Category: English

Twice in my life, I have been thrown out of my own home before the age of thirty. The second time was Kellan. He was my childhood best friend, the boy who spent ten years chasing me with a devotion that felt like a religion. After we married, he was the picture of the perfect husband—patient, attentive, and seemingly unbothered by the fact that my ex, Gideon, sent “tokens of regret” every anniversary. Even when three years passed without a positive pregnancy test, Kellan never whispered a word of blame. I remember the way he would press his lips against my ear in our most intimate moments, his voice a warm, honeyed lullaby: “If you don’t want kids, we won’t have them. As long as I have you, it’s enough.” But on the night of our third anniversary, the lullaby ended. He walked through the front door with a woman I didn’t recognize, and I watched from the hallway as the housekeeper dragged my suitcases out of the master suite like they were bags of trash. My fingers were white-knuckled around the pregnancy test I hadn’t yet found the courage to show him. My voice shook, brittle as glass. “Kellan, what is this?” He lit a cigarette, his eyes flashing with a mockery so sharp it felt like a physical blow. He looked at me as if I were the punchline to a joke only he understood. “Nina, stop. The ‘innocent wife’ act is getting old.” He exhaled a plume of smoke. “When Gideon Vane threw you out on the street, did you really learn nothing at all?” The first time I was evicted, it was from a penthouse overlooking Central Park. It was a marriage of convenience to Gideon, a titan of industry. I had gone to the clinic for a checkup, only to return early and find him in our bed with a college student. He didn’t offer an apology. Instead, he blamed my “lack of spirit” and had his security detail escort me to the curb. When I told my father, he didn’t offer a shoulder to cry on. He just sighed and said, “Men with that kind of money don’t settle for one flavor, Nina. Grow up.” Maybe it was spite. Maybe it was a desperate need to feel wanted. That was why I finally said yes to Kellan. I thought I was marrying safety. … 1 The pregnancy test in my palm felt like a live coal, burning through my skin. I looked at him, but I didn’t beg for an explanation. I didn’t have to. The woman’s smug expression and the slight, unmistakable swell of her stomach told the entire story. I reached for my purse, ready to vanish. Kellan crushed his cigarette into a crystal tray and stepped into my path, his face twisted with a dark, vengeful satisfaction. “You’ve been pining for Gideon for years, and I never said a word. You refused to give me a child because of him, and I took the hit,” he said, his voice rising with a terrifying sort of righteousness. “Now that I’ve found someone who can give me a family, you’re going to play the victim?” His lips curled into a smirk. “Look, we’ve known each other forever. You know how this world works. Keep your title, keep your status. You can be the Mrs. Mercer people see at the galas, and she’ll be the one who keeps my bed warm. It doesn’t have to change your position.” A familiar, dull ache throbbed in my chest. He wasn’t wrong about one thing—I’d been here before. I had experience. I didn’t waste words. I simply leaned forward and slapped him. Hard. “You disgust me, Kellan.” The room went silent, the staff frozen in the periphery. Kellan’s smile vanished, his features hardening into something unrecognizable. He grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising. “You think I’m disgusting? You’re a twice-married woman, Nina. What made you think I was going to stay celibate for a woman who gave her best years to another man?” My grip tightened on the plastic stick until it snapped. The jagged edge sliced into my palm. I didn’t feel the pain, but the tears escaped anyway. Kellan’s eyes flickered, a momentary lapse of resolve crossing his face. He softened his voice, a conditioned reflex. “Fine. I’ll make you a deal. Once the baby is born, I’ll send her away. Just… don’t walk out.” I looked at the face I had known since I was five years old. He was a stranger. He noticed the blood on my hand and frowned, reaching for my palm. “What is that?” I wrenched my hand away and tossed the broken pieces of the test into the trash can by the door. “It’s nothing,” I whispered, my voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance. “Just a piece of garbage that wasn’t wanted.” I was talking about the baby. And I was talking about myself. Kellan opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp cry from the woman behind him drew him away. She was clutching her stomach, slowly pulling off her silk face mask. My heart stopped. I knew that face. She was the girl from the penthouse. The “scholarship student” I had personally sponsored for years out of a sense of misplaced charity. Three years had passed, but Talia was still as fresh and radiant as a dewy morning. Gideon had once described her skin as “shaming the silk sheets.” He told me he couldn’t stop thinking about her, even when he was lying next to me. My grand gesture of walking away from Gideon to “set them free” had led her straight to my second husband. And she had managed to get pregnant first. Judging by her bump, this hadn’t started yesterday. I bit my lip until I tasted copper, stepping toward her. “Nina,” Talia said, her voice a sickly-sweet chirp. She grabbed my hand before I could react, her eyes wide with mock surprise. “I had no idea you’d come back to Chicago after the New York disaster. What a small world. We really do have the exact same taste in men, don’t we?” I didn’t answer with words. I swung my hand again. Crack. But the blow didn’t land on Talia. Kellan had stepped in front of her, taking the hit across his cheek. His expression went cold, a dangerous edge bleeding into his voice. “That’s enough, Nina! Two hits are all you get.” He shielded her with his body. “She’s fragile, and she’s carrying my heir. Don’t take your bitterness out on her. You remember how you ended up three years ago? Don’t make me do that to you.” A violent shudder went through me. Suddenly, I was back in that freezing New York alleyway. After I’d caught Gideon, he stopped pretending to be the gentleman. He had looked at me with pure indifference and asked, “A woman’s expiration date is three months in my world. You got a year. Why are you complaining?” To force me into submission, he had used every corporate weapon in his arsenal. He froze my accounts, seized my car, and had me dumped on the street like a stray dog in the middle of a blizzard. I remember the cold, the way the snow turned grey in the slush, and the terrifying weight of the men who had pinned me down in that alley. Then, Kellan had appeared like a miracle. He had fought them off, gathered me into his arms, and wept into my hair. “I’ve got you, Nina… I’ll protect you with my life.” How pathetic. Back then, Talia had knelt at my feet, promising to spend her life repaying my kindness. She chose to repay me in my husband’s bed. And Kellan, the man who promised to be my shield, was now the one holding the sword. The snow outside was light, but I felt colder than I ever had in New York. I wiped my eyes, grabbed my phone, and didn’t look back. I headed for the guest wing, just needing a bed to collapse into for one night before I disappeared. “Wait,” Talia called out. I turned to see her winding her arms around Kellan’s neck. “Didn’t you promise me we’d stay in the south-facing suite? You said the view from the window makes everything… more exciting.” She looked at me, a predatory glint in her eyes. Kellan gave a soft, dark chuckle. Holding my gaze, he scooped her up and carried her into our bedroom. My bedroom. The room with the skylight he’d installed because he wanted us to “sleep under the stars.” The room he’d later planned to convert into a nursery so our baby could be “woken by the sun.” Now, before my baby could even take its first breath, that sanctuary was becoming their nest. I closed my eyes, but I could already hear the echoes of what was to come—the same sounds I’d heard through Gideon’s door. The heavy breathing, the gasps, the betrayal. The sound of the bedroom door slamming shut was the final twist of the knife. I leaned against the hallway wall, my legs giving way. The silence of the house was deafening, broken only by the vibration of my phone. An unknown number. A text message: Nina, don’t you want to know the real reason Kellan ended up with Talia? Meet me at The Magnolia Lounge. 9:00 AM. I didn’t need to check the contact. It was Gideon Vane. The Magnolia Lounge was where we first met. It was where he’d approached me after I lost the bidding on my mother’s last estate painting, my eyes red from crying. The next day, he’d shown up at my father’s house with the painting in hand. For the next six months, the gifts never stopped. My father, seeing a golden goose, practically gift-wrapped me for him. I grew up in a world of artifice; I expected nothing from a tactical marriage. But Gideon had used letters—clumsy, handwritten notes—to crack my shell. When I fell overboard during a yacht gala, he had dived into the dark water without a second thought. I came out unscathed; his legs had been shredded by the reef. I thought I had found my soulmate. I was so certain of it that I brought Talia, my charity case, into our home to give her a better life. And they turned me into a pariah. Thinking about it didn’t hurt anymore. Even seeing Gideon again didn’t stir the old grief. He looked the same—sharp, handsome, perhaps a bit thinner. “There’s something you need to see,” he said as I sat down. He pushed his phone across the marble table. “What?” He hesitated, then swiped the screen. My blood turned to ice. The video was grainy, but unmistakable. It was Kellan, three years ago. He was leaning against his car in a New York alley, lighting a cigarette and handing a thick envelope of cash to a group of vagrants. My breath hitched. Gideon adjusted his glasses, his voice low and grim. “I’m a bastard, Nina. I know that. But Kellan? He’s a different kind of monster. I threw you out, yes. But the men who attacked you that night? The ones who ‘traumatized’ you so he could play the hero? He hired them.” The world tilted. “He wanted you broken,” Gideon continued. “He knew you’d never choose him while you were whole. So he destroyed you to make sure he was the only one left to pick up the pieces.” Flashes of that night surged back. The twisted faces. The laughter. The tearing pain in my abdomen—the loss of the pregnancy I hadn’t even known about yet. “Stop it!” I gasped, clutching the table. The air in the lounge felt too thin. I stared at Gideon, my teeth chattering. “And you? Why tell me this now? Just to prove you’re the ‘lesser’ of two evils? To show me that the man I ran to was worse than the man I ran from?” Tears blurred my vision. “You want to prove that I’ll never be happy without you. But you’re just like him. You all use me like a pawn.” Gideon was silent for a long moment. “I’m a prick, Nina. I cheated. I failed you. But I never planned to replace you. Not legally.” He leaned in, his eyes piercing. “Kellan has been taking Talia to the Mercer family estate. He’s introducing her as his future. And Nina…” He paused. “He filed for a quiet annulment weeks ago. He didn’t just throw you out of the house; he’s erased you from the marriage entirely. Come back to New York with me. Let me fix this.” The shock was so total I felt nothing. It was the white-out of peak agony. I opened my mouth to tell him to go to hell, but a hand suddenly clamped onto my shoulder, yanking me backward. “Gideon! You’ve got a hell of a nerve!” Kellan’s voice exploded in my ear. He was shaking with rage, his grip on my neck nearly choking me. “Is this how it is, Nina? You get your feelings hurt and run straight back to your old flame?” I didn’t fight him. I just stared at him with empty eyes. Gideon stood up, his face darkening. “Let her go, Kellan.” In an instant, a circle of security guards surrounded the table. Kellan laughed, a jagged, ugly sound. “You have no standing here, Vane. She’s my wife. You spent years sending her gifts, playing the pining ex. If you loved her so much, maybe you shouldn’t have been so busy screwing the help.” Gideon flinched, his fists curling. “Don’t get cocky. You’re making the same mistakes I did.” He turned to me. “Nina, when you’re ready, call me.” He walked away, his guards clearing a path. The air between me and Kellan was thick with unspoken venom. I walked to the car without a word, and he trailed behind me, his voice a low, frantic growl. “You aren’t going with him. You aren’t calling him. You’re done with him!” When I didn’t respond, he snapped. He grabbed my shoulders and began to shake me. “Answer me! Do you hear me?” “You’ve been through one divorce. You really want to be a two-time loser? Your father won’t take you back. No one wants a used-up socialite. I’m the only one who loves you, Nina. Just stay in your lane. Be my wife.” Love me? Is that what this was? Betrayal, manipulation, and hired violence? I started to laugh. A low, ragged sound that bubbled up from my chest. Kellan forced my head up, his eyes wide with frantic desperation. “What’s so funny?” I didn’t look at him. I just whispered, “Besides Talia… is there anything else you’re hiding?” Kellan went rigid. He turned his face toward the window, unable to meet my eyes. He didn’t confess, but his silence was a signed confession. My laughter grew louder, more hysterical. It tore through the cramped space of the car like a serrated blade. “Enough! Shut up!” Kellan lunged, trying to cover my mouth. The rage in my chest finally broke. I grabbed his hand and bit down, hard, until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. “You’re a goddamn animal, Kellan!” I spat. “You want to know who I love? I love Gideon. I regret every second I spent with you. At least he was an honest bastard. At least he didn’t kill my soul just to own it!” Kellan’s breath came in ragged hitches. His eyes turned a violent, bruised red. He pinned me against the seat, his hand tightening around my throat. “You think I don’t regret it?” he hissed. “I could have had any woman in this city, and I chose a broken, discarded toy. Gideon had the right idea—Talia is ten times the woman you are. She’s actually fun. She actually knows how to please a man.” The words felt like a physical weight on my lungs. I tried to speak, but he squeezed harder. “What? You like biting? Let’s see how much you like this.” The world began to dim. The last thing I saw was Kellan’s distorted, angry face before everything went black. … When I opened my eyes, I was back in the house. But I wasn’t in the guest room. I was in bed, and my wrist was shackled to the headboard by a heavy iron chain. Talia was sitting in a chair by the bed, smiling as she stirred a steaming cup of liquid. “Kellan said you’re a bit… hysterical. He wants you to take your medicine.” With Kellan gone, she dropped the act. She grabbed a handful of my hair and forced my head back. “I was good to you,” I rasped, my voice a broken thread. “Why would you do this?” Talia laughed, a sharp, jarring sound. “Why? Because you’re pathetic! You’re so desperate to be ‘good’ that you practically handed me your life on a silver platter. I hate people like you. Always looking down from your mountain of gold, offering ‘charity’ like we’re stray dogs. I didn’t want your help, Nina. I wanted your chair. And now I have it.” She forced the liquid into my mouth. It was bitter, stinging my throat. A few minutes later, a sharp, cramping pain bloomed in my lower abdomen. I curled into a ball, my fingers digging into the mattress. “What… what did you give me?” She smiled, a sweet, angelic expression. “Medicine.” “It’s an abortifacient. In ten minutes, your second chance at a family will be nothing but a mess on the sheets. You really aren’t meant to be a mother, are you?” Her laughter filled the room. I reached out, my eyes landing on a paring knife on the fruit plate nearby. With a burst of adrenaline, I lunged, the chain clattering as I pressed the blade against her throat. “Stop it!” Kellan burst into the room, his face pale. He didn’t look worried; he looked furious that I was still fighting. “You’re going to kill someone over Gideon? Is he really worth it?” “Kellan, help me! She’s crazy! She’s trying to kill the baby!” Talia wailed, clutching her stomach. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ve got you,” Kellan said, his voice dripping with a tenderness he’d never shown me. I wanted to scream. Their baby would be fine. But mine? I looked down. The white duvet was already blooming with a dark, horrific red. The knife felt heavy in my hand. Everything became a blur. Kellan disarmed me, throwing the knife aside. He looked at me, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Nina, where are you hurt?” “It’s just… her period,” Talia lied quickly. He hesitated, a flash of disappointment in his eyes. I watched him. I watched the man who had been my “protector” since I was thirteen years old. When I was thirteen, I fell off a swing. He had dove under me to break my fall, breaking three of his own ribs. I had cried, asking why he didn’t just move. He’d smiled through the pain and said, “If I moved, you would have gotten hurt. I never want you to feel a second of pain, Nina.” The boy who couldn’t bear to see me stub a toe was now the man watching me bleed out from his own betrayal. I dragged myself toward the edge of the bed, reaching for him one last time. Talia let out a staged scream. Kellan reacted instinctively. He grabbed the knife from the floor and turned. Pain is supposed to make you weak, but in that moment, it made me clear. I didn’t move. I let the blade sink into my shoulder. The world turned crimson. I saw Kellan’s pupils dilate, his face turning a ghostly white as he realized what he’d done. I reached up with my good hand, touching his cheek. My voice was a whisper. “Why the New York alley, Kellan?” “Why… why did you kill both of them?” Then, the darkness claimed me again.

