Category: English

I’m a relationship coach who streams online, the person women call in the dead of night to help them navigate the wreckage of their hearts. That night, a young woman called in. She claimed she’d been a billionaire’s mistress for seven years and now wanted out. She wanted to go back to her small town, get married, settle down. But he was threatening to kill himself if she left. I gave her my standard, professional advice. “You want to be free? Go to his wife. Tell her everything. Confess your mistake and return every single thing he ever gave you.” Three days later, a box arrived at my door. Inside was the deed to a house, keys to a dozen luxury cars, and what looked like a hundred designer handbags. At the same time, a notification lit up my phone: a wire transfer for $850,000. The attached note read: “Thank you for the advice. I’m returning everything to its rightful owner.” I stared at the name on the deed, my husband’s name, and that night, I started my livestream. “Tonight,” I said, my voice hollow, “I’m going to tell you all a joke. And the punchline is me.” 1 “Remember that girl from the other night? The one who’d been a billionaire’s mistress for seven years, asking me how to break free?” I was walking through the villa, the one from the deed, my phone still streaming live. I felt pathetic. Even now, in the moment I discovered my husband’s affair, my first instinct was to turn my own humiliation into content, into traffic. All to pay for my father’s astronomical medical bills. A lump formed in my throat. “Do you want to know what happened next?” I continued, my voice tight. “Well, it turns out… I’m the wife.” The comment section exploded. Digital gifts, animated supercars, a flood of notifications. But before I could say another word, the front door of the villa was thrown open. “Stop following me! I told you, we’re over!” It was a woman’s voice. The exact same voice from my livestream three nights ago. My heart seized in my chest. And then I saw him. Ethan. He followed her inside, his face a mask of desperation. She wrenched her arm from his grasp, and his expression darkened. “Mia, baby, don’t joke like that.” Her voice was muffled. “I’m not joking… My mom set me up with a really nice guy back home. I’m going back to marry him.” A switch flipped in Ethan. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, pacing like a caged animal before finally kicking the glass coffee table, shattering it across the marble floor. “Who is he? What could he possibly give you that I can’t?” The crash made the girl—Mia—flinch, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “You’re an asshole, Ethan… you…” He closed the distance between them, his anger melting away as he tenderly kissed the tears from her eyes. “If you don’t want me to die right in front of you,” he whispered, his voice raw, “then don’t leave me. Please.” She pushed him away, her voice rising to a shout. “Then what am I supposed to do? You can’t give me a ring, but you won’t let me go!” She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs. In our seven years of marriage, Ethan had always been the epitome of cool control, a man of unshakable composure. I had never seen him like this—unhinged, frantic, utterly consumed by a love that wasn’t for me. My hand went slack, and the selfie stick clattered to the floor. The camera angle shifted wildly, sending the live chat into another frenzy. [Wait, did I just see the other woman’s face? Someone screenshot that!] [OMG this is the messiest, most incredible drama ever. Live front-row seats to the husband’s epic breakdown!] [That guy is hot, though. NGL.] [CHLOE! What’s happening? Pick up the camera!] The sound of the phone hitting the floor finally drew their attention. They both looked up and saw me standing on the landing of the staircase. Mia’s eyes lit up with a desperate hope, as if I were her savior. “You’re here! You actually came!” She rushed up the stairs and grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “The house, the cars, I don’t want any of it! Please, just talk to him. Tell him to let me go. You said… you said if I gave it all back, I could walk away. Right?” I stood there, frozen, the blood draining from my face. I couldn’t form a single word. But Ethan’s shock had already curdled into rage. He stormed up the stairs, grabbed me by the throat, and slammed me against the wall. His eyes were cold and dark. “When did you find out about Mia?” His gaze dropped to the deed in my hand, and his fingers tightened around my neck. “Did she make you give the house back? Huh?” I couldn’t breathe. It was Mia who pulled at his arm, her voice panicked. “No! I brought it to her myself! Stop it, you’re hurting her!” Ethan finally released me. He turned back to Mia, his hand instantly finding hers, his voice dropping to a soft, pleading whisper. “What if I said I could give you the title? Mrs. Blackwood. Anything you want, Mia. I’ll give it all to you.” I squeezed my eyes shut, a wave of bitter resignation washing over me. The title I had held for seven years, offered up like a party favor. In the ringing silence, Mia slowly let go of my arm. She looked down at the floor and whispered, “…Okay. I’ll give you three days. If you can’t do it in three days, you have to let me go.” 2 After Ethan left with Mia, I bent down and picked up my phone. I was stunned to see that over a hundred thousand people were watching the stream. The comments were all screaming