Category: English

The day I accompanied my brother to look at his new house was the first time I met his fiancée. She was a wealth management elite, fresh off a stint in Europe, or so the family legend went. She looked me up and down, her body physically blocking the doorway of the luxury condo, her face twisting into a mask of pure disdain. “You’re the delivery driver, right? Don’t come in. You’ll track dirt all over my new hardwood.” I froze. The air in my lungs went completely still. My brother, Justin, let out a nervous, scraping laugh and tried to smooth it over. “Wendy’s been living overseas for a long time. She’s just… blunt. Don’t take it to heart, Margot.” I didn’t want to make a scene. I truly didn’t. I turned on my heel, ready to walk away and let them have their moment, but her voice drifted through the open door, laced with a casual, devastating cruelty. “Look at her. She’s built like a twig. If she was actually just delivering food, that would be one thing.” She paused. I could hear the smirk in her voice. “But you have to wonder about the girls who do those late-night deliveries. The ones who bring themselves right to the customer’s door.” “It’s just… dirty.” My footsteps stopped. A quiet, hollow laugh slipped from my throat. I didn’t leave the building. Instead, I turned and walked straight down the hall to the developer’s sales office. “The wire transfer I authorized an hour ago for the down payment,” I told the agent. “Cancel it. I want a full refund.” 1. “Ms. Ellis, are you entirely sure?” The agent looked panicked, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. “If we terminate the contract now, there’s a two percent penalty fee.” He swallowed hard. “That’s… roughly ten thousand dollars.” Hearing the number, I just smiled. “That’s nothing.” “I would rather set that money on fire than let her have a single dime of it.” The agent stared at me, dumbfounded. I didn’t offer another word. I turned and walked out. Just as I rounded the corner into the grand lobby, I spotted Justin and Wendy. Her voice wasn’t a shout, but in the echoing marble foyer, she made absolutely no effort to hide it. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Justin. If you hadn’t shown me how serious you are by putting my name on this deed, I never would have agreed to marry you.” My brother stood there, staring at the floor, mutely adjusting the straps of her designer shopping bags on his shoulder. Seeing him cower, she let out a cold little scoff. “You know the kind of clients I deal with at the bank. High-net-worth individuals. Old money. If we’re being honest, your family background is entirely beneath me.” She paused, and the temperature in her voice dropped. “Especially that sister of yours.” “A grown woman, running around dropping off takeout? God, it’s humiliating just to admit I know her.” Justin didn’t say a word. His silence was the fuel she needed to keep burning. “She’s not going to latch onto me, is she? Because I’m telling you right now, do not expect me to use my network to get her a real job.” “I’m closing a massive portfolio deal next week. It’s my ticket to Managing Director. At a critical time like this, I cannot have your sister dragging down my image.” Justin nodded eagerly, like a dog begging for a treat. “No, no, of course not. I promise, she won’t bother you.” I stood in the shadows of the alcove, perfectly still. My heart was a slow, heavy drum in my chest. Wendy, feeling entirely victorious, kept going. “I’ve seen plenty of girls like your sister when I was abroad. Trust me. Nine times out of ten, that ‘gig work’ she’s doing is a front. These delivery girls…” She laughed. It was an ugly sound. “Who knows what beds they’re crawling into at night—” She looked up. And she saw me. The air in the lobby turned to glass. I looked right back at her, a faint smile playing on my lips. “Why’d you stop? Please, keep going.” “What happens at night?” Justin’s face drained of color. He immediately stepped between us, his voice sharp and defensive. “What kind of attitude is that? Have some respect. Can’t you even say hello to your sister-in-law?” I kept my eyes on him. I didn’t move an inch. Wendy recovered quickly. The viciousness vanished from her face, replaced instantly by the polished, condescending mask of a concerned relative. “Don’t be mad at me for being blunt, Margot. I’m only saying this for your own good.” “If you weren’t Justin’s sister, I wouldn’t waste my breath.” She sighed softly, playing the martyr. “Look, I know you didn’t finish your graduate degree. I know you’re desperate for cash. I get it. You don’t have the kind of professional pedigree I do.” “But a woman has to have boundaries. Selling your body is going to ruin this family’s reputation.” I let out a harsh bark of laughter. I opened my mouth to tear her apart, but Justin grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. “Enough, Margot. Wendy is treating you like family. She’s bearing her soul to give you advice.” “Don’t be a brat.” I looked down at his hand on my arm. A sudden, overwhelming sense of absurdity washed over me. I didn’t know if Wendy was bearing her soul. But I did know that my wonderful, perfect older brother had absolutely no heart at all. 2. Seeing Justin take her side, Wendy puffed up with renewed confidence. “Whatever. I understand. A multi-million dollar condo is something most people will only ever look at from the sidewalk. It’s natural for you to be jealous.” “This place is going to be in my name. I can’t wait to start decorating…” Right at that moment, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. A notification lit up the screen. “Dear Ms. Ellis, your real estate deposit refund has been processed. Total amount credited: $4,900,000.” I swiped the notification away, locked the screen, and slipped the phone back into my pocket. “Alright,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “Enjoy the new house, you two. I hope the move-in goes smoothly.” I turned and walked out the glass doors. That evening, I had barely stepped out of the shower when my phone rang. It was my mother. “Get over here right now!” she shrieked. The moment I unlocked the door to my mother’s house, before I could even take my shoes off, she lunged at me, digging her nails into my forearm. “Wendy loves the condo! Go back to the developer right now and wire that money!” Before I could process the demand, Justin stood up from the sofa, his face dark with anger. “What the hell was your problem at the sales office today?” “It was your first time meeting Wendy, and you intentionally try to humiliate her?” I stared at him, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. “I humiliated her? She looked me in the eye and called me a whore, Justin. Did you conveniently go deaf?” He scowled, waving a hand dismissively. “She lived in Europe for years! They’re direct over there. Stop being so dramatic!” “Besides, so what if she gave you a little tough love? She meant well!” I felt a cold smile stretch across my face. “I’m being dramatic?” “Fine.” I locked eyes with him. “Since she loves the condo so much, you guys can buy it yourselves. Why are you asking me for the money?” Justin’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. My mother’s face hardened into the familiar, terrifying mask of disappointment. “How dare you speak to your brother that way?” “Justin is the man of this house! He is the foundation of this family! Is it going to kill you to defer to him for once?” A laugh clawed its way up my throat. “Why is he always right?” “Why am I always the one who has to bleed for him?” My mother’s voice turned to ice. “Because a family needs a man to hold it up!” “What good is relying on a girl? You’ll just leave us anyway.” I looked at her. I didn’t say a word. It was a script I knew by heart. I had heard those words for years. When my dad was dying, they said the family needed a caretaker. They forced me to drop out of college. Later, I clawed my way back, finishing my undergrad purely on merit scholarships, working until my bones ached. Then my dad passed. I was accepted into a fully-funded Master’s program in the UK. I thought I had finally made it. I thought the nightmare was over. But I didn’t go. Because they went into my bank account, drained the four years of savings I had bled for, and used it to bribe recruiters and buy expensive networking club memberships to secure Justin—the golden boy—a cushy corporate job. When I found out and screamed at them, my mother said the exact same thing she was saying now. What’s the point of a girl reading so many books? A family relies on its men. They broke my wings, forcing me to abandon my education and plunge into the workforce just to survive. I stood in the hallway, looking at the two of them. I opened my mouth to fight, to scream, to demand justice. But the fire went out. It was just exhausting. I nodded slowly. “I have to go back to work.” I turned to leave. Justin chased me to the doorway. “Look at your goddamn attitude! You make a few bucks and suddenly you think you’re better than us?” “Running around all night—God only knows what shady things you’re actually doing!” 3. Early the next morning, having pulled an all-nighter, I had barely fallen asleep in my own apartment when my bedroom door was shoved open. My mother stood in the doorway, her face stormy. Justin and Wendy were right behind her. Wendy’s eyes immediately darted to a jacket hanging on the back of my chair. “I knew it. I wasn’t seeing things.” “That was her last night.” I pushed myself up on my elbows, my head throbbing, squinting at them. “Excuse me? Do you not know how to knock? How did you even get in here?” Wendy let out a derisive snort. “Your apartment. Right. Sounds so independent. We all know a man pays for this.” Justin stepped forward and threw his phone onto my duvet. “Is this you?” The screen was lit up. It was a blurry, zoomed-in photo taken in a dimly lit, high-end restaurant. Crystal wine glasses, dark wood. I was sitting in the center of a table, surrounded by a group of older men. I opened my mouth to speak, but my mother beat me to it, her face pale with horror. “Is that you?” I nodded slowly. “Yes, but that was last night at—” Wendy cut me off, her voice triumphant. “I told you! I told you both, and you didn’t believe me! Margot Ellis, you are a disgrace to the concept of the modern, independent woman.” I just stared at her, genuinely disoriented. “I was there for work.” Wendy sneered. “Oh, right. You were there to…” She leaned in, her eyes gleaming with malice, and over-enunciated the word. “…work.” I was so angry I actually laughed. “Are you implying that anyone who goes to a fine dining restaurant is doing sex work?” “Because you were clearly there too. So what does that make you?” Justin stepped in, vibrating with irritation. “How dare you compare yourself to Wendy? She has a European pedigree. She’s a wealth manager. It’s completely normal for her to entertain clients at places like that.” “But you?” I looked at him. I really looked at him. And the laughter bubbled out of me again, quiet and sharp. “You’re right. I could have had a European pedigree, too.” “Care to remind everyone why I didn’t get to go?” My mother slammed her hand against the doorframe. “Enough! How many times do I have to say it? Why does a girl need a fancy degree?” I stared her down. “Then why did Justin insist on marrying a woman who has one?” My mother’s expression darkened. “That is entirely different. Justin is marrying a woman to bring prestige into this family.” “You are eventually going to be married off. You are an outsider.” The room went dead silent. I didn’t say anything else. There was a physical weight on my chest, pressing down so hard I could barely breathe. Seeing my face shut down, my mother softened her tone, adopting a manipulative cadence. “Look, whatever you’re doing, just go to the developer today and transfer the money for the condo.” “Don’t drag your brother down when he needs you most.” I didn’t answer. They took my silence as submission, turning and filing out of my apartment. As the front door clicked shut, I could hear the faint murmur of my neighbors in the hallway. My mother had left the door open just long enough. “I had no idea Ms. Ellis was in that kind of business…” “It has to be true. Her own family just said it…” I sat alone on the edge of my bed. Slowly, my hands uncurled from the fists they had formed. I fell backward onto the mattress. The ceiling was perfectly, blankly white. My mind was a chaotic storm. For so many years, I had bled myself dry, working to the bone to prove my worth to this family. To prove I belonged. And all it bought me was one word. Outsider. 4. I turned off my phone, packed a duffel bag, and drove up the coast for two days. I needed to breathe. I needed to stop caring. A few days later, the moment I walked back into the city and switched my phone on, my mother called. I braced myself for a screaming match, but to my surprise, her voice was sickeningly sweet. “You’re back. Come to dinner. We’re celebrating.” Against my better judgment, a lingering, pathetic sliver of hope made me go. When I pushed open the door to the private dining room at the restaurant, my mother beamed. “There she is. We were just waiting for you.” Justin offered a strained, awkward smile. “Look, I was out of line the other day. I apologize. We’re family. We air things out, and we move on.” Wendy chimed in, flashing a practiced, glossy smile. “Don’t be mad at me, Margot. You know I’m just too honest for my own good. Water under the bridge, right?” I sat down, watching their terrible community theater performance with a blank expression. I didn’t say a word. People who want nothing don’t act this nice. Sure enough, before the appetizers even hit the table, Justin couldn’t hold it in anymore. “So, Margot, about the house situation…” I put my water glass down. The clink was loud in the quiet room. “I don’t have the money.” Justin’s face tightened, but he forced the smile back onto his lips. “I know you’re still upset. It’s fine. We actually thought about it.” He paused, clearing his throat. “We don’t need the new condo.” “We’ll just take your apartment.” I stared at him. For a second, I genuinely thought I had misheard him. “Excuse me?” He spoke with the casual entitlement of a prince demanding a peasant’s harvest. “We talked it over. Your place is huge. It’s a complete waste of space for a single woman.” “Just transfer the deed to us, and we’ll use it as our marital home.” I let out a slow, dark chuckle. “And where exactly do I go?” My mother jumped in, completely unfazed. “You can just rent a studio somewhere! It’s not a big deal.” “It’s not like you have a real career tying you to that neighborhood.” I laughed out loud. I couldn’t stop. Justin’s face instantly turned thunderous. “If you consider us family, you won’t make this difficult for us.” I leaned back in my chair, the laughter dying in my throat, replaced by a glacial calm. “Absolutely not.” Wendy, having suppressed her true nature for an agonizing ten minutes, finally snapped. “Forget it, Justin! I wouldn’t live in that apartment anyway. God knows what kind of filth has been in it!” I nodded agreeably. “You’re right. You shouldn’t live in my apartment.” “You’re a strong, independent woman with a European pedigree, aren’t you? Buy your own.” Her face froze. The next second, her gaze snapped toward the hallway outside the open door of the private room. Her eyes lit up like floodlights. “Oh my god, what timing. That’s the Managing Director of my bank branch.” She turned back to Justin, vibrating with excitement. “He told me he’s introducing me to a massive new client today.” “Once I close this portfolio, we can buy whatever house we want.” Justin practically puffed out his chest. “Exactly. That’s my girl. She’s got real talent.” “That European education really pays off. Even the Director worships her.” My mother piled on, shooting me a look of deep disgust. “Look at you. You have no idea how to navigate the world. When your brother and Wendy are wealthy and successful, you’re going to come crawling back.” Wendy tossed her hair, looking at me with pure venom. “Well, some of us actually have to rely on talent.” “Unlike others.” I didn’t say anything. At that exact moment, the Managing Director stepped into the private room. Wendy shot up from her chair, her face contorting into an eager, sycophantic grin. “Director! It’s so—” The man didn’t even look at her. He walked right past her extended hand and stopped dead in front of my chair. “Ms. Ellis!” His voice was breathless with respect. “That massive corporate deposit we discussed last week—do you have an idea of when you might want to finalize the paperwork?”

