Category: English

I was curled up on the sofa, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram Reels, when a viral street-photography video stopped my thumb dead in its tracks. The video showed the backs of two women walking side-by-side. One was me. The other was the wife of my husband’s childhood best friend. The comment section was an absolute war zone, dissecting which of us was more attractive. Some users argued that the woman on the left—me—had an effortless, unapproachable elegance. Others insisted the woman on the right, with her softer, curvier figure, was far more alluring. I was swiping through the comments, mildly amused, until a familiar profile picture made me sit bolt upright. It was my husband, Colin. A spark of playful curiosity flared in my chest. I wanted to see if my husband of three years could pick his own wife out of a viral lineup. He had left only three words: The right one. 1 I wasn’t the one on the right. The woman on the right was Mia, the wife of Colin’s best friend. I stared at those three words, a heavy, suffocating weight settling in the center of my chest, like I had swallowed a fistful of cotton. My intuition—that quiet, ancient alarm system every woman possesses—began a low, persistent hum. Something was wrong. The video had been secretly filmed last Sunday. Colin had dragged me to a get-together with his childhood crew, the guys he’d known since middle school. Mia and I got along well enough, and after dinner, we’d been leaning against the edge of a pool table, chatting. Someone must have filmed us and uploaded it. But the coat I was wearing in that video? Colin had bought it for me. There was absolutely no way he didn’t recognize me. He knew exactly who was who. My phone vibrated against my palm. It was the group chat for Colin’s friend group—four guys and their wives. I scrolled up to catch the tail-end of the conversation. Mia: Let’s go glamping this Sunday! Tyler and I are free. What about you guys? Colin: I’m in. Derek: Sophie and I are good to go. Rachel: Kevin and I +1. Mia: @Nina can you make your famous slow-smoked barbecue spread? I’m craving it. I’ll bring the fruit. Skip the pastries though, I’ve put on weight lately. Tyler: Where? Babe, eat whatever you want. Don’t listen to the haters, you look amazing. Mia: You have to say that, you’re my husband. Tyler: I mean it! Let the group decide! A flurry of teasing messages followed. Look at Tyler, Husband of the Year, and Mia, you hit the jackpot, stop complaining. Amidst the noisy, digital applause, Colin sent a single message: You’re not. I stared at the screen. The delayed realization dripped into my veins like ice water. Colin treated Mia differently. He always had. Mia and I were fundamentally different women. I was tall and lean; she was soft and curvy. If I was the fiercely independent, self-sufficient career woman, Mia was the fragile damsel who instinctively made men want to shield her from the world. Was Mia his actual type? Had she always been? 2 Before I could spiral further, Colin walked into the living room. “What are you zoning out for? Mia tagged you in the group chat.” I glanced down. Mia had tagged me again: Nina, please make the barbecue! You’re the best cook! Usually, I’d cheerfully agree. I liked hosting. I liked taking care of people. But right now, looking at Colin’s remarkably impassive face, a bitter taste flooded my mouth. “She tagged me. And? You’re the one who’s so eager for this trip. Why don’t you cook?” Without waiting for his response, I grabbed my pajamas and locked myself in the bathroom. When I finally emerged, the steam clinging to my skin, Colin was propped up against the headboard. He hadn’t gone to sleep. Seeing me, his features softened into something resembling concern. “What’s going on? You snapped at me. Did something happen at work? Talk to me.” Looking at his gentle posture, my defenses crumbled just a fraction. Maybe I was just exhausted. Maybe I was projecting. I had been with Colin since college. He was a notoriously aloof guy, borderline stoic, and never particularly expressive with his emotions or his libido. I remembered what he used to say about Mia years ago: She cries over everything. She’s high-maintenance. The minute something goes wrong, she calls a guy to fix it. She’s like an overgrown toddler. Not like you, Nina. You can handle a boardroom and a kitchen. You’re independent. When he had said it, his face had been twisted in genuine distaste. So… I had to be overthinking this. “It’s nothing,” I sighed, sliding under the covers. “Just a rough week at the firm. I’m burnt out.” He immediately shifted closer, his hands finding the tight knots in my shoulders. “I’m sorry, babe. You work too hard. Honestly, if you wanted to quit and just be a stay-at-home wife, you could. Just take care of me.” A flicker of warmth returned to my chest. Maybe he truly hadn’t recognized the back of my head in that stupid video. “I couldn’t do that. I’d go crazy in this house all day.” He didn’t push it, his thumbs methodically working the tension from my muscles. The quiet intimacy of the room shifted, softening the edges of my anger. I leaned back into his touch, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Hey… it’s been a while since we…” I felt his body stiffen. It was a microscopic flinch, but I felt it. The guilt instantly masked his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Nina. I’m just dead on my feet. And I have an early flight for that work trip tomorrow…” The desperate, apologetic look on his face snuffed out whatever spark I had managed to muster. “It’s fine,” I said flatly. “Let’s just go to sleep.” Colin lay down, his back to me. I reached over and flicked off the bedside lamp. Just as the darkness settled over the room, his voice floated through the pitch black. “So, about Sunday… you’ll make the barbecue spread, right?” The anger I had just managed to swallow clawed its way right back up my throat, burning like battery acid. “I’m not feeling well. I don’t want to cook.” Silence stretched between us for several agonizing seconds. “…Fine,” he finally said. The next morning, the moment I woke up, I reached for my phone. I checked the group chat. Sometime after I had fallen asleep, Colin had replied to Mia’s request. @Mia. I’ll take care of it. 3 I frowned at the screen, utterly bewildered. If he wanted to handle it, fine. Let him. Colin was out of town for three days, returning the evening before our camping trip. I left work early that Friday, intending to hit the grocery store and just prep the food anyway to save him the embarrassment. But when I opened the front door, I heard the rhythmic chopping of a knife. The entire house smelled like slow-roasted meat and rich spices. Colin was home. He was standing at the kitchen island, wearing an apron. “You’re cooking?” I asked, my voice betraying my shock. He jumped slightly, spinning around. “Oh, hey. You’re home. Yeah, well, you said you weren’t feeling well, so I figured I’d try following your recipe. Let it slow-cook.” I stared at the apron tied around his waist, entirely stripped of words. Colin was a neat freak to his core. He despised the smell of cooking oil, hated sticky countertops, and loathed the cleanup. In all our years together, the man had never cooked a single meal from scratch. I vividly remembered a time when I was crippled by brutal menstrual cramps. All I wanted was a specific, slow-cooked soup. I sent him a TikTok recipe, begging him to try making it for me just once. He hadn’t even hesitated before shooting it down. Babe, come on, let me just order you DoorDash. You know how I am with the kitchen. I hate the mess. Plus, it would taste terrible if I made it. I hadn’t pushed it. I was just looking for comfort. But the takeout he ordered ended up giving me food poisoning, leaving me curled around the toilet all night. And now? Now, because Mia casually mentioned a craving in a group chat, my husband was rolling up his sleeves and subjecting himself to the grease and smoke he supposedly despised? What did that make me? What were the last six years of my life worth? “If she wanted it that badly, we could have just catered it from that spot downtown,” I said, my voice carefully neutral. “You didn’t have to cook.” “We couldn’t do that,” he fired back instantly. “Don’t you remember the time you got food poisoning from takeout? Mia has a really sensitive stomach. She loves this stuff, but if we buy it from a restaurant, she’ll probably get sick.” I listened to him, feeling my heart detach and sink, inch by inch, into the floorboards. “Right. Have fun cooking. I’m going to shower.” I stood under the scalding spray of the showerhead for a long time. The white noise of the water gave my brain the quiet space it needed to piece it all together. It wasn’t complicated. Colin just didn’t love me that much. I was the one who chased him in college. He was handsome, aloof, and highly sought after, but I was the most relentless. When we finally started dating, I overheard him talking to Tyler. Nina’s great. She’s grounded, she’s practical. She’ll make a really good wife. I’m gonna treat her right. He said I was practical. He said I’d be a good wife. He never once said he was in love with me. 4 We all met up at the trailhead the next morning. I hadn’t slept a wink. My skin looked sallow, my eyes bruised with exhaustion. Standing next to Mia—who was practically glowing, her cheeks flushed with a natural, rosy youthfulness—we looked like two entirely different species. She immediately bounded over to the cooler, sniffing the air theatrically. “Oh my god, it smells incredible! I want a bite right now!” I opened my mouth to say the forks were packed at the bottom of the trunk, but before I could speak, Colin produced a sleek, separate Tupperware container. It was fully equipped with fancy toothpicks and a little napkin. “I packed a separate portion for Nina to eat in the car. But if you’re hungry, you can have it.” Mia flashed us a coy, overly-sweet smile. “Oh, look at you two showing off. Tyler, take notes! Look how thoughtful Colin is.” She took the container and popped the lid. “Well, if you guys are going to rub your perfect marriage in my face, I’m eating your love-bento.” She speared a dark, rich morsel with a toothpick and held it up to my mouth. “Want a bite, Nina?” I looked at the dark chunk of meat on the toothpick. My stomach violently churned. I took a step back, shaking my head. “No thanks. You eat it.” The nausea wasn’t metaphorical. It was real. Because the meat on that toothpick was duck liver mousse. I despise liver. I don’t eat organ meat of any kind. Colin knew this. Which meant this “special car snack he packed for his wife” was never meant for me at all. “Okay, more for me! Wow, this is incredible. Whoever invented this recipe is a genius…” Mia’s voice was soft, slightly breathless, playing up a helpless, cute persona that clashed bizarrely with her sultry styling. I didn’t hear whatever she said next. I was looking at Colin. He was staring at the side of Mia’s face with a soft, indulgent smile. His eyes were heavy with a tender, raw adoration that I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. Ah. Everything clicked into devastating focus. My husband was in love. I had only seen that exact expression on his face once—during the brief, fleeting honeymoon phase right after I had finally won him over. 5 Once we reached the campsite, everyone fell into their roles. Tents went up, coolers were unpacked, and with hours to kill before dinner, the guys broke out the cards. Derek, Sophie, Colin, and Mia sat down for a game of Texas Hold’em. Mia was loud and animated, playing with chaotic enthusiasm. Tyler stood off to the side, diligently flipping burgers on a portable grill. Rachel and I didn’t play. We sat on folding chairs, sipping hard seltzers, occasionally handing Tyler a spatula. I was zoning out, staring into the treeline, when Mia let out a theatrical groan. “Oh my god, Colin, you’re too good! You haven’t lost a single hand!” She playfully smacked his arm. “If you keep being ruthless, I’m not playing with you anymore.” I looked over. Colin chuckled, a low, easy sound. “Who knows. Maybe my luck is about to run out.” The next round started. Mia actually got a decent hand. By the river card, the stakes were high. Mia pushed her chips all in with a triumphant squeal, flipping over a pair of Kings. Derek and Sophie groaned, folding their hands. “I win! I finally won!” Mia bounced in her camping chair, clapping her hands. The group laughed at her childish excitement. Colin was laughing too. But from my angle, I saw exactly what he did. With a smooth, practiced flick of his wrist, Colin folded his cards, sliding them to the bottom of the deck. But right before they disappeared, I saw them. Pocket Aces. He had intentionally thrown the game just to watch her smile. 6 A plate of perfectly charred, smoky meat appeared in my line of sight. Tyler was standing there, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Here ya go, Nina. Eat up. But save those two skewers for my wife, yeah? She loves them.” I looked at Tyler. His eyes were crinkling with easy, honest joy as he looked over at Mia laughing at the card table. He was a good man. Clueless, entirely devoted, and a little naive. I didn’t know if this was just a pathetic, one-sided obsession on Colin’s part, or if the two of them were engaged in a secret, unspoken dance. But looking at Tyler, a heavy wave of tragic solidarity washed over me. We were the collateral damage. Later that night, after the campfire died down and the alcohol started talking, the group sat around looking at the stars. At some point, I realized Colin wasn’t in his chair. Neither was Mia. I leaned over to Tyler. “Where’s Mia?” Tyler was visibly buzzed. He couldn’t hold his liquor—two beers and he was usually done. Tonight, they’d been playing drinking games, and he had heroically taken several shots for Mia to spare her. He blinked, his eyes unfocused. “Mia? She said she was freezing. Went… went to the tent to grab her sweater.” I stood up, brushing the dirt off my jeans, and started walking toward their tent. Before I even got close, I saw two silhouettes emerge from the darkness, walking one after the other. It was Mia and Colin. Mia’s cheeks were flushed deeper than the alcohol could account for, and her hair was slightly rumpled. Colin looked perfectly composed, as always. “Where are you going?” Mia asked, blinking at me with wide, innocent eyes. I paused. “Nature calls.” Colin slid his hands into his pockets. “Want me to walk you?” I stared into the pitch-black woods behind them. “No.” He shrugged. “Alright. Watch your step. Yell if you need me.” I nodded and walked past them into the tree line. I found a quiet spot behind a thick cluster of pines. Just as I was about to turn back, a hand clamped down on my shoulder. I nearly screamed, but a palm clamped over my mouth. “Nina, it’s me. Keep your voice down.” I spun around. It was Rachel. When did she get out here? I had been so hyper-focused on Colin and Mia that I hadn’t realized Rachel had slipped away too. She looked around frantically, her brow furrowed in deep distress. She hesitated for what felt like an eternity before dropping her voice to a furious whisper. “I have to tell you something. Please don’t freak out.” My heart plummeted into my stomach. “I was out here a few minutes ago,” she breathed, her eyes wide. “I saw your husband… with Mia. They were in Tyler’s tent. And they were holding each other.” So it was true. When I didn’t say anything, she quickly backpedaled, her own anxiety getting the better of her. “But I didn’t see what they were actually doing! I could be wrong. The lighting through the nylon tents is weird, shadows merge… and they were only in there for a few minutes.” She was trying to soften the blow, but her eyes told me the truth. She knew what she saw. What kind of man follows his best friend’s wife into her tent in the dark? And honestly, you don’t need hours to cross a line. Five minutes in the dark is more than enough time to ruin a marriage. Which meant Mia was actively participating. They were both fully aware of what they were doing. They were treating Tyler and me like absolute fools. I had never imagined Colin was capable of something so vile. He was always so restrained, so obsessively moral about the little things. Yet here he was, betraying the woman who built a life with him, and the man he called a brother. 7 When I got back to the fire, Tyler was completely hammered, slinging an arm heavily around Mia’s waist. But the camping chair Mia had chosen to sit in was pressed flush against Colin’s. Everyone was laughing, the picture of perfect, idyllic friendship. I lay in our tent that night, staring at the nylon ceiling, completely paralyzed by insomnia. About an hour later, I heard Colin’s voice, a mere breath in the dark. “Nina? You asleep?” My jaw clenched. I didn’t make a sound. A few minutes later, I heard the subtle rustle of a sleeping bag unzipping. The tent flap gave a quiet hiss, and the mattress shifted as he crawled out. I waited until his footsteps faded into the dirt. Then, I grabbed my phone, slid my boots on, and followed him. As I approached the edge of the woods, Mia’s voice drifted through the trees. “Oh my god, it’s so cute. I just want to pet it.” Then came Colin’s voice—hushed, gravelly, and dripping with an indulgence he never gave me. “Go ahead. Pet it. It’s perfectly well-behaved.” “Ah, it moved,” Mia let out a soft, breathy gasp. “Cute, isn’t it? You like it?” Colin’s voice was thick with a dark, undeniable tension. A wave of pure, unadulterated nausea hit me so hard I had to brace my hand against a tree trunk to keep from throwing up. My fingers trembled violently as I stopped the voice recording on my phone. I turned on my heel and marched straight back to Tyler’s tent. Just as I reached for the zipper, Tyler stumbled out, rubbing his eyes. “Hey, Nina? Have you seen Mia?” I looked at Tyler. The crisp night air had sobered him up considerably. I pulled out my phone and hit play. He had a right to know. Just like I did. By the time the short audio clip ended, the blood had entirely drained from Tyler’s face, leaving behind a terrifying, thunderous rage. Tyler had joined the military right out of high school. He had survived three years of brutal long-distance with Mia, only returning to civilian life last year so they could finally get married. He radiated a sudden, violent energy. “Where are they?” I wasn’t going to sweep this under the rug. If Colin wanted to destroy our marriage, we were going to burn the whole house down. He didn’t get to keep his pristine reputation while treating me like garbage. “Follow me.” We moved silently through the brush until the voices became clear again. “You’re so good at this…” Mia was cooing softly. That was it. Tyler snapped. He tore through the bushes like a freight train, his voice shattering the quiet night. “What the fuck are you two doing?!”