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The third year of Elena’s “graduate studies” in London had stretched the Atlantic into a vast, digital void. I had slowly grown accustomed to a relationship that lived entirely within the confines of a five-inch screen—a routine of pixelated kisses and time-zone math. That Tuesday, I was killing time at a high-end organic market in downtown Chicago, drifting through the aisles. On a whim, I snapped a photo of a gourmet display and sent it to her: “At the grocery store. Thinking of you. Everything reminds me of you today.” My phone buzzed almost instantly. “What a coincidence! I’m at a market too, wishing you were here. I miss you so much it hurts.” She followed it with a cute, pouting cat emoji. I felt that familiar, dull ache in my chest, a mixture of longing and affection that made me smile despite the distance. I started to move toward the snack aisle when a scene near the imported chocolates caught my eye. It was a picture-perfect family. The man was tall, strikingly handsome in a bespoke charcoal suit, leaning down to catch the hand of the woman beside him. She was radiant, holding the hand of a toddler who was waving a bag of organic fruit snacks and chirping “Daddy!” in a sweet, high-pitched voice. A pang of envy hit me. I looked away, offering a small, polite smile as I prepared to walk past them, unwilling to intrude on their private bubble of happiness. Then, the woman turned her head. The profile was unmistakable. The slope of her nose, the way her hair tucked behind her ear—it was Elena. My Elena. … My brain went white. The blood rushed to my head with such force I could hear the pulse thundering in my ears. Instinct took over before logic could even find its footing. By the time I realized what I was doing, I had already lunged forward. My fist connected squarely with the handsome man’s jaw. He wasn’t prepared for the impact. He stumbled back, a look of pure shock turning into immediate, searing rage. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he roared, wiping a smear of red from his lip. Without waiting for an answer, he threw himself at me. We became a blur of limbs and anger, crashing into a display of expensive olive oils. Elena’s scream pierced the air—a sharp, jagged sound. She threw herself between us, her hands clawing at my jacket, before her palm connected with my cheek in a stinging slap. “You psychopath!” she yelled, her voice trembling. “Who do you think you are? Why are you attacking my husband?” Then, she actually looked at me. The words died in her throat. The color drained from her face, leaving her ghost-pale under the fluorescent lights. “Elena,” I said, the name tasting like ash. I wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of my mouth and let out a short, hollow laugh. “Care to explain what you’re doing in Chicago?” My gaze dropped, landing on the subtle but unmistakable curve of her belly beneath her designer coat. “And whose child you’re carrying while you’re supposed to be across the ocean?” Panic flared in her eyes for a split second. The man, sensing the shift, pulled her protectively into his side. He looked down at her, his brow furrowed. “Babe? Who is this guy?” Elena’s expression shifted. The panic was stifled, replaced by a chilling, practiced composure. She looked me straight in the eye, her voice cold and steady. “I don’t know him. I… I might have seen him around, maybe? He’s clearly unstable.” She turned to her husband, her voice softening into a plea. “He’s just a crazy person, Greyson. Let’s just go.” I don’t know him? Less than sixty seconds ago, she was telling me she loved me via text. Now, she was standing five feet away, effectively erasing seven years of my life with a single sentence. The rage in my chest felt like it was going to burst my ribs. When did she get married? That child looked at least two years old. If he was her husband, what was I? A secret? A long-distance placeholder she kept for the ego boost while she lived a double life right under my nose? She hadn’t been in London. She had been here, in this city, building a home, raising a son, and getting pregnant again with another man’s child. The humiliation was a physical weight. I wanted to scream, to shake her, to demand the truth. My fists clenched until my knuckles turned white, but I forced myself to breathe. My father had raised me with a strict, perhaps outdated, code: you never lay a hand on a woman. I stepped closer, my voice a low, dangerous vibration. “Elena. Say it again. Look me in the eye and say you don’t know me.” She knit her brows, her face a mask of annoyed pity. “Sir,” she said, projecting her voice for the benefit of the gathering crowd. “Are you trying to harass me? I have no idea who you are or how you know my name. I am a married woman. My son is right here, and I am pregnant. Please stop this delusional behavior before my husband calls security.” I started to laugh. It was a dark, jagged sound. “Fine. Have it your way.” I turned and walked out of the store without looking back. Five minutes later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. “I’ll explain everything later. Please, Des, just trust me. Don’t do anything rash.” I didn’t reply. I blocked her number, deleted our entire message history, and wiped her from my digital life in three taps. I was about to power down the phone when a local “People of Chicago” video popped up on my feed. Normally, I’d swipe past, but a face caught my eye. The man from the grocery store. The ID was his name: Greyson Pierce. I clicked on the profile, and my heart sank into my stomach. It was a “lifestyle vlog” account. It went back three years. The most recent video was from this morning. A “Get Ready With Us” for preschool drop-off. It showed Elena holding the little boy’s hand, skipping toward a private school gate. Greyson’s voice came from behind the camera, warm and filled with pride. “Slow down, you two! Mommy’s got a passenger on board, remember?” The caption read: “Finally sending the monster to school. Time for some 1-on-1 time with my beautiful wife!” The comments were nauseating. “Greyson is such a girl-dad in the making.” “Elena is so lucky.” My eyes burned. I felt like an idiot. I had seen this account before—it was popular in the city’s socialite circles. How had I never realized the “mysterious, private wife” was the woman I was sending “goodnight” texts to every evening? I scrolled down. Three months ago. A video of Elena’s slender hand feeding a grape to Greyson. The caption: “She heard me say I missed the grapes from that specific vineyard in Bordeaux. She literally walked out of a high-level board meeting and flew to France just to bring me some. She lost a million-dollar deal, but she said my smile was worth more.” I looked at the date: June 25th, 2024. The memory hit me like a physical blow. That was the day I had been rushed to the ER with acute gastritis. My fever had hit 103. In my delirium, I had called Elena, begging her to come home, telling her I just needed her to hold my hand. She had sounded so stressed on the phone. “Des, I’m so sorry. I’m in the middle of a seminar in London. I can’t just leave. It’s impossible.” She had Venmo’d me a hundred dollars. “Get a friend to take you to the hospital, okay? Order some soup. Rest for me.” I had been so touched by her “concern,” so guilty for “distracting” her from her studies. Now, looking at the video, I realized she hadn’t lied about being in France. She just wasn’t there for school. She was there to hand-deliver grapes to her husband while I was vomiting blood in a Chicago hospital room thirty minutes from her house. I scrolled more. A video of her in a silk apron, cooking dinner. Greyson’s caption: “She hates takeout. No matter how late she works, she always makes sure there’s a home-cooked meal waiting for us. I love you, baby.” I laughed, a dry, sobbing sound. It wasn’t that she cared about “health.” It was just that my health hadn’t been worth the effort of a home-cooked meal. Then, a photo of Greyson in the mirror, wearing a sharp navy tie. Caption: “My wife insists on tying my tie every morning. She says it’s her favorite ritual.” My breath hitched. I remembered my college graduation. I was struggling with my first real silk tie in front of a cracked mirror. Elena had leaned over my shoulder, her chin resting on my collarbone. “Desmond,” she had whispered. “Once I learn how to do this perfectly, I’m going to do it for you every single day.” I had kissed her forehead. “I’ll never let anyone else touch my ties but you.” She had learned. She had become an expert. She just gave that “special ritual” to someone else. Finally, I reached the very first video. It was a shot of two hands, intertwined, showcasing matching platinum wedding bands. The caption: “Mrs. Pierce, you look stunning today.” The date was the exact day Elena supposedly flew to London to start her program. During those hours she was “in flight” and unable to text, I had sent her two messages: “Stay safe over there, El. I’m already counting the days.” “When you get back, let’s finally get married.” While I was planning our wedding, she was walking down the aisle with Greyson Pierce. I clicked the phone off. I sat in the dark of my apartment for a long time, just breathing. Three years. The last three years had been a curated, high-definition joke at my expense. I went to my bedroom and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep. Sometime later—hours, maybe—a frantic pounding on my door startled me awake. I stumbled to the entrance, bleary-eyed. When I opened it, Elena was standing there. My face went cold. I tried to slam the door, but she shoved her arm into the gap. I didn’t care; I kept pushing. “Ow! Des, stop! You’re hurting me!” she cried, her eyes welling with tears. “Get your arm out of the way, Elena, or I’ll break it,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion. “Please,” she begged, refusing to move. “Just let me explain. Please.” “Explain what?” I sneered. “Explain the logistics of how you managed to sleep with two men in the same city for three years? Explain how you’re carrying his ‘wild seed’ while I was waiting like a dog for you to come home from a London that didn’t exist? Or should we talk about how you’re a Mrs. Pierce now? Congratulations, by the way. Sorry I missed the wedding.” She looked frantic. “No! It’s not like that! Des, we never broke up! I never wanted to leave you!” She grabbed my forearm, her tears spilling over. “I didn’t have a choice! The Pierce family… they’re powerful. My father’s company was failing. It was an arranged marriage, a business merger. I was the only daughter. I had to do it!” I nodded slowly. “And that’s your excuse? My family isn’t exactly poor, Elena. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you think for one second that my family could have helped yours? That we could have been the ones to merge?” I found myself shouting. Even now, in the middle of this betrayal, I was angry that she hadn’t chosen me to save her. It was a pathetic realization. “Elena,” I said, my voice dripping with loathing. “If you made your choice—to marry him, to have his children—why keep me on a leash? What was the end game? Were you going to wait until I found out? Or were you planning to keep me as your little side-piece forever?” “No!” she cried. “I never wanted you to be in the shadows! Des…” she closed her eyes, a look of twisted pragmatism crossing her face. “Don’t be naive. Real mergers happen between the top one percent. We are old money, Des. You’re… different. My parents told me to endure it for three years. Give the Pierces an heir, solidify the assets, and then I could get a divorce. Once I had the settlement, I could come back to you. It would have been so much easier then!” I stared at her, wondering if I had ever actually known this person. I started to laugh. “What did you just say?” “You think I’d want you as a second-hand wife? After you spent three years in another man’s bed?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I shoved her back and slammed the door. She stayed in the hallway for a long time. Finally, I heard her muffled voice through the wood. “I know you still love me, Des. You’re just hurt. You’ll wait for me. I’ll make this right.” She didn’t make it right. The next person to show up wasn’t Elena. It was Greyson Pierce. It happened during our Q4 strategy meeting. I was at the front of the conference room, presenting a proposal for a new tech acquisition, when the double doors were kicked open. They hit the walls with a boom that silenced the room. Greyson walked in, his hands in his pockets, looking like a man who owned the world. He was followed by four large men in suits—security, or perhaps something more private. He walked straight up to the podium, stopping inches from my face. With a slight nod from him, his guards moved. Before I could even react, they had me pinned, forcing me to my knees on the carpet. The room erupted in gasps. Greyson smirked and tossed a phone onto the table in front of me. “Desmond Whittaker, right?” he said, his voice a calm, dangerous purr. “You’ve got a lot of things to say, apparently. Why don’t you tell everyone here about your relationship with my wife?” I gritted my teeth, looking at the screen. The messages were gone—she had wiped them. The only thing left was the Venmo record from the day I had gastritis. A hundred dollars. “Are you a high-priced escort, or just a pathetic charity case she keeps on the side?” Greyson asked, his eyes burning with a mix of triumph and fury. “My wife is young. She gets bored. She made a mistake with a nobody like you, and I can overlook that. But you? You’re a snack she had while she was waiting for dinner. You don’t get to exist in my world.” I looked up at him and smiled. “Are you done?” Greyson blinked, clearly taken aback by my lack of fear. He let out a sharp, angry laugh. “You’ve got a thick skin. I’ll give you that.” One of my senior VPs stood up. “What is the meaning of this? Let Mr. Whittaker go immediately!” Greyson didn’t even turn his head. “Maybe you should Google who I am before you open your mouth. I’m handling a private matter with a parasite. Sit down.” Then, he punched me. Hard. Right in the gut. I groaned, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. But the pain cleared the fog. I had had enough. With a surge of adrenaline, I wrenched my arms free from the guards—I’ve spent five mornings a week in a boxing gym for years; they weren’t expecting me to actually know how to fight. I lunged upward, catching Greyson with a hook that sent him reeling back into the mahogany table. “You actually hit me?” Greyson roared, clutching his jaw. “I’m just getting started,” I said, my voice cold. I looked at him with genuine pity. “Elena? She’s a piece of trash I’m done with. You want her? Keep her. She’s all yours.” “But don’t you dare come in here acting like the victim,” I continued, stepping toward him. “You’re the one who should be embarrassed, Pierce. Because you’re the interloper. You’re the one who walked into a seven-year relationship and thought you bought something new.” Greyson’s face darkened. “What are you talking about?” I wiped the blood from my lip. “It seems Elena hasn’t been honest with you about the timeline. Here, why don’t you see for yourself how long we’ve been—” Before I could pull out my backup phone, a hand snatched it from my grasp. Smash. The phone was hurled against the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces of glass and silicon. I looked up, stunned. Elena was standing there. She looked horrified, her eyes darting between us. She spoke quickly, her voice sharp and frantic. “What are you doing hitting my husband? Desmond, who do you think you are?” I looked at her, and the last shred of affection I had for her finally died. She was still playing the game. She was protecting her meal ticket, and she was arrogant enough to think I’d just play along and take the fall. Greyson looked at her, his expression wounded. “Elena… who is he? You told me you didn’t know him. Why is there a money transfer? Why did he say you were together?” “It’s nothing,” Elena said, her voice turning sweet as she stroked his arm. Her smile was perfectly composed. “I just remembered. He was a student I used to sponsor. A charity case from years ago.” She turned to me, her eyes like ice. “Desmond, I tried to help you when you had nothing. Is this how you repay me? I gave you money because I felt sorry for your family’s situation. I didn’t realize you’d grow some deluded obsession with me. You’re a social climber, nothing more. Did you really think a girl like me—a Sterling-Rossi heiress—would ever actually look at someone like you? You’re a cockroach.” One of my executives stood up, looking baffled. “What? Sponsored? What the hell are you talking about?” “Exactly,” another joined in. “Who do you people think you are, coming in here like a mob and talking this nonsense?” Elena frowned. She didn’t understand why they weren’t instantly believing her. She expected them to see a “nobody” being crushed by a socialite. She didn’t realize that in this room, she was the one out of her depth. Before she could say another word, a deep, booming voice echoed from the doorway. “Well, this is fascinating. I’d very much like to meet the woman who claims to be ‘sponsoring’ the son of Charles Whittaker, the sole heir to the Whittaker Global empire.”

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The familiar voice drifted through the speakers of my quiet floral studio, cutting through the late-night relationship podcast I had playing in the background. It was Corinne. The woman I had loved for eight years. The woman who hadn’t spoken to me in ten days. “My boyfriend and I have been together since high school,” her voice crackled over the airwaves, heavy with an exhaustion that felt performative. “Back then, he saved me from a terrible situation. His right hand was shattered by a baseball bat. He could never paint again.” My breath caught in my throat. “I swore I would take care of him for the rest of my life,” she continued, her voice trembling just enough to sound sympathetic. “But I’m drowning. I can’t hold on anymore.” “He’s become so volatile, so sensitive,” she paused, letting the silence stretch. “Then, a new intern started at my firm. He’s an artist, too. And looking at his hands—his perfectly whole, unblemished hands—it was like taking my first real breath in years.” She let out a ragged sigh. “I don’t want to look at that ruined hand anymore. I can’t stomach the guilt.” The podcast host offered a gentle, practiced murmur of sympathy. “Guilt is not romance, sweetie. Letting go is the kindest thing you can do for both of you.” “If his presence has become a tax on your happiness, buy out the debt. Settle the score of what he did for you financially, and walk away.” The host had barely finished her sentence when my phone lit up on the counter. An email notification from my bank. A wire transfer from Corinne. Five hundred thousand dollars. The attached memo read: Wesley, this is enough to cover your medical bills and a fresh start somewhere else. Let’s stop torturing each other. Let me go. 1 I accepted the money. I typed out a single word in response: Done. Tossing the phone aside, I looked down at my right hand. A thick, angry scar snaked from the base of my wrist up to my knuckles, a jagged fault line that ached with a needle-like intensity whenever the Seattle air turned damp and cold. This hand had been useless for eight years. And for eight years, it had been Corinne’s prison. Now, she had purchased her parole for half a million dollars. The next morning, I took the train downtown to her firm to return the keys to her penthouse. When I pushed open the heavy glass door to her corner office, she wasn’t there. Tristan was. The intern. The one who made her feel alive. He was sitting in Corinne’s leather executive chair, casually flipping through a stack of contracts. At the sound of the door, he glanced up, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Hey, Wesley. Looking for Corinne? She’s in a board meeting.” I didn’t look at him. I walked straight to the mahogany desk and dropped the keyring squarely in the center. I turned on my heel to leave, but Tristan’s voice stopped me. “Wesley, wait. Corinne was in a terrible mood last night. Her stress ulcers are acting up again. Could you maybe—” “I’m not her father,” I cut him off, my voice flat. Tristan’s smile slipped for a fraction of a second before he recovered, his expression smoothing into a mask of polite concern. He picked up a ceramic mug from the desk. “My apologies. It’s not my place. Hey, don’t leave mad. Have some coffee. I just ground the beans myself.” He took a step toward me. Then, suddenly, the toe of his expensive loafer caught on the edge of the plush rug. He pitched forward. The entire mug of scalding, freshly brewed coffee splashed directly onto my ruined right hand. The pain was instantaneous and absolute. I sucked in a sharp, hissing breath, instinctively jerking my arm back as the heat seared into my nerve-damaged skin. But before I could make a sound, Tristan screamed. He screamed as if he were the one who had just been doused in boiling water. A few stray drops had landed on his wrist, leaving a faint pink bloom on his pristine skin. The office door flew open. Corinne rushed in, her heels clicking frantically against the hardwood. She didn’t even glance in my direction. She made a beeline straight for Tristan, her manicured hands hovering anxiously over his arm. “Where did it hit you? Let me see. Is it bad?” Tristan’s eyes welled with perfectly timed tears. He shook his head bravely. “I’m fine, Corinne. Really. It was my fault. I tripped and spilled it all over Wesley.” Only then did Corinne turn to look at me. Her eyes dropped to my right hand, which was already turning a furious, blistering red. But her brow furrowed not with worry, but with a deep, weary irritation. “Wesley, what has gotten into you?” she demanded, her tone dropping in temperature. “Tristan is just an intern. Whatever anger you have toward me, take it out on me. Why do you have to bully a kid?” The words hit me harder than the boiling water. I stood there, watching her physically shield Tristan with her body. Behind her shoulder, I caught Tristan staring at me, a microscopic smirk playing on his lips. I couldn’t speak. The air had been sucked out of the room. I reached past them, picked up the keys I had just dropped, and shoved them into my coat pocket. Corinne’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing now? Are you seriously trying to threaten me with the keys?” “No,” I finally rasped, my throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper. “I just realized there’s no point in leaving them here.” “You’ve obviously already changed the locks.” I turned and walked out. From down the hall, I heard her voice, tight with repressed fury: “Wesley! Are you ever going to stop making a scene?!” I didn’t look back. I just kept walking, putting one foot in front of the other until I was out of that suffocating glass tower. Outside, the midday sun was blinding. My hand was on fire, a throbbing, blistering reminder of what a colossal fool I was. Eight years ago, when this hand took the brunt of a metal bat meant for her skull, she had held my bleeding fingers to her chest and sobbed, swearing she would spend the rest of her life protecting me. Eight years later, my hand was scalded in front of her, and she demanded to know why I was so narrow-minded. I made it back to my floral studio. The heavy scent of eucalyptus, damp earth, and crushed petals wrapped around me. This was how I survived. This was my sanctuary. I pulled an ice pack from the floral cooler and pressed it against my blistering skin. The physical sting dulled slightly, but the burning in my chest only grew more suffocating. My phone vibrated against the counter. It was Corinne’s younger sister. “Hey, Wesley. Did my sister do something stupid again? You know she’s emotionally stunted. Don’t take it to heart.” 