Category: English

To clear the way for his mistress, my husband faked his own infertility and demanded a divorce. “It’s for the best,” he said, his voice thick with fake sincerity. “You don’t have to worry. I could never remarry after this. The guilt would be too much.” I cried, my sobs so violent it was hard to breathe. But the second I turned my back, I let out a sigh of relief and tossed the shredded remains of his real test results into the trash. I had been worried he wouldn’t be able to handle the truth. Turns out, I worried for nothing. Oh, we were getting a divorce, all right. And I was going to make sure he left with nothing but the clothes on his back. When I silently agreed, he was overjoyed, already planning to welcome his pregnant mistress into our home. What my husband didn’t know was that the paternity test he was holding was a fake. And the infertility report I’d just thrown away? That was the real one. 1 Holding Tyler’s medical report, my heart had been a lead weight in my chest for days. I walked in from work one evening to find his entire family sitting in our living room. The moment I stepped through the door, every head turned in unison to stare at me. Their faces were grim, their eyes a mixture of pity and judgment. For a terrifying second, I thought they knew. My heart clenched, but I forced a smile. “Mom, Dad, you’re here! You should have called. I just bought some fresh seafood. Have a seat, dinner will be ready in a bit.” I started to roll up my sleeves and head for the kitchen, but my mother-in-law’s voice stopped me. “Phoebe, wait. We need to talk to you about something.” My husband, Tyler, looked at me, his face a blank mask. “Phoebe, let’s get a divorce.” “What did you say?” I whispered, my eyes wide with disbelief. He held out a piece of paper. “A few weeks ago… Mom had us both get check-ups, remember? The results came in. I’m infertile. And it’s irreversible.” How could he have a report? I was the one holding it. It clicked. The whole family was in on it. This was a setup. My mind reeling, I took the paper from his hand, my heart pounding with suspicion. Suddenly, I remembered what a friend had told me two weeks ago. “Phoebe, I saw your husband at the OB-GYN clinic today. He was with some young woman, and she was very obviously pregnant.” “And I heard them calling each other ‘honey’ and ‘babe’!” She’d even sent me a photo. I recognized the woman instantly. She was an intern from Tyler’s office. He had told me she’d quit months ago. I had been about to call Tyler and demand an explanation when the hospital called me. They said he had left an important document at the reception desk. It was his real report. The conclusion was written in cold, clinical print: Tyler would never be able to have children. But Tyler didn’t know that. And neither did his mistress. Pushing down the storm of emotions inside me, I put on my best performance. “Honey, it doesn’t matter,” I said, my voice choked with fake tears. “I don’t care if you can’t have kids. I love you. We can adopt if we want to.” For a moment, I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes, but it was quickly extinguished. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “I can’t handle the pressure, the pitying looks from your family. Let’s get a divorce. It’s the last act of love I can give you.” He looked at me, his eyes shining with false nobility. “I can’t be so selfish as to take away your chance to be a mother. I love you, Phoebe, but I want you to be happy more.” 2 “No! I won’t do it! Plenty of people in the world can’t have children, and they make it work. Why can’t we?” I cried, clinging to his arm. “We can try Eastern medicine, alternative treatments… there are options!” Tyler immediately shot down the idea. “I’m a man, Phoebe! How am I supposed to hold my head up if people know? My life would be over! If you really love me, you’ll keep this a secret.” I broke down completely. The tears of heartbreak were fake, but the sense of betrayal was agonizingly real. I had been a devoted wife for years, and this is how he repaid me? By faking a medical condition to push me out for another woman? He was going to learn that playing with people’s hearts has consequences. In a last-ditch, staged effort, I turned to his parents. Tyler was their eldest, the golden child. “Mom, Dad, please, talk to him! We can’t just give up. People will talk!” My father-in-law took a long drag from his cigarette and shook his head. “Phoebe, this kind of condition… it’s a lost cause. Dragging it out will only ruin his reputation. You have to understand a man’s pride.” I looked at his younger brother, Caleb. “Caleb, please. You know how good your brother has been to you. Talk to him. We can get through this.” A muscle twitched in Caleb’s jaw. “Phoebe, this divorce is a relief for him. Just let him go. It’s different for a man. The gossip… it’s like being flayed alive.” His wife just looked down at her hands, silent. Their united front was all the confirmation I needed. A wave of triumphant joy washed over me, but I let the tears flow freely. Tyler pulled me into an embrace. “Phoebe, it’s my fault. I’m a broken man; I don’t deserve you. I’ll make sure you’re compensated, of course. You deserve that much.” Gasping between sobs, I finally gave in. “I know you’ve always been a good man. Okay… I respect your decision.” 3 I excused myself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. My hand tightened around the real report tucked inside my purse. The doctor’s words echoed in my mind: “With a sperm survival rate of less than one-tenth of one percent… there’s no hope for a natural pregnancy.” For the past two weeks, my biggest problem had been how to break the news to him gently. I never imagined he’d hand me the solution on a silver platter. His report was a forgery, but his condition was real. For years, his family had assumed I was the reason we were childless. Now that another woman was pregnant, their suspicions were confirmed. Just then, a text came through from my friend. “He’s taken her to three different clinics and even sent a blood sample to a specialty lab in another country. It’s confirmed: it’s a boy!” And there it was. The Chen family, with their old-fashioned obsession with a male heir, had found their excuse to get rid of me. If he was so eager to play the proud papa to another man’s kid, who was I to stop him? Let them bask in the joyful anticipation of their new arrival. 4 I dried my eyes, stormed out of the house, and slammed the door for good measure. The divorce was happening, but not yet. I needed to drag this out. I made a show of calling all his friends, begging them to intervene. I cornered his best friend, Mark, in the street, putting on a spectacular display. “Mark, how can he be so sensitive?” I wailed, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “As long as I don’t mind, what does he have to worry about? Why does he have to divorce me? Please, talk to him! A man needs a family, even without kids!” Mark looked deeply uncomfortable. He obviously knew the real story. “Phoebe, please, keep your voice down. This is… a private matter. If he thinks this is for the best, maybe you should just let him go.” The neighborhood gossip mill was already churning. “What a wonderful woman. Her husband can’t have kids, and she still wants to stand by him.” “Yeah, if the roles were reversed, you can bet he’d be long gone.” He was worried about his reputation, but I wasn’t. I started an online diary. I wrote about my husband’s tragic infertility and his selfless decision to divorce me so I could have the chance to be a mother. I posted screenshots of his family’s cold texts and my friend’s well-meaning warnings. I even included a tearful video of myself. The internet ate it up. Our story was hailed as the ultimate tragic romance, the peak of “Bad End” love. One commenter wrote: “He sacrificed his own happiness for yours, never knowing that all you ever wanted was him.” I read it and cried, my tears of gratitude very real. Of course, I publicly begged everyone to respect our privacy. “This is a very sensitive issue for a man. Please, don’t try to find him or disturb his life.” Everyone thought I was a lovelorn fool. Some even tried to talk sense into me. “While being child-free is a valid choice, having your own child is a beautiful thing. Maybe your ex-husband really is doing what’s best for you.” On the day we were supposed to sign the papers, I hesitated again. “Maybe we should just try one more time. I really don’t want to do this.” Tyler’s patience was wearing thin. “What is your problem? Do you want the whole world to know I’m sterile so they can point and laugh at me?” he snapped. “I told you, I’m never getting married again! I won’t be a burden to anyone!” I knew he was getting antsy. His little intern was pushing to make things official, and he was terrified I’d find out the truth. He thought I couldn’t live without him. He had no idea I was just squeezing the last drops of value out of him. I took his hand, my eyes full of sorrow. “We were husband and wife. Before we say goodbye, let’s make one last beautiful memory together.” I’d seen influencers making “breakup countdown” videos. I always thought it was a sweet idea. Tyler had called it pathetic. But now, consumed by guilt, he couldn’t refuse. “Just… as a formal farewell,” I whispered, the very picture of a heartbroken woman. He looked at me, a flicker of something soft in his eyes, and finally nodded. 5 We drove to his hometown. Tyler had always been close to his grandparents. After his grandfather passed, his grandmother lived alone in the old house. She took my hand the moment we arrived. “When are you two going to give me a great-grandchild?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “Don’t follow those modern trends. A child is a continuation of your life, a symbol of your love. It’s what makes a life complete.” I felt a pang of nostalgia for the woman I used to be, the woman who truly believed that love was enough. Now, I just couldn’t wait to see the look on their faces when the truth came out. Tyler watched me clean the entire house from top to bottom, a look of genuine appreciation on his face. “Phoebe, thank you.” “It’s nothing,” I said, resisting the urge to slap him. “I know how much your grandmother means to you. It’s just a shame I won’t be able to visit anymore. A divorced woman… life will be hard. But don’t worry, I’ll work hard. I won’t let anyone say your ex-wife is a failure.” “I’ll make sure everyone knows you were a man with the best taste in the world.” That did it. “Phoebe,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Besides our shared assets, I have about half a million saved from before we were married. It’s yours.” “I couldn’t possibly. You’ll be all alone; you’ll need it.” I pretended to refuse, but I knew he’d insist. He was a hypocrite who needed to buy a clear conscience. With his six-figure salary and rising career, half a million was a small price to pay for peace of mind. Sure enough, he pulled out his phone and initiated the wire transfer. Moments later, my phone pinged with the notification. What he didn’t know was that his new boss, a staunch traditionalist, had a strict policy against promoting divorced employees. Tears of “gratitude” streamed down my face as I leaned against his shoulder. “Let’s take a picture,” I sobbed. “It might be our last chance.” He smiled and agreed. I posted the screenshot of the bank transfer to my online diary. The praise came flooding in. 6 The divorce would have to wait a little longer. We still had a list of things we’d always promised to do together. We hiked a mountain to see the sunrise. We rowed a boat on a serene lake. He cooked me breakfast. We watched an old classic, Titanic, at a revival theater. The moments were genuinely beautiful, which made my online posts all the more poignant. My followers were heartbroken for us. “Why does fate have to be so cruel to such a perfect couple?” “Please don’t separate! Adopt a child! Your family can still be complete!” I could see it was getting to him. It’s hard to reject a beautiful, kind, successful woman who is willing to stand by you even after learning you’re infertile. He was wavering. But he had no way out. The intern wasn’t going to let him go that easily. That night, after he thought I was asleep, Tyler opened my purse. He saw the report.

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The first thing I smelled was the beast—a rank, feral odor of wet fur, pine, and decay that suffocated the air. From the roof of Mayor Thompson’s house, I saw it all. A brown bear, impossibly large, stood on its hind legs at our front gate, a creature torn from a nightmare. It dwarfed our small home, its jaws stretched in a silent roar as its claws tore splinters from the groaning wood. Inside the yard, my grandmother was a crumpled heap on the ground, her face a mask of pure terror. “Elara, you have to do something!” Mayor Thompson urged, his hand gripping my shoulder. “Your parents are rangers, they have rifles! Go get them!” His words were a shove, waking me from my shock. The scent of the bear mixed with the sudden, sharp memory of another life. A life where I had run. A life where I had saved them, only to be destroyed. Last time, I’d scrambled up that mountain in the dark, my heart hammering with a desperate need to be the hero. I found them helping my sister, Mila, track rabbits by moonlight. They came back, killed the bear, and the whole town celebrated. They were given medals, a new house in town. But Mila, who had thrown a tantrum and refused to leave the woods, was found in pieces, torn apart by wolves. They told everyone she was reckless, that it was her own fault. But on the anniversary of her death, they dragged me back to that same mountain, tied me to a tree, and left me for the starving pack. “You little monster,” my father had hissed, his face a cruel mask in the moonlight. “Don’t think we don’t know. You led that bear here on purpose.” “You murdered your sister,” my mother had whispered, her voice colder than the grave. “This is what you deserve.” Reborn into this moment, I wouldn’t make the same mistake. This time, I wouldn’t run to them. This time, Mila could have her fun on the mountain. But as the bear savaged our gate and my grandmother wept, my father’s words from this new life echoed in my ears. He’d refused to come down. He’d told the villagers I was lying, just trying to ruin Mila’s birthday. And now, while my parents celebrated her, a monster was tearing our world apart. “Mayor Thompson,” I said, my voice trembling as tears stung my eyes. “My parents… they hate me. They won’t believe a word I say.” A heavy silence fell over the rooftop. Everyone in our small, isolated town knew it was true. I was Elara, the daughter they never wanted. The girl born instead of a son, the one they blamed for my mother’s weakened health, for every bad harvest, every stroke of misfortune. I was the family’s shadow. Mila, on the other hand, was their sun. The treasured one they’d take into the wolf-haunted woods at night just to catch a rabbit for her stew. The men on the roof exchanged uneasy glances. “She’s just a kid,” one of them finally muttered. “It’s not safe to send her.” “Alright,” the Mayor declared, his voice firm. “A few of you younger men, grab torches. We’re going ourselves.” As they slipped out the back, the rest of us on the roof started shouting and banging, trying to draw the bear’s attention. It worked, for a moment. The men vanished into the trees as the bear turned its massive head towards us, its dark eyes filled with a primal rage. But then, as if remembering its purpose, it turned back and slammed its body against the gate. My grandmother, Gran, had been chased all the way from the woods. Her strength was gone. She curled into a ball, hiding her face, a tiny, fragile thing against the looming specter of death. I watched the mountain path, praying the men would return with my parents, praying they could save the only person who had ever truly loved me. They returned near dusk, their faces grim with failure and disgust. “That Cole is a real piece of work,” one of them spat. “He said we were lying. Said Elara put us up to it, just to ruin Mila’s birthday!” A shard of ice pierced my heart. Mila and I shared a birthday. Every year, our parents would make her a special breakfast with two wild bird eggs. I got nothing. When I grew older, I was the one who had to cook it for her. I’d prepared that meal for years, but I’d never once dared to taste it. From the yard below, Gran must have heard. Trembling, she pushed herself to her feet and stumbled into the kitchen. She emerged a moment later holding a small, cloth-wrapped bundle, which she carefully unfolded for me to see from the roof. “Don’t be sad, Elara,” she called out, her voice thin but clear. “They won’t give you anything, but Gran will.” Inside the cloth were white flour and two perfect, speckled eggs. My tears, hot and sudden, blinded me. In our house, where my parents rationed every scrap of food for Gran and me, this was a treasure. How long had she saved this, going hungry herself, just for me? A raw sob escaped my throat. I broke free from the Mayor’s grip and scrambled for the ladder. The villagers knew how close Gran and I were; they’d been holding me back, afraid I’d do something foolish. “Elara, stop!” someone shouted, grabbing my arm. “You’re a child! You can’t even kill a chicken. We can’t watch you go down there to die!” Gran heard them and shrieked, her voice a blade of panic. “Elara, no! I’m an old woman, it doesn’t matter if I die! Don’t you dare! Stay where you are!” My heart felt like it was being torn in two. “Gran,” I choked out, “I wouldn’t have survived without you. I won’t do anything stupid. Trust me!” I looked at the men holding me, my eyes pleading. “Let me go. I have to save her.” My desperation must have convinced them. I wasn’t just hysterical; I had a plan. “It was like this last time,” I explained, the words rushing out. “The bear… it didn’t attack anyone else on the road. It ignored them. It followed Gran right to our yard, and it won’t leave. There’s something in that house it wants.” The stark, terrifying logic settled over them. The gate was splintering. There was no more time. The Mayor made a decision. He would have the others create a diversion while I, small and fast, would circle around and slip through the old doggy door in the back fence. Hands lifted me over the wall. The moment my feet hit the dirt, I ran. A few of the farmhands followed with a ladder, their heavy boots thudding behind me. The bear, obsessed with the front gate, didn’t even notice. We reached the back of my house. I told the men to hide in the neighbor’s shed, then dropped to my hands and knees and crawled through the narrow opening. “You foolish child!” Gran sobbed, pulling me into a fierce hug. “Why did you come back?” “No time,” I gasped, pulling her towards the back fence. “Gran, you have to climb. Step on my shoulders. When you’re safe, I can get out.” She beat her chest in anguish, silent words of protest dying on her lips. A thunderous crash from the front told us the gate had finally given way. “Now, Gran, please!” I knelt, turning my back to the wall. “They’re waiting. If you don’t go, we’ll both die here!” With a shuddering breath, she placed a worn shoe on my shoulder. The weight made me buckle, but I grit my teeth and pushed myself up, shaking, until she could grab the top of the fence. Strong hands reached down from the other side, pulling her up and over to safety. Relieved, I immediately began searching the house. Something was drawing the bear here. But what? We were poor. The only meat we had was jerky from two years ago. It couldn’t be that. CRACK. The front door was splintering now. My heart hammered. I forced myself to be calm, scanning the yard. Where could something be hidden? From over the fence, Gran’s voice called out, filled with desperate hope. “Elara! They’re taking me up the mountain! You hide, sweetheart! I’ll be back with the rifles soon! Just hide!” I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. As she left, a strange scratching sound came from the large ceramic pickling crock near the back door. My hands trembling, I lifted the heavy wooden lid. And froze. Curled at the bottom was a tiny bear cub. It was small, barely weaned, its dark eyes blinking up at me without a trace of aggression. My blood ran cold. Why was a bear cub in our pickling crock?

