a bright, fiery red as he frantically covered his short hair with his hands. “I’m a boy!” “I know, I know,” Madeline said with a dismissive wave, still dangling the clip temptingly. “You wore those pink bunny ears for Halloween last year…” “That was different!” Leo shot me a desperate, pleading look, his puppy-dog eyes begging for rescue. “Eve, please~” I couldn’t help but smile, clearing my throat. “Madeline, don’t give the kid such a hard time.” “It’s not a hard time! I’ve always dreamed of having a daughter.” She turned to her son, her gaze suddenly sharp. “Leo, don’t you want to help get justice for Monica?” Leo froze. After a long moment, he took a deep breath and, with the look of a man marching to his doom, took the strawberry hair clip from his mother’s hand. 5 On the morning of Field Day, as I was helping Monica with her uniform, my phone vibrated. “Eve, I am so, so sorry!” The voice of Zhang, the show’s producer, was frantic. “There’s been a massive traffic accident on the New City expressway. The station has reassigned our whole crew to cover it… all our people and equipment are tied up.” “It’s alright. You handle what you need to,” I said, but my mind was racing. What a coincidence. The knot I was tying in her uniform scarf came out crooked. “Mommy?” Monica gently tugged on my sleeve, her small face tilted up to mine. The shadows from her eyelashes were like two tiny, trembling fans. “Are we still going to Field Day?” I took a deep breath and knelt to meet her gaze. “Yes, we are.” “Go ahead and start your warm-ups, sweetheart.” I ruffled her soft hair. “Just like your teacher showed you in dance class, remember?” As I watched her obediently stretch into a graceful, swan-like pose, I hurried to the corner of the hallway and dialed Madeline’s number. “Madeline, the TV crew can’t make it. They said there was a huge accident on the expressway, and all their resources got diverted…” Madeline’s voice on the other end rose in pitch. “What? How could they just—” A sharp, searing pain exploded at the back of my neck. The last thing I saw was a baseball bat swinging through the air. When I woke up, the dull throb in my head was mixed with the thick, cloying smell of rubber. My wrists were bound tightly with a rough jump rope, and a filthy rag was stuffed in my mouth. A thin line of light seeped through the crack of the equipment room’s metal door, and I could faintly hear the announcer’s voice from the sports field. “…and that concludes a successful Field Day! On a special note, we’ve received a joint letter of commendation from 58 parents. Now, let’s give a warm round of applause for Ms. Isabelle Grant, who will come to the podium to share some of her educational insights with us!” Amid the cheers, I heard Isabelle Grant’s voice, artificially soft and sweet, booming through the speakers. “First, I want to thank all the parents for their trust and support… The reason my ‘Progress Prize Swap’ has been so successful is that it dares to break the shackles of traditional education!” I gritted my teeth, scraping my wrists raw against the coarse rope. Just then, the lock on the equipment room door rattled with a heavy thud. “Eve, are you in there?” “Mrs. Miller! Are you okay?” I desperately kicked my heel against a metal rack of sports equipment, making as much noise as I could. The instant the door was finally forced open, blinding sunlight poured in. Madeline stood there, a fire axe held high in her hands, its blade glinting menacingly. Ignoring the raw, bleeding skin on my wrists, I scrambled to my feet and burst out of the equipment room. “…My educational philosophy is to allow valuable resources to flow to where they are most needed…” Isabelle’s speech was reaching its crescendo. “This is what true educational equity looks like!” I pushed my way through the milling crowd. The “Education Watch” camera crew, the one that was supposed to be at an accident scene, was now diligently adjusting the lighting for Isabelle. And my husband, Mark, who was supposed to be out of town on business, was standing at the side of the stage, his gaze fixed on Isabelle with an unmistakable look of tenderness. A firestorm of rage erupted in my chest, my nails digging deep into my palms. But in the next second, a mother’s instinct took over, forcing my eyes away, frantically searching the crowd for Monica. When I finally reached the large tree behind the main stage, the scene before me sent ice through my veins.