2 Bridget’s voice was, as always, a burst of bright, chaotic energy. Throughout this entire agonizing decline of our relationship, she was the only one who had remained fiercely in my corner. “It’s nothing,” I lied softly. “Don’t give me that. She just called me, demanding I talk you off the ledge. She said… she said that guy Tristan burned his wrist and his skin is peeling, and that you were way out of line.” My stomach plummeted. Peeling? I looked down at the massive, fluid-filled blisters rising on my own scarred knuckles, and a bitter laugh clawed its way up my throat. “Wesley, who exactly is this Tristan guy?” Bridget asked, her tone shifting to suspicion. “She’s been bringing him up constantly.” “Just an intern at her firm.” “Just an intern? Bullshit. You know my sister. She is practically allergic to people, especially men. Since when does she care this much about anyone who isn’t you?” Since when, indeed. In high school, Corinne had been the brilliant, socially awkward girl the entire school treated like a pariah. I was the golden-boy artist, the only one who didn’t care what people thought. I pulled her out of the dark, vicious currents of high school bullying and anchored her. She had relied on me with a desperation that bordered on the pathological. When did it change? Probably right around the time she built her empire, while I remained the crippled guy tending to wilting flowers in a dusty shop. “Bridget,” I said quietly, the words tasting like ash. “Corinne and I are done.” Dead silence on the other end of the line. When Bridget finally spoke, her voice cracked. “Wesley, don’t say that. Don’t scare me. It’s been eight years. You guys don’t just end.” “She ended it.” “No! That’s impossible! She loves you. She would never throw you away!” Bridget was crying now, the sound high and panicked. I didn’t have the strength to comfort her. “I’m exhausted, Bridge. I need to go.” I hung up. I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor in the back corner of the shop, utterly still. Beyond the glass windows, the city moved in a blur of headlights and rushing pedestrians. It was a massive city, but there was no room in it for me anymore. Back then, I had turned down a full ride to RISD to follow her here. My art teacher had wept, furious, telling me I was throwing away a generational talent for a teenage romance. I hadn’t regretted it. Because Corinne had gotten into Columbia, her dream school, and she had looked at me with those wide, desperate eyes and promised we would build a life together. I believed her. I used the hand that could no longer hold a paintbrush to learn how to arrange stems, prune thorns, and keep things alive. I built this shop. I thought we were going to walk quietly side-by-side into old age. I thought. That was my fatal mistake. Around dusk, the brass bell above the door chimed. Assuming it was a late customer, I didn’t look up from the counter. “Wesley.” Corinne’s voice. Every muscle in my back locked, but I didn’t turn around. She walked around the counter and crouched down, forcing her way into my line of sight. “Does your hand still hurt?” she asked, a trace of exhaustion threading through her words. I said nothing. She reached out, intending to touch my injured hand. I flinched, jerking it back so violently I knocked over a spool of ribbon. Her hand hovered in the empty air between us, painfully awkward. “I had security pull the footage this afternoon,” she murmured, looking down. “I was wrong. Tristan tripped on his own.” “The camera outside your office has been broken for three years,” I said, my voice eerily calm. Corinne froze. She had insisted on disabling that camera years ago for her own privacy. She hadn’t checked any footage. She was fishing. If I had played along—if I had vented my grievances and complained about how unfair it was—she would have offered a hollow apology. And just like the hundreds of fights before, the incident would have been swept under the rug of our shared history. But this time, I didn’t play the game. Corinne’s expression hardened. “Do you have to be like this, Wesley?” “Like what?” “So uncompromising. So obsessed with being right!” A hollow, broken laugh escaped my lips. “Corinne, who exactly is being uncompromising here?” I stared dead into her eyes. “After eight years, is this really how little you think of me?” 3 She went entirely silent. It was a suffocating, heavy silence—one that cut deeper than any insult she could have hurled at me. Slowly, she stood up. She reached into her designer trench coat, pulled out a small silver tube, and placed it on the counter next to me. “It’s a prescription burn cream from Switzerland. Make sure you apply it twice a day.” Just like that, the mask was back on. The untouchable, pragmatic CEO. She was the benevolent benefactor bestowing grace upon the pathetic, needy dependent. “Also,” she paused, not meeting my eyes. “That money is yours. You earned it. Go… build a good life for yourself.” She turned and walked toward the door. No hesitation. No backward glance. I stared at her retreating silhouette. That back had once been the only thing I needed to feel safe in the world. Now, she was just the knife twisting in my ribs. I grabbed the tube of expensive ointment and threw it at her with every ounce of strength I had left. It hit her squarely between the shoulder blades and clattered loudly onto the hardwood floor. She stopped walking. But she didn’t turn around. The door opened, the bell chimed, and she was gone. I was left completely alone in a room full of dying flowers. For the next few days, Corinne didn’t reappear. The rhythm of my life resumed its hollow ticking. I opened the shop, arranged bouquets for strangers, and locked up. But the throbbing burns on my right hand were a constant, pulsing reminder that the ground beneath me had vanished. Then, the envelope arrived. Heavy, matte black cardstock. Inside was an invitation to a gallery opening. Tristan Matthew. Solo Exhibition. The venue was the most prestigious contemporary arts center in the city. The sponsor listed at the bottom? Corinne CorWes Media. It felt as though a giant, invisible hand had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart until it bruised. Tristan was an artist. Corinne had said that seeing his perfectly intact hands made her feel alive. What was she doing? Was this a victory lap? Was she rubbing my nose in the fact that she had found a flawless replacement? A man who could be everything I was supposed to be, but without the baggage and the trauma? I crumpled the thick cardstock and pitched it into the trash. But on the night of the exhibition, like a man walking to his own execution, I went anyway. Without an RSVP, the security guards barred me at the door. I stood outside in the freezing rain, peering through the massive floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Inside, Tristan was bathed in warm, golden light, wearing a custom-tailored suit, laughing as the city’s elite fawned over him. And standing right by his side, draped in a stunning silk gown, was Corinne. She looked at him with a gentle, glowing pride I hadn’t seen directed at me in half a decade. Standing there in my damp coat, I felt like an absolute clown. A voyeur pressing his nose against the glass of someone else’s perfect life. I turned up my collar and prepared to walk away. That was when I saw it. Hung in the dead center of the main gallery space was the exhibition’s centerpiece. The placard read: Shattered. It was a painting of a young boy curled into a tight, defensive ball in a dark corner, surrounded by a galaxy of jagged, broken stars raining down on him. The composition. The linework. The raw, bleeding emotion of it. I stopped breathing. The world tilted violently on its axis. That was my painting. It was the final piece I had ever drawn. Eight years ago, right after the doctors told me I would never regain fine motor control, I had locked myself in a room and drawn it in a fugue state of pure, unadulterated agony. Because my hand shook so violently, I had only managed to finish the sketch before my muscles gave out. That sketchbook was locked inside a safe in my old studio apartment. Only one person beside me knew the combination. Corinne. She had stolen my grief. She had taken the most agonizing, humiliating moment of my existence, gift-wrapped it, and handed it to her new lover to build his career on. Blood roared in my ears. I couldn’t see straight. I shoved past the velvet ropes, tearing my arm away from the security guard, and burst through the heavy glass doors. “Corinne!” My voice ripped through the elegant hum of the room. The string quartet stumbled to a halt. Dozens of faces turned toward me in shock. Corinne and Tristan spun around. The moment Corinne saw me, her face contorted into a mask of pure fury. She marched toward me, her heels striking the marble floor like gunfire. “Wesley, what the hell is wrong with you?” 4 She kept her voice in a vicious whisper, the disgust in her eyes entirely unfiltered. I pointed a shaking finger toward the center canvas. “That painting. Why is it here?” Corinne glanced over her shoulder at it, her expression entirely blank. “That is Tristan’s work.” “His work?” A hysterical, jagged laugh tore out of my throat. “Are you going to look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never seen that sketch?” Corinne’s pupils contracted sharply. “You’re a monster, Corinne!” I screamed, the sound raw and tearing. “Wesley, stop it!” She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my jacket. “We are in public. Stop acting insane!” “I’m acting insane?!” I stared at her, hot tears finally spilling over my lashes. “You stole my work! You stole my grief and handed it to the man you’re sleeping with, and you have the audacity to call me insane?” The crowd had formed a tight, whispering circle around us. Tristan hurried over, wrapping a protective arm around Corinne’s waist. He looked at me with wide, Bambi-like innocence. “Wesley, man, I think you’re confused,” he said softly, playing to the audience. “This is a completely original piece. Corinne just… provided me with some conceptual inspiration.” “Inspiration?” I sneered. “You colored in my linework like a toddler with a coloring book and you call it inspiration?” “I don’t know anything about any linework,” Tristan whispered, shrinking slightly behind Corinne. “Corinne, he’s scaring me…” Corinne moved instinctively, shielding him behind her back, glaring at me as if I were a rabid dog that needed to be put down. “That is enough. If you don’t leave right now, Wesley, I will have you physically removed.” Security guards. Always security. In her world, I was just a mess that needed to be cleaned up and thrown out. “Okay,” I nodded slowly, wiping the tears from my face with the back of my ruined hand. “Okay. Remember this night, Corinne.” I looked at her—really looked at her—one last time. Then I turned and dragged myself toward the exit. The murmurs followed me out like a swarm of hornets. “Who was that guy? He looked deranged.” “I heard it’s her ex. He’s crippled, apparently. Has serious mental issues.” “God, no wonder she left him for Tristan. Who could deal with that kind of psycho?” Every word was a blade slipping neatly between my ribs. So that was the narrative. I was the unhinged, disabled burden. And Corinne was the tragic heroine who had finally escaped my toxicity. I made it back to the floral shop and locked myself in the storage closet. It was dark and smelled heavily of dust and dried lavender. I dug through a cardboard box at the very bottom of a stack, pulling out an old, weathered Moleskine sketchbook. Inside was the ghost of who I used to be. Charcoal portraits of Corinne studying. Pen-and-ink landscapes of places we promised we’d visit. And on the very last page, the original, trembling graphite sketch of Shattered. It was rough, the lines jagged from my shaking hand, but it pulsed with a desperate, screaming life. Now, it was just a stepping stone for someone else’s vanity. I pulled my knees to my chest, curling up on the dusty floor in the exact same posture as the boy in the drawing. Only this time, I knew no one was coming to pull me out of the dark. For the next few days, my body simply gave out. A brutal fever took hold, leaving me drifting in and out of a delirious haze. The fresh coffee burns on my hand became aggressively infected, aggravating the old nerve damage until the pain was a blinding, white-hot static in my brain. To manage the chronic nerve pain, I required a highly restricted synthetic opioid. Sweating and shaking, I crawled across the floor to my medical drawer. The amber bottle was empty. I distinctly remembered filling a new bottle just a few days ago. I tore the shop apart with my one good hand, knocking over vases and scattering dirt across the floor, but it was nowhere. A cold panic seized my chest. Without the medication, the withdrawal and the nerve pain combined would quite literally send my body into shock. It felt like someone was taking a sledgehammer to the bones in my arm, over and over again. Trembling so violently I could barely hold the phone, I dialed Corinne’s number. She was the only one who knew about my condition. She was the one who pulled strings with private doctors to get me the prescription in the first place. The phone rang endlessly. Finally, a sharp click. “What?” Corinne’s voice was clipped, intensely annoyed. “Corinne, I…” I gasped, my teeth chattering from the pain. “I’m out of my medication. Can you… please, can you bring me some?” “Out again?” she scoffed, the suspicion dripping from every syllable. “Wesley, are you seriously trying to play this game right now?” “I’m not… Corinne, please, I’m dying…” I curled into a tight ball on the floor, my clothes soaked in a cold sweat. The agony in my right arm was escalating, threatening to pull me entirely under. “The boy who cried wolf. Are you ever going to get tired of this act?” Her voice was devoid of an ounce of humanity. “I am incredibly busy. Tristan’s national tour is launching, and I do not have the time to entertain your pathetic tantrums.” Click. The line went dead. Listening to the dial tone, a strange, hollow peace washed over me. I let out a weak, rattling laugh. Maybe dying wasn’t so bad. Corinne. In the next life, I hope to God I never meet you.

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I’ve always had a knack for playing the fool. People tend to think my gears turn a little slower than the rest of the world, and I’ve learned to use that to my advantage. I remember when I was a kid, my grandmother used to call me a “bad investment,” a drain on the family coffers just because I wasn’t a boy. In a fit of petty genius, I took every cent of my college fund and blew it on the most expensive premium life insurance policy I could find. If I was going to be an investment, I was going to be a protected one. In high school, the “it” girls called me a “try-hard.” I took it as a compliment, thanked them with a wide, vacant smile, and proceeded to try even harder until their annoyance turned into genuine confusion. But the real test came after the wedding. My husband, Alex, had this “childhood best friend,” Penny. They were inseparable, the kind of bond that usually spells disaster for a new wife. On our wedding night, amidst the clinking of crystal and the scent of expensive lilies, she leaned in during a toast and smirked. “You’re a lucky woman, Maggie,” she whispered, loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear. “Alex is… well, he’s quite a force in the bedroom. I remember one weekend in Cabo where he kept me pinned to the mattress so long I couldn’t walk for three days.” The table went dead silent. Everyone was leaning in, waiting for me to shatter, to cry, or to cause a scene that would be the talk of the Hamptons for a decade. I didn’t blink. I just looked at her with wide, innocent eyes, tilted my head, and said, “Oh, Penny, you’re such a kidder. You must have been faking it. I mean… he’s practically a miniature.” … The air in the ballroom turned to ice. Someone at the next table let out a jagged, involuntary snort. “Alex, man,” a voice called out, laced with suppressed laughter. “That’s your wife talking. If she’s saying you’re coming up short, then we’ve all been lied to.” Men are fragile creatures, especially when it comes to their stature—in every sense of the word. Alex’s face didn’t just drop; it fossilized. He glared at me, his eyes dark with a mix of humiliation and burgeoning rage. Before he could snap, Penny beat him to it. She let out a high-pitched, fluttering laugh, pressing a hand to her chest as if scandalized. “Maggie! Oh my god, are you actually offended?” She winked at the guests, playing the role of the misunderstood truth-teller. “I was just trying to liven up the party with a little joke. I had no idea you were so… sensitive. I mean, saying something like that in front of everyone? Did you even think about Alex’s reputation?” Alex’s jaw tightened. His skin was turning a worrying shade of purple. Penny, the architect of this little disaster, looked at me with a triumphant, sharp-edged grin. I stared at her for a long beat, letting the silence stretch until it was uncomfortable. Oh, I thought. So that’s how we’re playing it? Jokes as daggers? Fine. I can play. I ignored Penny’s frantic twittering and reached out, grabbing Alex’s arm just as he was about to boil over. I looked up at him, my lower lip trembling slightly, channeling every ounce of “dim-witted victim” I possessed. “Alex, I’m so sorry. I’m just… I’m traditional, you know? We agreed to wait until tonight, so how could I possibly know your… dimensions?” I turned my gaze back to Penny, looking hurt and confused. “Penny told me all those things in private. I thought it was just ‘girl talk.’ She’s your oldest friend, Alex. She said you guys shared everything. I thought if she was comfortable joking about your body, then you were too.” I let a single, perfect tear well up in my eye. “I’m so sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just thought… if she knew, it wasn’t a secret.” Penny’s smirk vanished. Her mouth hung open, a fly-catching vacuum of disbelief. She started to stammer an explanation, but I didn’t give her the floor. I shrank back behind Alex, as if terrified of her reaction. “Penny, please don’t be mad! I didn’t mean anything by it. Like you said, it’s just a joke to keep things lively! You love Alex like a brother, right? Even after you told me about the time he got so drunk he ate the dog’s dinner, or how he fell into that septic tank at the country club and swallowed half the…” The ballroom fell into a silence so profound you could hear the ice melting in the bourbon glasses. Everyone was staring at Alex now, but the pity had been replaced by a grotesque curiosity. Alex had been a hyperactive, disaster-prone child, and as an adult, his ego was made of glass. He spent millions on PR to craft an image of “Old Money Sophistication.” Mentioning his childhood humiliations was the quickest way to end up on his permanent blacklist. I caught myself and slapped a hand over my mouth, looking horrified. “Oh no… did I say too much again? Alex, I’m so sorry! Everyone says I’m missing a filter. Penny, you won’t be mad at me, right? You’re the one who told me all this!” Penny’s carefully manicured face began to contort. She was vibrating with fury. “Maggie Langford, you lying bitch! I never said any of that!” she screamed, her voice cracking. The more she shrieked, the more I wanted to humiliate her. This was fun. Maybe I should get out more; personal growth really is invigorating. When it became clear I wasn’t going to engage in her shouting match, Penny turned to Alex, clutching his sleeve, her eyes brimming with calculated tears. “Alex, I didn’t! She’s making it all up! We grew up together, you know I’d never betray your privacy like that—” Alex didn’t even look at her. He ripped his arm away with such force she nearly fell over. “Shut up,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “Who else would know those stories, Penny? My mother and you. That’s it.” He straightened his tuxedo jacket, his face a mask of cold fury. “If your mouth is this loose, I’m going to have to seriously reconsider the merger with your father’s firm.” Penny turned pale. “No! Alex, please! She’s manipulative, she’s trying to drive a wedge between us, I—” Alex didn’t wait for her to finish. He swung his hand, the crack of his palm against her cheek echoing through the hall. “Enough. Remember who she is. She’s my wife. If you ever disrespect her again, I will erase your family from this city’s social register.” The party was effectively over. Alex turned to storm out, but he didn’t make it three steps before he crumpled, hitting the marble floor like a sack of stones. Chaos erupted. Penny, ever the opportunist, threw herself onto his unconscious body, wailing like she was at a Victorian funeral. “Alex! Wake up! Please don’t leave me!” The guests backed away, terrified of being associated with a medical emergency or a scandal. I stood there, watching the theatricality of it all with a clinical sort of interest. Once I’d had my fill, I calmly pulled out my phone and dialed 911. By the time the paramedics arrived, Alex’s pulse was a ghost. … He was in surgery for fourteen hours. When the doctor finally emerged, he looked exhausted. “The patient has a severe, underlying cardiac arrhythmia,” the surgeon explained, pulling off his mask. “Strong emotional shocks are incredibly dangerous for him. Did something… provoke him?” He sighed. “If you’d brought him in five minutes later, he’d be dead.” Alex’s parents, Miriam and Arthur Langford, arrived just in time to hear that. Miriam collapsed into a waiting room chair, her face ashen. “How is this possible? He’s been fine for years. Why now? Why so sudden?” Penny, sensing an opening, stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with a fresh scheme. But before she could speak, I “accidentally” bumped into her with my hip, sending her stumbling back into a row of chairs. I burst into tears—big, ugly, cinematic sobs. “It’s my fault, Miriam! All my fault!” I wailed. “I shouldn’t have played along when Penny was joking about… about how Alex kept her in bed for three days. I thought we were just having fun, but I think the stress of the secret coming out was too much for his heart!” The atmosphere in the hallway shifted instantly. The Langfords were the epitome of “High Society.” They lived and died by their reputation. To have their son’s wedding day marred by tawdry jokes about infidelity and public humiliation? It was unthinkable. Miriam turned on Penny, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Penny Miller. You’ve been a nuisance for years, clinging to my son like a barnacle. But to pull a stunt like this on his wedding day? To humiliate him in front of his peers? Are you trying to destroy him?” Penny started to sob for real now. “Aunt Miriam, no! I didn’t mean it like that, it was a joke—” I tilted my head, looking confused through my tears. “A joke? So… it wasn’t true? You and Alex didn’t actually…” I gasped, covering my mouth with both hands. I had laid the trap, and Penny walked right into it. She opened her mouth to snap at me—”Maggie, you little—”—but Arthur Langford’s voice cut her off like a guillotine. “Shut up!” he barked. “Haven’t you shamed us enough? I don’t know what your father was thinking, raising such a classless brat. Apologize and get out of my sight before I call security.” Penny looked at me, her teeth grinding so hard I thought they might shatter. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I was… out of line.” I sniffled. “It’s okay. But my mother always told me, if you make a mistake with your mouth, you should probably learn some discipline. Don’t you think, Penny?” Miriam and Arthur were staring at her, waiting. With no other choice, Penny raised her hand and slapped herself across the face. Twice. “Is that… sufficient?” she hissed. I nodded solemnly. She turned and fled the hospital. She was barely gone before Alex woke up. I don’t know what his parents told him, but when I walked into his room, he reached out and grabbed my hand with desperate intensity. “Maggie, honey, forget everything Penny said. She’s just a girl who doesn’t know when to stop talking. None of it was true. I love you. I’d give my life for you. I would never, ever betray you.” I smiled at him, but inside, I was rolling my eyes. Give your life for me? Please. Don’t give me things nobody wants. It didn’t surprise me that the Langfords were being so precious with me. Alex’s heart condition wasn’t a secret to them, even if it was to the public. They’d spent a fortune on specialists, but nothing worked. My mother, however, happened to be the world’s leading authority on his specific type of arrhythmia. I knew exactly why this billionaire family had bypassed a dozen high-society matches to marry their son to a “nobody” like me. They wanted my mother’s brilliance on retainer. I’d figured Alex was handsome enough and the family was rich enough that I could tolerate the arrangement. But things had changed. A man who lacks loyalty is a man who lacks value. He was still fun to toy with, though. A week later, just as I was packing for a trip to visit my parents, Penny reappeared at our estate. She was acting strangely demure, offering to help me pack. “Maggie, please, let me help. I feel so terrible about the wedding. I need to do something to make it up to you.” I saw the glint in her eye—the classic “Trojan Horse” play. I was about to kick her out when Alex walked in. “Let her help, Maggie. She’s just being Penny. She explained everything to me—it was all a big misunderstanding. We’re family, we need to move past this.” I looked at him, amazed. A week ago he was ready to ruin her father; now they were back to being “family.” The bond of shared childhood secrets was thick, apparently. “Fine,” I shrugged. “Go ahead. Pack the guest room. Be careful with those boxes, though. They’re incredibly valuable. I wouldn’t trust anyone but you with them, Penny.” Penny’s eyes darted around. She nodded, her mind clearly spinning. A few minutes later, I heard the satisfying crash of porcelain hitting the floor. Alex rushed into the room. “What happened?” Penny was standing over a pile of shattered ceramics, her eyes brimming with fake tears. “Oh, Alex! The box was so heavy! Maggie, why didn’t you tell me? It’s almost like you wanted me to drop it so I’d look bad in front of everyone.” She sniffled, looking at Alex. “I shouldn’t say that. I’m sure Maggie isn’t that calculated. She’s too sweet to have a hidden agenda… she definitely didn’t marry you for the Langford trust fund.” I watched her little performance and felt a surge of professional respect. It was so familiar. It was exactly the kind of move I would make. I rushed over and grabbed her hands, my face a mask of touched emotion. “Penny! You really do see the best in me! How did you know I was so kind-hearted? That’s why I packed all that old junk so carefully. It’s sentimental garbage from my childhood.” I paused, looking confused. “Wait… you couldn’t tell the difference between priceless heirlooms and literal trash? Oh dear, maybe you really are as dim as everyone says.” I leaned in, whispering just loud enough for Alex to hear. “I’m not insulting you, honey! It’s just a joke. Don’t be sensitive!” Penny’s face turned scarlet. “You… you packed trash in designer boxes?” I tilted my head. “How else are you supposed to pack it? Here—” I grabbed a high-end garment bag and draped it over her head. “You look like you need one too. To keep the set complete.” Before she could explode, Alex barked, “Enough! Penny, if you’re just here to cause more trouble, get out!” She went quiet, seething. But she wasn’t done. That night at dinner, the housekeeper brought out the sea bass. Penny took one look at it, clamped a hand over her mouth, and let out a soft, delicate retch. When everyone’s eyes were on her, she looked down, blushing. “Alex, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been so nauseous lately. And exhausted. And… well, I’m two weeks late.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide and wet. “Do you think… could it be? I checked the calendar, and it lines up perfectly with that night we stayed over at my place, right before the wedding…” The table went silent. Alex turned a color I didn’t think was biologically possible for a living human. Penny leaned closer to him, ignoring the rest of us. “I never wanted to come between you and Maggie, Alex. But a baby… a baby is innocent. You can’t just ignore your own blood.” In the suffocating silence, I let out a sharp, sudden laugh. I clapped my hands together and sighed. “Wow. So the wedding night story wasn’t a joke after all.” Alex spun toward me, panic written in every line of his face. “Maggie, no! She’s lying! Nothing happened, I swear—” Penny interrupted him, her voice sharpening. “Alex, I gave you my ‘first.’ Why would I lie about something like this? If I wasn’t afraid of our child being labeled a ‘bastard,’ I’d raise him alone. But you did this. How can you look at this… this woman, and tell me she’s better than me? Than us?” Alex was staring at me, desperate. “Maggie, believe me. I’ll make her go away. She’ll have an abortion. Only you are allowed to have my children.” That was the breaking point for Penny. She reached into her Chanel clutch and pulled out a stack of photos, slamming them onto the table. “Aunt Miriam, Uncle Arthur! Look at her! Look at who you brought into your family!” The photos scattered across the mahogany table. They were grainy, but clear enough: me, in various stages of undress, caught in passionate clinches with half a dozen different men. The air in the room grew heavy. Miriam and Arthur picked up the photos, their expressions hardening into something cold and lethal. “I tried to warn you with my jokes,” Penny said, her voice dripping with triumph. “I wanted her to just leave quietly. But she’s a leech. I had to hire a private investigator. She’s been playing you all for fools.” I looked at the photos. They were actually pretty good—the Photoshop work was top-tier. “Alex,” his father growled, “do you have anything to say about your wife’s… hobbies?” I looked at Alex. He was looking at the photos, then at me. The trust was gone. The “love” he’d sworn a week ago had evaporated. “Oh,” I said, leaning back and stretching. “Well, I guess we’re getting a divorce then.” Alex slammed his fist on the table. “You’re damn right we are! I’m done! I don’t care if I die from this heart condition, I won’t spend another second married to a slut like you!” He barked an order to his assistant, and within twenty minutes, a divorce agreement was on the table. He signed it with a flourish of ink and rage. I didn’t even blink. I signed my name right next to his. “Why are you still here?” Alex hissed. “Get out before I have security throw you and your trash into the street.” I stood up, smoothing my skirt. “I’m going. But I have a little parting gift for the family. I think you’ll find it… illuminating.” I pulled a remote from my pocket and tapped a button. The high-end projector in the dining room whirred to life. As the image flickered onto the wall, the entire room stopped breathing.

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Everyone knew Caleb was the perfect boyfriend. But on our anniversary, he suddenly hard-launched his ex on Instagram. When I asked him why, he just laughed carelessly. “Because her waist… is thinner than yours, I guess.” 1 My boyfriend got a new girlfriend. Just one minute before he made it Instagram official, he sent me a breakup text. Before I could even process it, I saw his new post: “Three years. My feelings for you only grew.” The photo attached was of him and a girl. She was looking away from the camera, leaving only her side profile visible. He was looking at her, his lips pressed slightly together. That was his micro-expression when he was nervous. The top comment was pinned by him. It was incredibly cliché: “You’re always welcome to dock at my harbor.” Caleb’s post blew up with comments, but he didn’t reply to a single one. My chest felt tight. A wave of nausea hit me. I took a deep breath and called him. Honestly, I had always thought I didn’t care that much about this relationship. But… The moment the call went through, I realized my hands were shaking violently. The phone rang once before he quickly hung up. Soon after, Caleb’s text popped up. His tone was so cold it felt like a stranger: “Not a good time. Text me if you need something.” I typed out a massive paragraph, then deleted it word by word. Finally, I just sent one sentence: “We can break up, but you’re going to say it to my face.” Silence stretched on the other end. Then, as if bestowing a grand favor, he sent one word: “Fine.” After agreeing on a time and place, I felt a bit dazed. In this relationship, Caleb had always been the initiator. He chased me relentlessly, and his confession was so grand the entire campus knew about it. When I rejected him, he stood outside my dorm all night in the freezing winter, smoking a whole pack of cigarettes. Anyone’s heart would soften at that. Once, I casually mentioned missing a specific dish from my hometown. He drove through the night just to buy it for me. Even though the food was cold by the time it reached my hands. When someone was vaguely trashing me online, he scoured the internet, tracked the guy down, and put him in his place. Piece by piece, action by action, he chipped away at my walls until we finally got together. Whenever people on campus talked about us, they joked that Caleb was hopelessly whipped for me. But I never imagined our breakup would be so… effortless. 2 The coffee shop near the campus back gates. I sat by the window. I waited so long the coffee on the table went from hot to cold before Caleb finally showed up. He was dressed really strangely today. Usually, he loved a casual, preppy style. Always in light-colored crewnecks, always with classic black hair, always looking like the boy next door. But today… He was dressed entirely in black. A black hoodie, black cargo pants, and his hair was dyed. He even had a silver hoop earring in his left ear—this from a guy who was notoriously terrified of pain. I stared, stunned. We hadn’t seen each other for exactly two days, and he looked like a completely different person. Seeing my shock, he just smirked. “She likes it.” Three simple words, and I realized just how completely I had lost this past year. Caleb was a very egocentric person. While we dated, he treated me incredibly well, but he rarely listened to what I wanted. Once, I suggested he try a new haircut. He just smiled, ruffled my hair, and said, “Chloe, I don’t like it.” And that was the end of that. I sat frozen for a long time, then cut straight to the chase. “Give me a reason for the breakup.” My reflection was faintly visible in the window glass. The face looking back was calm and cold. But underneath, I was desperately trying to keep my emotions in check. I thought Caleb would make some excuses, or at least look a little guilty. He didn’t. He leaned back in his chair, a careless smile on his lips. “Because her waist… is thinner than yours, I guess.” I froze. Across the table, the corner of his mouth curled up. “Anything else? If not, I’m heading out. If I’m gone too long, she’ll get upset.” The moment those words left his mouth, I raised my hand and threw my coffee right in his face. In that split second, only one thought crossed my mind: What a shame. The coffee is completely cold. 3 Caleb left. After getting splashed with coffee, he only froze for two seconds. Then, he calmly wiped his face and dropped two words: “I’m out.” But after taking two steps, he looked back at me. “Chloe, I was really good to you this past year, wasn’t I? Let’s just part on good terms. We don’t even have to say hi if we bump into each other.” He didn’t give me time to react. He just walked out. I sat in silence for a few seconds. Then, I stood up, grabbed a steaming hot cup of coffee from the guy at the next table, muttered a quick “Sorry,” and chased after him. I dumped it right over Caleb’s head. It was hot, but not boiling enough to burn him. It did, however, make him look incredibly pathetic. But Caleb just stopped in his tracks. He kept his back perfectly straight and didn’t even turn around to look at me. I stared at his coffee-soaked clothes. “Caleb. Now we’re parted on good terms.” With that, I turned around, carrying the empty cup. I returned the cup to the couple inside and ordered them two fresh coffees to make up for it. The girl didn’t blame me at all. Instead, she gave me a thumbs-up. “Girl, that was badass.” I forced a smile, but didn’t say anything. Honestly, I’ve always been a really dull person. Introverted, sensitive, quiet, and boring. I happened to have a pretty face, so I had my fair share of guys pursuing me, but they were always the type casting a wide net. I’d reject a guy one second, and the next second he’d be whispering sweet nothings to someone else. Because of that, I never thought I’d be loved with such burning intensity. But then, a year ago, Caleb showed up. His loud, unapologetic affection, his dramatic pursuit, his meticulous care—it was so easy for me to fall into his gentle trap. In the year we were together, I never did a single thing to betray him. I was finally learning how to love someone, how to treat him right. But the second I finally figured it out, he turned around and became his ex’s safe harbor. I walked out of the coffee shop and headed toward campus. I told myself it was over, but I still felt like a zombie. So much so that the moment I reached the campus gates, I crashed right into someone. As I stumbled, a pair of hands grabbed my waist to steady me, then let go instantly like I was burning hot. I hit the ground. Hard. The person immediately crouched down to help me. “Chloe, are you… okay?” The voice sounded vaguely familiar. I let him help me up and looked at him. It was a senior. Ethan. He was in the same major as Caleb. “I’m fine.” I was going to thank him for helping me up, but considering how hard I just hit the pavement, I swallowed the words. He frowned. “Caleb’s Instagram post?” I laughed bitterly. “He made it official. With his ex from three years ago.” Since he brought it up, I couldn’t help but vent a little. “And the funny thing? As his current girlfriend, I only got the breakup text one minute before he posted it. Hilarious, right?” Ethan didn’t say a word. He just turned and walked away. I stood there, stunned, silently cursing myself for oversharing. Right. We were barely acquaintances. Why was I dumping my pathetic drama on him? He was probably just annoyed. I looked away and hurried back to my dorm. My silence only deepened on the walk back. Whenever I passed someone I knew, I’d deliberately look away and speed up. I was terrified they’d ask: “Chloe, when did you and Caleb break up? I just saw you guys grabbing lunch a few days ago. Why does he have a new girlfriend?” I wouldn’t know how to answer. Being publicly dumped for the whole world to see was humiliating. I practically sprinted back to my dorm, changed my clothes, crawled into bed, and wrapped myself in my blanket. I wanted to cry, but mostly, I just wanted to scream. I wanted to drag Caleb back here and beat the crap out of him. I kind of regretted not throwing a third cup of coffee. A little while later, my phone rang. It was my roommate, Becca. “Chlo, where are you?” I pulled down the blanket, my voice weak. “Dorm. Why?” “Caleb got beat up!” I sat bolt upright. The suffocating knot in my chest instantly loosened. It took me a second to find my voice. “Who did he piss off?” Becca sounded like she was right at the scene. It was noisy in the background, and it took a few seconds for her reply to come through. “It was Ethan.” “Omg, I’m dying. He looked SO hot doing it!” 4 Ethan? Why him… Becca’s voice was getting staticky, like she had bad reception, and the call dropped. I sat on my bed, staring blankly at the wall. I thought back to how Ethan had turned and walked away at the front gates. I thought he was just annoyed by my venting. I never imagined he was walking off to get justice for me. I debated whether I should go to the scene to see what was happening, but before I could decide, the dorm door swung open and Becca walked in. She was humming a little tune, clearly in a great mood. Before I could even ask, she dragged me out of bed and spilled the whole story. Ethan had tracked Caleb down and fought him. To be accurate, they beat the living hell out of each other. Both took some hits; neither had a clear advantage. Becca grabbed my hands, her eyes shining. “Chloe, you have no idea. Ethan demanded to know how he dared to two-time you, and the way he threw that first punch? Absolute cinematic perfection!” I felt my heart skip a beat. My fingers gripped the edge of my shirt, but I kept my face totally neutral. “What about… Caleb?” At the mention of Caleb, Becca went quiet. She looked up at me, hesitating. “He fought back. And…” “He told Ethan he knew Ethan had been eyeing you for a long time.” 5 I sat there in stunned silence for a long time before letting out a scoff. “That’s impossible. Ethan and I barely even talk.” Becca obviously didn’t buy it. “If you barely talk, why would he throw down with Caleb for you?” “He’s just a decent guy standing up for someone.” I gave a faint smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time he helped someone out.” Becca pursed her lips but didn’t argue. Ethan really was like the perfect golden boy straight out of a movie—smart, decent, kind. The school had even given him an award once for stepping in to stop a mugging. Honestly, I wanted to text Ethan and say thank you. We’d been connected on social media for over a year, but we rarely spoke. We just occasionally “liked” each other’s posts. I stared at his contact for a long time, totally unsure of what to say. Eventually, I gave up and locked my phone. … That afternoon. Out of habit, I headed to the dining hall alone for dinner, never expecting to run into— Caleb. And his ex-girlfriend. I have a quiet personality, and when I walk, I usually keep my eyes down or look straight ahead. I rarely look around. So, it wasn’t until I had gotten my food and sat down in my usual corner that I noticed Caleb and a girl sitting diagonally across from me. From my angle, I had a clear view of her side profile. It was the exact same girl from his Instagram photo. They were eating. I don’t know if he was trying to cater to her tastes, but Caleb had ordered a massive bowl of insanely spicy ramen—something he never ate. The broth was bright red. Even though he was sweating bullets, he kept looking up at her with a smile. The truth is, Caleb couldn’t handle spice. He had bad acid reflux. Eating spicy food always tore his stomach up. I stared blankly, my fingers subconsciously tapping the edge of my tray. And then… Caleb suddenly looked my way. Caught completely off guard, our eyes met. Honestly, I was a little nervous and instinctively wanted to look away out of guilt. But surprisingly, he beat me to it. Our eyes only locked for a fraction of a second before he casually turned his head away and placed a piece of meat into his girlfriend’s bowl. I sat frozen for a few seconds, then let out a quiet laugh. I guess it’s true what they say: the person who gets left behind has the hardest time moving on. He was the one who cheated. Why was I the one feeling guilty and nervous? I was just about to look away when the girl suddenly stood up, looking like she was going to buy a drink. And because of that, I finally saw her face clearly. In that instant, my mind went completely blank, leaving only one phrase echoing in my head: The understudy. Yes. Just like one of those cliché TV tropes. The guy can’t get over his ultimate “white moonlight”—his unattainable first love—so he finds a girl who looks just like her to keep by his side. And I… looked about eighty percent identical to his first love. 6 In that moment, everything finally made sense. That bullshit about her waist being thinner than mine? All a lie. The truth was, he never needed a reason to break up with me, because the only reason he ever dated me in the first place was that my face looked like his first love’s. How pathetic. I forced myself to look down and eat, mechanically shoving food into my mouth. But even my favorite pot roast tasted like ash. The food felt heavy in my throat today. I patted my chest, debating whether I should go buy a bottle of water, when a bottle suddenly appeared in my line of sight. Aquafina. I looked up and saw a smiling face. “Are you sitting alone? Mind if I join you?” It was Ethan. I smiled and waved my hand to say I didn’t mind, but the food was stuck in my throat, making me choke. Ethan was always observant. Without missing a beat, he unscrewed the cap and handed the water to me. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed it and took two massive gulps. The food went down, but then I choked on the water. As I buried my head and coughed violently, Ethan gently patted my back. “Take it easy.” His voice was so gentle. I coughed for a solid minute before finally catching my breath. I took the napkin Ethan handed me, wiped my mouth, and looked up—only to accidentally make eye contact with Caleb. He was staring right at me. His eyes were dark and unreadable. 7 I’ll be honest—in that split second, my imagination ran wild. Like the most classic cliché: the scumbag ex sees his former girlfriend with a new, better guy, gets consumed by jealousy, and suddenly realizes the error of his ways. But reality proved that stuff only happens in fiction. After that accidental eye contact, Caleb quickly looked away. We weren’t sitting that far apart. I could almost see the cold indifference in his eyes. I looked away too, almost wanting to laugh at myself. What kind of teen romance movie did I think I was living in? Snapping back to reality, I looked at Ethan and smiled. “Thank you.” “No problem.” He set the water and the fresh pack of napkins in front of me, then sat down in the seat across the table. “Do you prefer eating alone?” After a moment of silence, he suddenly asked. I blinked. “Not really, just… maybe it’s my personality, but I’m used to it. My roommate hates the dining hall food, so she rarely comes here.” Ethan nodded. While we were talking, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Caleb and his girlfriend had finished eating and stood up to leave. They were leaning in close to each other, looking incredibly intimate as they walked out. I didn’t look up. I just took another bite of my food. 8 They say time heals everything. In the blink of an eye, Caleb and I had been broken up for a month. One month. Thirty days. Over seven hundred hours. Over forty thousand minutes. Without Caleb around, my life didn’t really seem to change much. It really is true: the world keeps spinning no matter who leaves your life. For that whole month, I felt mostly numb. I didn’t experience any soul-crushing heartbreak, nor did I toss and turn in the middle of the night. But… My heart always felt a little hollow, like something was missing. The campus wasn’t that big, but Caleb and I rarely ran into each other anymore. The few times we did cross paths, I usually saw him holding hands with his girlfriend, taking a walk. They looked really in love. I heard through the grapevine that his new girlfriend was his first love from five years ago. She had just moved back from studying abroad, came from a wealthy family, had nothing but free time, and was constantly on campus looking for him. However, I did start running into Ethan a lot. Ethan was an incredibly gentle guy. Clean-cut features, a warm smile. Being around him felt like a soft spring breeze. We became good friends. Every night, we’d text back and forth for a bit. Becca seemed extremely approving of Ethan. In private, she was constantly trying to set us up. I politely shut her down every time. Ethan was great, but… I just wasn’t ready to start a new relationship yet. 9 Memorial Day weekend was coming up, and I wanted to take a short trip to clear my head. I mentioned it casually, and Becca got super excited. She insisted our whole dorm and Ethan should go together. Ethan agreed. I couldn’t really argue with it. I figured with a big group, it would be fine, so I said yes. Becca took charge of booking the bus tickets. But on the morning we were supposed to leave, I woke up to an empty dorm. I called Becca, and she cheerfully said, “We headed to the bus station early! You and Ethan can come together. Be good, bye!” Then she hung up. I knew she was trying to play matchmaker. I originally planned to just take an Uber to the station by myself, but leaving Ethan behind felt rude, so I gave him a call. However. When we both arrived at the station and went to the platform, we realized— We’d been played. Becca and the others never showed up. From the very beginning, she had only booked two tickets. Mine and Ethan’s. Standing in the waiting area, Ethan and I looked at each other, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. This aggressive matchmaking was going to be the death of me. With no other option, Ethan and I had to bite the bullet and embark on our three-day, two-person getaway. The main reason I wanted to take this trip was to see the ocean. I grew up landlocked and had never seen the sea. During my relationship, we never made it out there. Now that I was single, I had to see it at least once. On the ride over, Ethan booked a two-bedroom Airbnb. I tried to Venmo him my half, but he declined it. Seeing my confusion, he smiled. “We’re on vacation, no need to keep a strict ledger. Just buy me dinner when we get there.” I thought about it. The trip was three days long; I had plenty of time to even the score. After leaving the station, we took an Uber to the Airbnb. Because I hadn’t done enough research, we only realized upon arriving that while the place was beautiful, it was in the middle of nowhere. Thankfully, the scenery was stunning, the interior was modern, and it was spotless. It was just a hassle to get around. We dropped our bags in our respective rooms, rested for a bit, and headed out. We hit up two small tourist spots and eventually made our way to a famous local boardwalk night market. I have to say, the mini crab cakes there were out of this world.