the same thing: Read the diary! I looked over to where my phone had fallen. Next to a pile of Mia’s luggage, a small leather-bound journal lay open on the floor. My hands trembling, I did what my audience demanded. I opened the diary. With every page I turned, the world tilted further off its axis. March 18th, 2018 We’ve been together for three years, but today, he got married. He promised me she was just a business arrangement, a tool for an alliance. He said I was the only one he loved. We cried and made love all night, desperate and broken… My wedding night. The night Ethan told me he had an urgent business trip, leaving me to sleep alone in our cold, empty bed. April 4th, 2019 He swore he didn’t love her, but now she’s pregnant. He was furious, his eyes red. He promised me, he swore on his life, that she would never have his child before I did. I’d been pregnant six times in seven years. Every single time, I lost the baby to a freak “accident.” The first, a hit-and-run. The second, a mugging that went wrong. The third, a severe case of food poisoning. …I felt a cold dread creep up my spine. I didn’t dare think about the others. June 19th, 2021 The storm was terrible today. I was so scared of the thunder, I lost control of the car and hit something. I’m so glad he was here to hold me. That was the day my mother died. It was pouring rain. I had collapsed on the pavement, sobbing until I passed out, miscarrying our fourth child. He had told me he was stuck in a meeting, unreachable. He’d been with her. All night. May 14th, 2025 My family is pushing me to get married. I tried to break up with him for the first time. He gave me 10% of his company’s stock. He said it was my security, my power. Tucked into the page was a stock transfer agreement. I read the document, and the air left my lungs. My entire body went numb. This May, just a few months ago, my father’s tech company had faced a catastrophic cash flow crisis. It was on the verge of bankruptcy. I had begged Ethan, pleaded with him for a bridge loan, for any kind of help. He’d told me his assets were tied up, that his hands were tied. The assets that were “tied up” had been transferred, without a moment’s hesitation, to Mia. My father’s company went under. He had a massive stroke and ended up in the ICU. I couldn’t control it anymore. My hands shaking violently, I ended the livestream and finally, finally let myself break, my body wracked with silent, gut-wrenching sobs.

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For eight years, I was the perfect wife to a man who claimed he never wanted children. Then I found out he had a six-year-old son, born on our anniversary, and his entire family was in on the lie. They thought I would crumble. They thought I would cry. They forgot that my name is on the door of the most ruthless divorce law firm in the state. And I’m about to take on my most personal case yet. 1 On our eighth wedding anniversary, Ethan’s text arrived like a predictable weather forecast: Stuck at the office. Raincheck? For a moment, disappointment flickered. Then, with a familiar, practiced motion, I cancelled the reservation at Per Se. He was always busy. We hadn’t properly celebrated an anniversary in years. It was almost a relief when my paralegal knocked on the doorframe. “Ava, that new client is here. The one who insisted on you.” I settled back behind my desk. The woman who walked in had a smirk playing on her lips before she even sat down. “Our son is six now,” she began, without any preamble. “And everyone knows that children born outside of a marriage still have inheritance rights. So, you tell me, what’s a wife who can’t even produce a child still clinging to a dead marriage for?” She slid a file across the polished surface of my desk. “Honestly, we had a ceremony years ago, abroad. If his wife wasn’t such a ball-busting lawyer, we’d have a marriage license by now.” I opened the folder. The name on the intake form was Ethan Hayes. A jolt went through me, but I dismissed it. A coincidence. A common name. Because everyone knew my Ethan was child-free by choice. He didn’t just dislike kids; he claimed to loathe the very idea of them. But then she pushed a photo from her purse and laid it on the desk. My breath caught. It was like looking at a childhood picture of Ethan. The same unruly brown hair, the same shape of the eyes. Before I could process it, she produced another photo. This one made the world tilt, then shatter. It was Ethan, my Ethan, his head bent with a look of intense, gentle focus, carefully pulling a tiny sock onto a small foot. So, he didn’t hate children. He just hated the idea of having children with me. The realization hit me with such force that a wave of nausea washed over me, and I had to swallow down a gag. The woman across from me simply arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “So, Ava,” she said, my name a poison dart from her tongue. “Are you going to take the case?” … I stared at her, my hands trembling under the desk. My throat felt like it had been clamped in a vise. I couldn’t speak. On my phone, a text from Ethan an hour ago still glowed: Got a surprise for you for the anniversary, babe. Later. A bitter laugh tried to crawl up my throat. Some surprise. This was the kind of gift you only wanted to receive once in a lifetime. The woman, Sophia, let out a soft, mocking laugh and stood up, placing her phone face-up on my desk. She looked down at me, savoring