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Three years after my boyfriend died in the line of duty, I saw his name on a wedding invitation. He was the groom. The bride was the intern I had personally trained. She clung to his arm, her smile syrupy sweet. “Skye, can you believe it? It’s all thanks to me digging him out of that border-town scrap heap back then. I heard some other woman was clinging to him before, almost got him killed on that mission.” She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Isn’t it fate, Skye? Don’t you think we’re just meant to be?” 1 Chloe prattled on, her voice a buzzing insect in my ear, but I couldn’t process a single word. Three years. Over a thousand days and nights, I had risked my life searching for the man I loved. I never found a body, but here he was, the groom of the rookie I’d mentored. “Skye?” Chloe’s face swam into my vision, her brow furrowed with mock concern. “You’re so pale. Are you feeling alright?” I violently shook her hand off me, my body trembling. I dug my nails into my palm, the sharp pain the only thing keeping the rage from boiling over. For three years, I had put my entire life on the line. I’d dodged bullets on the border, crawled through rainforests teeming with snakes and vipers, and sifted through the dirt of mass graves filled with nameless bodies. Even his own family had given up, but I refused. I held onto a single, desperate creed: I would find him, dead or alive. Aiden. The ace of the Major Crimes Unit. My partner. My love. Three years ago, during a top-secret cross-border operation, the target detonated a chemical plant. The final report was six cold, clinical words: Aiden. Killed in action. Body unrecoverable. I never believed it. And now I knew why. He was alive. And he was marrying Chloe. There he stood at the end of the aisle in a tailored tuxedo, waiting to take my protégée’s hand. “Skye, you have to move on,” Chloe said with a sigh. “It’s all in the past. Look at me, I found Aiden, didn’t I? You need to let go, find a nice guy…” Before she could finish, the dressing room door swung open. Aiden walked in. The air in the room turned to ice. He was still as tall and imposing as I remembered, his suit perfectly fitted. He looked exactly the same as he had three years ago. Except for his eyes. The eyes that once held only me now swept over my face with chilling indifference. He walked straight to Chloe, his hands moving with practiced ease to adjust her veil. Behind him were his groomsmen—our old squad mates. The moment they saw me, their gazes darted away, faces twitching, a silent chorus of oh shit, we are so screwed written all over them. If I’d been clinging to some fragile hope that he had amnesia, the looks on their faces were a brutal slap to the face, shattering that delusion. He hadn’t forgotten. He just… didn’t want me anymore. “Honey,” Chloe cooed, her eyes sparkling up at him. “Tell Mark and the guys not to leave too early tonight. We need to celebrate properly!” She shot me a triumphant little glance. Aiden grunted in agreement, his gaze fixed on Chloe’s face, not sparing me another crumb of attention. It was as if we were complete strangers. A giant, invisible hand clenched around my heart, squeezing until it felt like it would tear apart. I stumbled into the restroom, sliding down the cool, tiled wall, the chill doing nothing to numb the searing pain inside. “Aiden…” A choked sob escaped my lips as the agony crested. “You son of a bitch… how could you?” 2 I could faintly hear Mark’s hushed, urgent voice from outside. “Aiden, are you sure about this? Skye, she…” Aiden’s reply was clipped and cold. “She’s a loose end. A liability. When a mission is over, you make a clean cut. Do I need to teach you that?” “…” The ceremony began. Chloe, “understanding” of my emotional state, had someone else take my place as a bridesmaid. I retreated to the darkest corner of the reception hall, a ghost at the feast. I watched as Aiden knelt on one knee, watched him slide a ring onto Chloe’s finger. A violent impulse surged through me. I wanted to storm up there, to tear this whole sham wedding apart. To scream at Chloe for stealing my life, to grab Aiden by his collar and demand to know where the hell he’d been for three years. To ask them all why they had conspired to make a fool out of me. But I didn’t. I just sat there, frozen in my corner. Then, as the officiant declared, “You may now kiss the bride,” I started to clap. I clapped the loudest, my sharp applause turning heads. I ignored them, my eyes locked on Aiden as his gaze finally found mine. I stretched my lips into a wide, grotesque smile, but tears I couldn’t control streamed down my face, scalding hot. His pupils contracted for a fraction of a second before his expression shuttered again, the brief flicker of emotion buried under a glacier of cold indifference. My nails bit deeper into my palms. I think I’m going insane, I thought. I pulled out my phone and typed him a message. [Aiden, I don’t wish you happiness. I wish you a lifetime of wanting what you can’t have, of love and loss.] The “message sent” notification chimed, and I felt like a complete idiot. His love was right there beside him. What good was my curse? I left before the toasts, before I had to watch them parade their happiness from table to table. If I stayed a second longer, I was afraid I might actually draw my weapon. Over a year ago, the last faint trail leading to him had gone cold in a dusty border town. I’d returned to the safe house that was once ours, a place that still smelled of old gunpowder and shared memories. Staring into a cracked bathroom mirror, I took a knife to my wrist. It was the old beat cop from downstairs who noticed something was wrong and kicked the door in. When I woke up in the hospital, the Chief was holding my hand, his eyes red-rimmed. “Skye, you have to live for him! You have to put away all the bastards he never got to!” Live for him? A world without Aiden was just a suffocating, bitter darkness. We were everything to each other: childhood friends, partners on the force, lovers who had faced death together. We were one step away from getting married—the transfer papers were filed, all we needed was the final approval. Then came the cross-border operation. The world-shattering explosion. I became a madwoman, combing every inch of the borderlands. I interrogated drug runners, squeezed informants, and questioned every living soul near the blast site. They all shook their heads. No one had seen him. And now here he was, back from the dead, in a groom’s