Category: English

1 My father once said that when a person dies, they leave their most prized possession to the one they love the most. When he passed away, my younger sister inherited three houses and two million dollars in cash. My mother, her eyes red from crying, shoved a thick photo album into my arms. Her voice choked with sobs. “Your father loved you the most, Shavon.” I opened the album. On the back of every single photograph was my father’s handwritten signature. The photos were all of me, crouching by the front door of my grandmother’s house. They documented, from countless angles, the six years I spent as a “left-behind child,” waiting for my parents to come back for me. I looked up, only to see my mother and sister turning their faces away, deliberately avoiding my gaze. So, in my father’s heart, this album filled with years of agonizing waiting was what he considered his “most prized possession.” … The room was so quiet I could hear my own breathing. The album stopped at the days right before they finally brought me home. A tiny version of me, wearing patched-up clothes, stumbling eagerly into my parents’ arms. They sandwiched me between them, hugging me incredibly tight. “Are you going to go far away again?” I had looked at them timidly, tilting my small head up, trying desperately not to let my tears fall. They both kissed my cheeks, squishing my face. My dad’s voice was firm and resolute. “Never. Our family will never be apart again.” That was the most sincere lie he ever told me. And it was the only time his words would come back to slap him in the face so viciously. Because the very next year after bringing me home, they had my little sister, Mia. They said it was so I would have a companion. So that when they grew old, I would have someone to “discuss things with.” Thinking back on it now, what exactly was there to discuss? Discussing who would pull his oxygen tube? No, I didn’t think so. Because the daughter he claimed was “least favored”—my sister—didn’t visit him a single time while he was paralyzed from his stroke. She didn’t even show up to see him take his last breath. It seemed the only person I had to “discuss” things with was myself. The album turned to the second page. A small figure standing under a decaying red wooden door. My “companion” didn’t keep me company. Using my schooling as an excuse, my parents took Mia and moved away for work… “Shavon.” “Hey, Sis.” Their voices broke my train of thought, pulling me back from six years of childhood isolation. My sister and mother awkwardly looked away. It was my mother who finally braced herself to look at me. “Are you okay?” I pressed my lips together and offered a light, dismissive smile. What could possibly be wrong? I was my father’s “most beloved” daughter. That was all. My mother’s eyes were filled with complex emotions. Her hand hovered in the air, wanting to comfort me, but it never landed. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t force out a single word. Mia forced a smile, looking incredibly unnatural. “Sis, don’t take it to heart.” “Dad really did love you more. He gave you his most precious possession.” I turned to look at her. She was rubbing her nose, her eyes darting everywhere but at me. “Is that so? How about I give you this ‘love,’ and we trade?” She glared at me. Before she could snap back, my mother reached around from behind and covered her mouth. “Your sister is young. Don’t stoop to her level.” Right. A six-year age gap. I was forty. She was thirty-six. We were both mothers now, yet in my mother’s eyes, she was still just a child. I waved the photo album and smiled, raising an eyebrow. “I’m just messing with her. Dad loved me the most; how could I ever bear to trade?” Ignoring my mother’s distrustful gaze, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second, and pasted on a fake smile. “I’m really fine.” “The burial is done, the estate is divided. Since there’s nothing else, I’ll be going.” My mother watched me leave with a tight smile, offering a hollow platitude. “Stay a little longer.” “You’ll miss home when you leave.” Yet her feet remained firmly glued to the floor. I waved them off. “No need.” “Home,” according to my father’s will, had already been transferred to Mia. Every trace of my existence had long been scrubbed from that small two-bedroom apartment. The other two properties were permanently rented out. I had nowhere to sit, let alone sleep. I took one last look at Mia, hiding safely behind my mother, staring at me with pure resentment. I looked at the house I had lived in for less than five years. There was nothing of me here. Only a younger sister draped in designer brands, protected by our mother. I closed the door. The heavy stares disappeared. The air out in the hallway tasted slightly sweet. A sudden, inexplicable lightness washed over my entire body. Even the photo album in my hands looked a bit more tolerable. I just didn’t understand why my chest felt so hollow, why my throat was tightening. Even my tears betrayed me, blurring the makeup I had spent an hour applying. Maybe it was because I finally accepted reality. In his heart, Mia was worth three houses and two million dollars. And I was worth a photo album. Dad’s “most precious love”… it turned out I was the only one stupid enough to take it seriously. 2 I couldn’t help but find it hilarious. I wiped away my tears and practically fled the building, clutching the album to my chest. Even after sitting in my own bedroom for an hour, my mind was entirely blank. My husband, David, reached out and gently touched my forehead. “If you need to cry, my shoulder is right here.” Was I sad? Honestly, no. Just a dry throat and stinging eyes. Nothing more. David gently took the album from my hands. “You as a kid? You were pretty cute.” As he slowly flipped through the pages, my brain felt like a tangled ball of yarn. The night my father passed, we had actually argued about this very issue. “We had to leave you at your grandmother’s house back then. We had no choice. But later, we brought you back,” he had said, his trembling hand grabbing mine. “No one in this family ever played favorites. You’re just too calculative.” “When you have kids of your own, you’ll understand my intentions.” I had mercilessly pried his fingers off mine, meticulously wiping my skin where he had touched me. “I can stop calculating. But while you were paralyzed, why did you only call for me, and never for her?” The father and daughter had fallen into a suffocating silence. My dad, who usually loved to complain about how clumsy and useless Mia was, didn’t utter a single word in her defense. This deeply skewed, biased love had always been our family’s poison. It was the knot I could never untie. He didn’t say anything. His mouth hung open, but the words never came, and then, he took his last breath. Six years of being a left-behind child felt like a cosmic joke. In a trance, I remembered my grandmother wiping away my tears over and over again. “Your dad went to get medical treatment. When he’s better, he’ll come pick you up.” Yeah. He got better, and I went home. But arriving with them was Mia, born the year after they left. My dad had patted my head, speaking with heavy significance. “Mia is your companion. When we’re old, you’ll have someone to discuss things with.” “She’s too young; she needs constant care. So we have to take her with us.” “You have school tomorrow. We’re just going away for two months. We’ll be back soon.” I remember frowning, throwing a tantrum on the floor. “Liars! You can’t take me because of your medical treatment, so why are you taking Mia?!” A little girl’s tears didn’t buy any sympathy from my parents. Early the next morning, they left. The space next to my bed was empty and freezing cold. And so began my next cycle of living under someone else’s roof. Because of school districts, I was moved from my loving grandmother’s house to my step-grandmother’s house. She was my grandfather’s second wife, a harsh woman who absolutely despised me. Annoyed at having an extra mouth to feed, she constantly scowled. “Why do girls eat like pigs?” “When you’re done stuffing your face, go wash the dishes.” “You’re so lazy. No one will ever marry you. No wonder your own parents don’t even like you.” Her vicious words hit me right in the chest. I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. My shoulders shook violently as I let my tears fall silently onto the freshly washed bowls. The brutal truth of the world is: it doesn’t matter if you make mistakes. As long as you are the favored one, you win by simply existing. 3 Love doesn’t care about timing or logic. As long as it’s her, she wins. It took me half my life to finally understand that sentence. David continued turning the pages until he reached the very end. It wasn’t a family portrait. It wasn’t a photo of me and my dad. It was a photo of David and me. My dad took it himself during a family trip, right before I married David and moved to a different city. Scrawled at the bottom in crooked handwriting were the words: My daughter has truly grown up. Is it time I let go and let her be a free bird? As I rubbed my thumb over the ink, I quickly felt a raised texture on the back of the photo. Written on the back were two words: I’m sorry. When my eyes locked onto those letters, it felt like a thousand needles plunged straight into my heart. It hurt so much I stopped breathing; it hurt so much I couldn’t even cry. Back then, he had sneered, “A married daughter is like spilled water.” “If you marry someone far away, you think it’ll be easy to come home?” “You think the world is so simple. You’ll definitely never come back. Maybe not for a year, maybe not for ten…” Young and full of pride, I refused to accept it. I believed that as long as I had money, distance meant absolutely nothing. And I was right. I was incredibly driven. I grabbed every single opportunity to climb the ladder. I worked a corporate job during the day and wrote web novels at night. My career skyrocketed, and my first novel became a massive hit. Aside from the first two years of our marriage when money was incredibly tight, I flew home twice a year, every year, staying for two months at a time. Just like summer and winter breaks in school. Arrive on time, leave on time. Until one trip, I found the locks on the front door had been changed. “Don’t come home so often,” my dad’s booming voice came through the phone receiver, stabbing my heart. My voice trembled. “Why?” “Stop asking why. The house belongs to your sister now. If you need something, wait until I come visit you.” It turned out Mia had her eye on a guy from another city. My parents were worried about her, so they rode the train with her to meet his family. As for the house? Because the guy was broke and couldn’t afford a down payment, my dad proudly declared, “You married someone else and moved away. If I don’t give it to your sister, who do I give it to?” “If I give it to her, she’ll stay close and take care of me. The house is her leverage.” “Once she has the house, she’ll settle down here with us.” So, the real reason they had forced me to buy a house in my husband’s city years ago was so they could give their own house to Mia. I had glared at them, pointing a shaking finger. “If you wanted to give her the house, fine. But why did you force me to buy one near you guys in the first place?” My dad grew impatient and practically shoved me out the door. “Stop asking so many damn questions!” “Your wings are fully grown now! If you don’t want to be here, then get the hell out!” “It’s my damn house! I’ll give it to whoever I want!” Right. Three houses. They lived in one, gave one to Mia, and rented the third one out. And under his strict demands, I had to buy a house in my new city using the money that was supposed to be my dowry. They provided absolutely zero financial support for my wedding. They just said they wouldn’t ask for a bride price from David, and that the house we bought would serve as “their” leverage for me. The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off the sound of laughter inside. Returning to the apartment I bought myself, I couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Come visit often. A promise nobody else in that house gave a damn about, but I was the only idiot who took it seriously. My phone ringing shattered my memories. It was Mia. “Sis, I’ll give you one of the houses. Can we talk?”

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On move-in day at my new university, I was buzzing with excitement. I had hauled a bunch of homemade baked goods all the way from my hometown, totally ready to win over my new roommates. But the moment I finished my awkward little introduction, the vibe shifted. Before I could even unpack, these three guys literally shoved me back out into the hallway, their faces twisted in pure disgust. They made it aggressively clear they were not sharing a room with me. The situation escalated straight to the Resident Director. Mr. Harrison looked completely stressed out by the whole ordeal, but he scrambled to find me an empty bed in another freshman dorm. Except, history repeated itself. I had barely dragged my suitcase to the new door when the guys inside blocked the entrance. They did not just refuse to let me in. They flat out declared they would rather drop out of college than breathe the same air as me. I was losing my mind trying to figure out why. Had someone been spreading rumors about me? But I had literally never crossed anyone in my life. I scoured the freshman Discord servers, the campus subreddit, and the anonymous confession pages. There was absolutely zero mention of my name. I tried chatting up other guys in my classes. At first, they would talk to me normally. But the second I casually mentioned needing a roommate, their expressions would freeze, and they would immediately find an excuse to walk away. And the worst part? Not a single person was willing to look me in the eye and tell me what I was doing wrong. 1 “Mr. Harrison, we absolutely refuse to live with him.” “Yeah, if you force us to take him, I’m literally packing my bags right now.” “Guys, come on…” Mr. Harrison sighed, realizing his attempts to mediate were completely useless. He shot me a helpless look. “Look, guys, I’m really sorry to ask, but could you just tell me why?” I reached out, gently grabbing one of the guy’s sleeves in pure desperation. “I’m super chill, I swear. I stayed in dorms during high school. I am not the type to cause drama.” He just glared at me and violently shook off my hand. “There is no ‘why.’ We just aren’t rooming with you. End of story.” I stared at my heavy suitcase, feeling a wave of exhaustion crash over me. I leaned against the doorframe, fighting back tears. I had always been a quiet, introverted guy. I did not have a massive friend group, but I never made enemies either. I just could not understand why arriving in a brand new city, at a brand new school, surrounded by total strangers, felt like a punishment. Everyone was treating me like I was radioactive. “I am so sorry, Arthur. I just can’t find a single room willing to take you right now,” Mr. Harrison said softly, giving my shoulder a sympathetic pat. “We don’t have any single dorms available. How about you stay at a cheap motel off campus for a few days? I will keep trying to shuffle some room assignments.” He offered a weak smile. “Don’t stress too much. People probably just got the wrong idea about you. Once they get to know you, it’ll all blow over.” That sparked a thought. Did someone say something about me? Mr. Harrison’s words triggered a frantic search. I pulled out my phone and scrolled endlessly through every class group chat, the campus forums, and social media pages. I scrolled until my thumb cramped. Nothing. Not a single post about me. Besides, I was the only kid from my small town high school to get accepted here. There was literally nobody on this campus who even knew my past. While I was sitting in an empty lecture hall, totally lost in my own head, someone called my name. “Arthur! No way, we have the same class?” I looked up and recognized Noah. He was the very first person I met on campus. On my way to orientation, he had suffered a severe blood sugar drop and nearly passed out on the sidewalk. I was the one who caught him, ran to a vending machine, and shoved a sports drink and a granola bar into his hands. I had to rush off to move my stuff before we could even swap numbers, so seeing him here felt like a miracle. “Noah! Man, does your room have an empty bed? Can I please be your roommate?” I grabbed his arm, clinging to him like he was a life raft. 2 I had literally just saved the guy from a medical emergency. He knew I was a decent person. Even if there were some insane rumors floating around, he wouldn’t believe them. Mr. Harrison and I had practically knocked on every door in the building except for one. I had been too heartbroken to try the last room on the list. I never expected Noah to be living in that exact room. I held my breath, waiting for him to nod and save me from this nightmare. Instead, the color completely drained from Noah’s face the second the word “roommate” left my mouth. “No. We’re full.” His friendly smile vanished, replaced by a look of absolute terror. He stepped back, putting distance between us. “My roommates would never agree to it anyway.” “Noah, why? Why does everyone hate the idea of living with me?” My voice cracked. I gripped his jacket, completely breaking down. I did not even care about moving into his room anymore. I just wanted the truth. “You know I’m a good guy. Just tell me what’s wrong with me, and I’ll fix it.” He yanked himself out of my grip, his eyes darting around nervously. “There’s no reason. We just don’t want you there.” Feeling entirely hopeless, I took to an anonymous college advice forum. I poured my heart out. We are all freshmen, we are all strangers, so why am I the only one being treated like a monster? The internet was quick to offer theories. One comment caught my eye. “Did someone start a rumor that you have a severe contagious disease?” A chill ran down my spine. It made horrible sense. Lately, there had been some privacy controversies on campus regarding students with severe bloodborne viruses. To protect their identities, the school never released names. Did someone point the finger at me? I did not waste a single second. I booked an appointment at the local hospital and requested a full panel. I tested for every communicable disease under the sun. The agonizing wait took days, but the results finally hit my inbox. Everything was negative. I was perfectly healthy. I was so relieved that I literally projected my medical records onto the smartboard before a lecture started. Just to prove I hadn’t photoshopped anything, I logged into the hospital portal live in front of thirty people and pulled up the official documents. I thought the nightmare was over. The misunderstanding was cleared up. But when I asked around the room afterward, people just looked at the floor. Still, nobody would take me in. I posted the update online, begging for more advice. “Maybe they think you’re psychologically unstable? Like, an actual psycho?” another user suggested. Back to the hospital I went. I sat through hours of rigorous psychiatric evaluations. The results were crystal clear. My mental health was perfectly stable. No disorders, no red flags. I showed these papers to everyone. I even had my childhood friends record video testimonials swearing I was the most normal, harmless guy on the planet. It didn’t change a thing. The mere mention of