Category: English

My daughter was only twenty months old when she was murdered. Not a single bone in her tiny body was left intact. The suspect was just a child himself. Because of his age, he faced no prison time. The system sealed his records and protected him. I spent the next ten years waiting for him to grow up. 1 My name is Elena. If you looked at my stark white hair, you would think I was an old woman, but I am only thirty four years old. No one knows how I survived this past decade. I was born in a deeply impoverished, isolated town nestled high in the Appalachian mountains. I was pulled out of school by the time I was fourteen. When I turned eighteen, my father handed me over to a man in a neighboring county to be his wife. In that backwards, off the grid community, a woman had no real standing until she gave a man a son. My husband, Jared, was over a decade older than me. He spent his days reeking of cheap whiskey. Most people in the county had left to find real work in the city, but Jared refused to leave. He kept me trapped on a desolate plot of farmland with his aging parents, living a life of suffocating misery. I was not afraid of hardship. I had grown up with nothing. I was not even afraid of the beatings, because violence was all I had ever known. The following year, I gave birth to a baby girl. That was when Jared’s mother turned on me. Whether it was complications from the birth or sheer exhaustion, I never got pregnant again. Jared grew disgusted with me. The beatings became merciless. One night, after a particularly brutal attack left me bleeding on the floor, my survival instinct took over. In a haze of panic and desperation, I ran. I fled the farmhouse and ran into the pitch black night. But I left my daughter behind. I know it was the greatest sin of my life. But I had less than two dollars to my name. I was starving, bruised, and had absolutely no way to keep a baby alive on the streets. My plan was to make it to a city, find a job, get a roof over my head, and then come back to steal my daughter away in the dead of night. 2 For the next three years, I lived like a ghost. I drifted from city to city, working grueling under the table jobs because I had no formal education. I scrubbed floors, washed dishes, and took the lowest pay imaginable. Yet, I was strangely content. I no longer woke up terrified of a fist. No one screamed at me. Being poor and free was a luxury. I just didn’t have enough to go back for her yet. I pinched every penny, hoarding a meager stash of five hundred dollars in a coffee can. I refused to see a doctor even when I was sick with a fever. That money was my lifeline. Every dollar saved brought me one step closer to my little girl. Terrified that Jared would track me down and drag me back, I cut all ties with anyone from my home state. If I heard a familiar accent on the street, I would turn and walk the other way. 3 Running into my cousin Sarah was a complete accident. I was working at a diner in the city. The kitchen sink had backed up, so I carried a heavy plastic tub of murky dishwater out the back door to dump it in the alley. Sarah happened to be walking past. The dirty water splashed onto her boots, and she immediately started cursing at me. Hearing that specific, thick mountain drawl made my heart drop. I nearly dropped the plastic tub. We locked eyes, and recognition hit us both like a physical blow. I spun around to run, but Sarah lunged forward and grabbed me. She threw her arms around my shoulders and burst into agonizing sobs. “It’s Lily! Something happened to Lily!” “Tell me! What happened? Is she sick?” My throat felt tight, like someone was choking me. I was desperate for it to just be a fever. “Lily is dead.” When those three words registered, all the weight left my body. The alleyway spun wildly around me, and the sky seemed to crash into the pavement. 4 Lily had been thrown to her death. Every single bone in her torso and limbs was shattered. Only her head remained intact. The investigators theorized she had been dropped from a terrifying height dozens of times. Every time she was thrown, the killer had deliberately held her by the head so only her fragile body struck the ground. She was conscious. She felt every single second of that unimaginable agony. The killer was an eight year old boy. And the law could not touch him. “Jared took a payout from the boy’s family. They bought his silence, and the case was closed,” Sarah sobbed, her fingers digging into my coat. “But I can’t let it go, Elena. She was just a baby. There has to be some kind of justice in this world.” I stood frozen in that filthy alley. It felt like invisible ropes were binding my arms while arrows pierced my chest. I could see the arrows flying toward me, but I could not dodge, could not run, could only stand there and bleed. Every bone in her body. How much did that hurt? I could not even fathom it. I remembered fracturing a single finger once and crying for hours from the throbbing pain. How did my sweet, helpless Lily endure that? 5 Sarah choked out the rest of the details. The boy was eight. His mother was the only person from our county to ever graduate from a major university. She had moved to the East Coast, built a massive company, and become incredibly wealthy. Her family had returned to the mountains that summer for a rustic vacation, treating the trip like a royal homecoming. They were the VIP guests of the county. The local women