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I sent a message to my aloof stepbrother. [Hey hubby, you on tonight?] My fingers had slipped. I meant to type “Hey bro, cooking tonight?”. To make matters worse, he was in a meeting, his phone screen mirrored on the main projector. The entire conference room went silent. The man on screen paused for a fraction of a second, then calmly closed the chat window and typed something on his phone. A moment later, my phone buzzed with his reply. A single sentence. [I am.] I froze. He meant… cooking, right? 1 It was that time of day again—my sacred slacking-off hour. I expertly opened my pinned chat and sent a message to my ice-king stepbrother. [Hey bro, cooking tonight?] The moment I hit send, a colleague came over with a question. We talked for maybe two minutes. When I looked back at my phone, Leah from the design department had spammed me with a frantic series of messages. [OMG! I think Mr. Pei is dating someone!] [And trust me, the texts are SPICY!] My heart leaped into my throat. My fingers moved faster than my brain, clicking on the video she’d sent. On screen, Timothy Pei was dressed in a deep red shirt and a black vest, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing the faint tracery of veins. The black sleeve garters he wore added a touch of roguish charm to his usually stoic vibe. It sent a fire low in my belly. Damn it. The things I’d do to get a piece of that… I pushed the thought down and followed the camera as it panned to the large screen behind him. He was screen-sharing. And someone had just messaged him. The profile picture looked familiar. It looked like… mine. But his contact name for me wasn’t “sister,” or my name, Autumn, but a bizarre chemical term: “Phenylethylamine.” I frowned, not having time to decipher its meaning before my own message popped into view. In that instant, I almost jumped out of my chair. I’d meant to ask, [Hey bro, cooking tonight?], but in my haste, I’d made two critical errors. “Bro” had become “hubby,” and somehow, I’d completely omitted the word “cooking.” [Hey hubby, you on tonight?] The accidental message was so explosive that the entire conference room fell into a stunned, awkward silence. The department heads shot subtle glances at Timothy, their faces screaming, You look so prim and proper, but you’re into this kind of stuff behind closed doors? Timothy recovered from his initial shock. He didn’t explain. He simply lowered his gaze, calmly closed the chat window, and tapped twice on his phone. “Sorry about that,” he said, his voice smooth and steady. “She’s a bit of a handful.” His deep, magnetic voice resonated through my headphones, sending a pleasant tingle down my spine. Blood rushed to my face, turning it a shade of crimson I didn’t know was possible. The video ended there. Timothy’s tone had been perfectly level, but Leah was convinced it was dripping with affection. Great. Now my face was even hotter. [I wonder which lucky girl landed a catch like Mr. Pei. She’s eating well!] [Wait a second!] [Why does that person have the same profile pic as you?] [Autumn, don’t tell me…] I frantically cut off her speculation. [No! Not me! I barely know Mr. Pei!] I’d hidden my relationship with Timothy since starting at the company, and we always kept our distance at work. My quick denial was clumsy, but Leah bought it. I let out a long sigh of relief and swiped out of my chat with her. And there it was. A small red dot next to my pinned chat with him. My eyes drifted to the message preview. I didn’t even have to open it. Timothy’s reply was right there. A single sentence. [I am.] My mind went completely blank. While watching the video, I’d wondered what he could have possibly typed with just two taps. A question mark? An ellipsis? I never imagined it would be this. So… he was talking about cooking… right? 2 I had no idea how to reply. My original seven-word message had two catastrophic errors. It was hard to believe it wasn’t intentional. Desperate, I turned to the internet for help. Title: Accidentally texted my stepbro “Hey hubby, you on tonight?” instead of “Hey bro, cooking tonight?” and he replied “I am.” What do I do now? User A: [Was it really an accident though?] User C: [Finally, some good food. Where can I find Part 2 of this story? Asking for a friend.] User D: [If he’s not into you, I’ll eat my hat.] User E: [Wait, aren’t you the same person who posted “What do you do when you meet your dream guy at a family dinner and he’s your new stepbrother?” a few years ago?] …I can’t believe someone remembered that. 3 Before I was sixteen, everyone in my village used to say my mom was a hopeless romantic. As a young woman, she’d turned down a perfectly good college graduate to run off with a man who had nothing to offer but his handsome face. That is, until she divorced him and married a tycoon who had nothing but money. And just like that, in my senior year of high school, I became a rich heiress with a capital city residency. The only downside? At the first family dinner, I met my dream guy. My aloof, devastatingly handsome stepbrother—Timothy Pei. He was only four years older than me, still studying abroad at the time. He sat across from me at dinner, his hair a stunning platinum blond that gave him an almost ethereal, boyish look. Every time I looked up, our eyes met. But Timothy didn’t seem to like me. He would adjust the black, half-rimmed glasses on his nose, a subtle move to break my gaze. It stung, but only for a second. Then I’d get distracted by his elegant, long-fingered hands. Or the hint of his collarbone peeking out from the neck of his sweatshirt. Or the tiny mole on his throat that bobbed when he drank champagne. Sweet mother of… I was a sheltered country girl, uncorrupted by the temptations of the internet. I had never seen a walking temptation like him in my life. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. That teenage crush simmered for three years. I shamelessly tried to get closer to him, but I never crossed the line. I was so well-behaved that his friends would tell him how lucky he was to have a sister like me. Timothy, however, still didn’t seem to like me. He’d frown whenever they said that, the coldness in his dark eyes intensifying. “I don’t see her as a sister.” His words were a polite, but brutal, rejection. I was so hurt I avoided him for weeks. But we lived under the same roof. We were bound to run into each other. Sometimes it was at the pool, when he was wearing nothing but swim trunks. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, an eight-pack, and pale, perfect skin. My eyes would go wide again. Other times, I’d find him leaning against his black-and-white motorcycle by the front gate, his face hidden by a helmet, only his deep, intense eyes visible, fixed on me. The early summer breeze would rustle the wall of roses behind him and tug at the hem of his white t-shirt. It wasn’t the wind moving, it wasn’t the roses… it was my heart. An old quote surfaced in my mind. I clutched my backpack straps, torn. Finally, I ended my one-sided cold war and put my “good little sister” mask back on. “Bro,” I’d said, my voice small, “can you give me a ride to school?” That was the day I made that online post. It got so popular I had to hide it, terrified someone we knew might see it. 4 And now, someone had brought it up again. I sighed, scrolling through the gleeful comments. I decided the best course of action was to ignore the situation entirely. I had no idea why Timothy had replied the way he did, but given his usual coldness, he probably didn’t want me clinging to him over a typo. But then, after work, I ran into him in the elevator. His gaze was heavy, fixed on me. I braced myself and stepped inside, turning my back to him. As more people crowded in, I was forced backward, step by step, until my back was pressed against his warm chest. A second later, he slipped something into my hand. I recognized it instantly by touch. His apartment key. Oh, god. This was basically him handing me a hotel room key. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to discreetly pass the key back to him before we reached the ground floor. My hand fumbled behind me, searching for his, but instead, it brushed against something firm and decidedly not his leg. A muffled grunt from behind me drew the attention of everyone in the elevator. I snatched my hand back, my entire body turning the color of a boiled lobster. “You stepped on my foot,” Timothy said, his voice a low rasp, saving me. “Sorry, so sorry,” I mumbled, going along with it. The doors opened, and I scrambled out with the crowd. It wasn’t until I was in my car that I realized I still had his key. Just then, my phone lit up. Timothy: [That’s my only key.] Well, damn. Looks like I was going to his place after all. 5 Timothy beat me there. He was leaning against the wall by his door, arms crossed, watching me inch my way down the hall. The short walk felt like it took a century. When I finally reached him, I kept my head down, my voice barely a whisper. “Your ke—” Before I could finish, he produced another key as if by magic and unlocked the door. I stared. “You lied to me?” “Mhm,” he said, completely unapologetic. He held the door open, his dark eyes intense. “Coming in?” The suggestive undertone of his words made me flinch. I waved my hands frantically. “No, no, I’m good!” He didn’t push, just coughed into his fist, a soft, weak sound. He looked… sick. I stopped my retreat. “Are you not feeling well?” “A bit of a fever,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor. He looked so vulnerable. On pure instinct, my heart ached for him. I reached out to feel his forehead. He took a sharp step back. “Just go home. Don’t worry about me.” His voice was cold, and he turned his head away, a picture of self-pity. That did it. I marched into his apartment, shutting the door behind me, and headed for the TV console. “Bro, your first-aid kit is in here somewhere, right?” I rummaged through the drawers, missing the slow, triumphant smile that spread across Timothy’s face as he watched me. He sank onto the sofa, loosening his tie. “No idea.” He sounded like a petulant child, and I assumed it was the fever talking. “Don’t be difficult,” I cooed, walking over to try and check his temperature again. The next thing I knew, he had grabbed my wrist. A gentle tug, and I stumbled, landing right in his lap. My mind went blank. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply. His usually cool eyes were turbulent, dark with something I’d never seen before. His voice was a raw whisper. “Bad Autumn. Teasing me like a dog on a leash and then taking no responsibility…” His hot breath ghosted across my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. The feeling was electric, a current that shot straight to my core. I bit my lip, flustered. “It was an accident, I can explain…” Timothy pulled back, leaning against the sofa cushions. But his eyes, intense and possessive, never left my face. “Mm,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “I’ll listen patiently to my bad little Autumn’s explanation.” He drew the words out, the suggestive tone turning the air thick with unspoken things. This Timothy, this predator, was pushing all my buttons. God help me. I felt my resolve melting. Timothy was ridiculously well-proportioned. His long legs meant that on a normal-sized sofa, his knees were elevated. As my body went pliant, I started to slide down his thighs. When I didn’t say anything, a wicked glint appeared in his eyes. He bounced his leg slightly. “Cat got your tongue, my bad little Autumn?” The movement sent me sliding right onto his lap, my hands flying out to brace myself against his chest. The feel of his firm muscles under my palms made my head spin. I gave an involuntary squeeze. Timothy froze for a second, then let out a low, husky laugh. “You little devil.” That snapped me back to reality. I snatched my hands away, my ears burning. “The text this afternoon was a typo. I meant to call you bro…” “Mhm,” he nodded calmly. “And the second part?” Here we go. I squeezed my eyes shut. “I… forgot to type the word ‘cooking.’” Silence. The charged atmosphere began to dissipate. Seizing my chance, I pushed against his chest to get up, trying to change the subject. “Can you let me up? Your belt buckle is digging into me.” Timothy’s gaze darkened, becoming deeper than the night sky outside. “I’m not wearing a belt.” …Oh. Well. The atmosphere was officially back. I was so confused. Wasn’t he supposed to be the cold, aloof stepbrother who hated me? What was with this sudden change? He must have seen the conflict on my face. He lowered his gaze, the raw desire in his eyes softening into something that looked like disappointment. “So… you don’t feel that way about me?” He looked so dejected, all traces of the confident man who had just been seducing me gone. Damn it. This vulnerable act was just as irresistible. All I could think was, Sweet mother of… This time, it wasn’t just an expression. I was genuinely trying to summon the image of my mother to stop myself from doing something stupid. She had suffered for so long with my biological father before finding a man who adored her. I couldn’t ruin her happiness by making a mistake with Timothy. And I had worked so hard, for so long, to hide my feelings and play the part of the perfect sister. I couldn’t let one typo destroy everything. The thought was like a bucket of ice water. My spine straightened, my legs found their strength, and my brain cleared of the fog of lust. I shot to my feet and held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Stop! I don’t know why you’re suddenly acting this way, but we are brother and sister! We can’t do this!” Timothy stared at me. He gently took my wrist and guided my hand to his cheek, his eyes blazing with a desperate, wild light. “But I don’t want to be your brother!” “I feel—” It was strange. I had dreamt of this moment for years, fantasized about him finally returning my feelings. But now that it was happening, all I wanted to do was run. I couldn’t let our relationship reach a point of no return. I couldn’t tear this family apart. I cut him off, my voice sharp and cruel. “Actually, there was no typo in my message.” He froze, his eyes lighting up like a puppy waiting for a treat. Until I delivered the final blow. “I sent it to the wrong person.” He went rigid. His grip on my wrist slackened. I pulled my hand free. The movement was slight, but it made him stumble, his lips turning pale. I grabbed my bag from the sofa and rushed to the door. “I’m sorry about tonight,” I said, not looking back. “Please don’t say anything. I don’t want him to find out. He gets so jealous, and then I’m the one who has to calm him down.”