me moving in made guys threaten to pack their bags and leave the state. At this point, the internet turned on me. Since neither health nor sanity was the issue, the anonymous crowd decided I was the villain. The comments shifted from helpful to brutal. “Bro is definitely leaving out the part where he’s a total creep.” “You don’t get universally hated for zero reason. You’re definitely hiding something messed up.” “Engagement bait. Block this clown.” My inbox flooded with death threats and vile insults. Completely defeated, I deleted the post and locked my phone. ‘3 The bizarre legend of my rejection bled into other majors. People who didn’t even know me started whispering when I walked through the quad. Some claimed I had committed an unforgivable crime in my hometown. Others swore I was a walking biohazard. Every time I stepped into an academic building, I could feel the heavy, judgmental stares burning into my back. I had been living in a cheap motel for half a month, and the daily rates were bleeding my bank account dry. With zero options left, I had to do the one thing I dreaded most. I had to ask my parents for more money. But when I FaceTimed them, I saw them sitting on the dusty tailgate of a rusted pickup truck at their construction site, eating cold, dry sandwiches. The words died in my throat. My parents had me late in life. Terrified that they wouldn’t be able to provide enough, they decided I would be their only child. We were never rich, but they worked their fingers to the bone to give me everything. They did not have fancy degrees and couldn’t pull strings to help me in the real world, but their love was the only thing keeping me sane. “Arthur, honey, how are the dorms? Are you getting along with the boys?” my mom asked, wiping dust off her cheek. “We know you’re a bit quiet, but try to put yourself out there. Order a pizza for the room,” my dad chimed in. “Making a few solid buddies will make the workload way easier.” My mom squinted at the screen. “Are you eating enough, sweetie? You look so skinny, and it’s only been a few weeks.” Hearing the pure, unconditional love in her voice against the backdrop of my living nightmare almost broke me. Tears pricked my eyes. I made up an excuse about being late for a study group and hung up fast. Even though I didn’t ask, a notification popped up a minute later. Mom had transferred a hundred bucks with a note telling me to buy something nice for dinner. I had to get out of that motel. I begged Mr. Harrison to look outside our major. Anywhere. Any building. Finally, his relentless emailing paid off. He found a single open bed. “It’s a suite full of seniors from the engineering program,” Mr. Harrison explained, looking visibly relieved. “Most of them are off doing internships, so the place is pretty quiet. Both their RD and I talked to them. They know your situation, and they actually agreed to let you move in.” I literally cried. I thanked him over and over. Finally, someone was willing to treat me like a human being. I packed my bags with a massive smile on my face, moved into the suite, and spent three hours deep cleaning the entire place. I scrubbed the floors and wiped down the counters, hoping to give my older roommates a great impression whenever they returned. I didn’t have to wait long. I had only enjoyed two peaceful nights of normal college life when I got a text saying one of the seniors was coming back from his internship. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. The next day, I was a nervous wreck, terrified he would take one look at me and demand I leave. But my fears were completely unfounded. Chris, the senior, was incredibly chill. He walked in, tossed his duffel bag on the couch, and handed me a box of fancy donuts he brought from the city. When he saw the spotless kitchen, he acted like he had won the lottery, calling me the greatest freshman to ever exist. For the first time since stepping foot on this campus, I felt the warmth of actual friendship. Chris and I clicked. Everything felt like it was finally falling into place. Until Thursday. I had just finished my afternoon lab. I bought a huge pizza and a massive watermelon, excited to crush some video games with Chris like we planned. But when I turned the corner to our suite, the hallway was completely packed. Chris was standing there with his arms crossed. Next to him were Mr. Harrison, the engineering RD, and two guys I didn’t recognize. Judging by the aggressive body language, they had to be the other two seniors living in the suite. “No way. He packs his trash and leaves tonight.” 4 “We’re seniors, man. Why the hell did you dump a random freshman in our space?” one of the strangers yelled. “We will literally pay for the empty bed ourselves. We’ll split the cost three ways. Just get Arthur out of here.” I stood frozen. Chris, the guy who had been laughing and eating donuts with me yesterday, was currently glaring at the door like he wanted to physically throw my belongings out the window. My brain short-circuited. My grip slipped. The heavy watermelon crashed onto the hard linoleum floor. It shattered into pieces, the bright red juice bleeding across the tiles like my own fractured heart. “Chris… what’s going on?” I stammered, my voice trembling. “I thought we were cool. We were just hanging out.” “Why is everyone doing this to me? What did I do?” I completely snapped. I dropped the pizza box, ran over, and grabbed Chris by his hoodie, begging him to just talk to me. I was practically on my knees in the middle of the hallway. Chris just looked at me with eyes as cold as ice. He yanked his hoodie out of my hands. “Pack your stuff and leave, Arthur. Now.” He warned me that if I didn’t willingly walk out that door, they would blast music and scream until the entire dorm building called campus security. Even when Mr. Harrison threatened them with disciplinary action right before graduation, the seniors didn’t flinch. They would rather face academic penalties than sleep under the same roof as me. Not wanting to cause a scene that would get me expelled, I silently packed my bags. Mr. Harrison pulled me aside, looking completely defeated. He admitted there was literally not a single room left on campus that would accept me. He promised to expedite a full refund of my housing fees so I could rent a cheap apartment off campus. I was too numb to argue. I accepted defeat. I found a grueling part-time job at a busy campus coffee shop to cover the rent of a tiny studio apartment. Thankfully, between my fast-tracked refund and the coffee shop tips, I was able to make ends meet without begging my parents for cash. A week later, I was wiping down the espresso machine when a familiar face walked up to the register. Noah. Ever since he rejected me outside his dorm, we had avoided each other like the plague. But today, seeing me in the apron, he actually initiated a conversation. “Arthur… I just wanted to say thank you again. For that first day.” He rubbed the back of his neck, refusing to make eye contact. “If you hadn’t caught me, I probably would have cracked my skull on the pavement.” “Anyone would have done it. Don’t worry about it,” I replied, my voice completely flat. I slid his iced latte across the counter. The relentless rejections had drained every ounce of empathy out of my body. I was done trying to be the nice guy. “Look, Arthur, I…” Noah looked agonizingly guilty. Gone was the panicked, defensive guy who had backed away from me in the hallway. He paced around the pickup counter for several minutes, clearly wrestling with something massive. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Eventually, the shift manager yelled at him to clear the line, and he bolted out the door. “What was his deal?” my coworker asked, raising an eyebrow. “Looks like he owes you a thousand bucks with that sad puppy expression.” I just shook my head. Truth be told, I was noticing a really bizarre shift in the campus dynamic. The moment I moved off campus and officially gave up on the dorms, the invisible wall around me started to crack. Guys who used to sprint the other way when I walked past were suddenly nodding at me in the library. When professors assigned group projects, I wasn’t the last one picked anymore. People actually invited me to their study tables. Noah was the most obvious. He constantly hovered around me in lectures, clearly desperate to mend fences, but always choking up before he could explain himself. I couldn’t figure out the logic, but honestly? I didn’t care anymore. If playing the role of the off-campus loner got me through the next four years in peace, I would gladly take it. Once I grabbed my degree, I was leaving this weird, toxic place behind forever. I had made my peace with it. But someone else hadn’t.

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There’s this game making the rounds with my buddies lately. The idea is to pretend you’ve gone bankrupt for a month, just to see if the woman in your life is the real deal. To make it convincing, not only did my friends and family agree to play along, but my company even brought in a “new boss” to complete the charade. I swapped my designer clothes for a cheap five-dollar t-shirt and a beat-up trucker hat. Full of confidence, I went to find the woman I thought I loved more than anyone: Serena. But the second she saw me, her face twisted in disgust. Without a word, she had security throw me out like a piece of trash. I just stood there for a long time, my mind a total blank. When I finally came to my senses, I shakily dialed another number. When the call connected, I said in a raw voice, “Sophie, honey? Daddy’s gone broke. I don’t even have a place to stay.” On the other end, my daughter’s sweet, innocent voice replied, a gentle comfort. “Daddy, don’t be scared. You can have my room.” 1 When Benny’s call came, I was in the kitchen baking a cake. My daughter, who was playing a game on my phone, answered it. I don’t know what he said, but suddenly, my four-year-old’s face lit up, and she came running towards me. She ran so fast one of her little shoes fell off. “Mommy, this is great! Daddy’s gone bankrupt! He can come to my birthday party this year!” Bankrupt? The call was still connected. The contact name was “Ex-Husband.” The last time Benny had called was on New Year’s. He only ever contacted me on holidays. He’d summon me to his parents’ house to play the happy couple, to keep the old folks happy. The moment we were out of their sight, he’d coldly drop my hand and drive off to be with Serena. His back seat would be piled high with gift boxes, the passenger seat covered in a sea of red roses. I would clutch the thousand-dollar “performance fee” he’d tossed me and stand in the biting wind, feeling nothing. Because with that money, Sophie and I had our rent covered for the next six months. Hearing that Benny was bankrupt, I was just confused. Why wasn’t he calling his precious, doted-upon Serena? Why was he calling me, a woman he couldn’t stand the sight of? Benny’s voice came through the phone, cautious. “Luna… I have nowhere to stay, and I haven’t eaten all day. Can you… can you take me in?” I was about to say “No.” But my daughter clutched my skirt. Her big, grape-purple eyes blinked, full of hope and pleading. “Mommy, please? Just let Daddy be here for my birthday this one time. All the other kids have both their parents at their birthday parties.” I looked down at her, and my heart ached. I knew how much Sophie longed for a father’s love. Benny did love Sophie, in his own way. He’d take her to theme parks, buy her little dresses, and send her entire sets of those princess mystery boxes. But then one day, Sophie came home with her head hanging low and said she would never “bother” her daddy again. I dropped my spatula and stormed over to his villa. With the arm strength I’d built from washing a thousand dishes a day, I slapped Serena across the face, again and again. I shoved her head into the toilet to give that filthy mouth of hers a good rinse. After that, Benny never mentioned seeing Sophie again. But today was Sophie’s birthday. All she wanted was to have her parents with her. I relented. “Benny, Sophie misses you. You can come over for dinner.” On the other end, the man let out a sigh of relief. It was the sound of someone realizing they hadn’t lost everything after all. “You’re still at The Crestwood Estates, right? I’m on my way.” I was confused. “Where? I’ve never been there.” I rented an apartment at Maple Creek, close to the kindergarten. Our street was lined with food stalls. At night, you could hear the muffled bass from the karaoke bar across the road, and the pest control van made its scheduled rounds right below our window. It was a world away from the luxury complex Benny was talking about. There was a long silence on the phone before he asked for my current address. Even in his cheap clothes, the man’s presence was undeniable. The moment he walked in, Sophie launched herself at him, hugging his leg. Benny stroked her head fondly, his eyes scanning our small two-bedroom apartment. The warmth in them instantly vanished. “This is the kind of place you have my daughter living in?” 2 My hand, holding the teapot, froze. The apartment was nicely renovated, with clean, natural wood finishes. From the large appliances down to the cartoon-themed floor mats, Sophie had picked everything out herself, and I had paid for it. No matter how hard things got, I never let Sophie feel inferior about what she ate, wore, or where she lived. And yet, Benny’s first act upon entering my home was to find fault. But then again, he and Serena lived in a 5,000-square-foot villa. Of course this felt cramped to him. I dumped the tea I was making into the trash and pulled my daughter aside. “Sophie, sweetie, why don’t you go to your room and see if you can find the birthday present Mommy hid for you, okay?” The little girl’s face lit up, and she ran into her bedroom. My smile vanished. I shot daggers at Benny. “This kind of place? Who was it just now, begging to come to ‘this kind of place’? You don’t even have ‘this kind of place’ to live in anymore. What right do you have to criticize me?” Benny quickly composed himself. He was supposed to be a bankrupt loser now. Not a CEO. He sat down on the sofa, looking a bit awkward. “You misunderstood. I meant, why aren’t you living in the house I gave you?” I had no idea what he was talking about. “What house?” When we divorced, all I had was a single suitcase and my three-month-old daughter, Sophie. The little money I had came from selling the jewelry his parents had given me. Benny’s handsome brow furrowed. “Luna, you gave me a child. Even if I don’t love you, I would never neglect my own flesh and blood.” “I had my secretary, Mr. Quinn, buy a house for you both, and I set aside a large settlement for you. You didn’t take it?” A house? A settlement? This was the first I was hearing of it. But it clicked into place immediately. “I didn’t take a single thing. Are you broke now and trying to shake me down for money?” Benny’s eyes narrowed, a storm of regret brewing within them. “Luna, I would sooner beg on the streets than take a dime from you. In this entire world, the person I’ve wronged the most is you.” Our past was like a trashy novel. I was the orphaned daughter of the man who had saved Benny’s father’s life. The Young family took me in when I was eight, and his father doted on me. His mother liked my gentle nature. And Benny, two years my senior, treated me like a little sister he had to protect. He’d fight off the bullies who picked on me. He took me to see beautiful places, to interact with animals. He did everything he could to pull me out of the grief of losing my parents. And I poured my secret crush into my diary. “Luna loves Benny. Will Benny ever love Luna?” In my senior year of college, I got my answer. Benny proposed. I was overjoyed that he loved me back. Like a fool, I went with him to get our marriage license. It cost nine dollars. I didn’t know that his father had given me 10% of the company’s shares as a dowry, while making Benny start from the bottom. Benny wasn’t marrying me. He was marrying a comfortable life and a promising future. After we married, I was lost in a dream of love. I cooked for him, ironed his shirts, picked him up from late-night meetings. But while I was pregnant, he cheated on me with a “sympathetic” intern. Serena, who was half a year older than me. He said Serena understood him, that she was his soulmate, that they were true love. He said what he felt for me was just familial affection. Benny’s father, with his sharp eye, saw through Serena’s cunning and hypocrisy. He declared that as long as he was alive, that vixen would never set foot in his house. Benny came up with a compromise. He wouldn’t divorce me, keeping me around to appease his parents. But he would give Serena all the perks of being his wife, short of a marriage certificate. That day was the tenth day after Sophie was born. I, who had always let Benny walk all over me, ripped out my IV, grabbed the fruit knife, and without a second thought, plunged it into my own abdomen. Marrying Benny was my mistake. I was young, foolishly in love, an absolute idiot. His cheating, his treating me like a maid—I deserved it all. But I would rather die than let him ruin my daughter’s life. Blood pooled on the floor. Benny froze. He was panicked, terrified, guilt-ridden. He pressed his hands to my stomach, his fingers trembling uncontrollably. “Luna, don’t die.” 3 I was stubborn. If he didn’t agree to a divorce and give me full custody of our daughter, I would kill myself. If they saved me, I’d do it again, until I was dead for good. If I died, his father would make Serena’s life a living hell. To protect Serena, Benny signed the divorce papers. The day I left, he gave me one last instruction. We had to keep the divorce a secret. On holidays, I had to come back and play the happy wife for his parents. I said fine. I’d charge by the appearance. One thousand dollars a pop. For Benny, the man I would “rather die than be with,” to have to turn around and pay me—it was a blow to his pride. His face contorted in a sneer. “Don’t you have any feelings for me at all? Is money all you care about? Fine. I won’t give you a single cent. I’ll wait for you to come crawling back, broke and begging.” He was a man of his word. The “financial compensation” mentioned in the divorce agreement? I never saw a dime of it. I did live a life of poverty, but I got back on my feet, all by myself. I never once went back to him. Thinking back, Benny pressed his fingers to his temples. “I was just angry. A single mother and a child… of course I wouldn’t have actually abandoned you.” “But your angry words were my life for the past four years.” Benny was silenced. He looked around the room again. The furniture wasn’t cheap, but it was far from luxurious. A single pair of Serena’s socks cost a few hundred dollars. The clothes I was wearing were years old. Benny picked up his phone and called his secretary, Mr. Quinn. “Mr. Young… I mean, Benny. What can I do for you?” With a new boss in charge, Mr. Quinn was still adjusting. Benny’s voice took on its old authoritative tone. “Four years ago, I asked you to buy a house in The Crestwood Estates and set aside an eighty-million-dollar settlement. Did you deliver it to my ex-wife personally?” Eighty million? That would have been enough for Sophie and me to live comfortably for the rest of our lives. Mr. Quinn hesitated. “Well… I think you’ll have to ask Ms. Serena about that…” Her again. A wave of pure hatred washed over me. Serena already had so much. If she dared to touch what belonged to Sophie, I would make her regret it. At seven o’clock, I brought a Lamb-themed cake to the table. Sophie squealed with delight. “Wow, Mommy, you’re amazing! I love you so much!” My phone buzzed with messages from other parents in her class. “Did your mom make that herself? It looks better than the custom one I ordered from a bakery! I’m so jealous!” “Sophie’s mom is so talented. She can do fox makeup, make handmade bags, carve fruit… and now she makes beautiful cakes too…” In the past four years, I’d done every odd job imaginable to make ends meet, turning myself into a jack-of-all-trades out of sheer necessity. Sophie carefully cut the cake, giving the first piece to me and the second to Benny. “Daddy, this is the first birthday you’ve ever spent with me. I’m so, so happy.” Benny, who had been staring blankly at his phone, snapped back to reality and accepted the cake with exaggerated enthusiasm. I knew what he was thinking about. Today was also Serena’s birthday. In all the years past, he had always celebrated with her. It was no coincidence that my daughter and my rival shared a birthday. When I was nine months pregnant, Serena got tired of just taunting me with texts and photos. Or mailing me the free samples that came with the luxury goods Benny bought her. She came to the hospital to provoke me in person. It was her birthday, and Benny had just given her an engagement ring, promising her the wedding of the century. She came to invite me and my unborn child to attend. The rage and stress sent me into premature labor. I hemorrhaged, and we both nearly died. For the first time, Benny scolded Serena. Serena’s eyes filled with tears. “I just wanted to be with you, out in the open…” Benny’s heart melted, and he pulled her into his arms. “Shh, I’m keeping her around to protect you.” Just on the other side of the wall, I was fighting for my life in the delivery room. All I felt was disgust and despair. 