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Three years ago, on a night that reconfigured the map of my life, I walked into a cheap motel on the outskirts of the city and witnessed the most jagged, ugly scene imaginable. My fiancé and my best friend were a tangled mess of limbs and sweat. The dark, flushed marks on their skin felt like physical stings against my eyes. One second, Tia was arched beneath him in a trance of pleasure; the next, she was wrapped in a thin, grimy sheet, kneeling at my feet. Through a deluge of theatrical tears, she choked out excuses—she’d gotten him drunk, it was her fault, I shouldn’t blame him. Looking at the two of them, I felt a wave of nausea so violent it nearly doubled me over. I didn’t scream. I just dropped a cold, dead sentence: “The wedding is off. Get out.” Then, I turned my back on them and walked into the night. After that, Tia vanished. She was a ghost, a stain scrubbed from my social circle. But Alexander? Alexander became a man possessed by the idea of penance. He turned down ten different family-arranged setups, spending his nights parked outside my building like a sentinel. He even went on a national financial news program, his eyes rimmed with red, and swore to the world that he’d never marry anyone else. He claimed he’d rather die alone than live without me. Even my mother, Diane, was eventually worn down by his three-year siege. She’d started whispering in my ear that “to err is human,” that he’d suffered enough for Tia’s mistake. That day at the mall, I was staring blankly at a shelf of organic baby lotions, ignoring my mother’s latest sermon on forgiveness. Then, a voice I hadn’t heard in three years—warm, helpful, and sickeningly familiar—reached out to me. She was recommending a gentle talc-free powder, saying her three-year-old son swore by it. I froze. The world turned to ice. That voice belonged to Tia. … “Look at her! Everyone, look at the homewrecker who stole her best friend’s man!” My mother’s voice went shrill and feral. The shelf of baby products groaned and collapsed under the force of her rage. The same woman who, seconds ago, had been preaching “saints and sinners” was now clawing at Tia’s sleeve. Tia tumbled into the spilled white powder on the floor. She looked up at me, tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks. “Jade, I didn’t mean for you to see me,” she whispered. “I only came back to the city because Elias brought me—” Before she could finish, a small, dark shadow lunged from the crowd. He sank his teeth into my mother’s wrist with animal ferocity. “Don’t touch my mommy!” The boy planted himself in front of Tia, his small arms spread wide, screaming at me: “You can’t bully her! My daddy is the head of the Vance Group—” Tia let out a strangled gasp and clamped her hand over the boy’s mouth. But it was too late. I looked at the boy’s face, and the air left my lungs. The heavy, linear brow. The slight, stubborn downturn of the lips. Even the way his jaw tightened in a defensive clench—it was a carbon copy of Alexander. My mother stood paralyzed, her bitten arm hanging limp. Her lips trembled. “My god…” she breathed. “What have we done?” The murmurs of the crowd turned into a high-pitched ringing in my ears. Three years of repressed agony curdled into bile in my throat. “Our wedding is next week,” I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance. “And you show up back in the city with his three-year-old son.” “Tia, you’re just as pathetic as you were three years ago.” Tia’s thin frame shuddered. When she looked up, her eyes were swimming. “Jade, we grew up together. I made a mistake three years ago, but you’re about to marry him anyway. Why can’t you just forgive me?” She fumbled in her pocket for a tissue, and as she did, a black card with gold trim slipped out and landed on the floor. The world went quiet. It was an American Express Centurion—the kind with no limit. A month ago, under a sky full of celebratory fireworks, Alexander had pressed that very card into my hand with trembling fingers. “Jade, you’ve finally forgiven me,” he’d said, his eyes shining. “Take this. It’s the symbol of your place as my wife.” I hadn’t taken it then. I told him I’d wait until we actually signed the papers. Now, that same card mocked me from the floor. Apparently, there was more than one “Mrs. Vance” in his budget. I looked at the card and started to laugh. It was an absurd, hollow sound. Then, the crowd was shoved aside. Alexander stormed in. When he saw Tia and the boy huddled on the floor, the raw, unfiltered agony in his eyes was impossible to hide. He turned to bark a question, but then his gaze hit mine. He went rigid. “Jade… it’s not what it looks like. I can explain.” He reached for my hand, his fingers twitching. I recoiled as if his touch were a brand. “He’s three years old, Alexander,” I said. “What is there left to say?” The whispers around us grew louder. Seeing my coldness, the panic in Alexander’s eyes began to ferment into something else—a weary, cornered defensiveness. He stepped past me and shielded Tia and the boy behind his back. “Jade, haven’t I done enough over the last three years?” he snapped. “We’re days away from the wedding. Coming here to harass a single mother and a child—is this who you are?” “Daddy! These people were mean to Mommy! They called her a bad name!” The boy’s shrill cry shattered the remaining silence. He clung to Alexander’s leg, pointing an accusatory finger at me and my mother. Tia ducked further behind Alexander’s shoulder. “We could have handled it…” she whimpered. “You shouldn’t have come. Don’t let Jade be mad at you because of me.” With that one sentence, Alexander’s guilt was incinerated by a protective fire. He stood like a wall in front of them. When he looked at me now, the three years of devotion were gone. There was only a cold, sharp resentment. I stood there, the ringing in my ears growing to a roar. The details I’d ignored for years began to click into place like a series of locks. A year ago, his company had bought a luxury penthouse in the best school district “as an investment.” All those nights he’d spent begging outside my door? I remembered seeing his phone screen light up with searches for “managing postpartum depression.” I’d thought it was just stress. I’d wanted to believe in us. I didn’t realize the knife had been in my back for years. I was only seeing the blood today. Watching the man I was supposed to grow old with protect the woman who had gutted our friendship, the fire finally rose in me. “You two,” I whispered, “are truly disgusting.” Alexander’s throat moved as he swallowed. He avoided my mother’s pale, stricken face. When he looked at me, his expression darkened. “Tia and I have spent three years tiptoeing around your temper, Jade. But you only ever care about your own victimhood. Have you ever considered how exhausting it is to be on the receiving end of your coldness for three years?” My mother, hearing this twisted logic, began to shake. She stared at the boy who called Alexander “Daddy” and began to cry—thick, heavy sobs. For three years, she’d pampered Alexander. She’d made him soup, encouraged me to forgive him, even suggested we adopt if I wasn’t ready to conceive, just so he’d have an heir. And what had Alexander said back then, kneeling on our kitchen floor? “Mom, I don’t want anyone’s child but Jade’s.” The irony was a physical weight. She had treated him like a son while he was treating her daughter like a placeholder. “You’re a monster,” my mother choked out. “An absolute monster.” She collapsed, her legs giving out from the sheer weight of the humiliation. I caught her, struggling to hold her upright. Alexander’s face flickered with a brief moment of hesitation. But then, Tia let out a soft moan, her eyes fluttering shut as she slumped against him. Alexander’s face transformed. Any trace of remorse vanished, replaced by panic. He scooped her into his arms, grabbed the boy’s hand, and shoved through the crowd. He didn’t give my mother a second glance as she hovered on the verge of a heart attack. The moment they were gone, the vultures descended. Paparazzi and “citizen journalists” appeared from nowhere, their flashes blinding. Microphones were shoved into my face. “Who was that woman Mr. Vance just carried out? Is the engagement over?” “Ms. Harris! Is the wedding still on for next week?” My mother tried to lunge at them, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but I held her back. I looked down at the engagement ring Alexander had slid back onto my finger only weeks ago. I was too tired to cry. I slid the ring off. It felt lighter than it should have. I let it drop; the sound of the diamond hitting the floor was a tiny, sharp clink. “Mom,” I said, my voice steady. “Let’s go home.” “I’m done with this.” The next three days were a masterclass in public humiliation. High-definition videos of me being abandoned at the mall trended everywhere. I looked like the stereotypical “scorned woman,” frantic and messy under the fluorescent lights. But in every shot of Tia and the child? They were blurred. Carefully, professionally pixelated. Reporters camped outside my door. My mother couldn’t take the shame; her heart gave out that night, and she was rushed into the ICU. Sitting in that sterile waiting room, watching the jagged line of her heart monitor, the warmth left my body. Everyone in our circles knew that kind of high-level PR cleanup—protecting the mistress while leaving the fiancée to the wolves—didn’t happen without Alexander’s personal sign-off. I stayed awake until my eyes were raw, then drove to the Vance Group headquarters. I reached his office door and heard Tia’s soft, honeyed voice coming through the crack. “Alexander, the PR team only blurred me and the boy. Jade’s face is everywhere. If she’s really angry, what if she refuses to marry you next week?” There was a pause. Then, Alexander’s voice, filled with an arrogant certainty: “Nico needs to start school soon. Protecting his identity is the priority. As for Jade… she loves me. She’ll make a scene, but she won’t leave.” Tia gave a playful, jealous little huff. “Of course. Everyone loves you.” I pushed the door open. Inside, Alexander had Tia leaned back against his mahogany desk, his arms caging her in. When he saw me, the smugness on his face turned to stone. “Jade. What are you doing here?” I looked at them, and my stomach turned. “Don’t use my name. It feels dirty coming from you.” “You threw me and my mother to the lions just to protect your little secret.” I turned my gaze to Tia, whose face had gone ghostly pale. “Even a dog gets a collar so people know who it belongs to. You can live without dignity, Tia. But are you really going to let your son grow up only calling him ‘Daddy’ in the dark?” Tia’s eyes welled up. she started toward me. “No, Jade, let me explain—” I felt a surge of pure revulsion. I lifted my hand, a reflex to keep her away from me. CRACK. A stinging slap landed across my face. The force of it sent me stumbling back, my spine hitting the cold wall. The world went silent. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Alexander had stepped in front of Tia, his hand still hanging in the air, his eyes dark with a terrifying intensity. “Jade! Have you lost your mind?” he roared. “I don’t care how angry you are, you don’t lay a hand on her!” Tia whimpered behind him, clutching his sleeve. They looked like a portrait of a devoted couple, and I was the villain trying to tear them apart. My cheek was numb. I leaned against the wall and swallowed the blood. Three years ago, in that motel, he had knelt in the dirt and begged me not to leave. Now, he was hitting me to protect the woman he’d cheated with. I didn’t cry. Not a single tear. I looked him straight in the eye. “The wedding is off. Both of you—get the hell out of my life.” Those were the same words I’d used three years ago, but this time, they snapped something in him. His face twisted into a mask of cold fury. “You want to talk about dignity? You want us to ‘get out’?” he yelled. “I brought Tia back so I could finally marry you and have a ‘clean’ life. But clearly, that was a mistake.” He grabbed Tia and pulled her into his side. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth! Tia and I have been legally married for two years. We are a family in the eyes of the law.” “The person who has no standing here, the person who’s been living a lie for three years… is you.” The wedding that had been the talk of the town never happened. I saw Alexander one last time, two weeks later. We sat across from each other in a quiet corner of a hotel bar. He pushed a set of divorce papers across the table. “Marrying Tia was a necessity,” he said, his voice lacking its usual bravado. “She was sick, the boy needed a legal name for school… I did what I had to do.” I didn’t touch the papers. I just looked at him. I used to think I understood him. Now, looking at the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, I realized I’d been in love with a ghost. “You thought about Tia’s health,” I said quietly. “You thought about the boy’s school. Did you ever once think about me?” “Alexander, what was I? What were these last eight years?” He looked away. The man who could negotiate billion-dollar mergers couldn’t meet my eyes. “I won’t deny I had feelings for Tia,” he muttered. “But all these years… you know you were the only one I truly wanted.” He leaned forward, trying to catch my hand. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll take you to the courthouse tomorrow morning. We’ll get married. I’ll take care of them, but you’ll be my wife. Tia gave me a son, I can’t just abandon them, but—” I stared at him. I saw the hollowness, the desperate way he tried to have everything without losing anything. “Married?” I asked. “Mrs. Vance?” I started to laugh. It was the funniest thing I’d ever heard. “Alexander, I’m dying to know. When you’re lying to both of us, who do you actually love?” The insults I wanted to scream died in my throat, leaving only a bitter aftertaste. I was done. “Fine,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “I’ll wait for you.” Alexander’s shoulders slumped with relief. He let out a long breath, clearly thinking I had folded, just like I had for the last three years. “I knew it, Jade. You were always the sensible one.” He reached out to pat my head, a habit of his. I flinched away. He didn’t seem to notice. He stood up, smiling. “Get some rest. I’ll be downstairs to pick you up first thing in the morning.” He walked out of the room without looking back. I watched him go until the door clicked shut. I took a long, shaky breath. He was decisive, I’ll give him that. When he wanted something, he took it. When he wanted to leave, he left. So, goodbye, Alexander. … The next morning. Alexander was outside my apartment before the sun was fully up. He knocked for ten minutes. The hallway echoed with the sound of his persistence. Eventually, a cold, sharp dread began to seep into his chest. He pulled out his phone and dialed my number. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service…” His hand shook. Then, he noticed a white envelope tucked under the door. No seal. No name. He ripped it open. As he read the contents, the color drained from his face until he looked like a corpse.