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For our daughter, I’d reconciled with my husband, Adrian. He started coming home on time. On weekends, he would even sit on the floor with Lily, patiently building LEGO castles. He was playing the part of the repentant husband, and he was playing it well. I almost allowed myself to believe we could make it work, that this fragile peace could last. Until I was cleaning the bookshelf and found the mug. It was pink, with a cartoon rabbit printed on the side. In the secret blog I’d stumbled upon by accident, the one he never knew I’d seen, he called her his “Bunny.” I held the garish mug in my hand and asked him, my voice perfectly level, what he wanted me to do with it. Adrian lowered his newspaper, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice was laced with an all-too-familiar impatience. “Evelyn,” he sighed, “I ended things with her—for you. What more do you want?” 1 The pink cartoon rabbit mug felt like a brand on my hand. The ceramic was smooth, the rabbit’s mouth stretched into a wide, red grin, its two buck teeth sticking out in a goofy, innocent smile. It was a jarring splash of childishness amidst the rows of leather-bound, gilt-spined classics that smelled of old paper and ink. It was like a toddler who had wandered into a boardroom—oblivious, yet defiant in its sheer, out-of-place visibility. I carried it over to the man behind the mahogany desk. Adrian looked up from the financial pages, a flicker of something—alarm? guilt?—darting through his eyes before being swallowed by his usual cool indifference. He set the paper down and rubbed his temples, a gesture of carefully measured exhaustion. “Evelyn, I already told you, I broke it off with her for you. What else are you trying to get out of me?” His voice was a low rumble, worn smooth with a practiced weariness, as if he were the true martyr in this drama, and I, the insatiable, unforgiving shrew. For me. The words were a needle of ice to the heart, a tiny, sharp pain. That familiar, cloying suffocation churned in my stomach, rising to clog my throat. I looked at him, at this face I had loved for a decade, a face that now felt as cold and alien as a stranger’s. Those long, elegant fingers had once traced my brow with such tenderness; they had also danced across a keyboard, typing out blistering, explicit confessions of love for another woman. But I didn’t lose control like I had three months ago. I didn’t scream. I didn’t hurl the mug against his expensive, polished desk. I simply held it up, my gaze calm, almost gentle. “I don’t want anything,” I said, my voice unnervingly steady. “I was just cleaning the bookshelf and found this. I was wondering if you still wanted it.” I paused, adding with the practical air of any frugal housewife, “Otherwise, it’s just collecting dust.” My composure seemed to catch him off guard. His eyes scanned my face for a few seconds, searching for the tell-tale cracks before the storm. He found only a profound, unnerving stillness. “It’s just a mug.” He waved a dismissive hand, picking up his paper again. The pages rustled, a crisp sound like he was shooing away an annoying fly. “If you don’t like it, throw it out. You don’t need to ask me about every little thing.” A little thing. Yes, a mug is a little thing. But I remembered the encrypted blog. The one he thought I’d never find, hidden behind two-factor authentication. Post after post, he called her “my Bunny.” He wrote about her pout when she gave him this mug, about how the water she drank from it tasted sweet. He wrote about how he treasured it, just as he treasured their “pure and passionate” connection. His love for her had never been a little thing. My fingers tightened on the handle, knuckles turning white, but my expression remained placid. “Alright,” I said, my tone flat. That single, simple word made him look up from his paper again. His gaze was probing now, laced with uncertainty. He had likely braced himself for tears, for accusations, for the hysterics he knew how to manage. That was the Evelyn he understood, the one he could control. Not this woman, this stranger who was so calm it was unnerving. Without another glance at him, I turned and walked out of the study, mug in hand. I could feel his eyes burning into my back, heavy with suspicion. I didn’t toss it in the hallway trash can. I took it to the kitchen. The faucet roared to life as water hammered against the ceramic. The cartoon rabbit seemed to gleam under the deluge. I squeezed a generous amount of dish soap onto a new sponge and began to scrub, scouring its every surface, inside and out, as if to wash away every trace of a presence that didn’t belong in my home. My fingertips brushed the rim, and I imagined another woman’s lips touching that same spot. A wave of nausea washed over me. I washed it until it shone, polished so brightly I could almost see my own reflection in it. Then, I found an empty cardboard box. I lined it with soft foam and shredded paper, carefully placing the thoroughly cleansed mug inside before sealing the lid. The shriek of the packing tape was piercing in the quiet kitchen. The next day, while Adrian was at the office, I found an old shipping box of his, one that still had his corporate address on the return label. I mimicked his handwriting, carefully penning the name and address I had long since committed to memory. Chloe Jensen. His “Bunny.” There was no note, no sender’s name on the package. Just a single, impeccably clean mug. When the courier arrived, he glanced at the box. “Fragile?” “Yes, a mug,” I said with a bright, easy smile. “Please be careful with it.” It wasn’t just a mug I was sending away. It was the last, ridiculous, lingering shred of hope I had for him. The next three days passed in unnerving silence. Adrian maintained his routine—leaving early, coming home late, the very picture of a successful, hardworking man. The space between us grew cavernous, filled with a silence so thick it felt hard to breathe. He made a few clumsy attempts at conversation—about our daughter, about the household—all of which I deflected with the shortest possible answers. On the fourth night, he was in the shower. The rhythmic hiss of water filled the house. His phone, left carelessly on the coffee table, lit up. It was an unsaved number, but I recognized the sequence of digits. I’d seen it once, tucked away in a corner of a password-protected photo gallery on his blog. The phone rang a few times, then stopped. A moment later, a text message preview flashed across the screen: I got the mug. What does this mean? Did she find out? I thought we agreed to cool things off… The rest of the message was hidden. My heartbeat was terrifyingly steady. Just as I expected. The water shut off. Adrian emerged from the bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, his hair dripping onto his shoulders. He picked up his phone. A single glance at the screen and his entire body went rigid. His head snapped up, his eyes locking on me. They were wide with shock and a panic he couldn’t conceal. I was sitting on the sofa, flipping through a cookbook, my head tilted as if completely absorbed in the profound question of how much wine to use in a coq au vin. His fingers, trembling slightly, unlocked the phone. He frantically deleted the text and the call log. Then he just stood there, frozen, like a machine that had been abruptly unplugged. The air in the living room grew thick, so heavy it could have crushed bone. “Evelyn,” he finally said, his voice raw and tentative. I turned a page, the soft rustle of paper breaking the silence. “Hmm?” I looked up, my expression one of mild confusion, perfectly conveying the annoyance of being interrupted. “What’s wrong?” He stared at me, his gaze intense, trying to peel back my placid exterior to find the lie beneath. But all he found was a calm so absolute it bordered on numbness. He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing. Just a work thing. A complication.” “Oh.” I lowered my gaze back to the page. “You should get some rest.” I knew. This was just the beginning. That mug was a stone dropped into a deep, dark pool, and the ripples were just starting to spread. His panic, and Chloe’s desperate message, proved that their so-called “breakup” was as fragile as a spider’s web. 2 Two days later, on Saturday, Adrian was home, a rare occasion. He was on the living room floor with our daughter, Lily, building a sprawling LEGO city while I prepared a fruit platter in the open-plan kitchen. The doorbell rang. I dried my hands and went to answer it. A courier stood on the doorstep, holding an enormous bouquet of lush, crimson roses. Each blossom was a perfect, velvety red, their arrangement radiating a calculated, dramatic beauty. Tucked among the flowers was a stark, black envelope. “Delivery for Adrian Blackwood,” the courier said. I signed for them and took the heavy bouquet. The color was blinding. He had written in his blog that she loved red roses. They were, in her words, like her “fierce, fearless love.” “Wow! They’re so pretty!” Lily cried, running over. “Did Daddy get those for you, Mommy?” Adrian looked up from his LEGOs. The moment he saw the flowers in my arms, his face changed. He practically lunged across the room, snatching the bouquet from me with such force that a shower of petals rained down on the floor. “Who sent these?” he demanded, his voice tight, a tremor running through it. “A courier dropped them off. They’re for you,” I replied coolly, watching every muscle in his face twitch. He ripped the black card from the bouquet. After a single glance, his face turned ashen. He crushed the card in his fist and forced a stiff, unnatural smile for our daughter. “Lily, sweetie, can you go play in your room for a little bit? Mommy and Daddy need to talk.” Lily’s face fell. She looked from his strained face to my calm one, but she obeyed, shuffling back to her room. The second her door clicked shut, the strained warmth vanished from his face, replaced by a storm of barely contained fury. He lowered his voice to a feral hiss. “Evelyn! This was you, wasn’t it? What the hell did you send her?” I met his blazing eyes, a cold, mocking smile touching my lips. “What did I send her? I simply returned something that was left in my house to its rightful owner. What’s the matter? Was she so moved by your ‘old keepsake’ that she felt compelled to return the favor so quickly?” “You—!” The veins in his temple pulsed. He took a step forward, his hands clenched as if to grab me, but he stopped himself. “Why would you do that? I told you, it’s over between us! This just confuses things! It makes her think—” “Think what?” I let out a soft, mirthless laugh. “That you’re still pining for her? That you sent her a secret message? Adrian, you know it’s not over, and so does she. Otherwise, why would a single mug send her into a tailspin? Why would she send you these… what was it? Fierce, fearless red roses?” I used the exact phrase from his blog. His pupils contracted, his eyes widening as if he were seeing me for the first time. In that gaze, beneath the rage, a new emotion was dawning: pure, unadulterated fear. He was finally realizing that the woman standing before him was no longer the emotional, predictable wife he thought he could placate and control. “Evelyn, we need to talk about this,” he said, taking a deep breath, trying to reclaim his authority. His voice was ragged with a desperate, suppressed anxiety. “Talk about what?” I tilted my head, my tone a cruel mix of innocence and malice. “Should we talk about how your relationship was ‘all emotion, no physical contact’? Or about how she’s such a sweet, innocent girl who only wanted you to return to your family? Or perhaps we should talk about how I’m supposed to gratefully accept these flowers, arrange them in a crystal vase, and admire them every day as a monument to your great, tragic love story?” Every word was a shard of ice, expertly aimed to shatter his fragile composure.

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Six years after dying, I returned from the Underworld to settle a massive debt. An orphan with no family, I went straight to my best friend. As I entered her house, text flashed before my eyes: 【The tragic heroine’s having a breakdown—smashing all the male lead’s luxury gifts.】 【Her husband cheats, her son rejects her… she’s been suicidal.】 【Everyone’s too scared to go in… Wait—who just tore the door off its hinges?!】 That was me. I grabbed her wrist as she was about to cut it and exclaimed, “Claire, you know I’m scared of snakes! Except that Bulgari Serpenti on you.” “Hold off on dying—I’ve got Underworld debts to pay.” She stopped crying, dropped the knife, and started chasing me: “You brat! Never visited in dreams, but when in debt, you come to me?!” The comments were stunned: 【Now that’s a friendship that feels like a home invasion…】 1. When I burst into the master bedroom of my best friend Claire’s luxurious mansion, she was in the middle of slitting her wrists. The house staff were just about to rush in and stop her. I beat them to it, grabbing her wrist and flashing her a thumbs-up. “Well, well, well, bestie. Showing off your million-dollar Bulgari Serpenti without me.” Claire stared at me, completely bewildered. The staff crowded in the doorway were aghast. The floating comments filled the air with question marks: 【???】 【Uh, lady, are you seeing what I’m seeing? She’s trying to kill herself and you’re admiring her bracelet…】 【Talk about reading the room.】 Claire looked at me, her eyes swollen to the size of walnuts, glistening with tears. The despair in them was now mixed with utter shock. I remembered her as she used to be: vibrant and beautiful, with a long, curly high ponytail, resilient and full of bright hopes for the future. She used to always say, “Ava, when Murray and I get married, you have to be there.” But looking at her now—her face pale and bloodless, her eyes dull and hopeless, her hair a tangled mess, her silk pajamas wrinkled from being tugged and twisted—it felt like a lifetime had passed. Claire was so thin she was practically a skeleton, as if a single touch would make her fall apart. I had never seen her so broken. A sharp, unexpected pain pierced my heart. Six years. The moment I reappeared before her, she looked like she was about to faint. She just stared at me, her brain trying to catch up. I used her stunned silence to snatch the fruit knife from her hand and get a better look at the bracelet, which glittered blindingly under the lights. “Bestie, you know I’m terrified of snakes.” “But I’ll make an exception for Bulgari.” Staring at my own bare wrist, I was consumed with envy. Shamelessly, I demanded, “You brat! Friends share everything. Take that diamond-encrusted thing off and let me try it on.” The staff gaped at me as if I’d told the world’s worst joke. One of them, unable to stomach my audacity, spoke up. “Who let you in here? Have you no manners? That’s a million-dollar bracelet, you think she’s just going to give it to you? You…” But in the next second, Claire stopped crying. She wiped her tears away messily and, in front of everyone, slipped the bracelet off her wrist and onto mine. Her voice was raspy and low, catching with sobs. “If you’d told me you liked it, I would have bought you one too.” The staff looked at each other, their eyes about to pop out of their sockets. She actually gave it to her? 2. After the staff dispersed, I glanced at the empty doorway, then dragged the door I’d removed back into place to block the opening. Ignoring the absurdity of the situation, I slyly pulled a piece of paper from my pocket. It was an IOU. I presented it to Claire with my most charming, sycophantic smile. “Bestie, guess what fantastic souvenir I brought back for you from my little trip to the Underworld?” Claire’s mood was still heavy, but at least for the moment, the thought of suicide seemed to have vanished. But after she unfolded my IOU for a ludicrously massive sum, she transformed back into the wild woman I knew from our school days. No more staring blankly into space, no more pondering the meaning of life. She snatched up the fruit knife I’d tossed aside and started chasing me. When she screamed my name, her voice was no longer weak. It was loud enough to scare the birds from the trees in the garden. The commotion brought the staff running back, only to find this scene: Claire, wielding a fruit knife, was chasing me all over the room. “Ava, you deadbeat! You don’t visit me in my dreams once, but the second you’re in debt, you come crawling back to me?! Do I owe you something from a past life?! I’m going to kill you! If I can’t be happy, nobody can!” I threw my hands up in surrender, dodging around furniture. “Whoa, whoa! Bestie, calm down! Let me explain…!” The butler, arriving late and having missed the entire prequel, simply took in the chaotic scene, calmly raised his phone, and made a call. “Hello, sir?” “You’re not going to believe this, but… Madam, who could barely walk this morning, is now chasing someone around the room with a knife.” 3. Claire refused to pay my debt. Instead, she mercilessly sentenced me to work it off as a maid in her mansion. Ten thousand dollars an hour. So, I begrudgingly started my new career as a housekeeper. Because her emotional state was so fragile, she would often break things and frequently couldn’t bring herself to eat. One evening, after another untouched dinner was returned to the kitchen, the staff was despondent. The head chef was even starting to question his own culinary skills. I glanced at the floating comments: 【The heroine is on the verge of an eating disorder. This is so sad.】 【Ever since her parents went bankrupt and jumped off a building a few years ago, she’s been all alone. Her husband doesn’t care, her son doesn’t love her… If it were me, I would’ve given up long ago.】 【Well, what can you do? She’s the tragic heroine. Later in the story, the male lead is going to force her to donate a kidney to his mistress. She’ll almost die on the operating table, and then he’ll start his redemption arc! Can’t wait!】 