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The heavy thud of the car door was still echoing in my ears when the ride-share driver floored it. I hadn’t even reached the trunk for my suitcase before his taillights were shrinking into the distance. Panic flared in my chest. I fumbled for my phone and hit the call button immediately, offering to pay him extra just to turn around and bring my bag back. I expected a simple “on my way.” Instead, I got a cold, calculated silence, followed by a demand that made my blood run cold. “A thousand bucks,” he said. No hesitation. No shame. I scoffed, my voice rising in disbelief. “Are you joking? I’m not paying a thousand dollars for a three-mile return trip.” “Suit yourself,” he replied with a dry, jagged chuckle. “It’s not my life in this suitcase, is it? You’re the one in a rush. Not me.” The realization hit me like a physical blow. He knew he had me. I looked at my colleague, who was staring at me with wide, terrified eyes. We had a career-defining presentation tomorrow—files, hard drives, and sensitive documents were all in that trunk. I gritted my teeth and forced the words out. “Fine. A thousand. Just get back here.” He didn’t even drive a hundred yards before his voice crackled over the speaker again, dripping with newfound greed. “Actually, I changed my mind. It’s ten thousand now.” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My throat felt like it was closing up. Sensing my hesitation, his tone shifted from smug to predatory. “What, no cash? Fine. Don’t believe me? I’ll find the nearest dumpster and toss this thing right now. You can go treasure hunting for your precious files yourself.” Ten thousand dollars. It was a ransom. But the thought of losing those documents—of failing the vetting process we were here to conduct—left me no choice. “Fine,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “Ten thousand. I’ll pay.” Five minutes passed. The phone buzzed again. “You know what? I’m thinking twenty thousand sounds more like a fair convenience fee.” Rage, hot and blinding, surged through me. My thumb hovered over the ride-share app, ready to hit the report button and call the police. But then, I caught a glimpse of his profile picture in the corner of the screen. I froze. Slowly, a different kind of smile spread across my face. It wasn’t one of joy, but of a cold, sharp irony. “Go ahead, Ray,” I whispered to the silent screen. “Take every cent. You’re going to regret this more than you can possibly imagine.” 1 “Twenty thousand?” I repeated the number, my fingers tightening around the phone until my knuckles turned white. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The driver, a man named Ray Garrity, didn’t miss a beat. His voice boomed through the receiver, devoid of any empathy. “I don’t play games, lady. Hurry up.” “Either you wire twenty thousand to my account right now, or I’m dumping this suitcase in the trash. Your call.” The sheer audacity of it was staggering. I navigated to the app’s ‘Help’ interface, my finger trembling over the ‘Report Driver’ button. He must have sensed the shift in the silence because he let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Listen to me carefully,” Ray warned. “Don’t even think about reporting me. The second I get a notification from the app, your suitcase hits the bottom of a grease-filled dumpster. Try me.” I froze. The threat hung in the air, thick and suffocating. My finger hovered, paralyzed, before I slowly backed out of the screen. Macy, my junior associate, grabbed my arm. Her voice was high and thin with panic. “Joanna, what are we going to do? Those files… if they’re lost, we’re finished. We can’t show up at the District Office tomorrow empty-handed.” She leaned toward the phone, her voice pleading. “Please, sir. Those documents are incredibly important. Can’t you have a heart? We’ll give you a five-star rating, a huge tip, anything—just bring it back?” Clearly, to a man like Ray, a five-star review was a joke compared to a twenty-thousand-dollar payday. “Five stars?” he spat. “What do I look like, a charity? I’m not some kid working for pocket change.” Then came the ultimatum. “Two minutes. That’s all you get to decide. Send the money, or say goodbye to your gear. I don’t have all night to waste on you.” Click. The line went dead. Macy’s eyes were rimmed with red, her face pale. “Joanna, what do we do? We can’t actually give him twenty thousand dollars, can we?” A dull ache started behind my eyes. I hesitated for only a second before the phone vibrated again. Ray was whistling a cheerful, jaunty tune on the other end. “Time’s up. You paying, or am I dumping?” 2 I stood there for a long moment, the cool night air biting at my skin. Tomorrow’s mission was too important to jeopardize. Twenty thousand dollars was a fortune, but the cost of failure was higher. “Fine,” I said, my voice sounding like gravel. “We’ll pay. Bring the suitcase back. Now.” He chuckled, a sound like sandpaper on wood. “Good girl. I’m on my way.” Macy and I shared a look of guarded relief. But that relief lasted exactly two minutes. The phone rang again, and Ray’s voice had lost its jovial edge, replaced by a calculating, slimy tone. “Actually… I was just thinking. Twenty thousand is a bit low for the risk I’m taking. Let’s make it twenty-five. Add another five grand and I’ll put the car in gear.” The anger I had been trying to suppress exploded. I gritted my teeth, my voice a low, dangerous hiss. “Ray Garrity! Don’t push your luck! We agreed on twenty. What is wrong with you?” He didn’t care. He was a bottom-feeder who had found a gold mine. “Think fast,” he urged, sounding like a bored telemarketer. “I’ve got other passengers waiting. Every minute you stall is money out of my pocket.” “If you keep wasting my time, the price is only going to go up. Do the math, lady. It’s cheaper to just pay me now.” I was shaking, my body vibrating with a cocktail of fury and helplessness. This man wasn’t just a thief; he was a vulture. If I gave him the extra five thousand now, what was to stop him from asking for ten more when he was a block away? I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to remain steady. “No. Absolutely not. If you don’t turn around right now, I’m calling the police.” Ray let out a derisive snort, completely unimpressed. “The cops? Go ahead. Call ’em. My daughter is a high-ranking official in the city. You think some beat cop is going to touch me? One word from her and any report you file disappears.” “Sounds to me like you don’t really want that suitcase,” he added, his voice dripping with arrogance. He knew he had us over a barrel. He knew those files were our leverage, and he was using them to squeeze us dry. I opened my mouth to negotiate, but he cut me off. “Tell you what. I’m done haggling. One price. Fifty thousand dollars. Total. You agree, and I’ll drive straight to you. You say no, and I handle this suitcase my way. Let’s stop wasting each other’s time.” Fifty thousand. Macy gasped, her hand over her mouth. We were both trembling now. “Fifty thousand? You’re insane!” I shouted. “Maybe,” he replied breezily. “But you were willing to pay twenty. Fifty shouldn’t be that much of a stretch for someone with your… credentials. I’ll give you five minutes to pull the funds together. Call me back when you’re ready to be serious.” Beep. The silence that followed was heavy. I rubbed my temples, feeling the pulse thrumming in my veins. Macy looked at me, her voice breaking. “Joanna, what are we going to do? The department will never reimburse fifty thousand dollars. We’ll be paying this out of our own pockets. I’ve only been on the job a year—I don’t have that kind of money.” Before I could answer, my phone buzzed. It was a photo from Ray. 3 The image was grainy but clear. Our suitcase was sitting precariously on the edge of a filthy, overflowing commercial dumpster. There were scuff marks on the leather—footprints—and a dusting of cigarette ash. It was a visual hostage note. I looked at the clock. Three minutes left. I took a long, shaky breath and looked at Macy. The time for panic was over; the time for strategy had begun. “Macy, call 911. Now.” Macy blinked, her face a mask of confusion. “But… didn’t he say his daughter was—?” “I don’t care what he said!” I interrupted, my voice sharp. “Call them. Now. Give them our location and tell them it’s an active extortion. Just do it.” With trembling fingers, Macy dialed. She spoke in a hushed, frantic whisper, relaying the details to the dispatcher. When she hung up, her eyes were still wide with fear. “They’re sending a cruiser, but Joanna… if he finds out, he’ll destroy everything.” “He won’t find out,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure. “We just need to keep him on the hook.” Exactly five minutes after he hung up, Ray called back. He was punctual, I’ll give him that. “Well? You got my fifty grand?” he demanded. “My patience is wearing thin. If you don’t want the bag, I’m taking it to a scrap yard. Maybe I can get twenty bucks for the electronics inside.” Then came a video. The suitcase was dangling over the dumpster, swaying slightly. My heart plummeted. “Stop! Fine!” I yelled into the phone. “You want the fifty thousand? You’ve got it!” I could hear the smirk in his voice. “See? Was that so hard? Why do people always have to make things difficult? I’ll text you my account info. Wire the money, and the bag stays safe.” “No,” I countered, trying to sound desperate but firm. “I’m not wiring a cent until I see the bag. You bring it here, we do the exchange in person. Cash or wire, but only when it’s in my hands.” The line went silent for a beat. Ray let out a cold snort. “And what if you change your mind once I’m there? I’m the one with the leverage here, lady. You don’t get to set the terms.” “But,” he continued, his tone shifting to a mock-conciliatory drawl, “I’m a man of my word. Tell you what. Send half now as a deposit. Twenty-five thousand. Once I get the confirmation, I’ll head your way. You pay the rest when I drop off the bag.” “I’m only three miles away,” he added. “I can be there in ten minutes. I promise, I won’t flake on you.” We were running out of time. The police weren’t here yet, and the files were too precious to lose. “Fine,” I rasped. “I’ll send the twenty-five. Just get here.” I initiated the transfer. It felt like tearing off a limb, watching that amount leave my account. “It’s sent,” I said two minutes later. “Got it,” Ray said, sounding genuinely delighted. “I’m on my way, sweetheart. Don’t go anywhere.” I hung up and prayed—prayed he wouldn’t vanish, and prayed the police would be faster than he was. 4 The minutes dragged by like hours. Macy was pacing a tight circle on the sidewalk, her anxiety radiating off her in waves. “Joanna, twenty-five thousand dollars… that’s so much money,” she whispered. “Are we really going to have to pay the rest? I can’t afford my half. I’m still paying off student loans. The department is going to kill us.” She was spiraling, her voice thick with resentment and fear. I couldn’t blame her, but I didn’t have the energy to coddle her. “Just stay calm,” I said, trying to keep my own voice from shaking. “The police are coming. We just have to get the bag back first. We minimize the damage, okay?” Macy nodded weakly, but she didn’t look convinced. We stood there in the deepening shadows, the streetlights flickering to life as the sun dipped below the horizon. The street was quiet, eerily so. “He’s not coming, is he?” Macy asked, her voice small. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Instead, I pulled up Ray’s profile on the app again. I stared at his face—the weathered skin, the arrogant tilt of his head. And then, something caught my eye. A detail in the background of his profile picture. My breath hitched. Before I could process the thought, a pair of headlights cut through the darkness. A white sedan pulled smoothly to the curb in front of us. The license plate matched. It was him. Ray rolled down the window, a smug, greasy grin plastered across his face. “Sorry for the wait, ladies. All that haggling made me hungry. Had to stop for a quick bite. But hey, I’m here now. Drop the other twenty-five into my account, and I’ll hand over the goods.” I stared at him, my eyes narrowing as I committed every detail of his face to memory. I didn’t say a word. Macy, however, was trembling with rage. She stepped forward, her mouth opening to scream at him, but as she got a clear look at Ray’s face, she froze. A gasp escaped her lips. Ray didn’t notice. He was too busy checking his phone. “Well? What’s the holdup? You having second thoughts? Because I can still leave. The dumpster is still waiting.” I looked past him. A block away, I saw the faint, blue flicker of a police cruiser’s lights, though they hadn’t turned on the siren yet. Ray saw my eyes shift. He looked in the rearview mirror, and his expression transformed instantly from smugness to pure, unadulterated terror. “What the—? You called the cops? You stupid—!” He scrambled to start the ignition, his hands fumbling with the keys. Even in his panic, the greed didn’t leave him. “Give me the money! Give it to me now and I’ll throw the bag out!” The cruiser roared closer, sirens finally wailing. Ray realized he was out of time. He didn’t wait for the money. He grabbed the suitcase from the backseat and shoved it out the passenger door, the heavy bag thudding onto the pavement. Then, he slammed the car into gear and floored it. But the bag wasn’t latched properly. When it hit the ground, the zippers gave way. Documents, folders, and files exploded across the asphalt like a burst of confetti. Ray looked back for a split second, his eyes catching on a specific sheet of paper that had landed face-up under the streetlamp. He slammed on the brakes, his car skidding to a halt as he stared at the document in sheer, paralyzed shock.

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When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day that cleaved my life in two. It was our Ruby Anniversary—forty years of marriage. And yet, Richard slid a divorce agreement across the dining table, the paperwork stark white against the marble table. He told me the one that got away had returned. He said the great regret of his youth could no longer go unresolved. In my past life, I had refused to believe it. I had screamed, shattered glasses, and even held a blade to my own throat, threatening to end my life if he left. Because of my hysterics, his long-lost first love finally gave up and married someone else. Richard, utterly consumed by grief, stepped off a second-story balcony. He didn’t die, but the fall shattered his legs. I forgave the cruelty. I swallowed the humiliation. I spent the next eighteen years quietly, meticulously caring for a bitter, disabled man. Yet, on his deathbed, he gripped my wrist with bony, trembling fingers, his eyes blazing with a lifetime of resentment. He told me he hated me. He cursed me for ruining his one true epic romance. Even our children believed I was the villain who had slowly killed their father’s spirit. Once he was gone, they shipped me off to a moldering, abandoned family cabin upstate, leaving me to rot in isolation. I died there, utterly alone, during a brutal August heatwave. It took days for the neighbors to notice the smell. Forty years of devotion, of bending myself until I broke, and that was the ending I earned. 1 Richard, a man who had never once cared for sentimentality, suddenly demanded we celebrate our fortieth anniversary. He insisted I cook an elaborate feast and summon the children home. Our daughter, Nicola, arrived first. She walked through the front door, tossed her designer clutch onto the sofa, and collapsed beside it with an exhausted sigh. “Mom, is this really necessary?” she groaned. “At your age, putting on this whole dog-and-pony show? It’s a waste of everyone’s weekend.” “It was your father’s idea,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “He’s the one who asked you both to come.” Nicola rolled her eyes, clearly not buying a word of it. “Please. Stop using Dad as your shield. Since when does he remember things like anniversaries?” I didn’t answer. I just quietly set the chilled appetizers on the table. Our son, Jason, walked in right as dinner was ready. The moment he saw me, he sighed. “Mom, look, Nicola and I are busy people. You can’t just guilt-trip us into coming over for every little milestone.” “Exactly. It’s so dramatic,” Nicola chimed in, picking at her nails. “Honestly, I don’t know how Dad has put up with it for so long.” I opened my mouth, the instinct to defend myself rising in my throat, but I forced it back down. My daughter found me annoying. My son found me burdensome. It was exactly how they had treated me in my past life. Death had changed nothing. The front door clicked open. Richard walked in, holding a manila folder. There was a strange, tight energy radiating from him. Jason didn’t notice the tension. He immediately lit up and jogged over to his father. “Dad! That contact you gave me at the firm worked miracles. I’m getting the promotion,” Jason beamed, guiding Richard toward the armchair. “Sit down, look what I got you.” Jason pulled out a stunning, vintage crystal decanter set with a rare bottle of scotch. A gift that easily cost a few thousand dollars. Nicola immediately bounced up, pulling a navy cashmere jacket from a high-end boutique bag. “Dad, the mornings are getting cold. You need to dress warmer. I swear,” she shot a pointed look at me, “I don’t know what Mom is thinking half the time. She obsesses over this useless ceremonial stuff but completely neglects actually taking care of you.” I stood by the dining table, watching my children crowd around their father. In that quiet, breathing space of the room, a heavy truth settled over me. To them, I was nothing more than an unpaid maid. A fixture in the house with no inherent value, regardless of how much of my own soul I had poured into the foundation of this family. Richard was the sun they orbited. I was just the gravity holding the house together, invisible and unappreciated. Richard took a deep breath and gently set the expensive gifts aside. He looked at me, a grave, heavy stare, and then turned to our children. “I’m the one who asked you here today,” he said. Both Nicola and Jason froze, exchanging bewildered looks. “There is something very important I need to say.” Richard unclasped the manila folder. He turned his back on the kids and walked toward me. “I’ve thought about this for a long time.” He placed the documents on the table, right next to the roast I had spent hours preparing. “Alice, I want a divorce.” The words hung in the air. “Carol came to see me,” he continued, his voice softening just a fraction at her name. “You know how it is. We missed our chance when we were young. I don’t want to lose her again…” Carol. His high school sweetheart. The same woman who had ruthlessly dumped him when he was a nobody. The woman he wept over while I picked up the pieces. I was the one who stood by him through the darkest, lowest valleys of his life. But four decades of a living, breathing marriage couldn’t compete with the phantom of a first love. In my previous life, it played out exactly like this. The bombshell dropped right as I was about to pour the champagne. Back then, I refused to sign. I couldn’t comprehend how a man could be so cold. I sobbed. I screamed. I grabbed the carving knife from the counter and pressed it against my throat. “If you walk out that door, I will end it right here!” I had shrieked. And Nicola had scoffed, “Mom, what century are you living in? Stop being so toxic. Dad is getting older, he wants to be happy! Why can’t you just let him go?” Jason hadn’t spoken, but his silence was a roaring endorsement of his father. I hadn’t listened to anyone. “Richard! As long as I am breathing, you are a married man. You want out? You’ll have to be a widower!” The blade had bitten into my skin, drawing a thin line of blood. It terrified Richard enough to back down. We stayed married. But the anniversary was permanently ruined. When Carol realized he wasn’t leaving, she swiftly married a wealthy, retired executive. Richard lost his mind. He stopped eating. He locked himself in his study, staring at her old photographs in the dark. And then, one humid night, he stepped off the balcony. He didn’t die, but his legs shattered. A comminuted fracture that required multiple surgeries. Carol never visited him once. Not even a phone call. It was me. I slept on a hard plastic chair in his hospital room for three months. I emptied his bedpans. I bathed him with a sponge. I spoon-fed him. I pushed his wheelchair to physical therapy, never missing a single day. I massaged his atrophied muscles. I soaked his feet. For eighteen agonizing years. And yet, as he took his dying breath, he looked at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. At his funeral, Nicola turned her red, tear-streaked face to me and hissed, “Mom, this is all your fault! You ruined his life. If you hadn’t trapped him with that knife, he never would have jumped!” Jason didn’t yell. But the look of absolute disgust in his eyes hurt worse than any insult. Finally, he whispered, “I hate you for what you did to him, Mom.” Three days after the burial, they packed my bags and dumped me at the dilapidated cabin. Out of sight, out of mind. The suffocating memory of dying in that sweltering, airless room washed over me, heavy and foul. It took me a long moment to fully open my eyes and ground myself in the present. I looked down at the bold letters on the paper: MARITAL SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT. My heart, which had once felt like it was being ripped through my ribs, was entirely still. I picked up the paperwork. I reached for the silver pen lying by the good china. Before any of them could process what was happening, I signed my name on the dotted line. I slid it back across the table. “Alright. I release you. I wish you both the best.” Richard flinched. He stared at the signature, utterly stunned. “You… you agree?” 2 I ignored the flicker of something complicated—maybe guilt, maybe disbelief—in Richard’s eyes. I simply pressed the folder into his chest. Nicola gasped, her eyes lighting up. “Oh my god, Mom! You’re finally being reasonable! You should have done this ages ago!” Jason let out a bark of relieved laughter. “Seriously. If you had just been this chill from the start, Dad wouldn’t have had to carry this around for so long.” Richard finally exhaled, a profound look of relief washing over his aging face. “Dad, since Mom’s on board,” Nicola said, linking her arm through his, “why don’t we just have Carol move in right away? I mean, she’s practically family now.” “Yeah, absolutely,” Jason chimed in eagerly. “It’s a crime leaving her all alone in that hotel.” I stood there, listening to the children I had carried in my body, the children I had sacrificed my youth to raise. They already knew. They had known about their father’s affair with Carol for a long time. They had actively helped him hide it from me. “This house,” I began, my voice slicing through their celebration like a cold blade, “was purchased using my money for the down payment. Until my name is off the deed and I have packed my bags, she does not step foot inside.” Nicola’s face hardened. “Mom, what is your problem?” I didn’t even look at her. I turned directly to Richard. “Since we have a mandatory waiting period, we should get the lawyers to draft the asset division immediately.” The living room plunged into dead silence. Nicola exploded first. “Mom! What are you talking about? You’ve been married your whole lives, and you’re going to penny-pinch him now?” Jason quickly backed her up. “Yeah, exactly! It’s not like the money won’t eventually come to me and Nico anyway. Why do you need to be so petty and calculate every cent?” I looked right past them. “Richard, the seed money you used to start your firm came from my trust fund. From my family.” “I want my share back.” Richard’s jaw tightened. His lips pressed into a thin, pale line. “Mom, you’re a senior citizen! What do you even need that much money for?” Nicola demanded, her voice rising in panic. “And you haven’t spoken to your family in decades! Why are you bringing them up now?” It was true. When my wealthy, old-money parents found out I was draining my accounts to fund Richard’s startup, they drew a hard line. They warned me he was a leech. They told me to break it off, or they would cut me out. Drunk on the illusion of true love, I chose Richard. I walked away from my family. Looking at him now, I realized my parents had been entirely right. Jason practically threw himself between me and his father, terrified I was about to drain his inheritance. He started begging Richard not to listen to me. I looked at my son and let out a soft, dry laugh. “Jason. You bought an eighty-thousand-dollar SUV last month. Where did the cash come from?” Jason choked on his words, his face flushing crimson. I turned my gaze to Nicola. “And you. You spent a month touring the Amalfi Coast this summer. Racked up nearly twenty grand. Who paid the credit card bill?” Nicola looked away, her mouth snapping shut. “That money came from our joint accounts. Half of everything in those accounts belongs to me.” I took a step closer to Richard, my voice dropping to a deadly calm. “Furthermore, if it weren’t for my startup capital, your father wouldn’t have a dime to his name today.” Richard stared at the floor for a long, agonizing minute. Finally, a muscle feathered in his jaw. “Fine,” he muttered. “Whatever you want. We’ll do it your way.” “Dad!” Jason and Nicola screamed in unison. Richard held up a hand, silencing them. “Stop. As long as I can be with Carol, the money doesn’t matter.” Over the next few days, Richard was remarkably compliant. The transfers, the deed modifications, the legal paperwork—it was handled with brutal efficiency. Jason and Nicola, on the other hand, spent the week sending passive-aggressive texts to the extended family group chat. The general consensus was that I had lost my mind with greed, violently skinning their poor father alive on my way out the door. I didn’t care. For the first time in forty years, I started investing in myself. I went online and bought things on impulse. A heavy, pure silk nightgown for three hundred dollars. A jar of La Mer face cream for four hundred. A pair of handmade Italian leather loafers I had wanted for a decade but never dared to buy, nearly a thousand dollars. I had never spent money like this on myself. When Richard was building his business, we lived on pennies. I clipped coupons. I mended clothes. Even when the money started rolling in, the scarcity mindset was permanently etched into my bones. I always saved the best cuts of meat, the nicest things, for him and the kids. Now, I had absolutely no one to save for but myself. 