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SOS! This is So Creepy! My Cat Keeps Bringing Home Men’s Underwear!Various colors, various fabrics, various styles… but they are all the exact same size. Even the scent of the laundry detergent is identical! I strongly suspect they all belong to the same guy. But what am I supposed to do with them? Please help! 1 My cat is a wanted fugitive. His mugshot is plastered right on our apartment complex’s community bulletin board. I was walking back from the corner store this afternoon when I accidentally caught a glimpse of this “Wanted Poster.” In the photo, my cat, Bruce, was being pinned to the floor by a very long, attractive masculine hand, forced to take a head-on mugshot. Above it was a line of small text: “Excuse me, which neighbor does this little kitty belong to? He keeps breaking into my apartment to steal things. I’d appreciate it if you could keep an eye on him and stop him from running around. Much obliged~” Wait, is there writing bleeding through from the back of the paper? I flipped it over. Sure enough, there was a warning with a completely different tone: “If this idiot cat comes back to steal my boxers again, I’m going to chop off his balls! Then I’ll throw him into a pack of feral alley cats! I’ll show him what living hell looks like!” So terrifying! So vicious! I shivered, and while no one was looking, I quickly ripped the wanted poster down, shoved it into my jacket, and sprinted home. 2 When I walked through the door, Bruce was lying on the couch grooming himself. Hearing me come in, he spared me a single glance before burying his face back into his fur. Looks like he just got back too. I picked up his latest loot for the day, spreading the tiny piece of fabric between my hands to inspect the front and back. This was the seventh pair. Today’s pair was as obnoxious as ever, covered in a banana print. The bright, neon yellow was incredibly blinding. Just thinking about that wanted poster made my face flush red. It’s not that I don’t try to keep an eye on him. My cat just isn’t something an ordinary person can handle. Actually, ever since he brought back the first pair of underwear half a month ago, I sealed all the doors and windows to stop him from going out. But Bruce used to be a stray. I’ve always let him roam a bit, and he’s insanely smart and resourceful. So I literally can’t keep him contained. The second I let my guard down, he slips out. But this time, I finally put my foot down. I locked him inside his heavy-duty pet crate. 3 I was extra careful this time, and Bruce never got the chance to go out and commit his crimes again. The next day, my 6:30 PM alarm went off right on time. I practically did a backflip out of bed, happily changing my clothes and blow-drying my hair. Right before leaving, I made sure to check on Bruce. He was lying listlessly in his crate, his tail giving an occasional, lazy flick. His little eyes even shot me a sneaky glare. I looked at the heavy-duty latch securely bolted on the cage, nodded in satisfaction, and shut the front door behind me. 4 At 6:30 PM on a weekday, people were getting off work or out of school. The early summer sun was softening, and the strip of shops outside the apartment complex was much livelier than during the day. With the familiar electronic “Ding-dong—Welcome!” chime, I stepped into the corner store right on schedule. The cashier girl and I were already on familiar terms. She smiled at me. “What’s on the menu today?” I always felt like she could see right through my little secret. I just gave her a sheepish smile and quickly made my way toward the microwavable meals section in the back. I dawdled, eventually picking out a three-cheese chicken mac and cheese. When I came out to the register, I immediately spotted that tall figure in the dark gray hoodie. My heart leaped into my throat and just stayed there. He hadn’t noticed me yet. The guy with him spotted me first, rested a hand on his shoulder, and nodded in my direction. And then, he turned his head and looked right at me. Oh, God, save me… How could a guy have such gorgeous eyes? The shape was perfect, they were naturally alluring, and his eyelashes were so thick and long! I ducked my head slightly, internally panicking. This was the seventh time I’d run into him. But my heart still felt so, so sweet! But the next second, I saw what he was putting on the counter, and I froze. Why is he buying underwear again? 5 He glanced at me, casually looked away, and pulled up Apple Pay on his phone. Suddenly, he let out a soft “Ah,” and said to the cashier, “Sorry, my phone’s not getting any service in here.” His friend, instead of helping him out, just patted him on the back and walked outside to wait for him. Was that a smirk on his face as he left? Perfect! My moment had arrived! I stepped up and said in a tiny voice, “Um… I can cover it for you.” Without waiting for an answer, I put my microwave dinner on the counter to ring up together and tapped my phone to the reader. He didn’t act overly polite or awkward; he just courteously thanked me. The cashier girl smiled, her eyes crinkling, and quickly bagged our stuff. 6 Walking out of the store, my face was still burning. We had crossed paths a few times before. But this time, we were standing so close! He was incredibly handsome. Not just his eyes—his skin was clear, almost poreless. His friend had actually ditched him. Since we lived in the same apartment complex, it was only natural that we walked back together. “I’ll Venmo you when I get up to my place,” he said. I reflexively waved my hands. “It’s okay, it wasn’t much. Don’t worry about it.” The moment the words left my mouth, I wanted to bite my tongue off. What a perfect excuse to get his number! Why did I have to say something so stupid? He paused for a second, then said, “What’s your number? Let me shoot you a text so I can add you and send the money.” “Oh! Yeah, sure!” I hurriedly dug my phone out of my purse. On the outside, I was cool as a cucumber. On the inside, fireworks were going off. I’d had a crush on him from afar for so long, and my patience was finally paying off. We were making progress. I was so happy I could cry. 7 I need to check my horoscope when I get home. My luck with romance is off the charts today! This is amazing. We kept talking the whole way! Him: “Which building are you in?” I pointed ahead. “Building 12.” Then I quickly asked: “What about you?” He smiled slightly. “Building 10.” Oh my God, there was only one building between us. But the harsh reality I should have picked up on was that our paths were about to split. I felt a little wave of disappointment. “Watch out!” I looked up at him blankly, not registering what was happening. Before I knew it, his palm was cupping the back of my head, his other hand gripping my shoulder, and he spun me around. At the exact same time, a baseball whizzed past us at top speed and crashed into the bushes. A thirteen-year-old kid ran over, apologizing profusely. I told the kid it was fine, then looked back at the guy beside me. My eyes involuntarily dropped to the neckline of his hoodie. Just a second ago, my eyes were less than an inch away from there. I hadn’t even paid attention to the near-miss with the baseball, because my entire focus had been hijacked by that sexy little red mole on his collarbone. I almost had a nosebleed. Incredible! How does every single thing about him hit all my weak spots? 8 After we parted ways, every step I took felt like I was walking on clouds. The second I stepped out of the elevator, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. I saved the contact instantly. His text considerately included his name: “Ethan Hayes.” I clutched my phone to my chest. Ethan Hayes. Ethan Hayes. Ethan Hayes. The more I said it, the better it sounded! Once I was done fangirling, I quickly texted my name back so he could save it: “Chloe Bennett.” Then, he Venmoed me the $28 for the boxers. Probably afraid I’d reject the payment, he even added a note: “Make sure you accept it.” So gentle. And so considerate. I’m doomed. I think I like him even more now. 9 I was completely lost in my own pink, bubbly fantasy when a black shadow suddenly flashed across the windowsill. Bruce, with a clump of socks in his mouth, had returned from the outside world. Caught red-handed, he froze on the windowsill, too scared to jump down. He looked absolutely ridiculous with socks dangling from his jaws. And the pet crate I had locked so securely before I left? The door was wide open. “Where have you been running wild now?!” I snatched the socks out of his mouth. He was a pro. He even knew to steal a matching pair. Wait, what’s this? White tube socks? I wrinkled my nose in disgust. Who even wears these basic white tube socks anymore? And that guy, he liked those flashy, obnoxious boxers. Wild animal prints, tropical jungles, Fruit Ninja vibes—you name it. He clearly wasn’t a serious guy. Right now, my heart was completely occupied by the name “Ethan Hayes.” Compared to him, every other guy on earth was literal garbage. 10 Since we just officially met, I didn’t want to come off too strong, or I might scare him off. Because of that, Ethan and I didn’t text much after that. Two days later, I went to the complex’s front gate to pick up a fruit delivery. Walking past the spot where he saved me from the baseball, I looked at the massive boxes of fruit in my arms and decided to use it as an excuse to bring him some. Okay, I admit it. I really just wanted to see him. I sent him a text testing the waters. He replied quickly: “I’m at home, but I’m in the middle of something and can’t step away.” I instantly deflated. But then he sent another text: “If you have time, could you come to my door? I’m on the 3rd floor, Apt 302.” Oh man, the emotional roller coaster! I literally jumped for joy on the spot! 11 As soon as I stepped out of the elevator, I saw a front door wide open, the apartment bustling with people. I checked the number above the door. Apt 302. Who were all these people inside? Some had microphones, others were carrying big camera rigs on their shoulders. Were they a TV crew? Curious, I peeked my head in. The moment I showed my face at the door, Ethan saw me. He was in the middle of being interviewed by a reporter. Seeing me, he paused, offered a subtle smile that only I would notice, and then went back to speaking seriously. I had terrible timing. Just as I was about to slip away, the guy who was with him at the convenience store that day walked out and said warmly, “Hey, just wait for him a sec, okay? They’re almost done.” I quickly nodded. “Oh, sure, sure.” Then I realized something was off and asked him, “Wait, how did you know I was looking for him?” The guy smiled meaningfully and dodged the question. “Hi, I’m Ethan’s roommate, Carter.”

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I never in a million years thought my best friend was capable of something like this. She snuck into my apartment, took my spare keys, and sold my custom, three-hundred-thousand-dollar Range Rover. For four thousand bucks. When I confronted her, she didn’t even flinch. She just stared at me with this sickeningly righteous look in her eyes. “You don’t even need the money,” she told me. “My two kids don’t even have a car to ride in.” I couldn’t stomach the sheer audacity of it. I called the police. When the cops showed up, her husband dropped to his knees right there on the pavement, begging me. Her mother-in-law stood to the side, hurling every curse word in the book at me, while my so-called best friend finally broke down in tears. Later, in the courtroom, the judge looked down at her from the bench, his expression made of stone. “Do you have any concept of what that vehicle was actually worth?” She crossed her arms, still clinging to her delusion. “It’s just some loud, obnoxious SUV.” The judge didn’t blink. “Five years. Minimum.” That was the exact moment the floor fell out from under her, and she completely, finally, shattered. 1 I was exhausted. I dragged my carry-on through the fluorescent-lit underground parking garage of my condo building, fresh off a four-day business trip. I turned the corner to my deeded spot and froze. Empty. My Range Rover was gone. It was a $250,000 SV Autobiography. I had put another $50,000 into custom modifications. Three hundred grand, vanished into the damp concrete air of the garage. My immediate, visceral reaction was panic. Stolen. Someone had bypassed the security gates. I reached for my phone, my thumb hovering over the keypad to dial 911, when a text notification slid across my lock screen. It was from Cassie. Hey babe! That Rover of yours is such a gas guzzler, I did you a favor and sold it. I’m just gonna use the $4k for now. It was followed by a little smiling emoji with sweat dropping down its forehead. I stared at the glowing pixels. The air in my lungs just stopped. I blinked hard, entirely convinced the exhaustion was playing tricks on my eyes. Excuse me? I typed back. It’s just way too flashy, honestly, the bubbles popped up instantly. A guy I know said he’d take it off our hands. I got four thousand for it! That’s pretty good for a used car! My fingers were trembling now. Not from fear, but from a sudden, blinding spike of adrenaline. Cassie. I paid 250k for that car. I put another 50k into the mods. Oh my god, relax, you’re not exactly hurting for cash. I have two kids and we don’t even have a reliable minivan. Who are you even trying to impress driving something like that anyway? I closed my eyes and took a long, jagged breath, inhaling the smell of exhaust and damp cement. Did you take my keys? I still had the spare from when you left it at my place last time. It’s not like you drive it every day. It was literally just sitting there gathering dust. Cassie. That is my property. I know! That’s why I’m telling you! Think of it this way, four grand will pay for your Ubers for years. A dark, sharp laugh clawed its way out of my throat. It echoed in the empty garage. Who did you sell it to? Just a scrap guy. He said it was getting old and wasn’t worth much anyway. He said the four grand was doing me a huge favor. Old? The car is barely a year old. Look, it’s done, okay? You can’t seriously expect me to pay you back. You know I don’t have that kind of money. I have two mouths to feed. Why are you being so corporate and petty about this? I didn’t reply. My screen lit up again. Besides, it was literally just sitting in the dark wasting away. I helped you liquidate an asset and you’re mad at me? God, Gemma, when did you become so obsessed with money? I stood there in the silence of the garage. It wasn’t about the car. Not really. It was the fact that I had called this woman my best friend for eight years. When she got married, I gifted them five thousand dollars to help with the catering. When she had her kids, I bought the cribs, the strollers. When her husband got laid off, I pulled strings to get his resume to the top of the pile. And at the end of it all, she stole my keys, sold a piece of my life for pennies, and truly, deeply believed she was the victim. I pressed her contact name and hit call. She picked up on the second ring. The background was chaos—a TV blaring cartoons, a toddler screaming. “Cassie. Where is the car?” My voice was terrifyingly calm. The kind of quiet that comes right before a hurricane. “I sold it, Gemma. Weren’t you reading my texts?” “To who?” “Some junk yard guy. Sal something. He came with a flatbed and towed it away.” “A junk yard guy.” “Yeah! He said it looked pretty beat up, honestly. You should be happy he even gave me the four grand.” I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead. “Listen to me very carefully, Cassie. The custom body kit alone on that car was fifty thousand dollars. The total asset is worth three hundred thousand dollars. You selling it for four thousand is called malicious disposal of stolen property. It is a major felony.” “Oh, stop trying to scare me with your lawyer talk. I don’t know anything about cars. I just know it’s way too loud and every time you drive over here, it wakes my kids up from their naps.” “It’s my car. Whether it’s loud or not is none of your business.” “How is it none of my business? My kids don’t sleep, they go to school cranky the next day. Are you going to pay for their therapy when they fall behind?” “So you stole my car.” “It’s not stealing! I used the key you left at my house. You left it there.” “I left it there six months ago when your sedan broke down and I let you borrow mine so you could get groceries. I didn’t leave it there so you could pawn my belongings.” “Well, you never asked for it back! I figured you didn’t care!” “Cassie… do you honestly think I’m just going to roll over and take this?” The line went dead quiet for a second. The cartoons blared in the background. Then, she laughed. A bitter, ugly sound. “Don’t pull this high-and-mighty crap with me, Gemma. You just have a little bit of dirty money and think you’re better than everyone else. Flaunting that obnoxious tank around. Where were you when my kids and I were waiting for the bus in the rain? You’re a single woman driving a car the size of a house. Don’t you feel even a little bit guilty?” Hearing those words, the anger suddenly evaporated. It was replaced by a cold, crystalline clarity. “Cassie. Give me the scrap guy’s number. Right now.” “Why would I do that?” “Fine. Don’t.” “What are you gonna do?” “Just wait,” I said softly, and hung up. A second later, a text came through. What is that supposed to mean? Are you threatening me? I ignored it. I scrolled through my contacts and found the building manager. “Gary. I need you to pull the security feed for the underground garage. My spot. The last three days.” “Hey, Gemma. Is everything okay?” “My car was taken.” “Jesus. Stolen? Did you call the cops?” “Not yet. I need the footage first.” “I’m on it. Come down to the security office.” I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and walked out of the dim garage, the afternoon sun hitting my face like a slap. My phone vibrated three times in rapid succession. Cassie: Gemma, don’t try to scare me. I didn’t do anything wrong. Cassie: The scrap guy said it was a piece of junk anyway. Cassie: If you call the cops, I’ll just tell them you gave it to me. Cassie: It’s my word against yours, and I have the key. I didn’t reply. Cassie: Gemma, come on. My kids are little. Don’t do this. Cassie: Are you seriously going to call the cops? Cassie: Fine, I’ll send you another five hundred bucks when Kevin gets paid. $4,500. Happy? I looked at the screen, a hollow amusement settling in my chest. Eight years. Eight years, and I never saw the rot beneath the surface. 2 In the stuffy, monitor-lined security room, I watched the screens. There she was. Three days ago, 2:15 PM. Cassie walking into my garage with her two kids in tow. She had my sleek, black key fob in her hand. She put her seven-year-old son in the front seat—illegal and unsafe—and strapped her five-year-old daughter into the back. The brake lights flared red. She put it in gear and drove my life out of the building. Fast forward two hours on the tape. The car returns. But Cassie wasn’t driving. A heavyset, bald man in a faded t-shirt was behind the wheel. A flatbed tow truck followed him in. The man drove my Range Rover up the ramp onto the flatbed. Cassie was standing off to the side. She had a thin stack of bills in her hands. She was thumbing through them, smiling. A wide, genuine, victorious smile. I recorded the monitor with my phone, saving the video to my camera roll. Just as I turned to leave for the precinct, my phone rang. Incoming call: Kevin. Cassie’s husband. I accepted it. “Gemma, hey. Look, Cassie… she’s not thinking straight. Just, please don’t take this out on her.” “Kevin, do you know she sold my car?” “I know… she told me.” “Do you know how much that car was worth?” “She said it was an older model… she got what, four grand for it?” “Kevin. I bought that car for 250,000 dollars. I put 50,000 into it. Three hundred grand.” Dead silence on the line. I could hear him breathing. “You… what did you say?” “Three hundred thousand dollars, Kevin. Your wife sold a piece of property worth a quarter of a million dollars for four grand.” “No… no way. Cassie said it was only worth a few thousand…” “She doesn’t know cars. Do you?” Kevin went quiet again. The reality was crushing the air out of him. A few seconds later, the begging started. “Gemma, please. She’s just an idiot, okay? She doesn’t think about these things. She just saw you driving it and got jealous, it ate away at her. Please don’t call the cops.” “She stole my keys. She sold my car. And you want me to let it go?” “The kids can’t lose their mother, Gemma! If she catches a felony charge, what am I supposed to do? What happens to the kids?” “What happens to my car?” “You… you do so well for yourself. You’re loaded. You don’t even need that car, right? Cassie has zero money to pay you back. You know how we live. The mortgage, the car loan, the daycare bills…” “So I’m supposed to subsidize your life with my property?” “No, I didn’t mean that! I’m just asking—can you please be the bigger person here? Just this once? I’ll make her get on her hands and knees and beg for your forgiveness, I swear to God.” “Kevin, she didn’t steal a two-hundred-dollar handbag from Macy’s. She stole a house on wheels.” “But she didn’t know! She’s a stay-at-home mom, Gemma, how is she supposed to know what custom cars cost?” “She could have asked me. She didn’t. She took my property and sold it behind my back.” “She’s just so jealous of you… she talks about it all the time. How it isn’t fair that you have this amazing life, and why does a single woman need a car like that… I thought she was just venting! I didn’t think she’d actually do anything!” “Wait. You knew she hated me, and you still thought I gave her the car?” “I… I thought maybe you were just being generous…” “Generous? When have I ever said I was gifting her a Range Rover?” Panic was bleeding into his voice now. “Gemma, I’m begging you on my life. Don’t call the police. I’ll find it. I’ll get it back, okay?” “She sold it to a scrap dealer for four grand, Kevin. Do you really think you can just go ask for it back?” “I’ll make her track him down! We’ll get it back!” “It’s already gone. The guy in the video drove it onto a flatbed. Do you even know what state it’s in by now?” “I… no…” “Let me ask you something else. Where is the four thousand dollars she got for it?” “She… she said she used it to pay for the kids’ private preschool tuition…” “Preschool tuition? Four grand?” “And she bought some stuff… clothes for the kids, some toys…” “Listen to yourself, Kevin. Your wife sells my $300k car, takes the cash to go shopping for toys, and you’re asking me to just ‘be the bigger person’?” “That’s not what I meant…” “Then what did you mean?” He broke. I could hear the humiliating sound of a grown man sobbing into the receiver. “Gemma, please. I’m on my knees. I am literally on the floor right now. If you go to the cops, Cassie is ruined. Our entire family is ruined.” “You should have thought of that before you let her fester in her own entitlement.” “She’s my wife! She’s the mother of my children!” “She’s a thief.” “She didn’t mean to! She just had a momentary lapse in judgment!” “A lapse in judgment that takes hours to execute and involves a flatbed tow truck?” “Gemma…” “Don’t call me again. I’ve made my decision.” I hung up. He called right back. I let it ring. He sent a barrage of voice memos. I didn’t listen to a single one. Then, Cassie’s texts started rolling in again. Did you call the cops? Are you crazy? I swear to God, if you do, I’ll tell them you gifted it to me! You left the key at my house. The police won’t even know who to believe! You let me borrow it all the time. How are they going to prove you didn’t give it to me? I read the texts, a cold, dry smile pulling at my lips. Fine. Let a jury decide. 