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Today marks the sixth anniversary of my long, twisted entanglement with Rory. As I’ve done for the past five years, I’ve meticulously planned a lavish celebration. But for the first time, Rory showed up alone. No entourage, no distractions. He walked toward me, wearing that familiar, suffocating cloak of arrogance. “Callie, give it a rest,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, condescending baritone. “I’m done playing games. Let’s make this official.” “This is the hundredth time I’m asking,” he continued, shoving one hand into his pocket while extending the other. Between his fingers sat a diamond ring. “Marry me.” I barely glanced at the rock. I didn’t feel the rush of blood to my face or the frantic heartbeat I’d lived with for years. I just felt… tired. “I’m sorry, Mr. Steward,” I said, my voice as flat as the champagne in my glass. “But this venue is already booked for my engagement party.” He winced at the name—the formality of it. I remembered the first time I confessed to him. He’d looked at me with bored eyes and said, “Callie, you’re trying too hard. This kind of desperation? It’s cheap.” The second time, he didn’t even hide his irritation: “I have a low tolerance for women who don’t know when to quit.” By the ninety-ninth time, after a night that meant everything to me and nothing to him, he’d leaned against the headboard, lighting a cigarette. “A relationship like this… don’t bother looking for a future. When it stops working, we just walk away.” That night, for the first time in six years, I finally listened. 1 “Security,” I called out, my voice cutting through the ambient jazz. “Please escort this uninvited guest out. I don’t want him ruining the atmosphere.” Two suited guards immediately stepped forward, their shadows falling over Rory. Rory let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “Alright, Callie. Enough with the theatrics. You’re just pissed because I made you wait too long, right? I get it. Six years is a long time to be the girl in the background. You’re allowed to be moody.” He took a step closer, reaching out as if to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I jerked my head back, a wave of genuine nausea rolling through my stomach. He didn’t look angry—he looked amused. “If you’re going to put on a show, at least be original. Look at this place. The decor, the flowers, even the damn tablecloths are identical to the last five anniversaries you threw for me. You think I don’t see that? You’re obsessed with me, Callie. Don’t pretend you’ve moved on in a month.” I stared at him, disgusted by the sheer weight of his entitlement. A few years ago, his coldness used to drive me to the brink of a breakdown. I’d screamed at him once, eyes red and voice breaking: “Rory, if you keep treating me like this, I swear I’ll marry someone else!” Back then, I was desperate for a reaction. I wanted him to tell me to stay. I wanted him to fight for me. But he’d always just smirk, turn his back, and climb into a car with some girl he’d met five minutes prior. Once, he even waved over his shoulder and called out, “Go ahead then. I’d love to see who would actually take a woman as pathetic as you.” He’d said it so many times that he’d become immune to the threat. He truly believed my world began and ended with him. “My fiancé likes this aesthetic,” I said, tilting my head. “Oh, and by the way, the ring he gave me? It’s significantly larger than that—and much more expensive.” I held up my left hand. A massive, flawless pear-cut diamond caught the light, blindingly bright. Rory’s brow furrowed. Without a word, he pulled out his phone and made a quick call. A few seconds later, his smug expression returned, even more condescending than before. “Nice try, Callie. Using my name to pull a piece from the Steward family’s private boutique just to stage this little drama? You’re more calculating than I thought.” I clenched my fist, my nails digging into the skin of my palm. The ring did come from the Steward collection. I had gone to the boutique myself. But the black card I’d swiped belonged to my fiancé. “The play-acting is a bit lazy, though,” Rory added, glancing around the room. “An engagement party where the groom doesn’t even show up? You’re losing your touch.” Just then, the heavy doors swung open. Tiffany sauntered in on four-inch stilettos, her hips swaying with practiced ease. “Rory, I told you she was faking. You actually believed that ‘we’re over’ nonsense?” Rory sat down in the center chair at the head table, spreading his arms wide. Tiffany hopped onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and planting a loud, wet kiss on his cheek. “Ugh, you made me wait forever in the car…” She turned her gaze toward me, her eyes sharpening like glass shards. “Callie, honey. How much did this little ‘marry me’ stunt cost you this time? If you have this much cash to burn, you should spend it on a face-lift. You’re starting to look a little… desperate.” She reached for a bottle on the table. “Ooh, Macallan 25? You really went all out. Did you think buying his favorite scotch would make him forgive you? God, you’re naive.” As she started to twist the cap, I reached out and snatched it from her hand. “This is the vintage for my wedding toast,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “A woman who makes her living sitting on other people’s laps isn’t worthy of touching it.” Rory’s face darkened, his patience finally snapping. “That’s enough, Callie. Stop being a brat. This whole scene is beneath you. It’s getting pathetic.” He stood up, hoisting Tiffany into his arms in a bridal carry. He looked down at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance. “I gave you a chance tonight. I offered you the ring. You chose to play games instead. Don’t come crawling back when you realize nobody’s coming to save you.” 2 “Where to tonight?” Tiffany purred as Rory carried her toward the exit. “The penthouse at the Pierre? Or back to your place?” “You’ve been to my place a thousand times,” Rory replied, his voice drifting back to me, thick with flirtation. “Let’s go to the Pierre. I want a view.” I stood alone in the center of the ballroom, a bitter, jagged smile pulling at my lips. Six years. We were together for six years, and I didn’t even know what his bedroom looked like. I’d asked him once, years ago, my voice small and hopeful: “Rory, can I come over? Just for coffee? I’d love to see where you live.” He’d shut me down instantly. “My home isn’t for people like you. I don’t need strays bringing their messy energy into my space. It’s bad luck.” The few guests who had lingered—mostly Rory’s hangers-on—started whispering, their laughter like the buzzing of flies. “Look at her. The great Callie, abandoned again.” “Did she really think a fake ring would work? Rory’s seen every trick in the book.” “An engagement with no groom. It’s literally a one-woman show. How embarrassing.” “Give it up, Callie! Run home before the bill comes due!” For six years, I had traded my dignity for his attention. Whenever a woman like Tiffany appeared, I’d turn into a screaming, hysterical version of myself, doing anything to claw them away from him. I was a clown in a high-society circus, believing that if I just held on long enough, he would finally see me. But the circus was over. “Server,” I called out, gesturing to the waitstaff. “Replace these chair covers. Every plate, every glass he touched—throw them out. I want this room scrubbed.” I turned my gaze to the remaining crowd. “Anyone else who wants to gossip can do it on the sidewalk. This is my private event, and I’m done being the entertainment.” My phone buzzed in my clutch. Sorry, Callie. I won’t make it back in time tonight. I stared at the text. No heartbreak. No tears. Just a hollow sense of “of course.” It’s fine, I replied. Just like every anniversary for the last half-decade, I walked out of the hotel alone. The autumn wind bit through my thin silk dress, making me shiver. Usually, this was the part where I’d collapse onto the sidewalk and sob, mourning my own pathetic persistence. But tonight, I just pulled my coat tighter and kept walking. As I reached the bottom of the hotel steps, something wet and heavy slammed into my chest. A bucket of thick, crimson paint splashed across my face and white dress. “Six years of stalking him! Have you no shame?!” “Leave Rory alone, you psycho!” “Women like you deserve to be marked!” Suddenly, a swarm of paparazzi appeared from the shadows, their flashes strobing like lightning. “Callie! Is this your sixth failed proposal? How does it feel to be rejected annually?” “We heard Rory finally told you to get lost. Did he commission the paint job?” “Is there even a fiancé, or are you just trying to trend?” “Who would ever actually marry you?” In the chaos, a familiar figure shoved through the crowd, his shoulders broad and his face contorted with rage. Rory. 3 He saw me dripping in red, and for a second, he looked genuinely shaken. “Who the hell did this?!” he roared at the photographers. “Who touched her?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He scooped me up, his expensive suit instantly ruined by the wet paint. I turned my head away as the flashes continued to explode behind us. “I thought you were spending the night with Tiffany,” I muttered. He looked down at me, the fire in his eyes softening into that arrogant “I-know-best” look. “So that’s what this is. You’re still jealous. See? You’re not hurt, you’re just pouting because of her.” “I told you, she’s just a distraction. I’m done with the games.” “Callie, I’m going to marry you.” He said it with such conviction, the same way I used to say it to him in my dreams. “I’m already spoken for, Rory.” “Stop,” he sighed, carrying me into the hotel’s first-aid station. “You’ve never been a good liar. I know you better than anyone.” “You couldn’t even find an actor to play the groom tonight because you were waiting for me to come around, weren’t you? You wanted me to blink. You wanted me to give in.” “Well, I’m giving in. I’ll marry you. Happy?” He set me down on an exam table. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure whoever threw that paint pays for it.” As the nurse began to wipe the stinging pigment from my skin, Rory started pacing, talking to himself as much as to me. “We can pick whatever venue you want. The Hamptons? Lake Como? I’ll have my assistant clear the schedule. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the bridal boutique. I’ll call the best designer in the city—custom only. I want you to be the most beautiful bride New York has ever seen.” My phone buzzed incessantly. It was him. My actual fiancé. I heard about the paint. Are you okay? Are you hurt? I’m finished here. I’m heading to you now. I won’t be able to make the fitting tomorrow, but I sent my measurements to the shop. Just pick what you like. Don’t settle for anything less than perfect. I looked at the measurements he’d sent. They were nearly identical to Rory’s build. “Fine,” I said aloud, cutting off Rory’s monologue. “Let’s go to the fitting tomorrow.” If someone else wanted to do the legwork for my wedding prep, why not? It saved me the trouble. Rory smiled, reaching out to pat my head. “I know I’ve been hard on you these last few years, Callie. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll give you everything I’ve owed you since we started.” By the next morning, the city’s social media feeds were on fire. First, the hit pieces: “The 6-Year Stalker Finally Reaches Her Breaking Point.” “Callie Marked in Red After Desperate Anniversary Stunt.” Then, the pivot: “Steward Heir Confirms Engagement to Long-Time Flame.” My phone was a graveyard of missed calls. I didn’t care. As long as this marriage happened, my grandmother’s life would be saved. I arrived at the city’s most exclusive bridal salon at 10:00 AM. Tiffany was already there, leaning against the glass storefront with a smirk that could cut stone. “Well, if it isn’t the Lady in Red. What are you doing here, Callie?” “I heard Rory was meeting someone here for a fitting. Did you really think you could just slide back in? You’re not the bride, honey. You’re just the help.” “How was the paint last night? Did it wash off, or is your soul still stained?” 4 I didn’t even look at her. I just walked toward the door. She grabbed my wrist, her nails digging in. “Don’t you dare ignore me, you bitch!” She swung her hand back, aiming a slap right for my face. Suddenly, Rory’s hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-air. “You touch her again, and you’re finished in this town.” Tiffany gasped, stumbling back as he released her. “Rory? What… what is this? You hate her! You told me she was a pathetic loser who wouldn’t take a hint! Why are you protecting her?” Rory’s voice was like dry ice. “I might have been annoyed by her, but do you honestly think I’d choose you?” Tiffany looked like she’d been slapped. “But… last night? The Pierre? You told me to come here for a fitting!” Rory laughed, a cold, cruel sound. “You’re a party girl, Tiffany. You really thought I was marrying a girl I met at a club? Wake up.” He shoved her aside. “Apologize to my fiancée. Now.” Tiffany turned pale. The news hadn’t reached her yet. She thought she was still the lead actress in this drama, but the script had been rewritten overnight. “I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes darting to the floor. She turned to flee, but I caught her arm. “A bucket of paint, a night of harassment, and a dozen leaked photos,” I said quietly. “You think a ‘sorry’ covers that?” I picked up a gallon of red industrial primer I’d brought with me from the car—I’d anticipated she might show up. I dumped the entire thing over her head. Tiffany had been a thorn in my side for a year. Last winter, when my Nana had a medical crisis, I’d called Rory, begging for his driver to take us to the specialist hospital. Tiffany had answered his phone, laughed, and hung up. We’d missed the critical window for surgery by twenty minutes. My Nana almost died because of her. “Next time you play with fire,” I whispered as she shrieked, “don’t be surprised when you get burned.” Rory’s security dragged the screaming, red-stained woman out of the shop. Rory looked at me with a newfound spark of interest. “I never knew you had that much fire in you, Callie.” I didn’t answer. It’s because I don’t love you anymore, Rory. I have nothing left to lose. The shop owner brought out several gowns, but I barely looked at them. Marrying a man I’d only spoken to through intermediaries felt like a business transaction. The lace and tulle didn’t matter. Only the result did. When I stepped out in a stunning Vera Wang, Rory was already waiting in a custom tux. He stopped breathing for a second when he saw me. Then he cleared his throat. “Let’s take a photo. For the announcement.” In six years, I’d begged for a single photo together. Just one selfie. He’d always refused. “Taking a photo with you is bad for my brand.” Once, I’d tried to sneak a picture of his silhouette. He’d snatched my phone, smashed it on the pavement, and told me to get some self-respect. Fine, I thought. Six years without a single memory. Let’s have one photo to end it all. Over the next week, Rory was a ghost of his former self. He was everywhere. He picked the flowers, the menu, the lighting. He held doors for me. He talked about our “future” as if it were a real thing. 5 This version of Rory was someone I didn’t recognize. He was attentive, kind, and focused. It was as if he were actually trying to build a life with me. But watching him only made me feel a profound sense of irony. If he had been this man six years ago—or even two—we wouldn’t be here. But his tenderness was a day late and a dollar short. The night before the wedding, I went to the hospital to see Nana. I left Rory at the venue to handle the final touches. When I returned to the ballroom to check the progress, I saw a famous actress—someone Rory had been “linked” to recently—pleading with him. I stayed in the shadows, waiting. Rory didn’t hesitate. He took her hand, led her to the door, and said, “This is my wife-to-be, Callie. From this moment on, there is no one else. Don’t come back.” The actress left in tears. I felt nothing. No triumph, no satisfaction. I just saw it as a messy loose end being tied up. That night, Rory cooked dinner. He talked about kids, about a house in the Berkshires… But in my mind, I was seeing a different, blurred silhouette. The wedding was set for 6:00 PM the next day. At 5:30, Rory was in his tuxedo, buzzing with a strange, nervous energy. He arrived at the venue, but the doors were locked. There were no guests. No minister. No music. The place was empty. “What is this?!” Rory screamed, slamming his fist against the glass. “Where is everyone? Why is the decor different? Did they double-book the room?!” A server walked up, looking confused. “I’m sorry, Mr. Steward. Are you in the wrong place? There’s no Steward wedding here today. This is Callie’s wedding.” “That’s what I said! Where is she?!”