the pale shock on my face. “Did you know,” she said, her voice a confidential purr, “that ever since my son was born, Ethan has never once spent an anniversary with his wife?” She leaned in closer. “Because my little boy was born on your wedding day. Of course, he wants to be with us, to celebrate his son’s birthday.” “You tell me, Ava,” she whispered, “a woman who stays in a marriage like that… does she have some kind of humiliation fetish?” She laughed outright at that, a bright, cruel sound. My fingers dug into the edge of my mahogany desk, the polished wood biting into my skin. I was trying to stop the shaking, but my nails scraped against the wood until I felt a sharp sting. A lawyer’s first rule is to maintain a poker face. Never let them see your weakness. But my face had drained of all color. I was broken. So that was it. That was why he was always “working late” today. I pushed the feeling down, crushed it into a tight, manageable ball in my chest until I could force words out. “Is it possible,” I heard myself say, my voice thin and reedy, “that he’s never actually asked his wife for a divorce?” Sophia feigned a gasp. “Oh, of course not. He wouldn’t want to hurt her poor, fragile feelings.” She paused, her eyes glittering. “But you’d think a woman would take a hint, wouldn’t you? I mean, from what I hear, they haven’t had… you know… a real marriage in years.” Her voice dropped again, laced with venomous pity. “He told me that after all this time, the thought of her body just… bores him to tears. He said he couldn’t imagine being saddled with a boring woman who would only produce a boring child. That would be the end of his life, he said.” She sighed dramatically. “It’s why he’s always so… energetic with me. Making up for lost time.” A thousand tiny needles pricked at my heart. My vision had gone numb, fixed on the photo on her phone. I burned the image into my memory, a self-inflicted wound I would revisit again and again. Ethan and I were the cliché. Childhood sweethearts. We’d grown up together, our hands always finding each other. He proposed a year after we started dating, desperate to lock it down. At first, he said he didn’t want kids because he was afraid they would steal my love from him. The one time I pushed it, he got so angry he slept in the guest room. “Now you know what it feels like to not have me in your bed because of a kid!” he’d yelled through the door. I’d laughed then, thinking it was just him being childish. I respected his choice. The box of condoms in our nightstand was always replenished before it was empty, just in case. Not that we’d used one in years. Eight years of marriage. I thought we’d dodged the seven-year itch. Even as he got busier with his company, he was never impatient with me. He’d just ask for my understanding, quoting some tired line about how a man’s thirties are his new sixties. I believed him. But the reality was a six-year-old boy. I didn’t even know when it started. When he had started living this entirely separate life. Just then, Sophia’s phone screen lit up with a notification. The profile picture was the same one I had saved in my contacts. The same man who, just this morning, told me he was swamped with work. The message preview read: Hey baby, on my way up. A polar vortex of ice swept through my veins. Sophia picked up her phone, her expression a mask of pure scorn. “It seems the great Ava Harrison isn’t so great after all.” She slipped the phone into her designer bag. “My husband is here to pick me up. We’ll talk later.”

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The day Cole Donovan brought his ghost home, I was standing in the marble entryway, spatula in hand, about to ask if he wanted me to add another course to dinner. Then I saw her. The ghost. She pointed a trembling finger at me, her eyes welling with cinematic tears. “I knew it!” she cried, her voice cracking with practiced despair. “It’s always true, what they write in the novels! The second I go abroad, you find a replacement and install her in your house!” A replacement? 1 I glanced down at my stark white chef’s coat, the grease-resistant clogs on my feet, and the silicone spatula I was still holding. If this was a casting call for a stand-in, nobody had bothered to give me the script. Before I could process the sheer absurdity of it, the woman—Claire Sterling, I’d soon learn—doubled down. “No wonder you’ve been so distant these past few years, barely a word while I was away. You had a new toy to play with. You threw me away, your first love, like I was nothing.” Her voice rose to a dramatic crescendo. “And now that I’m back, you can’t even bear to send her away. Fine. If that’s how it is, I’ll leave. I’ll leave you two to your happiness!” Watching her, a fragile porcelain doll on the verge of shattering, I was utterly dumbfounded. What in the Lifetime movie was happening? Wasn’t I Charlotte Hale, the chef Cole Donovan had personally headhunted and offered a one-million-dollar annual salary to manage his gastritis with my culinary skills? How did I get promoted from private chef to home-wrecking doppelgänger? Cole himself looked pained, a deep furrow forming between his brows. “Claire, what on earth are you talking about? You were gone for three months, and I flew to Paris to see you every other week. How is that ‘barely a word’?” He gestured toward me, his hand slicing through the thick tension in the air. “And this is Charlotte Hale, my chef. She’s