spent their days fawning over the rich mother, playing cards on the porch. Jared’s mother had gone over to join the gossip. Since I was gone, Lily was treated like a stray dog. They tossed her scraps when they remembered, but otherwise, she was completely ignored. Several people later admitted they heard a baby screaming that afternoon. But nobody bothered to check. It wasn’t until the card game ended and Jared’s mother walked back into our silent, empty house that she noticed something on the rotting mattress. It was a bundle. Wrapped in a piece of filthy, faded fabric. It was the old curtain that used to hang in our kitchen. Curious, she walked over and untied the knot. She took one look, let out a bloodcurdling scream, and passed out cold. A state trooper happened to be passing through the county on patrol. He responded to the screams and immediately locked down the area. The wealthy family tried to flee. The trooper blocked their luxury SUV on a narrow dirt road. 6 The eight year old boy was tall and unnervingly thin. When the police questioned him, his face was extremely pale, and he refused to speak a single word. Based on the forensic evidence and the bloodstains on the heavy stone slabs on the ground floor, they determined Lily had been carried up to the second floor of the old barn. And then dropped. Over and over again. But he was eight. Under the law, he lacked the capacity to form criminal intent. His mother wrote Jared a massive check. Jared and his parents were thrilled. To them, my daughter was just a worthless burden, and her death had suddenly made them rich. The matter was swept under the rug. 7 My entire universe collapsed. Lily’s death took the very last shred of my humanity with it. When I finally returned to the cramped apartment I shared with six other women, they went quiet. They had heard the news. I could hear their frantic, pitying whispers in the dark. For three days and three nights, I lay on my thin mattress. I wept until my tear ducts ran completely dry. Then, I sat up and drank a bowl of cold soup someone had left on my nightstand. I needed to live. The monster who murdered my baby was still breathing. I had no right to die. When I finally walked out of that apartment, the people in the hallway stared at me with pure horror. They had never seen a young woman whose hair had turned completely white overnight. 8 Before Sarah left, she slipped me a piece of paper with the name of a wealthy East Coast city. The boy’s family had immense resources. To avoid the local scandal, they relocated immediately. The boy was shielded by juvenile privacy laws. He was given a clean slate and a brand new life. For someone like me, finding them was like trying to pull a needle from the ocean. But I had to do it. I was Lily’s mother. I swore I would spend the rest of my miserable life hunting him down. Even if he was buried under a mountain of bodies, I would dig him out. I was twenty three years old. I realized very quickly that to exact revenge, I needed to evolve. A penniless, uneducated runaway could not touch a family with that kind of wealth. I needed to blend in. I needed access. I moved to the city Sarah had written down and found work as a domestic maid. Being a cleaner or a nanny gave me an invisible pass into the homes of the elite. Whenever I wasn’t scrubbing floors, I was in the public library. I read obsessively. Psychology, sociology, criminology, whatever I could get my hands on. I absorbed knowledge like a starving animal. No one understood why a simple maid was driving herself to the brink of exhaustion. 9 By my ninth year in that city, I had transitioned into working as a high end maternity nurse. This allowed me to float seamlessly through the most affluent neighborhoods across seven different school districts. It gave me endless access to gossip, records, and wealthy networks without raising a single red flag. Yet, for nine years, I found absolutely nothing. Not a single trace of him. But I refused to believe he had vanished into thin air. 10 In my eighth year of searching, I switched tactics again. I stopped maternity work and became a private chef and housekeeper. I specifically targeted the zip code surrounding the city’s most prestigious, elite public high school. I calculated his age. He should have been entering high school right around this time. My maternal instinct told me that his arrogant, ambitious mother would never settle for a mediocre education. She would pull every string to get him into the best academy available. There were dozens of middle schools in the metropolitan area, but only one undisputed crown jewel of a high school. The incoming freshman class had over two thousand students. He had to be one of them. 11 Because my cooking was impeccable and my demeanor was quiet, my reputation grew quickly through word of mouth. I had my pick of clients. I deliberately chose two specific households. One was the home of the high school’s Dean of Students. The other was the home of a very chatty freshman boy. I never expected the first real clue to be handed to me so casually. One afternoon, I was finishing up the lunch prep at the freshman’s house. His mother was leaning against the marble counter, chatting with me. She mentioned that the organic markets had fresh spring produce and asked me to mix up the menu. Without thinking, I let out a specific, regional grunt of agreement from my old mountain town. The boy, who was eating a