3 For the next week, I slept in until noon. Usually, by that time, I would have already vacuumed the entire house, done the laundry, and had a hot lunch waiting on the stove. I woke up to the sound of Nicola yelling from the hallway. “Mom! Are you seriously not cooking again today?” “You’ve been on strike all week! What is your problem?” I walked right past her, heading toward the master bathroom to wash my face. “I spent my whole life serving you people. I’m done.” Nicola stood frozen in the hallway, her mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. Jason stumbled out of his room, aggressively rubbing his eyes. “Mom, did you iron my blue button-down? I have a massive pitch today.” I didn’t even turn around. “Iron it yourself.” “I don’t know how to iron!” Jason panicked, his voice cracking. “You always do it—” I shut the bathroom door, cutting off his whining. I got dressed and left the house. I went straight to a high-end medical spa downtown. I had driven past it a hundred times over the years. Whenever I had thought about going in, I would picture Richard staying up until 2 A.M. to finish a proposal, and the guilt would stop me. It’s too expensive, I would tell myself. Save the money. Not anymore. After a facial and a massage, I went to a boutique and bought an entirely new wardrobe. My days fell into a luxurious rhythm. I left early and came home late. I walked through the botanical gardens in the mornings. I spent my afternoons reading in a sunlit corner of the public library. I went to the cinema and watched whatever I wanted, without having to accommodate anyone else’s schedule. Back at the house, the complaints grew louder. First it was the lack of hot meals. Then the overflowing laundry baskets. Finally, they couldn’t even figure out how to reset the breaker when the hot water heater tripped. One afternoon, I walked through the front door after a lovely day of shopping, only to freeze in the entryway. Carol was sitting in the middle of my living room. Jason and Nicola were hovering over her like attendants, pouring her tea and fluffing her pillows. When I walked in, Carol didn’t even bother to stand. She just looked at me from beneath her perfectly styled eyelashes, acting for all the world like the lady of the manor. “Long time no see, Alice,” she purred. “The kids were just telling me how you’ve completely abandoned them. No cooking, no cleaning. It breaks my heart.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Whatever issues we adults have, we shouldn’t punish the children, should we?” She elegantly rose from the sofa and stepped toward me, dropping her voice so the kids couldn’t hear. “Honestly, if you hate it here so much, you should just pack your bags and leave. Stop dragging this out out of spite.” She smirked, a vicious gleam in her eyes. “Your husband doesn’t want you. Your kids despise you. Your whole life is a pathetic failure. If I were you, I would have thrown myself off a bridge by now.” A white-hot wave of fury crashed over me. Without thinking, I raised my hand to slap the smug look off her face. Before my hand could connect, someone grabbed my wrist and violently shoved me back. It was Richard. “Don’t you dare!” he bellowed, his face red with rage. “Carol is a guest in this house!” 4 Before I could even defend myself, Carol’s demeanor shifted instantly. She stumbled backward, clutching her chest, her eyes welling with crocodile tears. “Richard, please, it’s okay,” she whimpered. “I was only trying to stick up for the kids. I didn’t think Alice would get physical.” Richard turned to me, his eyes colder and more hateful than I had ever seen them. “Apologize to her. Now.” I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “You want me to apologize to the woman you’re sleeping with? You’re out of your mind.” Suddenly, Jason and Nicola rushed forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Carol as if forming a human shield. “You are so out of line, Mom!” Jason snarled. “Carol is nothing but sweet to us, and you think that gives you the right to abuse her?” I stared at my son in sheer disbelief. He was defending the woman who was destroying our family. Nicola looked me up and down, her lip curling in disgust. “Seriously, I don’t know how I ended up with a mother like you.” Her eyes landed on my throat—specifically, the new gold pendant necklace and the matching drop earrings I had bought myself that morning. “Are those new?” Nicola sneered. “You know what? Give them to Carol. That can be your apology. It’s a waste of money putting jewelry on someone your age anyway.” Before I could react, Nicola lunged forward and yanked the gold chain right off my neck. She spun around, offering it to Carol. “Here. I’m sure it’ll look so much better on you.” Carol put a hand over her mouth, feigning shock while her eyes danced with triumph. “Oh, sweetie, you shouldn’t have… but it is lovely. Thank you.” My entire body trembled. A primal, protective rage possessed me. “Give that back! It’s mine!” I lunged for Carol, but Jason caught me by the shoulders and roughly shoved me back. “Are you really doing this over a piece of metal? God, you’re embarrassing.” “Exactly!” Nicola yelled, lunging at me again. “Take the earrings off too!” “Nicola, stop!” I screamed, struggling against Jason’s grip. “I am your mother! How can you treat me like this for a total stranger?!” Nicola rolled her eyes. “Jason, hold her still.” My own son pinned me against the wall. Nicola reached for my ear and pulled. She didn’t unhook the clasp. She just yanked. A sharp, searing pain ripped through my earlobe as the metal tore right through the flesh. Warm blood instantly spilled down my neck. “Ah!” Carol shrieked, backing away. “She’s bleeding!” Nicola looked at the torn flesh and the blood dripping onto my collar. Her expression remained completely flat. “It’s her own fault for fighting back.” Richard frowned, his eyes flicking to the blood on my neck, but he didn’t say a single word. He didn’t step forward. I pressed my trembling hand to my torn, throbbing ear. The physical pain was nothing compared to the violent rupture in my chest. Tears finally spilled over my eyelashes. I looked at the four faces staring back at me. “I gave birth to you,” my voice was barely a whisper, fracturing under the weight of the betrayal. “I gave up my life for you… and this is what I am to you?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “433117”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The gray haze that had clouded my vision for months finally fractured, dissolving into sharp, brilliant focus. My eyesight was back. Joy surged in my chest, a bright, sudden thing, and I spun around to share the news with my husband. But as I reached the heavy oak door of our bedroom, the sound of a voice—not his, but his brother’s—stopped me dead in my tracks. “Come on, man,” his brother was pleading, his tone low and urgent. “I know you lost your memories, but Celeste is still your fated mate. Your fiancée.” There was a heavy pause. “She’s badly hurt,” the brother pressed on. “Your S-rank healing ability is the only thing that can pull her back from the edge. Are you really going to just stand by and watch her die?” Silence. The kind of silence that suffocates. “Look,” his brother sighed, a sound full of misguided nobility. “If you’re that worried about the little blind girl you’ve been keeping around… she can’t see anyway. I’ll stay here. I’ll take your place beside her for a while.” And then, my husband—Callan, the man whose chest I had slept against every night—finally spoke. “Alright,” he said. Just like that. Alright. At that exact moment, the holographic live-feed—a bizarre, persistent glitch of the universe I had transmigrated into—exploded across my peripheral vision. [The ruthless founding father of the fan-club has arrived! Who else understands the tragic, self-sacrificing nobility of the grumpy younger brother offering his own body to the cannon fodder so his brother can go be with his true love?!] [Brother of the Year: If I don’t hold this fake marriage together, who will?] I slowly lifted my gaze and looked through the crack in the door. My heart skipped a violent, jagged beat. Standing there was a shifter who was taller, broader, and more imposing than Callan. His face was a touch more youthful but undeniably more striking, with a sharper jawline and a straighter nose. He was, essentially, Callan 2.0. After Callan slipped out the back door, I waited a beat. Then, blinking my eyes into a vacant, unfocused stare, I groped my way blindly into the room and wrapped my arms around the new man’s waist from behind. “Honey?” I murmured, pressing my cheek to his spine. “You feel distant today. Why are you suddenly standing on the left side of the room? Is something on your mind?” 1 Jace went entirely rigid. Two golden, velvet-furred tiger ears popped out from the crown of his head, twitching frantically. His long tail snapped out, stiff as a board. Callan was a Snow Tiger. Jace, I noted with quiet amusement, was a Golden Bengal. Feigning ignorance, I let my arms slide fully around his waist, my fingertips subtly measuring him. His waist is actually a bit narrower, I thought. With deliberate slowness, I let my hands trail upward, my palms flattening against the firm, heavy swells of his chest muscles. Beneath my touch, Jace tightened like a drawn bowstring. The tips of his golden ears flushed a deep, frantic crimson. My mind quietly calculated the differences: Chest broader by an inch. Waist leaner by half an inch. Hips a fraction wider. “Honey,” I purred softly, trailing a thumb over his collarbone. “Your body feels so tempting today.” The blush violently crawled from Jace’s ears down to the base of his neck. He bit down hard on his lower lip, audibly struggling to hold back a sharp intake of breath. “You’re awfully quiet,” I said, poking his pectoral muscle. “Don’t…” he choked out. “Don’t grope me like that.” He had obviously downed a vocal-altering potion before coming in. His voice was an eighty-percent match to Callan’s, but the remaining twenty percent betrayed the raw, slightly raspy cadence of a young man in his prime. “Your voice sounds a little strange today,” I whispered. I circled around to his front, reaching up blindly until my fingers grazed the prominent bump of his throat. “But…” I rose up on my tiptoes and brushed my warm lips softly against his Adam’s apple. “It sounds incredibly sexy.” Jace reacted like a deer caught in the headlights. He jolted backward, nearly tripping over his own boots, and practically hurled himself out the door, diving headfirst into the snowbank outside. I stood there for a second, blinking at the empty doorway, before a wicked, quiet smile curved my lips. [LMAO the younger brother just spawned in the starter village and immediately ran into a wicked villainess. His poor virgin brain is short-circuiting!] [There’s no way Jace catches feelings for the cannon fodder. Can the president of the rival fan-club really fall for the enemy?] [Jace absolutely loathes this woman for getting between his brother and Celeste. If he ever catches feelings for her, I will eat my own shoe.] [Comment above: Start chewing, babe. No need to wait.] It took Jace several aggressive rolls in the freezing snow before he managed to cool his blood enough to step back inside. “Honey, draw me a basin of water. I want to wash my feet,” I ordered, my tone perfectly even. If he was going to collude with his brother to deceive me, he could pay off his brother’s debts in manual labor. “Fine,” he muttered. To his credit, he was obedient. He returned quickly, carrying a wooden basin steaming with hot water. I sat on the edge of the bed, slipped off my socks, and extended my feet toward him. Jace’s hands were noticeably larger than Callan’s. My feet looked incredibly small resting in the wide expanse of his palms. The thick, rough calluses lining his fingers—the undeniable mark of a man who spent his life wielding weapons—scraped pleasantly against my skin. His face was an unreadable mask of cold indifference as he knelt on the floor, easing my feet into the warm water, but his touch was surprisingly meticulous as he began to wash them. “My toenail polish is chipping,” I directed, completely unapologetic. “Repaint them for me.” His brow furrowed in deep irritation. “You can’t even see. What’s the point of painting your nails?” I feigned a flare of temper, shifting my foot and pressing it down hard against his chest. “You never used to talk to me like that!” A breathless “Um…” tumbled from his lips. Tigers possessed an inherently yang constitution—they ran incredibly hot and were impervious to the winter chill. Because he thought I was blind, Jace hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt. My foot had missed the center of his chest. My toes were currently pressed directly, and rather firmly, against his bare nipple. Jace scrambled backward so fast he nearly kicked the water basin over, his face blazing. “I’ll… I’ll go find the polish…” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Okay, that one actually was an accident. That night, we lay on the same bed. I rolled over, pretending to reach for the glass of water on his nightstand, and caught a perfect glimpse of his illuminated phone screen. He was texting his brother: [Callan, how do you live like this? I feel so sorry for you.] 2 Late in the night, shivering against the chill, I demanded he shift into his beast form to keep me warm. “Absolutely not!” Jace hissed into the dark. “My beast form is a combat state meant only for the battlefield. It is not a personal space heater!” I let my voice go cold, lacing it with hurt. “Is that so? Have you had a change of heart, or are you an entirely different person? You used to let me sleep holding your tail every single night. Why is tonight any different?” “I am exactly who I’ve always been!” he snapped, his voice tight with the fear of being exposed. There was a heavy rustle of blankets before he finally compromised with an aggrieved sigh. “You can hold the tail. Only the tail.” A thick, plush, golden tail slipped under the covers and curled against my chest. Compared to Callan’s fur, Jace’s was undeniably softer, smelling faintly of crushed pine needles and fresh snow. It was incredibly comforting. Wrapping my arms around it, I easily drifted into a deep sleep. The next morning, I slept in, waking only when the sun was high. Through the window, I spotted Jace in the yard, fiercely chopping firewood. He was a portrait of raw, untamed energy, but when he turned, I noticed the heavy, bruised shadows beneath his eyes. [Of course he has dark circles! The cannon fodder is a restless sleeper. Halfway through the night, she stopped holding his tail and accidentally grabbed his other “tail.” The poor boy had to go roll in the snow three times before dawn.] [Wait, what are you guys talking about? Does the tiger have a mutation? Two tails?] [Sweet summer child, please log off and go watch cartoons.] I took a slow look around the cabin. The floors were swept spotless. The chickens had been fed. Even the crumbling robin’s nest on the rafters had been carefully replaced with a sturdy, handcrafted wooden box. I had to admit, the kid had an eye for detail and the domestic diligence of a seasoned househusband. When he came inside and saw I was awake, however, his face snapped back into that familiar, frosty scowl. He practically shoved a mug of hot milk and a slice of toast into my hands. I took a sip of the milk and let my brow crease in displeasure. “What now?” he demanded. “What’s wrong with it?” “It’s too bland. I need two sugar cubes.” Jace groaned, rolling his eyes. “You are impossible to please.” Without another word, he snatched the mug from my hands, chugged the entire thing in three gulps, marched to the sink, washed the cup, and began pouring a brand-new glass of milk. I stared at him in quiet disbelief. …Couldn’t you have just dropped the sugar into the first cup? Once he finished the firewood, he sat by the hearth, glaring at his phone. Based on the aggressive typing, he was updating his friends: [She’s a total nightmare. But don’t worry, I haven’t given her a single warm look while doing the chores.] The stream lit up instantly. [Bro, it’s been twenty-four hours and you’re already washing her laundry with a grumpy face?] [Bestie, has it occurred to you that she’s blind and literally cannot see your ‘cold, intimidating glares’?] [Jace: Mind your business! I have my own pacing!] 3 Clearly fed up with me using his tail as a security blanket, Jace went online and ordered an industrial space heater for the cabin. In his mind, if the room was boiling hot, I wouldn’t need to cuddle with him. Unfortunately for him, a massive blizzard had grounded all the delivery crews. The heater was delayed indefinitely. For nearly two weeks, my only comfort was a single, golden tail. It was starting to annoy me. When Callan was here, I used to bury my icy hands and feet deep into the thick, warm fur of his stomach. It made me feel incredibly safe. [She’s probably missing Callan right now. While Callan is currently wrapped up in the female lead’s soft embrace, Jace is guarding his purity like a monk. No matter how much she flirts, he remains an unmovable mountain.] [Callan is destined for the female lead anyway. Jace only recognizes Celeste as his true sister-in-law. The sooner this cannon fodder accepts reality, the better.] That night, after yet another strategic roll in the snow to cool his perpetually running blood, Jace finally climbed cautiously into bed. “The temperature dropped again today,” he muttered, shifting awkwardly. “If you want, I can shift…” I rolled over, turning my back to him, and pulled my worn tiger plushie tight against my chest. “Let’s just sleep. I don’t need your tail tonight.” If I had to force it, I didn’t want it. Even if I was genuinely craving the heat of his body. Behind me, I felt his entire massive frame lock up. He sat frozen at my back for a very long time, his gaze practically burning a hole through my spine. Eventually, in absolute silence, he retracted his ears and tail. He pulled his blankets tight to his side. The bed was now divided by an invisible, icy wall. Jace had likely assumed that without my constant touching, he’d sleep like the dead. But the truth was, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, completely consumed by insomnia. On my side of the bed, my breathing remained even and deep. Somewhere around three in the morning, I felt the heavy, plush weight of a tail slither around my waist, gently trying to drag me backward toward the heat of his chest. Deep in sleep and irritated by the disturbance, I blindly swatted a hand backward. A solid smack echoed in the dark. The pulling stopped instantly. When I woke the next morning, my tiger plushie was missing, and our separate blankets had mysteriously tangled into one shared nest. Jace wasn’t in bed. I looked out the frost-rimmed window and saw him standing in the middle of a howling snowstorm, furiously scrubbing my plushie in a bucket of soapy water. He wrung it out, pinned it to the clothesline, and watched with profound satisfaction as the freezing wind instantly encased it in a solid shell of ice. He turned around, a triumphant smirk on his face, only to lock eyes with me staring at him from the window. “Haha, great weather today!” he yelled over the wind, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just thought I’d wash your toy and let it… get some sun…” I just slowly closed the curtains. 4 Jace hadn’t just washed the plushie; he’d washed the clothes I’d discarded yesterday. Unfortunately, his brute strength had ripped two massive holes right through my underwear, forcing him to trek down to the local market to buy replacements. He hadn’t been gone long when a frantic knock rattled the door. I opened it to find Kieran. He was leaning heavily against the doorframe, his face flushed a feverish pink, two long, white rabbit ears drooping weakly against his damp silver hair. His mating heat had hit him early. He swayed on his feet, his words slurring together. “Faye… please. Help me…” Despite the freezing temperatures, Kieran was wearing only a thin white dress shirt, the top buttons torn open to reveal skin as pale as fresh snow. Snowflakes clung to his thick, dark eyelashes, his nose was painted a delicate, icy red, and his deep blue eyes looked up at me like fractured sapphires. I had always known my neighbor—who doubled as my pro-bono physician—was beautiful, but right now, he was breathtaking. His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward, burying his face in the crook of my neck. His breath was scorching hot against my skin. “The new Federal law passed,” he rasped, his voice trembling. “Humans can officially bind with two shifter mates at once…” “When he gets back… he can be the primary mate. I’ll be the secondary. I swear, I’ll never cause drama or make things hard for you.” “Please, Faye. Just let me be yours.” He pulled back slightly, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “But if it’s too much… if it puts you in a bad spot… just pretend I was never here. I’ll go home. I’ll soak in the ice bath…” He made a pathetic, shaky attempt to pull away. I reached out, grabbed the lapels of his shirt, dragged him back into the house, and kissed him to shut him up. “Stop talking,” I murmured against his lips. Honestly, the math was simple. Callan had his fated female lead. Jace was guarding his virtue like a medieval knight. I was a practical woman living in the freezing wilderness. A bed without a warm body in it was just a waste. Besides, rabbit fur was incredibly soft. That was the conclusion I reached as I ran my hands up and squeezed the base of one of his velvet ears. Kieran violently shuddered at the touch, burying his face against my collarbone, letting out a soft, broken sound that was half-sob, half-sigh. Since the day I had crossed over into this world, my vision had been severely compromised. Kieran had been the one coming over every day, patiently treating my eyes free of charge. [Whoa, what’s going on? Why is the screen suddenly a blur of censorship mosaics?] [Are we not allowed to watch? Don’t be stingy, Doctor Rabbit!] [Honestly, I feel bad for the cannon fodder. Callan’s S-rank healing only works on the female lead, so Faye’s been stuck relying on conventional medicine. The rabbit doctor really stepped up and took care of her when no one else did.] Once Kieran’s fever had stabilized somewhat, he sat back against the pillows, pulling me securely against his chest. “Don’t worry,” he whispered softly, kissing my hair. “When Callan gets back, I’ll explain everything. I’ll tell him I seduced you. I’ll take all the blame.” The words had barely left his mouth when the front door banged open. “Honey! I bought the new clothes, come feel the fabric—” Jace froze. Kieran and I looked toward the doorway. Jace, broad and imposing, was standing there wearing a sheer, loosely knit chainmail-style top. It technically counted as clothing, but left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Clack. The cardboard box containing my new underwear slipped from Jace’s fingers and hit the wooden floor. 5 Jace snapped out of his shock, his eyes turning a ferocious, bloodshot red. With an earth-shattering roar, his beast form erupted from his skin. A massive Golden Bengal tiger filled the room, shaking the floorboards. “You dare crawl into my bed?! With my wife?!” he bellowed, his voice vibrating in my chest. “Don’t be afraid, honey! I’m going to rip this filthy rabbit’s throat out!” I panicked, terrified Kieran was about to get slaughtered, and lunged forward to stop it. But Kieran didn’t flinch. In a flash of blinding light, he summoned his spiritual beast form. The creature that materialized was a monstrous, pure white rabbit—bizarrely, it was even more massive than Jace’s tiger. Its jaw was lined with thick, jagged fangs, and its usually serene blue eyes burned a demonic crimson. “Both of you—” Before I could finish, Kieran launched himself forward, locking his jaws around the scruff of Jace’s neck and dragging the massive tiger backward out the door and into the blizzard. The two alpha males were terrifyingly matched in combat power. In the vast, blinding expanse of white snow, it was a brutal clash of fangs and claws. Kieran specifically targeted Jace’s face, slashing wildly at his handsome features. In retaliation, Jace ruthlessly aimed every strike directly beneath Kieran’s belt, determined to end the rabbit’s bloodline permanently. The chat overlay was absolutely losing its mind over the sudden action sequence. [Tsk tsk tsk, who says male leads aren’t scheming? The rabbit wants to cure her eyes, use his beauty to secure a permanent place, and ruin the competition’s face. Meanwhile, the tiger thinks the rabbit only won her over with his bedroom skills, so he’s trying to castrate him!] [Doctor Rabbit is a total manipulative green-tea bitch, but god, he’s gorgeous.] [Brother Tiger has zero brain cells, but absolute brute strength.] [Cannon Fodder Faye: Wow, such a hard choice. (Not)] It was the first time I fully agreed with the comments. I leaned against the doorframe, yelling into the wind, “Guys, stop fighting!” But they were too far away, entirely consumed by bloodlust. Kieran shifted back to his human form, licking a smear of blood from his sharpened claws. “I’ve seen her actual mate. You aren’t him! So where the hell did you come from, you home-wrecking stray?” Jace, bleeding from his cheek, shifted back, his chest heaving as he glared at the doctor. “I’m the home-wrecker? You’re the cheap whore who crawled into a married woman’s bed the second her husband was out of town! You’re the absolute lowest of the low!” Kieran threw his head back and laughed, a cold, mocking sound. “I looked up the registry. Faye is bonded to Callan, but they never signed the official marriage certificate. Which means she legally only has one partner. She doesn’t have a husband.” He tilted his head, his blue eyes narrowing. “Let me guess. You’re a Golden Bengal. Her mate is a Snow Tiger. You took advantage of the fact that she’s blind and swapped places with him, didn’t you?” Jace’s face twisted in violent, defensive rage. “So what?! I’m the one washing her feet! I’m the one massaging her! I’m the one warming her bed! Which means when the certificate is signed, it’ll be my name on it!” He summoned his claws again. “And once I kill you, you filthy rat, she’ll never know.” “Your math is a little off,” Kieran purred softly. “Because… I think she might already be able to see.” A flicker of absolute terror crossed Jace’s face. “Impossible!” “She can see,” Kieran repeated, his voice laced with venomous triumph. “You aren’t her original mate. She has no emotional attachment to you. You aren’t as strong as me, and you certainly aren’t as beautiful as me. Tell me, why would she ever pick you?” “You’re dead!” Jace roared. He launched himself into the air, bringing all his weight down to deliver a fatal blow to the arrogant herbivore. Kieran was an S-rank mutated beast; he had more than enough speed to easily dodge the attack. Yet, inexplicably, at the absolute last microsecond, he shifted his stance, deliberately allowing Jace’s spiritual energy to severely scorch his arm. From the doorway, I watched in stunned silence as Kieran was thrown backward by the impact, soaring gracefully through the air until he landed directly at my feet, collapsing weakly into my arms. “Faye,” Kieran gasped, coughing weakly against my shoulder. “Don’t be mad at Callan. It’s hard for him to accept our new dynamic, I understand that. But he’s lost his mind… It’s okay if he hurts me, but I couldn’t let him hurt you. Why don’t you come stay at my house? Let him cool off for a few days.” Jace, having just landed from his attack, heard the entire speech. His jaw dropped. His golden ears lay flat against his skull as he stared at the bleeding rabbit in my arms, his entire body trembling with rage. “You manipulative little bastard!” Jace screamed. “That is not what you were just saying!” Kieran let out a fragile, wounded sigh, sinking deeper into my embrace, while the massive, terrifying tiger roared in the snow. I gently stroked Kieran’s hair, looking up at Jace with deadpan eyes. “I think I’m perfectly capable of telling which one of you actually needs my protection.”