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I hadn’t eaten in two days. I didn’t even have the strength to stand. My mother—the kind of woman who regularly “forgot” to pay my school fees—suddenly announced she was taking me to the carnival. She promised that if I was a good girl and followed her out, she’d buy me a warm meat pie on the way back. But we didn’t end up at a carnival. We stopped in front of a derelict, rotting Victorian mansion on the edge of town. The moment I stepped into the overgrown yard, glowing lines of text began to flicker across my vision like a digital fever dream: “Welcome to the Horror Trials, Little Bitter Melon!” “On the first floor, the Starved One will force a thick pipe down your throat, pumping you full of food until you burst.” “On the second floor, the Flayed One has a nasty temper. One wrong move, and she’ll peel the skin right off your bones!” “But the Headless One is the worst. He loves to crush skulls—get ready for the ‘Watermelon Splash’ finale. We can’t wait!” The final line read: “Complete the trial to claim the $100 Million Grand Prize.” It hit me then. My mother didn’t want to buy me a treat. She was tired of another mouth to feed and decided to gamble my life for her “retirement fund.” 1 “Mom? Mom! I don’t want to play. I want to go home!” I grabbed the hem of her coat, my voice trembling. “Don’t you want that meat pie anymore?” I let go, my hand instinctively drifting to my hollow, aching stomach. Ever since Mom married my stepdad and had my little brother, Toby, everyone always seemed to “forget” to leave a plate for me. “I’m hungry,” I whispered, tears spilling over despite my best efforts. “Mom, I don’t need the pie. I’ll just have a piece of bread. One slice. Just one, and then can we please go home?” Mom’s face hardened instantly. She shoved my hand away. “I went through hell to get you a slot in this game! You’re always crying about how I’m unfair, how I don’t love you. Now I bring you somewhere special to play, and you’re throwing a tantrum?” “I’m not throwing a tantrum! I’m scared!” I whimpered, shrinking back. “You don’t get to be scared!” She snapped a heavy metallic collar around my neck and shoved me toward the front door. I spun around, but the heavy oak doors had already slammed shut, locking with a final, echoing thud. The house was dark. Suffocatingly quiet. “Go to the kitchen,” Mom’s voice suddenly crackled inside my head. I jumped, spinning in circles, looking for her. “Mom? Mom, where are you?” “Stop looking,” she snapped. Her voice was coming directly from the collar. “The collar I put on you has a chip. I can hear you, and I can talk to you. Now, move. Go to the kitchen.” “I can’t… I’m scared.” I started to sob. “Be a good girl, June. If you do this, I’ll let you sleep in the big bed with me tonight. Toby on one side, you on the other. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?” I froze. Toby always slept with Mom. I was always relegated to the cramped, drafty closet under the stairs. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, fueled by a desperate, pathetic hope. “Really?” “Mommy wouldn’t lie to you. Now check the kitchen. You’re hungry, right? Maybe there’s something to eat.” I stood up slowly, feeling my way through the shadows toward the kitchen. The floor was slick, sticking to the soles of my shoes with a sickening tack-tack sound. After a few steps, my foot slid, and I went down hard. My palms hit the floor. It was wet. Cold. Viscous. In the faint, grey light filtering through the grime-streaked windows, I saw it. The floor wasn’t just wet. It was painted in deep, thick crimson. “Ah—!” I screamed, trying to scramble back, but my limbs felt like lead. “Don’t be a baby! It’s just a fall. Be brave!” Mom’s voice urged, her patience clearly wearing thin. “Quickly, open the pantry. Go on.” I stayed huddled on the floor, staring at my blood-stained hands, weeping uncontrollably. “If you want to sleep in my bed, stand up,” Mom’s voice turned cold. That threat worked better than any encouragement. I sniffed, wiped my face and hands on my sleeves, and used the wall to pull myself up. I navigated around the thickest puddles of gore, inching toward the rusted metal pantry at the back. The digital overlay flickered again: “God, this mother is heartless. She knows the Starved One is in that cupboard and she’s still pushing the kid?!” “She’s literally sending her own daughter to the slaughter for a paycheck.” “Is she even the real mother? This is a death sentence.” Suddenly, rows of piercing red text flashed—Mom’s response to the viewers: “What do you people know?! She had a fever as a baby that fried her brain! The doctors said she’s slow, delayed, basically an idiot. She doesn’t even know what a ghost is. She doesn’t feel fear like we do!” “She’s just a little afraid of the dark. She’s highly adaptable!” Mom… I was only afraid of the dark because you always made me sleep alone. And I only adapted because no one ever cared what happened to me. I had to get used to it. “Let her open the door. She thinks it’s a game of hide-and-seek! Do it!” “Open the cupboard!” her voice screamed in my skull. I blinked, looking at the rusted handle. Hide-and-seek? That did sound a little bit like fun. I reached out and pulled. 2 The door creaked open. It was pitch black inside, filled with lumpy, heavy shapes. I leaned in, trying to see. It looked like several people, twisted and wedged together in a silent, motionless pile. The comments went wild: “Corpses! It’s a literal pile of bodies!” “The Starved One is coming! Run, you little dummy, run!” From the very back of the cupboard, a shadow began to shift. A woman sat up slowly. Her abdomen was torn open, a gaping, ragged hole where her stomach should have been. In her hands, she trailed a long, translucent plastic tube. She looked at me, her voice a wet, gurgling rasp. “Are… you… hungry?” Before I could even blink, she lunged. The tube was shoved into my mouth, hitting the back of my throat. “Mmph!” I gagged for a second, but then, a warm, sweet liquid began to flow. It was oatmeal. Warm, thick, tasting of brown sugar, cinnamon, and cream. I was so starving that I didn’t care about the tube or the ghost. I clamped my teeth down on the plastic and began to suck greedily. The warmth spread through my chest, hitting my stomach like a miracle. I drank so fast I almost choked. When I couldn’t hold another drop, I let go. The tube slid out with a wet snap. I wiped my mouth and looked up at her. “Thank you,” I whispered. Then, I looked at the hole in her stomach. “Are you hungry? If you’re hungry, I can stop. I’ll save the rest for you.” The ghost froze. “I am a monster,” she rasped. I nodded, thinking for a moment. “You’re a kind monster. Better than my mom. She always forgets to feed me.” The corners of her torn mouth twitched upward into a jagged, heartbreaking smile. “Is that so…?” She reached out, her freezing fingers brushing my cheek. “Then you can call me Mom.” The red text flashed again: “See! I told you she’s a half-wit! She doesn’t even know how to be afraid. She handled the Starved One just like that. My daughter is a natural!” The text vanished. Inside my head, Mom’s voice returned, light and triumphant. “Good girl, June. Now, go to the second floor.” I looked at the Starved One. “I have to go upstairs now.” She immediately grabbed my arm. “Don’t. The one on the second floor… she flays. She’s cruel. She’ll skin you alive.” I nodded and tried to squeeze into the cupboard with her. “Okay. I’ll stay here with you then.” “No!” Mom’s voice exploded in my head, sharp with rage, before instantly softening into a manipulative coo. “June, honey, remember? If you finish, you get the big bed. The pink sheets with the bunnies on them. Your favorite ones. Don’t you want to sleep on the soft pink bunnies?” I did. I wanted my own bed so badly. I didn’t want to sleep on the hardwood floor anymore. “The ones with the bunnies?” I asked. “I promise! Would Mommy lie? Now, go!” I looked at the Starved One. Her hollow eyes were fixed on me. “My mom has pink bunny sheets for me,” I said softly, gently prying her cold fingers off my arm. “I have to go.” She didn’t stop me, but she crawled out of the cupboard to follow. Her stomach wound swayed, the internal organs threatening to spill. I looked at my own dirty, oversized hoodie. I took it off and carefully wrapped it around her waist, tying the sleeves in a knot to cover the hole. The feed erupted: “Wait… is she dressing the ghost?” “I don’t think anyone has ever cared about the Starved One’s modesty before.” “The ghost looks like she’s about to cry. Is empathy the secret to the trial? Not violence, but kindness?” The red text snapped back: “A retard doesn’t know empathy. It’s just dumb luck. Stop wasting time and get upstairs!” “Move!” Mom barked in my ear. 3 The Starved One looked down at the hoodie, then back at me. She reached out and took my hand in her ice-cold palm. “I will go with you,” she said. She led me up the creaking stairs. At the landing stood a figure that was entirely crimson. No skin—just raw, pulsating muscle and throbbing veins, dripping wetly onto the floor. “Don’t you have clothes either?” I asked, my voice cracking into a sob. “Did your mommy throw you away, too?” The flayed figure seemed to glitch, her head tilting at an impossible angle. She looked at the Starved One, her voice like sandpaper on bone. “Where did this little fool come from?” “She’s a player,” the Starved One replied. “But she’s mine now.” The Flayed One reached out with needle-sharp claws, pressing them against my scalp. “Such tender skin. It would come off in one beautiful piece.” The Starved One stepped between us. “Don’t you dare scare her.” I peeked out from behind her. “It’s okay,” I said to the Flayed One. “If you’re cold and you don’t have a coat, you can have my skin. I’m a little skinny, but maybe it will fit.” The Flayed One’s hand froze mid-air. Her lidless, bulging eyes stared directly into mine. “What did you say?” she asked, her voice cracking. “I just want you to be warm. If you wear it, you won’t be cold anymore, right?” The Flayed One didn’t move for a long time. Then, slowly, she lowered her hand. I saw a thick, red liquid pool in her eye sockets and roll down her cheeks, lost in the gore of her face. She sniffled, a wet, rattling sound. “You little idiot. You’re not like the others. I like you.” She turned and began walking down the hallway, leaving bloody footprints behind. “Follow me.” She led us to a bedroom and pushed the door open. It was massive, with a vanity and a grand bed. She walked to a wardrobe and flung it open. It was filled with dresses—vibrant, clean, beautiful fabrics that shimmered even in the gloom. The comments exploded: “No way! She’s found the exploit!” “Heart-to-heart with the monsters? Is that how you play this?” “She might actually win the hundred mil!” The red text flared with impatience: “Heart-to-heart? She’s just too stupid to be scared! Pure luck. Get on with it! Find the Headless One!” I shook my head, gripping the Starved One’s hand. “I don’t want to go to the third floor.” “You don’t have a choice!” Mom’s voice was like iron. Suddenly, the metal collar around my neck constricted. It bit into my flesh like a vice. A split second later, a massive jolt of electricity surged through me. Everything went black. I collapsed to my knees, my body convulsing, foam bubbling at my lips. “Ah—!” I couldn’t even scream properly. “Let her go!” the Starved One shrieked, lunging forward, trying to claw at the collar with her frozen fingers. The Flayed One joined her, her sharp nails sparking against the metal. But the collar didn’t budge. Blue sparks danced across its surface. “It’s no use!” Mom’s voice crackled with a sadistic glee. “It’s custom-built! Crank it up!” Another wave of agony hit me. It felt like thousands of white-hot needles were being driven into my marrow. I curled into a ball, losing the strength even to twitch. “I’ll go… I’ll go,” I gasped, my voice a mere breath of air. “Stop it… Mom, please… I’ll go.” The pain subsided slightly. My head was ringing, filled with Mom’s cold command: “Third floor. Now.” The two ghosts crouched beside me, wanting to touch me but afraid of the shock. I forced myself up, my legs shaking like jelly. “I have to go to the third floor,” I croaked. 4 “No!” the Starved One cried. “The one up there is the worst of us!” The Flayed One shook her head violently, splattering blood. “The Headless One… he has no mind! He’s spent eternity looking for his head! He destroys everything in his path. You’ll die!” Regardless, they walked with me. The third-floor landing was an empty, echoing hall. In the center stood a massive figure in tattered clothes. Where his head should have been, there was only a jagged stump of dark muscle and throbbing veins. I looked at the “bleeding” neck and whispered, “You must be so hungry.” The Headless One, who had been raising a massive rusted axe, paused. “How do you eat without a mouth?” I looked at his empty shoulders, feeling a deep, heavy pit of pity in my chest. “You poor thing.” The Headless One went completely still. After several seconds, a muffled, sobbing sound emanated from the stump of his neck. “No one… has ever… asked if I was hungry.” The axe hit the floor with a heavy thud. The feed was a blur: “Wait, that’s it?” “Where’s the ‘Watermelon Splash’???” “He’s tamed already?” “Is this game a joke?!” The red text reappeared, smug and boastful: “My daughter is amazing! Do you see? Her brain is different. That’s the key to the game!” The three ghosts gathered around me. “Little one,” the Starved One whispered. “Do you know what this place is? It’s a game. People die here.” I nodded. “I know. But Mom said if I finish, she’ll buy me a meat pie.” The three monsters fell silent. Then, together, they placed their cold hands on my head. “We give you our final blessing,” the Flayed One rasped. “You are too kind for this world,” the Starved One added. “Goodbye, little one,” the Headless One muffled. Their hands began to glow with a faint, warm light. It wasn’t cold anymore. Slowly, their forms began to dissolve into the light, fading into nothingness. A cold, mechanical voice boomed through the hall: “Congratulations, Player June Lin. You have completed the ‘Manor Trial.’ Grand prize: $100 Million. To claim the prize, the following conditions must be met…” Before the voice could finish, a wave of vertigo hit me. The world spun. When my vision cleared, I was sitting in a comfortable chair. I was in a tiered auditorium filled with people in expensive suits. In front of me was a massive glass wall. On the other side of that glass was the very same hallway I had just left. And standing there, looking around in a panic, was my mother.

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The day my brother got his new car, I made a half-serious joke to my dad about where mine was. He froze for a second, then rummaged through a junk drawer and tossed a pair of rusted keys onto the counter. “That’s the rig I drove ten years ago,” he said, not looking at me. “She’s old, but the wheels still turn. We’re short on drivers for the fertilizer hauls at the plant anyway. It’s a perfect fit for you.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t even argue. I knew the truth: I couldn’t afford the insurance on an $80,000 Mercedes, let alone the gas. But this beat-up truck that no one else wanted? It could haul freight. It could earn me a living. Most importantly, it could carry me far away from here. From that moment on, I wouldn’t have to live for someone else’s approval. I wouldn’t have to survive on scraps of affection. 2 The ceremony for my brother, Tyler, was elaborate. The dealership staff brought out flowers and took professional photos. It was a whole production. “May the silver star light your path…” the salesman recited, his voice smooth and rehearsed. I watched and felt a bitter smile tug at my lips. Tyler’s path was already lit by the high-beams of my parents’ protection. It was bound to be bright. My father, Hank, saw my expression and tried to offer a hollow comfort. “Sam, a car is a car, whether it’s a sedan or a semi. Don’t overthink it.” “Tyler has always been delicate,” my mom added, her hand resting on Tyler’s shoulder. “He’s shy. He needs this for his confidence—for work, for whenever he meets a girl.” “I need to work, too,” I said quietly. “I’m going to want a life, too.” Hank hesitated, his eyes darting away, unable to hold my gaze. “It’s different for you.” And he was right. It was different. When I was born, we were broke. Hank borrowed money to buy a used semi-truck and spent years driving through the night, fueled by caffeine and desperation. Eventually, he caught a break and poured every cent into a small fertilizer plant. It started as a skeleton operation; the whole family lived in fear that it would collapse any day. So, after high school, I didn’t go to college. I went to the plant. I spent nine years on the assembly line, bagging and sealing fertilizer before the sun even came up. Nine years. No vacations. No actual paycheck—just “room and board” and the promise that I was “helping the family.” Now that the business was finally thriving, the first thing Hank did was buy Tyler a luxury car. Tyler, who hated getting his shoes dirty. Tyler, who had never stepped foot inside the warehouse. Hank patted my shoulder, a gesture that felt more like a dismissal than a connection. “Sam, you’ve always been the responsible one. You’re the big brother; you have to look out for him. Besides, now that you have the truck, you’re officially in charge of the deliveries. Be ready at 6:00 AM tomorrow.” He paused, calculating. “It’ll save us a fortune on labor costs. And Tyler’s future wedding is going to be a massive expense.” I remembered being five years old, begging to go on hauls with my dad. Back then, his face would soften, and he’d pull me into a hug. “No way, buddy,” he’d say. “The cab is too hot, too cramped. I don’t want you suffering through that. It’s dangerous out there. You just stay home and be my brave little man.” I used to stay awake at night, terrified I’d hear a siren and know it was him. When he’d return, he’d lift me up and give me some small toy he’d found at a truck stop. But once Tyler came along, the hugs went to him. The gifts went to him. The only thing left for me was the dangerous, grueling work that my father had once been so desperate to shield me from. The dealership photographer called them over for a family portrait. The three of them stood together, hands linked—a perfect, golden triangle of a family. They were all smiles, bathed in the afternoon glow. No one called for me. No one even noticed I wasn’t in the frame. Confetti fell. I stood there like a ghost, an extra in the movie of their lives. Maybe it was the glare of the sun, but my eyes began to sting. I reached up to rub them, but my hands were rough, the skin cracked and stained from years of handling chemicals. The more I rubbed, the more it hurt. As we were leaving, Hank finally noticed my red-rimmed eyes. He sighed, the sound heavy with irritation. “Seriously, Sam? Don’t be so dramatic. We’re a family. Don’t let your ego get in the way. I gave you a vehicle, didn’t I? You wanted wheels, you got ’em. What else is there to be miserable about?” I wanted to take those rusted keys and hurl them at his face. I wanted to tell him I didn’t need his charity. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because that truck was the only thing I had to show for nine years of my life. No matter how broken it was, it was my way out. It was the capital I needed to earn enough to leave this house forever. I spent the afternoon hauling the rig out of the scrap yard. I had just gotten it back to the edge of town when my phone buzzed. It was Hank. “Get home,” he barked. “Now.” 2 By the time I pulled into the driveway, the sun had long since dipped below the horizon. Hank sounded like he’d been through a pack of cigarettes. His voice was thick with a familiar, simmering anger. “Sam? Your little tantrum has gone far enough. The whole family is waiting on you for dinner. Is this really how you’re going to act over a car?” Tyler had driven them home hours ago in the climate-controlled silence of his Mercedes. I had spent that time at a greasy garage, paying out of my own meager savings to get the oil changed and the lights working so I wouldn’t get pulled over. I was exhausted—physically drained and emotionally hollowed out. If they had bothered to ask a single question, they would have known I wasn’t sulking. I was working. I tried to explain, but the line went quiet for a few beats before my mother, Martha, cut in. “Honey, you must be tired. Just come inside. I made steamed crab and honey-garlic wings.” Those were my favorites. For a split second, a tiny spark of hope flickered in my chest. But when I walked into the dining room, the table was covered in empty shells and picked-over bones. I was used to it, honestly. During the busy season at the plant, I’d get home at 10:00 PM, but Martha always served dinner at 6:00 PM to keep Tyler on a schedule. “Tyler has a sensitive stomach, Sam,” she’d always say. “He gets shaky if he doesn’t eat on time. We just couldn’t wait.” I had eaten cold leftovers for nine years. Seeing the messy table didn’t even hurt anymore; it was just the weather of my life. But then Martha pushed a Tupperware container toward me. “Sam, I saved this specifically for you. It’s still warm. If I hadn’t guarded it, these two would have polished it off.” Nine years of cold food, and the sudden warmth of a home-cooked meal made my throat tighten. I felt pathetic for how much that small gesture meant to me. But I had only taken two bites when she pulled her chair closer and gently slid my bowl away. “Sam, since you’re full, I wanted to ask a favor. Tyler’s girlfriend is coming to stay for a few days. Your father thinks it’s inappropriate for them to share a room before they’re married, so we were thinking Tyler could take your room.” “And me?” I asked, the chicken wing suddenly tasting like ash. Martha hesitated, but her voice remained bright, terrifyingly cheerful. “Well, your father gave you that big truck, didn’t he? It’s basically a mobile home! You can sleep in the sleeper cab. It’s like those van-life influencers on Instagram. You’re so lucky—you have a house and a vehicle all in one now.” I didn’t have a college degree, but I knew an ambush when I saw one. Being stabbed by my own mother felt like a physical weight in my chest. I looked her straight in the eye. “Mom, do you remember how much you used to worry about Dad when he drove the rig? Especially in the summer?” I remembered her crying because he’d come home covered in mosquito bites from sleeping with the windows down in the heat, his skin raw from scratching. “Can’t you feel even a little bit of that for me?” I asked. I wasn’t even worth a corner of my own home anymore. Martha looked away, muttering something about me being “difficult.” Hank chimed in from the living room, “You used to be so easygoing, Sam. I don’t know what’s gotten into you.” Tyler leaned back in his chair, a smug look on his face. “Don’t stress them out, Sam. It’s just a few nights.” In the moment, the last thread snapped. I realized there was no “room” for me here—not in the house, and not in their hearts. I went upstairs, packed my life into a single duffel bag, and walked out. 3 The summer night was thick and humid. Every time the urge to cry hit me, I bit my lip until I tasted copper. I didn’t have time for tears. If I didn’t find a way to stand on my own two feet tonight, I’d be trapped in this cycle forever. I sat in the cab of the truck, scrolling through my phone, calling every logistics lead and independent contractor I could find on the job boards. As soon as they heard I had zero long-haul experience, they hung up. I eventually gave up and tried to sleep. I curled up in the narrow space between the seats and the steering wheel. My legs wouldn’t straighten, and every time I shifted, my shoulder slammed into the door frame. The air was a stagnant mix of old sweat and diesel fumes. The only solace was the view through the windshield. The sky was overflowing with stars. When I was little, I worshiped my father. He’d sit me on the hood of the truck and teach me to find the North Star. “If you’re ever lost,” he’d whisper, “look for the Big Dipper. It’ll point you toward home.” As I shifted again, my hand brushed something soft under the seat cushion. I pulled it out. It was a small, dusty blue dinosaur plush. I stared at it for a long time. This was the first toy Hank ever bought me. Martha had insisted on hanging it from the rearview mirror back then. “So your father sees it every day,” she’d said. “So he never forgets he has a little boy waiting for him to come home safe.” When Tyler was born, the blue dinosaur was replaced by a red one. When they bought the new truck, the red one moved to the new dashboard. Mine had been left under a seat to rot, forgotten by everyone. They hadn’t just started being biased. They had chosen Tyler decades ago. I was just the only one who hadn’t noticed. A sharp scratching sound at the window startled me. Two guys, looking lean and desperate, were tapping on the glass with a tire iron. “Hey, man. You look lonely in there. How about you lend us some cash?” They started prying at the door handle. My brain went white. I didn’t think to call the police; my instinct was still rooted in the past. I called my father. The man who promised to always protect me answered on the third ring. He sounded annoyed. “Sam? What now? Tyler’s girlfriend is here, and we’re in the middle of a movie. Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow.” He hung up before I could even gasp out the word help. With a loud crack, the door clicked open. One of the men reached in to grab me. I kicked out wildly, my heart hammering against my ribs. Suddenly, a massive Peterbilt roared into the lot, its high beams blinding us. A burly, middle-aged man jumped out, swinging a heavy wrench. “Get the hell away from him! Get moving before I crack your skulls!” The two junkies cursed and vanished into the shadows. I sat there, shaking, as my savior approached. His name was Jack. He’d been unloading nearby and heard the commotion. I hadn’t cried when Tyler got the car. I hadn’t cried when my mother kicked me out. I had told myself to be iron. But as Jack stood there, looking at me with more concern than my father had shown in a decade, the dam broke. I told him everything. Jack listened, a grim scowl on his face, as he boiled some water for a cup of instant noodles. “Kid,” he said, handing me the bowl. “I’ve got a haul that needs a second driver. If you’re serious about leaving, come with me.” 4 I wiped my face, embarrassed. “I want to. That was the plan. But nobody wants a rookie. I don’t know if I can do this.” Jack put his heavy hands on my shoulders. “If ten people say no, you ask a hundred. You say you want to be independent, but you’re still hesitating. You’re still looking back, hoping your parents will suddenly turn around and love you the way they used to.” He grabbed my hand, turning it over to show the thick, yellowed callouses. “You’ve got hands that can move a ton of fertilizer. You’ve got the strength to fight back. But tonight, your first instinct was to call a man who already told you he was too busy for you.” His words cut right through me. He was right. I was mourning a ghost. “If you come with me, you have to commit,” Jack warned. “This isn’t a weekend trip. We’re going cross-country. We’ll be gone for months. You can’t drop everything the second your mom calls you with a guilt trip.” The thread of “family” that had almost gotten me robbed tonight was finally, truly severed. I looked at Jack and nodded. “I don’t care how far it is. I’m in.” The next morning, my phone lit up. It was Hank. “Okay, I’m listening. What was so important last night? Make it quick.” “It’s nothing,” I said, my voice dead. “Never mind.” He didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t ask where I was. He just scoffed. “If it was nothing, then why weren’t you at the plant at 6:00? I’ve got a backlog of orders.” He paused, his voice softening into that manipulative tone he used when he wanted something. “Look, I get it. You’re feeling slighted. But we’re family, Sam. You can’t keep this grudge going forever. Take a few days off if you have to, but don’t let the business suffer.” He had no idea I was never coming back. Jack and I signed a contract for a massive haul several states away—a two-year project. “Is it fertilizer?” I asked. “That’s all I know.” Jack shook his head. “Environmental regs are tightening. Small-time plants like your dad’s… they aren’t going to survive the next five years. They can’t afford the tech upgrades. There isn’t going to be much fertilizer left to haul.” I thought about the plant. Having managed the books for nine years, I knew he was right. Orders were drying up. Cash flow was tight. And yet, Hank had still spent $80,000 on a car for a son who wouldn’t lift a finger to save the business. “Don’t worry,” Jack said, misinterpreting my silence. “My contracts are solid. Once we build up some capital, we’ll buy another rig. You’ll be my partner, not my grunt.” I’d worked nine years for nothing. The idea of a future—an actual future—felt like oxygen after a lifetime underwater. A week later, we were at a rest stop near the state line. I walked toward the restrooms and froze. There was Tyler’s Mercedes. Hank and Martha were sitting inside, surrounded by shopping bags. They looked like they’d just come back from a road trip. When Hank saw me, he rolled down the window, frowning. “Sam? What are you doing here? Listen, I’ve got a crisis. Our biggest distributor, Mr. Wallace, is threatening to pull his contract. I need you to load up a truck tonight and get it to him. Show him the new quality batch.” Wallace was 30% of our revenue. If he left, the plant was done. “Hurry home,” Hank commanded. “We’re taking Tyler back for his dinner date, but I’m counting on you to handle this. Don’t let me down.” He was so certain of my loyalty. He was so sure that I was still the same “responsible” son who would sacrifice everything for the family business. He didn’t even notice that my rusted semi was pointed toward the highway, facing the opposite direction of home. 5 By dusk, I was eight hundred miles away. It was the furthest I’d ever been from the town where I was born, yet I felt no fear. I felt lighter than I ever had. We stopped for dinner, and like clockwork, my phone screamed. Hank. “Sam! Wallace just called. You never showed! Where the hell are you?” “The plant is on the verge of bankruptcy, and you’re still playing games? You’re going to let us all starve? I’m giving you one last chance. Get that load to Wallace tonight, or don’t bother coming back.” I took a sip of my coffee and smiled. “Dad, why don’t you have Tyler do it?”