I marched into the kitchen. The vegetables on the cutting board met a furious end under my knife. It was as if I were chopping up a certain cheating scumbag. I made a bowl of noodles and proudly presented it to Claire. She had no appetite. She turned her head away, refusing to eat. Even when I tried to force-feed her, it was no use. “I feel sick just looking at food,” she said flatly. “I can’t eat.” I raised an eyebrow at her, picked up a piece of beef with the chopsticks, and put on my best singsong voice. “Here comes the airplane~” “Ahhh~” Claire’s mouth fell open wider than my fist. … Heh. Women. The comments were hysterical: 【Is this Ava a new character? She’s killing me. She knows exactly how to handle the heroine.】 【Has anyone noticed the heroine is finally gaining some weight back? She’s looking so much healthier, her skin is glowing. Her beauty is making a major comeback! She’s stunning!】 【Ava keeps calling her ‘bestie.’ What’s their relationship? I’ve never even heard of this Ava person before.】 … 4. I stayed by Claire’s side, and her breakdowns became less frequent. During my time in the Underworld, I had learned everything about the last decade of her life. I knew about the nightmares that plagued her every night, the recurring image of her parents’ desperate leap. I knew about the constant humiliation she endured from the mistress her husband, Murray, kept on the side. But Murray chose to ignore it all. He pushed her, broke her, and even forced her to kneel and apologize to his mistress. She had lost herself, a puppet pushed along at every step, devoid of emotion. … Today, I finally pestered Claire into taking a walk in the garden in front of the mansion. The comments sighed with admiration: 【Damn, a best friend’s words are worth more than any man’s. If the male lead had asked her to do this, he would’ve gotten a pillow thrown at his head.】 【Wait, isn’t this the part of the story where her hellion of a son gets brought home by his grandparents?!】 【Ava, you have to keep Claire away from Leo! He can’t stand her. His own mother, and he won’t even acknowledge her.】 … Before the comments could finish, two elegantly dressed elderly people walked into the garden, a young boy in tow. At that moment, Claire and I were squeezed onto a single swing chair, playfully fighting for territory. Claire smiled at me, but for some reason, the sight of it infuriated her son, Leo. Leo, his face puffed up with anger, threw his limited-edition toy car on the ground and stormed over to us, screeching, “Get off! Why are you on my swing?!” He started shoving at Claire’s legs with all his might. The smile on Claire’s face froze. She instinctively clutched my hand, her eyes fixed on her son. “Leo, please don’t…” The comments were a chorus of sorrow: 【Ugh, how can you not love the mother who carried you for ten months? The heroine really wants to be close to her son!】 【He’s just like his father, a total monster!】 【Can someone please deal with this little brat, Leo? He has no respect. I want to jump into this book and spank him senseless!】 I raised an eyebrow at the little pouting fluffball with his hands on his hips. He really did look like his father. Leo snorted arrogantly, certain that Claire would never lay a hand on him. He had a smug “what are you gonna do about it” look on his face. The next second, I let out a cold laugh, grabbed him by the ear, swiftly pulled him onto my lap, and with all my strength, started smacking his little butt. Smack! Smack! In the distance, Leo’s grandparents, who had been watching with cold indifference, suddenly sprang to life. They hobbled over as fast as their canes would carry them. “Who is this lunatic?! How dare you hit my grandson! Let him go! Let him go now!” Leo was howling, his cries growing louder. “Aaaah! Grandma, Grandpa, my butt hurts! She’s hitting me! Save me, please, save me! Waaah!” I didn’t stop. In fact, I hit him harder. Hearing him cry only fueled my righteous fury. “You little monster! If your mother won’t teach you a lesson, then your godmother will!” When I was finally tired, Leo’s grandparents snatched him from my arms and joined in the wailing. “Oh, good heavens! Is the staff in this house deaf?! Security? Where is security?!” The three of them huddled together, bawling. The comments exploded: 【HOLY S#*T, HOLY S#*T, HOLY S#*T! She is my hero! She doesn’t just talk the talk, she walks the walk!】 【Wait a minute, guys. Does anyone else think the heroine looks like she’s about to die of laughter watching her son get spanked? She looks like she’s enjoying this.】 【OMG, she’s smiling! A full-on, no-holds-barred smile! She looks like she’s about to start clapping! LOL!】 The staff came running, armed with knives and spatulas, only to freeze when they saw the old couple pointing at me. Leo, his face red and tear-streaked, stomped his foot in a rage and charged at me, ready to throw a punch. His grandparents surged forward, grabbing at my clothes. Seeing things were getting out of hand, Claire jumped up and held the three of them back. The staff rushed in to break up the fight. The scene devolved into chaos. Just as Leo swung his chubby little fist, before it even came close to me, I dramatically threw myself onto the ground and started wailing. “Oh, the humanity! Is there no justice in this world?! Assault! Assault! Little Leo is a bully! All the kids in your class, don’t play with him! Oh, woe is me~” Leo’s big eyes blinked in confusion. He frantically waved his hands, trying to explain. “You’re lying, you mean lady! I didn’t touch you! I… I didn’t!” When Claire saw me “pushed” to the ground, her usual composure vanished. Her face hardened with anger, and she shoved everyone around her away. No one expected it. The woman who was always so gentle and patient with her child grabbed Leo by the collar, pulled him into her arms, and, copying me, gave his bottom a series of resounding smacks. Leo started howling all over again. His grandparents stared in disbelief, certain Claire had lost her mind. “Claire, you little witch! You’ve gone insane! I’m telling Murray! We’ll see what he has to say about his rebellious wife!” The staff tried to intervene. “Madam, please, let the young master go! The master will be furious if he finds out! Madam…!” Claire ignored them all, her voice ice-cold. “Leo! What has Mommy told you! Are you allowed to hit people?! What do you have to say for yourself now?!” Leo was completely stunned. He sobbed and begged for mercy. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I was wrong… I was wrong! Stop hitting me! Waaah…” At this point, the staff stopped trying to intervene. The grandparents stopped wailing. They all just stood there, watching Claire discipline her child. “Who are you sorry to?! Speak!” I leaned in and whispered in Leo’s ear, “It’s Godmother.” Leo struggled violently. Seeing my smug expression, his face turned beet red, snot and tears flying everywhere. “I’m not calling that mean lady Godmother! I won’t! Waaah…” Claire raised her hand again. Leo surrendered. He stopped crying and put on a cheerful smile. “I’m sorry, Godmother, I was wrong.” I nodded, satisfied. The comments were a chaotic mess of celebratory fireworks: 【Whoa! Did I see that right?! Before, whenever the heroine tried to discipline this brat, he never listened and just kept hurting her until she gave up on him. Ava comes in with one simple trick and gets her right back in the parenting game!】 【I have never seen the heroine this angry! Not even when the male lead flaunted his mistress in front of her. But Ava gets a little “push”…】 【This is so satisfying! Following you is like watching a boss-bitch power fantasy! I will follow you forever, Queen Ava!】 【Claire: You touch my bestie, I destroy your world (son included).】 Leo’s grandparents looked like they were about to have a stroke. They immediately dialed Murray’s number. “You need to get back here right now! Your wife and her accomplice are starting a rebellion!” 5. Murray and his little mistress, Stella, took the earliest flight back—a full ten-hour journey that must have made their butts ache. Serves you right, you scumbag. When they arrived home, the living room was in utter chaos. The comments were worried: 【Oh no! The heroine didn’t just hit her son, she kicked his parents a few times in the chaos. And her grandfather’s medical treatment depends on the male lead’s connections!】 【The thought of his parents waiting up all night without showering just to preserve the footprint evidence on their clothes for the confrontation is making me laugh so hard.】 【The mistress came back with him. The male lead must have done that on purpose, right?】 … I watched Murray’s constipated expression and had to hold back a laugh. Stella was the first to speak, her voice a whiny complaint. “Claire, what is all this? Murray and I were having such a wonderful vacation. Since when did you have the guts to pull a stunt like this? You just wanted Murray to come back, didn’t you? Tsk.” Her words fanned the flames of Murray’s anger. He lifted his gaze to Claire, but then he froze. Claire was no longer painfully thin. She looked healthy, well-fed, and… happy. He was suddenly reminded of how she had been the famous campus beauty back in their university days. And that made him even angrier. In his absence, Claire seemed to be thriving. “Claire, what kind of game are you playing now? I’ve told you before, if you cause trouble, your grandfather suffers the consequences.” His cold voice was a knife to Claire’s heart. She tensed, instinctively trying to defend herself. “I didn’t! I…” I cut in. “Someone’s breath really stinks. Murray, did you rush over here without brushing your teeth?” My interruption threw him off. Only then did he seem to notice there was an extra person in the room. His mother pointed at me. “It was her! She’s the one who led your wife to rebel!” I smiled sweetly up at him. When he saw my face, he went rigid. “You…?! Ava?! But you’re supposed to be…?!” Dead? He didn’t say the last word. When the news of my death had reached Claire, she had been devastated. Pregnant at the time, she had insisted on attending my funeral. But Murray’s mother had stopped her, claiming it was bad luck for the baby. She had begged and pleaded with Murray to let her see me one last time, but Murray, convinced that she was using it as an excuse to secretly get an abortion because of their recent fights over his affair, had refused to let her go. In the end, Claire had nearly fallen from their fifth-floor balcony, threatening to kill herself, just to get him to accompany her to see me one last time. He had definitely seen my picture at the funeral hall back then. 6. The standoff was broken by Stella’s cheerful voice. “Hmm? Why hasn’t Leo called me ‘Mommy’ today?” At the mention of his name, Leo perked up and excitedly ran into Murray and Stella’s arms. He was about to speak when he noticed Claire and me watching him. Me, in particular. I made a slow, deliberate motion of scratching my neck. Leo shuddered, clamped his mouth shut, and burrowed into Murray’s embrace. Seeing me standing there, a thorn in his side, Murray’s expression turned nauseated. He swallowed his rage and pointed at the door. “I don’t care if you’re a person or a ghost. Get out of my house now!” Claire suddenly stood up from the sofa, moved to stand in front of me, her back straight as a rod, her eyes sharp. “Murray, this is my house. You’re the one who needs to get out!” The comments, watching this, were crystal clear: 【The male lead is pure scum. This house was left to the heroine by her parents. His parents just waltzing in whenever they want is bad enough, but since when did it become his house?】 【Not only that, but he deliberately brings his mistress into the home her parents lived in just to torture her. Can we get a new male lead?】 【The heroine doesn’t even know yet that the brilliant surgeon who saved her grandfather’s life didn’t do it as a favor to the male lead at all. The male lead has been hiding the truth just to keep her from leaving him, right?】 【Wait, now that Ava’s here, it’s finally clicking. Didn’t that surgeon do it all because he had a high school crush on someone?! And wasn’t that crush… Ava, who was best friends with the heroine?!】 【HOLY S#*T HOLY S#*T HOLY S#*T! I’m shook! I think that’s it!】 Wait, what?! Me?! Someone had a crush on me?! Why are you all telling me this after I died?! … Oh, wait. I guess you did tell me after I died…

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On Valentine’s Day, my mother-in-law was stabbed twenty times and left for dead. I took the killer to court. But my wife, a star attorney, chose to represent him, arguing for his acquittal. When I confronted her, my voice shaking with rage, she brushed it off with an infuriating calmness. “Derek’s brother is just a college kid, Jacob. Can’t you show a little compassion?” She continued, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Derek and I will bring him by to pay respects to your mother. Then you’ll drop the lawsuit. Don’t wait to lose in court and embarrass me.” I looked at the photograph of the mutilated corpse, a sound clawing its way up my throat. It wasn’t a sob. It was a laugh, dark and hollow. She still didn’t know. She had no idea it was her own mother who was dead. I had just arranged for the body to be taken to the funeral home when my wife, Miranda, arrived with Derek and his younger brother, Dylan. Derek surveyed the simple viewing room I was setting up, his face a mask of disapproval. “Come on, Jake,” he said, shaking his head. “I know Miranda makes good money, but you can’t just throw it away on a dead person like this. It’s such a waste.” Dylan, the killer himself, was even more brazen. He stepped forward and spat, a glob of saliva landing squarely on the shrouded form. “You think you deserve this, you old hag?” he sneered. A bolt of pure fury shot through me, and I lunged forward. Miranda shoved me back, hard, shielding the two of them behind her. “Derek and his brother are just speaking the truth,” she snapped. “Your mother is dead. What’s the point of wasting another dime on her?” I stared at Miranda, a cold wave of disbelief washing over me. It was surreal. From the moment her mother had been murdered, Miranda hadn’t asked a single question, hadn’t shed a single tear. Instead, when I sued the killer, Dylan, she announced she would be his defense attorney. She’d even pulled strings—and spent a small fortune—to get him out on bail. I had assumed Derek had somehow brainwashed her, twisted her logic until she was unrecognizable. But it was so much worse than that. So much more insane. She thought the victim was my mother. The absurdity of it was almost suffocating. Derek, wearing a smug grin, continued to needle me. “Seriously, Jake, you should go get a refund. This setup must have cost a few thousand, right?” He clicked his tongue. “Your mom was always trying to squeeze money out of Miranda when she was alive. Are you trying to do the same now that she’s dead?” A look of pure disgust twisted Miranda’s features. “What else would you expect? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” She didn’t even glance at the body. “A woman as vicious and greedy as your mother… getting stabbed was probably what she deserved.” My hands clenched into fists at my sides. “My mother has never done a single thing to wrong you. Don’t you dare insult her.” Miranda ignored me completely, turning to the funeral home director. “Cancel the service and refund the money. We’re not doing this. You can dispose of the body however you see fit.” Derek pointed towards a filthy drainage ditch that ran behind the building. “Miranda, honey, we should still be respectful of the dead,” he said with mock solemnity. “Why don’t we just place the body over there for a simple farewell? After cremation, we can scatter the ashes right into the ditch. A return to nature! We’d even save on an urn and a burial plot.” He turned to me, his eyes gleaming with malice. “What do you think, Jake?” Miranda scoffed. “He should be thanking you for your kindness.” Without another word, she ordered the staff to move the body to the edge of the foul-smelling ditch. I tried to stop them, but her men held me back, their grips like iron. I watched, helpless, as they placed my mother-in-law’s body beside the sludge and grime. My heart ached for her. Miranda’s father had died when she was just a child, and it was her mother who had worked herself to the bone to raise her, taking on the role of both parents. Her mother would eat nothing but stale bread for days just so Miranda could have tutors and attend the best schools. And this was her reward? To be denied even a dignified funeral? With a sickening thud, Dylan kicked the body. It tumbled over the edge and splashed into the murky water. He shot me a defiant look, his expression purely wicked. “Oops, my foot slipped. You’re not gonna get mad, are you, old man?” Before I could even speak, Miranda shot me a venomous glare. “It was an accident, Jacob. Just get some water and rinse it off yourself. There’s no reason to get so upset.” I looked at the desecrated body, floating amidst the filth in the ditch, and the rage inside me curdled into a chilling calm. A slow, terrifying smile spread across my face. “You will regret this, Miranda.” I hoped she would remember this moment—remember these exact words—when she finally learned that the corpse she was treating like garbage was her own mother’s. … “What could I possibly have to regret?” Miranda said, refusing to spare another glance at the body. She switched to her sharp, lawyerly tone. “I’m here for a pre-trial settlement conference. I don’t want to waste any more time on this nonsense.” She gestured towards Dylan. “You will sign a forgiveness letter for Derek’s brother. He’s a college student. We can’t let one mistake ruin his entire life.” My voice was ice. “Never.” My mother-in-law had been killed for no other reason than she’d caught Dylan stealing from Miranda’s house and tried to stop