4 The pain was a blade twisting in my soul. So now, hearing Benny was bankrupt, all I could think was that he deserved it. After the cake, I tried to kick him out. Benny looked at me pitifully. “I have nowhere to go.” I shoved him out the door with all my strength. “Not my problem. Go find her.” The hallway light flickered on, then off. Benny stood outside my door for a long time. Then his body slid down against the door, his head sinking in defeat. In truth, Serena was the first person he had gone to. Benny had thought to himself, I’ve spoiled Serena for four years, given her anything she ever wanted. When she heard he was in trouble, she would surely be frantic, ready to do anything for him. If she was willing to sell just one of the properties he’d bought her, she would pass his test. He couldn’t bear to make it too hard on her. But when Serena saw him in his blue-collar getup, she couldn’t hide her disgust. A needle pricked the man’s heart. Serena quickly masked it with a smile and welcomed him in. She figured this was all part of some elaborate birthday surprise. Pretend to be broke, then reveal the real gift. But a moment later, she saw a message in the group chat she shared with Benny’s wealthy friends. “The Young family is done for. Even his parents fled the country overnight.” “He sold the company and still owes a billion. Benny will be paying that off for the rest of his life.” “Not necessarily. He bought Serena all those houses and luxury goods. She can sell them to pay it off. But then, she’ll have to live a simple life with him.” Someone remembered that Serena was in the chat. Another friend cursed. She was immediately kicked from the group. Serena’s eyes went wide. It was so brutally real. Before, it was always “Serena, darling,” “our girl.” Now, they couldn’t even kick her out without a curse word. A storm was coming, and she had to save herself. “Your family is bankrupt? What does that have to do with me? Do we have a marriage license? Do your parents even accept me? Why should I have to sell my houses?” Benny’s heart hammered in his chest. He thought he must have misheard. His sweet, understanding girlfriend… how could she suddenly sound like this? “Serena, what are you saying? Besides a piece of paper, what haven’t I given you? I practically tore out my own heart for you. I gave up my wife and child for you.” Benny thought that would appeal to her sense of loyalty. He was wrong. Serena just scoffed. “You gave me those things willingly. I’ve never heard of anyone asking for gifts back. I slept with you for four years. You didn’t expect to get that for free, did you?” “Besides…” Seeing the raw fury in Benny’s eyes, Serena’s contempt grew. “A man who can abandon his own wife and child… you really think I’d want a man like that?” “Your wife nearly died in childbirth, and you didn’t care. Who knows if there will be a fourth or a fifth woman down the line? Who’s to say you wouldn’t do the same to me?” Benny staggered, barely able to stand, but he had no rebuttal. Serena fiddled with her phone. “Well, you’re useless to me now. So here’s a little parting gift. I’ll tell you why your wife was so desperate to divorce you.” “From the first time you slept with me, I sent her everything. Photos of our dates, our time in bed, the gifts you bought me. I sent it all.” “She really put up with it for a long time. It took me pushing her into premature labor for her to finally snap. I’m not a fool like her. I would never be your free maid, your baby-making machine…” A bolt of lightning seared through Benny’s brain. So, Luna had given him chances. So many chances. Serena dropped the act completely. “Benny, darling. I scraped your social media clean the day I started at the company. I knew all your likes and dislikes. What you thought was a soul connection was just me doing my homework… honestly, it was exhausting trying to keep you entertained…” Benny couldn’t take it anymore. He lunged forward and wrapped his hands around her throat, as if to strangle the life out of her. “You… you were only after my money! You used my love! You destroyed my marriage! You nearly cost me my child! My father was right, you’re a disease!” Before he could finish, security guards, summoned by Serena, dragged him away and threw him out of the building. It was the end of June, but Benny was shivering uncontrollably. Just then, his phone buzzed. It was a notification from the group chat named “Her True Heart.” The same friends from before had created a private chat to check on the results of their game. “Benny, bro, we just put on a hell of a show. Is Serena scrambling to sell a house to save you?” Benny typed back with furious thumbs: “Her name is Luna, and I’m going to win her back.”

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When a gentle new sister appeared in our home, I saw my brother smile for the first time in ages. He said she would live with us and take care of me like he did. I grabbed a greeting card and ran over, asking if she knew my brother’s New Year’s wish. She knelt, patted my head, and smiled. “His biggest wish is for you to disappear from this world.” Suddenly, memories rushed back—my parents lying in blood, my brother’s broken vow at their grave, the dishes I’d smashed, his endless tears. After the tragedy, I became the “idiot” everyone whispered about. Our money drained fast because of my illness. Brother studied by day, worked at night. He’d come home exhausted to a house I’d trashed. I’d throw filth at him, screaming that he wanted to hurt me. He never got angry, just held me with red eyes, repeating, “I’m your brother.” Later, my illness grew worse. He had to take me everywhere. One day, I ruined yet another job he’d finally found. He crouched on the floor, back to me, shoulders shaking. “Celeste, why don’t you just die?” His voice broke. “Please… stop tormenting me.” That sentence unlocked my memory. I walked over, wiped his face with my sleeve, and whispered, “Brother, don’t cry.” He turned and hugged me tight, sobbing apologies. But now I see—those moments of clarity, his occasional tenderness, were just the calm before the storm. Some wishes were never just words. 1 I stared blankly at my sister, and it took a long time for a sentence to tumble out of my mouth: “Die, what is ‘die’?” My sister scoffed, saying mockingly, “You really are an idiot, you don’t even know what dying is.” She knelt down and patiently explained to me, “‘Die’ is like your mom and dad, gone, no longer existing.” I backed away three steps in terror, shaking my head. “Brother says, don’t want Celeste to die.” My sister stood up, looking down at me. “Your brother has changed his mind. He told me his wish is for you to disappear.” “So, Celeste, go die quickly. It’s good for your brother and good for me.” I stood rooted to the spot, clutching the greeting card in my hands, trying hard to understand what my sister said. When I came to, I saw the sliced fruit scattered all over the table, and the trash from the bin had spilled out. No, the house is so messy, Brother will be angry. So, I knelt down, wanting to put the trash back in the bin. There was a noise outside. The front door opened. Brother was home. I flashed him a smile, about to say that Celeste was very good today, when I saw my sister run crying to him, throwing herself into his embrace. She pointed at the trash on the floor and said, “I really can’t handle your sister anymore. I fed her fruit, and not only did she refuse to eat it, but she also threw things everywhere!” A hint of an apologetic smile appeared on Brother’s face. He stroked my sister’s head and said, “You’ve worked hard, Honey. Sigh… The doctor said my sister’s condition was improving, and I didn’t expect her to start again after just a few days.” My mouth slightly agape, I instinctively wanted to refute, but my mind couldn’t form a complete sentence. I could only stammer, “Celeste, didn’t…” My sister glanced at me, then complained to Brother again, “She’s even lying now.” Brother sighed, knelt down, and said to me, “Celeste, lying is wrong.” “And, didn’t Brother tell you to listen to your sister at home? Why didn’t you listen?” I was bewildered. But… sister told me to die. Brother, do I really have to listen to my sister? My already damaged CPU was overheating. My head swam, and I collapsed softly into Brother’s arms. My sister leaned over and asked, “Can your sister really recover?” Brother held me tighter, stating with certainty, “Yes, even if there’s only a one in ten thousand chance, I will cure my sister!” Brother didn’t notice the dark shadow that flickered in my sister’s eyes. But soon, she said softly, “Mmm, you go to work. I’ll help you take care of your sister.” Brother’s eyes welled up with emotion, and my nightmare truly began. One day, she sat on the sofa watching TV, calling me over to massage her legs. I clumsily massaged her, but she kicked me away. “Are you an idiot? You can’t even massage legs?” I was kicked several feet away, crying out in pain. My sister, however, complained to my brother when he returned, saying I wasn’t listening again. Brother could only repeatedly tell me to listen to my sister. I choked back sobs, reaching out to hug him like he used to, but Brother slapped my hand away, saying firmly: “Celeste, say it, ‘I will listen to my sister.’” I cried, trembling, mumbling indistinctly, “Brother says, I have to, listen to my sister…” At this, my sister hugged me tenderly and told my brother, “Vincent, your sister is still a child. Don’t be so harsh. It’s fine if I suffer a little.” Brother was so touched that he didn’t notice my lips were white with fear in my sister’s embrace. My sister saw that my brother fully believed her. From then on, whenever my brother wasn’t around, my sister became a different person. She would secretly pinch the inside of my arm. I instinctively wanted to pull my hand back, but then I heard my sister say, “Celeste, your brother told you to listen to your sister, didn’t he?” “Hold out your hand!” So, I cried while extending my arm to my sister. She seemed to hate me terribly, pinching with all her might each time. I was almost crying myself unconscious when my brother arrived. My sister quickly pulled down my sleeve and turned to throw herself into my brother’s arms. She transformed herself into a victim in just one second. “Vincent, your sister is truly impossible. She won’t listen at all!” One day, a spark ignited in my mind. I rolled up my sleeve and showed my bruises to my brother. He paused. My sister quickly said apologetically, “It’s my fault for not watching Celeste properly.” “You know, this child still can’t walk steadily. She bumps herself and gets bruises everywhere in no time.” Brother remembered that almost every time he opened the door, he would see me sitting on the ground, crying in pain. The next day, Brother wrapped all the furniture in the house with foam padding. My sister gritted her teeth and said to me, “Celeste, your brother is truly good to you.” I nodded and said, “Brother, is good to Celeste, doesn’t want Celeste to die.” My sister let out three cold laughs, then casually picked up a hanger and swung it at me, hitting me on the head. I cried out in pain, calling for Brother. But my sister said, “Your brother’s away on a business trip. He won’t be back for half a month.” “You little brat, you even want to tattle on me to your brother!” She pinched my chin with her left hand and slapped me hard with her right, leaving my face swollen. I trembled uncontrollably, crying, but she became more and more excited with each blow, until someone knocked on the door. She frantically gagged me and shoved me under the covers, then went to open the door. It was the neighbor, Mrs. Davies. She asked, “What’s going on? Celeste is crying so hard.” My sister forced a weak smile and said, “She’s having another episode. She keeps saying I’m the murderer of her parents, and I can’t calm her down.” Mrs. Davies looked a little sympathetic, took out some small cookies, and said, “These siblings have it tough. I made some cookies, go try to comfort Celeste.” Mrs. Davies made to enter. My sister immediately blocked her, saying, “No need, Mrs. Davies. I’ll take care of Celeste.” Taking the cookies from Mrs. Davies, my sister closed and locked the door. She sat on the sofa, legs crossed, eating the cookies Mrs. Davies had given me, saying as she ate, “You’d better be good these next few days and not cause me any trouble.” After that, she took a rope, tied me up at home, and left. I wanted to go to the bathroom, but I couldn’t reach it. The rope chafed my neck; it hurt so much. I couldn’t hold it anymore and made a mess on the floor. When she came back, she kicked me twice. Then she took a picture of the mess and sent it to my brother, crying, “What am I going to do, Vincent? I can’t take it anymore. I looked away for a second, and she made a mess all over the floor. Is your sister deliberately trying to get at me…?” Brother immediately replied, “How could this happen? Sweetheart, I’ll send you money to hire a cleaner. You’ve really had it tough.” Brother sent many apologetic emojis. After the cleaner finished and left, my sister walked over with a dark expression and slapped me. “Useless thing! Can’t even control your own waste!” After venting, she looked at me lying on the floor like a dead fish and said coldly, “If you dare to tattle on me to your brother again, I’ll keep hitting you!” “To be honest with you, all your brother’s previous girlfriends left him because of you.” “Only I am willing to accept you.” “How much money has your brother spent to cure your illness?” “Don’t you think you’re a burden?” “Celeste, if you truly love your brother, you should be sensible and stop hindering your brother’s bright future.” I took my sister’s words to heart. I really was a burden. When Brother returned from his business trip, he brought my sister a gold necklace. My sister beamed, “Gold is so expensive now, you really bought it for me…” Brother said it wasn’t easy for my sister to take care of me, and he would buy her gold jewelry every month from now on. My sister smiled even more happily. But suddenly, my sister’s smile froze. Because Brother took a gold bracelet out of his bag. It was more expensive than my sister’s gold necklace. When Brother put the bracelet on my wrist, he said, “Celeste, Happy New Year. Brother wishes you peace and happiness for life.” My sister said somewhat stiffly, “Vincent, aren’t you afraid of the idiot, no, your sister, losing the bracelet?” I got a little angry, and for the first time, I talked back to my sister: “No, Celeste won’t be that careless.” Hearing my words, Brother happily grabbed my sister’s hand and said, “Did you hear that? Celeste said such a long sentence for the first time!” “She’s definitely going to recover.” Brother embraced me in surprise, then noticed the still unhealed injury on my neck, asking confusedly, “Celeste, how did you get hurt?” I wanted to tell Brother that my sister bullied me. But before I could speak, Brother’s attention was drawn to the cut on my sister’s finger. “It’s all your sister’s fault for wanting an apple, causing me to accidentally cut my hand.” She was lying… She clearly hurt her hand when she was out playing. I opened my mouth and said, “It wasn’t… it wasn’t because of me.” But no one heard what I said. Thankfully, Brother would have many days off after this business trip. I could finally avoid being beaten by my sister, and not have to eat food off the floor like a dog, or be videotaped and laughed at by my sister. But I also knew Brother wouldn’t stay with me forever. Suddenly, I remembered what Mom used to tell me: “Celeste, if anyone bullies you, you must, must tell your family.” Yes, I should listen to Mom and tell Brother that my sister bullied me. But when my sister was around, I never had a chance to talk to Brother. The moment I appeared, my sister would stare chillingly at my gold bracelet, her expression terrifying. I could only cover my bracelet, hide in my room, and secretly listen to the sounds outside. Finally, one day, my sister received Brother’s transfer and left. Hearing the front door close, I quickly ran out and pulled on Brother’s sleeve, saying, “Sister, bad, bully me.” Brother, of course, didn’t believe me. After all, I used to say Brother was a bad guy. Brother knelt down and told me, “Celeste, if you wrongly accuse someone like this, your sister will be sad.” I shook my head, very earnestly saying, “Not wrong.” I ran to the utility room, found the rope my sister used to tie me up, put it around my own neck. Then I placed the rope by the table leg, lay on the floor, and looked up at Brother, saying, “Sister made me eat like this.” “She tied me, here.” “I need to go to the bathroom, can’t walk there, my neck hurts.” I pointed to the wound on my neck, explaining haltingly. Brother’s eyes grew increasingly serious. He rolled up my sleeve and saw that even with all the furniture padded, I had more bruises than last time. “Sister hit you?” he asked. I nodded. Brother said, “I see.” That day, I hid in my room. I heard Brother and my sister arguing for the first time outside. “You believe what an idiot says?” My sister’s voice was even louder than Brother’s. She shrieked hysterically, “Your sister never liked me, she thinks I stole your love, and you actually believe her?” “I must have been blind to choose you. My parents both said I wouldn’t be happy with you, yet I broke ties with them, came here to help you take care of your sister, and now you suspect me…” My sister cried so heartbreakingly that I felt a bit confused looking at my own wounds. Could it be that I really just bumped myself?