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The door clicked shut, and my husband, Mark, walked into the living room. I was sitting at the dining table, staring blankly at our residency documents and the deed to our house. He didn’t even look at me. He just started unbuttoning his cuffs, mentioning casually that he wouldn’t be able to drive me to work tomorrow. Apparently, he had promised to help his coworker, Cassie, take her son, Toby, to his first day of school. The words hit me like a physical blow. They sent me spiraling back to the humiliation I’d endured at the district office just hours ago. To get our daughter into this specific school district, we had spent $1.2 million on this house. It was a calculated, grueling investment. Today was supposed to be the day I finalized her enrollment. Instead, the administrator had looked at me with a mix of pity and suspicion, informing me that the enrollment slot for this address had already been claimed. I was furious and confused. This was a new build. Only the three of us—Mark, me, and our daughter, Chloe—were supposed to be registered to this address. I had rushed home to dig through the paperwork, looking for something to bring to the school board to prove a mistake had been made. That was when I found it. Stashed in the back of Mark’s filing cabinet was a series of notarized residency affidavits. A thirty-year-old woman named Cassie and a six-year-old boy named Toby. Both listed as residents of our home. Both registered at our address. Toby’s age was exactly the same as Chloe’s. Hearing those names come out of Mark’s mouth now made my blood run cold. 1 It clicked. The fog in my brain cleared, replaced by a sharp, jagged reality. Mark is the primary name on the mortgage. He’s the one who handles the property tax filings. Without his signature, without his explicit help, there was no way this woman and her son could have claimed our address for school residency. I picked up the affidavits, my fingers trembling, and shoved them toward him. “Mark, what the hell is this?” I pointed at the names. “Why are Cassie and Toby registered to our house? Why does the school district think they live here?” Mark’s face went blank. It was that practiced, neutral look he used during performance reviews. He took the papers from me, squinting at them as if he were seeing them for the first time. “This… there are other people on the registration? I have no idea how that happened,” he said, his voice a pitch too high. “Why are you even digging through the files? You’re acting paranoid.” The lie was so blatant it felt like a slap. My temper, usually a slow burn, ignited instantly. “Don’t you dare, Mark! Don’t you dare gasplay me!” I slammed my hand on the table. “You’re the homeowner. If you didn’t sign off on the residency verification, there is no way in hell they could have registered for that school using our zip code. Talk. Now.” Seeing that he couldn’t deflect his way out of this, Mark’s posture slumped. A flicker of guilt—or maybe just the annoyance of being caught—crossed his face. He tried to shift into his “reasonable man” persona, giving me a sheepish, placating smile. “Oh, right. Now I remember. Look, Cassie is going through a brutal divorce. Her ex is a nightmare, and she had to move out of their old place fast. She just needed a stable address for a little while so Toby wouldn’t lose his spot in a good school system. It’s a temporary thing. She’ll move the registration once she gets settled.” “Don’t worry about it,” he added, reaching out to pat my shoulder. “It’s not a big deal.” I looked at his hand as if it were a venomous snake. My knuckles were white from clenching my fists. “Not a big deal?” My voice was a low, dangerous hiss. “I went to enroll Chloe today. The district told me the ‘one-child-per-household’ quota for that specific magnet program is already filled. Toby took her spot, Mark. We spent $1.2 million to be in this district for that school. We’re paying a massive mortgage and property taxes for a benefit our own daughter isn’t getting. And you’re telling me it’s not a big deal?” Mark’s smile vanished. He realized he wasn’t going to charm his way out of this one. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out some glossy brochures, shoving them into my hands. “Honey, just breathe. Stress isn’t good for you,” he said, his tone patronizingly soft. “I’ve already thought this through. I would never let Chloe suffer.” He pointed at the brochures. “Look, we don’t have to send her to the public academy. I looked into these private schools nearby. The facilities are actually better, smaller class sizes, great Ivy League tracks. Since Toby is already settled at the public school, let’s just leave it be. It’s just elementary school. It’s not worth the drama of forcing a kid out of a classroom…” He didn’t even finish the sentence before I threw the brochures directly into his face. “Like hell it isn’t.” The paper edges caught his cheek, but I didn’t care. “That public academy is top three in the entire state. Parents kill to get their kids in there. You took that opportunity away from your own daughter and handed it to a coworker’s son on a silver platter. Do you even hear yourself?” I was done. I didn’t have the energy for a circular argument. I reached for my phone and my keys. “I’m going to make this very simple for you, Mark. I don’t care what your relationship is with Cassie—whether she’s just a ‘coworker’ or if there’s something disgusting going on behind my back. That school spot belongs to Chloe.” I took a deep, shaky breath, stripping all the emotion from my voice. “You have until Monday to fix this. Get them off our deed, get them off our registration, and get that spot back for Chloe.” I looked him dead in the eye. “If you don’t, I’m calling a divorce lawyer.” 2 The word divorce finally seemed to puncture his arrogance. He blinked, looking stunned, before sighing loudly to show me how “difficult” I was being. “Fine, fine! I’ll talk to Cassie. Happy? God, it’s just a school district, Sabina. You’re blowing this way out of proportion…” He grabbed his jacket and slammed the door as he left, probably heading to a bar—or to Cassie’s. I wanted to scream. I wanted to chase him down and demand he feel the same betrayal I was feeling. But I forced myself to stay still. Anger wouldn’t fix Chloe’s future. And based on Mark’s attitude, I knew I couldn’t rely on him. If that spot was gone for good, I needed a Plan B. But this wasn’t something I could handle alone. With a heavy heart, I picked up the phone and called my parents. “Hey, Dad… Mom. I need to tell you something.” For the next three days, nothing happened. Every time I asked for an update, Mark brushed me off with the same vague excuses. “I’m working on it, Sabina. Give it a rest.” “It’s not that simple,” he’d snap over the phone. “You can’t just flip a switch. It’s a child’s education. Cassie needs time to find another school, to file the paperwork for a transfer. Stop hounding me!” Then, he’d end the call as quickly as possible. “Look, I’m swamped at the office. We’re pushing a deadline. Don’t wait up for dinner.” The “deadlines” kept getting later. Monday, he was home at eleven. Tuesday, it was nearly midnight. By Wednesday, I was curled up on the sofa in the dark when my phone buzzed with a text: Project is behind. Sleeping at the office tonight. I wasn’t stupid. He was hiding. He was waiting for the enrollment window to close, thinking that if he stalled long enough, I’d have no choice but to give in. On Friday night, I sat in the living room and waited. When he finally slunk through the door, the air around him smelled of expensive bourbon and faint perfume. “You’re back,” I said, my voice flat. Mark kicked off his shoes, barely glancing at me. “Yeah. I’m exhausted. If you don’t mind, I’m going to shower and crash.” I stood up, blocking his path to the stairs. “The school spot. Where do we stand?” “It’s been a week, Mark. The public enrollment period closes next month. If Toby isn’t out of the system by then, Chloe is locked out.” Mark rolled his eyes and tried to sidestep me. “Again with this? Can you just let me breathe? I’m working eighteen-hour days to provide for this family, and all you do is nag me about paperwork.” “Cassie needs to find a school that will take Toby mid-month. That takes phone calls, visits, logistics. Can’t you have a shred of empathy for someone else’s struggle?” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. I’d expected exactly this. I crossed my arms and looked at him with something close to pity. “Oh, I have plenty of empathy, Mark. And I know how hard it is for you. You’re such a ‘good guy,’ right? You hate being the villain. You probably find it impossible to tell poor, struggling Cassie that her time is up.” Mark stopped. He looked at me, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Exactly! Sabina, I knew you’d understand. You’re not an unreasonable person. Honestly, Chloe will love the private school, I’ll pay for the tuition myself—” “Which is why,” I interrupted, my voice cutting through his like a blade, “I’ve already found a school for Toby.” The color drained from his face. “Since you find it so hard to speak up, I’ll do it for you. I’m going to your office on Monday morning to talk to Cassie myself. And if she doesn’t agree to withdraw him immediately, I’ll take the conversation to HR. I’m sure the board would love to hear about a senior VP using company time and personal assets to facilitate residency fraud for a subordinate.” “Didn’t you mention your firm is looking to downsize?” Mark’s face twisted. The “nice guy” mask shattered, revealing a snarling, panicked man. “Sabina, what the hell is wrong with you?” he hissed. “You’re threatening my career!” He lowered his voice, casting a glance toward Chloe’s room. “Chloe is upstairs. I am not having this fight with you now. I told you I would handle it. Do not come to my office. Do not make a scene. You’ll ruin everything!” I shook my head. It was almost funny how predictable he was. He just wanted to stall. He wanted to wait until it was too late to change anything, hoping I’d eventually just shrug and move on for the sake of “peace.” I gestured toward our daughter’s bedroom. “Don’t worry. Chloe isn’t here. I took her to my mom’s this afternoon. She’s staying there for a while.” I leaned down and picked up a manila envelope from the coffee table, holding it out to him. “And for the record, I’m moving out, too. These are divorce papers. I’ve already signed them.” Mark stared at the envelope as if it were a bomb. “I gave you a week. You chose Cassie’s kid over your own daughter. So, I’m done. I’m not arguing anymore. If you won’t fix the school situation, the court will handle the fraud and the property dispute.” “I’ve officially filed suit against you and Cassie for residency fraud and damages.” 3 Mark stood there, paralyzed. He wouldn’t even reach out to take the papers. I didn’t wait. I shoved them into his chest, grabbed my suitcase from the hallway, and walked out the door. The next morning, the legal process servers did their job. Both Mark and Cassie were served at the office. The filing was comprehensive: Fraudulent transfer of residency, malicious misappropriation of educational benefits, and significant financial damages to the plaintiff’s property value. I also made sure to call Mark’s parents. I’m not a doormat. I wasn’t going to let Mark spin some narrative about me being “unstable.” If he was comfortable enough to steal his daughter’s future, he was comfortable enough to face the consequences. Honestly, the moment I decided to leave, I felt a weight lift. Losing a husband like Mark wasn’t a tragedy; it was a deep-clean. But, as it turns out, people like Mark only find their conscience when their back is against the wall. By that afternoon, Mark was blowing up my phone. He had set up a meeting with Cassie. They had a “solution,” he claimed. We met at a quiet bistro. The moment I sat down, Cassie leaned forward, her face a mask of practiced concern. “Sabina, thank you for coming,” she said. “I’ve ordered you a latte. Please, sit. I can’t tell you how sick I feel about all of this. I never meant to cause any trouble for your family.” I’d met Cassie a couple of times at company holiday parties. I hadn’t thought much of her then—she seemed quiet, unassuming. Now, I saw the calculation in her eyes. She was the kind of woman who played the “damsel in distress” role to perfection. I didn’t touch the coffee. “Cassie, if you’re actually sorry, let’s skip the small talk. How are you going to fix this? I don’t have time to waste.” Cassie’s smile faltered. She glanced at Mark, then back at me. “Sabina, the school thing… it was an honest mistake. I was just so desperate to get away from my ex—he’s a gambler, he’s dangerous—and Mark was a godsend. He offered the address, and when the school enrollment came up, I just… I panicked. I didn’t realize it would take Chloe’s spot. I’m so, so sorry.” I leaned back, unimpressed. “You panicked? You live in this city, Cassie. You know exactly how competitive the magnet programs are. You didn’t just pick a random school; you picked the best one in the county. A school attached to a house you didn’t pay for.” “Save the ‘poor me’ routine. How are we resolving this?” Cassie’s face flushed. Mark looked like he wanted to jump in and defend her, but she stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. She reached into her purse and pulled out a check, sliding it across the table toward me with a pleading look. “I know it’s not much, but I’ve been looking at other public schools that are still enrolling. Most of them are… well, they aren’t great. And as a single mom with no child support, I’m struggling. I’ve managed to scrape together five thousand dollars. I’m asking—begging—if I can pay you that to let Toby keep the spot. Please, just out of the kindness of your heart…” She started to sniffle, her head bowing as a single tear escaped. Mark couldn’t help himself. He turned to me, his voice full of righteous indignation. “Sabina, look at her. She’s really trying. Five thousand is a lot for her. It shows she’s sincere. The spot is already Toby’s. Can’t we just let it go?” “I’ll pay for Chloe’s private school tuition. We can afford it. Why do you have to be so vindictive?” If I didn’t have a shred of dignity left, I would have thrown my coffee in both their faces.