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I had kept my family in the dark about my little experiment: taking an entry-level sales job at my uncle’s subsidiary firm just to see how the real world operated. I also happened to drop twenty-five thousand dollars on an elite, invite-only personal training membership at The Foundry. When the new girl in the office found out about the gym, she went absolutely ballistic. She pointed a French-manicured finger right in my face, screaming that my parents must be cursed to have raised such a financially reckless, ungrateful brat. She loudly accused me of funneling dirty money, claiming the only reason a girl like me would work out at a place like that was to dress like a slut and trap a wealthy man. Then, she played her trump card. She boasted that she was the daughter of the CEO, Jonathan Steward, and even she wouldn’t dare spend money so frivolously. She demanded to know who the hell I thought I was. She actually grabbed my arm, threatening to drag me down to the gym to cancel my membership, vowing to “teach me the lesson my parents never did.” I just stood there, completely stunned. Jonathan Steward is my father’s identical twin brother. He is notoriously, fiercely single. He has never been married. I had absolutely no idea where this embarrassing, unhinged “daughter” had crawled out from. 01 “Twenty-five grand on a gym membership? Have you completely lost your mind? That’s what your parents probably make breaking their backs in a decade, and you’re in here playing dress-up as a socialite?” When I didn’t respond immediately, lost in the sheer absurdity of the moment, my new coworker, Violet, mistook my silence for shame. “The corporate culture here has always been grounded. Humble,” she sneered, pacing the aisle between the cubicles so everyone could hear. “I’ve seen dozens of girls exactly like you. You think you can just sleep your way to the penthouse.” “Before I got here, people like you were turning this company into a joke. But I’m here now, and I won’t sit back and watch it happen.” Sleep my way to the top? If that were the case, I wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of anonymously submitting my resume for a grueling, entry-level grind. My uncle loved me like his own daughter. If I asked for a penthouse in Tribeca tomorrow, the deed would be in my name by noon. I wrenched my arm out of Violet’s grip, my brow furrowing. “I spend my own money. Since when does my bank account require your auditing?” Instead of backing down, Violet escalated. “You’re going to refund that membership to my card. I’ll hold the money in escrow for you so you don’t blow it again,” she demanded, her voice dripping with venomous authority. “And stop bringing that cheap, desperate energy into this office. Who are you trying to seduce? My father? Let me tell you something, you little gold digger—there isn’t a man in this company with more old money than him. As long as I’m breathing, you won’t get anywhere near him.” A sharp, incredulous laugh escaped my lips. “You are really committed to this bit, aren’t you? The Academy owes you an Oscar.” Beside me, Sophie, the only coworker who had shown me genuine kindness, tugged frantically at the hem of my silk blouse. “Gemma, please, just let it go,” Sophie whispered, her eyes wide with panic. “She really is Mr. Steward’s daughter. The last top sales rep who crossed her got fired on the spot. We can’t afford to mess with her.” I wasn’t about to buy into this collective delusion. I refused to believe this girl had the power to crush me under her designer knock-off heels. I rolled my eyes. “Just because she says she’s his daughter, you all blindly believe it? I could say I’m his niece. Where’s the proof?” I brushed past Violet and sat at my desk, but the hushed, mocking whispers of the peanut gallery immediately filled the room. “Is Gemma insane? Demanding Violet prove her own father is her father?” “Everyone knows about Violet and Mr. Steward. If she had half a brain, she’d be begging for forgiveness right now.” “Someone needs to learn her place.” Sophie slid her phone onto my desk. On the screen was Violet’s pinned Instagram post. “Mr. Steward personally dropped her off on her first day,” Sophie whispered. I stared at the screen. It was a photo of Violet, her arm looped affectionately through my uncle’s. I was paralyzed by a cold wave of shock. Violet’s caption was nauseatingly sentimental: Daddy’s spoiled girl. I promise to work hard and never let you down. #Legacy It took me only a few seconds to deduce what was actually happening. My uncle possessed the kind of quiet, devastating charisma that could rival a Hollywood leading man. People were always asking for photos with him at galas and charity dinners. When he was in his twenties, he experienced the great, tragic love of his life. After she passed away from cancer, something inside him locked away forever. He became Manhattan’s most famously untouchable, ascetic billionaire—married only to his empire. There was no physical way he had a daughter this age. If I hadn’t intimately known the ghosts of his past, her little performance might have actually fooled me. Seeing that Violet was spiraling into a power trip, and noting it was nearly five o’clock, I grabbed my gym bag and stood up. Just as I reached the door, I heard Violet barking into her cell phone. “I want Gemma relocated immediately. Send her to the Seattle branch for two months—better yet, just get her out of this city. I’ll show her who runs this place.” I let out a soft, dismissive scoff. But the moment my foot crossed the threshold, my phone violently shattered the silence. 02 “Gemma. Pack your bags. You’re flying out to the Seattle office for a two-month field assignment…” It was Derek, our smarmy Vice President. I kept my voice perfectly level as I ended the call, though a tempest of anger was brewing beneath my ribs. Violet crossed her arms, looking unimaginably smug. “I told you. You don’t deserve that kind of luxury. Since you wouldn’t listen, I had to make sure you’ll never step foot in that gym again.” “My father only has one daughter, and he spoils me rotten. Whatever I ask for, he makes happen in under five minutes. Do you believe me now?” When I remained silent, analyzing the variables of this sudden betrayal, her arrogance swelled. “If you get on your knees and apologize to me right now, and promise to wire that twenty-five grand into my account, I might ask my dad to rescind the transfer. You can stay in your little apartment and live your pathetic little life.” The office erupted into a chorus of sycophants. “We warned you, Gemma! Violet has the ultimate backing. You just had to touch the stove to see if it was hot.” “Just be obedient. Violet takes care of her people. Cross her, and she’ll end your career.” “You’re eating the crumbs off her family’s table, Gemma, yet you tried to outshine her. Look in the mirror.” “Exactly. What kind of ‘good girl’ spends that much time at a luxury gym anyway? Clearly, her mind isn’t on the company.” The sheer volume of their malicious, deeply misogynistic venom snapped something inside me. I shot a glacial glare across the bullpen. “There are cameras in this office. You want to keep spewing defamatory slander? Because my lawyer would love to hear it.” The sycophants visibly recoiled, their mouths snapping shut. But Violet stepped forward, dripping with fake sympathy. “I’m only doing this for your own good, Gemma. The job market is brutal right now. Where else are you going to go?” She reached out, attempting to grab my hands in a faux-sisterly gesture. “I’ve always felt a connection with you. If you just admit you were wrong today, we can still be best friends.” I picked up the iced Americano from my desk and launched the contents directly at her chest. “I don’t recall ever scraping the bottom of the barrel for ‘friends’ like you,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “You took a photo with Mr. Steward. Congratulations. Stop pretending you wear the crown.” The dark espresso bloomed violently across Violet’s pristine white designer dress. She shrieked, stomping her feet, pointing a trembling finger at me as a string of obscenities flew from her mouth. I didn’t have the patience for her theatrics. I pulled out my phone and dialed my uncle’s private number, needing to hear the truth straight from his mouth. “I’m calling Mr. Steward right now to report someone dragging his name through the mud.” The line rang. And rang. And went to voicemail. I tried twice more. Nothing. Even the coworkers who had stayed quiet couldn’t help but pity me now. “Gemma, stop embarrassing yourself. Mr. Steward is the Chairman of a global conglomerate. Why would he pick up a call from a junior sales rep?” “His number is listed in the executive directory, sure, but the only person here who has ever actually gotten through to him is Violet.” “Just stop acting.” At that precise moment, Violet pulled out her own phone, her eyes locked onto mine with a predatory gleam. Nice try, I thought to myself. Let’s see how far you take this charade. But a second later, the air was knocked from my lungs. The call connected. The voice pouring through the speaker was undeniably my uncle’s. A cold dread coiled in my stomach. 03 “Violet. Is something the matter?” “Daddy…” her voice morphed into a sickeningly sweet, infantile whine. “I just missed you so much. Are you coming home for dinner tonight?” “I have a business dinner. Next time.” … Later, at The Foundry, those words played on a relentless loop in my mind. I knew that voice better than my own. It was Uncle Jonathan. But why did she call him ‘Daddy’? And more importantly, why didn’t he correct her? Did my uncle actually authorize my banishment to Seattle? My personal trainer had to correct my form three times before I finally dropped the kettlebells and punished myself with a brutal five-mile sprint on the treadmill. Sweating and breathless, I stepped off the machine, intending to call my uncle again. But as I approached the lobby, I heard a familiar, grating voice. “There’s a member here named Gemma. I’m here to process the cancellation of her account,” Violet demanded, glaring down at the young receptionist. The girl looked entirely bewildered. “Ma’am, cancellations require the member to be present with their ID.” Violet slammed her hand on the marble counter. “Get me your manager. Do you want to stay in business? I can have this place shut down by tomorrow morning.” Before the poor receptionist could hit the panic button, I stepped out of the shadows. “Nobody is touching my account.” Violet flinched, genuinely startled to see me. “Why aren’t you on a plane? You were supposed to land in Seattle an hour ago!” I wiped my face with a towel, offering a cold smile. “The Crestview account is in its critical negotiation phase. If I leave now, I’m just handing my commission over to someone else. I’m not stupid.” Violet’s face contorted through shades of red and purple. “You’re a subordinate! Defying a direct executive order is insubordination! You’re completely out of control!” Because I was a VIP member, the commotion had drawn the attention of Roxy, the club’s owner. Sensing an audience, Violet puffed up her chest. “I am Gemma’s superior. She is under investigation for embezzling corporate funds to pay for this twenty-five-thousand-dollar membership. I demand you wire the prorated amount to my account immediately, or I will involve the authorities.” A visceral disgust washed over me. “Roxy, please ignore her. She’s completely unhinged. This has nothing to do with my company.” Roxy, a formidable woman who had dealt with every breed of entitled elite in the city, looked Violet up and down. “Ma’am,” Roxy said, her voice like steel. “Even if you are her boss, how she spends her time and money outside of office hours is her business. If you genuinely believe she committed corporate fraud, I suggest you call the police.” “Fine! I’ll call them right now!” “Do it,” I challenged, pulling out my own phone. “Let’s get them down here.” The sheer panic in Violet’s eyes was impossible to hide. The bluff had been called. She spun on her heel, her face burning, and marched toward the glass doors. “You’re going to regret this, Gemma. I’m going to make you pay.” I offered a dismissive wave. “I’ll be waiting.” 04 The very next morning, she delivered on her threat. I was halfway through my commute when the email from HR hit my inbox. To all staff: Gemma has been terminated, effective immediately, due to severe insubordination and refusal to relocate, which has severely impacted business operations. To absolutely no one’s surprise, my entire client portfolio—including the fifty-million-dollar Crestview contract I had spent months nurturing—was officially reassigned to Violet. Sophie called me, crying. “It’s so unfair, Gemma. It’s literal daylight robbery. She just wanted your commissions.” She wants my portfolio? I smiled to myself, staring out the window of my Uber. Violet didn’t have the intellect or the pedigree to close a deal like Crestview. The night before, my uncle had finally returned my call. I had told him, quite simply, that my little experiment was over. “Finally,” he had chuckled. “I wondered how long you’d last playing in the mud. The Managing Director’s chair has been waiting for you.” The Crestview signing ceremony had been in the works for two months. Today, the entire executive suite was dressed to the nines. Derek, the VP, hovered like a desperate moth around Violet, who was draped in a sapphire blue gown, acting as if she had personally built the company from the ground up. The moment I walked through the double doors of the banquet hall, the two of them froze. “Gemma?” Derek snarled, marching toward me. “You were fired. You have zero security clearance to be here. Security!” I slowly removed my sunglasses, meeting his gaze with absolute icy calm. “I’m here to take over the company.” “Take over the company?” Violet laughed—a high, grating sound that echoed through the room. “The Crestview deal is done. My father authorized me as the acting director of this branch. Who the hell do you think you are, waltzing in here with this psychotic delusion?” Derek immediately jumped in to defend his queen. “Mr. Steward is grooming Violet for the throne. She is the rightful heir to the entire conglomerate.” The executives in the room murmured in awe, showering Violet with sickening praise. “No wonder she carries herself with such grace. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!” “To send his own daughter to the trenches—Mr. Steward really trusts Derek to guide her.” “I can’t believe Gemma actually showed her face. The sheer audacity.” The cacophony of insults washed over me, leaving no mark. Violet, drunk on the validation, pointed toward the doors. “Security! Clear the room. Throw this trash out onto the street!” Two burly guards began moving toward me. Moving with deliberate, excruciating slowness, I reached into my designer tote. I pulled out a heavy, custom-milled platinum embosser and set it gently on the nearest cocktail table. “The Chairman’s personal corporate seal is in my possession,” I said, my voice carrying effortlessly across the silent room. “The only person authorized to sign the Crestview contract today is me.” Derek’s face turned violently red. “You stole the corporate seal! You deranged little thief, I’ll have you thrown in federal prison!” A flicker of genuine terror crossed Violet’s eyes, but she desperately tried to hold the facade. “It’s a fake! A prop! Do you really think you can scare us with a piece of metal?” The crowd began to buzz nervously. “The Chairman’s seal is kept in the penthouse vault at HQ. Only Mr. Steward touches it. There’s no way a fired sales rep could get her hands on it.” I arched an eyebrow, letting my gaze sweep over the room, ensuring every single person was looking at me. “This seal,” I said, enunciating every syllable, “was handed to me directly. By my uncle.”