tuxedo, with his arms around someone else. 3 I drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep, only to be jolted awake by the frantic buzzing of my phone. Dozens of missed calls, all from Chloe. There was also a voice message from the Chief, his voice weary. “Skye, come back. The unit needs you.” I scrolled down and saw a single, stark message. One word: [Vanish.] I stared at that word for a long time, and then a harsh, broken laugh escaped my lips. All my devotion, all my desperate hope—it was nothing more than a joke to him. My gaze fell to my chest. A rough, hand-carved wooden charm hung there, cracked with age. I never took it off. The night before his final mission, he had climbed through my window, smelling of dew and the night air, and placed it around my neck. “Got it from a chapel, had it blessed,” he’d said, his grin genuine, the tips of his ears bright red. “For protection. Keep it on. Don’t ever take it off.” I found out later the “chapel” was a crumbling ruin on the other side of the border, abandoned for decades. He’d almost gotten himself shot as an illegal border-crosser just for that stupid piece of wood, which was rumored to bind lovers together. My eyes burned. With a single, sharp tug, I ripped the charm from my neck. I walked to the window and threw it into the dumpster below. Aiden, from this day forward, you go your way, and I’ll go mine. After a storm of gut-wrenching sobs, clarity finally broke through. I called the Chief. “Chief, I’m back. Requesting reassignment to active duty.” “You’ve made up your mind?” “Yes. I’ll wrap up my cold cases and be there in seven days. The flight is booked.” That day would be the anniversary of the day we first met. Where it began is where it will end. For the next seven days, I became a hermit. I left the house only to handle my transfer paperwork, seeing no one. My phone was on airplane mode. On the seventh day, a thunderous knock echoed through my apartment. Chloe stood on my doorstep, with Aiden silent and brooding behind her. “Skye!” Chloe lunged for a hug, but I sidestepped her. She didn’t seem to mind. “You scared me to death! You weren’t answering your phone, and no one was home! I thought you’d… you know…” She trailed off, her eyes flicking meaningfully toward my wrist. “I’m fine,” I said, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. “We’re here to get you!” Chloe announced, all bright energy. “It’s your birthday! Did you forget? We’re throwing you a surprise party tonight! And I’m going to introduce you to some of the hot new guys from the precinct! Don’t even think about saying no!” She spoke with an easy, commanding familiarity, as if my compliance was a given. She was so sunny, so warm and full of life. I could see why Aiden would fall for her. My eyes drifted to the man standing behind her. His gaze was glacial, his dark eyes frozen over, looking at me as if I were a complete stranger. As if possessed by some demon, I stepped aside and let them in. This safe house had been requisitioned for two. After Aiden disappeared, I had stubbornly stayed, keeping everything just the way he liked it. Chloe wrinkled her nose dramatically as she entered. “Wow, Skye, your place is… interesting. It looks like a command post. So cold, not a single homey touch.” “Mm,” I replied softly. “My ex liked it this way. When we lived together, I decorated according to his tastes.”

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The First Year The first year after Mike’s affair, I was a wreck. The nights were sleepless, the days filled with a gnawing sense of worthlessness. But I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, agree to a divorce. The Second Year Mike moved out. He said a two-year separation was legal grounds for divorce anyway. That winter, our son, Noah, came down with a vicious stomach flu in the middle of the night. I carried him out into a blizzard, his small body wracked with vomiting as I struggled to find a cab. I was alone, frantic, but somehow, I got us through it. The Third Year Noah wanted to travel for his summer vacation. Mike said he was too busy. So I gathered my courage, and the two of us boarded a plane to Japan. We rode the trains from one city to the next, just exploring as we pleased, lost in our own little world of adventure. The Fourth Year Mike and his mistress broke up. He called, saying he wanted to come back home. I just laughed. “No, thanks,” I told him. “This family is doing just fine without you.” 1 It wasn’t until Mike called to discuss the divorce proceedings that I realized it had been two whole years since he’d left. When I opened the door, the sight of him standing there felt surreal, like a ghost from a past life. He shifted his weight, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Can I come in?” I nodded, stepping aside to let him pass. In the entryway, he bent down, automatically opening the shoe cabinet for a pair of slippers. He froze. Inside, there was only one small pair for Noah. I handed him a pair of disposable shoe covers from a nearby hook. “Use these. I did a big clear-out a while ago. Threw out anything we didn’t need.” “Right,” he grunted, the displeasure evident in his tone. But what did he expect? The day he’d walked out with his suitcase, he had declared, “I’m never coming back.” Once a person is gone, their things are just junk waiting for the trash, aren’t they? A pot of tea I’d just brewed was steeping on the coffee table. Out of a sliver of politeness, I asked, “Want some tea?” He hesitated, and before he could speak, I remembered. “Oh, that’s right. You only drink coffee. I forgot.” I added, “The coffee machine’s long gone, sold it. So you’ll have to make do.” He flinched, a shadow of melancholy crossing his face. “It’s like I never even lived here.” I smiled, a sharp, humorless thing. “This isn’t your home, Mike. You found a new one a long time ago, remember?” 