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When I opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital room blinded me. There was a man sitting by the bed, dressed in a sharp, impeccably tailored suit. He looked incredibly formal, radiating an icy kind of authority. I cleared my throat, the dryness scraping like sandpaper, and politely asked if he was the employer interviewing me for the live-in nanny position. All the color drained from his face in an instant. I explained, calmly, that I was suffering from amnesia. The only thing I could remember was that I was on my way to take a job as a live-in housekeeper. Hearing this, he let out a choked breath, his eyes wild, and lunged forward to grab my hand. Instinctively, I snatched my hand back. I reminded him, with a firm frown, to maintain professional boundaries. When I finally returned to his sprawling estate, the way everyone in the house looked at me made my skin crawl. It felt entirely wrong. I woke up at five o’clock every morning to make breakfast. I called the master of the house “Mr. Pierce,” and the woman who was always lingering around “Ms. Foster.” Ms. Foster’s gaze toward me shifted over time. What started as a smug, triumphant smirk slowly morphed into deep, unsettling anxiety. The little boy—the young master—came running to me one afternoon, his face red and streaked with tears, throwing his arms around my legs. I could only push him away with an awkward, apologetic smile, explaining that the nanny wasn’t allowed to have inappropriate physical contact with her employers. He cried even harder after that. He practically wailed. Mr. Pierce was always staring at me. His gaze was heavy, dark, and suffocating. I assumed he was scrutinizing my work, searching for a reason to fire me, so I scrubbed the floors harder and kept my head down. Then came the night I brought a tray of late-night snacks to his study. I paused in the hallway, the heavy oak door slightly ajar. He was on the phone, his voice a desperate, ragged whisper. He told whoever was on the other end that he couldn’t take it anymore. He begged the doctor to tell him when my memory would come back. His voice cracked, thick with unshed tears, as he choked out that I used to love him so much, and now… now I treated him like a total stranger. I stood frozen in the hallway, the silver tray suddenly feeling incredibly heavy in my hands. 1 I woke up at five in the morning, right on schedule. Before the car accident, my last cohesive memory was of working as a housekeeper for a wealthy family, spending my days cooking and cleaning for a father and son. Since I was discharged from the hospital, it only made sense to get back to work. A job was a job. I padded lightly down the grand staircase. The kitchen lights were still off, the house steeped in a heavy, suffocating silence. I opened the massive industrial fridge, finding it stocked to the brim with high-end ingredients. I bypassed the caviar and truffles, pulling out eggs, oats, and some spinach. Just a standard, ordinary breakfast. I was stirring the oatmeal when the sound of footsteps echoed behind me. I turned. Donovan Pierce stood in the kitchen doorway. His eyes were bloodshot, the shadows beneath them bruised and heavy, as if he hadn’t slept a wink. “Mr. Pierce. You’re up early,” I said, offering a polite, practiced smile. He stared at me, a cold, hollow laugh escaping his lips. “You’re putting on quite the performance,” he said. I blinked, genuinely confused. “Excuse me?” He closed the distance between us, his presence looming. “Do you really think faking amnesia after a car crash is going to give us a clean slate? Is this your twisted way of starting over?” I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. “Mr. Pierce, I really did lose my memory…” “Save it,” he snapped, his tone dropping to a freezing register. “Just days ago you were screaming for a divorce, and today you’re playing the maid?” I recoiled, taking a step back until my hip bumped the marble island. His hostility was terrifying. He kept going, his voice dripping with venom. “You’re trying to play the victim, aren’t you? You want me to feel guilty. You want Oliver to feel sorry for you.” “I really don’t—” “I know exactly what you’re doing.” He glared at me, his eyes dark with contempt. “You’ve pulled a lot of manipulative stunts, Evelyn, but this one is just pathetic.” My mouth opened, but no words came out. I didn’t know what to say to this angry, bitter man. The oatmeal began to bubble. I turned the stove off, ladled it into three porcelain bowls, and set them on the dining table. Mr. Pierce sat at the head of the table. He didn’t even glance at the food. “You used to make a feast every morning,” he said, his voice flat. “Now I get this?” I wrung my hands nervously against my apron. “I… this is all I know how to make…” “Keep acting.” He picked up his spoon, took one bite, and dropped it back into the bowl with a clatter. “It tastes different, too.” I had no explanation to offer. Just then, the sound of a child crying drifted down from the second floor. The young master was awake. I hurried up the stairs and pushed open the door to the sprawling, toy-strewn bedroom. The little boy was sitting up in bed. The second his eyes locked onto mine, huge, fat tears began to spill down his cheeks. “Mommy…” he sobbed. I knelt down beside his bed. “What’s wrong, young master?” He froze. Then, the tears came faster, his chest heaving. “Why are you calling me that… I’m Oliver…” I was completely out of my depth. I reached out and awkwardly patted his small shoulder. Mr. Pierce appeared in the doorway, his expression carved from stone. “Stop it,” he commanded. “Oliver, ignore her. She’s just acting.” The boy looked from his father to me, his cries escalating into a full-blown wail. I stood up, desperate to escape the suffocating tension. “I… I should go back downstairs.” “Hold on,” Mr. Pierce barked. “Where did you sleep last night?” “In the housekeeper’s quarters.” He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You’re really committed to the bit.” I kept my eyes glued to the hardwood floor. “Do whatever you want,” he said, turning away. “But don’t think for a second this is going to make me feel sorry for you.” Breakfast was an agonizing affair. The little boy just stared at me, tears silently dropping into his oatmeal. Mr. Pierce didn’t even look in my direction. When they finally pushed their bowls away, I took a breath and carefully spoke up. “Mr. Pierce, I just wanted to inquire… what is my weekly salary?” He slowly raised his head. He looked at me as if I were an alien species. “Your salary?” He rolled the word around in his mouth before letting out a dark chuckle. “Evelyn, you really never cease to amaze me.” I stood there, utterly baffled. “Fine. Play whatever game you want,” he said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. “Just don’t expect me to play along.” With that, he walked out the front door. Oliver immediately scrambled out of his chair and bolted upstairs, leaving me entirely alone in the cavernous dining room. I looked at the half-eaten bowls of oatmeal, a profound sense of bewilderment washing over me. Were this father and son out of their minds? 2 Over the next few days, Mr. Pierce’s attitude toward me grew increasingly frigid. I didn’t care. I was just the hired help. As long as I did my job, he could act however he pleased. I just needed to save up enough cash to quit and get out of this madhouse. Around noon, I started prepping lunch. Oliver was in the living room playing with his action figures. Whenever I walked past, he would dramatically turn his back to me, refusing to acknowledge my existence. Melody Foster was sitting on the plush velvet sofa, legs elegantly crossed. She offered me a sweet, sugary smile. “Evelyn, do you need a hand with anything?” I shook my head. “No, thank you, Ms. Foster.” She just smiled, saying nothing more. When lunch was ready, I brought it out to the dining room. Shrimp fried rice, with a side of sautéed greens. Oliver took one look at it and wrinkled his nose. Melody scooped a spoonful onto his plate. “Come on, Oliver, you need to eat.” “Aunt Melody makes it way better,” he mumbled, refusing to look at me. I stood by the table, shifting uncomfortably. Mr. Pierce walked in. He took one look at the spread and his brow furrowed in disdain. “This is it?” I nodded. “Yes… sir.” He scoffed, pulled out his chair, and started to eat. Oliver managed two bites of the fried rice before he suddenly dropped his fork and clutched his stomach. “Oliver?” Melody asked, her voice pitching up in alarm. The boy’s face flushed a violent shade of crimson, and bright red hives began to blossom across his neck. Mr. Pierce’s chair clattered to the floor as he shot up, his face pale with terror. He scooped the boy into his arms and bolted for the door. “We’re going to the hospital!” Panic seized my chest. I ripped off my apron and sprinted after them. In the car, Mr. Pierce drove like a madman, his jaw clenched so tight it looked ready to snap. I sat in the back seat, watching the little boy writhe in discomfort, my stomach tying itself into a sickening knot. At the ER, the doctors rushed him back, administered an epinephrine shot, and quickly diagnosed him with a severe shellfish allergy. Mr. Pierce slowly turned to face me in the sterile white hallway. His eyes were absolute ice. “You fed him shrimp?” I blinked, my heart pounding. “I… I didn’t know the young master was allergic…” “You didn’t know?” The laugh that tore from his throat was entirely devoid of humor. “You’re his mother! How could you not know?” His fury physically backed me into the wall. “But… I swear to you, I don’t remember…” “Drop the act,” he snarled, stepping into my personal space. “Do you really think I don’t know what you’re doing?” “You’re just trying to punish me, aren’t you? You wanted to put him in danger just to make me feel guilty.” I shook my head frantically. “No! I wouldn’t—” “Enough.” He turned on his heel and walked into the hospital room, leaving me stranded in the freezing corridor. Melody approached me, letting out a soft, pitying sigh. “Evelyn, I know you’re hurting inside,” she murmured. “But is this really the way to handle it?” I stared at her, totally lost. She kept going, her voice a gentle purr. “Using stunts like this to win Donovan back? It’s only going to push him further away.” I stared at her. “I’m not trying to win anyone back…” “You don’t need to explain it to me.” She offered a sad, knowing smile. “Honestly, Evelyn, I’d suggest you just let it go. Donovan has already given up on you. No matter how hard you act, it’s not going to change anything.” She patted my arm patronizingly and slipped into the hospital room. I stood alone under the flickering fluorescent lights, my mind completely blank. I didn’t understand a single word she just said. When we got back to the house, I locked myself in the bathroom, pulled out my phone, and Googled my own name: Evelyn Sinclair. The first headline that popped up felt like a punch to the gut: “Sinclair Heiress Weds Nobody—Seven Years Later, Is the Fairy Tale Over?” I clicked the link. The article detailed how Evelyn Sinclair, the sole heir to the massive Sinclair Enterprises fortune, had defied her powerful family seven years ago to marry a low-level corporate employee named Donovan Pierce. After the wedding, she stepped down from her role as VP, choosing to be a stay-at-home wife. Meanwhile, Donovan used his father-in-law’s connections and capital to build his own empire. Three years ago, Evelyn’s parents tragically passed away, leaving her the entirety of their astronomical estate. Lately, the tabloids were swirling with rumors of an impending divorce. I stared at the glowing screen, my brain short-circuiting. My first thought was: Good lord, this Evelyn girl must have been out of her mind. Why would someone with that much money marry a gold digger? 3 Donovan hired a new chef. She was a middle-aged woman who treated me with an uncomfortable amount of reverence. “Ma’am, what would you like for dinner tonight?” she asked on her first day. I stammered, “Oh, I’m… I’m not the…” “Just call her Miss Sinclair,” Melody chimed in from the doorway, her voice dripping with amusement. “She’s currently enjoying playing dress-up as the maid.” The chef looked utterly bewildered, but nodded anyway. Oliver avoided me like the plague. One afternoon, I picked up a stray toy off the floor and tried to hand it to him. He slapped it out of my hand, sending it clattering across the hardwood. “Don’t touch me!” he screamed. Donovan stood leaning against the doorframe, watching the entire exchange. He let out a dark scoff, but said absolutely nothing to correct the boy. One morning, when the house was finally empty, I decided to deep-clean the study. I pushed open the heavy oak doors and started dusting the massive mahogany bookshelves. Halfway through, my rag brushed against a framed photograph. It was a picture of Melody and Donovan. They were standing on a beach, the wind in their hair, laughing with an effortless, radiant joy. I frowned and kept looking. There had to be at least seven or eight similar photos tucked onto various shelves. Conversely, I only found one single, solitary photo of Donovan and “Evelyn”, shoved to the very back of a bottom shelf, gathering dust. Wow, I thought to myself. Those two definitely have something going on. How on earth did the wife put up with this? I had already completely detached myself from the idea that I was Evelyn Sinclair. There was no way I was pathetic enough to be this hopelessly in love. While organizing the drawers of the desk, my hand brushed against a leather-bound notebook. Curiosity got the better of me. I flipped it open. The very first line read: “Why isn’t he home yet?” I turned the pages. It was entry after entry of agonizing, desperate rambling. “It’s 3 AM. I’ve been sitting in the dark living room all night.” “Melody came over again today. She swears she and Donovan are just friends, so why the hell does she have a room in my house?” “Oliver told me he wishes Aunt Melody was his mom. My heart is completely broken.” I read the messy scrawl, shaking my head. Destroying yourself over a man? Losing your mind in an empty house? Why bother? I’d honestly rather be a housekeeper. At least the housekeeper got a paycheck. I kept flipping. “We fought again today. He called me hysterical and unreasonable.” “I just asked for an explanation. How is that unreasonable?” “Oliver defended Melody today. He called me a bad mom.” “I’m so incredibly tired.” The handwriting grew increasingly erratic toward the end. Some pages were warped, stained with dried tears. I reached the very last page. There was only one sentence written on it. “I want a divorce.” Now we’re talking, I thought. A guy like that? You drop him and run. I tossed the diary back into the drawer and shut it tight. Whoever this weeping, desperate, love-sick woman was, she definitely wasn’t me. During dinner that night, Oliver couldn’t stop staring at me. His eyes were rimmed with red. He looked like he’d been crying in his room. “Mommy…” he whispered suddenly into the quiet room. I looked up from my plate. “Did you… did you really forget about me?” he asked, his tiny voice trembling. I had no idea how to navigate this. Donovan put his fork down slowly. He locked eyes with me, a desperate, silent plea flickering in his dark gaze. I opened my mouth, closed it, and finally, gave a slow nod. Oliver shattered. He started sobbing uncontrollably. Melody immediately swooped in, wrapping her arms around him. “Oh, Oliver, sweetie, don’t cry…” “Young master, you love Aunt Melody anyway, right?” I offered, trying to be helpful. “As long as she’s here, you’re fine.” Oliver froze mid-sob. He stared at me in horror, then pushed away from the table and sprinted upstairs, wailing. Donovan stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floor. He glared at me, his face a mask of absolute disgust. “Are you done acting yet?” he gritted out. “You’re willing to torture your own son for this?” He turned and stormed up the stairs after the boy. Only Melody and I were left at the massive dining table. She let out a heavy sigh. “Evelyn, why are you doing this?” I said nothing. She stood up, walked over, and leaned down close to my ear. “You know, Donovan actually does care about you.” “It’s just that… the way you’ve behaved these last few years. You’ve disappointed him too much.” She patted my shoulder with faux sympathy and glided up the stairs. I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. Why would I fake this? If he cares about me, great. The problem is, I don’t care about him. 4 Over the next few days, Donovan’s hostility cooled slightly. He stopped making snide remarks, though he still barely acknowledged my presence. It was exactly as if I were, in fact, just the maid. Then, one morning, Melody tracked me down. “Evelyn, we need to talk,” she said. We sat down in the formal living room. She looked uncharacteristically nervous, wringing her manicured hands. “The truth is… Donovan and I were sweethearts in college,” she began.