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As the Fairchild heiress, I’ve always despised the color pink. So when I returned home after three years of studying abroad, the sight that greeted me was jarring. The walls and carpets of my fiancé’s townhouse were drowning in an offensive shade of flamingo pink. Even our Russian Blue, Sterling, had a ridiculous pink bow tied around his neck. Confused, I called Nicholas. He casually explained that his sister had complained the decor was dated, so he’d had it redone last month. After hanging up, I scrolled through his sister’s Instagram. Her latest story screamed, “OMG, who even likes pink? It’s so tacky.” The lie was so clumsy, so blatant. My heart sank. My instincts screamed that Nicholas had betrayed me, but I clung to a sliver of hope that it was all a misunderstanding. That hope was obliterated when I went to the bridal boutique to pick up my million-dollar couture gown. The truth was stark, undeniable, and wearing my dress—the scholarship student Nicholas sponsored. When I confronted her, she called me the other woman and sneered that I was a desperate old hag who couldn’t keep a man. Nicholas arrived moments later, not to defend me, but to placate her. He told me to be the bigger person, that she “didn’t know any better.” As a Fairchild, I have never lacked grace. If she could have the million-dollar gown, she could have the engagement that came with it. He seemed to forget that a Fairchild engagement isn’t a hand-me-down that just anyone can claim. … 1 “Where did this trash come from? Who told you you could touch my dress!” With my wedding just around the corner, I’d come to the boutique to see my custom-made gown. I never expected that the moment I touched it, I’d be met with the sting of a slap across my face. The dress was ripped from my hands, the tiny, sharp diamonds embedded in the lace scraping against my knuckles, sending a jolt of pain up my arm. I frowned, my cheek burning. “Who are you? This is my wedding dress!” Another slap. “You bitch! You’ve ruined my dress! You’ll pay for this! Do you have any idea how expensive this is? You couldn’t afford it if you sold your entire pathetic life!” I was utterly dumbfounded. Just then, the boutique manager rushed over, bowing and scraping to the woman. “Miss Rhodes, my deepest apologies! A new employee didn’t recognize your gown and brought it out for someone else!” This “Miss Rhodes” was now sobbing into her phone, wailing “Hubby, hubby” as she tattled. “Hubby, some broke woman got her filthy hands all over my dress, what do I do?” “Hubby, this was the dress you had made just for me!” The call was on speaker, and a voice I knew all too well drifted from the phone. “Shh, baby, it’s okay. We’ll just have them remake the damaged part. Don’t ruin your pretty little face over it.” That voice… it was my fiancé, Nicholas Rhodes. I’d heard whispers that Nicholas had found someone else while I was away. I’d asked him about it, more than once, and he’d always denied it. I’d even asked his parents, and they’d dismissed it as baseless gossip, rumors started by wannabe starlets looking for a benefactor. The Fairchild and Rhodes families had arranged this union years ago. We were just waiting for my return to finalize it. My mother had even commissioned a world-renowned designer to create my gown. But the dress in front of me, the one this woman was claiming, was not my size. The moment I’d held it, I knew the dimensions were all wrong. I was in the middle of questioning the staff when this woman had attacked me. She was still crying hysterically. The manager was sweating profusely, and the poor salesgirl who brought me the dress was apologizing over and over. Fearing the wrath of “Miss Rhodes,” the manager grabbed me by the arm and gave me a sharp kick to the back of my leg. I was already unsteady in my heels. The kick sent me sprawling, and I crumpled to the floor in a heap of designer fabric and shame. “Who is this tramp? How dare you touch the dress belonging to Mr. Rhodes’ fiancée! Get on your knees and apologize, now!” “Shut your mouth,” I sneered, my voice cold. “The Fairchild-Rhodes engagement was national news. This woman is no Fairchild.” The woman, enraged, stomped forward and ground her heel into my leg. “The Fairchild heiress? That old hag could never deserve my brother! He raised me himself, and he promised he would marry me!” An old injury in my leg flared with white-hot pain. I shoved her hard, sending her tumbling to the floor, where she immediately started wailing again. Annoyed, I pulled out my phone and called Nicholas directly. He picked up quickly, but his tone was clipped and impatient. “Victoria, I’m busy. A huge project just came up at the office. You said you were going to the boutique yourself, why are you calling me?” “Nicholas, you get your ass down to this boutique right now. Why is this stray you’ve picked up daring to touch my wedding dress?!” There was a stunned silence. “What stray? Who have you been listening to now? I know you’re upset I couldn’t come with you, but this is not the time for a tantrum.” “I’m busy. I’m hanging up.” And just like that, he did. My fists clenched. Fine. If he was going to be this dismissive, then I had no interest in a tainted dress. But he owed me an explanation. I struggled to my feet, my heart aching for the beautiful gown my mother had so lovingly commissioned. Since it had been defiled, I wouldn’t have it. I walked over to where it lay on the floor, picked up a corner of the delicate tulle skirt, and with a satisfying shriek of tearing silk and lace, I ripped the hem clean off. The woman’s eyes turned red with fury. She launched herself at me. “My dress! You bitch, I’ll kill you! Do you know who my husband is? He’s the heir to the Rhodes Corporation!” “I’m calling the police! I’m calling the police!” I just scoffed and dialed 911 myself. Given the gown’s seven-figure price tag, this was a major incident. The police arrived quickly. It was from them that I learned the woman’s real name wasn’t Rhodes. It was Jenna Mills, a scholarship student the Rhodes family had sponsored through college. After graduation, she’d been working as Nicholas’s personal assistant. Everyone in their circle knew the real nature of their relationship. But with my impending return, Nicholas had started introducing her as his “adopted little sister,” which is why everyone called her Miss Rhodes. “Officer, a month ago my husband told me he ordered a custom wedding gown for me from this boutique,” Jenna sobbed to the police. “It’s been tailored to my measurements for weeks! He’s already paid the deposit! And today this crazy woman just came in and destroyed it! You have to arrest her!” The boutique manager quickly corroborated her story. “It’s true, this young lady is Mr. Rhodes’ girlfriend. He brings her in all the time. The dress has been in alterations for her for quite a while. This whole thing is a terrible misunderstanding, but the damage has nothing to do with our store! It was all her!” he said, pointing at me. An officer approached me. “Miss, you claim this gown belongs to you. Do you have any proof?” “Of course I do. This boutique is the flagship store of a world-renowned designer. This gown was his personal creation for me. To prevent counterfeiting, there’s a microchip embedded in the seam. It can be scanned to verify the owner’s identity. And the bracelet I’m wearing is the scanner.” I handed my bracelet to the officer. He found the chip easily. The scan brought up my complete profile. “Miss Mills, or should I say, Miss Rhodes,” I said, my voice dripping with ice. “As you can see, this dress has a name. And that name is Fairchild. It is the private property of Victoria Fairchild.” “This gown is valued at 9.6 million dollars. You have altered it beyond recognition. You will be responsible for the full cost of the damages.” Jenna stared, dumbfounded. She’d had the dress for weeks and never noticed the chip. The manager’s face went pale, and he started frantically wiping sweat from his brow. But Jenna wasn’t ready to give up. “It’s fake! That’s fake! She’s trying to steal my dress! She must have come in here earlier and planted that chip! Otherwise, how come none of the tailors found it, but she knew exactly where it was? It’s a setup!” The manager, terrified of being implicated, quickly jumped to her defense. “Yes, that must be it! The Fairchild heiress has been abroad for years, with no word of her return. But Miss Rhodes has been here with Mr. Rhodes several times! Officer, we have security footage! It will prove that Mr. Rhodes and Miss Rhodes are a couple and that they came to see this very dress!” He eagerly offered up the CCTV recordings. I almost laughed at their stupidity. I wanted them to check the footage to prove I hadn’t tampered with anything. But the manager, in a stroke of genius, claimed that day’s camera feed was malfunctioning. Due to the high value of the item in question, we were all taken to the police station. My parents were overseas, so I called our butler to come get me. Jenna, of course, called Nicholas. But Nicholas, the coward, didn’t show his face. He sent his executive assistant, Megan, instead. Megan bowed deeply the moment she saw me. “Miss Fairchild, I am so sorry for what you’ve been through.” “Where is Nicholas?” “The president is in a critical meeting, Miss. The company has several major projects launching, and he simply couldn’t get away. He sent me to pick up Miss Mills.” I let out a cold laugh. “And you think she’s going anywhere?” Megan quickly dialed Nicholas’s number and handed me the phone. “Miss Fairchild, the president would like to speak with you.” I wanted to hear what he had to say for himself, so I took it and put it on speaker. The first words out of his mouth were drenched in condescension. “Victoria, can you stop making a scene?” “Jenna is a scholarship student our family sponsored. If word gets out that a massive corporation like ours is bullying a poor girl from an underprivileged background, how do you think that will look?” “You are about to marry into our family. Shouldn’t you be putting our family’s interests first? Come home. It’s just a dress. This is ridiculous.” “These years abroad have made you completely uncontrollable. You’re going to have to learn to control that temper once you’re married.” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. I had truly been blind to this side of him. “Nicholas, do you have any idea what you’re saying?!” My sharp tone seemed to startle him into silence. If he had half a brain, he’d remember that between the two of us, I was the one who held the real power. But years of playing CEO had clearly rotted his mind. “Victoria, is that any way to speak to the man of the house? Where are your manners? It seems I’ll have to teach you a few things before the wedding.” “And don’t bother calling your butler. I’ve already had my people send him away.” My eyes widened. I couldn’t believe his audacity. The next thing I knew, Megan was escorting us out. I was driven not to my home, but to a secluded villa in the suburbs. There, I finally saw Nicholas. “Nicholas, what do you think you’re doing? This is illegal confinement. This is kidnapping. Have you thought about what you’ll tell my parents?” In just a few short years, he was no longer the timid boy who used to follow me around, begging for resources. He now radiated the smug aura of a man in power. With a slight wave of his hand, Jenna would nestle into his arms, a pretty little toy in his palm. He scoffed at my words. “What is there to explain? You’ll be part of our family soon enough. Our families have collaborated on so many projects over the years. Do you really think your parents would risk billions in joint ventures over their spoiled daughter?” “Jenna might be from a poor background, but she’s taken care of me in your absence. She’s naive and inexperienced. Can’t you just be the bigger person and let this go?” “Nicholas, you are despicable! Who gave you the nerve to say such disgusting things?!” I screamed, cutting him off. He frowned dismissively, and his men immediately forced me to my knees. “It seems your time in exile didn’t teach you any manners.” “Jenna,” he said, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Let her have a taste of what she gave you.” [To see how Victoria turns the tables and unleashes the full might of the Fairchild family on Nicholas, unlock the next chapter.] Jenna smiled as she walked toward me and slapped me hard across the face. “If I ruin that pretty face of yours, you won’t be worthy of standing next to my brother, will you?” With that, she ordered his men to slap me one hundred times. Blood trickled from my ears and mouth, and my head was ringing. Still not satisfied, Jenna ordered them to strip me. I fought with all my might, but they broke two of my fingers and tore off several of my fingernails. Nicholas had brought a small army of bodyguards. I was powerless. The feeling of their invasive eyes on me was the ultimate humiliation. “Victoria, you have a few days to reflect on your behavior,” Nicholas said, his voice cold. “I’ll be back in a week. I hope by then you’ll have learned how to please a man.” Then he left me there. I tried to escape, to make it back to the city, but the sound of howling wolves in the night sent me scrambling back to the villa. There was no food, no water. After three days, I collapsed on the living room floor, exhausted. I stared at my twisted fingers, my battered body, and gritted my teeth. Then, the villa’s main door was kicked open. My butler, Arthur, rushed in with a team of our own security. When I woke up again, I was in a private room in my family’s hospital. Arthur was sitting by my bed. He was overjoyed to see me awake. “Miss, you’re finally awake! You had me so worried. If anything had happened to you, I don’t know how I would have explained it to your parents!” “My parents?” My throat felt like it had been shredded. Every word tasted of blood. “They’re on a flight back now. They’ll be here soon.” “Good. Send a message to the Rhodes family. Tell them that if Nicholas is still able to stand by tomorrow, their family will cease to exist.”