2 Mike and I were college sweethearts. He was gentle, a capable professional, and incredibly caring. Three years into our marriage, Noah was born. As a freelancer, my schedule was flexible enough to balance work and motherhood. With the help of our nanny, life wasn’t overwhelming. Better yet, whenever Mike came home, he’d dive right into household chores and playing with Noah. We were a happy little family of three, wrapped in a bubble of domestic bliss. I truly believed it would last forever. Then, when Noah turned three, things changed. Mike’s parents, who had been living in their old house, got into a bitter dispute with a neurotic neighbor and decided to move. They rented the apartment right next door to us. I wasn’t in a position to object; they weren’t asking to move in with us, after all. They were traditional, hardworking people. Mike’s mother insisted on cooking all our meals, calling us over every evening. His father adored Noah. “Claire,” he’d say with a broad grin, “you’re busy with work during the day. Why don’t you let us look after Noah? We can help.” Before I could even formulate a response, Mike jumped in. “Yes! That’s a great idea. It would give you a break, honey.” I swallowed the refusal that was on the tip of my tongue. I tried to reassure myself. They were educated, kind people. They meant well. And they were just next door; I could pop over to see Noah whenever I wanted. The new arrangement did free me up, giving me more time to take on projects. We had a few minor disagreements over parenting styles, but for the most part, we got along fine. Every evening, Mike and I would have dinner at his parents’, chatting and laughing, before taking Noah home for more playtime. Life was good. I settled into this new rhythm, thinking our happiness was secure. But then, Mike started to change. It began subtly. He developed a passion for fitness, often going out for long runs after dark. “I need to stay in shape,” he’d argue, full of conviction. “Otherwise, I’ll be an old man by the time Noah’s big enough to really play, and I won’t have the energy.” I found it amusing and let him be. Soon, his weekends started disappearing too. “The company’s been organizing a lot of team-building events lately,” he’d explain. “To boost morale.” The time he spent with me and Noah dwindled. But whenever he returned, he’d be buzzing with stories from his “retreats.” “You wouldn’t believe it, Claire. One of my teammates, she’s a real daredevil. Almost fell off a waterfall trying to win a challenge, but I grabbed her just in time.” I didn’t want to be a wet blanket, so I’d listen quietly. Company events were mandatory, I told myself. It wasn’t until I stumbled upon a photo on his phone that I realized the “daredevil” teammate he was so proud of was a woman. And she was his regular partner for his night runs and gym sessions. I gently probed, my words veiled with caution. He just laughed, a booming, dismissive sound. “She’s married, for God’s sake. You’re letting your imagination run wild.” I felt foolish. After all these years, I trusted his character, his upbringing. He loved Noah, and with his parents living right next door, he wouldn’t dare do something so reckless. But I was too naive. And naive people get struck by lightning. When Noah was four, the truth finally hit me. He was cheating. With his female subordinate. And it had been going on for some time. 3 That day was, without a doubt, one of the worst of my life. An impulsive investment in gold futures had backfired spectacularly. A shift in global politics sent the market into a freefall, and in just twenty-four hours, I lost nearly thirty thousand dollars. To make matters worse, my biggest client, a long-term contract I had been counting on, called to apologize. “Sorry, Claire. The new procurement chief is insisting we only sign with large firms.” The double blow shattered me. Mike happened to be away on a business trip, so I was alone. I made an excuse to his parents and didn’t pick up Noah. Night fell. It was nearly eleven, and my stomach was burning with hunger, but the thought of food was nauseating. I curled myself into a tight ball in the dark space beneath my desk, the room lit only by the faint, dreary glow of the streetlamp filtering through the curtains. I gnawed on my knuckles, my mind racing. How could I tell Mike about the money I’d lost out of sheer recklessness? How would I find a new client big enough to replace the one I’d lost? A swarm of ants seemed to be crawling under my skin. Finally, I decided to call him. He had a right to know about my failures. And deep down, I desperately needed his comfort. The phone rang and rang. No answer. I tried again. And again. Nothing. It was strange. At home, he rarely went to bed before midnight. Why wasn’t he picking up? A knot of panic tightened in my chest. What if something had happened to him? My hand trembled as I kept dialing. Five calls. Ten. Still nothing. On the twenty-second try, someone finally picked up. But the voice on the other end wasn’t talking to me. “A divorce isn’t that simple. It’s not like she’s done anything wrong.” My heart gave a violent lurch. It was Mike’s voice. I held my breath, my hand shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone. Was this really happening? Was the man I had shared my life with for years cheating on me? Mike kept talking. “And my parents would never agree. The kid’s so young.” Then, another voice, a woman’s, laced with resentment. “So what about me? I can’t live like this anymore. I’m definitely getting a divorce.” Mike’s voice turned placating. “Don’t rush. Even if we do it, it’s not something that can happen overnight. Hey, why don’t we focus on our trip to the Bahamas? You book a nice hotel, I’ll pay for it.” The Bahamas? I suddenly remembered him mentioning a week-long business trip there. So, it was a romantic getaway with his lover. My heart twisted into a tight, painful knot. I felt like I was dying. I pressed a hand to my chest, gasping for air, forcing myself to keep listening to the intimate whispers between my husband and his mistress. When I heard him say, “I haven’t had feelings for her in a long time. It’s just… a sense of duty,” something inside me snapped. With a choked cry, I slammed the phone down onto the floor. The impact was so hard it sent a few books tumbling from the nearby shelf. The line went dead. I wrapped my arms around myself and sobbed, a raw, gut-wrenching sound that tore through the silent apartment. My mind was a blizzard of white noise. My gaze fell, unfocused, on a picture book lying on the floor. On the cover, the Little Mermaid was dissolving into seafoam under the sun. Just like my life. The beautiful, perfect life I thought I had, had vanished in an instant, bursting like a bubble, leaving nothing but dust and ashes. 4 Mike got home after midnight. I was waiting on the sofa, my eyes swollen and red from crying. I watched him with a cold, hard stare. He must have seen the call log on his phone. A tiny, desperate part of me still hoped he would panic, that he would rush to my side and stammer out an explanation, telling me it was all a terrible misunderstanding. But he just stood there in the doorway, his composure unnervingly intact. “I must have hit the answer button by accident,” he said calmly. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that.” Then, silence. A long, heavy silence that said everything. I was trembling with grief. I swallowed the bitter acid rising in my throat. “Why?” I demanded, my voice shaking. “How could you do this to me? To Noah?” He stared at his feet, refusing to meet my eyes. Still silent. A wave of hysteria washed over me. I lunged at him, my hand connecting with his cheek in a stinging slap. “You’re a monster, Mike.” I ran to our bedroom and yanked out a suitcase. “If that’s your attitude, then there’s nothing left to say. I’m taking Noah to my parents’.” That finally spurred him to action. He moved to block my way. “It’s late. Don’t do this now. It’s not that I don’t want to talk, I just… I haven’t figured out how to tell you.” I looked up at him, my vision blurred by a fresh wave of tears. The truth was, we both knew my threat was an empty one. My parents’ house was not a sanctuary I could run to. My mother’s chronic illness meant she couldn’t handle such a shock. Once, after a fight with Mike, I’d vented to her on the phone, rashly saying, “I can’t take this anymore, I want a divorce.” The next morning, my dad called, his voice tight with anger, telling me my careless words had kept my mom awake all night and landed her in the hospital with heart palpitations. After that, I knew. They were not my safety net. Packing a suitcase was just a desperate attempt to force his hand, to make him show some kind of remorse. But what did I want him to say? What was the next step? I had no idea. My mind was a toxic swirl of resentment and hatred. I kept thinking this had to be a nightmare, that I’d wake up and everything would be as it was. But it wasn’t a nightmare. We slept in separate rooms that night. I tossed and turned, my thoughts a tangled mess, endlessly asking myself why. What did that woman have that I didn’t? What had made Mike forget about his family? And why, even after being caught, did he not even bother to lie to me? I was terrified to realize that exposing the affair didn’t automatically grant me the power to fix everything. His heart had already strayed, and there was no pulling it back. 5 We sat on the sofa, a cavern of silence between us. Mike scrubbed a hand over his face, his expression weary. “I don’t know how it got to this point,” he began, his voice low. “Maybe it’s because after Noah was born, all your attention was on him. Or maybe after my parents moved next door, I felt like someone else was sharing the load, so I just… started looking for ways to escape.” He continued, “With her… it just sort of happened. She moved here from out of state, she has two kids, a small house, lives with her in-laws… she wasn’t happy and started confiding in me. At first, I was just being a supportive boss. But then…” He trailed off, unable to finish. I didn’t want to hear the sordid details. “So what’s your plan now?” I asked, my voice sharp and loud to cover the trembling in my heart. “Divorce me and marry your soulmate from the office?” I was terrified he would say, “Yes, that’s exactly what I want.” In that moment, I was utterly lost. It wasn’t just about the shattered love; it was about the cold, hard reality of my life. I was a freelancer, yes, and my time was my own. But when deadlines loomed, I needed help with Noah. Having my in-laws next door these past few years, I’d forgotten what it was like to rely on a nanny. If we divorced, could I even afford one on my own? They cost a fortune. And what about my biggest client, the one I had just lost? If I couldn’t replace that income, how would I support Noah and myself? Child support? How much would that even be? How would we split the house? And if he married that woman, would he just forget about Noah completely? What if Noah got sick, or needed something for school? Could I handle it all alone? Mike was silent for a long time. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “Before you found out, I hadn’t thought about divorce.” “And now?” I pressed. He remained silent. A sharp pain shot through my head. The sleepless night had triggered a migraine. He noticed my distress, stood up, and went to the kitchen. He came back with a glass of water and a painkiller. “You should get some rest,” he said, handing them to me. “I’m going to check on Noah.” He was running away from my question. He left the apartment quickly. I closed my eyes, a vast, desolate emptiness spreading through me. I had no idea where to go from here. 6 In the days that followed, we both avoided the subject, a silent, mutual pact of evasion. A fire of unspoken rage burned inside me, but I was too afraid to let it out, terrified of a conclusion I wasn’t ready to face. Mike went to work and came home every day, acting as if nothing had happened. He stopped his night runs and weekend “team-building” trips. I continued to work from home, taking on projects and bringing Noah home from my in-laws’ whenever I could. We still had dinner at their place every evening, managing to make small talk about Noah for their sake. But back in our own apartment, we would sit on opposite ends of the sofa, with our son as the silent buffer between us, a world apart. Often, I’d wake up alone in the middle of the night, convinced it had all been a bad dream. But the empty space beside me in the bed was a cold, hard reminder that it was real. I’d lie there, tears silently streaming down my face, until the dawn broke. There is no greater torture than being forced to stand at a crossroads, with no idea which path to take. It seems like you have options, but every road is shrouded in fog and lined with thorns. My in-laws must have sensed the tension. They started taking Noah out on weekends, leaving Mike and me alone in the suffocating silence of our home. He reverted to his old, helpful self, quietly doing chores alongside me. When we were done, I’d brew a pot of tea and put a movie on the projector screen. He would sit on the other end of the sofa, his eyes fixed on the screen, though whether he was watching or just lost in thought, I couldn’t tell. Only the intermittent glow of his phone on the cushion beside him would cause his gaze to flicker. He’d just stare at it, never picking it up. I knew he was torn, caught between his family and the woman on the other end of that phone. And I was in my own agony, hating my weakness, my inability to make a clean break. I was still waiting for a man who had betrayed me to choose me, pathetically hoping life could just rewind to the way it was. But he wouldn’t even give me that.