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My secret relationship with Nicole lasted three full years—basically our entire college experience. On the final night of our graduation trip, the class president, Laura, suddenly suggested we draw lots for room assignments. “This is the ultimate test of fate!” Laura announced, her voice buzzing with an annoying level of excitement. “Boys, girls, doesn’t matter. If you draw the same number, you’re roommates for the weekend. Let’s see where the universe wants you.” But before the game even started, I’d overheard Laura whispering to Nicole in the hallway: “Look for the ball with the small circular bump on it. I saved it specifically for you and Jackson.” I reached into the cardboard box, my fingers brushing against various textures, and pulled out a sphere. I waited in silence. When it was Nicole’s turn, she pulled out number seven. Laura didn’t miss a beat, her voice booming through the common room. “And the other guest for Room Seven is—Jackson!” Jackson. The guy Nicole had spent her freshman year chasing with a desperate, public fervor. He blushed instantly, a bashful smile playing on his lips. The room erupted. Everyone started hooting and hollering about “divine intervention” and “meant-to-be.” I stood there, frozen, the air leaving my lungs. I watched Nicole. She didn’t look away; she didn’t protest. Instead, she walked over to Jackson with a soft, practiced smile and reached out to take his coat for him. I found myself smiling, too—a sharp, bitter thing. Three years. Three years of being her “secret,” of waiting in the shadows for a public acknowledgment that was never going to come. In that moment, looking at them, I made a choice. I was going to be the one to walk away first. 1 The room assignments were still being called out, but the energy in the room had already peaked. Laura was handing out colored wristbands, shouting over the noise, “Listen up! Rules are simple: same numbers are a pair. For these three days, you’re tethered. No solo missions, okay? It’s about the ‘experience’!” Whistles rang out. One of the girls nudged Nicole’s shoulder playfully. Jackson, still flushed, kept stealing glances at her while he fumbled with his wristband. Nicole’s lips curled into a smile. She stepped slightly in front of him, a protective gesture. “Stop it, guys. He’s shy.” “Oh, look at that! Already getting protective!” someone yelled. “Better watch out, if we upset Jackson, Nicole’s going to come for us!” The teasing became a roar. I stood on the periphery of the crowd, the number three ball clutched in my left hand, my right hand gripping the handle of a heavy suitcase. Before we’d left, Nicole had shoved all her things into my bag. “We’ll be together anyway,” she’d said. “Carrying two suitcases is just a hassle.” Then she’d pointed to my new overcoat. “I’ll be the one responsible for your coat this trip.” In three years, she had never once been affectionate in front of our peers, let alone offered to carry my things. I’d been so stupidly happy, thinking this trip was her way of finally stepping into the light with me. But on day one, she took Jackson’s coat instead. My suitcase felt impossibly heavy, the weight dragging at my shoulder, a dull ache spreading from my fingertips to my neck. I set it down and cleared my throat, forcing the raspiness out of my voice. I raised my hand. “Hey…” The room turned. Laura, still riding her high, grinned at me. “What’s up, Wyatt? Jackson’s your roommate back at the dorms—you got some ‘best man’ advice for Nicole?” Jackson stiffened, his smile turning awkward. Nicole’s eyes snapped to mine. I saw it then—a flash of tension, a warning look that said don’t you dare. She was worried about the wrong thing. I just held up my ball. “Who’s number three?” Laura scanned the room until a hand went up on the far side. “Me.” It was Tatum, a girl who had always stayed on the fringes of our social circle, quiet and observant. Laura laughed. “Tatum! Okay, I know you’re single. Wyatt, what about you? If you’re single, you stay. If you’ve got a girlfriend back home, I’ll swap you for one of the guys…” I interrupted her, my voice quiet but clear. “I’m single.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nicole’s brows knit together. She started to turn toward Tatum, but Laura was already pulling out an orange wristband. “Perfect! Two singles! Maybe the universe is working overtime tonight!” I took the wristband and gave a polite nod. “Thanks.” As I hoisted my suitcase again, I could feel Nicole’s gaze burning into my back. I didn’t look back to see her expression. I imagined it was probably a look of relief. Once the rooms were settled, everyone lined up to check in. Jackson went to call his parents, and Nicole lingered, moving like lead, until I was the only one left at the counter. She slid her ID toward the clerk without looking at me. “Go talk to Laura,” she whispered, her voice low and sharp, her eyes fixed on the lobby wall. “Tell her you aren’t comfortable staying with a girl. Pay for a private room if you have to. I’ll cover the difference.” I was busy texting my parents to let them know I’d arrived. I didn’t look up. “Why?” “What do you mean ‘why’? You aren’t single, Wyatt. You can’t just share a room with another woman.” “And you?” I asked, finally meeting her eyes. “Are you single?” Nicole’s fingers froze on the counter. Her voice took on that familiar edge of irritation. “These are the rules of the game we all agreed to. I’m just respecting the draw.” “Right,” I said softly. “I’m respecting the draw, too.” Her jaw set, but before she could snap back, I grabbed my key card and walked away. I hadn’t gone five steps before Laura announced, “Everyone in the media room in thirty minutes! I’ve got it booked. We’re doing a throwback—watching the documentary from our freshman year sports fest!” I didn’t stop. I just tightened my grip on my coat. The freshman year documentary. The one that chronicled Nicole’s grand, public pursuit of Jackson. 2 The media room was overflowing with snacks. As soon as Nicole sat down, she moved a plate of strawberries directly in front of Jackson. A girl next to them giggled. “Nicole, you’re so biased. You know Jackson loves strawberries, so you’re hoarding the whole plate for him.” The room joined in. Jackson pushed the plate back toward the center, looking sheepish. “Everyone should have some. Nicole actually bought me a bunch earlier.” He glanced at her. “If these aren’t enough, she can just go grab the rest from the room.” Nicole pulled the plate back toward him, her smile indulgent. “I’ll go get them. You just eat.” As she slipped out, the room erupted again. “One word from Jackson and she’s on it! He’s got her wrapped around his finger!” Jackson popped a strawberry into his mouth and looked over at me. “Wyatt, make sure you have some when she gets back. I remember you like strawberries too.” The door swung open, and Nicole returned with two more bowls, placing them both in front of Jackson. She knew. Over the last three years, I’d bought strawberries countless times. And every time, she’d frown and tell me, “Don’t eat too many. They’re so sweet, you’ll just break out.” I picked up a tangerine instead. Laura called out to me, “Wyatt, where’s Tatum?” “She had some things to take care of,” I said, peeling the fruit without looking up. Laura looked disappointed. “Well, looks like that match is a bust. But hey, at least our ‘star couple’ is going strong!” Nicole’s eyes flickered to me for a split second before darting away. “The movie’s starting,” she said, her voice a bit breathy as she handed Jackson a napkin. The documentary lasted two hours. Everyone was hooked, cheering and laughing every time Nicole and Jackson appeared on screen. “Look! Nicole’s wiping his sweat again! It was a fifty-meter dash, girl, you were closer to him than the cameraman!” “Water, fans, even sunscreen—she had the whole kit ready!” “Jackson, seriously, she chased you so hard the whole school knew. How did you hold out for four years? Poor girl stayed single the whole time just waiting for you!” Jackson looked at Nicole, his eyes softening, looking almost misty. “I just thought college relationships weren’t stable. I wanted to wait until graduation to be sure.” He paused. “I didn’t realize she’d wait this long.” A girl leaned forward. “Nicole, was it hard? Waiting for four years?” Nicole looked into his eyes and gave a small, slow nod. “It was… okay.” Two words. Two words that supposedly contained four years of pining and loyalty. The room sighed in collective sympathy. I almost laughed out loud. Hard? She had chased Jackson for six months with no luck, then pivoted to tennis. I was the captain of the varsity team. She asked me to coach her for six months, and by the start of sophomore year, she was the one who asked me out. She was more than “okay.” Our relationship might have been a secret, but we were happy. We were deeply, intimately involved. Or maybe… maybe it was just me who was happy. I took a bite of the tangerine. A girl next to me pointed at the screen. “Wait, Wyatt, is that the class secretary holding a parasol for you? Did she have a crush on you?” The spotlight shifted to me. “No,” I shook my head. “She was just heading the same way.” “Too bad she didn’t come on the trip,” the girl said. “She definitely liked you. You should think about it. You guys would be a cute power couple.” On the other side of the room, Nicole was pouring water for Jackson. Her movements were fluid, unbothered, as if she hadn’t heard a word. I smiled faintly. “No thanks. Actually, I have a girlfriend.” Nicole’s entire body went rigid. Her hand clenched into a fist around the water pitcher. I knew that look. She was terrified I was about to blow her cover. The girl grabbed my arm, her eyes wide. “Who?! Is she in our class?” Dozens of eyes locked onto me. I kept my expression pleasant and nodded. “Yeah. She is.” 3 The room went electric. Everyone was shouting, trying to guess who it was. Nicole’s face grew darker by the second. She stared down at her phone, her thumbs flying. I felt my phone vibrate twice in my pocket, but I didn’t reach for it. “She’s busy,” I said calmly. “She couldn’t make it to the screening.” There were seven or eight girls who hadn’t shown up to the media room. Laura looked ready to interrogate me, but suddenly Jackson let out a small “Oh!” His glass had tipped, water soaking into his jeans. Nicole was instantly there with napkins, dabbing at his leg. He looked up, blushing. “Sorry, I’m such a klutz.” “It’s fine,” she said softly. “Let’s go back to the room and change. I don’t want you catching a cold.” She led him out of the room. With the main attraction gone, the documentary lost its charm, and the group began to drift apart. When I got back to my room, my suitcase was open. Nicole’s things were gone. I sat on the edge of the bed and finally looked at my phone. Two unread messages from her: Don’t you dare say a word. Don’t ruin the atmosphere. The “atmosphere.” Right. I was the boyfriend who wasn’t allowed to ruin the romantic tension between her and another man. It was a pattern. Like the charity auction junior year—I’d raised the most money, but she’d asked me to let Jackson take the credit so he wouldn’t lose his “Golden Boy” status. Or the tennis tournament where I’d dropped out because Jackson said he “wanted to try competing” and she didn’t want me to crush his confidence. For three years, Nicole had been “good” to me. She shielded me from the sun in the summer and the wind in the winter. She did everything a girlfriend should do—except acknowledge I existed. But when it came to Jackson, I was always the one expected to step back. Morning came, and my phone remained silent. I watched the sun rise over the skyline, feeling a strange, hollow peace settling in my chest. The day’s itinerary was sightseeing. Nicole and Jackson, sporting their matching red wristbands, were inseparable. She used the expensive camera I’d bought her to take photos of him at every “Instagrammable” spot, then took selfies with him. While we were resting by a bridge, someone brought up post-grad plans. “Wyatt, you staying in the city or heading back to Chicago?” “Back to Chicago,” I said casually. Nicole was unscrewing a water bottle for Jackson. Her eyes flicked toward me, sharp and questioning. Laura nudged her. “Jackson’s a local here. Nicole, you’re definitely staying in New York, right?” Nicole didn’t hesitate. “Of course.” Jackson’s eyes lit up, and he shifted closer until their shoulders were pressed together. One of the guys looked confused. “Wait, Wyatt, didn’t you already land that analyst job at the firm in Manhattan? Why are you leaving?” I smiled. “I turned it down. I want to be closer to my parents.” “No way. Is it for your parents, or for this mystery girlfriend?” The group crowded in, sensing gossip. My smile deepened. “Both. My parents miss me, and she… well, she’s decided to settle down in Chicago too.” The cheering started up again, everyone demanding a name, but I just shook my head and kept my mouth shut. At the next stop, Nicole cornered me outside the restrooms. “Did you really turn down the job?” She was breathless with anger. We had applied together. The firm wanted me for my stats, and I’d made it a condition of my contract that they hire my girlfriend as well. If I pulled out, her spot was in jeopardy. I nodded. “Yeah. My parents found a great position for us in Chicago. We’re getting engaged once things settle.” “Wyatt!” Nicole’s voice was a low, furious hiss. She looked around to make sure no one was listening, her face pale with rage. “Who gave you the right to plan my future for me?” 4 She stormed off, leading the pack with Jackson in tow. I stayed at the back, chatting idly with a few classmates. That night at the buffet dinner, Jackson announced loudly, “The Perseid meteor shower! Didn’t you guys know? Nicole said there’s a viewing point nearby. We could see a hundred meteors an hour.” The group was instantly intrigued. Laura, however, gave a knowing smirk. “Guys, have some common sense. You can see the stars from the hotel balcony. Don’t go out there and be third wheels.” The realization hit the room. “Oh, right. The ‘perfect’ viewing spot should be reserved for the people who really need it.” Nicole was serving Jackson more food. She didn’t say anything, but the smug curve of her lips said enough. Jackson blushed. “You guys can come too…” The buffet food didn’t sit right with me. The flavors were too heavy, too cloying. I tried a piece of seafood, but it felt like it was sticking in my throat. I spit it into a napkin and stood up to find something plain. Laura followed me, whispering, “Hey, Wyatt, I saw you posted about wanting to see the meteor shower a few days ago. Maybe skip the viewing point tonight? Don’t crash Nicole and Jackson’s moment.” I nodded. “I know.” “Top of the class for a reason,” she patted my arm. “Oh, one thing you don’t know—I actually rigged the draw. I made sure they got the same number.” I nodded again. “I heard you telling her before the game started.” Laura froze, surprised. Before she could say anything, someone called her name, and she scurried back. I was opening the lid to the congee when Nicole appeared to grab some pumpkin soup for Jackson. She spoke as if nothing had happened. “I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” I didn’t answer. “I get it,” she continued, her voice light. “You’re acting out because I’m staying with Jackson. But honestly, Wyatt, last night I took the bed and he slept on the floor. We just talked. It’s just the rules of the game. Nothing is actually happening.” I filled my bowl. “Okay.” She still didn’t look at me. “Talk to your parents. New York is better for our careers than Chicago. We should stay here. Once we’re settled, we can find our own place.” I didn’t respond. As I turned to leave, she hesitated. “Wyatt… Jackson is really excited about the meteors tonight. I promised I’d go with him.” She paused, then added, “The Perseids happen every year. Next year, I’ll take you. I promise.” I stood with my back to her, the bowl hot against my palms, though I felt nothing but cold. “Okay,” I said quietly. I heard her sigh in relief. As she brushed past me, she didn’t forget to grab another plate of strawberries for Jackson. After dinner, I went back to the room and packed. The outfit I’d bought specifically for tonight—the one I’d imagined wearing while we watched the stars together—went straight into the trash along with the sightseeing brochures. I zipped the suitcase. It felt lighter now. I’d bought a ticket on my phone an hour ago. The flight was tonight. Ten minutes before takeoff, the Perseids began to streak across the sky. I saw people through the terminal windows pointing and taking photos. My phone buzzed. One unread message. It wasn’t from Nicole. Everything is ready. Your parents are heading to bed, and I’m waiting for you at the airport in Chicago. As the plane began its ascent, I leaned back and closed my eyes. Nicole, there is no “next year” for us.

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I woke up gasping, the remnants of a nightmare clinging to my skin like cold sweat. My eyes were still stinging with tears, but my fingers were already white-knuckled around a stack of legal documents. “I’ll sign!” I nearly screamed the words into the sterile air of the study. “From today on, I want nothing to do with the Stanford family!” In the dream—no, in that other life—I was twenty, and I had become the “disposable heir.” When the Stanfords threw me out, I had nothing but the clothes on my back. The real biological son had stepped in and effortlessly reclaimed the life I thought was mine, basking in the spotlight while I became the punchline of every high-society joke. I was a failure, a mistake to be erased. In my desperation, I had spiraled. I became the kept man of a predatory, wealthy socialite who treated me like a decorative pet. She didn’t just bruise my body; she pushed me into the beds of her business associates to close deals. Then came the sickness—a slow, wasting rot. She wouldn’t even pay for the treatment. I died in an alley of my own agony, watching from the gutters as the “true” heir married Diana Vincent—the untouchable queen of the tech world, the woman I had spent my entire life worshiping from afar. My life had ended like a bad tabloid story. It was pathetic. … “I’ll sign.” As the words left my lips, I felt a phantom weight lift from my chest. It was as if a set of invisible shackles had finally snapped. “Adrian, I am so disappointed in you. This tantrum is only making me more—” Lydia’s cold, melodic voice cut off abruptly. She looked at me, stunned. I stared back at the woman who had once tucked me in and called me her world. I swallowed the bitterness, the decades of “Mom” that wanted to claw their way out. I didn’t repeat myself. I simply picked up the pen and flipped through the thick stack of “Severance and Transfer of Assets” agreements until I found the signature line. I wrote my name, Adrian Stanford, for the very last time. “There,” I said, sliding the papers back across the mahogany desk. Lydia’s expression shifted from icy disdain to genuine bewilderment. She had clearly expected a fight. She probably had security standing by in the hallway to drag me out. “Do you even realize what you’re giving up?” she asked. “I assume it’s the usual,” I said softly. “The trust fund, the shares, the properties… and any claim to the Stanford name.” Lydia’s mouth opened slightly. “Since you aren’t biologically ours, it’s only right to correct the mistake. I hope you can understand that we need things to return to their proper track.” I looked past her at the shadow of the bodyguard in the doorway. My face went pale, but my voice remained steady. “I understand perfectly.” It didn’t matter if I understood or not. If I hadn’t signed, they would have forced my hand anyway. I used to think it was just a bad dream. But on my twelfth birthday, a boy who looked exactly like a younger version of Lydia showed up at our gates. Logan. He was the real son, lost to a hospital error, raised in the rougher parts of the city. The rest followed the script of my nightmare. Compared to Logan, I was a pampered porcelain doll—pretty to look at, but hollow. Logan was brilliant, rugged, and fueled by a survivor’s instinct. He was everything the Stanford empire actually needed. When Logan pointed at me with eyes full of twenty years of resentment and said, “I want him gone. Seeing him reminds me of the life he stole from me,” it was over. Lydia and my father, Charles, were so consumed by guilt for their “real” son that they didn’t hesitate. Even Daisy, the younger sister I had practically raised, stood by Logan’s side. “Don’t cry,” she had told him. “You’re the only brother I care about.” They looked at me like I was a thief who had been caught red-handed. “Adrian, it’s time for you to leave.” In the dream, I couldn’t accept it. I had wailed and begged, making a scene that only hardened their hearts. I had tried to make myself sick to stay, tried to starve myself for pity. None of it worked. Logan had eventually kicked open my bedroom door, his jealousy flashing for a brief second before he surveyed my designer clothes and expensive watches with a smirk. “You’ve had twenty years of luxury you didn’t earn, Adrian. Now my parents are taking it all back. It’s time you learned what it’s like to live at the bottom.” “No, they wouldn’t do this to me,” I’d sobbed. I was terrified. I was a socialite; I didn’t know how to be poor. I thought if I could just prove my worth—maybe through a strategic marriage? I had been chasing Diana Vincent for years. If I could get her… “Stop being pathetic,” Logan had sneered. “You’ve chased Diana for years and she won’t even look at you. Meanwhile, she’s already invited me to dinner.” In the dream, I had slapped him. He had grabbed my hair, and we had tumbled down the grand staircase together. When I woke up this time, I knew. It wasn’t a dream. It was a warning. Lydia took the papers, her hand trembling slightly. 2 “Mrs. Stanford, am I free to go?” Her head snapped up. “What did you just call me?” I lowered my gaze, avoiding the familiar blue of her eyes, and gave her a shallow, polite bow. “Thank you for taking care of me all these years, Mrs. Stanford.” Lydia’s voice shook, a mix of anger and something else—maybe regret? “Logan was right. Blood is everything. You really are an ungrateful brat, aren’t you?” I wanted to scream, Aren’t you the ones throwing me away? But I saw a flicker of something different this time. In the nightmare, she had looked at me with pure loathing. Now, because I was making it easy for her, she looked almost… conflicted. I didn’t let it touch me. As long as Logan was in that house, there was no room for me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. Lydia stood up, smoothing her silk skirt as her composure returned. “Fine. Go. Take your personal things. Whatever you usually use.” That was another change. In the dream, I was kicked out with nothing. I wasn’t going to be “noble” this time. “Thank you.” I packed light but smart. A few high-quality coats, my favorite boots, some daily essentials. One suitcase. As I dragged the suitcase toward the stairs, Logan was waiting. He insisted on checking the bag, convinced I was smuggling the family silver. He looked at me like I was a cockroach. When he saw the bag only held clothes and toiletries, Lydia finally snapped. “Enough, Logan!” It was the first time she’d raised her voice at him since he arrived. He turned to her, eyes welling up instantly. “The Stanfords have already been too kind to him,” he whimpered. Lydia sighed, the pull of biological guilt winning out. She turned back to me, her voice hardening. “Adrian, since the papers are signed, we are strangers now. Do not use the Stanford name for anything. Ever.” Even knowing it was coming, it felt like a serrated blade to the chest. “Understood.” I didn’t take the jewelry. It would have been too easy for them to claim I stole it. Once I was a few blocks away from the estate, the adrenaline evaporated. I slumped against my suitcase, my body trembling. The fall down the stairs with Logan hadn’t been a dream—I actually had a cracked rib. Every breath felt like a hot needle. I knew if I showed pain back there, they’d just call it another “performance” to stay. I wouldn’t be the pathetic clown from my nightmares. This time, I’d leave with my dignity. But as the sun began to set, the reality hit. I was homeless. I reached for my phone to call my friends. Then I froze. I remembered the dream. After I was kicked out, I had begged my “brothers” for a place to crash. Every single one of them blocked me. When I finally found someone who would see me, they lured me to a VIP lounge just to humiliate me. “Hey Adrian, don’t you love making people bark like dogs? Why don’t you get down on all fours and bark for us three times? Maybe then we’ll buy you a drink.” “Drink this whole case first, then we’ll see.” Even the low-level hangers-on, people whose names I barely remembered, looked at me with predatory hunger. “The little prince is on the street. How sad. Tell you what, come home with me. I’ll give you three grand a month to be my boy. Deal?” I covered my ears, shaking my head to drown out the memory of those voices. That night in the dream, I had been forced to drink until I threw up. Someone had “accidentally” kicked my side, turning the cracked rib into an internal hemorrhage. The pain… God, the pain of breathing had been unbearable. I wouldn’t let that happen. Not again. Was I destined for that ending? I hadn’t asked to be swapped at birth. Why was I the one who had to pay for the universe’s mistake? Logan was smart and capable; clearly, my biological mother hadn’t mistreated him. So why did he hate me so much? He got his throne back. I got an empty bank account, a dead mother I never knew, and a father who didn’t exist. I sat on the sidewalk until the last sliver of gold vanished from the horizon. I needed a plan. I checked my phone. I had a few hundred dollars in a digital wallet from various apps. All my Stanford-issued credit cards were already frozen. My brain, which I had barely used for anything besides choosing outfits for twenty years, started whirring. There was a wholesale market on the south side. They threw out “ugly” produce every morning. I could eat for free if I wasn’t proud. Rice was cheap. I just needed a roof. My face fell. That was the hard part. I couldn’t call anyone from my old life. Then, a name surfaced. Jane. Because I couldn’t have Diana Vincent, I had “sponsored” a girl from the local university who shared her sharp, icy features. A classic “substitute” trope. I’d paid her two hundred thousand for a one-year “exclusive arrangement.” There were six months left on the contract. 3 My breath hitched as I scrolled to her name and hit dial. It rang three times. “What do you want?” Jane’s voice was like a bucket of ice water. I shivered. Looking back, I had been a monster to her. To force her into the arrangement, I’d used my family’s influence to pull the funding from her research lab. I’d treated her like a punching bag for my ego every time Diana rejected me. I was terrified she’d hang up if she knew I was broke. “Don’t hang up,” I said quickly. “I’m coming over tonight.” I waited, heart hammering against my ribs. Jane was defiant. She usually said no. If this were yesterday, I would have used threats to force her. God, I was a piece of work. I hated myself. But she was the only life raft I had left. There was a long silence. Just when I thought she’d disconnected, she spoke. “Fine,” she said. I took a taxi to the university district. It cost me sixty dollars. It hurt to pay it. I had rented a high-end apartment near the campus a year ago just to keep her close. I realized now it was the only “home” I had left. I hoped she wasn’t there; I just wanted to crawl into a corner and hide until the lease ran out. But as I stood at the door, I realized I didn’t have the keys. I’d left them in the Stanford mansion. I had to wait for the girl I had spent a year tormenting. 4 I don’t know how long I sat on my suitcase, leaning my head against the doorframe to dull the throbbing in my side. “Why aren’t you inside?” The voice was cold, wrapped in frost. I opened my eyes to see Jane. She was leaning against the opposite wall, looking down at me like I was a strange specimen. I almost cried with relief. “You’re here,” I whispered, too tired to even stand up properly. Jane frowned, her eyes darting to my suitcase. “What is this?” “Can we just go in?” I asked. “I’m freezing.” She unlocked the door. I stumbled toward the sofa and collapsed, gasping for air. Safe. I was safe for a second. Then, my stomach betrayed me with a loud, hollow growl. I looked at her, embarrassed. “Jane… I’m hungry.” Her expression darkened. “What game are you playing now, Adrian?” I corrected her softly. “Just Adrian. Call me Adrian from now on.” She went rigid. I realized I sounded too soft, almost like I was flirting or begging. I wasn’t; it just hurt too much to use my diaphragm for a “tough” voice. After a beat, she said, “I have ramen. You want some?” “Yes, please.” Twenty minutes later, I was draining the last of the broth. I was trying to figure out how to tell her the “arrangement” was over and ask for a refund. A hundred thousand dollars was pocket change to me yesterday. Today, it was my entire future. I watched her through the steam. She was dressed in all black—a silk button-down that looked expensive and sharp. Her hair was a dark curtain. She looked like a girl who was finally coming into her own power. She was definitely worth the two hundred thousand. How was I supposed to ask for the money back? I felt like a leech. Jane caught me staring. A look of disgust flashed across her face. “Fine,” she said, standing up. “Let’s get this over with. How do you want to play it tonight?” “What?” I blinked. “Make it quick.” She walked toward me, unbuttoning her collar. As she got closer, the scent of lemons hit me. She knelt at my feet, her head bowed, her profile a perfect, haunting echo of Diana Vincent. It was a routine she knew too well. It made my stomach turn. “Master, punish me…” she murmured, her voice flat. I jumped back. “No! Stop! Get away!” Jane sneered. “Not that one tonight? Fine.” She stood up and reached for her belt. The click of the buckle was like a trigger. The memories of the nightmare—the older woman, the leather belt, the sound of it snapping against my skin while I was pinned down—came rushing back. I scrambled into the corner of the sofa, my heart hammering. I wrapped my arms around myself, shaking uncontrollably. “Don’t come near me! Please, just don’t touch me!” In my mind, I was back in that dark room, unable to run, unable to hide. “Leave me alone… please…” I whimpered. “Adrian.” “Adrian!” She called my name twice. I didn’t hear her at first, lost in the fog of trauma. “Adrian.” The lemon scent cleared the air. I looked up to find her icy blue eyes staring at me, filled with confusion rather than malice. “Don’t… don’t touch me,” I breathed, my chest heaving. Each breath spiked the pain in my ribs. Jane sat on the coffee table across from me, watching me in silence for a long time.