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My brother’s son just turned eight this year. As the lawyer was handling the inheritance paperwork, he suddenly pointed to a clause at the end of the will and asked if I knew what my father had meant by it. I leaned in for a closer look. The clause stated that the house was to be provided, rent-free, for the use of the eldest grandson until he turned thirty. The lawyer sighed. “This means that for the next twenty-two years, while the house is legally in your name, you don’t actually have the right to use it.” 1 I stood in the law office, feeling like the punchline to a cosmic joke. Twenty-two years. My brother’s son, Henry, was eight. Thirty years old was exactly twenty-two years away. In other words, this half-a-million-dollar house, with my name on the deed, was to be a free home for my nephew for twenty-two years. And after twenty-two years, the place would be a rundown dump, its value a whole other question. Besides, after someone’s lived in a place for over two decades, could you really kick them out? My father had played his hand brilliantly. With a single piece of paper, he had bought out the last shreds of affection I had for him as a daughter. He had also bought all those days and nights I’d spent, devoted and exhausted, caring for him at the end of his life. I turned my head to look at my brother, William, sitting on the couch. His eyes darted away, unable to meet mine, but he couldn’t hide the smug little smirk playing on his lips. He knew. He must have known all along. I took a deep breath, my voice trembling uncontrollably. “Will, what is this?” William cleared his throat, putting on his best honest-man act. “Nora, don’t get worked up. Dad was just thinking of Henry’s future. He’s a boy, he’ll need a house when he gets married, right?” “Our family doesn’t have much. Dad didn’t have a choice.” His wife, Linda, immediately jumped in, her tone dripping with entitlement. “Exactly, Nora. You’re a girl, you’ll get married someday. A house isn’t as important for you.” “Besides, the deed is in your name, isn’t it? See how fair Dad was? He was still thinking of you. We’re just looking after it for you for twenty-two years. Saves you the hassle of renting it out. Isn’t that great?” A chill ran through me, a fury so cold it burned. “Looking after it? Linda, search your conscience. Is that what you call it? This is squatting! You’re stealing my home!” “How dare you!” Linda shot to her feet, her voice rising to a shriek. “What do you mean, stealing? This was Dad’s gift to his own grandson! It’s written right here in the will, clear as day! Nora, I’m telling you, don’t be ungrateful. The thing Dad worried about most before he died was that you wouldn’t honor his wishes. Are you really going to defy his dying wish? Can you live with that?” The thing he worried about most was that I wouldn’t honor his wishes? So when he held my hand and told me he wasn’t playing favorites, this is what he was thinking. He wasn’t comforting me. He was setting a trap. Sensing the escalating tension, the lawyer stepped in. “Ms. Shaw, Mr. Shaw, please, calm down.” “The will is legally binding. It’s all here in black and white. Ms. Shaw, you do indeed own the property, but the right of use for the next twenty-two years belongs to your nephew, Henry.” I looked at the lawyer and asked, enunciating every word, “So who pays the HOA fees, the heating bills, and the maintenance costs for these twenty-two years?” The lawyer paused, flipping through the documents. “The will does not specify. According to property law, the owner is typically responsible for such expenses.” “Okay. I understand.” I grabbed my bag, and without another glance at my brother or his wife, I turned and walked out. Linda’s shrill voice followed me. “Nora, what’s with the attitude? The keys! As soon as the deed is transferred, you’d better hand over the keys!” I didn’t look back. Stepping out of the law firm, the sunlight was blinding, but I felt frozen to the core. I pulled out my phone and found the last picture I had of my father. He was lying in a hospital bed, an oxygen tube in his nose. I was holding his hand, my smile full of daughterly devotion. Beneath the photo was the caption I’d posted: “Dad, may you rest in peace. You were the best father in the world.” Now, it all felt like a sick joke. 2 The six months my father was critically ill were the darkest of my life. He spent three months in the ICU, the daily bills piling up like a flood. My brother, William, just threw up his hands, claiming his factory was doing poorly, his wife was unemployed, his son had school expenses—he simply had no money to spare. Every time he came to the hospital, he’d hang around outside the room for ten minutes, snap a photo for his social media feed with a caption like, “Hoping Dad gets well soon,” and then make an excuse to leave. The entire burden fell on my shoulders. I rushed between my office and the hospital every day, spending nights on a cheap folding cot. Hiring a full-time nurse was too expensive, so I gritted my teeth and did it all myself. Bathing him, feeding him, dealing with his bodily waste—I did it all without a single complaint. Because he was my dad. The man who raised me. And because he had held my hand, more than once, and told me, “Nora, you’ve worked so hard all these years. Don’t worry, Dad knows what he’s doing. I won’t favor your brother.” The depth of my gratitude then was matched only by the depth of my disgust now. My husband, Mark, came home from a business trip to find me completely shattered. After I told him everything, he slammed his fist on the table in anger. “What kind of garbage is that? They’re walking all over you. What did he think you were? A free nurse and an ATM?” I collapsed into his arms, the tears finally breaking free. “Mark, I just don’t get it. How could he do this to me? I’m his daughter!” Mark held me, gently stroking my back. “Because you’re too good, Nora. In their eyes, your sense of duty is something to be taken for granted, an excuse to sacrifice you again and again.” He was right. Growing up, if there was ever anything good, it always went to William first. One egg had to be split, and he always got the bigger half. When I got into college, my dad gave me five hundred dollars for tuition. He gave William two thousand, telling him to go out and “make his way in the world.” After I started working, I sent three thousand dollars home every month, without fail. And my brother? The money for his wedding gift to his bride was scraped together because my dad forced me to pay for it. I wasn’t without resentment, but my dad would always say, “Your brother isn’t as smart or as capable as you are. As his little sister, you should help him out. We’re family, we can’t be so calculating.” “We’re family.” That one phrase had bound me for thirty years. Only today did I realize that in their definition of family, there was only taking and giving, no fairness or respect. And I was always the one expected to give. Just then, my phone rang. It was William. I swiped to answer but said nothing. “Hello? Nora?” William’s voice was laced with impatience, a commander issuing an order. “Where’d you run off to? Linda and I have been waiting. Where are the keys to Dad’s house? Get over here and give them to us. We’re planning to have it cleaned so we can move in next weekend.” I let out a cold laugh. “What keys?” William was taken aback for a second, then his voice rose. “What do you mean, ‘what keys’? The house keys, of course! Nora, don’t play dumb with me! The will is crystal clear. Are you trying to back out of it?” “The will says the house is for your son to live in, but it doesn’t say when, does it?” I said slowly. “The deed isn’t even finalized yet. The paperwork is still being processed. What’s the rush?” “You…” William was furious. “Don’t give me that crap! I’m warning you, if you don’t hand over the keys within a week, we’re calling a locksmith! Don’t blame us for embarrassing you then!” He hung up with a vicious click. I clutched my phone, the sorrow in my heart slowly being consumed by a rising fire of anger. Embarrassing me? They had ground my face into the dirt, using a knife carved from my own father’s bones to cut me to pieces, and now they wanted to talk about saving face? Fine. If you’re going to be shameless, then I’ve got no face to give you. 3 The next day, my aunt called. My father had only one sister, and she had always doted on William. “Nora, I heard from your brother that you’re refusing to give him the keys to the house?” My aunt’s tone was heavy with the scolding weight of an elder. “How can you be so thoughtless? Your father’s barely cold in his grave, and you’re going to make him turn in his grave over a house?” I answered calmly, “Auntie, that house is mine. The will states that I have ownership.” “Ownership, ownership, what’s that but a piece of paper? The house is for your nephew to live in, he’s still family.” “You’re a girl, what’s the point in fighting for it?” When I didn’t respond, her voice grew shrill. “Your brother has it so tough, supporting a family of three on his own. Henry is about to start elementary school, how can he not have a decent house? You’re married, you have your own home. Can’t you have a little sympathy for your brother?” There it was again. That same old argument. Because I’m a girl, I’m supposed to give way. Because my life is better than his, I’m supposed to be a bottomless well for him to draw from. “Auntie,” I interrupted her, “when Dad was in the hospital with hundreds of thousands in medical bills, neither you nor my brother paid a cent. Now it’s time to divide the inheritance, and you’re all suddenly so eager. Don’t you find that a little ridiculous?” The line went silent. A few seconds later, my aunt exploded in a rage. “Nora, what is that attitude? I am your elder! Wasn’t it your duty as a daughter to pay for your father’s care? What, did you expect us to praise you for it? I see what it is—you got married, and now you think you’re too good for your own family!” I hung up and blocked her number. On Friday afternoon, I was in a meeting when my phone started vibrating nonstop. It was Mark. I gave him a nod and stepped out of the conference room to answer. “Nora, you need to get back here, now!” Mark’s voice was a mix of urgency and fury. “Your brother and his wife, they’re at the house with a locksmith, trying to break in!” “I’m on my way!” I got permission from my director and floored it all the way to my father’s house. Downstairs, a small crowd of curious neighbors had already gathered. My brother William and his wife Linda were standing with their hands on their hips, directing a locksmith who was working on the security door. “Hurry it up, man! This is our house!” Linda’s voice was sharp and loud. I pushed through the crowd and shoved the locksmith away from the door. “Stop. Who gave you permission to touch the door to my house?” William saw me and showed no remorse. Instead, he played the victim. “So you decided to show up? Why didn’t you answer our calls? If you haven’t done anything wrong, what are you afraid of?” “What have I done wrong?” I pointed at the lock. “This is my house. What right do you have to break my lock?” Linda rolled her eyes. “Your house? The will says my son gets to live here for twenty-two years! That makes it ours! We have every right to enter our own home!” The neighbors started whispering amongst themselves. “Isn’t that the Shaw’s daughter? Poor thing. I heard her dad gave her the house, but then let his grandson live in it.” “That’s just bullying!” “Her brother and his wife are just awful…” Hearing the comments, Linda’s face turned beet red. She suddenly lunged at me, pointing a finger at my nose. “Nora, you ungrateful brat! William is the son! This house should have been ours in the first place! Dad only wrote your name on it because he was afraid you wouldn’t agree! You really think it’s yours?” “I’m telling you, we’re opening this door today! And we’re moving into this house!” As she spoke, she tried to shove me. Mark arrived just in time, pulling me behind him and creating a barrier between us. “William, Linda, have some decency,” Mark said, his face dark with anger. “The house belongs to Nora. What you’re doing is breaking and entering. It’s illegal!” “Illegal? Who are you trying to scare?” William yelled, his neck stiff with defiance. “It’s in my father’s will! Go on, call the cops! Let’s see who they listen to when they get here!” They were banking on the fact that I would be constrained by family ties, by my father’s reputation, that I wouldn’t dare escalate the situation. Seeing their shameless confidence, the rage in my chest burned hotter. I took out my phone and, in front of everyone, dialed 911. “Hello, yes, I’d like to report a crime. Someone is breaking the lock on my door. The address is…” 4 The police arrived quickly. When William and Linda saw the patrol car, they visibly panicked. Linda tried to sound tough. “What’s the use of calling the police? This is a family matter!” The lead officer was a stern-faced middle-aged man. He looked us over and asked directly, “Who called? What’s going on here?” I stepped forward and clearly explained the situation, including the contents of the will. William, in turn, produced a copy of the will, pointing to the clause with righteous indignation. “Officer, look, it’s in black and white. The house is for my son to live in! How is entering our own house breaking and entering?” The officer listened, his brow furrowed. He turned to a younger officer beside him. “Get on the radio with the legal department at the precinct and confirm how we handle this kind of situation.” Then he turned back to us, his tone serious. “Until this is sorted out, nobody touches this door. Both parties, come with me to the station to give a statement.” The moment Linda heard “station,” she started to throw a fit. “I’m not going! We didn’t break any laws, why should we go to the station? What kind of police are you? Siding with an outsider against us!” The officer’s face hardened. “Ma’am, I need you to cooperate with our investigation. If you continue to obstruct, we will charge you with interfering with a police officer.” That shut her up. She didn’t dare make another sound. At the station, we were put in separate rooms to give our statements. An hour later, we were brought back out. The young officer approached us holding a document. He addressed William and Linda. “We’ve consulted with our legal advisor. While this will grants your son the right to reside in the home, the property has not yet been legally transferred, and the owner has not willingly provided the keys. Your act of forcibly breaking the lock constitutes trespassing and property damage.” “If any property was damaged, the owner has the right to demand compensation and pursue legal action against you.” He paused, looking at all of us. “To put it simply, if she doesn’t want you to move in right now, you cannot force your way in. This is a civil dispute, and we advise you to resolve it through mediation or legal channels. For today, you’re getting a verbal warning. If it happens again, it won’t be this simple.” The expressions on William and Linda’s faces were a sight to behold. The will they thought was their trump card had, in the eyes of the law, given them no right to forcibly take possession. As we walked out of the station, the look my brother and his wife gave me was one of pure venom, as if they wanted to swallow me whole. “Nora, you’ve really outdone yourself!” William seethed. “You’d even call the cops just to keep us out! Do you even see me as your brother anymore? Do you have any respect for Dad?” “The moment you started scheming against me, no, I didn’t,” I said, looking at him coldly. Linda suddenly shrieked, “Fine! Fine! Nora, you just wait! See if you can keep us out forever! We have our ways!” They stormed off in a huff. Watching them go, I felt no sense of victory, only a profound weariness. Mark took my hand. “Nora, don’t be scared. Let’s go home.” I nodded, leaning against him. Although we had dealt with the immediate crisis, a sense of unease lingered in my heart. Two days later, my daughter’s kindergarten teacher called me, her voice frantic. “Lily’s mom, you need to come to the school right away!” My stomach clenched. “Ms. Davis, what is it? Is Lily okay?” “Lily’s fine, it’s her uncle and aunt. They’re at the gate right now, insisting on picking Lily up. They say they want to take her to see the new house that’s been prepared for her…” The phone almost slipped from my hand. They had sunk so low as to use my five-year-old daughter.

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The video call on New Year’s Eve came without warning. On the screen was my eight-years-younger self, excitedly sharing the news of Amelia Vance’s confession. His eyes shone, and he spoke effusively about a beautiful future, saying Amelia would plant all his favorite flowers, spend every New Year’s Eve with him, and forever pamper him like a prince. I listened quietly, a faint smile playing on my lips, not interrupting his dreams. Suddenly, he stopped, his gaze sweeping over the empty room behind me, and he asked curiously, “Where’s Amelia? We must be incredibly happy eight years from now, right?” I didn’t answer, simply slowly rotated the phone camera, aiming it at the other end of the living room. There, Amelia Vance was pressed tightly against the floor-to-ceiling window by a stranger, kissing him passionately. Amelia’s body was pushed slightly forward, one hand leaving a damp print on the fogged glass. She gasped softly, even naughtily pinching the man’s butt. The man seemed somewhat uncomfortable, lifting his head. Only then did he see me through the glass, clearly startled. Immediately after, he clung to Amelia again, as if boneless, rubbing against her playfully. “Amelia, is there someone else in your house?” Amelia was unconcerned, even deepening the kiss, matching the man’s posture. In the midst of the kiss, she opened her eyes and looked at me, her gaze filled with coldness and amusement. “Don’t mind him,” she said casually. “He won’t care, will he?” 1 Care? I’d grown tired of saying that years ago. From hysterical crying to numb acceptance, and finally, no longer even having the will to speak. However, the eight-years-younger me on the screen had turned ashen, his hand trembling as he ended the call first. But the performance by the window was escalating. I simply lowered my head and sent a New Year’s greeting to my sister, who had long since vanished, to distract myself. The man now laughed excitedly, his hands bolder as they roamed over Amelia. “Where did you find a husband so… understanding?” Then, they intertwined, coats, ties, shirts… scattered all the way up the stairs. Facing such a scene had become a regular feature, a colorful movie playing in this cold villa. I couldn’t even bothered to lift an eyelid. As the awkward holiday comedy on TV grew drowsy, and I was on the verge of falling asleep on the sofa, the housemaid woke me. He spoke with difficulty. “Ms. Vance asked you to go buy a box of… lubricant…” On New Year’s Eve, the streets were deserted, with only a few novelty shops open. I walked against the cold wind for over half an hour. When I returned, I vaguely heard two maids inside discussing me. “Mr. Thompson is truly pitiful. These past eight years, he’s lived worse than a servant.” “Well, whose fault is it that he married Ms. Vance through such underhanded means? For Ms. Vance to even give him a title is already being more than generous.” Memories violently pulled me back to the past. Amelia had gone traveling to a rural village, and we met, fell in love. Our love was pure and fervent, like the mountain wind. I followed her, risking everything, to the city where she lived. But her father vehemently opposed it, despising me as a country bumpkin. Yet, Amelia had tightly clasped my hand and said, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll make my dad agree to us.” Later, my sister, who lived in that rural village and had never