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We were in the thick of wedding planning, curled up on the couch watching a movie, when I felt Eric’s hand drift toward his pocket. He stopped himself, his fingers hesitating in mid-air before retreating to the coffee table to grab a mint instead. “Giving up smoking?” I asked casually. His fingertips paused on the candy. “You said you hated the smell, didn’t you?” he murmured with a faint smile. I tilted my head, studying him. “I’ve been trying to get you to quit for years. Why the sudden change of heart?” He avoided my gaze, unwrapping the mint with a soft crinkle of paper. “Someone told me… smokers die young.” The crinkling sound seemed to echo in the quiet room. “Who told you that?” I pressed, my eyes fixed on his profile. His movement hitched for a fraction of a second before he let out a relaxed laugh. “Who do you think? A doctor, of course.” 1 On the screen, light and shadow danced across a dramatic scene. Eric popped a mint into my mouth. The intense, cool flavor spread across my tongue, so sharp it made my eyes water. My fingers curled into a fist without me realizing it. The movie’s dialogue dissolved into meaningless noise, my focus entirely gone. The sweet, clean scent of citrus that clung to Eric’s shirt suddenly felt foreign, and I subtly shifted away from him. “Did you change your shower gel?” “Hm?” Eric glanced down at the now-empty space in his arms, his expression carefully neutral. “Just grabbed something random at the supermarket.” “You go to the supermarket by yourself now?” I let out a soft, skeptical laugh, looking him straight in the eye. A flicker of something—was it panic?—crossed his face before he composed himself, shrugging with forced nonchalance. “They opened a new one next to the office. A colleague dragged me along during our lunch break.” It was a seamless excuse, but Eric was never the type to be easily “dragged along.” He wasn’t a people-pleaser. I said nothing more, just snuggled back into his embrace. But the unfamiliar scent wrapping around me was a persistent, unsettling hum beneath the surface of our evening. All the little details I’d brushed aside began to connect, forming a thread that pulled my heart down, heavy as lead. Eric, who despised oranges, had bought calamansi-flavored mints. He’d switched his shower gel to a citrus scent—a fragrance so refined it was definitely not a generic supermarket brand. Later that night, when I used his phone to order takeout, the app’s top recommendation was a restaurant famous for its sweet and sour dishes. Eric hated overly sweet food as much as I did. The glass in my hand trembled, water spilling over my knuckles. The icy chill on my skin did nothing to quell the sharp, rising panic in my chest. Eric was cheating on me. He was cheating on me with a girl who smelled of citrus and loved sweet and sour food. 2 Eric stayed over at my place that night. After we made love, he fell into a deep, soundless sleep. Everything felt the same as always; even the scent on his skin had mingled with mine, becoming familiar again. But I couldn’t sleep. I stared at his phone, face down on the nightstand. It felt like an eternity before I summoned the courage to pick it up. The passcode was still our anniversary. I swiped it open. His call log was filled with work numbers. His most recent texts were in a group chat with colleagues, discussing a project. His photo album, aside from pictures of meeting slides, was full of the cherry blossom photos we’d taken in the park a few weeks ago. I checked his purchase history, his food delivery apps, his travel logs. I scoured every corner of his digital life and found nothing. Not a single crack in his story. I started to wonder if I was just overthinking things, my anxiety amplified by the stress of wedding planning. Then, my heart pounding, I took his car keys and crept downstairs. The car was spotless, the air inside clean and fresh. But the GPS history showed two frequently visited locations: Westwood Medical Center and an unfamiliar residential address. And then I saw it. On the passenger’s side, a faint, smudged footprint was pressed against the inside of the windshield. My mind exploded with fragmented images. They would have pushed the passenger seat all the way back. Maybe he would lean in to bite her earlobe while they were tangled together, just like he’d done with me moments ago… My nails dug into the leather of the driver’s seat, leaving shallow crescents behind—marks as invisible and damning as the footprint on the glass, a silent taunt. My knuckles were white. The scenes playing out in my head made me want to vomit. I had always thought my life was on a perfect, smooth track. For the first time, I understood what it felt like for your heart to turn to ash. 3 When I slipped back into bed, Eric, still asleep, instinctively pulled me into his arms. “Babe…” he murmured. That one word was all it took. Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent. Moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating the framed photo on our nightstand. In it, we were in our high school uniforms. Eric was grinning, his canines showing, his arms wrapped around a map where he’d circled our two hometowns. “Just wait,” he had said. “The straight line between us… it’s only going to get shorter.” I had even planned to surprise him at our wedding by changing from my gown into that same school uniform. I’d imagined the look on his face, his eyes red with emotion. But now… How could this happen? The question echoed in my mind. How could it be him? The boy who had loved me through college, grad school, and ten years of long distance without ever wavering. The man who always tilted the umbrella to cover me in the rain, who set all his passwords to our anniversary, who murmured my name