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I died in the quietest way possible. After finishing a batch of the caramel puddings Daniel loved so much, I lay down on the recliner in the living room to catch my breath. I closed my eyes, and they simply never opened again. There were so many things I still wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t hate him anymore. I wanted to tell him I’d finally forgiven him for the blurred lines and whispered secrets he shared with his assistant, Tiffany. But those words, like my breath, vanished into the ether. They say everything ends when you die, but my soul felt glued to the floorboards of this house. I watched as Daniel walked through the door, carrying a bag of warm sweet potato chips, with Tiffany trailing right behind him like a shadow. “Daniel, honey,” she chirped, her voice dripping with calculated sweetness. “Your wife just sent me another text calling me a homewrecker. She told me to go kill myself… maybe I should just leave. I don’t want to be the reason your marriage falls apart.” Daniel looked at my closed eyes, and the flicker of concern in his gaze vanished, replaced by a cold, hard crust of disgust. “Claire, for God’s sake, when is this performance going to end? Tiffany is just here to pick up some files. Can’t you be an adult for once?” From the moment my body began to grow cold, he did nothing but scold me. He had no idea that later, he would sit beside my corpse, sobbing, begging me to open my eyes—begging for just one word. It reminded me of being a little girl. My mother had packed a suitcase and walked out after a petty argument, leaving me an orphan in all the ways that mattered. I realized then, as I watched him now, that no matter how much I grew up, I never learned the secret of how to make someone stay when they already have one foot out the door. 1 Daniel stood over me, venting his frustrations for several minutes. When I didn’t snap back or offer a sarcastic remark, he finally let out a long, jagged sigh. The sharp edge of his anger softened into something resembling pity. He knelt down and gently tucked the bag of sweet potato chips—still warm from his coat pocket—into my hand. “Stop being stubborn,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, persuasive tone he used when he wanted to fix things. “I waited in line forever for these. They’re still hot. You’ve been craving them from that place downtown for weeks, haven’t you? Get up and eat them before they get cold.” The paper bag was warm, but my palm was a frozen wasteland. I couldn’t feel a thing. Daniel noticed how cold my hand was, and his brow furrowed. He stood up, went into the bedroom, and returned with a heavy wool throw. He draped it over me, tucking the edges around my shoulders with a practiced tenderness that broke my ghostly heart. He disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of running water filling the silence. “I’m pouring you some warm water,” he called out. “Drink it. It’ll help that cough.” I heard the clink of a glass. His voice took on a rhythmic, domestic quality, as if he were planning a future that still existed. “After the New Year, I’m clearing my schedule. I’m taking you down to the coast for a few weeks. The air is cleaner there, warmer. This cough of yours isn’t getting better, and the sea breeze will do your lungs some good. We’ll just watch the waves. Whatever you want.” I hovered in the air, watching the silhouette of the man I loved moving in the kitchen. My eyes burned with the ghost of tears I could no longer shed. It’s too late, Daniel. Tiffany stood by the sofa, her eyes burning with a manic jealousy. She hadn’t expected this. She thought my “silent treatment” would infuriate him, but instead, it had brought out a side of Daniel she couldn’t control—the side that still belonged to me. While Daniel’s back was turned, Tiffany crept toward my recliner. She reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my phone. It didn’t take her long to guess the passcode—it was Daniel’s birthday. Her fingers flew across the screen, tapping out a message and setting a timer. Then, she slipped my phone into her own designer handbag. A second later, a blood-curdling scream ripped through the living room. “Ah!” Tiffany grabbed the heavy crystal ashtray from the coffee table and slammed it against her own forehead. Blood erupted instantly, dark and viscous, trailing down her pale face. “What happened?!” Daniel rushed out of the kitchen, water splashing from the glass in his hand. He found Tiffany collapsed on the floor, clutching her head, weeping hysterically. “Daniel… oh my god…” she sobbed, pointing a trembling finger at my motionless form. “She just… she snapped! She hit me with the ashtray! She called me a whore and told me she’d kill me if I didn’t leave right now!” Daniel’s face went white, then a terrifying shade of red. He lunged toward me, his hand reaching out to grab my shoulder. “Claire! Have you lost your mind? She’s just a kid! How could you do this?” Just as his fingers were about to bruise my dead skin, a ding echoed from his pocket. Tiffany shrieked, “Look! Look at your phone! I bet she’s texting more threats! She was just holding her phone a second ago—she’s faking it, Daniel! She’s faking the whole thing!” Daniel froze. He pulled out his phone. A message sat on the screen from “Wife.” [If that bitch doesn’t get out of my house, I’ll kill myself and make sure everyone knows it was your fault.] The veins in Daniel’s hand popped; his knuckles turned a ghostly white. He looked up at me, the last shred of warmth in his eyes evaporating into a towering, murderous rage. “Fine,” he whispered, a terrifying, jagged laugh escaping his throat. “Fine, Claire. You want to use death as a threat just to get your way? You think you can hold me hostage with your drama?” He raised his hand. Splash. The warm water he had poured for my throat hit me full in the face. Droplets rolled down my graying cheeks, soaking my eyelashes and the wool blanket he had so carefully tucked around me moments ago. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink. “Still acting?” Daniel’s fury reached a breaking point. He snatched the bag of chips from my hand and hurled them into the trash can. “Fine. You want to play dead? Then stay here and play your little game until you’re bored. I’m done.” He turned, hoisting Tiffany up from the floor. He didn’t look back at me once. His voice was thick with loathing. “Come on, Tiffany. Let’s get you to the ER. We’re spending the rest of the holiday at the office. Let her rot in her own madness.” The front door slammed with such force the chandelier rattled. I drifted in the empty air, looking at my wet face and the discarded chips in the trash. Daniel, I wasn’t playing. I’m really gone. 2 By the next day, the change began. Faint, purplish bruises—the marks of the end—began to bloom across my pale skin. The heat in the house was turned up high, accelerating the inevitable. My soul, bound by some invisible tether to Daniel, was forced to follow him. I sat in the back of his car as he drove, his jaw set in a hard, angry line. Tiffany sat in the passenger seat, a white bandage wrapped around her head, surreptitiously playing with my phone. She glanced at Daniel’s profile, her thumb dancing across the screen as she typed out a status update for my Facebook page. She tagged him, hit send, and then tucked the phone back into her bag with a satisfied smirk. She looked at him, her eyes wide and innocent. “Daniel… she seems really angry this time. Maybe we should check on her?” Daniel scoffed, pulling his own phone out at a red light. When he saw the notification—the update from “Claire”—his face darkened. [If you leave, I’ll die in this house, and you’ll have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life!] Thud! Daniel slammed his fist against the steering wheel, the horn blaring and startling a pedestrian. “She’s a lunatic!” he hissed, the pulse in his temple throbbing. He had spent the night cooling off, feeling a twinge of guilt. He knew I wasn’t well. He’d even thought about stopping at the pharmacy on the way home to pick up my prescription. But that post—that calculated, public cry for attention—snapped the final string of his patience. “If she wants to die so badly, then she can do it without me,” he growled. He wrenched the steering wheel, pulling a sharp U-turn. The route home was abandoned; he drove toward Tiffany’s apartment instead. “Daniel, are you sure?” Tiffany asked timidly, though her eyes danced with triumph. “I can handle being alone. Maybe you should go back.” “No,” Daniel snapped. “She’s pulled this stunt a thousand times. The more you indulge her, the worse she gets. She needs to learn that her threats don’t work on me anymore.” At Tiffany’s place, she played the role of the perfect caregiver. She tied on an apron and began fussing in the kitchen. Suddenly, she let out a small “Ow!” Daniel, who had been brooding on the sofa, rushed into the kitchen. Tiffany had “accidentally” splashed hot soup on her hand. “Careful, honey,” Daniel murmured, his voice softening as he took her hand and ran it under cold water. He looked at her with such genuine concern it made my chest ache. I remembered when I’d sliced my finger open in our kitchen a year ago. I’d asked him for a bandage, and he hadn’t even looked up from his laptop. “It’s just a scratch, Claire. Deal with it yourself. I’m busy.” It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to care for someone. He just didn’t want to care for me. His phone rang. It was Dr. Benjamin, my specialist. Daniel saw the name and let out a cynical laugh before answering. “What is it, Benjamin?” The voice on the other end was frantic. “Daniel? Where is Claire? I’ve been calling her for hours! Her lab results came back—it’s a crisis. Her lungs are failing. She needs to be hospitalized immediately. Put her on the phone!” Daniel interrupted him, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Is that the new plan, Doctor? Claire got you to call me with a fake medical emergency? You guys really put a lot of effort into the script this time.” “What are you talking about?” Benjamin stammered. “Daniel, I’m not joking! Her pulmonary fibrosis has reached—” “Enough!” Daniel barked. “Tell Claire that if she wants to fake her own death, she’d better make it convincing, because I’m the one who’s going to have to sign the papers. I’m not falling for this ‘team-up’ with her doctor. Don’t call me again.” He hung up and blocked the number. I floated beside him, screaming into the void, trying to explain, trying to tell him that the air was gone, that I was gone. But my voice was nothing but a draft in the room. To spite me, Daniel leaned in as Tiffany took a selfie of them. In the photo, Tiffany held a glass of wine, smiling sweetly. Daniel sat across from her, and though his expression was cold, the background was a warm, candlelit dinner. Tiffany posted it instantly. [Thank you for being here. Best holiday ever. Here’s to many more.] She adjusted the privacy settings so that I was the only person who could see it. Late that night, fireworks exploded outside the window, painting the sky in brilliant colors. Daniel stood by the glass, watching the fading light. He absentmindedly rubbed his thumb over his phone and, on a whim, sent me a text. [Have you had enough yet? If you’re done being a brat, go heat up those dumplings. Don’t starve yourself to death in my house. It’s bad luck.] The message was sent. No reply came. No “typing…” bubbles appeared. Daniel stared at the screen for a minute, then tossed the phone onto the bed in a huff. He thought I was playing a game of chicken. He thought we were in a cold war. He had no idea that my body was currently rotting on the chair he’d bought me for our third anniversary. 3 The day after the holiday. Daniel woke up in Tiffany’s bed, a hangover pounding behind his eyes. His first instinct was to reach for his phone. Nothing. Not a single notification. Usually, no matter how angry I was, I never went a full night without checking on him. I’d send a text asking if his stomach hurt from the wine, or I’d tell him there was aspirin on the nightstand. The silence was beginning to feel heavy. “She’s really committed this time,” he muttered, throwing his phone aside. Anger flared in his chest. “Fine. You want to see who breaks first? Let’s see how long you can hold out.” Tiffany brought him breakfast, watching his face like a hawk. “Daniel, it’s a beautiful day. Why don’t we drive out to the coast? You need a break.” Daniel wanted to say no, but the thought of me sitting at home, waiting for him to crawl back, made him nod. “Let’s go.” As they were packing, Daniel’s phone buzzed. It was the building manager. “Mr. Sterling? I’m sorry to bother you, but your downstairs neighbor is complaining. They’re saying there’s a… strange odor coming from your unit. Like something spoiled. Could you head over and take a look?” Daniel’s jaw tightened. He remembered the bag of chips he’d kicked over, and how I looked “playing dead” on the recliner. He assumed I was being vindictive—leaving trash out or letting food rot just to spite him. “It’s just my wife being difficult,” Daniel said into the phone, his voice cold. “She’s leaving trash out to get my attention. Ignore it. She’ll clean it up when she realizes I’m not coming home to do it for her.” He hung up, the disgust in his heart curdling. They drove to the shore. The winter wind was brutal, whipping against his face. Daniel stood on the rocks, watching the gray Atlantic churn. The peace he was looking for didn’t come. Instead, a memory hit him like a physical blow. Our anniversary. I’d pulled on his sleeve, my eyes bright with hope. “Daniel, let’s go to the beach. When I feel a little stronger, let’s just go and collect shells. Please?” He had looked at his watch. “I’m busy, Claire. Maybe next year.” Daniel looked down at a small, perfect shell by his boot. His heart suddenly felt soft, bruised. He walked over to a small boardwalk gift shop and bought a delicate shell bracelet. “Fine, I’ll go back and fix it,” he muttered to himself. “She’s fragile. If she gets herself worked up into a real sickness, it’ll just be more work for me.” He went into a convenience store to grab a bottle of water, thinking he might pick up a carton of milk for me, too. As he stood at the counter, Tiffany watched him from the car, her eyes narrowed. She pulled my phone out of her bag. She quickly navigated to a search engine, downloaded a gruesome photo of a slit wrist from a dark forum, and sent it to herself. She shoved the phone back into her bag, plastered a look of pure horror on her face, and ran into the store toward Daniel. “Daniel! Daniel, oh my god!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “She just sent me a picture… she did it! She cut her wrists! Look!” Daniel took his change from the clerk, and the coins clattered to the floor. He snatched the phone from Tiffany’s hand. The sight of the blood, the raw red of the wound, sent a shock of pure, unadulterated fury through him. It was another threat. Another play for pity. Yesterday it was a “medical crisis,” today it was suicide. What would it be tomorrow? “Lunatic!” Daniel roared. He raised his hand and flung the shell bracelet he’d just bought. It arched through the air and vanished into the dark, churning surf. “I am done with this!” his chest heaved, his eyes bloodshot. “She wants to die? Fine! Let her bleed! Let’s see how much she likes the sight of her own blood!” I drifted in the salt spray, watching the bracelet sink to the bottom of the ocean. It was the first gift he’d bought me in years. And he’d thrown it away with his own hands. Daniel, it doesn’t hurt anymore. Truly. 4 The second day after the holiday. Daniel drove home, his rage having condensed into a cold, hard diamond of resolve. He’d made his decision. He didn’t care if I cried, if I begged, or if I knelt at his feet. He was filing for divorce. He couldn’t live like this for another second. Tiffany sat next to him, a small, predatory smile playing on her lips. The title of Mrs. Sterling was finally within reach. The elevator climbed to our floor. Ding. The doors slid open, and Daniel froze. The hallway, usually silent and sterile, was teeming with people. There was a bright, jagged line of yellow police tape stretched across our front door. Officers were moving in and out, and a forensic investigator was carrying a heavy black kit, his face grim. Our neighbors were huddled together, whispering. They were all holding their noses, their expressions a mix of disgust and horror. “God, the smell… it’s unbearable.” “I heard she’d been there for days. How awful.” Daniel’s brain went numb. Everything went white. Tiffany stepped out behind him. Seeing the scene, she gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh my god! Did she… did she set the place on fire just to get us back here?” That sentence was the match that lit the powder keg in Daniel’s soul. Another stunt. She’d called the cops just to force him home. “Claire!” Daniel screamed, shoving through the crowd. He reached the door, his voice a jagged blade. “Get out here! Right now! Are you happy? You’ve got the whole building watching! Is this enough attention for you?!” He reached out to rip down the police tape. “Sir! Step back!” A young officer blocked his path, his voice stern. “This is a restricted scene. You can’t go in there.” Daniel shoved the officer’s hand away, the veins in his neck bulging. “I live here! That’s my wife! Tell that crazy woman to stop acting and get in the car. We’re going to the hospital, and then we’re going to a lawyer!” The hallway went dead silent. The neighbors looked at Daniel with expressions that made my skin crawl. A medical examiner, an older man with graying hair and a mask over his face, stepped out of the bedroom. He pulled off his gloves and looked at the black body bag being zipped up on the floor. “Stop shouting,” the examiner said, his voice cold as a tombstone. “The deceased is Claire Sterling. Cause of death appears to be respiratory failure brought on by advanced pulmonary fibrosis, complicated by severe malnutrition.” “Based on the state of the body, she has been dead for at least forty-eight hours.” Daniel staggered. “Dead? No… that’s impossible.” He laughed—a short, sharp sound. He looked at the cop, then at the black bag. “You’re wrong! She sent a photo yesterday! She sent texts! She’s playing you! She’s faking it!” Tiffany scrambled forward, holding out her phone. “Officer! Look! She sent this to me yesterday! She’s not dead, she’s just trying to scare us!” The medical examiner frowned. He took the phone, glanced at the photo, and then looked at Tiffany with a profound, chilling intensity. He turned back to Daniel. “Sir, the vital signs of the deceased ceased on the afternoon of the holiday. Pray tell, how does a woman who has been dead for two days send a photo of her slit wrists to this lady?”