gambled, suddenly incurred a massive gambling debt. Desperate, she listened to someone’s suggestion. If she could just get me into Amelia’s bed, making it a fait accompli, the Vance family, to save face, would surely let Amelia marry me, and the debt could be repaid. My sister drugged both Amelia and me. After a chaotic night, Amelia’s gaze at me, once full of tender affection, turned cold and disgusted. She married me, and she also threw a check at me. “Remember, this money, you owe me.” Marriage, from what should have been a mutually loving dream, had turned into what she perceived as a conspiracy engineered by my sister and me to trap her. It wasn’t that I hadn’t brought up divorce later. Each time I did, she would sneer, “You want a divorce? Fine. Pay back that fifty million, principal and interest. Otherwise, I’ll find your sister and make sure she rots in jail.” My sister was long gone, whereabouts unknown. This debt was cemented onto me. Amelia opened the bedroom door, her upper body covered in bright red marks, glaringly obvious. “What took you so long?” She snatched the box from my hand. Its plastic edge brushed my cheek, a stinging sensation. “He’s just too big; he couldn’t wait.” My peripheral vision caught the naked figure on the large bed in the room. My stomach churned. I turned to flee. But she asked me from behind, with amusement, “Why don’t you stay and join us?” I finally couldn’t stand it anymore. I stumbled to the toilet and vomited violently. I video-called my eight-years-younger self again. I asked, “Do you think she still loves me?” He cried, still disbelieving. “How could she become like this? She clearly said she only loved me!” I knew that without having personally experienced these years of despair, words alone couldn’t convey the depth of it. Perhaps, he would still, like I once did, make excuses for her, believing it was just a temporary misunderstanding. I didn’t blame him, but invited him to keep watching. On New Year’s Day, when I woke up, the man from last night was already gone. But he had left a pair of underwear on the sofa. Amelia followed my gaze, then suddenly wrapped her arms around my waist, pulling me closer. “What, are you jealous?” She looked up, intending to kiss me, but I instinctively recoiled. This made the rare hint of tenderness in her eyes quickly turn to mockery. “Always this miserable, half-dead look.” “You only ever sound like a human being the night you drugged me and climbed into my bed.” Her words stabbed at my heart, a wave of shame spreading through me. But she just pushed me away coldly. “Alright, it’s New Year’s Day. We have to go back to the family estate to greet my dad.” Amelia’s father was the person I least wanted to face. All these years, his gaze at me had always been like I was some kind of filth. But to my surprise, this time, he didn’t even glance at me. He was on the sofa, chatting happily with the same man who had been embracing Amelia last night. It turned out he was Leo Thorne, Amelia’s original arranged fiancé. Mr. Vance patted Leo’s hand, his eyes full of satisfaction. “Good boy. If it hadn’t been for that wretched boy, you would be our son-in-law by now.” Amelia also walked over, smiling playfully. “Dad, I’m already married. Why bring all this up? If you like him, just have him come over more often to keep you company.” “Then what capacity would I come in? Should I call you ‘sister’?” Leo chuckled. But the term “sister” had tormented me all last night as they had indulged themselves, punctuated by its repeated use. At this moment, they exchanged smiles, looking like a true family. And I stood awkwardly at the periphery, like an abrupt outsider. At dinner, simply because Leo said, “I’d like some beef,” Mr. Vance had the kitchen prepare an entire table of beef dishes. Our ethnic group had a tradition of not eating beef; we couldn’t even touch it. Seeing me hesitate to pick up my chopsticks, Mr. Vance finally turned his gaze to me, his face full of annoyance. “What are you standing around for? Eat! Don’t be so delicate!” “In the Vance family, you should do as the locals do, understand?!” I looked at Amelia helplessly, placing my last hope in her. At least she used to understand me. Then, she picked up something that looked like a mushroom and placed it on my plate. “Dad, don’t scare him.” The thoughtfulness in her tone made me momentarily see the Amelia of the past. “This isn’t beef, Adrian. Try it, it tastes good.” I ate it without suspicion, but the moment my teeth closed around it, Leo’s laughter broke the silence. He pointed at me, his voice innocent yet cruel. “Look! He ate the beef!” “I told you, there’s no such thing as beliefs or taboos. It’s all just an excuse, putting on airs!” Amelia had lied to me. I stumbled to the restroom, sticking my fingers down my throat. I wanted to vomit out that piece of meat, along with all the humiliations and betrayals I had swallowed these past years. Physiological tears blurred my vision. I video-called my eight-years-younger self again. This time, he was silent for a very, very long time. Then, he began to recall, by the clear stream in our village. She looked at me, her eyes bright like stars: “Adrian, I did my research beforehand. Your people don’t eat beef, right?” “When we’re together, I’ll be with you, and I’ll never touch it either.” But now? The me on the other end of the video was even more despairing than I was. “This isn’t… not what I wanted…” He cried, his voice raw, repeating over and over: “It hurts too much.” Does it hurt? But I had grown used to it, unable to shed another tear. Amelia disappeared for several days again. As I spent my days staring blankly at my phone, I unexpectedly received a message from my sister, asking to meet. The message was like a ray of light in the darkness, making me believe she had come to pull me out of this mire. But in reality, my sister grasped my hand, trembling. “Adrian, I’m so sorry… I think I’ve been set up…” “They’re demanding thirty million from me now, or they’ll take my life…” Hope shattered in an instant, replaced by a deeper helplessness. The previous fifty million had already nailed me to the pillar of shame, forcing me to sell myself for money, tormented day and night. How could I now ask Amelia for more? As I stood bewildered, the positive result on my pregnancy test seemed like a cruel joke—Amelia was pregnant with my child. I finally waited for Amelia to come home. “Thirty million for this child, is it a fair trade?” My voice was so calm, it felt unfamiliar even to myself. Her pupils constricted. The next second, she grabbed my throat, shoving me violently against the wall. A suffocating sensation instantly overwhelmed me. Her eyes surged with fury and undisguised hatred. “How did I not realize before that you were such a schemer? You can even put a price tag on the child in my womb!” “Do you even have a heart, damn it? Aside from money, is there no genuine feeling between us?” Genuine feeling? All my genuine feelings had long ago, through countless nights of humiliation over these eight years, been ground into dust by her own hands. A gust of wind, and nothing was left. I ignored her malice, stubbornly asking her, “A trade?” She was finally completely enraged by my attitude, threw me onto the bed, and recklessly tore at my clothes. “Amelia Vance! You’re pregnant with my child! Not now!” As I struggled desperately, she pulled out a card and threw it at my face. “Fine! I’ll buy this child’s life!” She leaned close, her breath hot on my ear, every word a stab to my heart. “If it’s gone, that’s on me too.” That night was a living hell. I took her to the hospital to confirm. The child was still there. I touched her still-flat belly, feeling a bond for the first time. A few days later, Amelia returned home. “I’ll stay with you until he’s born, to be worth your thirty million.” She paused, lost in thought as she looked at her slightly swollen abdomen. Then, she violently slammed the ash tray next to her onto the floor. A jarring crash. “You win!” She didn’t even glance at my feet, cut by the shards, but turned and slammed the door shut again. That night, I once again video-called my eight-years-younger self. “I don’t want my future days to be like this…” He shook his head, his voice broken. “I don’t want my baby to be born into a home filled only with humiliation… I don’t…” Listening to his repeated whispers, I suddenly felt that perhaps everything could still change. A few days after the thirty million was transferred, my sister asked to meet me again. This time, she cried, repeatedly hitting herself. “Little brother, I’m not human! I owe another ten million… I swear, this is the last time!” I stared at her blankly, unable to think of any other reason to beg Amelia. I could only wait for her to come home again, then kneel before her. “Give me another ten million. I’ll do anything you want!” Amelia kicked me away, then suddenly laughed. “What part of you is still worth ten million?” Watching her retreating figure as she slammed the door again, I knew she had probably shown me all the leniency she had. But my sister then sent me a video of her being beaten on the ground by several people. I had no choice but to call Amelia over and over, pleading: “Please, I’ll even die for you!” Then, I listened all night to her and Leo’s activities, without receiving a single reply. At dawn, when I found my sister again, she was already lying on the ground, covered in blood. She used her last strength to grasp me: “Little brother… I’m so sorry for what I did to you, for not stopping you from being with her…” I froze, hearing. “Yesterday I found out, it was the Vance family who tricked me into gambling… a setup…” “Every time… it was… even the forced marriage was their idea…” Every word, I understood, but combined they were so cruel. The Vance family? Then what was all I endured these eight years? Was I foolish, or did I deserve it? I didn’t even have time to digest the crushing truth. The doctor informed me that my sister had multiple organ failure and was in critical condition. Deeper than despair was another despair. Just as I was crying, begging the doctor to save my sister, Amelia appeared at the hospital, embracing Leo, who had twisted his back in bed last night. “Amelia Vance!” The hatred, accumulated for too long, exploded. I rushed forward like a madman, grabbing her collar, becoming hysterical. “It was you! It was your family who set up my sister! Wasn’t it?!” Amelia froze, then frowned. “What nonsense are you talking about! I wouldn’t stoop to such underhanded tactics!” I pointed at my sister, teetering between life and death on the hospital bed, my fingertips trembling. “Amelia Vance, stop pretending! What is it you can’t do?!” “You played us, my sister and me, like puppets. Are you satisfied now?!” Amelia’s face darkened, her eyes turning completely cold. “Adrian, remember, this is all your own doing!” She gestured to the doctor beside her. “Get all the doctors in the hospital over here, treat Mr. Thorne’s back.” “As for certain half-dead people, no need to waste medical resources.” One by one, the doctors, ignoring my screams and pleas, removed all the tubes and equipment from my sister. Soon, my sister’s body convulsed one last time, then fell silent. I collapsed to the ground, crying, watching Amelia leave, embraced by Leo. “Amelia Vance, if I could do it all over again, I would never repeat the same mistakes.” A sharp pain suddenly shot through her lower abdomen. Warm liquid gushed out, spreading down her pants. Before losing consciousness, I made one last call to my eight-years-younger self. “Leave her.” I spoke with a dying despair. “We can live again.” He bit his lip hard, and finally nodded. “Okay.” Perhaps out of a last shred of conscience, or perhaps remembering Adrian had lost both his sister and his child, Amelia uncharacteristically returned home early. Pushing open the door, a strange emptiness washed over her. She hadn’t yet pinpointed what was missing. Just then, the maid brought her a cup of coffee. She took a sip, then spat it out, frowning deeply. “The taste is off. Have Adrian make it again.” The maid looked bewildered. “Adrian? Sir, which Adrian?” Amelia’s heart inexplicably tightened. Impatiently, she said, “My husband, Adrian!” The maid looked even more confused. “Ms. Vance, when did you get married? We haven’t heard you have a husband.”

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The first thing I remember after the car crash is a memory from three years ago. Back then, Ember and I hadn’t broken up yet. My voice was thick with tears as I dialed his number, telling him my head hurt so much. There was a long silence on the other end. Then, Ember’s voice, cold as ice, asked if I thought this was some kind of sick joke. He hung up on me. I was completely lost. About five minutes later, he called back. He told me to give him the address, and that this had better not be some stupid dare. 1 I gave him the address of the hospital. Half an hour later, Ember appeared at my bedside. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, looking like he’d traveled a long way. My nose stung with the urge to cry, and I threw myself into his arms. He smelled faintly of tobacco, a scent that felt foreign to me. The Ember I knew didn’t smoke. His body went rigid. He gripped my wrist and pulled me away. “Chad, what the hell are you doing?” I stumbled back onto the bed, my eyes instantly welling up. “Ember, you don’t love me anymore! We’re done!” “Done?” Ember let out a short, harsh laugh, as if my words were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “We broke up three years ago.” His words hit me like a thunderclap. A wave of pain crashed over me. I clutched my head, my brow furrowing tightly as the room spun around me. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Ember slamming the call button by the bed, his voice sharp with panic. “Doctor!” When I woke up again, the sky outside was dark. The hospital room was silent. My heart sank. Ember was gone. The doctor told me the amnesia was caused by a blood clot in my brain. He couldn’t say for sure when my memories would return. I lay in bed, my mind replaying scene after scene of Ember and me, sweet moments that felt like they’d happened only yesterday. He had always doted on me, spoiled me. He would never lie to me, and he would never, ever say the word “breakup.” The more I thought about it, the more miserable I became, and the tears started to fall again. Just then, the door opened, and Ember walked in, carrying a takeout container. He was still in the same suit, his tall, lean frame getting closer and closer. I couldn’t hold it back anymore and started sobbing. “I thought… I thought you left…” A tissue was held out in front of me. I took it, wiped my eyes, and blew my nose. Ember pulled a chair up to the bedside. He opened the container, and the rich aroma of food filled the small room. It was a steaming oxtail soup, and it looked incredible. Grumble. My stomach protested loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Ember glanced at me, then slowly ladled a bowl of soup and held it out. I didn’t take it. The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Babe, you feed me.” His hand froze in mid-air. The way he looked at me, it was like he was looking at a complete stranger. Reality came crashing back. We broke up, he’d said. A heavy weight settled in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I fought to keep my emotions in check, my voice muffled. “It’s just… a habit. I’ll get used to it.” “Is that what you call Nathan, too?” Ember’s lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “You’re hurt. How come I don’t see him here?” Nathan? He was a senior from our university. Ember, being the jealous guy he was, had never wanted me to be too friendly with him after he’d asked me out once. I was completely confused. “What does he have to do with anything?” Ember’s gaze clouded over, but he didn’t push the subject. Trying to remember things just made my head ache, so I let it go. My eyes were fixed on the chunks of meat in the bowl. “So, are you going to feed me or not?” He glanced at the IV in my hand and finally relented. “It’s hot!” “I want the broth.” “Come closer.” I couldn’t help it. I fell back into our old rhythm, whining and being playful with him. Ember paused for a second, then obediently scooted his chair closer. His face hadn’t changed much from my memories. But looking closer, I could see the differences. The boyish cockiness was gone, replaced by a quiet, steady confidence that showed in his every move. A wave of sadness washed over me. “Ember,” I whispered, “why did we break up?” He never answered my question. He took a work call and left. Later, I found a train ticket in my purse. The departure city was Northwood, over six hundred miles away. Vague, blurry fragments flashed in my mind, but I couldn’t piece them together. The next day, two police officers came to my room. That’s when I learned that the driver who hit me had been caught. The reason he’d done it? He was in a bad mood. As for compensation, that was something I’d have to handle myself. That evening, the doctor came by on his rounds and reminded me to settle the hospital bill. I nodded, agreeing readily. But when I took my bank card to the payment window, the clerk informed me I had insufficient funds. Flustered, I fumbled for another card. Still insufficient. The clerk was getting impatient. “Which card is it? If you don’t have the money, let the next person go.” My face burned with humiliation. “This one.” A hand with long, elegant fingers slid a credit card through the window. Ember paid the bill for me. The clerk’s attitude changed in a heartbeat, her voice suddenly sweet. “Here’s your card back, sir.” Ember took it, his face like stone. “Apologize to her. Unless you’d prefer to receive a formal complaint.” The smile on the clerk’s face froze. After a moment, she grudgingly muttered an apology to me. Back in the room, Ember set down the takeout and turned to leave. I panicked. I ran and wrapped my arms tight around his waist, instinctively nuzzling my face against his chest. His breathing hitched. His body was ramrod straight, and his voice came out low and rough. “Chad, let go.” I refused, pressing my full weight against him and looking up with pleading eyes. “Ember, don’t push me away.” “I feel dizzy…” The room fell silent. Then, Ember suddenly swept me into his arms. I instinctively hooked my arms around his neck, my gaze fixed on the sharp line of his jaw. My voice trembled. “Ember, what… what are you doing?” The words were barely out of my mouth before he unceremoniously dropped me onto the bed. The romantic bubble in the air popped with a sad little poof. A week later, I was discharged. Ember came to pick me up. I stared at the luxury car for a few seconds, then said nothing and got in. Over the past few days, he would bring me food and then stay in the room for an hour or two. But he was always on a conference call or on his phone. I’d secretly looked him up online. What I found was shocking, but also, not entirely unexpected. Back in his junior year, Ember had already been planning to start his own business. He was Southport’s valedictorian, accepted into Southport University with the top scores in his program. He loved game design and had even won a gold medal with his roommates at the National Game Design Awards. He’d racked up countless awards during his time in school. His dream was always to start his own game development company. And in just three years, he’d done it. He was even more successful than I could have imagined. He had glowing reviews online, and a legion of female fans who called him their “internet husband.” He’d always been popular at school, but everyone knew how crazy he was about me, so I never paid those other girls any mind. But now… “Where do you live?” Ember’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. I opened a hotel booking app on my phone and gave him the address. The day after the accident, the doctor had told me to contact my family. I’d opened my mom’s chat history and