him. He had stabbed her twenty times. To prolong her suffering, he had deliberately avoided any vital organs, letting her bleed out in agony. How could a monster like that ever deserve forgiveness? And how could Miranda, a lawyer and her own daughter, so callously defend the man who murdered her own mother? The thought was sickening. Her mother would never rest in peace. Miranda’s patience snapped. “Jacob, this isn’t a negotiation. It’s a last chance!” she hissed. “I’m a star attorney. Even if this goes to trial, I have a dozen ways to get him acquitted. I’m just trying to spare you the humiliation of losing in my courtroom. It reflects poorly on me, you know. Everyone knows you’re my husband.” I remained unmoved. “If you’re so worried about me embarrassing you, let’s get a divorce.” Her face flushed with fury. “Jacob! How dare you? You’re threatening me with divorce over this petty issue?” She pointed at Dylan, who was now “helping” by poking at the body in the ditch with a stick. “So he accidentally kicked your mother into the ditch! Look, he’s trying to clean her off now. He’s showing remorse! He deserves forgiveness!” I followed her finger and my blood ran cold. Dylan wasn’t cleaning the body. He was urinating on it, a triumphant, wicked grin on his face. I looked back at Miranda, at her contorted, ugly expression. She was a stranger. To call that vile act “cleaning”… what had happened to her? Where was the young, idealistic lawyer who once swore to fight for justice? It all started when Derek became her intern. Derek, who ignored evidence and built cases on pure conjecture. Miranda had covered for him, twisted the truth, and sent innocent victims to prison just to protect his fragile ego. I had warned her, told her it was wrong. She’d just claimed she was “mentoring a promising young talent.” My disappointment was a physical weight in my chest. “I’ll have the divorce papers drawn up. You’ll have them by tomorrow.” Derek stepped in, feigning concern. “Jake, come on. Miranda only spent Valentine’s Day with me because she felt sorry for me being single. If that’s what this is about, I apologize. Please don’t scare her with talk of divorce. She’ll take it to heart.” His words were gasoline on the fire. Miranda’s hand flew up and a sharp sting exploded across my cheek. “You are being completely unreasonable, Jacob!” she shrieked. “And let me tell you something. Not only will I not divorce you, but I will also exercise my right as your wife to issue a forgiveness letter on behalf of the family!” She immediately had someone bring her a pen and paper. Right there, in front of me, she scribbled out the letter, signing her name with a flourish. “And I will make sure you never even get a chance to testify,” she snarled, her eyes burning with a cold fire. “You brought this on yourself, Jacob.” After Miranda left, I paid a small fortune to have my mother-in-law’s body recovered and properly cleaned. I hired new staff to prepare the viewing room again. Then, I had a lawyer draft the divorce agreement and called Miranda, telling her to come sign it. Derek answered the phone. In the background, I could hear Miranda’s soft, breathy moans. “Jake, buddy,” Derek said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Miranda’s a little busy right now. Can’t come to the phone.” He paused, letting me hear a particularly loud cry from her. “She told me to tell you, don’t even think about using a divorce to invalidate the forgiveness letter.” He didn’t hang up. He let me listen. Fighting back a wave of nausea, I recorded the call before ending it. If she wouldn’t sign, I’d file for divorce. I submitted the application online, took a screenshot, and sent it to her. “See you in court.” The day of the murder trial, I arrived at the courthouse to a notification on my phone: my divorce filing had been rejected. Of course. It had Miranda’s fingerprints all over it. Then, another call came through. It was the funeral home. They told me the viewing room had been vandalized and the body had been forcibly removed. The director sent me a video. I opened it, and my vision went red. My mother-in-law’s body was gone from the refrigerated coffin. In its place was the carcass of a large pig. Flanking the coffin were wreaths bearing my mother’s name, with condolence ribbons covered in vile, obscene insults. Miranda and Derek arrived, fashionably late. She saw the video on my phone, and her voice was laced with pure malice. “This is what happens when you refuse to listen, Jacob.” Her threat was clear. “If you insist on testifying today, you will never see your mother’s body again.” Derek pointed at the pig in the coffin on my screen. “See? A perfect match for your mother, don’t you think? It took Miranda and me ages to find a replacement with just the right look.” He chuckled. “Now all your relatives can kneel and bow to a pig. It’s all the same, really. You’ll get your real mom’s body back after my brother is acquitted.” I never imagined they could sink this low. It was all a desperate attempt to stop me from testifying because they thought the victim was my mother. As the direct next of kin, my refusal to forgive would override any letter Miranda wrote. My control snapped. I swung, my fist connecting with Derek’s jaw. “You’re less than human!” Miranda shrieked, throwing herself in front of him. “Jacob! Don’t make me have you thrown in jail, too!” My eyes, burning red, locked onto hers. “The only ones who belong in jail are you two! Desecration of a corpse is a felony!” She laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Did you forget who I am? I’m the lawyer here. I’ll never see the inside of a cell. Your threats are meaningless.” Her voice dropped to a menacing whisper. “So you need to decide. Do you want to testify, or do you want your mother’s body back?” A cold, mirthless smile touched my lips. “Miranda, has it ever occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t my mother’s body we’re talking about? Maybe it’s yours.” Miranda just rolled her eyes. “My mother is a kind, decent woman. She would never be so horrible that a sweet college kid would feel compelled to stab her to death.” She pulled out her phone and started a video call. “One word from me, and your mother’s corpse will be food for maggots.” The screen flickered to life. It showed my mother-in-law’s body being dragged toward the edge of a septic tank. As they moved her, a large, old burn scar on her forearm became visible. She’d told me about that scar once. When Miranda was a little girl, she’d knocked over a kettle of boiling water. Her mother had shielded her with her own arm, receiving a terrible burn. To keep Miranda from feeling guilty, she’d always told her it was just a birthmark. Derek’s eyes widened for a split second before he recovered. “Wow, Miranda,” he said quickly, pointing at the screen. “Jake’s mom was a real copycat. It was bad enough she was always trying to dress like your mom, but now she even fakes a birthmark to match? How pathetic.” The flicker of doubt in Miranda’s eyes instantly vanished, replaced by her usual disgust. “Mine is a birthmark. Is that one a burn scar she got on purpose? The lengths some people will go to are just disgusting,” she sneered. “I can’t believe my mother ever called that woman a friend.” My mom, a copycat? The truth was, my mother always felt sorry for my mother-in-law, raising a child on her own. Whenever she bought new clothes or jewelry for herself, she would buy a matching set for her. It was my mother-in-law who, out of gratitude, had always treated me with such kindness. A bitter wave of sadness washed over me. I had to stop this. “That is your mother, Miranda! And that isn’t a birthmark. It’s a burn she got protecting you!” Derek leaned in, whispering to Miranda, “It’s bad luck, having a dead woman with the same ‘birthmark’ as your mom. We should get rid of it.” He took the phone and spoke to the men on the other end. “Do it.” I lunged for the phone, but Miranda swung her handbag, the heavy metal clasp striking my forehead. “Derek is right! Leave him alone!” Blood trickled down my face. On the screen, I saw a knife flash. They were carving into the already damaged arm, turning the scar into a grotesque, bloody mess. I was shaking with a rage so profound it left me breathless. “Miranda! Do you have any humanity left?” “The only one without humanity is you!” she screamed back. “You’re the one trying to send an innocent boy to prison! I gave you a chance, Jacob. You’re the one who threw it away!” She snatched the phone back and yelled into it, her voice cracking with fury. “Throw the body in the septic tank! Now!” Then she shoved the phone in my face, forcing me to watch as my mother-in-law’s body disappeared into the filth. Satisfied, she looked at my face, twisted in anguish, and smiled like a conquering hero. Then, head held high, she took Derek’s arm and walked into the courthouse. The trial began. The judge started by reading the facts of the case. “The defendant, Dylan Evans, following a conflict arising from a burglary attempt, did repeatedly stab the victim, Laura Collins, resulting in her death.” Miranda’s triumphant expression evaporated. Her face went blank. Laura Collins was her mother’s name. She shot to her feet, interrupting the judge. “Your Honor, there must be a mistake in the victim’s information. That name… that can’t be right.” The judge frowned, looking at her with a strange, piercing gaze. “The victim’s identity has been confirmed, counsel. The deceased is your mother, Laura Collins.” Every muscle in Miranda’s face froze. She stammered, asking to see the case file. The judge slid it toward her. There, in black and white, was the name. Her mother. The victim. A smile, more gruesome than a grimace, stretched her lips. “But… my mom’s fine. She’s alive. How could she be… dead?” Her hands trembling, she fumbled for her phone and dialed her mother’s number. From the evidence table, a phone inside a plastic bag began to ring. The ringtone was a cheesy pop song Miranda had set for her mom years ago as a joke. Tears finally streamed down her face. She spun around, her eyes wild, and shrieked at me. “Jacob! What did you do? How did you bribe all these people to lie to me, to play this sick joke?” Her voice broke. “She was just talking to me a few days ago! She was going to bring me lasagna! How can she be dead?” I met her gaze from across the courtroom, my own eyes cold and hard. “I don’t have that kind of power, Miranda. And last I checked, slander is a crime. You’re an officer of the court. You should be careful with your accusations.” I had told her. More than once, I had tried to tell her the truth. She was the one who refused to believe it. She was the one who had committed those unspeakable acts.

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The pop superstar adjusted my earpiece, and then, on instinct, kissed my hair. We both froze. Because this was a reality show about divorce. And we were from different couples. 1 After I divorced Ashton, everyone thought I would be the one clinging to him. He had announced our marriage at the peak of his fame. After successfully transitioning his career and finally winning awards, my name would always come up. “How did she get so lucky?” they’d say. “She doesn’t deserve him.” I was the one who asked for the divorce. But he had been waiting for it for a long time. While he was on set with his co-star, an actress named Vera, wearing his clothes, using his phone case, playing the part of a “set couple”… I was still at home, flipping through a calendar, waiting for him to come back, only to have my calls rejected again and again with the excuse of being “busy.” Until one day, I ran into Vera in first class. She greeted me with a warm, beaming smile. “Did you know,” she whispered in my ear, “I paid for this flight with his card.” She was doing it on purpose. Trying to force me to divorce him. I gave her what she wanted. I went home and was packed and gone within half an hour. I don’t want things that other people have touched and soiled. Thank God, we didn’t have any children. Ashton leaned against the doorframe, watching me. His reaction was muted. He only asked one thing: “What else do you want?” “Your phone.” He was taken aback but handed it over without a fight. In the years when he loved me most, when I was by his side as he climbed from obscurity to stardom, I had always been his one and only pinned contact. Now, I had been replaced. All that was left was “Do Not Disturb.” We signed the papers. He gave me everything he had earned over the years, just begging me to let him go quickly. He said he was truly in love with Vera. After signing a non-disclosure agreement, I left, thinking I would never have contact with him again. Until he called me, one month after the divorce. “We need to meet.” “We can’t let the fans find out you cheated. The show still has to air.” I had arrived early. In the break room, Ashton’s manager was trying to persuade him. “You’re divorced, but you’re still a top-tier actor. And her? She’s just a nobody waiting to become a laughingstock.” “She’s definitely not going to take this lying down.” “So, you just trick her. Tell her you want to go on a divorce reality show with her.” “Let her think she still has a chance to win you back, make her grovel and please you.” “Then, in the final edit, we’ll make her look annoying, and you’ll get to keep your ‘devoted lover’ persona.” The manager nudged him. “Are you even listening?” Ashton had his legs propped up on a low table, lazily playing a game on his phone. “Yeah,” he grunted. “I’m telling you, you snap your fingers, and she’ll come crawling back like a grateful puppy.” In the meeting room. Ashton toyed with his phone with one hand. He said a few simple words. And I agreed. “I’ll do the show.” He stared into my eyes, hesitating for a moment. “Are you really that… desperate for me?” He was so confident, so easy to fool. I lowered my lashes. “Yes.” “Ashton,” I whispered, “is there still a chance for us?” His gaze was cold. He turned his face away and said softly, “We’ll see how you perform.” “But,” he added, “the premise of this show isn’t what you think.” This divorce reality show was set to air during the broadcast of his new drama with Vera. It was all to hype up their on-screen couple pairing. The show’s theme was “Try a different lifestyle, see the problems in your marriage.” Vera would be in a room with him. And I would be in a room with Vera’s husband. The man who, at nineteen, shot to fame with a single drama, won every major award, and then promptly retired to get married: Cole. Ashton had basically picked up Cole’s scraps. He had risen to fame with a face that was seventy percent similar to Cole’s. The rumor was that Vera and Cole lived apart after their marriage. That she loved him, but he didn’t love her back. 2 A hot spring resort. Two rooms, separated by a single wall. A live broadcast. There was an observation room for the cast and a live comment feed for the audience. 【OMG, Ashton and Vera are on a divorce show, in the same room! They’re playing with fire!!!】 【They have insane chemistry. They look so good together.】 【I’ve been saying for ages that Ashton and his wife had no feelings left. Who wants someone who just drags them down?】 【I’ve been waiting for them to get divorced for so long!】 【He must have been blind… he used to love her so much…】 The staff fitted Ashton and Vera with heart rate watches. “Once your heart rate hits 70, you can leave the room.” 【That’s gonna be instant, right?】 But to everyone’s surprise, both of their heart rates stalled at 68. In private, he and Vera had done everything. They were too familiar with each other, so they were afraid of slipping up on camera. In front of the cameras, they put on an act. 【Vera is so polite. She doesn’t even dare to get too close.】 【Ashton, don’t hold back! We support you!】 Vera sat by the door. Ashton stood on the balcony for some air, from where he could see a corner of my room. Cole hadn’t arrived yet. I sat alone on the bed, wearing my own heart rate watch. There was a knock on the door. It was a tall, slender man. A baseball cap shadowed half his face, and his bangs were damp with the mist from the hot springs. A light rain was falling outside. He smelled of the deep, misty night. 【My first love is back!!!】 【What can I say, Ashton? There’s no harm without comparison.】 【No hate, please.】 “You need to put this on,” I said, handing the other heart rate watch to Cole. Ashton hated it when people said he looked like Cole. In the first year of our marriage, we were taking a late-night walk when I stopped, mesmerized by a giant luxury ad featuring Cole. Ashton had pulled my hat down over my eyes and said sourly, “I knew you liked that type.” Now, in the other room, Ashton, on his balcony, watched clearly. He watched Cole enter the room and close the door behind him. He watched him put on the watch. Ashton wasn’t worried. He had known since that night that Cole, the man he could never catch up to, the man he was sick with jealousy over, was in a contract marriage with Vera. Cole didn’t even like Vera. So, of course, he wouldn’t be interested in an ordinary, divorced woman like me, someone Ashton himself had cast aside. Ashton scoffed, unconcerned. But he watched my every reaction, missing nothing. “Hello, Chloe,” I said, my heart rate steady at 50, extending my hand to Cole. “I’m Chloe Taylor.” “Cole,” he said, taking my hand. A few seconds later, the watch emitted a shrill, piercing beep. Cole’s heart rate had skyrocketed. But he himself was calmer than anyone. “The watch is broken,” he said. “Oh,” I replied. 3 After changing the watch, it worked normally. Ashton and Vera played a few “chemistry games,” and their heart rates surpassed 70, allowing them to leave the room early. As for me and Cole, his heart rate remained stubbornly at 25. Pathetically low. “If it never goes up,” I asked a staff member, “do we have to spend the night in the room?” Cole overheard. He stood tall, shoulders broad in a thin black hoodie, his gaze distant and empty. The staff member replied, “It counts as a failed mission. You can come out in an hour.” Cole and I were the last to leave. 