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When I opened my eyes again, I realized with a jarring jolt of adrenaline that I was back. Back to the very first day that the most loathsome man I’d ever met joined the firm. Dustin was the kind of guy who used “honesty” as a weapon and “innocence” as a shield. He had a mouth that never stopped, always leaking poison disguised as casual observation. In my first life, he started his campaign on day one. He’d announced to the entire open-plan office that he’d seen some “old guy in a Porsche” dropping me off, trailing off with a wink that implied it certainly wasn’t my father. Later, when I landed a seven-figure account, he spent his lunch breaks in the breakroom whispering that I hadn’t used my brain to close the deal, but my “other assets.” When I finally went to my manager, Frank, to report the harassment, Frank just sighed behind his mahogany desk. He told me Dustin was just a “green kid with no filter,” that I was being “too sensitive,” and that as a senior lead, I needed to “be the bigger person.” It all culminated at the annual company gala. Dustin took the mic on stage and “accidentally” let it slip that he’d seen me leaving a hotel with the CEO. He’d covered his mouth in fake horror, pretending he’d made a slip of the tongue. The rumor reached the CEO’s wife within minutes. Regina was a woman defined by her ferocity and a hair-trigger temper. That night, fueled by a blind, vengeful rage, she had me followed. I never made it home. A heavy-duty truck, “out of control,” plowed into my sedan, crushing the life out of me before I could even scream. But this time? This time, I wasn’t going to argue. I wasn’t going to defend myself. I was going to let that loose cannon of a mouth fire until it finally blew up in his own face. … 1 “Jane! Hey, Jane! I saw you downstairs this morning. That older guy in the Porsche… the one with the receding hairline…” The familiar, nasally voice cut through the morning hum of the office. I blinked, the ghost of the car crash still cold in my bones, and saw Dustin. He was leaning against a cubicle wall, smirking and gesturing toward the rest of the team. “Oh, guys, don’t get the wrong idea! I’m sure the guy in the fancy car was just a… relative. Right, Jane?” He paused, eyes glinting with malice. “I mean, the way he was leaning over to kiss—I mean, talk to you… totally normal family stuff. I swear I didn’t see anything! Everyone, stop guessing! My lips are sealed!” A ripple of low laughter spread through the room. Several women exchanged looks—that sharp, judgmental squint that happens when gossip is served fresh at 9:00 AM. It was exactly as it had happened before. Every word. Every smirk. I was really back. “Dustin,” I said, my voice steady and cold as a winter morning. I stood up and looked him dead in the eye. “You swear you didn’t see anything?” Dustin flinched slightly, taken aback by the lack of flustered defense he’d expected. But he recovered quickly, throwing his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. “Whoa, Jane! Why the heat?” He pouted, looking around for sympathy. “I’m literally telling people not to gossip! You’re making it so awkward. Gosh, you’re so sensitive. Can’t you take a joke?” “She’s right, Jane,” Frank, our department head, said as he strolled over with his travel mug, frowning at me. “Dustin’s just out of college. He’s a good kid, just doesn’t have a filter yet. He didn’t mean anything by it.” Frank gave me that disappointed-father look he used to gaslight me for years. “You’re a senior here. Be the bigger person. Don’t ruin the vibe on a Monday.” In my last life, I’d lost my temper. I’d screamed, I’d tried to prove my innocence, and I’d ended up looking like a hysterical woman with something to hide. I wasn’t going to be that woman today. “You’re right, Frank,” I said, a small, sharp smile playing on my lips. Dustin’s eyes sparked with triumph. He thought I’d folded. “See? I knew you’d understand, Jane. I’m just a ‘tell it like it is’ kind of guy—” “Actually, Dustin, I’m impressed by your eyesight,” I interrupted, tossing a thick blue folder onto my desk with a satisfying thud. “The ‘old guy’ you saw? That’s Mr. Whitaker.” I leaned back, watching the color drain slightly from Frank’s face. “He’s the founder of Whitaker Capital—our biggest target for the Q4 portfolio. The CEO spent three hours in a lobby last month just trying to get a five-minute meeting and failed.” I tapped the folder. “Since you’re so observant and clearly so interested in Mr. Whitaker’s movements, I’ve decided to hand his account over to you. He’s coming in for a site visit next week. You can handle the lead on the presentation.” Dustin’s eyes practically turned into dollar signs. An account like Whitaker Capital meant a six-figure commission and a fast track to a VP title. Frank’s face twisted. “Jane, wait. That’s a ten-million-dollar deal. Dustin is a rookie—” “So? You said yourself he’s got potential,” I countered, locking eyes with Dustin. “Right, Dustin? Or are you only good for making ‘jokes’ in the breakroom? Maybe you can’t handle real work?” The bait was set. For a guy as arrogant and hungry as Dustin, there was no way he wouldn’t bite. He lunged for the folder, clutching it to his chest like a prize. “I can handle it! Totally!” he shouted, his face flushed with greed. “Don’t worry, Jane. I’ll make sure Mr. Whitaker is… well-taken care of. I won’t let the firm down!” “Good,” I nodded. Within minutes, Dustin had posted a selfie with the folder to his Instagram. The caption read: No handouts, just hustle. 22 and already closing eight-figure deals. #TopTier #Grind. I watched him preen, a cold satisfaction settling in my chest. I truly hoped he’d keep that same energy when the walls started closing in. 2 By Tuesday morning’s briefing, Dustin was acting like he owned the building. He stood by the whiteboard, pointing at a timeline. “Just an update for the team—I’ve already made contact with Whitaker’s office.” He paused, throwing a condescending glance my way. “His executive assistant was very impressed with my approach. We’ve locked in the site visit for Wednesday afternoon.” A murmur of impressed whispers broke out. “Wow, Dustin, that’s fast,” someone said. “That’s what the new generation brings to the table, Frank,” Dustin bragged, his voice rising in volume. “I don’t wait for things to fall into my lap. I don’t believe in… shaking hands behind closed doors to get ahead. I rely on pure merit.” I ignored the jab and walked out to get more coffee. At 3:00 PM, HR rolled in the snack cart to celebrate a win. “Congratulations to Jane for closing the Hyatt group contract!” My coworkers crowded around. “Jane, that’s huge! That CEO is notoriously cheap. How did you do it?” Before I could answer, Dustin wedged himself into the center of the group, coffee cup in hand. “Seriously, Jane, it’s impressive!” he drawled, his voice dripping with insinuation. “I mean, spending all that time at the hotel with him last night… you must have put in some serious overtime.” He suddenly slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with mock horror. “Oops! Forget I said that! We all know Jane is a ‘hard worker.’ Say no more! Wink-wink!” The breakroom went silent. The air curdled. I saw two of the younger associates exchange a look that said, So that’s how she does it. Frank stood nearby, blowing on his tea, staring at the floor as if he were suddenly fascinated by the linoleum. I set my cupcake down and walked straight up to Dustin. “Say no more about what?” Dustin scrambled back an inch, his hands up in his “innocent boy” defense. “Jane, chill! You’re getting that scary look again.” “Finish the sentence, Dustin,” I said, my voice a flat line. “What happened at the hotel?” He rolled his eyes, turning to the crowd. “I was just saying you must be exhausted from ‘working’ in the hotel lounge all night! Gosh, Jane, your mind is in the gutter. Why are you attacking me? I was trying to be nice!” He raised his voice so the whole floor could hear. “You’re so defensive. It’s almost like you’re projecting. If you didn’t do anything wrong, why are you so pressed?” The peanut gallery chimed in. “Yeah, Jane, he didn’t even say anything.” “If the shoe fits…” one girl whispered. Frank finally looked up, his voice weary. “Alright, Jane, that’s enough. We’re supposed to be celebrating. Don’t be so sensitive. He’s just a kid making a joke. Be the bigger person and stop creating a hostile environment.” In my last life, this was the moment I would have snapped. I would have screamed about the double standards, and I would have been labeled “difficult” by the end of the day. “You’re right. I’m being sensitive,” I said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. I walked back to my desk and pulled a blue-bound contract from my drawer. “As an apology, Dustin… here.” I handed him the master service agreement for the Hyatt project. “This is the final pricing and vendor list. The hotel’s board needs a final walkthrough of the numbers. Since I’m so ‘tired,’ why don’t you take the lead on this too? It’s a great way to build your profile before the Whitaker meeting.” Dustin froze. Frank dropped his spoon. “Jane! Are you insane? That’s the Hyatt core file! It has all our internal margins and trade secrets. You can’t just give that to a junior!” I turned to Frank, my expression innocent. “But Frank, you said I was being too hard on him. This is a high-level responsibility. Isn’t that what ‘mentoring’ is about?” Dustin didn’t wait for Frank to protest. He snatched the file, his eyes gleaming with the thought of stealing my commission. “You all heard her!” Dustin shouted to the room. “Jane gave this to me! I’m the lead on Hyatt now!” Frank looked like he was having a stroke, but he couldn’t argue with my “generosity” after he’d spent all day telling me to be nicer. Ten minutes later, I headed to the restroom. As I passed the stairwell, I heard Dustin’s muffled, frantic laughter. “I’m telling you, man, I’ve got the whole deck,” Dustin whispered into his phone. “The woman is a total idiot. She’s hit menopause or something—completely lost her edge. I poked her a few times and she just handed me the keys to the kingdom.” He let out a sharp, triumphant breath. “Yeah, I’ll have the pricing sheet scanned and sent to you by tonight. Your firm’s bid will blow ours out of the water, and I’ll look like the hero who caught the ‘error.’ We’re gonna be rich.” 3 Wednesday afternoon was supposed to be Dustin’s big moment—the site visit with Mr. Whitaker. Instead, Dustin slammed back into the office an hour early, his face a sickly shade of gray. He marched over to my desk and screamed, “Jane! What the hell did you do to piss off Whitaker?” The entire office went dead silent. I didn’t even look up from my monitor. “What do you mean?” Dustin’s voice cracked. “I barely mentioned your name as the person who prepared the preliminary brief, and the guy went nuclear! He kicked me out of his office! He said he ‘can’t stand people who play games with their private lives’ and called you ‘toxic’!” He turned to the room, his voice reaching a fever pitch. “Jane, whatever gross stuff you’re doing in your free time, don’t drag the company’s reputation down with you!” A wave of murmurs broke out. Mr. Whitaker was legendary for being a “moralist.” He was old-school, hated scandal, and loathed office politics. Dustin, in his desperate attempt to look like the hero, had obviously tried to tell Mr. Whitaker a “secret” about how I was “unstable” or “promiscuous” to make himself look like the only sane one left on the account. He had tried to use a “yellow rumor” to seal the deal. But he’d miscalculated. He’d played the game with a man who hated the board. “So,” I said, finally looking up. “The deal is dead?” “Of course it’s dead!” Dustin shrieked. “He said he won’t work with a firm that allows ‘that kind of woman’ in its senior ranks! I practically begged him on my knees, but he wouldn’t even look at me. This is all your fault!” Frank stormed out of his office, his face purple. “Jane! What have you done?” He pointed a shaking finger at me. “If we lose the Whitaker account, the entire department’s bonus is gone. The CEO is going to have my head!” Dustin stepped right up next to Frank, nodding like a bobblehead. “It’s worse than that, Frank. I heard rumors… and now I see they’re true. She’s not just messy outside the office. She’s been messing around here.” Frank’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?” Dustin covered his mouth, looking “terrified” that he’d said too much. “Oh, no… I shouldn’t have. I didn’t say I saw her in the parking garage with the CEO last night… I definitely didn’t say that! Please don’t ask me!” The office exploded. “The CEO? Is she insane?” “Regina is going to skin her alive.” “No wonder she got that VP track so fast. She’s sleeping her way to the top.” Frank looked at me with pure disgust. “Jane, you’re done. Hand over your keycard. Effective immediately, you’re on administrative leave.” “Tonight is the annual gala,” Frank added, his voice low and threatening. “Regina is going to be there. If a single word of this reaches her, I will personally make sure you never work in this city again.” He slammed his hand on my desk. “Hand over all your client files to Dustin. He’s the only one I trust to fix this mess.” I pulled open my drawer and tossed a stack of folders onto the desk. Dustin grabbed them like a vulture. Just before the end of the day, I went to the restroom. When I returned, my desk was covered in cold coffee dregs. My keyboard was ruined. And someone had used a red Sharpie to write one word across my chair: WHORE. A group of women nearby giggled into their hands. Dustin walked up to me, offering a single tissue with a fake, pitying sigh. “Jane, don’t take it too hard.” “Rumors die down eventually,” he whispered, a cruel glint in his eyes. “I mean, everyone knows it’s true, but I’ll try to keep them quiet. Just… maybe stay in the shadows at the gala tonight. Don’t go near the CEO. For your own sake.” I didn’t take the tissue. Instead, I smiled. “Dustin, you should eat a lot at the gala tonight.” He blinked, confused. “What?” “Because after tonight, you might not be eating ‘outside’ for a very long time.” 4 The gala started at 7:00 PM in the grand ballroom of the Peninsula. Frank and Dustin were at the head table, clinking glasses with the board members. I was tucked away at the very back, at the “overflow” table. The people sitting with me literally moved their chairs away, treating me like I had the plague. Then came the “New Talent” speech. Dustin, dressed in a tuxedo that probably cost two months’ rent, swaggered onto the stage. He took the mic, his eyes scanning the crowd until they locked onto me. “I want to thank my mentor, Jane,” he began, his voice amplified throughout the hall. Every head in the room turned toward me. “It’s just…” He paused, letting the silence hang. He looked “confused,” staring at the CEO’s empty chair at the head table. “Jane, why aren’t you sitting with Lawrence? I saw you two heading into the Hilton together yesterday… I thought for sure you’d be his plus-one.” He suddenly gasped, banging the mic against his forehead. “Oh! My big mouth! I’m so sorry! I didn’t see anything! Forget I said it! Everything’s fine!” The ballroom went deathly silent. CRASH. At the head table, a wine glass shattered. Regina, the CEO’s wife, stood up. Her face was a mask of cold, vibrating fury. Behind her, four massive security guards stood like statues. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as she marched toward me. “Well, well,” Regina hissed, her voice trembling with rage. She pointed a finger inches from my nose. “I thought you were a professional. Turns out you’re just another cheap little social climber trying to screw her way into a paycheck.” “Hold her,” she commanded. Two of the guards stepped forward. Just like in my first life, they grabbed my arms, twisting them behind my back and forcing me down onto my knees on the hard floor. “Regina, please! Don’t be rash!” Dustin shouted, running down from the stage, his phone already out and recording. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to seduce Lawrence! Maybe she was just… ‘reporting’ in his hotel room!” “Don’t record this, guys! Jane needs her face for ‘business’!” he yelled, while making sure his own camera was perfectly framed on my humiliation. Regina looked down at me, her heel inches from my hand. “Business? Is that what you call it?” “I’m going to make sure the only business you do from now on is on a street corner,” she spat. Around us, my “colleagues” were all filming. Not a single person moved to help. Frank stood in the back, shouting, “Regina, the department does not condone this! She’s fired! I’m firing her right now!” The memory of the truck hitting my car flashed through my mind. The pain, the darkness, the injustice. But this time, I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg. I looked up at Regina and started to laugh. “You might want to take a look at the screen behind you, Regina,” I said, my voice calm. “And tell me… who exactly is Lawrence ‘reporting’ to?” Regina’s brow furrowed. She instinctively turned around. When she saw what was playing on the giant projector screens, the entire room gasped.

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