3 I set the thick manila folder down on the scarred metal desk at the precinct. Inside was the paper trail of my hard work. The original dealership contract. $250,000. The receipts from the mod shop. A bespoke Mansory body kit, forged carbon-fiber rims, and a custom ECU tune. Over $50,000 in upgrades. The customs declaration forms for the parts imported from Germany. Everything was there. Bulletproof. The officer taking my report looked young, maybe early thirties. His name tag read Martinez. He flipped open the dealership contract. His eyebrows shot up. He turned the page to the modification receipts. His frown deepened. He looked at the customs forms, then slowly looked up at me. “Ma’am. You’re saying this vehicle was sold?” “Yes.” “By who?” “Cassie. Someone I’ve considered a friend for eight years.” “How did she get the keys?” “I lent her the car six months ago to run errands when hers broke down. She never gave the spare back, and honestly, with my travel schedule, I forgot to ask for it.” “Were you aware of the sale?” “No. I was in Chicago on business.” “How did you find out?” “She texted me. Told me she got four thousand for it.” Martinez stared at me, dumbfounded. “She told you?” “Yes. She doesn’t think she did anything wrong.” Martinez looked back down at the paperwork, shaking his head slightly. “Are you absolutely certain of the valuation here?” “The contracts and wire transfers are all right there. Do the math.” He pulled a calculator toward him and tapped the keys. “Okay. Base model, two-fifty. Mods, fifty-two grand. Total value, three hundred and two thousand dollars.” “Correct.” “And she sold it for four thousand?” “Correct.” Martinez set the calculator down and glanced over at an older detective sitting at the next desk. Detective Henderson. Henderson had been listening. He rolled his chair over, eyeing the documents. “Are you absolutely sure there was no implied consent here?” Henderson asked, his voice gravelly. “I was halfway across the country. How could I consent?” “Did she ever mention wanting to sell it on your behalf?” “Never. She sold it, took the cash, and then texted me like she did me a favor.” “Is there any financial dispute between you two? Bad blood over a loan?” “No. I’ve given them money in the past, but as gifts. Never loans. My bank statements will prove it.” Henderson nodded slowly. “Do you have theft insurance on the vehicle?” “Yes. But this wasn’t a standard break-in. She used a key she had access to.” “Insurance companies handle those differently,” Henderson noted. “I know. That’s why I’m here filing a criminal report, not just calling Geico.” Martinez chimed back in. “You said you’ve known her for eight years. Why would she do this?” “She told me the car was too loud and woke her kids up. She also mentioned that I didn’t need the money, and it wasn’t fair that her kids didn’t have a nice car.” The two cops exchanged a loaded look. Martinez leaned forward. “Did you guys have a falling out?” “No. But if you want the psychological profile—I’m single, I have a successful company, and I drive a nice car. She’s drowning in debt with two kids. She resented me for it.” “Did she ever say that to you?” “In her texts today. She said it wasn’t fair that I was flaunting my wealth while she struggled.” Henderson picked up a pen and started jotting things down on a yellow legal pad. “You got any security footage?” I unlocked my phone, pulled up the video of the garage monitors, and slid it across the desk. In the video, Cassie struts into the garage with her two kids. She unlocks the Rover. She straps the kids in. She drives off. Two hours later, the car returns, driven by the scrap guy. It gets loaded onto the flatbed. Cassie stands by the concrete pillar, counting cash with a massive grin on her face. Martinez watched it, let out a low whistle, and ran a hand over his face. “She brought her kids to a grand theft?” “Yes.” “How old are they?” “Seven and five.” Martinez looked at Henderson. Henderson put his pen down. “Ma’am, a theft of property exceeding three hundred thousand dollars is a First-Degree Felony in this state.” “I am aware.” “We’re talking serious prison time. Five to ninety-nine years, depending on the DA.” “I am aware.” “You are absolutely certain you want to press charges?” “Absolutely.” “No interest in civil mediation?” “None.” Henderson looked at me for a long, quiet moment. He saw there was no bluff in my eyes. He nodded. “Alright. Let’s get your official statement.” He started typing. “Name.” “Gemma.” “Age.” “Twenty-eight.” “Occupation.” “CEO, tech consulting.” “Vehicle details.” “2024 Range Rover SV Autobiography. License plate…” We went through the motions. When we got to the text messages, I handed my phone over so they could photograph the screen. Henderson read Cassie’s texts out loud, his voice flat and monotone. ‘That Rover is a gas guzzler, I did you a favor.’ ‘You don’t even need the money.’ ‘If you call the cops, I’ll tell them you gave it to me.’ He handed the phone back. The air in the precinct felt heavy. “What on earth goes through a person’s head to think they can get away with this?” Martinez muttered, mostly to himself. Henderson sighed, the sound of a man who had seen thirty years of human stupidity. “Some people live in a reality entirely of their own making, kid.” He stood up, grabbing the file. “Martinez, get Major Crimes on the horn. This is way above our paygrade for a standard auto theft.” Martinez nodded and picked up the receiver. Henderson looked at me. “We’ll open the investigation immediately, Gemma. Go home. Keep your phone on loud.” “Is there any chance of recovering the car?” “We’ll try. But realistically? Prepare yourself for the fact that it’s already been chopped for parts or moved out of state.” “And restitution?” “If we nail her, the DA will push for a restitution order as part of sentencing. But you said she has no money.” Henderson gave me a grim look. “She shouldn’t have stolen something she couldn’t afford to replace.” I nodded. By the time I walked out of the precinct, the sky had bruised into a dark purple twilight. My phone buzzed. Cassie again. Gemma, what is your problem? Are you seriously doing this? Are you at the police station? You’re actually insane. Think about my babies! If you send me to jail, how are you going to live with yourself? I sat in the driver’s seat of the rental car I’d just picked up. I typed back one single message. Cassie, when you were counting that four thousand dollars in the garage, how were you living with yourself? I hit send. Then I blocked her number. A second later, a call came through from an unknown number. I answered it. It was Kevin. His voice was raw, shaking violently. “Gemma… the police are at our apartment. They… they’re putting handcuffs on Cassie…” “It’s what she earned, Kevin.” “The kids are screaming, Gemma! Are you happy now?!” “You should be asking your wife why she chose to traumatize her kids for four grand.” “She made a mistake!” “Tell it to the judge.” I hung up and blocked him too. I looked at the empty passenger seat of the rental car. I worked eighty-hour weeks for six years to buy that car. I had known Cassie for eight. In the span of twelve hours, both were completely gone. But I didn’t feel an ounce of regret. When you give people an inch, some of them won’t just take a mile—they’ll take the road, the car, and the title. This time it was my car. What would it be next time? I didn’t want to find out. As far as I was concerned, that friendship was dead. Honestly, looking back, I was never her friend. I was just her ATM with a pulse. 4 I hadn’t been home from the police station for more than an hour when the doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole. It was Barbara, Cassie’s mother-in-law. Late sixties, tightly permed hair, clutching a heavy Pyrex dish of homemade pies.

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01 It was pouring rain tonight. I stood on the curb, holding my soundly sleeping son in my arms, waiting for the Uber I had booked. Soon, a car pulled up right in front of me. I didn’t know why, but the car looked vaguely familiar. But… it was black, and the license plate ended in 88. This had to be it! I dashed through the heavy rain, opening the door and sliding into the backseat in one fluid motion. Except… the moment I got inside, something felt off. The interior was absurdly luxurious. You absolutely couldn’t get a car like this for anything less than a couple hundred grand! Could it be… some bored rich guy driving an Uber just to experience the struggles of the working class? As the thought crossed my mind, I said, “Alright, sir, we’re good to go.” The car didn’t move. Confused, I asked, “Sir? Why aren’t we moving?” That’s when a cold, clear voice drifted from the driver’s seat. “Long time no see, Harper.” That deep, magnetic voice. Who else could it be but my ex-boyfriend from five years ago—the biological father of the child currently sleeping in my arms? What was he doing here?! I must have opened the car door in a parallel universe. But my survival instincts quickly kicked in, and I figured out the crux of the problem. “I—I got in the wrong car. I’ll get out right now.” It wasn’t that I was a genius; it was just plain logic. Unless the earth exploded, there was zero chance Carter Sterling would ever be poor enough to drive an Uber! Just as I reached for the handle to escape this pirate ship—I mean, car—I heard a sharp click. The doors locked. My heart hammered in my chest, a wave of intense anxiety washing over me. “Where are you going? I’ll drop you off.” His tone was completely flat, and he didn’t even glance in the rearview mirror. But my gut screamed that this was a disaster. I clutched my son tighter, feeling incredibly guilty. I absolutely could not let him see my son’s face. After all, the two of them looked like they were printed from the exact same mold! “No need, really. I just got the wrong car. My husband drives this exact same model.” I was dead set on saving face, especially in front of my ex. “Do you usually call your husband ‘sir’?” “Y-yes! It’s a pet name. Got a problem with that?” “Hmm. It’s just that there are only two of these cars in the entire city. One is mine, and the other belongs to the CEO of Apex Real Estate. And as far as I know, he’s over fifty, balding, and has a massive beer belly.” Me: “……” “Your tastes have gotten a bit extreme, haven’t they?” I gritted my teeth. “I don’t know anything about cars. They all look the same to me. I guess I remembered wrong.” “Harper, didn’t I tell you? Whenever you lie and feel incredibly nervous, you touch your nose, and then the back of your neck.” I immediately dropped the hand I was currently using to rub the back of my neck. How was it that five years had passed, and Carter still had me completely figured out? 02 Before I could figure out a way to sneak out, my phone rang. It was my actual Uber driver. “Hello? Hey, miss, I’m so sorry, but my car broke down! Could you go ahead and cancel the ride on your end?” His booming voice echoed out of my phone’s earpiece, giving the entire luxury car a surround-sound experience. And me? I was so embarrassed I wanted to dig a hole through the floorboards. To make it worse, Carter let out a deliberate, soft chuckle. “Guess your husband isn’t coming?” I took a deep breath. “…Maplewood Heights, please. Thank you.” Even though we broke up five years ago, I still trusted his character. I don’t know if it was because the car was too quiet, or if he was just bored. He finally asked the question I had been dreading. “How old is your son?” “…Three.” I deliberately shaved a year off Leo’s actual age. “He doesn’t look three.” “He’s special. He’s been bigger than other kids since the day he was born.” I glanced down at my sleeping son, sweating bullets. The topic ended there, and a terrifying silence fell over the car once again. 03 The car pulled to a smooth stop at the entrance of my apartment complex. The heart that had been in my throat the entire ride finally settled. “I’m here. Thanks for the ride.” Just as I was about to make a run for it, he handed me a business card. I stared at his hand. Pale, long-fingered, strong. Exactly as I remembered. Right as my thoughts were starting to wander… “If you ever need any help in the future, you can contact me.” “Since when did you become so helpful?” I asked sarcastically. Carter? Helpful? Incredibly kind? Loves helping others? That was absolutely the funniest joke I had heard all year. I let out a cold laugh. “No thanks!” I snapped out of my brief wave of nostalgia. I wanted nothing more than to throw the business card right in his face! He raised an eyebrow. “What, Harper? You dumped me, but you still aren’t over me?” He was using reverse psychology! It was the tactic I hated most in the world. Because it worked on me every single time! My hand moved faster than my brain. I snatched the card, clutching it tight, and said my goodbyes to Carter. “Carter Sterling, I forgot about you a long, long time ago!” The card in my palm was crumpled into a ball and tossed into its ultimate resting place—the nearest trash can. As for what was written on it, I didn’t even look. Help from an ex? I didn’t care. The greatest help that jerk could ever give me was to stay far away from me and my child for the rest of his life! 04 Despite my best efforts to prevent it, my son caught a fever. It happened right in the middle of flu season, and the pediatric ward was absolutely packed. Holding my lethargic son, I waited from the crack of dawn until high noon. And of course, right at that moment, my editor’s calls started blowing up my phone. Yes, I’m a journalist. As a reporter, missing a trending story is basically chronic unemployment. And if I lost my job, my son and I would have to survive on air. With no other choice, I carried my son and went to find a friend who worked in orthopedics. “Liam, I’m so sorry to bother you with the baby again.” “Don’t be so polite with me. I’m a doctor. Even if a regular patient needed help, I’d step in.” He spoke with gentle consideration. I thanked him endlessly and carefully handed my son, who was still hooked up to an IV drip, over to Liam to look after. A few hours later, my interview wrapped up, and I rushed back, burning with anxiety. Thank God, my son’s fever had broken. After a quick goodbye to Liam, I gathered my son and prepared to leave the hospital. But just as I stepped out of Liam’s office with the baby in my arms… Someone walked right toward us. Very familiar. It was Carter, whom I had just seen yesterday. I wanted to pretend I didn’t know him, but he spoke first. “Your son has a fever?” My heart skipped a beat, and I immediately lowered my head. Thankfully, the way I was holding my son meant only his forehead—covered by a cooling patch—was visible. I knew Carter was just asking out of politeness, but after a second of thought, I couldn’t resist dropping a reminder. “Yes, my son has a fever.” I put a heavy emphasis on the word my. He just gave a simple “Hmm.” Terrified he might say something else, I quickly changed the subject. “You got hurt?” Hahaha, what kind soul did society a favor and put him in the orthopedics ward? I really wanted to send that person a bouquet of flowers. Before I could laugh out loud, I heard him say, “Noah got into a little fender bender.” Noah Brooks. I knew him too. He was an old college classmate, and Carter’s best friend. He was also the primary witness to the entire crash-and-burn of my relationship with Carter. I didn’t care much for Noah, mostly because after the breakup, he had made several sarcastic, passive-aggressive remarks to me. Just last night, he somehow got my number and called to yell at me. —”Carter told me you have a son now? Heh, Harper, you sure moved on right away, didn’t you?” —”Harper, stay the hell away from Carter. You’ve already caused him enough damage.” I had literally laughed out loud at that. Carter was the one who moved to my city, and I was supposed to stay away from him? Besides, during everything that happened back then, I was the one who got hurt. Why was everyone acting like Carter was the victim? I fired right back at him: “All I can say is, Carter has done a phenomenal job playing the heartbroken martyr.” And then I hung up. I didn’t expect to run into both of them today. What awful luck. Seeing Noah limping his way over, I turned around, fully intending to leave. “I’ll give you a ride back,” Carter suddenly offered. “He’s done with his appointment. We’re going the same way.” “No thanks. I can’t afford to play along with your ‘deeply devoted ex’ persona,” I replied without hesitation, looking back. I watched Carter frown, but before he could speak, a voice rang out from behind me. “Harper, let’s go home!” It was Liam. 05 Carter’s face darkened instantly. Liam walked straight toward me, his eyes filled with total warmth. “Harper, I swapped shifts with a coworker. I’ll drive you and Leo back.” “You don’t have to do that! Please, get back to your patients. Your work is important.” I felt incredibly guilty. I already bothered Liam enough as it was. I was racking up an impossible debt of favors. Liam smiled shyly. “My work isn’t nearly as important as you and the baby.” Hearing those words coming out of Liam’s mouth… I laughed awkwardly, not knowing how to respond. Just then, Carter’s voice cut through, freezing cold. “Are you Harper’s husband?” I don’t know why, but amidst the panic, I actually felt a tiny bit touched. I never thought I’d live to see the day Carter Sterling asked a question so politely. Because the old Carter would have definitely said: “What kind of stray dog are you? Get the hell out of my face!” It seemed five years really could change a playboy. “Hello, I’m Dr. Liam Hayes. Judging by your age, you must be Harper’s old classmates?” I was surprised. Liam didn’t deny it, but he didn’t confirm it either. I wanted to clarify, but looking at Carter and Noah—who had just hobbled over—I suddenly changed my mind. Why not… just let them keep misunderstanding? Since I didn’t say anything, Carter and Noah just stood there, staring dead at Liam. None of the four of us spoke… The tension was agonizingly awkward. I tugged on Liam’s sleeve, and he smoothly stepped in to rescue me. “Well, gentlemen, we’ll be going now.” Then he actively reached over and took Leo from my arms, looking every bit the perfect man, the perfect husband, and the perfect father. Carter: “Alright. Drive safe.” It was the most normal, polite farewell possible, yet it sent a chilling shiver straight down my spine. He was being way too polite. I comforted myself by thinking that as I got older, I was just overthinking things. But that very night, I woke up in a cold sweat from a nightmare. In the dream, Carter had his hands wrapped around my throat, demanding to know why I had done this to him. Thinking back to Carter’s polite, boundaried behavior at the hospital, I felt ridiculous. Everything was deep in the past, and everyone had moved on with their lives. I was the only idiot still obsessing over what happened back then. 06 My son needed IV drips for three consecutive days for his fever. And for three consecutive days, I bumped into Carter and Noah at the hospital. I couldn’t help but wonder—since when did a minor fracture require daily check-ups? Shouldn’t he just be resting in bed for a couple of months? The first day was an accident. The second day was a coincidence. By the third day, it was just bizarre. I asked sympathetically, “Noah, is your leg going to need to be amputated or something?” Noah muttered under his breath, “I’m just a massive third wheel.” “What was that?” “Nothing. It’s just a sprain. Carter is just worried about me, so he brings me in for check-ups every day.” My mouth twitched. What was wrong with these two? Were they having some sort of intense bromance? Just then, Liam appeared, walking past a group of nurses with a coffee in hand. The nurses all turned to look at him, then covered their mouths, giggling. They whispered admiringly, “Dr. Hayes really is the hospital’s most eligible bachelor. Look at those proportions! Look at that face! He’s too perfect.” My heart dropped. If the nurses were calling him a bachelor… didn’t that completely ruin the illusion I had been trying to maintain all week? But to my utter shock… Carter acted like he didn’t hear a single word. He just shot Noah a subtle glance. And then, right before my eyes, Noah began dramatically wailing. “Ohhh, Doctor! My leg is in agonizing pain!” I couldn’t stop my mouth from twitching. That acting deserved a Golden Raspberry Award for Worst Actor of the Decade. He put on the performance of a lifetime in the morning, and I lost my job in the afternoon. Well, not exactly. But Liam clearly thought Noah’s acting was absurdly fake and hesitated to intervene. But as a doctor, he couldn’t exactly ignore a patient in “pain.” Once Noah aggressively dragged Liam away, the atmosphere instantly dropped below freezing. “Your son is cute. Doesn’t look much like you, though.” Me: “…If you don’t have anything nice to say, you are allowed to shut up.” No kidding he doesn’t look like me! He looks like you! But I never expected this man to be partially blind. He noticed the kid didn’t look like me, but somehow failed to realize the kid looked exactly like him. Even though it was the truth, I still hated hearing it. Before I could lose my temper… Carter casually added, “I have freedom of speech.” Then he crouched down to greet my son. “Hey there, buddy. I’m your mom’s friend.” “I’m Leo! Hi, Uncle.” This was the first time Carter had interacted with a fully awake, energized Leo. Seeing the two of them side-by-side, their eyes and brows were strikingly identical. The longer I looked, the more panicked I felt. And… maybe it was the blood connection, but the two of them hit it off instantly, chatting away like old pals. I was paralyzed. Just as I was about to tactfully interrupt and stop the conversation… My phone started ringing off the hook. It was my editor again. It was that damn job again. So annoying! But when it came down to choosing between getting my pay docked or answering the phone, I knew what I had to do. “Leo, Mommy has to take a call. Let me carry you to the orthopedic office to wait for a bit, okay?” Before Leo could answer, Carter stepped in. “I’ll watch him for you.” Leave these two alone in the same room? No. Absolutely not. “No—” I started to refuse. “Your phone is about to go to voicemail,” Carter pointed out helpfully. Seeing the words “Chief Editor” flashing on the screen, I hesitated for a split second. “Just two minutes. Thank you.” Two minutes. What kind of disaster could happen in two minutes? 07 Never leave things to chance!!! Help me… When I finished the call and rushed back to the IV room, I overheard a conversation that nearly gave me a heart attack. “Dr. Hayes is just Mommy’s friend, not my daddy! You misunderstood, Uncle~” What a fantastic son I had. Using his sweet, innocent little voice to completely sell me out. Carter paused, then asked, “Then who is your daddy?” I wanted to sprint over and stop it, but my son’s mouth was too fast. He said, “Mommy said my dad is a super bad guy, so I’ve never met him.” I didn’t know why, but I actually wanted to laugh. Kid, did it ever cross your mind that the man standing right in front of you… is your biological father? Biting back a laugh, I quickly interrupted them before Carter could ask his next question. And then I saw the look Carter was giving me… It went from total confusion, to intense urgency, and finally, to a look of profound pity—clearly suspecting I had been knocked up and abandoned by an irresponsible deadbeat. I couldn’t be bothered to correct him. I just took my son home that night and gave him a very strict lecture about stranger danger. The next day, Carter probed again. My son looked deeply conflicted and said, “Mommy said I’m not allowed to talk too much to Uncle Carter.” I could physically feel Carter choking on the rejection. I couldn’t help it. My wonderful son was perfect in every way, except he was a little too honest. “Harper, you really do overthink things.” What was that supposed to mean? Was he calling me a narcissist? I doubled down. “You misunderstood. I just want my son to have a strong sense of stranger danger.” Carter looked at me meaningfully and replied, “I hope that’s all it is.” I coughed guiltily. “Of course that’s all it is.” “So, who is this irresponsible deadbeat who hurt you?” “No comment.” Carter’s brow furrowed, his face turning cold. “Are you still not over him?” “What does it matter if I tell you? Are you going to go get revenge on him for me?” Taking revenge on himself? That would be a fresh twist. Though, as the CEO of a publicly traded corporate empire, he certainly had the money, power, and capability to do it. “What makes you think I wouldn’t?” I shot back instantly: “I’m not worth Mr. Sterling’s trouble.” I was terrified of what else he might say, and even more terrified that if this kept going, I’d expose the truth. I grabbed my kid and practically ran, swearing to myself I would never step foot in this hospital again. But to my utter shock, even after going to such extreme lengths to hide… I still bumped into him again. 08 That evening, my balding Chief Editor dragged me out to a networking dinner. I knew the rules of the corporate dinner table. Whether you knew the people or not, you just drank. But this time, we hit a brick wall. The client had the alcohol tolerance of a blue whale. An hour in, I finally raised my white flag. “I can’t do it, Mr. Henderson. I seriously can’t drink another drop.” “Harper, come on, that won’t do! We haven’t even made it through the appetizers yet!” I had clearly expressed my refusal. But a glass filled to the brim with red wine was still forcefully shoved into my hand. I had been in this exact situation countless times, and the only way out was usually to just swallow it down. But this time, someone intervened. “She said she’s done drinking. Are you deaf?” I didn’t know where Carter materialized from, but he snatched the wine glass out of my hand and slammed it heavily onto the table. His face was so dark and menacing it sent a chill through the room. My head was spinning from the alcohol, but I wasn’t so drunk I couldn’t recognize the man standing in front of me. I stared blankly at him. God, that face really was gorgeous. Setting aside the fact that he cheated on me… Carter truly fulfilled every single fantasy I had about a man with a great voice, great hands, and an incredible face. My editor snapped out of his shock and quickly stood up to smooth things over. “Mr… Mr. Sterling! You’re here! Please, take a seat. You misunderstood, nobody is forcing Harper to drink! We’re just warming up the room!” Carter didn’t give him an ounce of grace. “Warming up the room by harassing a woman?” Seeing my editor’s pathetic, fawning behavior, it suddenly clicked. The “corporate titan” my editor said might make an appearance tonight… Was Carter? My editor had even warned me to be on my best behavior tonight so we could secure an exclusive interview with him tomorrow. I don’t know why, but I instantly relaxed. If the VIP was him, then there was absolutely no need for me to suffer through this miserable networking dinner. Carter was a jerk, but I knew him well enough to know he wasn’t despicable enough to sabotage my career over a personal grudge. “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to head out,” I forced myself to say. Perhaps sensing that my relationship with Carter was anything but ordinary, no one dared to stop me. I stood up unsteadily, my legs like jelly, looking quite pathetic as I swayed. With a sweep of his long arm, Carter pulled me firmly into his chest, holding me in a deeply intimate embrace.