【What a failure.】 【They have absolutely zero chemistry.】 【Get them out of here. Can we please not look at her? I just want to see Vera and Ashton.】 The comments were brutal, right up until the live stream ended. The post-interview rooms were crowded with cameras, lights, and people. Ashton stood in a corner, watching Vera’s interview, his gaze inadvertently sweeping over to me. “Excited?” he asked out of the blue. “Was there a moment when you thought Cole might actually be interested in you?” I ignored him and tried to walk away, but he blocked my path. “What am I going to do, Chloe?” he said, hands in his pockets, tilting his head to look at me. “I’m starting to think divorcing you was the best decision I ever made.” Someone passed by. Ashton straightened up, instantly transforming back into that gentle, soulful, yet heartbroken man. As if I were the one who had hurt him the most. After her interview, Vera walked over to me, under the watchful eyes of everyone, and took my hand. “Chloe,” she said, an old red string tied around her wrist. “You should cherish Ashton. He really loves you.” That red string. I had seen it before. Last year, on our wedding anniversary, Ashton had a minor car accident after being followed by obsessive fans. He was fine. I took him to a temple to pray for his safety. I closed my eyes, my heart filled with prayers for him. When I opened them, I saw him buying a red string. I thought he was going to give it to me. But he said he was getting it for himself, to put my mind at ease. And now, it was on Vera’s wrist. “Stop being difficult,” Vera continued, playing to the cameras. “More than anyone, I want you two to be happy.” I didn’t say a word. Ashton didn’t know. Vera didn’t know. The truth was, I had agreed to do this show for another, more hidden reason. That day, when I closed my eyes to pray, Ashton wasn’t the one on my mind either. 4 The show filmed on weekends, following a “weekend couple” concept. During the week, I went back to my old profession, trying to get my job back as a talent manager at my former entertainment group. “Cole and Vera are divorced,” my old boss told me. “His ten-year contract with her father’s company is finally up. He’s setting up his own studio, and I recommended you to him.” I went to the address he gave me and found Cole at a photo studio. His profile was silhouetted against the light, his features sharp and untamed. It was a face made for the screen. He was even harder to approach than I had imagined. I waited outside for a long time. Finally, his assistant came out. “I’m sorry, Ms. Taylor, we probably can’t talk today.” On the way back, my car broke down. Eleven o’clock at night, in the middle of nowhere, and it was raining. I stood under my umbrella, waiting for a tow truck, watching the cars pass by like phantoms in the night. None of them were for me. Headlights flashed. The window of a black minivan rolled down. Cole’s assistant said to me, “Ms. Taylor, get in.” Cole was in the back seat, a baseball cap pulled low, asleep. His breathing was shallow, his long legs slightly bent. The space was a bit cramped for him. The van was filled with clutter, and two suit jackets hung by the window. The crisp scent of pine. The same scent from the day he had held my hand. “Ms. Taylor, I’m going to grab a drink from the gas station up ahead. Do you want anything?” the assistant asked quietly. “Just call me Chloe. I’ll go with you.” “No, no,” he said, waving his hand as he got out. “I’ll go. I’ll be right back.” The door closed, leaving just me and Cole in the van. No one else. No cameras. The headlights flickered, casting the interior in a dim glow. Though we were separated by a row of seats, his breathing sounded as close as if it were right next to my ear. I stared out the window at the blue glow of the convenience store not far away, where the assistant was lingering by a shelf. I remembered once, at a supermarket, seeing an ad for Vera. “She’s so beautiful,” I had said to Ashton at the time. His reaction was flat. “She’s okay.” I didn’t know that this “okay” would be the reason he stayed away from home, time and time again. Later, I heard from others that Vera was his first love. They had broken up when he was still struggling to make it big. He couldn’t forget her. But at that moment, in the supermarket, he had just deftly changed the subject, asking me, “Sweetheart, you never dated anyone before me?” “No,” I had said. At least, that’s what I told everyone, including him. In the van, someone was kicking my leg. A long leg extending from the back seat. Not accidentally. But deliberately, mischievously, childishly, kicking me in a soft rhythm. I moved my legs out of his reach. I didn’t say anything, didn’t turn around. I maintained my posture, as if nothing had happened. “Chloe Taylor,” he said, his voice husky from sleep, laced with a reckless, youthful charm. “Long time no see.” After all these years, why did he still like to say my name like that? Just like in that small, humid, hot rental apartment… Drowning again and again… In his gentle yet unrestrained, invasive touch. 5 After that day, Cole and I had no contact. Until the next weekend. The show’s live broadcast operated on a rotation system. This weekend, we were supposed to switch back to our original couples. “Director,” Vera said, her tone full of feigned consideration for the show. “Ashton and I are so popular right now. If you switch us back, the audience will be furious.” The director thought for a moment. “But—” “Ashton,” Vera turned to him. “What do you think?” In front of me, she asked Ashton, “Who are you choosing tonight?” She had been waiting for this moment. The more a thing has to be hidden, the more one craves for it to be chosen in public. Ashton understood her. He deliberately glanced at my face, then leaned back in his chair. “Is that even a question? The audience doesn’t want to see her.” Vera got the answer she wanted and turned to me. “Chloe, you don’t mind, do you? But you’ve been a housewife for so long, you probably don’t have much work experience. The audience’s approval is the most important thing. You should think about the big picture…” “Fine,” I said curtly. Ashton looked up at me. They all thought I was going to make a scene. That way, they could edit my reaction into a special segment to highlight Vera’s thoughtfulness. They didn’t expect me to be so agreeable. Vera, with a speech she had memorized, was left with nothing to say. She finally managed a dry, “Good. No take-backs.” “Let’s just keep it this way from now on,” I said. Her face stiffened for a second, then she smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Are you trying to make Ashton jealous?” she whispered. “Everyone knows you’re on this show to win him back. Too bad he’s not jealous at all, and you have to watch him walk into my room.” The director’s team called out. They decided to continue with last week’s setup. Before leaving, Ashton asked Vera, with a hint of amusement, “Aren’t you afraid of her being in a room with Cole?” At the mention of that name, Vera’s reaction was a bit over the top. She laughed as if she’d heard the world’s biggest joke. “I’ve never seen him like anyone. Her? He could be locked in a room with her for a year and still not be interested.” They exchanged a knowing look and a smile. Ashton, in front of me, deliberately took off his coat and put it on Vera. “Chloe, if you want to win me back, these tricks aren’t good enough.” He wanted to provoke me, to make me break down in public so he could play the victim. Ashton and Vera were taken to a luxury villa, a reward for being the couple with the highest heart rate last week. Vera posted a picture of their candlelit dinner on social media. The comments were all from ecstatic fans. I saw all this on my phone in the production team’s van. The van was heading towards the old part of the city. 【If their heart rate doesn’t go up today, they’re going to be eliminated, right?】 【They won’t eliminate Cole. His status is too high. They’ll probably just switch his partner.】 【This is boring. Why did Cole even agree to do this show?】 【The weirder it gets, the more I ship it. I have a feeling something is going to happen.】 【The person above is nuts!!! If anything actually happens, I’ll eat my own poop on a live stream!!!】 I put my phone away and asked the staff, “Where are Cole and I staying tonight?” “Your heart rate was the lowest, so you have to face a penalty. Tonight, you’ll be staying in…” The van stopped. He tilted his chin towards the old residential building in front of me. “There,” he said. “A rental apartment.” I got out of the van. Only one live camera, from inside the van, was filming me. It was far away, only capturing my back, and couldn’t pick up any sound. I stood at the door, my mind blank for a few seconds. I took out my phone and called my ex-boss, who was also my long-suffering best friend. “Cole said to me, ‘Long time no see.’” I desperately needed her to pour a bucket of cold water on me right now. “So? What else could he say?” she replied, just as I expected. “Let’s be real, who doesn’t have an ex? He has so many options. Why would he choose you, a divorcee? Because of those few months you relied on each other? Honestly, that was the lowest point of his life. Who would want to remember that?” She was right. I hung up and opened the door. Cole was on a stepladder, fixing the light on the ceiling. As he raised his arm, the muscles rippled smoothly. Just like before. Except back then, he had a bandage wrapped around his waist from a wire-work accident. The old-fashioned tungsten light in his hand flickered on and off. It was all too familiar. So familiar that I stood at the door, unable to step inside. “Dinner,” he said, seeing me. A simple word, no extra emotion. It made my own unease seem out of place. I was the one overthinking. For him, this show was probably just a safe way to publicize his divorce. Outside, it was snowing. He was tall, with strong features, leaning over the counter preparing a hot pot. He exuded a sense of domesticity. I took a picture of his back and posted it on social media, completing my task for the show. After we ate, he didn’t even let me do the dishes. He washed his hands efficiently and then, strangely, started making the bed for me. There was only one bed. He said he would sleep on the floor. “Your waist injury,” I asked, “do you need to change the bandage?” “I can do it myself,” he said. When I came out of the bathroom after my shower, a thin blanket was already spread out on the floor. He was rummaging through his suitcase for a long bandage. I instinctively looked away and took out my phone. Ashton sent me a voice message. My hands were wet, and I accidentally played it on speaker. He had seen my post. “You can handle hot pot? Last time at home, you said you wanted that cake from the bakery. I got it for you on my way.” I had said I wanted that cake on my birthday last year. He never bought it for me. After all this time, he was only buying it now to maintain his “devoted” persona for the show. I stared at my phone. The light above was blocked by Cole’s shadow. “Can you help me?” he asked, holding the roll of bandage. Didn’t he just say he could do it himself? Changing the dressing, wrapping the bandage. My arms weren’t long enough, so I had to loosely encircle him with both hands. This rental apartment in the north. The heating was inadequate. The snowy, rainy air seeped in through the cracks of the old building. It was so cold. Yet we maintained our distance. My fingertips could only touch the bandage. His face had to be turned away, looking elsewhere. Unlike that year, in the southern rental apartment. Muggy and sunless. It was so hot. Yet again and again, as if there were no tomorrow, we possessed each other with abandon. Click. The tungsten light flickered on. We were standing under it. In that year of poverty and hopelessness, we couldn’t even afford to replace a light bulb. We used it until it couldn’t be used anymore. That old tungsten light, repaired again and again, would always flicker in the middle of the night. Back then, an eighteen-year-old Cole had told me, “Every time it flickers, it means I’m thinking of you.” Tonight, in an age where we lacked for nothing, the tungsten light flickered countless times. I looked up at Cole. “You didn’t fix it properly?” He froze, then looked down into my eyes. “Yeah. I did it on purpose.” “Why?” I asked. “If I fixed it, you wouldn’t hear it flicker.” I was stunned. He took the bandage from my hand and deftly wrapped it around himself. “Chloe Taylor,” he said my name. “Hmm?” “Do you like hot pot, or do you like cake?” One must always be honest about food. “Hot pot.” 6 【Okay, I’ll eat my poop.】 【This awkward, deliberately avoidant vibe… something’s not right.】 【Oh, Cole turned off the light.】 【Is there anything my premium VIP membership doesn’t let me see???】 In reality, nothing happened. Cole, wrapped in a thin blanket, slept on the floor. His breathing was extremely shallow. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Because the bed was too squeaky. Every time I turned over, it would creak. I used to complain to him about it, too. But my complaints were always accompanied by a resigned sigh. “Cole, don’t be so… hold back a little.” We were young and reckless back then. Now, one turn. Creek. And I remembered. And I wasn’t the only one who remembered. Cole threw off the blanket, wearing only a thin gray t-shirt, and walked out the door, closing it behind him. Flick. In the deep, neon-lit night, a cigarette glowed in his hand. When I first knew him, he didn’t smoke. He was a good boy. He wasn’t smoking now either. Just lighting it. In the distance, headlights swept by. Cole and Ashton, who had just gotten out of a car, came face to face. “Delivering the cake,” Ashton explained, craning his neck to peer through the window. He saw the separate blankets on the bed and the floor. A knowing smile spread across his face. “What can I say,” Ashton said. “She’s just too clingy.” Though they barely knew each other and the other man wasn’t responding, Ashton felt an inexplicable need to assert his presence. “She’s been wanting this for a long time. She insisted I buy it. She won’t eat it if anyone else gets it for her. Tomorrow, when she wakes up and sees it, she’ll be moved to tears.” “Hey,” Ashton raised his eyes. “You don’t know, do you? I was her first love.” “Is that so?” the other man finally replied. “Why would I lie?” Ashton said. “She’s on this show to win me back.” The cake. I didn’t see it when I woke up the next day. The live stream ended. This time, for the post-interview special, all four of us were gathered together for the first time. I was late, the last to arrive. A staff member handed me an earpiece. My newly washed hair was too smooth, and I couldn’t get it to stay on. Across the room, Vera and Ashton were drawing question cards. I lowered my head. The earpiece was about to fall off. A hand from my left swiftly caught it. “Thanks,” I said, trying to take it from Cole. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he helped me put it on, adjusting it as he did. It wasn’t an overly intimate gesture. Just colleagues helping each other out. After all, the cameras were here, the crowd was here. “It’s caught,” he said. My hair and the earpiece. He had to lean in closer. From across the room, Ashton’s voice came, his peripheral vision catching me and Cole. It was a normal action. If not for the fact that Cole, on instinct, kissed my hair. The scent was too familiar. I rarely change the products I use; my shampoo has smelled the same for years. The scent of his own washed hair. The room suddenly fell silent. Ashton shot to his feet. Cole pulled his hand back and said to me, with extreme politeness and restraint, “Sorry, I accidentally brushed against it.” The producer, realizing what had happened, quickly saved the situation. “It happens. Let’s move on to the next question.” After all, it was just a fleeting moment, a touch and then a retreat. So fast that Ashton didn’t even get a clear look. It must have been an accident. He sat back down. The question game. When it was my turn to draw a card, I got the “First Love” card. The producer asked me, “Is your first love your greatest love?” Ashton, who had been lounging lazily, sat up and looked at me. The eyes of everyone in the room darted between me and Ashton. Everyone thought he was my first love. “Yes,” I said. Hearing my answer, Ashton sat up straighter, unable to resist a smug glance at Cole. But the other man was distracted. Cole was turned to the side, looking at the snow falling outside the window. The window reflected my face. “Same question,” the producer said. “For Cole to answer.” He was in my group. The card questions were the same. Vera was not his first love. No one knew who that person was. “She’s annoying. She’s really, really annoying.” Cole’s voice was extremely soft. So soft that the end of his words carried a hint of unprecedented grievance. Everyone in the room perked up, their ears open for gossip. “Such resentment,” the producer asked. “What did she do?” “For example,” he turned his head, drawing out his words, “marrying someone else, but saying that I was her greatest love.” It made no sense. No one in the room understood. But Ashton still frowned unconsciously. The producer flipped the last card. “Chloe, what do you want to say to your first love right now?” A hundred safe answers popped into my head. But what came out was, “I hope he doesn’t hate me too much.” It was a reasonable answer. Everyone in the room could understand it. They all thought I wanted to reconcile with Ashton. Ashton’s smugness returned. He raised an eyebrow, clearly intending to string me along, not giving me an easy way out. Until, to the same question, Cole answered, “I was lying just now. I don’t hate her.” That’s when Ashton started to realize that something was not quite right.