not… whatever it is you’re imagining.” “A chef?” A single, perfect tear traced a path down her cheek. “Since when are chefs young and… and look like that?” “I like to wear white,” she choked out, pointing at my uniform coat. “And she’s wearing white. If that’s not a sign, what is? Cole, darling, you don’t have to lie to me.” I looked down at my functional, double-breasted cotton coat, then at her ethereal white silk dress that probably cost more than my first car. The only thing they had in common was the absence of pigment. An involuntary twitch started at the corner of my eye. I sighed, deciding to intervene with logic—a futile weapon, I’d soon discover. “Ms. Sterling, I really am the chef. If you don’t believe me, you can come to the kitchen. There’s a chicken soup simmering on the stove right now.” She clapped her hands over her ears and stomped a stiletto-clad foot. “I’m not listening! I’m not! And even if there is soup, you probably just put it there to trick me!” Cole looked utterly exhausted. “Claire, what will it take for you to believe that Charlotte is just the chef?” “Get rid of her,” she said instantly, a triumphant glint in her teary eyes. “Then I’ll believe you.” She crossed her arms, looking like a detective who had just cracked a case wide open. “I’ve read this story a hundred times. The First Love and the Stand-In can’t coexist under the same roof. It’s only a matter of time before she schemes her way into my place. I won’t lose you, Cole. She has to go.” Hearing this, Cole’s frown deepened. He shot a hesitant glance in my direction. His gastritis had only just started to improve under my care; he was nowhere near ready to go back to takeout and bland protein shakes. But it was clear Claire wasn’t going to back down. After a moment that stretched into an eternity, he made his decision. He walked over to me, lowering his voice. “Charlotte, I know our contract is for a live-in position, but given the… situation, I’m going to have to ask you to move into my penthouse downtown.” My ears perked up. “I’ll cover the commute, of course—double the rate for your trouble. And I’ll add a three-month salary bonus as compensation for the inconvenience. How does that sound?” My eyes lit up like a slot machine hitting the jackpot. Cole’s downtown penthouse was a five-minute drive from the estate. Not only would I get a paid commute, but I’d also bank an extra quarter of a million dollars? Just for moving my suitcase? This was more than a win. This was a lottery ticket. I nodded so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. “No problem at all, Mr. Donovan. Do you need me to move out right now?” I already had my phone out, ready to call a moving service. Cole seemed taken aback, probably expecting me to put up a fight or burst into tears. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, but he just nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice flat. “That would be best.” The movers were surprisingly fast. As I directed them with my luggage, Claire sauntered over in her heels, looking down at me from her self-appointed pedestal. “See, Charlotte? You can sneak in while I’m gone, but it doesn’t matter. In the end, you’re the one being shipped out. In Cole’s heart, I’m the only one who matters. No matter how hard you try, a replacement will always be a replacement.” Just then, my phone buzzed. A notification from my bank. The seven-figure wire transfer for my “inconvenience” was shining on the screen. Suddenly, Claire’s face seemed almost angelic. She was my benefactor, the catalyst for this beautiful windfall. I smiled at her, a wide, genuine smile. “You’re absolutely right. You’re the most important person to Mr. Donovan. I could never compare.” She sniffed, mollified. “At least you know your place.” She turned and clicked away on her heels. In the distance, I heard Arthur, the house manager, asking where she’d like to stay. Her reply was loud and clear. “I’ll take the room Cole keeps locked, the one filled with my photos that he uses to remember me by.” Arthur sounded bewildered. “Ma’am, I don’t believe such a room exists.” Her voice shot up an octave. “How could it not? In the stories, after the First Love goes away, the CEO always keeps a locked shrine for her, a room no one is allowed to enter! If you don’t know about it, just say so. Don’t tell me it doesn’t exist!” Her voice faded as she walked further into the house. I just shook my head and offered a silent, two-second prayer for Arthur. He was going to need it. 2 Life in the penthouse was, for a time, blissfully quiet. My duties were simple: three times a day, Arthur would pick me up and sneak me onto the estate, steering clear of Claire’s line of sight, so I could prepare Cole’s meals. The rest of the time was my own. I felt my energy returning, the color coming back to my cheeks. Arthur, on the other hand, looked like he was wilting. Each day, the dark circles under his eyes grew more pronounced. One morning, during our clandestine hand-off, I couldn’t help but ask. “Arthur, is everything okay? You look like you haven’t slept in a week.” He let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. “Don’t get me started, Ms. Hale. That Ms. Sterling is going to be the death of me.” He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Her first day here, she demanded that Mr. Donovan fire me. The reason? Because I failed to inform her that she was the ‘first woman he had ever brought home.’” My