in his sleep. How could he turn around and offer that same tenderness to someone else? For a decade, distance was an invisible thread connecting us. We grew on opposite ends, but our lives were always intertwined. We’d weathered so many storms together. The time I had a 104-degree fever, wrapped in a blanket, sobbing into the phone to him from across the ocean. The time he was mugged abroad and took three stab wounds to protect the ring he’d bought for me, only to brush it off as “just a scratch.” Six months ago, he’d secretly quit his high-paying job overseas and shown up at my office in a tailored suit, holding a bouquet of sunflowers—my favorite flower since high school. “I told you,” he’d said, lifting me up and spinning me around as I leaped into his arms, my dress flying. “The line was bound to get shorter.” We decorated our new home together. We booked the wedding venue. We told every friend from high school, every teacher, that we were finally getting married. So why, when we were just one step from the finish line, did he get lost? In that moment, I realized it wasn’t just the physical betrayal that gutted me. It was that he was changing, becoming “better,” for someone else. For all the years he’d catered to my every whim, the one thing Eric wouldn’t do for me was quit smoking. No matter how many times I pouted or complained about the smell, he’d just laugh and kiss me. “A man needs his vices,” he’d say. I couldn’t accept it. He had finally quit for “me,” but the real reason was another woman, one who probably said, “I don’t want to taste smoke when we kiss.” The feeling was like being stabbed by the person you loved most in the world. Ten years of our lives felt like shattered starlight, glinting with memories that could no longer be pieced together into a picture of love. 4 I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning, I told Eric I had a meeting across town and didn’t need a ride. Then I took a cab to the hospital that kept appearing in his GPS history. A woman’s intuition is a terrifyingly accurate thing. At a quarter to eight, Eric’s car pulled up to the main entrance. The girl who stepped out of the passenger seat had eyes as clear as a stream and a smile that lit up her whole face. As she waved goodbye, even the breeze seemed to carry that sweet, cloying scent of citrus. Back at the office, it took me less than an hour to find her profile on the hospital’s official website. Clementine Horberg. M.D., Resident Physician in the Respiratory Department. It didn’t take much more effort to find her social media. Like many medical professionals, she used it to share public health information. I scrolled down her feed until I found it. A post. She was in her white coat, holding up a pair of lung CT scans—one healthy, one not—clearly listing the dangers of secondhand smoke. At the end, she added a gentle reminder: “For the health of those around you, please avoid smoking in enclosed spaces.” The top comment, pinned for all to see, was from an avatar I knew all too well. The tone was sickeningly intimate. “Got the message loud and clear from Dr. C! All cigarettes have been trashed. Ready for inspection, boss!” It was followed by a little red flag emoji. Compared to the serious, professional tone of her post, his comment felt like the candy he now carried in his pocket: brazenly, unapologetically sweet. And then I remembered where I’d seen her before. Three months ago, Eric’s grandmother had been hospitalized for pneumonia. In the respiratory ward. I’d visited her several times. Clementine had been her attending physician. Eric had spent every day at the hospital back then. My mom had even praised him for it. “You picked a good one, Ava. Eric is such a devoted grandson.” Looking back, it was clear his devotion had been directed elsewhere. Other overlooked details now screamed at me. A few days ago, on his birthday, he’d received a flood of “Happy Birthday” texts from various boba tea chains. He only ever drank black coffee. He got a new, trendier haircut and started working out, claiming it was all to look good for the wedding. I had always believed Eric was the most trustworthy man alive. He let me look at his phone whenever I wanted, always told me where he was going, and his social media was a shrine to me. Our anniversaries were never forgotten. I had become so complacent that when I first felt a flicker of doubt, my immediate reaction was to question my own sanity. When my workday ended, Eric called. He said he was heading to the gym first. I kept my voice light. “What’s with the sudden fitness kick?” There was a slight pause on his end before he chuckled. “Got to stay in shape to keep up with you, right?” I laughed too, a hollow sound. I resisted the childish urge to ask, Keep up with me, or with her? After we hung up, I opened the smart watch app on my phone. He had probably forgotten that when we were long-distance, I’d given him the watch so we could see each other’s heart rates in real time. Right now, for someone who claimed to be “at the gym,” his heart rate was as flat and steady as a calm sea. I sent him a text. “I’m free tomorrow. Want to go get our pre-wedding health check-ups done?” It took him a long time to reply. When he did, the message was cheerful. “Of course, babe.” He even added a cute emoji. The forced pleasantries felt like a layer of plastic wrap, stretched tight over something that was slowly rotting inside. That was enough. I wiped the cold tears from my face. Better to rip off the bandage and face the ugly, broken mess underneath than to slowly suffocate in a lie. 5 The next day, I drove to pick up Eric. He was quiet the whole way, staring blankly out the window. It wasn’t until I pulled into the parking garage of Westwood Medical Center that he snapped out of it. His head whipped around, his