scrolled through our messages. My heart had plunged into a pit of ice. She had remarried and moved out of Southport. No wonder I was staying in a hotel. I didn’t have a home here anymore. Ember was quiet for a moment, his grip on the steering wheel tightening slightly. I pulled myself together, and a question popped into my head. “Ember, do you have a girlfriend?” The light ahead turned red, and the car slowed to a stop. Ember turned to look at me, his eyes dark and unreadable, swirling with an emotion I couldn’t name. “No.” A smile spread across my face. “Then can I stay at your place?” After picking up my luggage, Ember took me back to his apartment. It was in the most expensive part of the city. The place was huge, immaculate. I wandered around under the pretense of “taking a tour” and found no signs of a woman living there. Ember wheeled my suitcase into the guest room, said, “Make yourself at home,” and disappeared into his office for a meeting. The meeting lasted for over an hour. I watched TV, bored, until my stomach started to grumble. The fridge was stocked with fresh ingredients, so I rolled up my sleeves, ready to cook. And promptly sliced my finger. “Ah—” I cried out, my brow knitting in pain. I heard a string of worried footsteps, and Ember’s voice, tight with tension. “What happened?” I turned to see him standing there, his eyes locked on the bead of blood welling up on my fingertip. Before I could say anything, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the living room. He sat me on the sofa, opened a first-aid kit, and knelt in front of me. His head was bowed as he carefully disinfected the cut and applied a bandage. The bandage had little cartoon characters on it, my favorite. Watching the focused, gentle way he tended to me, I felt a lump form in my throat. My voice was dry. “I’m sorry. I was just hungry and wanted to make something.” Ember looked up, his dark eyes reflecting a blurry image of me. A small smile touched his lips. “Chad, this isn’t like you.” He stood up and ruffled my hair. “Don’t cook. I’ll take you out.” The nights in Southport were as lively as ever. Ember took me to the food street near the university, to the ramen place that used to be our favorite. In my memory, we had been here just a short while ago. But the shop’s decor was completely different. After we sat down, I asked him, “Do you come here often?” [Chad is about to learn the painful truth behind their breakup. Unlock the next chapter to discover the secrets that tore them apart.] Ember poured me a cup of tea. “Rarely.” I tried to sound casual. “Have you brought other girls here?” He just looked at me, his gaze deep and unreadable, and didn’t answer. Time had changed him. He’d learned to hide his feelings. He was no longer the boy who had shared everything with me. My heart ached, but I couldn’t stop myself from probing. “Well, have you or haven’t you?” What I really wanted to ask was if he’d dated anyone in the years since we’d been apart. “Two bowls of ramen!” The owner’s voice cut through our conversation. Steam rose from the bowls, blurring Ember’s face. With food in front of me, I forgot my question and took a sip of the broth. It still tasted exactly the same. Suddenly, a few extra slices of braised pork appeared in my bowl. I looked up, surprised. Ember’s jaw tightened slightly. He tried to look nonchalant. “Just a habit.” I blinked. “Oh.” Was that his answer? That night, after my shower, I was curled up on the sofa watching TV. Ember had been in his office ever since we got back. After thinking for a long time, I padded over in my slippers and knocked on the office door. “Ember, can I borrow your computer?” He opened the door and leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “What for?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I want to work on my resume.” Now that I was back in Southport, I didn’t plan on leaving again. I wanted to build a life here. Ember nodded and stepped aside to let me in. The computer was locked. I turned to him. “What’s the password?” He paused, then walked over, leaned down, and typed in four numbers. He was so close I was practically enveloped by him, his warm breath fanning against my cheek. My heart hammered in my chest. The temperature in the room seemed to rise. On impulse, I tilted my head up and kissed his cheek. “You still haven’t answered my question from the ramen shop.” Ember froze, a faint blush creeping up his neck. His voice was low and husky. “What about you? Are you back in Southport for Nathan? Or… for me?” Nathan again? Did we break up because I cheated on him? Think, you idiot, think! I tapped my head, but he caught my wrist. “Forget it.” Ember straightened up, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. “What’s the point of arguing with someone who can’t even remember?” He turned and walked away, his lean back looking strangely lonely. A fragmented memory flashed through my mind. On the day we broke up, I think I watched him walk away just like that, disappearing into the thick darkness of the night. Ember got incredibly busy, leaving early in the morning and coming home late at night. He had his lawyer help me with the accident compensation. He also hired a cook to prepare my meals. And just like that, I settled into his home. That weekend, I went back to the hospital, desperate to get my memory back. After a simple check-up, the doctor told me, “There’s a condition known as psychogenic amnesia. It’s possible the memories are so painful that your brain has chosen to forget them as a protective measure. If you truly want to remember, you could try hypnosis, or revisiting old places, meeting old friends…” I left the hospital, the doctor’s words echoing in my head, twisting my heart into a knot. I sat on a roadside bench for a long time, until a pair of black leather shoes entered my vision. “Chad.” A familiar voice came from above me. When I didn’t respond, Ember knelt down to meet my gaze. “Why are you crying?” he asked, frowning as he gently wiped a tear from my cheek. “I’m not crying. Something got in my eye,” I said stubbornly. “Want me to blow it out for you?” “…” And then he actually did, leaning in and blowing gently at my eyes. I held my breath, my cheeks turning red. Ember had come straight from his office. On the way to the parking garage, he took a call about a dinner meeting. I stopped by the car door. “I can just take a cab back.” Ember opened the door for me. “The cook is off today. There’s no food at home.” Home. The word dropped like a pebble into a still lake, sending ripples through my heart. “It’s just Marco and the guys. Want to come with me?” he added. Marco was his college roommate. I was still hesitant. “Would that be weird for me to go?” Ember didn’t push. “Then you pick a place to eat.” I thought for a few seconds. “Where are they eating?” “Near the university.” The doctor’s words came back to me—revisit old places, meet old friends. “Okay,” I nodded. “I’ll go.” The traffic was terrible. By the time we got to the restaurant, the private room was already full. The moment I walked in, the lively chatter died down. The atmosphere turned tense. Ember scanned the room, his gaze lingering for a moment in one direction. I followed his line of sight and froze. It was Nathan. He smiled at me. Out of politeness, I smiled back. When I turned my head, I met Ember’s dark eyes. He didn’t look happy. His lips were pressed into a thin line. Marco stood up, glass in hand. “Ember, my man! You’re late! You know the rules, you gotta chug one.” He poured a generous amount of liquor into Ember’s glass. Then, as if he’d only just noticed me, he feigned surprise. “Well, well, Ember. And who did you bring with you?” Ember frowned, downed the drink in one go, and shot Marco a warning look. “Get another chair.” Marco ignored him, his eyes fixed on me. “Isn’t this Chad Shaw? Couldn’t hack it in Northwood, so you came crawling back to Ember?” Ember’s face darkened. “Marco, shut up,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “What? Did I say something wrong? Who was it that dumped you and ran off when you needed her most? Wasn’t it Chad?!” “Marco!” A dead silence fell over the room. Everyone else just watched, a vaguely hostile curiosity in their eyes. Nathan opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. I stood there, mortified, digging my nails into my palms. “Whatever, my bad,” Marco said, waving a hand dismissively and calling a waiter to bring another chair. A warm hand closed over mine. Ember was pulling me toward the door. Suddenly, a sharp female voice cut through the silence from behind us. “Ember, Chad’s father is a murderer! You’d better stay away from her!”

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I waited for three long years. In that time, I mailed seven whistleblower letters. His people intercepted the first six. For the seventh, I changed my strategy. I sent it directly to the state. He was on vacation in Miami that day. He had just posted a photo of the ocean view on his social media, captioned, “Hard work pays off. You deserve to enjoy life.” A string of likes quickly appeared below it. What he didn’t know was that thirty-seven agents from the State Department of Revenue were already walking through the doors of his company. I stared at the photo on my screen, then quietly set my phone down. 1. It all started three years ago, one night when I found the money. The day had been completely ordinary. I was lying in bed, scrolling through my phone, about to transfer some money into a savings account. I opened my banking app and glanced at the transaction history out of habit. An automatic debit. On the 15th of every month, a fixed transfer of $5,000. The memo read: Mortgage. I froze. We had paid off our mortgage in 2019. I scrolled up. Last month, $5,000. The month before that, $5,000. I kept scrolling back. It was there. Every single month. I counted. Fourteen consecutive months. Seventy thousand dollars. I put my phone down and stared at the ceiling. In the living room, Mark was watching a football game, the commentator’s voice drifting down the hall. I picked my phone back up and took a screenshot. Then I looked up the recipient’s account information. The account holder: Amber. I knew that name. She was the receptionist I had personally hired for his company three years ago. I remember her interview. She wore a white dress and had two dimples when she smiled. I’d told Mark, “This girl seems bright. Let’s hire her.” “Whatever you think is best,” he’d said. He hadn’t even given her a second glance then. Or so I thought. I didn’t confront him right then and there. I didn’t cry, or scream, or throw my phone. I saved the screenshot of the bank statement to a password-protected folder. Then I turned off the light and pretended to be asleep. Mark came to bed at eleven, snoring the moment his head hit the pillow. I lay there with my eyes open, thinking all night in the darkness. The next morning, he left for work. I called in sick. I opened my laptop and looked up the bank card tied to that transfer. Mark was using a personal card linked to the company account. I knew which bank it was from because I had gone with him to open it years ago. I dug deeper into the transaction details. There was an auto-pay setup, and in the payee’s information, there was one extra piece of data: An address. Lakeside Terraces, Building 7, Apartment 1402. We lived on the east side of town. Lakeside Terraces was on the west side. I changed my clothes and left the house. Forty minutes later, I was standing in front of Building 7 of Lakeside Terraces. It was a nice complex. Manicured lawns, underground parking. I took the elevator to the 14th floor. I stood in front of apartment 1402. There was a cartoon sticker on the door, a smiling cat. I didn’t knock. I just stood there for five minutes, then turned and left. Because on the shoe rack by the door, I saw a pair of men’s slippers. Brown, size 10. Identical to the pair in our closet at home. I sat in a coffee shop across the street for two hours. At two in the afternoon, a woman walked out of Building 7. Ponytail, floral dress, perfectly applied makeup. Amber. She walked to the curb, made a phone call, and said something with a smile. I couldn’t hear the words. But I saw her gently touch her stomach. My hands began to tremble. Not from sadness. From rage. One hundred and eighty thousand dollars. My parents had given me one hundred and twenty thousand, and I had saved sixty thousand myself. Five years ago, when Mark told me he wanted to start his own business, I gave him every penny. I even quit my job at a major accounting firm to be his CFO. I built his books from scratch, one entry at a time. For five years, I worked until 11 p.m. every night. His company grew from a tiny startup into a business with a three-million-dollar annual revenue. And he took the money I helped him earn and used it to keep a woman. To buy her a condo in Lakeside Terraces. Five thousand a month, like clockwork. Seventy thousand so far, and still counting. I left the coffee shop and stood on the sidewalk for a moment. The late autumn wind was cold. I didn’t cry. I took out my phone and snapped a picture of Lakeside Terraces. I saved it to the encrypted folder. Then, I went home and started making dinner. Mark got home at seven. He ate the ribs I’d made and told me they were delicious. I looked at him and smiled. I didn’t say a word. He had no idea. I had already begun. 2. The next day, I went to the state’s business registry. I looked up our company’s equity transfer records. When we first registered the company, I held 30%, and Mark held 70%. I wrote the charter myself. I remembered it clearly. But the record in the system now showed: Katherine, 0%. Amber, 30%. The date of transfer was a year and a half ago. Attached was an equity transfer agreement. Transferor: Katherine. Transferee: Amber. Transfer price: One dollar. I saw the signature on the agreement. It was my name. But I didn’t sign it. When I sign my name, the final stroke of the ‘e’ in Katherine always has a small curve. This one didn’t. He had forged it. I stood there in the lobby of the registry, staring at the screen for a long time. The final stroke of the ‘e’ was straight, with no curve. Just like him. He stabbed me with a straight blade, not even bothering to conceal it properly. In that moment, I finally understood something. In Mark’s eyes, what was I? I was the money, the bookkeeper, the one who propped up his company, and then, like a piece of scrap paper, I was thrown away with a forged signature. A fake name. One dollar. I was worth one dollar. I took a picture. After leaving the registry, I did a second thing. I went back to the office. I was still the company’s CFO. Mark hadn’t touched my position. He had only touched the equity, because he was sure I would never check. I walked into the finance department, opened the company’s internal system, and started pulling Amber’s employment records. Date of hire: March 2020. I hired her. Then I checked her pay stubs. 2020: $4,000 a month. 2021: $8,000 a month. 2022: $15,000 a month, plus a thirty-thousand-dollar “annual bonus.” I checked her promotion history. 2020: Receptionist. 2021: Assistant to the General Manager. 2022: “Executive Vice President of Administration.” A receptionist, promoted to VP in two years. Her salary had nearly quadrupled. Plus the five-thousand-dollar monthly “mortgage.” Plus the thirty-thousand-dollar “bonus.” I did the math. In two and a half years, the money Mark had spent on Amber: Salary difference: Approximately $50,000. Monthly transfers: $70,000 (and counting). Condo at Lakeside Terraces: Down payment of around $80,000. Bonus: $30,000. Miscellaneous expenses: Unknown. A conservative estimate: Over $230,000. The startup capital I had given him was $180,000. He had spent more on her than my entire initial investment. I closed the laptop. I sat in my chair for ten minutes. Then I did a third thing. I looked for photos. There was a “Team Events” folder on the company’s shared drive. I started from the beginning. May 2020, the company’s first team-building event. In the group photo, Amber stood on the far right, prim and proper. December 2020, the annual holiday party. In the group photo, Amber stood next to Mark, her body angled slightly toward him. Mark’s hand rested on the back of her chair. I zoomed in. He was smiling. I knew that smile. It was the same smile he used when he was courting me. December 2020. The eighth month after the company was founded. So, the affair hadn’t been going on for a year. Or two years. It started almost as soon as the company was on its feet. Every single day I was propping up his company, he was behind my back with another woman. Four years. More than fourteen hundred days. I worked until 11 p.m. every night. He came home every night from Lakeside Terraces. I thought he was out entertaining clients. He was in apartment 1402. Behind the door with the smiling cat. I took screenshots of all the photos in chronological order and saved them to my encrypted folder. The evidence was mounting. So was my rage. But I kept quiet. Because I knew Mark was not a man to be trifled with. He had money, connections, and lawyers. If I showed my hand now, he had a hundred ways to make sure I walked away with nothing. I had to win. Not just have a fight, a good cry, and then get divorced with nothing to my name. I had to make him pay. A real price. 3. For the next week, I went through all five years of the company’s books. I had done these books. I knew better than anyone what was inside. On the surface, Mark’s company was a construction supplier with an annual revenue of three million. But in reality, starting in the second year, he had been keeping two sets of books. One for the IRS, and one for himself. I didn’t know at first. When I found out, he told me, “Every company does it. It’s no big deal.” I believed him. Because I was his wife. Looking back now, he probably had me cook the books from the beginning with a clear plan: if we ever split, these fraudulent records would be the rope around my neck. You did the books. You’re complicit. Clever. So clever. The things I compiled in that week: Underreported income: A cumulative total of around $800,000. Falsified invoices: At least a dozen. Fraudulent payroll records: Used to siphon company funds. Personal expenses billed to the company: The $80,000 down payment for the Lakeside Terraces condo was disguised as a “project fee.” I had the original drafts for all of it. Five years of drafts. I had kept them all. Not because I was prescient, but because it was my professional habit as an accountant. For every transaction, I had a scanned copy of the original receipt. Mark didn’t know. He thought I was just his obedient little bookkeeper. With all this, I wrote my first whistleblower letter. I signed my name to it. I attached evidence of the three most blatant instances of tax evasion. I mailed it to the city’s IRS office. Two weeks later, two agents came to the office. They walked around, looked at a few ledgers, and chatted with Mark for half an hour. Then they left. The conclusion: Upon review, no significant violations were found. I waited a month. Nothing. One evening, Mark came home and sat on the sofa, looking at me. “Katherine.” “Yes?” “Did you report me?” I didn’t answer. He laughed. “Let me tell you something. Frank, at the IRS? I’ve known him for ten years.” He crossed his legs. “You can report me a hundred times. It won’t work.” I just looked at him. “It’s just a formality every time, you understand?” He stood up and walked over to me. “If you feel so wronged, we can get a divorce.” He looked down at me. “You can have the house, and I’ll give you fifty thousand. Don’t even think about anything else.” Fifty thousand. I had put in one hundred and eighty thousand. I had worked as his CFO for five years for free. He was offering me fifty thousand. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” he asked. I looked at him. “I need to think about it.” He let out a short, sharp laugh and went back to the bedroom. He didn’t go to Lakeside Terraces that night. He probably thought he should stay to “pacify” me. I lay next to him, listening to him snore. Staring at the ceiling. Fine. You say a hundred times won’t work. Then I’ll try a hundred and one times. 4. I didn’t mail the second letter right away. First, I went to see someone. Brenda. Brenda was forty-eight, a former colleague of mine from the accounting firm. A year after I quit to join Mark’s company, he said he needed to hire a cashier and asked for a recommendation. I recommended Brenda. She had been with the company ever since. She was the kind of person who faded into the background. Dressed simply, spoke little, came and went on time, and never attended company parties. Mark never gave her a second look. But Brenda had one particular trait: in her twenty years as a cashier, she remembered every single dollar that passed through her hands. It wasn’t loyalty. It was a professional habit. Just like me. I took Brenda out for lunch. At a simple noodle shop. “Brenda, I’m divorcing Mark.” She put down her chopsticks. “Why?” “He’s cheating. You knew, didn’t you?” She was silent for a few seconds. “Everyone in the office knows.” “Everyone?” “He takes that Amber girl to business dinners. He doesn’t even try to hide it.” I laughed. The whole company knew. Except me. Because no one dared to tell the boss’s wife. “Brenda, I need you to do something for me.” I looked her in the eye. “How much of the company’s real cash flow from the past few years do you have records of?” Brenda looked at me for a long time. Then she said something. “Kate, I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that for two years.” She told me that two years ago, Mark had a new finance manager handle the accounts, sidelining her. But she didn’t quit. Because she knew this day would come. “I have a record of every dollar he’s taken from the company account each month.” She took a USB drive from her purse. “Cashier’s copy. It’s a habit of mine.” I took the drive. “Thank you, Brenda.” “Don’t thank me,” she said. “At the holiday party, he made me serve drinks. Said the cashier wasn’t a real employee.” She picked up a noodle with her chopsticks. “I’ve been waiting for this day too.” From that day on, Brenda became my eyes inside the company. Every suspicious transfer, every fake invoice, every personal expense disguised as a business one, she sent me a copy. Encrypted files, with the password changed weekly. Mark had no idea. He thought Brenda was just an old cashier who clocked in and out. He didn’t know that this old cashier was meticulously documenting his crimes. At the same time, I mailed my second whistleblower letter. This time, I intentionally only reported a minor issue, a transfer of about ten thousand dollars from a corporate to a personal account. The evidence was solid, but the amount was small. Why? Because I wasn’t trying to win this round. I wanted Mark to think this was all I had. As expected. Two weeks later, the IRS agents came again. They looked into it. Mark had to pay back eight thousand in taxes. He paid the fine, made a call to his “guy Frank,” and the matter was settled. He came home and said to me, “You reported me again?” I didn’t deny it. “Is this really worth it?” He shook his head. “Eight grand. That doesn’t even cover my lawyer’s fees.” He laughed. “Is that all you’ve got?” I looked at him. “Yes. That’s all I’ve got.” He smiled, satisfied, and left for Lakeside Terraces. I waited until he was gone, then took out my phone and sent a message to Brenda: “Keep going.” 5. The third month after I mailed the third letter. I found something new. The kickbacks Mark was paying to “Frank” at the IRS. Not just dinners and gifts. Direct wire transfers. Three times a year, ten thousand dollars each time. The money came from one of Amber’s personal accounts and was sent to a man named Frank Benson, the very agent in charge of auditing him. Brenda gave me this information. While organizing some old files, she had found a notebook locked in Mark’s desk drawer. It detailed every “PR expense.” Mark probably thought an old cashier would never go through her boss’s drawers. He was wrong. Brenda not only went through them, she took pictures. Every page, front and back, in high definition. Looking at those photos, I finally understood. It wasn’t that my letters were useless. It was that there was no such thing as a fair investigation. Every IRS audit was just a show Mark had paid for. The auditor was on his payroll. How could he possibly find anything wrong? I put my phone down. I took a deep breath. Fine. So it wasn’t a lack of evidence. It was that I was sending it to the wrong place. From that day on, I changed my strategy. No more letters to the city office. I started researching the whistleblower process for the State Department of Revenue. The state had its own independent whistleblower office, a separate system from the city. Mark’s “guy Frank” had no pull at the state level. But I wasn’t in a hurry. I needed more time. Because the amount of Mark’s tax evasion was still growing. He was getting bolder. Every report against him had been quashed. He no longer saw me as a threat. Two hundred thousand in evasion the year before, three hundred fifty thousand last year, and this year’s numbers were still climbing. He thought he was untouchable. With Frank in his pocket, no one could touch him. This was exactly what I wanted. The more arrogant he got, the bigger the hole he dug. And the bigger the hole, the harder it is to climb out. I mailed the fourth, fifth, and sixth letters. All to the city office. All squashed by Frank. Every time Mark got the news, he would just laugh. “You again?” He wasn’t even angry anymore. He found it funny. He thought his ex-wife (we were in the process of divorcing) was a pathetic, incompetent woman who could do nothing but write useless letters. What he didn’t know was this: In letters four through six, I had intentionally included only small pieces of evidence. Like baiting a hook. Every time he got away with it, he relaxed a little more. And every time he relaxed, he would commit another crime. And Brenda was recording every single one. By the end of the third year, Mark’s cumulative tax evasion had exceeded eight hundred thousand dollars. Add to that bribery, forging my signature to transfer equity, and creating fake invoices. Each crime was enough to bring him a world of hurt. Winter of 2024. I was ready. All the evidence, my five years of original drafts, Brenda’s three years of records, the photos of Mark’s bribery notebook, the forged signature on the equity transfer, was compiled into a single file. I printed three copies. One for the State Department of Revenue. One for the State Ethics Commission. And one for myself. The seventh letter. This time, no city office. No Frank. Straight to the state. The day I mailed it, it was very cold. The clerk at the post office asked me, “Registered or standard?” “Registered.” “You got it.” She gave me a receipt. I tucked it away safely. On the way home, I bought a bouquet of flowers. I put them in a vase in the living room. Then I sat down. And I waited.

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Midnight had long come and gone when Evelyn finally dragged her exhausted body home. I sat alone on the living room sofa, my spirits at rock bottom. Seeing my state, she said nothing, simply thrust her phone into my hand. “You can check,” she said, her voice calm. “The password is still your birthday.” With that, she turned and walked into the bathroom, the sound of rushing water filling the silence. I stared at the phone, a bitter smile playing on my lips. What good would checking do? She only ever let me see what she wanted me to see – a perfectly clean interface. Soon, she emerged from the shower, wrapping her arms around me tightly from behind, still damp from the steam. “See? I told you there was nothing,” she murmured, a hint of playful cajolery in her voice. “You have to trust me.” I slowly raised my head, my gaze inadvertently falling on the back of her neck – there was a clear, thin scratch. An unspeakable wave of irony surged through me, yet I didn’t react with the same hysteria as before. I simply pushed her away gently, my voice calm in a way that even I found unfamiliar. “Evelyn, let’s get a divorce.” I truly couldn’t endure another day of this mutual torment. 1 Silence hung in the air for a few moments. Then, a sharp, shattering sound broke it. Evelyn had accidentally knocked over a vase nearby. That vase was the very first decorative item we’d bought together, during our first year of marriage, on a trip to IKEA. From our cozy two-bedroom apartment to a spacious loft, and now to this luxurious villa, it had been our good luck charm, witnessing all our stumbling steps along the way. Now, the vase was utterly shattered. Just like my seven-year marriage to Evelyn, beyond repair, never to return to what it once was. I pulled my gaze from the shards scattered across the floor and looked back at Evelyn. “I’ve had a lawyer draft the divorce papers. Please sign them…” Before I could finish, Evelyn cut me off. “My hand was cut by the vase, Adrian.” I paused, looking down. Only then did I notice a cut on her hand, bleeding crimson onto the floor. “Adrian, help me with this,” Evelyn’s voice was hoarse. She rarely showed vulnerability. But I knew this was her usual tactic to make amends. If I followed her lead, and gently applied medicine to her wound, we would once again be “back to normal.” But this time, I merely shifted my gaze, my voice detached. “It’s just a minor cut. A little antiseptic will do.” I paused, returning to my original topic. “After you’ve taken care of it, remember to sign the divorce papers.” Evelyn’s eyes instantly dimmed. “Adrian, I’m hurt! How long are you going to keep this up?!” Evelyn’s tone was bewildered. In her eyes, it was as if cheating wasn’t wrong. Especially since, after my hysterical outbursts, she had already routinely deleted those ambiguous chat logs, and even changed all her passwords to my birthday. So, she didn’t understand why I was still “throwing a tantrum.” I subconsciously rubbed the mottled scar on my hand, saying nothing further. Just then, her phone rang. It was that familiar ringtone, one that had often sounded in the dead of night for nearly a year. Evelyn had once explained it was an urgent company line; I hadn’t doubted her. Until her birthday, when I was at the grocery store, picking out her favorite fish, debating whether to make her braised fish or spicy fish soup, I looked up and saw her, wrapped in another man’s arms, choosing snacks. It was then that I finally, belatedly, understood. Evelyn had cheated a long time ago. And that man was her childhood friend she had mentioned once, Justin Thorne. Perhaps because the accusations and confessions were already out in the open, Evelyn didn’t bother with excuses this time. She answered the phone right in front of me: “I’ll be right there, wait for me.” After hanging up, she disregarded the injury on her hand, quickly grabbed her car keys, and left. As she reached the front door, she suddenly cast a deep look at me. Her voice was filled with disappointment: “You used to not be like this, Adrian.” What was I like before? Offering her a burning heart, only to have it wounded beyond repair? Because I cared too much, couldn’t bear to lose this ten-year relationship. Moreover, at that time, she was pregnant. So I endured the pain, chose to forgive her. She promised to keep her distance. But what was the result? The scar on my hand, wasn’t it proof of my foolishness? I rubbed the scar, and the festering wound seemed to ooze again, a pain so sharp I couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, a loud bang interrupted my thoughts. Evelyn had slammed the door shut and left. I knew she was going to Justin again. I stared at the closed door, a faint curl of my lip. “Evelyn, goodbye.” 2 Half an hour later, Justin posted a status update visible only to me. “She says only I truly understand her. She asked me never to leave her.” The accompanying photo showed the back of Evelyn’s head, buried in his embrace, and their fingers tightly intertwined. Just minutes earlier, Evelyn had told me I could trust her. But her idea of trust probably referred to the pure “friendship” between her and Justin. Trusting that her repeated absences from my follow-up appointments, all for some minor issue of his, were merely out of “loyalty” to a good friend. Trusting that spending an entire night together, naked in the same bed, was simply a platonic “reunion.” Soon after, Justin, just like many times before, deleted the status update, wiping it clean. As if what I had just seen was merely a figment of my “suspicious mind.” Then, he sent me another message. “Brother-in-law, Evelyn was in a bad mood tonight and came to drink with me. Please don’t overthink it.” “It’s not worth it, letting an outsider like me affect your relationship.” Don’t overthink it? I looked at those words, a cold laugh escaping me. I remembered back then, when I, burning with fever, confronted Evelyn with a screenshot of Justin’s post, her explanation had been much the same. “Justin and I grew up together. After high school, he went abroad to study and stayed there. Now that he’s finally back, can’t I spend some extra time with my old friend?” “Adrian, you’re just bored from being home sick, that’s why you’re always overthinking things.” Seeing my feverish, increasingly pale face, Evelyn seemed to realize her slip of the tongue. She quickly pulled me into her arms, pressing her forehead against mine. “Adrian, even for the sake of our child, you should trust me, okay? Don’t overthink it.” She gently wiped away my tears, her voice helpless. “Don’t cry, Adrian. Alright, I promise you, I’ll keep my distance from him.” Seeing my tears flow even harder, Evelyn then deleted Justin’s contact information right in front of me. She even changed all her passwords to my birthday. Ten years of a relationship, seven years of marriage, and our child was about to be born. At that time, I truly couldn’t bear to let go. So I gritted my teeth, forgave her, and chose to trust her one more time. But what happened later? Less than a month later. Just when she went into premature labor, and we learned the baby had died in utero, when she most needed to rest and recover in the hospital. She left the hospital without a second thought, merely because Justin said he had a “stomachache.” I instantly broke down, frantically grabbing a fruit knife beside me, my voice hoarse as I asked her: “Evelyn, are you sure you want to choose him? If you take that step, we’re completely over!” Evelyn’s face instantly twisted in disgust, her eyes looking at me like I was a madman. “Adrian, stop making a scene. I have a family doctor there, and besides, the doctor already said he’s fine.” “Justin just returned recently. He’s alone, and his health has always been delicate. I have to go; don’t make this difficult for me.” With that, she never looked back, leaving me with only a resolute back. The moment the hospital room door closed, the knife in my hand slipped, uncontrolled, cutting my wrist and leaving that hideous scar. The vibration of my phone pulled me back from distant thoughts. It was a voice message from Evelyn, sounding as if she’d been drinking. “Adrian, please don’t be angry with me anymore. Can we have another child?” A child? I subconsciously rubbed the scar on my hand, though it was already numb with pain. Yet, hearing her mention a child again, my heart still ached in waves, threatening to drown me. After a long while, I finally composed myself, wiping away the last tear. I quietly blocked both Evelyn and Justin’s contact information. Then, I dialed a long-distance number. “Dad, three days from now, I’ll meet you at the airport.” 3 For the next few days, Evelyn didn’t come home. I stopped asking her when she’d return, and instead began packing my bags. But seven years of marriage had left too deep an imprint; many items carried Evelyn’s shadow. The white scarf Evelyn gave me on our first date. I wore it for years, unable to part with it, because she had spent months knitting it by hand. And many other “firsts” she’d given me, things Evelyn had put thought into, staying up late to make by hand. I had carefully treasured them all in a safe, unable to throw them away. Later, Evelyn’s career became more and more successful, and her gifts grew increasingly expensive. I still accepted them with joy, because they were all proof that Evelyn had once deeply loved me. But then, in our second year of living in the grand villa, Justin appeared. My vanity table slowly filled with various luxury brand watches and bracelets. My wardrobe gradually hung with the latest seasonal haute couture. These were worth hundreds of thousands, some even millions, but they were no longer given out of love. They had simply become Evelyn’s “apologies” and “compensations” for the countless nights I spent waiting alone while she was with someone else. I looked at these items, coldly bypassing them. Then I packed only those things that truly belonged solely to me. The day everything was packed, Evelyn happened to come home. Seeing the suitcase in my hand, she frowned. “Where are you going this time?” She still thought I was just throwing a tantrum. After all, in the past, I had more than once threatened to leave. I didn’t deny it, simply lowering my gaze. “To clear my head.” Evelyn didn’t notice anything amiss. Instead, she pulled me into a tight embrace. “Adrian, I’ve been waiting for your call these past few days.” Waiting for my call? But I distinctly remembered sending her messages in the past, asking her to come home. What I received in return was her dismissive impatience. She cupped my face in her hands, staring intently at me. “If you had just said something, I would’ve come back immediately. But you didn’t.” Evelyn’s tone was accusatory. As if in those past few days, the person who had been with another man wasn’t her, Evelyn. I didn’t expose her, but a faint smile touched my lips. Evelyn mistakenly thought I had calmed down and stood on tiptoe to lightly kiss my mouth. “Evelyn, I knew it. You’re not like my dad.” Not like my dad? Evelyn’s words, spoken without warning, pierced my heart, a pain so intense I could barely breathe. She knew perfectly well the immense pain my mother’s affair and domestic abuse had inflicted on my father and me. If my father hadn’t been resilient enough, brave enough, he would have been buried in a grave! He wouldn’t have fled abroad to live the life he wanted. And now, she casually dismissed everything my own father had struggled to achieve. And this knife, it was handed to her by the me who once loved Evelyn with all his heart. Meeting my swollen eyes, Evelyn awkwardly explained: “I’m sorry, Adrian. I meant that you don’t have to struggle like your dad. Just staying by my side is enough.” “Is that so?” I suddenly smiled, looking directly into her eyes. Evelyn met my gaze, a strange tightness in her chest, but she didn’t dwell on it, still thinking I meant to reconcile. She nodded repeatedly, her voice assured. “Of course, Adrian. You have to trust me, just like before.” I scoffed inwardly, but showed no outward sign. Just then, my phone rang. I looked at her, and calmly said, “My car’s here, Evelyn. You go back to work.” “Okay.” Evelyn still didn’t notice anything amiss, even kindly walking me to the door. Before getting into the car, I called her name. “Hm?” “Goodbye, Evelyn.” I said. Consider it a final farewell to Evelyn, a farewell to my past. She ruffled my hair, smiling, “Alright, go clear your head. I’ll be home working hard, earning more money to take care of you.” I still said nothing, just looked at her one last time, and gently waved my hand. As the car neared the airport, my phone vibrated frantically. It was an unknown number. I assumed it was a scam call and immediately blocked it. But as I exited the call screen, I saw an anonymous text message. “Adrian, your child isn’t dead. Evelyn lied to you.”

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