eyebrows shot up. “Then, the next day,” he continued, “she asked me if it was true that Mr. Donovan ‘hadn’t smiled in the ten years’ since she left. I just showed her a press photo from his interview two days prior—he was smiling in it. She got so angry she threw my phone against the wall.” It was as if a dam had broken. Arthur unleashed a week’s worth of grievances, detailing every bizarre, novel-inspired demand Claire had made. Listening to him, a profound sense of relief washed over me. I had dodged a cannonball. If I had stayed, I would’ve been a cast member in her daily melodrama, and I was pretty sure that kind of stress shaves years off your life. But my relief was premature. My peaceful existence came to a screeching halt a few days later when my doorbell began ringing with the frantic, insistent rhythm of an alarm bell. I opened the door, and Claire shoved past me, storming into the apartment. She surveyed the space like a conquering general, her eyes sweeping over the floor-to-ceiling windows and designer furniture before landing on me with a triumphant sneer. “I should have known you’d leave so willingly,” she said, her voice dripping with accusation. “Cole had another house to hide you in all along!” A headache was already forming behind my eyes. I wanted her gone. “Ms. Sterling, I’m a chef. That’s it. If you don’t believe me, I can show you my employment contract.” I retrieved the document from my desk. Her eyes scanned the page, then widened in shock as they landed on the salary figure. “A million dollars?!” she shrieked. She snatched the contract from my hands and slammed it down on the coffee table with a laugh that was more of a sneer. “No chef makes that kind of money. This isn’t a salary, Charlotte. This is what he pays to keep you!” That was it. I earn my living with my own two hands, with years of training and skill. Her words were a direct insult to my professionalism. My patience snapped. I pulled out my phone and dialed Cole. “Mr. Donovan,” I said, my voice tight, “could you please come and manage your… First Love?” A heavy sigh came through the receiver. “She’s there? Put her on.” Claire took the phone, her face a mask of contempt. But as she listened, her expression began to shift. The color drained from her cheeks. She shot me a venomous glare, muttered a curt “I understand” into the phone, and hung up. Drawing herself up, she regained her haughty posture. “You got lucky today. But don’t think this is over. Cole might be blinded by you for now, but he’ll come to his senses soon enough. He’ll see that a cheap imitation can never compare to the real thing.” With that, she stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls vibrated. I stood there, phone in hand, seriously contemplating billing Cole for emotional damages. To avoid another confrontation, I stopped going to the estate altogether. I prepared Cole’s meals in my own kitchen and had Arthur pick them up in insulated containers. A few days later, Arthur arrived not just with empty containers, but also with a thick, cream-colored envelope. It was an invitation to a welcome-home party for Claire. I stared at the gold-embossed calligraphy, and the throbbing in my temples returned. I was about to refuse when Arthur added the crucial detail. “Mr. Donovan said Ms. Sterling has been… insistent. He said if you attend, he’ll pay you ten times your daily rate for overtime.” He gave me a look that said, Some people have all the luck. My attitude did a complete 180. “Overtime pay? Don’t be silly. When Mr. Donovan needs me, I’m there for him. It would be my honor to attend.” The party was held at Cole’s estate. When I arrived, Claire was at the grand piano, bathed in a soft spotlight, looking for all the world like the ethereal ‘First Love’ she claimed to be. The moment I stepped into the room, several of the city’s most prominent figures—heirs to old money and titans of industry—left their conversations and gravitated toward me. “Charlotte, my dear! Does your presence here mean you’re catering tonight? My evening just got infinitely better.” “Are you considering any new offers, Charlotte? My mother has been practically begging me to poach you. Name your price.” The piano music stopped abruptly. Every head in the room turned toward Claire. She rose, picking up a microphone, her eyes blazing as she stared at the circle of influential people surrounding me. “For those of you who don’t know,” she announced, her voice amplified throughout the silent room, “I am Claire Sterling. Cole’s one true love. The woman you are all fawning over is nothing but a cheap, classless replacement.” Her voice dripped with scorn. “You’d be wise to choose who you associate with. Backing the wrong horse can be… costly.” A few people exchanged bewildered glances, but then, as if by some unspoken agreement, they turned back to me and resumed their pleasantries. Claire was seething. She clearly believed I had somehow brainwashed the city’s elite in her absence. But then, a new thought seemed to occur to her, and a cruel, mocking smile spread across her face. She glided over, her dress shimmering. Her voice was sickly sweet. “My performance was adequate, I suppose. But I’ve heard, Charlotte, that you are an even more accomplished pianist. Why don’t you play something for us? Unless, of course, you think you’re too good for our guests.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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