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I stared at the glowing screen of my phone in the dead silence of my apartment, the blue light harsh against my exhausted eyes. It was past 2:00 AM, and a trending thread on Reddit’s r/TrueOffMyChest had suddenly snagged my attention. The original poster was claiming, with absolute, agonizing sincerity, that he had fallen hopelessly in love with five different women. All in the exact same day. He went into excruciating detail about the objects of his newfound affection: the young barista at the local boba shop, the DoorDash girl, his morning Uber driver, a quirky TikTok streamer, and, finally, his newly hired executive secretary. The comment section was a bloodbath of cynical internet humor. “Bro, loving one person in this economy is exhausting enough. You’re trying to roster five?” one top comment read. “This is honestly terrifying. It’s giving severe attachment issues,” another user chimed in. “You order a burrito and fall in love with the delivery girl? You get in an Uber and want to marry the driver? Seek therapy.” But as I scrolled through the digital roasting, a quiet, hysterical realization bloomed in my chest. I knew a secret none of these keyboard warriors did. Those five distinct women? They were all me. Because in order to survive in this city and keep my bank account out of the red, I was currently juggling five different jobs. And the tragically earnest poster getting crucified in the comments? That had to be my boss. The billionaire CEO who suffered from a documented, severe case of prosopagnosia—face blindness. 1 I had just kicked off my shoes after finishing my late-night side hustle when the post popped up on my feed. [Title: I think I’ve fallen in love with five women at the same time. What do I do?] Normally, I scrolled past relationship drama. I didn’t have the luxury of time for romance; time was money. But as I went to close the app, the OP’s avatar caught my eye. It was a very specific, pretentious geometric logo. Wait. Is that Payne? My boss, Payne Sinclair? I clicked back into the thread, my fatigue momentarily vanishing. His narrative style was… uniquely unhinged. He explained that within a single twenty-four-hour window, he had been utterly captivated by a boba barista, a DoorDash rider, an Uber driver, a TikToker, and his new secretary. [This morning, both my Lamborghini and my Porsche refused to start. I had to resort to an Uber. The driver was this woman with a fiercely focused energy. But what really sealed the deal was the graceful, poetic way she rolled down her window and absolutely destroyed the lineage of a guy who tried to cut us off. It was beautiful.] The comments were relentless. “Which Wattpad billionaire romance did this guy escape from? ‘My Porsche wouldn’t start’? Bro, where’s the Rolls-Royce?” “The reason you fell for her is wild. She cussed out a dude in traffic and that did it for you?” Payne had actually replied to that one: [The Rolls-Royce is in the shop for detailing. And she didn’t just cuss him out. I told her I was running late for a crucial board meeting, and she defied the laws of physics to get me there on time. She was protecting my schedule. She cares about me.] I sat on my lumpy mattress, staring at the ceiling in stunned silence. This morning, I had been doing my usual 5:00 AM Uber shifts. By some cruel twist of algorithmic fate, I had picked up my own boss. His gated community had a ridiculous speed limit, and just getting out of the neighborhood took ten minutes. He had a meeting at ten. I had to clock in at the office by nine-thirty. I was driving like a stunt double in a Fast & Furious movie. If anyone tried to merge into my lane, I verbally dismantled them. I got us both to the high-rise with two minutes to spare. That was how Payne Sinclair fell in love with me? Before I could even process the absurdity, I refreshed the page. He had updated the post. [Because I was so distracted by the memory of the Uber driver, I couldn’t stomach the thought of going out for a proper lunch. I just ordered delivery. When the DoorDash girl arrived at my corporate lobby, some creep was harassing a woman on the sidewalk. My delivery driver took off her helmet and launched it in a perfect, parabolic arc, nailing the creep right in the back of the head. It was so badass. I am obsessed. The best part? She was holding my Thai food in her other hand, and she didn’t spill a single drop.] The comment section was losing its mind. “‘Couldn’t stomach a proper lunch so I ordered delivery.’ Ah yes, the male capacity for making excuses is truly boundless.” “So you fell in love again? What happened to the Uber driver? Are we over her already?” Payne replied immediately: [I still love the Uber driver very much. We are currently at two women.] I put the phone down, grabbed a towel, and went to take a shower. Mid-shampoo, my phone buzzed on the sink. It was the manager of the boba shop. “Jill, you only worked a two-hour shift today. Do you even want your paycheck this week?” I didn’t even bother rinsing the suds out of my hair before going on the defensive. “I did four hours’ worth of prep in those two hours, and I didn’t even charge you overtime. Plus, some guy practically choked to death in your lobby today and I gave him the Heimlich. I saved you a massive lawsuit. You’re welcome.” The manager paused. “Fair point. See you tomorrow. Don’t be late.” He hung up. I wrapped a towel around myself, picked up my phone, and saw another update on Reddit. [After work, I needed something sweet to calm my nerves, so I went to a boba shop. The barista there… her eyes looked so familiar. It felt like I had known her in a past life. I was staring at her, trying to figure it out, and I got so flustered that I inhaled a tapioca pearl right into my windpipe. I nearly died. But she vaulted over the counter and saved my life. I think I love her too.] [This feeling of having my heart pulled in so many directions is agony. A friend told me to just doomscroll on TikTok to distract myself. I did. I found this streamer. She is incredible. She can balance an entire dining chair on her chin while reciting the alphabet backward.] I stepped out of the bathroom and nearly tripped over the ring light I used for my streams. The comment section had officially turned into a circus. “This is unhinged. You’re just falling for every woman you make eye contact with.” “If you’re such a rich CEO, act like it. Call your secretary right now and demand background checks on all of them. Assert dominance.” Payne actually responded to that one too. [I absolutely cannot do that. Because I think I’m in love with my secretary, too. She is fiercely competent, and today she helped me yell at the board of directors. I really, really like her.] Before I accepted the job at Sinclair Holdings, the senior staff had warned me. The man at the top was brilliant, but he had face blindness. Because of his inability to recognize people, he had accidentally fired seven secretaries in the past two years, mistaking them for interns or trespassers. I was the eighth. On my first day, I made sure my massive corporate ID badge was pinned right at eye level. When I walked into his office, I said, “Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. I am your new executive secretary, Jill Gallagher.” He had looked up from his mahogany desk, his eyes lingering on my face without truly seeing it, before nodding. “Jill… hard to break, highly valued. Good name.” And I lived up to it. My goal in life was simple. Make money. Make a lot of money. 2 I took the corporate job not just for the competitive salary, but for the predictable schedule. Nine to five, with a strict two-hour lunch break. It fit perfectly into my ecosystem of survival. Wake up at 5:00 AM. Drive Uber until 8:30. Clock in at the corporate office at 9:30. Use my two-hour lunch break to run high-surge DoorDash orders in the financial district. Clock out at 5:00 PM. Head straight to the boba shop to shake teas for three hours. Go home, turn on the ring light at 9:00 PM, and stream ridiculous balancing acts for tips. Every minute of my day was monetized. My savings account was finally starting to look like a safety net instead of a countdown to eviction. Everything was going exactly according to plan. Except for the part where my billionaire boss was falling in love with my entire fragmented existence. The Reddit thread was going viral. The comments were getting sharper, the internet tearing into him with glee. “I’m struggling to text one girl back, and this dude is out here assembling the Avengers of crushes.” “Men who perceive every transactional interaction as romantic are a menace to society. She gave you your pad thai, bro, she doesn’t want your hand in marriage.” “If you’re so rich, stop whining on the internet and do something about it. Give the secretary a raise. Drop a grand on the streamer’s live. Tip your drivers.” I was reading that exact comment when my phone chimed with a text from Payne. “Miss Gallagher, your performance has been exceptional. Effective immediately, I am bumping your salary by 30%.” I physically leaped off my mattress. Seconds later, my Uber app dinged. A retroactive $100 tip. Then the DoorDash app. Another massive tip. A DM popped up on my TikTok account. “Hi. I find your content mesmerizing. When are you going live next? I would like to sponsor your stream.” My fingers were visibly shaking as I typed back a response. Then, my phone buzzed again. It was the executive Slack channel. Payne had tagged his chief of staff. “Please arrange for a custom floral arrangement and a cash bonus to be delivered to the boba shop on 5th Avenue tomorrow morning.” The chief of staff replied instantly: “Right away, sir.” I sat on my bed, clutching my head, my brain short-circuiting as it tried to process the influx of cash. After a few minutes of frantic pacing, I opened a burner Reddit account and left a comment on his thread. [OP, ignore the haters. I believe you. I understand exactly what you are going through. You need to follow your heart. Be bold! Show them you’re serious! And remember, the best way to show a woman you care is to support her financially. Throw money at the problem. Do not hesitate!] From that day on, I essentially became the phantom orbiting Payne Sinclair’s entire life. The next morning, I managed to snag his Uber request again. Compared to his cold, detached demeanor the first time, today, the man sitting in my backseat seemed… different. As soon as he got in, the expensive, cedar-and-bergamot scent of his cologne filled the car. His hair was meticulously styled, and his cufflinks caught the morning light. He glanced at the driver profile on the app, then looked up at the rearview mirror, a spark of genuine delight in his eyes. “You’re the same driver from yesterday, right?” I kept my eyes on the road, lowering my voice slightly. “Yeah. That’s me.” Payne’s smile widened, softening the sharp angles of his jaw. “Two days in a row in a city this big. You have to admit, that feels like fate.” I had to suppress a snort. Fate had nothing to do with it; it was the sheer, unadulterated finger-speed of a woman who had spent years fighting for the best gigs on the app. I drove with my usual terrifying efficiency, pulling up to the corporate plaza. I tapped my phone screen and turned around. He leaned forward, looking eager. “Do you think I could get your num—” “That’ll be $136,” I interrupted, pointing to the app. “Five stars would be appreciated.” As soon as he stepped onto the curb, I slammed the gas, ducked into an underground parking garage two blocks away, stripped off my casual driving jacket to reveal my tailored silk blouse, and sprinted into the lobby to clock in. The morning at the office was mostly normal, aside from the fact that I caught Payne staring wistfully at me through the glass walls of his office at least four times. At noon, I hit the streets for DoorDash. Thanks to my aggressive refreshing, I snagged his lunch order from a high-end sushi place. Result: A $200 tip. In the afternoon, I ran a few local courier errands on my way back from a corporate meeting. In the evening, I shook cocktails of sugar and tapioca while Payne stood awkwardly by the register, trying to make small talk before leaving another absurd tip. At night, I went live. A user named “T_SINC” dropped the equivalent of five hundred dollars in digital gifts while I balanced a broom on my chin. It was exhausting, but my bank account had never looked so beautiful. I was counting my digital earnings, my hands practically cramping, when I checked Reddit. Payne had posted a new update. [Loving five women is emotionally draining. But the strangest part is… in my mind, they are all starting to blur together. They’re beginning to look like the exact same person.] Because his previous posts had gone viral, the internet descended on this one like vultures. “The CEO is still at it! Bro, are you just projecting your mommy issues onto a specific type of working-class brunette?” Payne fired back: [I am taking this very seriously. My feelings for all of them are pure.] “Pure? You’re emotionally two-timing five women! You just have a type and you’re collecting them like Pokémon.” “If you’ve been pining for this long, make a move. Give your secretary a corporate card. Tell the DoorDash girl you’ll pay off her student loans. Drop a grand on the streamer and ask her out to dinner.” Alarm bells started ringing in my head. Sure enough, ten minutes later, a DM popped up on my streaming account from T_SINC. “Hi. You’re incredibly talented. Could we exchange numbers?” I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. But the capitalist in me won out. I sent him a Google Voice number. To his credit, Payne was a complete gentleman. No weird comments, no crossing boundaries. He just asked why I was always streaming so late at night. I typed back, “I have a lot of day jobs. Just trying to stay afloat.” “That’s awful,” he replied. “You have to work all day and stream all night? Your boss must be a tyrant. He sounds like a terrible person.” 3 You have no idea, I thought, nodding to myself. Playing into the algorithm’s love for a sob story, I crafted a tragic backstory for my streamer persona. An absent dad, a mountain of medical debt for my mom, a younger brother trying to get through college. A shattered American dream. It worked like a charm. Payne’s sympathy was palpable through the screen. I pressed my advantage. “But it’s okay. Knowing there are generous people like you watching my streams makes it worth it. Your gifts really help.” Payne immediately promised he would be back every single night. “By the way,” he texted. “Can I ask your name?” “I’m… Jane,” I typed back. Over the course of the next month, Payne practically funded my entire existence. He drank enough boba to reach their highest VIP tier. He became a legendary “whale” on the delivery and rideshare apps, known locally as the guy who tipped 200%. He had successfully acquired the contact info for every single one of my alter egos. I interacted with this man in some capacity half a dozen times a day, and thanks to his broken facial recognition, he remained blissfully oblivious. To keep my stories straight, I built a mental spreadsheet. The delivery girl was a broke college student. The streamer was the tragic heroine. But sometimes, the wires crossed. A few days ago, working as his secretary, I had tried to dodge a weekend shift by claiming I needed to visit my sick father. Payne had looked up sharply from his tablet. “Miss Gallagher? Didn’t you tell me during your interview that your father passed away when you were seven?” I froze, the blood draining from my face. “My… stepdad. He stepped up.” By some miracle of my own fast-talking and his inherent gullibility, he bought it. In fact, my “dedication to my family” only seemed to make him respect me more. Which was great for my paycheck, but terrible for office politics. The other assistants were starting to sharpen their knives. “Jill. Take this contract to the downtown branch.” Courtney tossed a heavy manila folder onto my keyboard. She was the quintessential nepotism baby—her father sat on the board of directors, and she treated the administrative pool like her personal sorority pledges. The other girls in the office had warned me to keep my head down. “She’s had a crush on Mr. Sinclair since they were kids. Any woman who breathes his air gets targeted.” I had rolled my eyes at that. “Why target the women? For all we know, he’s not even into girls. Where’s the feminism?” But Courtney didn’t care about feminism. She cared about territory. “Did you hear me, Jill? I need this downtown in two hours.” I looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sky was the color of bruised iron, and rain was lashing against the glass in aggressive sheets. “It’s a monsoon out there. Can’t you just use the corporate courier app?” “No. I want you to do it.” She crossed her arms, her designer heels clicking against the hardwood. I let out a long, slow breath. “Fine. Open the courier app and request a runner. Put it under the corporate account.” “Are you deaf? I said you are taking it.” “I heard you perfectly.” Without breaking eye contact, I reached under my desk, pulled out my bright yellow rainproof courier jacket, and zipped it up right over my silk blouse. I gave her a dazzling, corporate-approved smile. “Thanks for the gig, Courtney. Good looking out.” It was raining, which meant surge pricing. Delivering this folder across town would net me an easy fifty bucks. If she wanted to play petty power games, I was going to get paid for it. As I waited for the elevator, my phone buzzed. A coworker texting me: “Omg, you broke Courtney’s brain. She’s practically foaming at the mouth in the breakroom.” I didn’t care. I finished the delivery, internally calculating how I was going to force Courtney to give me a five-star rating on the app, and headed back to headquarters. But the moment I walked through the revolving doors, water dripping from my yellow jacket, my heart stopped. Damn it. Payne was standing in the lobby. What was a CEO doing loitering by the security desks in the middle of a workday? “Jane? What are you doing here?” My breath caught in my throat. I froze, dripping rainwater onto the pristine marble floor. His eyes lit up, and he walked toward me, completely ignoring the security guards. “Are you making a delivery? How is the fund for your brother’s tuition going? I meant it when I said I could write you a check.” I didn’t say a word. Cold sweat mixed with the rain on the back of my neck. He has face blindness. How the hell did he recognize me? “How did you know it was me?” I asked, my voice tight. Payne stopped a few feet away, suddenly looking shy. He shoved his hands into his tailored pockets. “I… I still can’t really picture your face. But I remembered the way you stand. The silhouette. And the jacket.” The corner of my mouth twitched. I forced a laugh, desperately looking around for an exit route. But the universe hates me, and at that exact moment, Courtney stepped out of the executive elevator. “Jill? You’re back already?” Courtney sneered. “Jill? Wait, I thought your name was Jane?” Payne looked between us, utterly bewildered. Courtney was closing the distance, looking ready to cause a scene. Panic seized me. I lunged forward, shoved the signed delivery receipt directly into Courtney’s chest, and inhaled deeply. “Hi, your delivery is complete, please remember to rate five stars—ACHOO!” I let out an ungodly, theatrical sneeze, spraying a fine mist of (fake) saliva in her direction. Courtney shrieked, stumbling backward in horror, wiping at her face. “You are disgusting!” She spun on her heel and sprinted for the restrooms. I slowly turned back to Payne. I gave him a weak, trembling smile. He stared at me, his brow furrowed in deep confusion. “Who exactly are you?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “433134”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The corporate betrothal between Theo Sinclair and me was suffocated by a thick, suffocating layer of awkwardness right from the start. He always wore this rigid, stony expression, desperate to draw a line in the sand. “You are my little sister!” That was his favorite excuse, his ultimate shield against me. “How can a little sister become a wife?” Whenever those words left his mouth, his eyes would dart away, terrified of meeting mine. On the surface, I played the part of the compliant girl who understood his boundaries perfectly. But in the dark quiet of my own mind, I was already writing a different script. The very next day, I brought home the boyfriend I’d supposedly been dating for ages. Right in front of Theo, I looped my arm through my new prize and smiled brightly. “Hey, Theo. Come meet your new brother-in-law.” 1 When I leaned in for a kiss, Theo pushed me away. Again. “Noelle, since the day you were brought into this house, I have only ever looked at you as a little sister to protect.” “A sister is a sister. She cannot magically transform into a wife.” His jaw was set. Hard lines, rigid posture. It was highly amusing, really, watching him deliver this righteous, puritanical sermon while my crimson lipstick was still smeared across the pulse point of his neck. I sat obediently beside him, my gaze lowering past his tailored belt to his lap. Look at this rich boy. Pitching a tent in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. We had been officially engaged for three months. Instead of moving forward, our relationship had plummeted off a cliff. And it was all because of one single sentence spat out by his best friend, Damian: “Dude, you practically raised her with your own two hands. How is marrying her any different from marrying your actual flesh-and-blood sister? It’s sick.” Theo had, in fact, raised me. When I was a toddler, the very first word that stumbled out of my mouth wasn’t Mom or Dad. It was Theo. My parents had discarded me long before I could form memories. They were ghosts haunting the upper echelons of the global elite, jet-setting between continents, far too busy for a child. The nannies they hired couldn’t have cared less; their only metric for success was that I didn’t die on their watch. When Theo came over to my estate one afternoon, he found me sitting on a filthy marble floor. The milk in the bottle clutched to my chest was ice-cold. It had already curdled and soured. I was so small, so devastatingly neglected, that I was practically withering away under the nannies’ indifferent eyes. I never spoke. My parents, in their rare moments of attention, preferred to suspect I was intellectually disabled rather than admit I was severely depressed. Theo saw the tragedy of my existence. Without asking permission, he simply scooped me up in his arms, carried me back to the Sinclair estate, and took it upon himself to keep me alive. That arrangement lasted for years. Our families, old money and deeply intertwined, were thrilled. A marriage alliance between us was the most logical, profitable conclusion. Theo and I ate at the same table, slept under the same roof, just like we did when we were kids. Everything was seamless. Until Damian’s little “it’s like marrying your sister” comment jolted Theo awake like a bucket of ice water. The guilt consumed him. He spent half his nights pacing the floor, terrified he was committing some grave, unnatural sin by desiring the girl he had protected. He practically wanted to take up monkhood to cleanse his soul of the urge to taste forbidden fruit. He moved out of the master suite overnight, opting to ruin his back on the living room sofa. If I so much as walked to the kitchen in a silk camisole, he looked ready to gouge his own eyes out. Every single day, it was the same broken record: A sister cannot be a wife. He started dressing like he was bracing for an arctic winter. Thermal layers under slacks, sweaters buttoned to the collarbone. He looked as though he’d rather castrate himself than give me an inch of access. It was starting to give me a complex. Determined to reclaim my pride, I spent hours today perfecting a devastatingly chic look. I padded my bra. I pushed the girls up until they defied gravity. I walked into his corporate headquarters playing the role of the devoted, doting fiancée dropping off a homemade lunch. I was going for an impromptu office-play vibe. I let my fingers brush against his knuckles, pretending it was an accident. When I leaned over his mahogany desk, I made sure my hair trailed lightly across his cheek. After a few calculated moves, Theo was completely intoxicated. He lost his grip on reality. But right in the middle of kissing me breathless, it was as if the Holy Ghost possessed him. He shoved me back, gasping for air, and started reciting his sisters can’t be wives gospel all over again. If you’re so pure, then why is the zipper on your slacks fighting for its life? Catching the direction of my gaze, a furious, humiliated flush crept up Theo’s neck. He pointed a trembling finger at his office door. His voice was a ragged rasp. “Get out!” 2 I was evicted. I stood in the sterile hallway of the executive floor, absolutely seething. In my head, I had already murdered Theo in eight hundred different, creative ways. I took a deep, shaky breath. Once I was done mentally assassinating Theo, I pivoted to cursing out his loud-mouthed friend. I shot a venomous glare at the closed oak door of the CEO’s office and scoffed under my breath. “Whatever. Who needs you.” I spun on my heel to storm off—and slammed face-first into a solid wall of muscle. I lost my footing entirely and went crashing down onto the carpeted floor. My tailbone screamed in agony. I was pretty sure my ass just died. God, that hurts! Tears of pure, unadulterated pain pricked the corners of my eyes. The man I collided with panicked. He dropped to his knees beside me, his hands hovering, unsure where to touch. “God, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He retrieved my discarded stiletto from the floor and carefully, gently, slipped it back onto my foot. Then, he offered his hands to pull me up. I leaned heavily against his chest, catching a faint, expensive drift of cedarwood and bergamot cologne. The impact had thoroughly rattled me. He cleared his throat, the awkwardness radiating off him in waves as he desperately searched for small talk. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. Are you a new hire?” I turned my head slowly to look at him. Spite was a bitter pill on my tongue. Without thinking, I fired back: “I’m Theo Sinclair’s little sister.” When our eyes met, he froze. A sharp intake of breath. “Wow. Small world. I’m Theo’s brother-in-law!” The moment those words left his mouth, a suffocating silence fell between us. His face contorted in sheer panic as he realized what he just said. He fumbled over his words, trying to backtrack. “I—I mean, small world. I’m Theo’s best friend. I’m Damian.” Hearing that name, I paused. My eyes raked over him, taking in the sharp jawline, the expensive suit. A slow, wicked smile curled in the shadows of my mind. I let my body go completely limp, melting against his chest like I had no bones at all. “I think I twisted my ankle,” I whispered, looking up at him through my lashes. “Could you take me home?” 3 Damian was a nervous wreck. His entire body was rigid, strung tighter than piano wire. A violent red flush crept up his neck and consumed his ears. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye. “Theo… never really mentioned having a little sister.” I looked at him, my expression hovering somewhere between a smile and a smirk. “Really? I’m quite sure he brought me up to you.” And you laughed in his face and told him he was sick for eating from his own family tree. You son of a bitch. I could have strangled him right then and there. Damian stole a quick glance at me, then forced a dry, hollow laugh. “Right, right. Now that I think about it, he did mention he had a very… cute… younger sister.” You don’t remember shit. When the engagement was finalized, our families had kept it incredibly private—just a quiet dinner with the immediate relatives. Damian hadn’t been invited. He had never seen my face. Now, Damian was bending over backward to play the gentleman. He practically tripped over himself to open my car door. He rushed into a pharmacy to buy expensive cooling gel for my ankle. When he finally parked outside my luxury apartment building, he awkwardly asked for my number. He threw out a hurried “See you around” and turned to bolt like a dog off a leash. I reached out and hooked my fingers onto the fabric of his shoulder. “Aren’t you going to help me apply the gel?” Damian froze in his tracks. His gaze dragged down, painfully slow, landing on my exposed ankle. “Is… is that really appropriate?” I tilted my head. “Are you planning to hit and run? Aren’t you going to take responsibility for injuring me?” “Responsibility! Yes, of course I want to take responsibility!” Damian blurted out instantly. “I just didn’t want to overstep.” He supported my weight as we took the elevator up. Once inside my apartment, he looked around like he was walking through a minefield. In my pocket, my phone was having a seizure. It was a relentless barrage of texts from Theo. [I’m sorry. I was too harsh earlier. Are you mad at me?] [I wanted to apologize right away. When I went out to the hall to find you, you were already gone.] [Noelle, please don’t do things like that anymore. I hate it when we fight over this.] [When you were little, you used to follow me everywhere. You called me ‘Theo’ with such trust. Can’t we just go back to how things used to be? Please?] Did you pop a boner for me when I was little too? Fucking hypocrite. I didn’t even have the energy to type out a reply. Damian was watching me, his eyes darting between my face and my pocket. He tried to sound incredibly casual, failing miserably. “Texting your boyfriend?” I tossed the phone onto the kitchen island and shook my head. “No.” Just my fiancé. Damian let out an audible sigh of relief. I stepped closer to him. “Do you care whether I have a boyfriend or not?” The question hit him like a physical blow. He turned a spectacular shade of crimson, stammering, completely lost for words. I didn’t let him breathe. “…Do you want to be my boyfriend?” Damian stopped breathing. He stared at my face for a long, heavy moment. Then, the blushing intensified. When he finally spoke, his words tripped over each other. “I mean… if you’re okay with it, I would absolutely love to be your boyfriend…” “It’s just, I’ve never really dated anyone before. I don’t even have female friends. I’m not very good at… talking to girls.” My phone buzzed against the marble counter. The screen lit up with back-to-back messages from Theo. [I’m in the elevator. I’m almost at your door.] [Can you forgive me? I brought you that strawberry shortcake from the bakery you love.] I tore my eyes away from the screen and looked at Damian. “My brother is coming upstairs.” Damian blinked, suddenly remembering that his entire reason for being downtown was to meet Theo at the office. But he had quite literally crashed into me and followed me home in a haze. He hadn’t even seen Theo yet. “Oh, right. I actually needed to talk to him about something.” Seeing that he completely missed the gravity of the situation, I spelled it out for him. “Do you want to hide? I mean… look at the time.” I gestured toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the city skyline was already swallowed by the dark. “If he finds the two of us alone in my apartment at night, he might get the wrong idea.” Damian processed this. A look of grim realization washed over his face. He nodded. I grabbed his wrist and dragged him down the hall, straight into my bedroom. I pointed at my massive king-sized bed. “Get in.” I pulled back the blush-pink duvet, releasing a cloud of sweet, feminine perfume into the air. Damian was completely dizzy. By the time his brain caught up with his body, he was already lying flat on his back in my bed, buried under my blankets. From the front door, the heavy, rhythmic thud of Theo knocking echoed through the apartment. “Noelle? Can I come in?” 4 By the time I walked out to open the door, Damian had dutifully pulled the covers all the way up to his chin. He was drowning in the scent of my expensive lotions and silk sheets. It was subtle, but intoxicating. A dumb, euphoric smile plastered itself across Damian’s face. But before he could take another deep breath, Theo’s deep, authoritative voice carried through the living room. “I tolerate your little games when we’re at home, but what on earth possessed you to kiss me in the middle of my office?” Damian’s euphoric smile shattered. He lay there, paralyzed, wondering if he had suffered a concussion and was hallucinating. In the living room, I crossed my arms and glared at Theo. “Why can’t I kiss you? Honestly, I’d like to bang you on your desk!” Theo pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked physically pained, like a man being tortured for state secrets. “We grew up in the same house! I practically raised you. I cannot do those things to you!” Under the pink duvet, Damian clapped both hands over his mouth in sheer terror, too terrified to even draw a breath. Theo and I stood in a suffocating standoff. Seeing that I wasn’t going to back down, he finally cracked. He let out a ragged sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat, and held out the pristine white pastry box. “I went to that bakery you love. I stood in line for forty minutes.” “I heard the strawberries are exceptionally sweet today.” He was desperately trying to change the subject, terrified of where the argument was heading. I didn’t even look at the box. “Do I look like a toddler to you? You break my heart, and you think the price of admission is a slice of cake?” Theo’s eyes softened. He reached out, pulling me flush against his chest, and pressed a tender, lingering kiss to my forehead. “Then what does my girl want?” his voice dropped, a soft rumble in his chest. “Bags? Diamonds?” I shook my head. I slid my arms up to loop around his neck, forcing his head down so our mouths were agonizingly close. “I just want to finish the kiss we started this afternoon.” “Please, Theo…” Theo’s spine went rigid. His instinct was to shove me away. But the memory of how cold he had been lately, the harshness of his rejection in the office—it weighed on him. He couldn’t bring himself to push me away again. His hands drifted down to grip my waist. He walked me backward, guiding me through the open door of the bedroom, right toward the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under our shifting weight. Lying just inches away on the other side of the bed, Damian’s soul left his body. He was stiff as a wooden plank, praying to a God he didn’t believe in that he wouldn’t be discovered. In that moment, he genuinely wished for a swift death. I traced the line of Theo’s lapel, my fingers hooking onto the knot of his silk tie, pulling it loose. Theo’s large hand clamped down over mine, stopping me. “Noelle, no…” his voice was a tortured rasp. “We’ll be quiet,” I whispered, a dark promise. “I won’t tell anyone.” Theo’s breathing turned heavy, jagged. He was teetering on the absolute edge of his control. He closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath to claw back a shred of his sanity. “…You’re my sister.” He turned his head away, desperate to break the spell. And as he looked away, his eyes landed on the massive, human-sized lump under the duvet on the other side of the bed. He frowned, the haze of lust instantly vanishing. “What the hell is that?” Beneath the covers, Damian’s face was the color of ash. His eyes stared blankly ahead, completely hollowed out by despair. I smiled. A slow, terrifying smile. Without a second’s hesitation, I gripped the edge of the duvet and yanked it back. Zero warning. Damian didn’t even have time to flinch. He just lay there, perfectly rigid, looking like a corpse in a morgue. The look he gave me was utterly shattered. Pure, unadulterated devastation. I leaned over, wrapping my arm intimately around Damian’s neck, pressing my cheek against his shoulder. I looked up at Theo and purred. “Theo, meet your brother-in-law.” Damian’s heart stopped beating. He turned his head, moving in slow motion, until his eyes met Theo’s. Theo’s gaze was pitch-black, a terrifying, homicidal void. Damian forced a smile that looked more like a grimace of agony. “If I told you I was just taking a walk and stopped in for a rest… would you believe me?” Theo didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. His answer was a textbook, devastating right cross straight to Damian’s jaw. Damian’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he instantly descended into the sweet release of unconsciousness. I calmly reached for my phone and dialed. “Hello, is this the crematorium?” 5 Theo, despite his flaws, had a conscience. Seeing that Damian was still drawing breath and hadn’t technically expired yet, Theo decided that an immediate cremation might be considered poor etiquette. After a brief internal struggle, he hauled Damian into his SUV and drove him to the ER. Damian kept his eyes firmly shut, playing dead. He lay in the hospital bed for hours. Only when he heard the distinct click of the door closing behind Theo did he dare to peel one eye open. Confirming that the Grim Reaper had left the room, he let out a massive exhale. Before he could finish the breath, he turned his head—and nearly screamed. I was standing directly over him. Damian aggressively rubbed his temples, his face twisted in a mess of frustration, terror, and profound confusion. He wrestled with his words for a solid minute before hesitantly asking, “What exactly is the relationship between you and Theo?” “Brother and sister,” I replied smoothly. The moment those words hung in the air, Damian looked like he was going to throw up. “Your brother is engaged to be married.” I nodded. “I know. And I’m dating you, my new boyfriend.” The word ‘boyfriend’ acted like a cattle prod. Damian nearly launched himself out of the hospital bed. “I am not! I never said that! Don’t you dare put that on me!” He frantically checked the door, terrified Theo was lurking in the hallway. Whatever carnal desires he had harbored for me were entirely eradicated. The man was operating solely on survival instinct. I tapped my chin, pretending to think deeply. “So… does that mean my brother is actually my boyfriend?” Damian paled. “…Please stop telling ghost stories in broad daylight.” The way he looked at me slowly shifted from sheer terror to a strange, misplaced pity. In his mind, he was piecing together a tragic narrative: a twisted, psychologically damaged girl, raised in a gilded cage, trapped in a sick, taboo obsession with her surrogate older brother. Damian physically shivered as his imagination ran wild with this gothic romance. He chewed on his bottom lip, clearly conflicted, before leaning in to offer a solemn warning. “You’re going to destroy him, you know that?” Even after getting his jaw realigned, he was still defending Theo. The man had the health bar of a raid boss. A brutal punch to the face didn’t deter him; it seemed to increase his loyalty. A glutton for punishment. A textbook masochist. I genuinely wanted to laugh in his face. Damian took a deep, centering breath. With the noble resignation of a martyr marching to the guillotine, he looked at me and said: “Let your brother go. I will be your boyfriend.” In a span of ten seconds, the concept of ‘bro code’ had ascended to terrifying new heights. I let the silence stretch. Then, I smiled. “Okay.” I reached out, wrapping my fist in the fabric of his hospital gown, and yanked him forward so his face hovered inches from mine. “My brother owes me a kiss. You can pay his debt.” Damian squeezed his eyes shut, compliant and entirely submissive. “You know, for a guy who claimed he’s never dated, you seem pretty experienced,” I murmured, a teasing edge to my voice. Damian’s eyes fluttered open, narrowing slightly. “I’ve never dated you.” Behind me, the hospital door cracked open. Theo stood perfectly still in the doorway, watching me and Damian share an intimate, whispered exchange. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but his hands slowly curled into fists. The sickening sound of his knuckles cracking echoed loudly in the sterile room.

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My husband, the man who once reigned supreme as the most terrifying Boss in the entire gaming multiverse, staged his own death to make a clean getaway. To drown out the silence of my suddenly empty manor, I started picking up a few male players in the game world. It was a casual distraction, or so I told myself. One gilded afternoon, while I was tucked away in the solarium enjoying a meticulously prepared tea, the sky fractured. A global system announcement blared across every server: The Duke of Roses has fallen in battle. In that heartbeat, my throat tightened. A cold, visceral fear clawed at my chest. I was the Duchess, after all. But in this world of blood and strategy, I was nothing more than a “waste”—a decorative object with a pretty face who spent her days indulging in luxuries while others bled through dungeons. I didn’t do raids. I didn’t do combat. I was the porcelain doll in a house of glass. As I sat there, paralyzed by indecision, a frantic stream of “Bullet Chat” comments began to flicker across my vision—the collective consciousness of the players watching my life like a reality show. [Can we talk about the plot twist? The Male Lead faked his death just so he wouldn’t scare the Female Lead with his Boss identity. He’s going undercover as a regular player just to be near her? That “Power Couple” trope is giving me life.] [Ugh, look at the Duchess. She’s such a waste. She should just stay put and be a pretty flowerpot. The Boss gave her maximum clearance; she’s literally invincible in this domain. Why the hell did she wander into other dungeons just to get hunted like a common NPC?] [Honestly? The Boss should have just killed his wife to prove his resolve. She’s nothing but dead weight.] [Did you see the latest chapter? The Female Lead’s hand shook when she saw the Duchess hurting people. She let her go so many times out of pity. Finally, she just got annoyed with the Duchess’s persistence. One clean strike, and the Duchess’s head was off. Brutal.] The delicate macaron in my hand hit the floor with a soft thud. Right then and there, I made a decision: I was staying put. I would stay in this dungeon and play the part of the “Little Queen” until the world ended. It was safer that way. But as the game cycles rolled on, the number of men I “rescued” and brought back to the castle began to multiply. It was getting out of hand. Desperate, I pulled out the one relic my “dead” husband had left behind—the Enchanted Mirror. “Mirror, mirror,” I whispered, looking at the glass. “The players I’ve picked up are top-tier, but they’re all demanding I ‘take responsibility’ for them. I’m exhausted. What am I supposed to do?” The words had barely left my lips when the air in front of me tore open. Space itself groaned as a familiar figure ripped through the fabric of the reality from another dungeon, stepping into my room with a dark, thunderous expression. 1. My husband died. As one of the most enigmatic and powerful Bosses in the network, Lucius, the Duke of Roses, was supposedly slain by a mediocre party of players. I was… melancholic. The Enchanted Mirror tried to cheer me up: “Think of the silver lining, mistress! A promotion, a fortune, and a dead husband—you’ve hit the trifecta of luck! This is a day for celebration!” I sighed, the lemon sponge cake in my mouth suddenly tasting like ash. Suddenly being thrust into the role of the primary Boss was like being asked to solve multivariable calculus when I’d only just mastered basic addition. The Bullet Chat scrolled by: [Say what you want, the Duchess is dim-witted, but she’s breathtakingly beautiful.] [Beauty is useless in a horror dungeon. She hasn’t even killed an ant. Meanwhile, the Female Lead cleared her starter dungeon on day one and unlocked the Hidden Ending.] [No wonder the Male Lead is obsessed. Faking his death to be a ‘newbie player’ just to get close to the FL… the strongest Boss and the strongest Rookie? They’re literally soulmates.] The truth was a bit more complicated. When I first tested into the NPC academy, Lucius was already a legendary Boss. As a wood elf, I looked much younger than I was. He actually thought the System had become so depraved it was recruiting child labor. He spent two hours screaming at the System developers before he finally picked me up and carried me back to his castle. Only after several cross-checks did he realize he’d misjudged my age. But because Lucius had essentially kidnapped me on my first day of work, my assigned dungeon collapsed. No other Boss wanted to take me in—I was tainted goods. Feeling a rare flicker of guilt, Lucius kept me at Rosehaven Estate so I could at least collect a paycheck. To ease my mind, he told me I was the “face” of the estate. My only job was to eat, drink, and look beautiful to show off how high-quality our dungeon’s benefits were. Occasionally, players would mistake me for a key quest-giver. They’d hide me away in secret rooms or bribe me with strange, colorful candies. I knew they wanted clues, but I truly had nothing to give. Lucius used to get so angry, convinced I was ruining the “integrity” of his game design. That was how I became the Duchess. [“She has hair like moonlight and eyes more brilliant than any gem. Do not look into them, or you will soon discover where the red-and-white cakes come from…”] I bought them. At the bakery. But out here, everyone’s identity is a lie. After that lore entry was added, players started avoiding me like the plague. One day, bored out of my mind while the Head Butler and the maids were out hunting players, I cornered Lucius and demanded a real job. His hand paused as he adjusted his formal cravat. He looked at me with a gaze that flickered between pity and annoyance. “You’re still young, and your strength is…” He saw the spark of hope in my eyes and coughed. “Your strength has… immense potential.” “So, the most important thing for you right now is to simmer. To observe. To wait.” He sounded so convincing. But I felt a hollow ache in my chest. When the dungeons closed for maintenance, the other NPCs would swap war stories, but I had nothing to share. Seeing my silence, Lucius tossed me the Enchanted Mirror. He told me it knew everything. He lied. The mirror didn’t even know he was faking his own death. 