brow furrowed. “I thought we were getting our health check-up?” “What’s the difference where we get it done?” I met his gaze. “Didn’t you say the ones at the courthouse are just a formality? A big hospital will be more thorough.” I parked the car. He gripped my hand, his own slick with sweat, and didn’t move. “Ava,” he said, his voice strained. “I just remembered I had breakfast this morning. You’re supposed to fast for the blood tests, right? Maybe we should reschedule? Since we both took the day off, I could take you shopping instead. Or we could go to that new restaurant you wanted to try—” “We’re already here,” I cut him off, letting him hold my hand. I gave him a teasing, playful smile. “Eric, you don’t have some secret illness you’re hiding, do you? You seem awfully nervous.” “Of course not,” he forced a laugh, finally getting out of the car. As we walked toward the main building, Eric was glued to his phone, frantically typing. Seeing the undisguised panic on his face, I almost wanted to tell him that in a hospital this massive, with thousands of employees, the odds of running into one specific person were slim. Unless… I led him all the way to a consultation room before handing him his ID. I smiled brightly at him. “I already registered us.” My smile widened. “And look at that, what a coincidence. Dr. Clementine is on duty today… You remember her, don’t you? From when your grandma was here.” Eric’s gaze locked onto the nameplate on the door: Clementine Horberg, M.D. The color drained from his face. 6 I linked my arm through his and pulled him into the room. Clementine was writing in a patient’s chart. When she looked up, her eyes landed on Eric and froze. A blush immediately crept up her neck, and her eyes started to well up. Eric’s arm tensed under my hand. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her. “Dr. Horberg, hello!” I chirped, my voice warm and friendly. “Long time no see. I hope you remember us?” I continued, not waiting for an answer. “My fiancé’s grandmother was a patient of yours three months ago. You took such wonderful care of her.” Clementine blinked, quickly composing herself. “Of course. It’s my job.” She cleared her throat. “So, what seems to be the problem today?” I rested my hand on Eric’s arm, my smile perfectly serene. “We’re planning to start a family after the wedding, and since he was a smoker for so long, I was a bit worried about all the secondhand smoke I’ve inhaled. We wanted to get a thorough lung check-up.” I paused, letting my words sink in. “I actually saw your health awareness page online. Your advice on quitting smoking was far more effective than my years of nagging, I’ll tell you that.” I brought up the smoking deliberately, watching from the corner of my eye as Eric’s hand, resting on his knee, clenched into a tight fist. His eyes met Clementine’s for a fleeting second before they both looked away as if they’d been burned. Her pen slipped, leaving a dark blot of ink on the chart. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. “Okay. I’ll order a CT scan and some blood work for both of you.” Noticing her red-rimmed eyes, I feigned concern. “Dr. Horberg, are you alright? Your eyes are so red. The flu is going around, you should take care of yourself.” “Ava, let’s not waste the doctor’s time,” Eric cut in, his voice tight. I shot him a playful, scolding look. “What’s wrong with you? I’m just showing some concern. It feels like fate, running into Dr. Horberg like this.” Eric opened his mouth, but no words came out. The air in the room was thick and suffocating. The silent, awkward tension was a net, trapping the three of us inside. And I watched, fascinated, as it slowly tightened. Clementine’s expression was a mixture of sorrow and resentment. “I just didn’t sleep well… You should go get your tests done. Come back for a follow-up once you have the results.” Eric’s face was ashen. He practically dragged me out of the room. I stumbled behind him, a cold, triumphant smile hidden on my lips. 7 The dramatic confrontation I had anticipated never happened. When we returned with our test results, a different doctor was in the consultation room. “Dr. Horberg wasn’t feeling well,” the new doctor explained. “She had to take the rest of the day off.” Eric’s face went white, his anxiety palpable. “See?” I said, feigning innocence. “I told you she looked sick.” He forced a weak smile. “Right. Well, it has nothing to do with us.” He pulled out his phone, his brow furrowed. “Ava, I have to go back to the office for something urgent. I can’t make dinner tonight.” “But you already bought tickets for the premiere tonight,” I pouted. Eric froze. Then, as if he’d made a firm decision, he leaned in and hugged me tightly. “Babe, you head home first. I’ll come pick you up before the movie starts.” Before I could reply, he was gone, flagging down a taxi at the hospital entrance. I didn’t bother following him. I knew exactly where he was going. I drove home alone. I changed into the dress Eric had bought me and spent an entire hour on my makeup, making sure every detail was perfect. Lately, our mutual friends had been acting strange, like they were all in on a secret. My best friend, Chloe, had insisted on dragging me to Tiffany’s “just to look” at engagement rings. At a game night, when it was my turn for “Truth or Dare,” the “truth” question was a ridiculously unsubtle, “Would you prefer a private proposal or one with all your friends?” When I’d casually mentioned a movie I wanted to see, Eric bought tickets for the premiere the very next day, telling me to keep the evening free no matter what. Everyone was buzzing with an anticipation they could barely contain. I wasn’t blind to it. I had a pretty good idea of what Eric was planning for tonight.

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