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My blood can cheat death, but it cannot read a human heart. I once gave my immortal life to the woman I thought had saved me, only for her to destroy me. But time rewound. And in the eyes of another dying girl, I saw the locket I had lost as a child. My grand sacrifice was a lie. A stolen identity. This time, I will awaken the one I truly owe my life to. And as for the imposter? She will repay every ounce of the suffering she caused… a hundred times over. 1 As one of the Blood Kindred, I was born with an eternal curse. A life force pulses in my blood, potent enough to turn back the tide of death itself. In my last withered lifetime, I used that power to heal Seraphina de Valois, the most dazzling jewel of Parisian society. My reward was her family’s cold vow: the healer would be bound to the healed, his fortune and his miracle absorbed into the Valois legacy. The forced engagement shattered Seraphina. Her true love, a man named Julien Reed, was in the Alps at the time, searching for some mythical herb to cure her. When the news of our betrothal reached him, he fell from a glacier. They never found a body. A year later, she did. She found him perfectly preserved in a crevasse of ice. She made me slice open my wrist. On that frigid night, I could hear the frantic, unhinged rhythm of her heart. I could smell the sharp, metallic scent of obsession clinging to her like a bitter perfume. She forced me to feed my life into his frozen corpse. “If you hadn’t interfered, Julien would have brought back the divine medicine and saved me! You killed him!” she shrieked, her voice like shattering crystal. “If your blood is such a miracle, then bring him back to me!” “Seraphina, he’s been dead for a year,” I pleaded. “My blood can mend living flesh. It cannot resurrect the dead.” But she just watched me with cold, flat eyes as my life drained away, drop by drop, along with the ancient, inhuman power that flowed within it. When I opened my eyes again, time had rewound. I was standing in the de Valois mansion on the very day they first summoned me. The stale air, a cloying mix of expensive perfume and old dust, assaulted my senses. I glanced at the pale figure in the wheelchair. Beneath her meticulously applied makeup, I could smell it—that faint, sickly-sweet odor of decay. It was the signature of a life force slowly extinguishing itself. “Mademoiselle de Valois, your legs… they have withered. No power on this earth can restore what is already dead.” At my words, Seraphina’s head snapped up. A furious blush stained her delicate features. “You charlatan! Get out of my house!” The ghost of a smile touched my lips. I turned to her mother. “Madame de Valois, if my family—the von Valerius line—declares a decay irreversible, then it is final. You are still young. Perhaps you should consider conceiving a new heir.” Before the words had fully settled, Seraphina’s teacup came flying at my head. To a mortal eye, it would have been a blur. To me, it moved with the lazy grace of a floating feather. Without shifting my feet, I simply tilted my head and plucked the porcelain from the air. The rose-gold rim was steady in my hand, not a single drop of the warm tea spilled. I placed it back on the table without a sound. Madame de Valois, thoroughly shaken, rushed forward. “Monsieur von Valerius, please, forgive her. Seraphina’s condition has made her…” I waved a hand, a gesture of deep, unutterable weariness. “I understand. I don’t deign to bicker with a cripple whose life is so fleeting.” As I turned to leave the gilded cage of a mansion, I could feel Seraphina’s entire body trembling with rage. Her frantic heartbeat was a drum against my ears. Madame de Valois hurried after me, her voice a desperate whisper. “Monsieur, is there truly nothing that can be done? If you could cure Seraphina, the Valois family would give you anything you desire.” The problem wasn’t that I couldn’t. It was that I wouldn’t. The memory of my last life was a brand on my immortal soul, every breath a reminder of the terrifying depths of mortal greed. “I’m afraid I can do nothing for Mademoiselle de Valois’s legs.” Seraphina had wheeled herself to the doorway, just in time to hear me. Her sweet voice was laced with venom. “Mother, Julien is already on his way back to Paris. He’s bringing the Starflower of the High Mountains. My legs will be healed.” She glared at me. “This has nothing to do with you. I don’t need a stranger’s pity.” Madame de Valois sighed, the sound heavy and tired. “My child, the Starflower may help you recover, but it won’t be enough to let you stand again…” Seraphina remained defiant. “I told you, Julien will heal me.” I gave her one last, long look before taking my leave of her mother. As I stepped out of the mansion’s grand entrance, a horseless carriage roared to a stop before me. A woman emerged, despair carved into the lines of her face, and fell to her knees at my feet. “Monsieur von Valerius, I’m begging you… please, save my daughter.” 2 It was only then that I learned there had been another victim in the accident a year ago. Seraphina’s rival, as it turned out: Elara d’Amboise. Since the crash, Elara had been lost in an endless sleep, her life signs as faint as a candle flame in a gale. But after the hell of my past life, I would not bleed for anyone so easily again. My blood is the very essence of my being, not a commodity to be squandered. I politely declined Madame d’Amboise’s request. She didn’t press me. She simply wiped her tears and departed, a portrait of quiet grief. A week later, an invitation from the de Valois family arrived. A grand nocturnal salon was to be held. Julien had returned. Madame de Valois implored me to attend, to verify his “miracle cure.” Inside the salon, the light from the crystal chandeliers was a painful glare to my eyes. The entire space thrummed with the cacophony of life—hundreds of hearts beating in their cages of bone, warm blood rushing through veins. The smell of champagne, cigars, and raw desire mingled into a torrent that grated on my nerves. I stood like a stone island in a chattering sea of mortals. Julien stood beside Seraphina’s wheelchair like a loyal knight. Madame de Valois approached me, her brow furrowed with worry. “It’s not that I fear his medicine won’t work,” she confessed in a low voice. “I’m terrified of seeing the hope in Seraphina’s eyes die again.” Before I could respond, Julien was wheeling Seraphina toward us. “You needn’t worry, Madame,” he said, his smile radiating confidence. “I will have Seraphina walking again.” Seraphina squeezed his hand, her eyes shining with adoration. “Julien, the moment I can stand, I will marry you in the latest gown from the House of Worth.” Then, Julien turned to me, his smile sharpening into a sneer. “Unlike certain old-world aristocrats who cling to their reputations, I actually deliver on my promises.” Several of the renowned physicians who had previously treated Seraphina frowned. “Such arrogance, Monsieur Reed,” one of them scoffed. Seraphina, however, just smiled proudly. “I have faith in Julien. He is going to heal me!” A short, cold laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. It was a sound devoid of warmth, like the wind on a winter night. Julien’s jaw tightened. “Monsieur von Valerius, I’ve heard you’re the most gifted healer of your generation. Yet you do nothing but stand by and watch. It makes one wonder if you truly possess the power of your legends.” I raised my glass, the crimson liquid within catching the light like fresh blood. “In that case, I eagerly await the day Monsieur Reed has Mademoiselle de Valois on her feet again.” My placid demeanor enraged him. “I know you want to marry Seraphina, but she loves me. And I’m the only one who can cure her.” From her chair, Seraphina’s voice dripped with acid. “Damian, even if you could heal me, I would never, ever marry you.” The entire performance was beginning to bore me. Mortals wasted so much of their fleeting existence on such tedious dramas. I turned to leave, but Julien blocked my path. “Damian, I challenge you. A wager. The loser will kneel and admit defeat, and be banished from Paris forever!” I stopped. A slow smile spread across my face. This might, after all, provide a flicker of amusement in my endless night. I turned back to him, and as I smiled, my lips parted just enough to reveal the tips of my canines. “I accept your wager. But I will not be healing Seraphina de Valois. I am going to awaken Elara d’Amboise.” 3 “Ten days,” I announced, my voice cutting through the silence of the room. “We have ten days. Let’s see whether you can make Seraphina de Valois stand, or I can awaken the sleeping Elara d’Amboise.” “So, Julien Reed,” I asked, my eyes locked with his. “Do you dare?” A wave of whispers erupted through the hall. A flash of triumph lit Julien’s eyes. “I accept!” I let my smile widen. “I will not lose.” From her wheelchair, Seraphina laughed with contempt. “Elara is a living corpse. You couldn’t even fix my legs, and you think you can wake her?” My gaze drifted down to her legs, my sight feeling as though it could pierce the skin and see the slow rot taking place within. “Be careful, Seraphina. All medicines come with a price. With Monsieur Reed’s ‘miraculous’ arts, you might just find that in addition to your legs remaining useless, you’ve acquired some other… interesting afflictions.” With that, I turned and walked away. The next morning, Madame d’Amboise escorted me to the hospital. Sunlight cast dappled patterns on the floor, and I instinctively avoided the patches of light, keeping to the shadows. I walked to Elara’s bedside. She lay perfectly still, her breath so shallow it was nearly imperceptible. I reached out, my cold fingertips brushing against her cheek, feeling the last lingering trace of mortal warmth. Then, I held out my own wrist and, using a fingernail sharpened to a point, drew a fine, precise line across the skin. There was no mark of a mortal blade. The skin simply parted, and a few drops of blood, so dark they were almost black, welled up. They carried a strange fragrance, a mix of ancient dust and night-blooming flowers. This was not a simple gift; it was the sharing of my very eternity. I let the drops fall between her lips, watching them disappear against her pale mouth. Seven days, at most. My blood, my essence, would call her sleeping soul back to her veins. “Monsieur von Valerius, thank you,” Madame d’Amboise whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “Madame, I am not doing this for payment. I am doing this to win,” I said, meeting her tear-filled eyes. “And rest assured, I will wake your daughter.” Before she could respond, Julien appeared, pushing Seraphina’s wheelchair. “So this was your game all along,” he sneered. “You’re just after the d’Amboise family’s money.” Madame d’Amboise’s expression turned to ice. “I have absolute faith in Monsieur von Valerius.” Seraphina was quick to her defense. “Madame d’Amboise, you can’t let him touch Elara!” I raised a hand, silencing Madame d’Amboise’s retort, my gaze settling on Seraphina’s legs. “Seraphina,” I said calmly. “Haven’t you noticed? Your legs… they’re atrophying even further.” 4 Seraphina instinctively pulled the blanket higher over her lap. “What are you talking about, Damian?” A flicker of panic crossed Julien’s face before he stepped in front of her wheelchair. “You don’t know anything, von Valerius. Shut your mouth.” I just smiled and said nothing. That night, after administering Elara’s daily dose of my blood, I received a note from a courier sent by Madame de Valois, describing the mysterious liquid Julien was using. Just then, a soft sigh came from the hospital bed. I moved to her side as silently as a wraith. “Elara? Are you awake?” Her eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened. She blinked, her gaze focusing on my face. “Damian?” she murmured, breathing my name. I stared at her, a jolt running through me. My blood had forged a link within her; she could sense my presence. “You… know me?” Before she could answer, the door flew open and Madame d’Amboise rushed in. I retreated silently into the shadows of the room, leaving them to their reunion. For the next few days, Elara threw herself into physical therapy. By the end of the week, she was walking on her own. Soon, the tenth day of the wager arrived. The Valois mansion was filled to capacity. When Elara and I walked into the grand ballroom together, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd. My very presence seemed to drop the temperature in the room, and every eye was drawn to us. The murmurs of the crowd drained the color from Julien’s face. “You… you actually did it?” I offered him a cold smile. “You’ve lost, Julien. Time to honor our agreement.” Just as he was about to buckle, a clear voice rang out from above. “Who says we’ve lost?” Seraphina de Valois. Standing at the top of the grand staircase. A triumphant grin spread across Julien’s face. “You see, von Valerius? Seraphina can stand!” Seraphina looked down at me, her face a mask of contempt. “You said I was a lost cause, Damian. But here I am.” I just shook my head. My hearing could pick up the faint, agonizing protests of sinew and bone beneath her skin. I could smell the accelerating corruption of the ‘Corpse-Flower Tincture.’ “Your legs might have been salvageable before, Seraphina. But now… now they truly are hopeless.” Fire ignited in her eyes. “Let’s see how long that arrogant look on your face lasts!” With that, she lifted her foot to take the first step down.

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The fifth year I was the underworld kingpin’s secret lover, he lost everything and decided to eat a bullet. My immediate, gut reaction was to run. I was halfway through packing a bug-out bag when a line of text materialized in my vision, hovering like a translucent banner ad. 【Don’t worry, the male lead doesn’t die. He’ll make a comeback in six months, crush all his enemies, and the female lead is the little angel who redeems him.】 【As for the side piece who runs away? She dies. Horribly.】 In a heartbeat, I switched allegiances. Dropping the bag, I flew to the rooftop and threw myself at his legs, wrapping my arms around them and bursting into manufactured tears. “Cole, don’t! That ridiculous diamond you gave me? The one the size of a robin’s egg? I haven’t even had a chance to wear it yet.” The moment the words left my mouth, the comment feed exploded. 【Wow. She might as well pull the trigger for him.】 1 When Cole turned to look at me, his eyes were wide with shock. “Why are you still here?” I clutched the cuff of his pants, giving it a playful, desperate shake. “You promised you’d protect me for life. You wouldn’t let me leave when bullets were flying, so you can’t go back on your word now, can you?” The comment stream was still scrolling frantically across my vision, a semi-opaque curtain over the world. 【No wonder he’s so ruthless with her later. She deserves it.】 【He’s literally on a rooftop about to kill himself, and she’s still treating him like her personal ATM.】 【He’s only got one bullet left for himself. This is brutal.】 【Well, if the side piece wasn’t selfish and vapid, how would the main female character’s kindness shine through?】 【Just wait. He’ll pull the trigger, the gun will misfire, a passerby will take him to the hospital, and the female lead will show up with all her resources to save the day. Can’t wait for her entrance!】 My mouth twitched as I read the comments, but my arms only tightened around Cole’s waist. He used to be the kind of man who commanded respect and fear in every corner of the city, the kind of man whose word was law. I could still feel the hard ridge of the scar on his abdomen where he’d taken a bullet for me years ago, but now he was so thin I could feel the sharp edges of his hip bones. He stared out at the river of headlights flowing on the streets below, his forehead pressed against the cold steel of the gun. His voice was hollow. “I’m a ghost, Annie. The guns are gone, my network is dismantled, and I’m drowning in debt. I can’t protect you anymore.” He nodded toward the apartment. “There’s a card in the nightstand. It’s the last of my cash, five hundred thousand. The pin is your birthday. Take it and go.” I couldn’t see his expression, but it was the first time I’d ever heard that voice—a voice that had orchestrated a hundred high-stakes deals—sound so broken. Even at his absolute lowest, his first thought was creating an escape route for me. I tugged on his shirt, my tone suddenly shifting, becoming serious and unyielding. “No. If it comes to it… I’ll protect you.” At that, Cole’s head snapped around. His dark eyes were a vortex of complex emotions: surprise, disbelief, and a flicker of something deeper, a hidden panic. Before he could speak, I quickly added, “Today is our fifth anniversary. I got you a present!” The wind whipped harder across the rooftop, making his thin dress shirt snap and billow. Beneath the flimsy fabric, I could see the faint outline of bruises that hadn’t yet healed on his back, stretched over the solid muscle beneath… He stared at me for a long moment before his voice, now raspy, finally came out. “You got me a present?” In five years, Cole had given me a handgun encrusted with diamonds, a one-of-a-kind emerald necklace worth millions, and even a vintage muscle car I’d mentioned offhandedly, which he’d had sourced from a private auction overnight. But he had never received a single real gift from me. Back in the apartment, Cole stared blankly at the “gift” I presented. I held up a slinky, black slip dress from La Perla, pressing it against his broad chest and studying the fit with a critical eye. “Hmm, I think it’s a little small,” I said, my expression a perfect mask of sincerity. Then, with a sigh of feigned frustration, “And they have a strict no-return policy. What a shame. I guess I’ll have to wear it.” A dry, choked laugh escaped his lips. It was the first time he’d almost smiled all night. He turned and, without a word, started walking back toward the rooftop. He was gone around the stairwell corner before I could even react. I stomped my foot in frustration. “Cole! You petty bastard!” His deep voice echoed back from the hallway. “Forgot my phone out there. I’m just grabbing it.” That night, the black slip dress I’d “accidentally” bought in the wrong size ended up on me after all. It had also added another two thousand dollars to the mountain of debt now attached to his name. He never said a word of blame. He just quietly folded it and placed it in the closet. After his fall, the word went out from his enemies: no legitimate company was to hire him. To cover rent and our expenses, he started fighting in an underground fight club they called “The Cage.” But no matter how late he got home, or how battered he was, he always came back and cooked for me. A protein, a starch, a vegetable. Different every day. Curled up on the sofa of our cramped studio apartment, I watched him walk through the door. His hands were wrapped in bloody gauze, and a fresh cut split the skin over his left eyebrow, beading with blood. The first thing he did was tie on an apron and start methodically chopping vegetables in the kitchenette. Who would believe that just a few weeks ago, this was “King Cole,” the man who could crush a rival’s wrist with one hand and made every syndicate boss in the state nervous? The entire apartment was barely two hundred square feet. His old gun safe was bigger than this. I sat on the sofa, eating the slices of mango he’d prepared for me earlier, and discreetly pulled out my phone. The screen displayed my own bank balance: eight million dollars. All “pocket money” from Cole over the years. Under the bed, in a shoebox, was the emerald bracelet and the limited-edition watch he’d given me. Any one of those items could cover the rent on this place for a decade. A pang of guilt hit me, and I glanced over at him. He’d taken his shirt off at some point. All he was wearing was a cheap, pink floral apron tied over his bare torso as he cleaned. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and a sheen of sweat highlighting the hard lines of his muscles. He looked like some kind of dangerous, domestic demon. My heart gave a stupid little lurch, and I kicked my foot out, stubbing my toe hard on the coffee table. I cried out in pain. Cole was there in a second, kneeling in front of me, his large hands carefully cradling my foot. “You don’t have to go through this with me,” he said, his eyes downcast, his voice muffled. “Take the money I told you about. Find somewhere safe, start over. Don’t let my mess drag you down.” I pouted, letting my lower lip tremble. “I haven’t complained that you can’t even afford to buy bullets anymore, and now you’re trying to kick me out?” His mouth opened, likely to explain that wasn’t what he meant, but I cut him off. “I get it! You’re mad that I use too much hot sauce on my food every night. It’s too expensive, isn’t it?” I leaned in, my voice rising with indignation. “What did you say when you saved me from those kidnappers down in Mexico?” I poked his chest. “You said you’d protect me for life. And now you want to dump me for some girl who can help you fight your battles, is that it? You’re a liar, Cole!” He looked completely out of his depth. He reached out and covered my mouth with his hand. The palm was warm and smelled of antiseptic. His Adam’s apple bobbed. It took him a long moment to form the words. “I just don’t want you to suffer because of me,” he finally rasped. “This apartment leaks when it rains, and you wake up cold. The strawberries I bought yesterday were on sale, and you took one bite and didn’t touch the rest. I can’t even buy you that perfume you like anymore.” He finally met my eyes, his own filled with a deep, aching pain. “Annie, you deserve a hundred times better than this.” Logically, when an underworld kingpin falls, the woman he’s been keeping is supposed to grab the cash and vanish. But after five years together, how could I actually leave him? He might have been a monster to the rest of the world, but he never let even the shadow of danger touch me. No matter how busy he was, he always remembered I hated onions. Even when his rivals cornered us at our front door, his first move was always to push me behind him and murmur, “Don’t be scared. I’m here.” I grabbed the collar of his apron, yanked him down onto the sofa with me, and leaned in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, right next to the cut. Beneath the sting of the antiseptic, I could taste the familiar, cool scent that was uniquely him. “You promised me a lifetime of protection,” I whispered against his skin. “Not a day less, not an hour, not a minute. You’re stuck with me, Cole.” The comment feed flickered back to life. 【HOLY SHIT! Did she just pin him to the couch? This is the guy who used to be a crime lord!】 【OMG! His ears are turning red! He’s blushing? Where’s the ruthless bastard who broke a guy’s legs?】 【Don’t ship it! Don’t ship it! The female lead is about to make her entrance! The next plot point is him getting humiliated at the fight club, and she swoops in with her connections to save him. That’s the one true pairing!】 【The side piece is just cannon fodder. The plot is going to write her out sooner or later. If you ship this now, you’re just setting yourself up for heartbreak.】 I ignored them. My hands slid from his apron to tangle in his hair, and I deepened the kiss. Cole’s eyes fluttered shut, and the blush that started at his ears spread down his neck. As I pulled back for a breath, he seized the opportunity, pushing me away gently. He scrambled to his feet, his voice stumbling over the words. “I—I have to… the rice will burn. I have to cook.” Watching him practically flee into the kitchen, I couldn’t help but smile. So, even the most feared man in the city had a shy side. The comment feed went wild again. 【Ahhhh he’s so adorkable! Who can resist that contrast!】 【I’m a terrible person, I’m starting to think the side piece and the male lead are kind of cute together…】 【Hey now, let’s not let our morals get swayed by a pretty face (and abs)!】 【Don’t do it, girl. She’s destined to be killed off by the plot. You’re just drinking poison thinking it’s wine.】 I had started noticing these strange floating lines of text a long time ago. At first, I dismissed them as visual floaters, stress-induced hallucinations. But then, the things they predicted started coming true, one after another. I had no choice but to accept it. From their chatter, I learned that my world was a novel. And I was the disposable side character. My purpose was to serve as a catalyst in the main characters’ love story. Early on, I was the selfish foil to the heroine’s selfless virtue. Later, I was meant to be a cheap obstacle to thicken their romantic plot. After I understood, I tried to fight it, to change the script. But most of the time, I felt like a mindless NPC, my actions controlled by an invisible hand. Like the day Cole decided to end his life. The “plot” had taken over, and my only impulse was to pack my bags and run. He was already raising the gun. But at the last second, a comment appeared, jolting me back to myself. Seeing the feed mention the exact timing of the heroine’s appearance, a new plan began to form in my mind… In the following days, Cole continued to fight, coming home bruised but always with enough money for rent and food. I lay on the couch, happily eating a cupcake he’d just brought home for me. Then, a new comment appeared: 【Tonight’s the night. The villain is going to show up at the underground casino. The casino is owned by the female lead’s family, and she happens to be there tonight. She’ll save him, and it’s love at first sight.】 【My girl is finally making her entrance! I’m so excited to see the sparks fly!】 【Here comes the female lead. Time for Annie, the side piece, to make her exit.】 【I suddenly feel a little bad for her. The first thing he does with his winnings is buy her a cupcake. She probably thinks he’s madly in love with her, not realizing personal feelings get erased by the power of the plot.】 So, the day had come. After Cole left, I picked out my heaviest, stud-covered clutch. Inside, I tucked a bottle of military-grade pepper spray he’d given me years ago. I found the entrance to the underground casino easily enough. As I approached the door, I could already hear the sounds of jeering laughter and angry shouts from within. I pushed my way through the crowd and saw him immediately. Cole, surrounded in the center of the fighting pit. His shirt was torn, revealing a patchwork of old and new bruises on his shoulder. Standing opposite him was Griffin, his foot planted arrogantly on Cole’s discarded boxing glove. Griffin was the “villain” the comments were talking about. He and Cole had a history, and now that Cole was down on his luck, Griffin was here to twist the knife. “Well, well, Cole,” Griffin sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “You used to be such a big shot. Backed me into a corner so tight I almost threw myself off a bridge. Look at you now. Getting your face beat in for rent money?” He kicked the glove away. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you fifty grand. You get on your knees and let me beat on you for half an hour. After that, I’ll consider telling the house to pay you what you’re owed.” The crowd hooted with laughter. One of Griffin’s lackeys, a guy named Leo, sidled up to him and raised his voice. “Hey, Griff, you hear? Even in this state, his little girlfriend is still sticking around!” Another crony chimed in. “Yeah, can you believe it? Used to be dripping in diamonds, now she’s eating instant noodles with him. Girl must be brain-damaged!” Seeing Cole remain silent, Leo stepped closer, his face a mask of provocation. “How about this, Cole? You get on your knees and bow to Griffin three times. Then you call over your little piece of ass to have a few drinks with us. We’ll let you walk out of here. Deal?” Cole’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white. He swung at Leo, but he’d taken a beating the night before, and his movements were a fraction too slow. Leo’s men grabbed him, forcing him to the ground. Griffin strode forward and landed a vicious kick to Cole’s stomach. “You think you’re still King Cole? You can’t even protect your own woman now!” Cole gritted his teeth, a vein throbbing in his temple, but he still forced the words out. “Whatever you want, you do it to me. Don’t touch her.” The comments were on fire. 【What a scumbag! Using a woman to threaten someone!】 【This is it! He has to be thoroughly humiliated so that when the female lead saves him, he’ll fall for her instantly. She’ll become his guiding light.】 【Poor male lead. Why do they always have to torture the guy before giving him a crumb of happiness? Can’t people just fall in love normally?】 【Right?】 【That’s just how these stories work. Without the drama, what’s the point?】 The comment feed was arguing with itself. I let out a small breath of relief. If there was dissent, it meant there was a chance for change. Just as they were forcing Cole to his knees, and just before the destined heroine, Clara, could step out of the shadows and deliver her grand rescue, I tightened my grip on my purse and charged forward. The stud-covered clutch connected with the back of Leo’s head with a sickening thwack. “Try touching him,” I snarled. I stepped in front of Cole, hefted the clutch again, and swung it squarely into Griffin’s shoulder. “Kneel for your daddy, maybe,” I spat. “Griffin, when you used to see Cole, you barely had the nerve to breathe in his direction. Don’t get fucking cocky now that you’re playing king of the ashes.” Griffin winced in pain and lunged for me, but Cole surged up from the ground and shoved him back. He moved to stand in front of me, the cold fury in his eyes a terrifying echo of the man he used to be. The man who ruled this city. “Don’t. Touch. Her.” Leo, stunned for a second, broke into a cold laugh. “Cole, you can’t even save yourself. What makes you think you can save her?” I wasn’t worried. Leo and his goons didn’t have the plot armor of a main character; they couldn’t do anything to me. And as for the main characters, they weren’t allowed to break the law. Griffin couldn’t touch me either. I glanced down at the dent my clutch had made on his thick skull and then at the new scuff mark on my bag. A wave of regret washed over me. I should have put a brick in it. Leo was still rubbing his head, pointing a finger at me. “You bitch, you hit me—” Cole didn’t hesitate. He put his foot right in Leo’s chest. But there were too many of them. If a real fight broke out, Cole would lose. Badly. As I was trying to figure out a way out of this, the sound of a powerful engine and a sharp screech of tires cut through the noise. A black Maybach had pulled right up to the entrance. The tinted window lowered just an inch, revealing half a man’s face, wreathed in the smoke of an expensive cigarette. The man had a high brow bone and sharp lines etched at the corners of his eyes. He tapped a finger against the window frame, his gaze landing on me with a look I couldn’t quite decipher. Griffin’s furious eyes happened to catch sight of the car. He froze. A moment later, he was striding purposefully toward the Maybach. The comment feed went into a frenzy. 【He’s here, he’s here! That man is finally here!】 【The heir to the country’s biggest corporate empire! He’s so hot!】 【The big shot from NYC came all the way here to personally deliver an investment to Griffin. Griffin’s about to hit the big time! This is why he’s acting so arrogant.】 【Is it just me, or has the NYC big shot been staring at our little drama queen?】 【Yeah, that’s weird. Don’t tell me she’s his runaway heiress or something?】 My head slowly turned, and my eyes met the man’s dark, intense gaze. Oh, crap. It was Marcus. My heart hammered against my ribs. I grabbed Cole’s hand and started pulling him away. “Let’s go.”

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The day he cut off my father’s hand was my birthday. Sebastian Croft did it right in front of me. When my father’s men retaliated, taking his leg, Sebastian just looked up, his smile stained crimson in the moonlight. “Kill me,” he dared them, his voice a rasp. “Because if you leave me breathing, the next time he lays a hand on her, I’ll take his other goddamn leg myself. Try me.” From that day on, my stepfather never touched me again. Sebastian said gardenias shouldn’t be stained with blood. He took the knife from my hand and, with one clean stroke, severed my father’s illegitimate sons from their inheritance. Everyone says Sebastian Croft is drenched in blood. But he never let a single drop touch his wife. Only I knew the truth. Only I had seen the thousand-plus pages of his private journals, where one name was written over and over, an obsessive prayer. The name of a woman as pure and flawless as a gardenia. The day I threw my wedding ring at his feet, he looked as if he’d been woken from a long dream. He lit the journals on fire, his laughter laced with a sorrow so deep it was terrifying. “Don’t worry,” he said, the pages curling into black ash. “She and I… that ship sailed a long time ago.” I slid the divorce papers across the table. “It can sail back.” He laughed and tore them to shreds. “For you and me, Audrina? It’s one bed for life, one coffin for eternity.” 1 The divorce papers burned, too. So that was it. For me and Sebastian Croft, it was one bed for life, one coffin for eternity. Even in death, our caskets would be pried open just enough to face each other, the first and last thing we’d ever see. The only thing we’d ever see. It was the vow we’d made at our wedding. He walked away, grinding the ashes of my petition under his heel without a backward glance. The next time I saw him was on the evening news. It was a night dark as ink, pouring rain, and against the gloom, a girl on a flight of steps was the only spot of white in the entire world. White dress, pale skin. A natural blush dusting the corners of her eyes. The moment the camera flash went off, Sebastian yanked her into his arms, pulling her under the umbrella so forcefully that only his own jawline was visible. That, and the girl’s bare legs as he swept her up onto his hip. He never allowed his face to be photographed by the press. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let them get a picture of his girl. Because he knew I’d be looking. Even from that fleeting glimpse, I got the screenshot. I sent it to my people. But there was nothing. Not a single face in any global database matched the girl. The best they could find was a potential student ID photo from an Ivy League university, but her face was obscured by a thick black redaction bar. Sebastian was protecting her. When I went back to find a replay of the news segment, it was gone. Scrubbed from the internet. All I had left was that one screenshot. The image of a girl with fear shimmering in her eyes, staring at the camera like a fawn caught in headlights as she burrowed into Sebastian’s chest. The veins on the back of Sebastian’s hand were bulging. I’d only ever seen him hold a woman that tightly twice. The first time was after our rivals murdered my mother and my uncles, dumping their bodies in the river. I was the one who dragged them out, one by one, from the bloody water. As the sun set, turning the sky to gore, the boy standing on the bank had held me just like that. He’d pressed his body against mine again and again, trying to warm my frozen limbs, his tears streaming as he begged me not to close my eyes. The second time was now, in front of a camera, terrified that the girl in his arms would be exposed. That she would fall into my hands. When he finally came home, I slid the photo across the marble tabletop. It stopped right in front of him. I sat opposite, staring out the window, and blew a slow, deliberate ring of smoke. “It’s never going to happen between her and me,” he said, his voice flat. He palmed the photograph, hiding it from view. I asked only one question. “The journal. A thousand pages. Who was she, and when?” “You don’t want to know.” His tone was devoid of any emotion. Moonlight spilled across the marble, but it couldn’t illuminate the expressions on our faces. The only sounds were the soft rustle of new divorce papers being pushed toward him, followed by the sharp, metallic click of a round being chambered. I lit another cigarette, the brief flare of the lighter catching my face. “Sign it.” A gust of wind billowed the curtains, scattering the papers. In the next instant, he was on me, his hand tearing at the silk of my dress. The fabric ripped away, revealing the gleam of moonlight on my polished steel prosthesis. “Audrina.” He plucked the cigarette from my lips. The silver of our two artificial limbs reflected the same cold light. “There is no one else on this earth,” he murmured, his voice low and intense, “who is a better match for you and me.” Sebastian didn’t sign the papers. For the next week, there wasn’t a single new lead on the girl. Only a name, gleaned from the charred remnants of his journal. Stella. But the girl herself couldn’t wait. She showed up at my door. Same white dress, same pale skin as the photograph. But this time, the natural blush at her eyes was overshadowed by the angry red love bites scattered across her neck and chest. “I’m pregnant,” she announced, her delicate hand resting on a barely-there swell. “It’s his.” My pen stopped moving across the financial report. She sat down in the visitor’s chair opposite my desk as if she owned the place. “You’ve probably seen the news. And you must know my name was in his journals long before he ever met you. He loves me, not you. If you can’t accept that, I’ll just have my private medical team move in here. With me being pregnant, who do you think Sebastian will kick out, Audrina? You, or me?” The heavy chair hit the floor with a muffled thud. The only sounds that followed were the girl’s gasp and the sharp, clean crack of my palm against her cheek. “You hit me!” Her eyes, already pink-tinged, went crimson with shock and disbelief. I smiled. Sebastian had kept her so well protected. This fall, this slap… it was probably the worst thing that had ever happened to her. “No wonder you had the guts to show up here alone,” I said, advancing on her. She scrambled backward on the floor, terror finally dawning in her eyes. “No… stay away!” Her whimper struck a nerve. I loomed over her, watching the tears well up, and suddenly, the overwhelming sense of familiarity I’d felt since she walked in clicked into place. She was me. She was the eighteen-year-old me, the girl in the blood-soaked white dress, stumbling to the ground, begging them to stay away on the day my family was slaughtered. “Ah!” I grabbed a fistful of her hair, and her scream was a perfect echo of my own from all those years ago. The motion pulled her head back, exposing the delicate skin of her neck. And the butterfly-shaped birthmark, clear as day. Sebastian… he’d found another me.

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