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The accident happened on a Tuesday, the kind of mundane evening where your biggest worry is whether the leftovers in the fridge are still good. One moment I was crossing the street, exhausted from a double shift; the next, the world was a blur of screeching tires and the sickening crunch of bone. A charcoal-grey sports car—the kind that costs more than my childhood home—had slammed into me, shattering my arm. But the physical pain was nothing compared to what came next. The driver didn’t apologize. He didn’t even check if I was breathing. Instead, he stood over me, smelling of expensive cologne and sheer arrogance, accusing me of “staging” the accident for an insurance payout. I was mid-surgery when the world tilted on its axis. Still hazy from the initial painkillers, I was told the treatment had been “interrupted” due to a legal injunction. Before I could process the agony in my arm, I was hauled into a courtroom, my hospital gown barely covered by a coat, my vision swimming. In the courtroom, the driver—a man with the polished, hollow look of old money—sneered at me from across the aisle. “A grown man stooping to insurance scams,” he scoffed, loud enough for the court stenographer to hear. “Pathetic.” He leaned back, adjusting his silk tie. “Do you have any idea what that car is worth? My wife bought it for me for our anniversary. It’s a custom-built masterpiece. And you? You’re just a stain on the leather.” He leaned forward then, his voice dropping to a predatory hiss. “My wife is one of the most powerful litigators in the state. She’s worth nine figures. By the time she’s done with you, you’ll be lucky if you have a pair of shoes left to your name.” I sat in the defendant’s chair, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The pain was a white-hot scream in my shoulder, and the injustice of it made my head spin. That’s when she walked in. The heavy oak doors swung open, and a woman in a perfectly tailored charcoal power suit strode down the aisle. She didn’t look at me. She went straight to the man who had hit me, wrapping an arm around him in a protective embrace. “Your Honor,” she said, her voice clear, commanding, and hauntingly familiar. “My husband would never intentionally cause harm. This is a clear case of a predatory pedestrian looking for a payday. We request the maximum penalty for this attempted fraud.” My blood turned to ice. My breath hitched, dying in my throat. I knew that voice. I knew the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was being assertive. I knew the scent of the perfume that was now drifting through the sterile courtroom air. Six months ago, this woman—the elite, cold-eyed attorney standing before the judge—had kissed me goodbye at our front door, telling me she was taking a high-stakes consultancy job in Chicago to help us save for a house. The woman defending my attacker was Isabella. My wife. … Isabella smoothed her husband’s hair, her touch tender, while he pointed a finger at me like a petulant child. “He’s the one, Bella. He got blood all over the hood. It’s bad luck. The car is ruined.” Isabella turned her head to look at the man her husband was pointing at. For a fleeting second, her poise shattered. Her eyes widened, a flash of pure, unadulterated shock crossing her face. But it was gone in three seconds. She pulled her professional mask back into place, her expression turning colder than I had ever seen it in five years of marriage. “I am representing Mr. Sterling,” she said, her voice devoid of any warmth. “Any communication regarding this incident must go through me.” The words felt like a physical blow. Five years of waking up next to her, of sharing dreams and a cramped apartment, and she was speaking to me like I was a stranger on a deposition list. For months, she had been “on assignment.” She told me the firm had moved her to a satellite office for a promotion. We talked every night—or so I thought. She’d say she was tired, that the signal was bad, that she missed my cooking. I spent my nights alone, working overtime to surprise her with a real vacation, eating ramen so I could afford her favorite vitamins when she felt run down. While I was out here struggling to keep our world spinning, she was building a palace with another man. The physical pain in my arm flared, a sharp, jagged reminder of the impact. I doubled over, a soft groan escaping my lips. Isabella’s eyes flickered to my mangled arm, but before she could speak, the man—Bradley—interrupted. “It’s just an arm, Bella. A loser like this probably doesn’t even use it for anything besides panhandling. But that car… it’s a Ferrari Roma. I want him to pay, and I want him to crawl.” I clenched my teeth, my heart thudding so hard it hurt. Isabella had always told me her family lost everything in a bad real estate deal, that we had to be frugal to stay afloat. I had lived like a monk, counting pennies, agonizing over the grocery bill, all while she was buying ten-million-dollar toys for a secret husband. “I want an apology,” Bradley demanded, slipping his hand around Isabella’s waist, pulling her flush against him. I looked at her, my soul screaming for her to recognize me, to stop this nightmare. Isabella looked conflicted for a heartbeat, her gaze shifting between Bradley’s smug face and my broken form. Then, she fixed me with a look of stern, calculated warning. “Apologize to my husband,” she said. The world went silent. I felt the heat leave my limbs. I had lost the use of my arm because of this man’s negligence, and my wife was demanding I apologize to my executioner. “Mr. Mitch,” the judge prodded, looking at me with thinly veiled impatience. I stood there, my body shaking, and forced myself to bow. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sterling. I… I’m sorry about your car.” Bradley didn’t even acknowledge me. He turned Isabella around and kissed her deeply, a victory lap in front of the court. “The repairs will be three hundred thousand dollars,” Bradley called out as they turned to leave. “You’ll never make that much in your life, but consider it a lesson. Some people are just worth more than others.” Isabella didn’t look back. She walked out of that courtroom with him, leaving me with a legal bill that felt like a death warrant. She had forgotten, apparently, that when my mother needed surgery two years ago, we couldn’t even scrape together ten thousand dollars. I had sold everything I owned back then. I walked out of the courthouse alone, the sun blindingly bright. A Maybach roared past me, splashing grey slush onto my shoes. My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from Isabella: Wait for me at the apartment. We’ll talk. Do NOT let him find out who you are. A single tear hit the cracked screen of my phone. Five years of devotion, of working until 2 AM, of building a life I thought was ours… it was all a punchline to a joke I wasn’t in on. When I finally reached our building, I found the hallway cluttered with boxes. My boxes. Two movers were unceremoniously throwing my clothes and books into the hall. “What are you doing?” I screamed, rushing forward, trying to grab a framed photo of my mother before it hit the floor. “Stop it!” The door to our apartment opened, and Isabella stepped out. She was still in her suit, looking every bit the high-society titan. “You need to move out for a while,” she said, her voice flat. “It’s for your own safety.” I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. “Five years, Isabella. You lied to me for five years. Am I even a person to you? Do you have a soul?” She sighed, a weary, practiced sound. “Don’t make a scene, Noah. Please.” “Don’t make a scene?” I choked out. “Bradley and I… it’s a family arrangement. A merger of estates. I kept you hidden to protect you. Can’t you understand that? This entire building? I bought it for Bradley months ago. Now that he’s seen your face, you can’t stay here. He’ll put the pieces together.” The air left my lungs. The home we had shared, the walls I had painted, the memories of five anniversaries… it was all hers. It was never ours. She reached into her designer bag and tossed a set of keys at my feet. “My assistant will drive you. There’s a place in the suburbs. Stay there. Don’t be reckless.” I watched her walk away, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floor. I picked up the keys and hurled them at her retreating back, but they just clattered harmlessly against the wall. The assistant drove me to a sprawling estate on the outskirts of the city. As soon as I stepped inside, I heard the lock click behind me. In the foyer, a massive family portrait hung on the wall. Isabella, Bradley, and a three-year-old boy, all smiling in the golden glow of a professional studio. Three years old. Every time I had brought up having a baby, she had shut down. She’d claim she wasn’t ready, that we needed more money, that her career was too volatile. Now I knew why. She already had a son. I looked at the date on the bottom of the portrait. My heart stopped. That was the day my father died. I had spent that night huddled in a hospital corridor, calling Isabella a hundred times, sobbing into the voicemail. When she finally called back, she sounded “exhausted” from her “business trip.” “I’m so sorry, honey, but my boss has me tied up in meetings. I can’t get a flight out for a week.” She hadn’t been in meetings. she had been posing for a family portrait while I buried my father alone. A red haze took over. I grabbed the heavy frame and smashed it against the floor, screaming until my throat was raw. When the strength left me, I slumped into the glass shards and pulled out my phone. I dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “I need a lawyer,” I whispered. “I want a divorce.” I sat there in the dark, watching the blood from my reopened arm wound soak into the expensive white rug. I tried to call Isabella one last time. The first time, she declined. The second time, her phone was off. I blacked out from the pain and the loss of blood. I woke up to heavy footsteps. Two men in dark suits—security—grabbed me and hauled me into a waiting black SUV. They drove like madmen until we reached a private wing of a hospital. They strapped me to a gurney. I struggled, my voice a raspy croak. “What are you doing? Let me go!” Then, Isabella appeared. Her face was contorted, frantic in a way I’d never seen. “I told you not to get in his way!” she hissed, leaning over me. “You just couldn’t stay away, could you? Bradley found out about you. He tried to kill himself. He’s in surgery right now.” She grabbed my chin, her grip bruising. “I know you’re O-negative. You’re the only match in the private registry close enough to get here in time. You’re going to give him whatever he needs. Doctor! Do it now! My husband is dying!” I stared at her, my vision blurring. She wasn’t just my wife anymore. She was a monster. The needle was thick, and the sensation of the blood leaving my body was a slow, cold hollowness. I slipped back into the dark. I don’t know how much time passed. I was woken by a searing, localized agony in my lower body. “What… what did you do?” I gasped, looking down at the blood-stained sheets. The doctor wouldn’t look me in the eye. “Mr. Sterling… he was highly agitated when he woke up. He demanded a guarantee that you would never be a threat to his family again. Ms. Isabella… she signed the consent forms for the vasectomy while you were under.” The room spun. I felt a surge of bile in my throat. I vomited blood onto the white tiles. My phone, left on the bedside table, began to vibrate incessantly. Notifications flooded the screen. “Check out this homewrecker.” “If you’re lonely, buy a dog, don’t steal someone else’s wife.” “Staged an accident just to get close to her. Total psycho.” Pictures of me from the courtroom were everywhere. I was being branded as the “other man,” the obsessed stalker who had tried to extort a grieving couple. I was the legal husband. I was the one who had been betrayed. I pulled my wedding certificate from my bag—the one I had kept like a holy relic—and posted it online, detailing our five-year timeline. Within minutes, the comments shifted. People pointed out the seal on my certificate. “That’s a fake seal. Look at the font. This guy is a pro fraudster.” I stared at the screen, zooming in. My heart shattered. Isabella had faked our entire marriage. The ceremony, the paperwork… it was all a prop to keep me compliant. Seconds later, Bradley posted a photo of their marriage certificate. It was real. It was stamped with the official state seal. Isabella called. “Was it all a lie?” I whispered into the phone. “Is his the only one that’s real?” “I had to give him security, Noah,” she said, her voice trembling. “He needs to feel like he’s the only one. But you… you were always going to be mine. Why can’t you just accept that?” I heard things breaking on her end. Bradley was screaming in the background. “He’s unstable, Noah! You have to fix this. Go on a livestream. Admit you were the ‘other man.’ Admit you obsessed over me. If you do this, I’ll take care of you forever.” “You destroyed my life,” I said, my voice dead. “And you want me to apologize for it?” Isabella’s voice turned ice-cold. “Think about your mother, Noah. Think about who’s paying for her ventilator and her private suite. Think very carefully about your next words.” I collapsed against the hospital bed. My mother. She was my only reason for breathing. Isabella had taken over her medical bills months ago, moving her to a facility “with better care.” “Noah, honey,” Isabella’s voice softened, returning to the manipulative warmth I used to love. “Don’t make me pull the plug on her. Just do the stream. Apologize. Then we can go back to how things were.” I checked out of the hospital against medical advice, my body a map of pain. When I stepped outside, people recognized me. They threw trash. They spat on me. “Homewrecker!” someone yelled. A call came through from the hospital. It was my mother, her voice a fragile wisp. “Noah… don’t do it… don’t beg for me…” The line went dead. I went to Isabella. She met me in a studio, handing me a script. “Do this, and the three million dollars for your mother’s transplant will be cleared tonight.” I looked at the cameras, the reporters, the bright lights. “This is a public execution,” I whispered. “Then die with dignity,” she whispered back. “Or watch your mother die instead.” I walked to the center of the room. I looked at Bradley, who was sitting in a wheelchair, looking triumphant. I dropped to my knees. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sterling,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “I was obsessed with your wife. I tried to come between you. I am… I am nothing.” I put my forehead to the floor, over and over, until the skin broke and blood clouded my vision. When it was over, Isabella tossed a black debit card at my feet. “Three million. Go save her.” I ran. I ran until my lungs burned. I reached my mother’s room, shoving the card at the doctor. “Use it! Save her!” The doctor came back minutes later, shaking his head. “The account is frozen, Mr. Mitch. There’s no money.” I pulled the gold signet ring from my finger—the one Isabella gave me for my birthday. “This! It’s pure gold! It’s worth a fortune!” The doctor looked at it with pity. “Sir… this is iron dipped in gold. It’s a prop. It’s worthless.” A high-pitched whine filled the room. The heart monitor went flat. My mother was gone. I stood there, holding her cold hand, as my world turned to dust. I walked out of the room, up the stairs, and out onto the hospital roof. My phone chimed. A message from Isabella: [I’m sorry, I’m with Bradley at his physical therapy. As soon as he falls asleep, I’ll come check on your mom. Tell her not to worry.] [I bought you a house in the canyon. You can have anything you want.] [Bradley says he can look the other way now. I’ll spend more time with you soon.] I didn’t reply. I stood on the edge, the wind whipping through my hair. “Isabella,” I whispered to the empty air. “There is no ‘us’ anymore.” I stepped off the ledge. Down in the courtyard, Isabella happened to look up. She saw the falling figure. Her eyes widened, her soul finally catching up to her sins.

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