2. On my first day as the reigning Boss, I accidentally picked up a man. A new game cycle had begun. I remembered the Bullet Chat saying I was invincible in this dungeon, and I decided to see if it was true. As the new batch of players materialized in the courtyard, I smoothed my skirts and walked right up to them. They froze, sweat beading on their foreheads. I tapped the shoulder of the player closest to me, wanting to ask if he’d mind hitting me with a low-level spell just to test my defenses. The next second, he let out a scream like a slaughtered pig. I blinked, confused. An older, more experienced player hissed, “Stay calm! It’s the Duchess! Don’t look at her eyes!” They all squeezed their eyes shut and started hurling items at me—holy water, iron daggers, enchanted stones. Everything bounced off me without leaving a scratch. The Bullet Chat didn’t lie! I was so thrilled that I picked up a small girl standing nearby and spun her around three times in celebration. Seeing their weapons fail, the players shrieked and scattered. Within seconds, the courtyard was empty, save for a breathtakingly handsome man and the trembling little girl in my arms. The man was stunning—more beautiful than any NPC I’d ever seen. His skin had that marble-cold paleness of someone who never saw the sun, and his ice-blue eyes were clear but vacant. When I looked closer, I realized his pupils weren’t focusing. He wasn’t running because he couldn’t see me. A damp warmth on my chest reminded me of the girl. She was tiny, maybe six or seven years old. As soon as I set her down, she covered her eyes with her hands and huddled at my feet like a terrified kitten. “Please,” she whimpered. “Don’t kill me. My mommy is waiting for me. She’s sick, and it hurts every day. I have to go back.” The first lesson they teach you at NPC school is: Never show mercy. But I wasn’t an NPC anymore. I was the Boss. And a Boss does whatever she wants. I knelt down beside her. “I have a hidden quest for you,” I whispered. “If you eat this little cake I made, you clear the dungeon instantly and get a ten-fold reward. Do you dare to take the challenge?” The girl kept her eyes squeezed shut, her face a mask of terror. She thought about it for a long time, then shook her head. “Uncle Kay said monsters always lie.” I sighed and pressed a piece of candy into her hand instead. “Fine. But when the ‘Great Hunt’ starts, I’m going to hide you.” Before she left, the girl gathered her courage and looked up. She stared at me, awestruck. “Sister… they said we shouldn’t look at your eyes. Is it because they’re too pretty?” I let out a genuine laugh. It was the first time I’d felt truly happy since I took the job. The girl ran off to find her team, and I turned to go back inside. At the castle gates, I finally lost my patience and turned to the player who had been shadowing me the whole time. It was the beautiful, blind man. “Listen, player,” I said, trying to sound as menacing as possible. “Respect the game. If you step one foot inside this castle, I will kill you.” Then, he walked right in. The Butler and the maids looked at each other, then at me. I was floored. NPCs need a ‘trigger condition’ to kill, but Bosses don’t. Still, I lacked the experience. I couldn’t just execute him. The man turned his head toward me with eerie precision. His pupils were still dilated, but I felt like I was being pinned down by a predator’s gaze. “Caspian,” he said softly. “That is my name.” “Duchess… you remind me of someone I used to know.” “May I call you Rose?” I stared at him. The nerve! And how did he know my name was Rosalind? “Rose, may I stay?” His voice was like silk, each word carrying a hypnotic pull that made my defenses crumble. My head spun, and before I knew it, my body had already betrayed me. “You may.” The Bullet Chat exploded: [Wait, why is the secret antagonist in the Duchess’s dungeon? Isn’t he the final Boss of the Female Lead’s ultimate arc?] [The Duchess is such a fool. That’s not a player; that’s one of the strongest Bosses in the game. He’s a High Siren. His whole thing is soul-manipulation.] [Did you guys skip the lore? The Duchess saved him when they were kids. He’s been obsessed with her for centuries. He finally got strong enough to take her, only to find out she was married. He must have seen the death announcement for the Duke and hauled ass over here.] [I don’t remember this in the original script?] [In the original, the Duchess was supposed to find out her husband faked his death, get pissed, and go hunt the FL. The Siren came by, but she wasn’t there. Later, when he heard the FL killed the Duchess, he designed a ‘Hell Mode’ dungeon specifically to torture the FL. Wait… why is she still here?] What? Caspian wasn’t a player? I searched my memories, but I couldn’t find a trace of him. I took a cautious step back. If he was as powerful as my husband, I was in way over my head. 3. [GAME OVER! Congratulations to Boss Rosalind for achieving the achievement: NO SURVIVORS!] The system announcement echoed through the halls. I stood in a pool of blood, my new silk dress stained a sickening crimson. In front of me, the little girl lay still on the cold stone. Her face was frozen in a mask of absolute terror. Her fingers had been snapped back at impossible angles, but she was still clutching that piece of candy. The Bullet Chat was a blur of motion: [Holy crap, the Duchess isn’t a waste after all!] [She did the right thing! Those scumbags deserved to die!] [I’m so angry! That old player lied to the girl, telling her she could earn money for her mom’s medicine, but he just wanted a human shield. She was six!] [They saw the girl had a high-tier ‘item’ from the Duchess and they tried to rip it away from her. They tortured a child. Disgusting.] I stared at the blood-stained candy. An item? It was just a normal piece of candy. I’d only imbued it with a bit of my scent so I could find her during the Hunt. I knelt down and placed my hand over her eyes. A second later, every other corpse in the room detonated into a fine red mist, leaving the little girl lying there alone in the silence. “Goodnight, little one,” I whispered. I felt a hollow ache. I didn’t even know her name. Caspian appeared behind me. With a flick of his wrist, a stream of pristine, clear water flowed from his palm, wrapping around me and the girl. The filth washed away instantly. When the water vanished, the dungeon was serene again. The System reclaimed the girl’s body. “It wasn’t your fault, Rose,” Caspian said, stepping closer. “It’s not your fault. Destiny is never decided by a single piece of candy.” He pulled me into a gentle embrace. His voice was like a cool spring, soothing the jagged edges of my nerves. I remembered why I’d applied to be an NPC in the first place. My mother. Wood elves rarely choose this life; we don’t have the natural armor or the bloodlust. We’re easy prey for players. But my mother was dying. She grew weaker every day, and in her lucid moments, she’d write in a leather-bound journal. I’d peeked at it once. It was filled with advice for every stage of my life—things a mother wanted her daughter to know. She wrote it as a parent who knew she wouldn’t be there. Back then, I was just a girl who didn’t want to lose her mother. And the Horror Game paid very, very well. That night, I stared at the canopy of my bed. Since coming to Rosehaven, I rarely suffered from insomnia. The few times I did were after witnessing a particularly brutal massacre. But today, I was the one who had done the killing. I missed Lucius. When I couldn’t sleep, he’d read to me. It never worked, but he tried. Suddenly, a faint melody drifted into the room. My mind felt light, my vision blurring. Caspian was sitting on the edge of my bed. He looked different than he did in the daylight. He was devastating. His dark hair spilled over his shoulders like sea ink. Luminescent markings glowed on his skin, and delicate, silver-scaled fins peaked from behind his ears. His ice-blue eyes were focused now, burning with an intense, tender heat. “Rose… I’ve missed you so much.” “When I heard you’d married Lucius, I nearly tore the ocean apart with jealousy. He didn’t deserve you. I’m glad he’s dead. If he weren’t, I would have had to kill him myself.” “Rose, we were meant for each other long before he found you.” The world seemed to recede. I couldn’t hear his words clearly anymore, only the rhythmic movement of his lips. Driven by an impulse I didn’t recognize, I leaned forward and kissed him. Caspian let out a low, dark chuckle and pulled me closer. “Come with me, Rose. Let me show you what real devotion feels like.” That sentence, I heard perfectly. My consciousness rose and fell like the tide. Outside the castle, the withered roses in the garden bloomed all at once in the middle of the night. I remembered him then. Caspian was the little merman I’d saved years ago—the one who insisted he had to marry me to repay the debt. The next morning, I kicked him out of my room. He didn’t even seem angry. I grabbed the Enchanted Mirror. “Mirror… is there any way to resist a Siren’s charm?” In another dungeon, miles away, Lucius received the query and frowned. Where would she have encountered a Siren at Rosehaven? He figured she was just being curious. The mirror pulsed with his reply: Sirens cannot create desire from nothing. They only amplify what is already there. 4. And then, I got stuck with an Incubus. It was an accident. Unlike Sirens, who amplify existing feelings, Incubus magic is pure, unadulterated temptation. I’d decided to do a “performance review” of my dungeon’s perimeter. I was wandering the edge of the Whispering Woods when I blacked out. When I woke up, a man named Valentin was kneeling before me, his clothes in disarray, his damp eyes fixed on mine. He was the Incubus, and he was demanding an “explanation.” I rubbed my temples, tempted to just execute him and be done with it. But as I raised my hand, Valentin leaned his face into my palm, his pale violet eyes shimmering with unshed tears. My heart softened. Dammit. The Bullet Chat chimed in: [The Duchess is a beast! She just claimed the little Incubus right there in the woods. But where did he come from?] [Who knows? In the original timeline, the Duchess was already dead by now. Honestly, as long as she stays away from the FL and ML, I’m happy.] [The Incubus is so sweet, though. Look at him! He’s hungry, but he stops the moment she asks, unlike that Siren who just keeps pushing. Team Valentin!] [Why choose? I want her to have both.] I fell into a deep silence. Was the chat really suggesting that this man—with his eight-pack abs, sharp jawline, and forearms thicker than my waist—was the one who had been “claimed” by me? But I was a traditional woman! My husband was barely cold, and I already had a merman living in the guest wing. Valentin nuzzled my palm. “Mistress… please, have mercy,” he whispered, his face flushing a deep crimson. “My kind only has one partner for life. I already belong to you.” I sighed. I was just a soft-hearted wood elf. He looked so starved; I had to help him. But just as I moved toward him, a cold, familiar voice echoed from the forest path. “Rose? Are you out here?” Panic spiked in my chest. I instinctively shoved Valentin behind a massive oak tree, pinning him there and signaling for him to be quiet. Valentin seemed to be struggling. He kept shifting against me, his breath hot against my neck. I swatted him—a warning to stay still—but he let out a muffled, uncontrollable groan, his face turning even redder. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Please, let Caspian be deaf today. Caspian paused in front of the tree. “Rose?” The silence was deafening. I could hear my heart hammering against my ribs. After what felt like an eternity, Caspian murmured, “I suppose she isn’t here.” His footsteps faded. I exhaled, my knees going weak. By the time the little Incubus was “fed,” the sun had already set. My back ached. I told Valentin to find a place to hide for now, and I’d come for him when the coast was clear. I needed to go pacify my merman first. He couldn’t kill me, but he could certainly flood my dungeon. Valentin’s eyes went dim. He gave me a heartbreakingly fragile smile. “It’s alright, Mistress. You don’t have to look after me. I’ll hide from the monsters… I might lose an arm or a leg, but… it doesn’t matter.” He was so pathetic. How could I leave him? I decided to smuggle him into the castle. It was huge; surely I could hide one Incubus in the east wing without anyone noticing. The whole way back, Valentin clung to me, his tail wrapped tightly around my waist. Poor thing, I thought. He must be terrified of the forest mobs. When we reached the gates, he finally let go, looking down bashfully. “Mistress… is it wrong for me to stay? I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t need a title or a status. I just want to be near you.” I was genuinely moved. I led him inside, creeping through the foyer. The Butler and maids were out, so the coast was clear. Or so I thought. “You seem to have had a very busy day, Rose.” Caspian’s voice dropped like a guillotine blade. He was leaning against a pillar in the shadows, his expression unreadable. I froze. Caspian stepped forward, his shadow stretching long under the flickering oil lamps. He pointed a long, pale finger at Valentin. “Is this player proving difficult to handle?” “Let me kill him for you, Rose.”

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It started as a whim, a bit of Friday-night madness between me and Beatrice. We decided to play a real-life version of “Identity Swap.” We went all in. We didn’t just borrow each other’s clothes; we ordered identical wigs and matched our makeup down to the exact shade of crimson on our lips. We wanted to see if we could actually pass for one another, a social experiment to see how much of “us” was just the packaging. The rules were simple: swap lives for twenty-four hours. Experience the world through the other’s eyes. After a day of playing the part, Beatrice decided to stay over at my place. As I started toward the master suite to crash, she caught my arm, a playful glint in her eyes. “If we’re doing this for real, you have to sleep in the guest room tonight,” she laughed, tossing her head—or rather, the wig that looked exactly like my hair. “Authenticity, remember?” I gave in with a tired shrug. My husband, Wyatt, was supposed to be out of town on a business trip anyway. It didn’t seem to matter which bed I collapsed into. In the dead of night, while I was drifting through a deep, dreamless sleep, the guest room door creaked open. Before my brain could fully shake off the fog of sleep, the mattress sank. A man’s weight pressed down on me, his breath ragged and hot against my neck. His hands were already moving, tugging at the hem of my silk camisole. “You little devil,” he whispered, his voice a low, playful growl. “How’d you get the nerve to come back to my house tonight?” He chuckled, a sound that made my skin crawl. “Couldn’t handle being lonely? Had to come over and tempt me right under her nose?” 1 Those words hit me like a physical blow. I froze, my heart leaping into my throat, every trace of sleep vanishing in an instant. I knew that voice. It was Wyatt. The man who had called me six hours ago to say he was stuck in Chicago. My husband. But he hadn’t come home and headed for our bedroom. He had crept into the guest room in the dark. His hands were restless now, fumbling with the buttons of my sleep shirt, his touch familiar yet suddenly repulsive. He began to slide his hand beneath the fabric, tracing the skin of my waist with a practiced ease that suggested this wasn’t the first time. I didn’t make a sound. I couldn’t. I forced myself to stay limp, pretending to be caught in the heavy grip of sleep. The room was a void of shadows; thank God he hadn’t turned on the light. He couldn’t see my face. But as his breathing grew heavier, a sickening, jagged realization tore through me. Did he know it was me? Or… did he think I was Beatrice? “Quiet tonight, are we?” Wyatt murmured, his body pressing firmly against my back, his heat radiating through the thin silk. He nipped at my earlobe, his breath smelling faintly of bourbon and something sweet. I remained a statue, terrified that even a sharp exhale would give me away. More buttons gave way. His breath hitched, turning raspy with a desire I hadn’t seen in months. “You little liar,” he groaned. “You said I should come to your place tonight. I went there and found the house empty. Then I find you here, dressed like this… is it the thrill? Does being in my house make it better for you?” “You just couldn’t wait, could you? Sleeping in the guest room, waiting for me to find you…” “Hmm? Why won’t you talk to me?” A bone-chilling cold washed over me, starting at my toes and settling in the pit of my stomach. Fury, sharp and acidic, surged up to drown out the shock. In that moment, the truth was undeniable. Wyatt was cheating on me. He wasn’t looking for his wife, Isla. He was looking for his “guest.” He had been sleeping with my best friend long before tonight’s little game. The rage peaked, blinding and hot. “Get off me!” I shoved him with everything I had and lunged for the lamp on the nightstand. The light flooded the room, harsh and unforgiving. Wyatt instinctively threw his arm up to shield his eyes. “Bea, babe, keep it down…” But as his eyes adjusted and he saw my face, the color drained from his skin until he looked like a ghost. I ripped the wig from my head—the one that made me look exactly like Beatrice—and hurled it at him. It landed on his chest like a dead animal. Wyatt sat there, paralyzed, his face a mask of pure terror. “Isla… what are you… why are you in here?” I let out a short, jagged laugh that felt more like a sob. “Who else were you expecting, Wyatt?” He continued to stare at me, his forehead slick with sudden sweat. He tried to speak, but his jaw just worked silently, like a fish gasping for air. I leaned in, my voice dropping to a deadly, quiet edge. “I’m going to ask you one time. Who did you think I was just now?” Wyatt scrambled, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape hatch. “Honey, I… I was joking! It’s a prank!” “We’re in our house, Isla! I knew it was you the whole time. I was just… playing along with the game. I saw you guys earlier, and I thought I’d give you a scare. It was just a roleplay thing…” 2 “Was it?” His body was rigid, his pulse thrumming visibly in his neck. He was a terrible liar when he wasn’t prepared. My heart felt like a piece of lead. It all clicked into place—the countless times Beatrice had found an excuse to crash in our guest room over the last year. The time I’d woken up at 3:00 AM and thought I heard muffled laughter and the rhythmic creak of floorboards from the guest wing. I had told myself everyone deserved their privacy. I told myself she was my sister in every way that mattered. I had protected her secrets, never imagining that the secret was my own husband. I had been wearing a crown of thorns for months, and I was the only one who didn’t know it. The door clicked open. Beatrice stood there, yawning, wearing one of my old silk robes. When she saw Wyatt, she gasped, clutching the lapels of the robe over her chest in a theatrical display of shock. “Isla? Wyatt? What’s going on? Wyatt, I thought you were in Chicago!” I looked at Beatrice—my “best friend”—and felt a wave of nausea so strong I thought I might actually get sick. “I’d like to know that too,” I said, my voice dripping with ice. Wyatt’s face was ash-gray. “The trip… the meeting got pushed. I didn’t want to wake you up, Isla, so I just… I came in late…” He reached out, trying to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, trying to reclaim the role of the doting husband. “I’m so sorry I scared you, honey. I should have called.” I stepped back, revulsion blooming in my chest. I didn’t say a word, just let my gaze drift between the two of them. It settled on Beatrice’s nightgown—a low-cut, lace thing I’d never seen before. I remembered telling her once that her sleepwear was a bit… much for a guest staying with a married couple. She’d laughed it off. “What are you worried about, Isla? You think I’m gonna seduce Wyatt? Please. He’s like a brother to me. Only you could find that man attractive.” The lies were so thick they were suffocating. “Wyatt, I’m curious,” I said. “I never told you about the ‘Identity Swap’ game. I didn’t tell a soul that I’d be sleeping in the guest room tonight. So tell me… why did you come straight here instead of our bedroom?” The silence that followed was deafening. “Isla, I…” Wyatt fumbled, his eyes darting to Beatrice for a lifeline. “One question, Wyatt. Why was the guest room your first stop?” Sweat was rolling down his temples now. “I… I saw a light. I thought I heard a noise… I thought maybe someone had broken in…” It was pathetic. A child could have told a better lie. Seeing me unmoved, Beatrice stepped forward, a forced, sugary smile on her face. She reached out to grab my arm. “Isla, don’t be like that. It was me. I told him.” She squeezed my arm as if we were still co-conspirators. “I didn’t want him coming into the master bedroom and grabbing me by mistake in the dark! How awkward would that have been? So I sent him a quick text saying we’d swapped rooms for the night. Just to be safe.” I shook her hand off as if it were a spider. My eyes stayed locked on Wyatt. “And the ‘little devil’ comment? Calling me ‘Bea’ in the dark?” Wyatt’s composure shattered. His hands shook. “I didn’t! You misheard me, Isla!” He was desperate now, the veins in his neck bulging. “I called you… ‘Baby’! I said ‘Baby’!” “Baby?” I let out a jagged laugh. “We’ve been married for seven years, Wyatt. You haven’t called me ‘Baby’ since our honeymoon. Give me your phone.” Wyatt recoiled, shielding his pocket. “Isla, stop. You’re being paranoid.” I didn’t ask again. I lunged, snatching the device from the nightstand before he could grab it. “Isla!” My thumb found the sensor—he hadn’t changed his passcode. I opened his messages. There, pinned at the very top, was a contact named ‘Sweetheart.’ My heart stopped. “A sweetheart,” I whispered. I turned the screen toward them. “Except ‘Sweetheart’ is Beatrice’s number, isn’t it? Look at these messages. Look at how ‘ironic’ this roleplay is. Care to explain?” Wyatt looked like he was about to faint. Beatrice’s mask finally slipped, her face hardening into something cold and unrecognizable. “Isla, it’s a misunderstanding,” Wyatt pleaded. Beatrice stepped in, her voice losing its sweetness. “Oh, come off it, Isla. The ‘Sweetheart’ thing? It was part of the game! We were trying to see if we could trick everyone, even digitally. It was just a joke!” I reached the end of my rope. I swung my hand, the crack of my palm against her cheek echoing like a gunshot in the small room. “How do you even breathe with that much bullshit coming out of your mouth?” I pointed toward the door, my finger trembling with rage. “Both of you. Get out. We’re done.” I retreated into the study and slammed the door, locking it. I sat at my desk, my breath coming in shallow hitches, and pulled up the cloud storage for our home security system. Outside, the muffled sounds of their voices continued. Wyatt was begging, Beatrice was insisting it was a “prank gone wrong.” “Isla, I’m leaving,” Beatrice shouted through the door. “I’ll come back tomorrow when you’ve calmed down and we can talk this through like adults.” Eventually, the house fell silent. But I stayed awake, my eyes glued to the monitor. When we renovated three years ago, I’d installed a discreet camera in the hallway near the guest wing. We’d forgotten about it months ago. I began to scroll through the archives. Every Friday night Beatrice stayed over. Every “business trip” Wyatt took. By the fifth clip, I was numb. The tears started to fall, hot and silent, blurring the screen. 3 The footage was a catalog of betrayal. Every time Beatrice stayed over, Wyatt would “get up for a glass of water” in the middle of the night. He would walk straight to the guest room. Minutes later, he’d emerge carrying her, or they’d stumble out together, heading for the downstairs bathroom or the laundry room—places they thought were safe. The things they said to each other… the way they laughed at me while I slept upstairs… it was a visceral poison. “Your wife is right down the hall,” Beatrice whispered in one clip, giggling as he pressed her against the wall. “You’re gonna get caught, Wyatt.” He just kissed her harder. “She’s a heavy sleeper. She doesn’t have a clue.” “You little devil,” he murmured—the same phrase he’d used tonight. “You came here just to tempt me, didn’t you?” “You know me too well,” she replied, her voice a purr. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a hydraulic press. I couldn’t breathe. Beatrice. My maid of honor. The person who helped me pick out my wedding dress. The person who sent me links to “the best lingerie” and told me, “Keep that man happy, Isla, he’s a catch. Don’t get pregnant too soon, you need to keep the spark alive for a few more years.” She wasn’t giving me advice. She was protecting her own playground. I sat in that chair until the sun began to bleed through the blinds. When I finally opened the study door, Wyatt was slumped against the wall, his eyes bloodshot and dark. “Isla, thank God. Please, just let me explain. Beatrice and I, we aren’t—” I didn’t let him finish. I threw the tablet at his chest, the footage of them in the hallway playing on a loop. Wyatt watched for three seconds before his knees gave out. He collapsed onto the floor. “Isla… I… it was a mistake. A moment of weakness.” “Which one, Wyatt? The one in June? The one last Tuesday? Or the one ten minutes before I caught you?” My voice was a dead thing. “It was her! She set me up, she dressed like you, she made me think—” “Stop,” I snapped. “Don’t ever speak to me again. We’re getting a divorce.” I called a lawyer that morning. “The house stays with me. I bought it with my inheritance before we were even engaged. You’re the one who strayed. You’re leaving with nothing.” “You have three days to pack. If you’re still here on the fourth, I’m filing a police report for trespassing and releasing these videos to your mother and your boss.” The next week was a blur of cold fury. Wyatt tried to crawl back, tried to buy me flowers, tried to cry. Each time, I shut him down with a clinical precision that surprised even me. Eventually, he left, bruised and broken, moving into a shitty studio apartment across town. Beatrice tried a different tactic. She sent me “checking in” texts. She invited me to brunch as if nothing had happened. When I blocked her, she showed up at my favorite coffee shop. “Isla, seriously, what is wrong with you?” she asked, her voice tight with feigned indignation. “If you’re mad, just say it. Why the silent treatment?” I looked up from my book, my gaze level. “Ask yourself that, Bea.” “I’ve been your best friend for a decade. Do you really want to throw that away over a guy?” I felt a ghost of a smile touch my lips. “A guy? You mean my husband? The one you were fucking in my guest room while I slept twenty feet away?” She didn’t even flinch. She just let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Fine. I slept with him. So what? If he actually loved you, Isla, a million ‘temptations’ wouldn’t have worked. The fact that he came to me just proves your marriage was a shell. I was doing you a favor, showing you what he really is.” I closed my eyes, exhausted by her narcissism. “Get out of my sight, Beatrice. If I see you again, those videos go public. I’m sure your ‘influencer’ lifestyle won’t survive the scandal.” She stepped closer, a cruel glint in her eyes. She placed a hand over her stomach, which was still flat, but her gesture was deliberate. “Don’t be so sure you’ve won, Isla. Did you know I’m pregnant?” “And it’s Wyatt’s.” 4 The world tilted for a second, but I didn’t let my expression flicker. I let the news settle into the silence between us. “That’s between you and your lawyer,” I said finally. “Wyatt and I are over. Do whatever you want with his kid.” I turned to walk away. “Isla, wait,” she called out, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “I know how much you wanted a family. Don’t you want to know why he chose me to carry his child?” I tightened my grip on my bag. “Not really.” “He didn’t want it at first,” she continued, following me. “He was so careful. But after a while, he told me he liked my body better. He said he wanted a daughter who looked like me, because your genes were… well, a bit plain. He didn’t want a kid who looked like you, Isla.” “I was trying to be a good friend,” she added with a shrug. “I was going to tell you eventually.” “Enough!” The scream tore out of my throat before I could stop it. I was shaking, the image of them discussing my “plain” genes while they betrayed me burned into my mind. “Get away from me. If I ever see your face again, I will forget that I’m a lady and I will end you.” Three days later, Wyatt showed up at the door, looking like he’d been living in a dumpster. “Isla, I can’t sign the papers. Give me one more chance.” “Sign them, or I see you in court. And tell your mistress that if she contacts me again, I’m sending the ‘Sweetheart’ archives to her parents in Florida.” Wyatt’s face crumpled. He signed the papers with a shaking hand, the finality of it finally sinking in. He slinked back to his apartment, where Beatrice was waiting for him. “You’re back,” she said, lounging on his meager sofa. “You should be happy. You’re free now. No more ‘plain’ Isla to answer to. We can do whatever we want.” Wyatt didn’t look at her. “Don’t come here anymore, Bea.” Her smile faltered. “Oh, did I forget to tell you? I’m pregnant.” Wyatt froze. He looked at her, shock flickering in his eyes, followed quickly by a cold, hard resolve. “Get rid of it. We can’t have a kid.” “What? Why?” She stood up, grabbing his arm. “You said Isla was ‘barren.’ You said you were bored to death with her. You said if I got pregnant, you’d leave her for me! Well, she’s gone! This is your baby!” “It was a mistake,” Wyatt said, his voice flat. “Everything with you was a mistake. Isla is divorcing me because of you. If she finds out about a baby, she’ll never look at me again. There will be no chance of winning her back.” He looked at the small apartment, the reality of his new life hitting him. He didn’t want “freedom” with Beatrice. He wanted his big house, his comfortable life, and the wife who actually cared if he was fed and happy. He realized he’d burned his kingdom down for a handful of ash. “I’m taking you to the clinic,” he said, grabbing her wrist. “Now.” Beatrice fought him, screaming. “You coward! You pathetic excuse for a man!” “Beatrice, listen to me,” he hissed. “Isla is everything. You were just… a distraction. We have to fix this.” Beatrice stopped struggling and let out a chilling laugh. “You think she doesn’t know? I already told her, Wyatt. I told her days ago.” Wyatt’s face went white. “You did what?” “She’s never coming back. She hates you. But I have a plan. I know how to make her stay.” Wyatt looked at her, desperate. “How?” “Isla is so proud,” Beatrice whispered, her eyes alight with a frantic, dark energy. “She thinks she’s better than us because she’s ‘pure.’ But if she’s ‘dirty’ too… if she has a secret just as dark as yours… then she has no reason to leave you. You’ll be even.” “What are you talking about?” “We hire someone. We stage a ‘mishap.’ She loses her ‘purity’ to a stranger, and you ‘rescue’ her. She’ll be so broken, so ashamed, she’ll crawl into your arms and never let go. You’ll be her hero again.” Initially, Wyatt recoiled. But as the days passed and my lawyer squeezed him harder, his desperation turned into a localized insanity. He convinced himself he was doing it for me. To “save” our marriage. “Don’t hate me, Isla,” he whispered to my photo the night before. “I’ll still love you, even after you’re broken. I won’t care that you aren’t ‘clean’ anymore. I’ll be the only one who stays.” He waited in his car, heart hammering against his ribs, waiting for the clock to hit 10:00 AM. That was the plan. The men Beatrice hired would have been “finished” with me by then. He would burst in, the knight in shining armor, and take his traumatized wife home. “I’m coming, Isla. Hang on.” He and the police—whom he’d called to “report a suspicious tip”—kicked in the door of the abandoned warehouse on the edge of town. But as the dust settled, Wyatt didn’t see me. He saw a woman huddled on the floor, her face pale and streaked with blood. He gasped, his eyes bulging. “Bea? Where… where is Isla?”

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This marriage was a transaction from the very beginning. My family’s firm desperately needed an influx of capital to stay afloat; her family’s corporation was staring down the barrel of a massive lawsuit that only our political connections could make disappear. We were business partners, signing a contract disguised as a marriage license. Sleeping in separate bedrooms became the unspoken rule. Once, early on, I tentatively asked if she might want me to move my things into the master suite. She rejected the idea without a second of hesitation. Her reason was simple: “Patrick would mind.” Patrick. The golden boy. The untouchable first love carved so deeply into her bones that there was no room left for anyone else. She had looked at me with eyes like cracked ice and delivered the final blow: “If your family hadn’t forced this hand, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. This arrangement is fine as it is.” I had stood frozen in the hallway for what felt like hours, my throat tight, before finally managing a hoarse, “Okay.” Since the parameters were so clearly drawn, I stopped looking for warmth in a house built on ice. For the next three years, the ghost of Patrick haunted every corner of her life. Whether it was a Belmont family dinner, a corporate gala, or even my own father’s birthday banquet, the man standing dutifully by her side was always him. I could see the whispers behind the champagne glasses, the polite but pitying stares of the elite circle, silently placing bets on who the real husband in this story was. But it’s fine now. The lawsuit is buried, my family’s firm is thriving again. Our mutual usefulness has run its course. It is time to leave this hollow shell of a home. 1 I sat in the dim light of the study, reading the divorce agreement from top to bottom one last time. Black ink on stark white paper. Methodical. Clean. Under the division of assets, I had left every box blank. I didn’t want a single dime. This sprawling estate in Beacon Hill belonged to her before we wed, the cars were hers, the company shares had nothing to do with me. I was leaving with the exact balance my personal checking account held the day we walked down the aisle. I uncapped my pen and signed my name. Wesley Callahan. Three years ago, I was foolish enough to believe that even a marriage born of corporate strategy could grow into something real, if only I tended to it well enough. God, I was so stupid. I slid the papers into a manila envelope, leaving it dead center on the mahogany coffee table. Then, I pulled out my phone and tapped on my text thread with her. “Come home a little early tonight. We need to talk.” Two minutes bled by. A single grey bubble popped up next to her immaculate headshot. “Yeah.” I locked my screen and tossed the phone onto the leather sofa. Turning on my heel, I walked into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. It was a designer’s dream—a massive Sub-Zero fridge, double built-in ovens, imported German cutlery—all gleaming, untouched, arranged like a museum exhibit. I rarely used it anymore. When we were first married, I tried. I really did. I wanted her to come home to the smell of a warm meal. The first time, I spent hours slow-roasting red wine braised short ribs. She took one polite bite, said it was “fine,” and then her phone buzzed. She walked out the door five minutes later. Patrick needed something. The second time, I made pan-seared scallops. She never even came home. The third time, I cooked an absolute feast. I stood over the stove from four in the afternoon until seven in the evening. She actually walked through the front door—but Patrick was trailing right behind her. They were laughing, a shared inside joke dying on their lips the moment they saw me standing there with flour on my apron and a table full of food. Viola blinked, her smile faltering. “We have reservations,” she said flatly. “We’re heading back out.” Patrick stood just behind her shoulder, tilting his head. He offered me a soft, patronizing smile. “Looks like you worked hard.” Just thinking about that smile now makes battery acid pool in my stomach. I never cooked another meal. Seven o’clock came. She wasn’t home. Eight o’clock. Nothing. At nine, my phone finally vibrated. I picked it up. A text from Viola. “Patrick is dealing with something. I’m going to be late. Don’t wait up.” I stared at the glowing screen for a long time. Don’t wait up. I had lived inside those three words for three years. It was always like this. It was always Patrick. He was a man in perpetual crisis, and she was his eternal savior. If he caught a cold, she had to be there. If he felt melancholic, she was his sounding board. When he moved apartments, she was boxing up his life. When he adopted a stray cat, she was picking out the kibble. Once, Patrick mentioned craving a specific slice of red velvet cake from a bakery across town. Viola drove forty minutes in gridlock traffic, delivered it to his loft, and waited for him to finish eating before driving back. She got home at 1:00 AM. “Did you even eat dinner?” I had asked her in the dark kitchen. “I ate at Patrick’s,” she replied, not looking at me. She went straight to the shower and then locked herself in the guest bedroom. I should have understood it then. But I didn’t. I held onto the naive belief that a wedding ring bought me time. I thought that if I was patient, if I gave her space, she would eventually notice that I wasn’t so bad. That if I was just good enough, quiet enough, supportive enough, she would eventually turn her head and look at the life we could build. Looking back, it’s laughable. When someone has absolutely no space for you in their heart, your goodness is just white noise. She wouldn’t love me for being perfect; she would just view my perfection as entirely irrelevant to her. I didn’t reply to her text. In the past, I would always type back an immediate “Okay,” just to show I was reliable. Sometimes I’d add a pathetic “Drive safe,” desperate to perform the role of the understanding, magnanimous husband. Tonight, I couldn’t stomach it. It didn’t matter anyway. In a few days, she wouldn’t have to text me at all. 2 I left my phone on the table and picked up the remote, flipping channels blindly. A late-night talk show was on, celebrities throwing their heads back in exaggerated, booming laughter. I sank into the cushions, struck by the sudden, suffocating absurdity of my existence. Here I was, sitting in a multi-million dollar mansion, guarding a hollow marriage, waiting for a wife who would never prioritize me. And she was out with her first love. Openly. Righteously. Because on the day we signed our marriage license, she had made it crystal clear: If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be in this mess. In her eyes, I was the villain. I was the one who had driven a wedge between her and Patrick. I had used my family’s power to strong-arm her into a gilded cage. But what was the actual truth? The truth was, my father’s real estate empire had over-leveraged, and the cash flow had completely dried up. Her family’s tech firm had been caught in an ugly, potentially devastating federal probe, and they desperately needed my father’s political leverage to quash it. The patriarchs of our two families sat down over dry martinis and thick steaks, and our lives were traded like poker chips. No one asked me if I wanted to marry her. No one asked her if she wanted to be my wife. To the rest of the world, it was a perfectly balanced equation. Her family provided the capital, mine provided the shield. A flawless corporate merger. But Patrick became the casualty of our merger. Viola genuinely believed I had stolen his rightful place. I had demoted him from the man she was meant to marry to the dirty little secret she had to hide. And so, she gave every ounce of her guilt and devotion to Patrick, and reserved all her coldness for me. On our wedding night, she drank heavily at the reception. When someone finally helped her up to the master bedroom, I reached out to help her out of her heavy, beaded gown. She gripped my wrist. Her grip was terrifyingly strong. “Wesley Callahan,” she whispered, her voice rough with champagne and venom. “You know exactly what this marriage is. I don’t love you. I will never love you. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll play your part, go to work, and stay out of my way. We live our own lives.” She dropped my arm, stumbled out the door, and locked herself in the guest suite. We had slept in separate rooms ever since. She took the guest room; I took the master. Now that I thought about it, in three years, she had only crossed the threshold of the master bedroom twice. The first was that wedding night. The second was last winter, when my fever spiked to 103 degrees. I was delirious, shivering violently under the heavy down comforter. Marta, our housekeeper, had called her in a panic. Viola showed up two hours later. She stood in the doorway, her tailored trench coat still on, looked at my sweating, trembling form, and told Marta to call an Uber to take me to urgent care. Then she left again. She said Patrick had a gallery opening he was nervous about, and she had to be there to support him. She didn’t come home that night. When I woke up at 7:00 AM, throat feeling like broken glass, I checked my phone. Not a single notification. I washed up and walked slowly downstairs. Marta was already at the stove. When she saw me walk in alone, she stopped, her mouth opening and closing before she finally settled on a quiet, “Mr. Callahan, what can I make for you this morning?” “Just some toast and black coffee, Marta. Thanks.” I sat at the vast, empty granite island. My phone lit up. A text from Viola. “Patrick had too much to drink last night. I stayed over to make sure he was okay. I have a board meeting all morning, won’t be back.” I set the phone face down and took a sip of my bitter coffee. “Marta,” I said softly. “Could you pick up some cardboard moving boxes for me when you go to the store today?” She froze, the dish towel slipping from her hands. “You’re… moving, sir?” “Yeah. In a few days.” She opened her mouth, her eyes welling with questions she didn’t dare ask. But reading the absolute exhaustion on my face, she swallowed them down. She had worked in this house for three years. She had seen the quiet indignities. She knew. “Of course, Mr. Callahan.” 3 Marta nodded quietly and turned back to the stove. After breakfast, I went upstairs, pulled on a pair of raw denim jeans and a simple sweater. I was meeting a realtor today. Before I could officially walk away from this house, I needed a place to land. I hadn’t asked for a dime in the divorce, but that didn’t mean I was destitute. I had my own savings from before the marriage. And over the last three years, though I hadn’t worked, the Belmonts had dutifully deposited a $20,000 monthly “allowance” into my account. I rarely touched it. I had saved enough to float myself in a nice apartment for a year or two while I figured out the rest of my life. The realtor was a kid named Josh—sharp suit, fast talker, eager to please. He showed me a sun-drenched two-bedroom loft in Somerville, just outside the city center. The neighborhood had a quiet, artistic pulse to it. “Mr. Callahan, the natural light in here is incredible,” Josh pitched, gesturing to the floor-to-ceiling windows. “The owner just did a full gut renovation. Everything is brand new. They’re asking six and a half thousand a month. What do you think?” I stepped out onto the Juliet balcony. The air was crisp, overlooking a neighborhood park where autumn leaves were turning gold. It wasn’t massive, but it was enough. Most importantly, there wasn’t a single trace of Viola Belmont in these walls. “I’ll take it,” I said. Josh blinked, clearly not expecting me to bypass the negotiation phase entirely. Then his face broke into a massive grin. “Amazing! I’ll draw up the lease with the owner right now.” I signed a one-year lease, wired the first, last, and security deposit on the spot. Stepping out onto the pavement with the brass keys heavy in my pocket, the afternoon sun hit my face. It felt warm. For the first time in years, I felt incredibly light. By the time I got back to Beacon Hill, Marta had stacked flattened Home Depot boxes in the center of the living room. I was just about to head upstairs to tackle my closet when the heavy oak front door clicked open. I didn’t turn around. I could already feel the shift in the air. Sure enough, a second later, a voice rang out behind me. “Oh, you’re home.” I turned. Patrick Giles was standing in the foyer, shucking off a designer cashmere coat. His eyes drifted from my face down to the cardboard boxes at my feet, pausing for a fraction of a second. “Packing up?” I didn’t answer him. Instead, my voice came out flat, stripped of any emotion. “What are you doing here?” “Viola brought me.” He strolled into the living room like he owned the place. “The lease on my loft is up, and I haven’t found the right spot yet. She told me to crash here. Said I could stay as long as I need.” I simply nodded. “Oh.” Patrick clearly hadn’t anticipated such a lifeless reaction. The smug little smile playing on his lips faltered. “You don’t mind, do you?” He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “I mean, I told Viola it might be a little awkward, but she insisted. She said—” “If she told you to stay, then stay,” I interrupted, my voice perfectly level. “It’s a big house.” His jaw tightened. He walked over to the velvet armchair and sank into it, crossing one leg over the other. “You are just so incredibly generous, Wesley.” The venom was barely hidden now. “First you generously take my place at the altar, and now you generously let me sleep under your roof.” I looked down at him. Suddenly, I found the whole scene deeply, profoundly pathetic. I didn’t take the bait. I turned my back to him and started for the stairs. Feeling dismissed, Patrick raised his voice. “Wesley, I’m talking to you.” I paused on the first step and looked back over my shoulder. “I heard you. But you didn’t come here to bond with me, Patrick, so let’s not waste each other’s time. I have packing to do.” Patrick stood up, the faux-polite smile completely vanishing from his face. “You’re leaving?” The words slipped out, laced with genuine disbelief. “What else would I do?” I asked quietly. “Stay here and be a third wheel in my own marriage?” 4 Patrick stood frozen, struck completely dumb. I continued up the stairs, leaving him stranded in the vast, echoing living room. I opened my closet doors and began pulling hangers off the rack. After three years, I didn’t have much to show for my life here. Viola had never taken me on a vacation. She had never bought me a single gift. Not for our anniversary, not for my birthday, not for Christmas. Looking back, the sheer asymmetry of it all was staggering. I folded my last wool peacoat and placed it gently into the box. As I reached for the packing tape, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Viola. “Dinner with clients tonight. Won’t be back to eat. Patrick moved his things in today. Make sure you set up the east guest suite for him.” I stared at the screen, locked the phone, and went back to taping my boxes. By early evening, my closet and study were practically stripped bare. When I finally walked downstairs, Patrick was sitting on the living room sofa, nursing an espresso. Hearing my footsteps, he glanced up. His eyes immediately locked onto the manila envelope I had left sitting squarely on the coffee table. “What’s that?” he asked. I didn’t answer. I walked over, picked up the envelope, and sat down in the armchair directly across from him. Patrick stared at the envelope for a few heavy seconds. Suddenly, he let out a short, sharp laugh. “Divorce papers?”

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