sandwich at the island, suddenly snorted with laughter. His mother glared at him. “Sorry,” the boy said, turning red. “It’s just that Tristan said that exact same weird country phrase during his valedictorian speech last week.” My heart slammed against my ribs. I gripped the edge of the sink to keep my knees from buckling. That phrase was incredibly specific to our isolated county. Could this Tristan be the monster I was hunting? “Tristan?” his mother asked, pouring a glass of water. “That senior you basically worship? The one applying to all the Ivy Leagues?” “Yeah! He just ranked number one in the state mock exams again.” I turned my back to them, pretending to wipe down the stove. My hands were shaking so violently I nearly dropped the sponge. When the boy finished eating and went upstairs to study, I slipped out the back door. I had miscalculated. That was why I couldn’t find him. He was two grades ahead of where he should be. Lily must have been guiding me from the beyond. If I had waited until next year, he would have graduated and disappeared into a university campus. 12 The next day was Saturday. The Dean and his family were home. I pulled out all the stops, cooking a flawless, elaborate four course meal. The aromas filled the entire house. When the Dean stepped out of his home office, the dining table was set perfectly. “Thank you, Elena. You really outdid yourself. I can take it from here,” he said, offering a polite smile. I kept my head bowed and softly mentioned that times were a bit tough and asked if he needed me to take over the deep cleaning duties for his private study. He agreed instantly. He trusted me implicitly by now. That was how I gained access to his home office. And more importantly, his laptop. Over the years, I had taught myself how to navigate operating systems and bypass basic security. I had a narrow window. The senior class files were already digitized. I pulled up the directory and searched for Tristan. There were three boys with that first name. I had to read through each file carefully. One profile made my blood run cold. This Tristan had a gap in his early childhood records. His elementary enrollment was delayed by exactly two months. There was no transfer record, just a blank two month void. The exact two months immediately following my daughter’s murder. After that, his academic record showed he skipped two grades. I calmly closed the laptop and wiped down the keyboard. I had found him. It was time for the next phase. 13 I visited every elite domestic staffing agency in the district and left my resume specifically requesting afternoon cooking shifts. I just had to pray his family was looking for help. Heaven rewards the patient. His mother walked right into the agency. The recruiter whispered to me beforehand that Eleanor was a nightmare client. She fired maids constantly. No one ever lasted more than a month. When Eleanor looked at me, she saw a quiet, prematurely aged woman who kept her eyes on the floor. She liked that. She hired me on the spot for a trial dinner. I spent an hour in her pristine, modern kitchen preparing a flawless meal. Just as I plated the food, I heard the heavy front door open. Footsteps echoed in the foyer, followed by a woman’s sharp voice and a younger, deeper reply. I could not stop myself. I walked out of the kitchen. Standing in the entryway was a tall, incredibly handsome teenager. He was over six feet tall, lean, with sharp cheekbones and a bright, radiant smile. He looked like the picture of wealthy, suburban perfection. This was completely contrary to the twisted, deformed monster I had pictured in my head for a decade. I froze in the hallway, staring. “What are you staring at?” Eleanor snapped, glaring at me. “I… I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen such a handsome young man before,” I stammered, perfectly playing the part of a naive, uneducated servant. Eleanor scoffed, her ego stroked by the compliment. My rustic ignorance put her completely at ease. I retreated to the kitchen, my legs turning to jelly. Every instinct in my body screamed that this was him. But my mind was reeling. How could a demon who shattered a baby’s bones look like a golden boy? For ten years, I had fantasized about finding him. I imagined tearing his throat out with my bare teeth and drinking his blood. But seeing this bright, polite teenager completely shattered my expectations. I began to doubt myself. 14 After a week working in their home, my doubts only grew heavier. Tristan was brilliant. He wasn’t just top of his class academically; he was a prodigy. He played the violin, dominated on the baseball field, and had a wall covered in swimming medals. But the school records were too specific. It had to be him. How was this possible? Did I have the wrong family? Tristan loved my cooking. He always called me Auntie Elena. Compared to Eleanor’s constant, biting criticism and Richard’s cold, absent demeanor, Tristan was actually the warmest person in the house. He always thanked me. He complimented my stews. He smiled politely when we crossed paths. I lived in a constant state of agonizing conflict. Because my work was flawless, Eleanor eventually approached me. She asked me to move into the house as their full time, live in housekeeper. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then agreed. 15 Living in the house gave me unrestricted hours to observe Tristan. The boy I had hunted for ten years was sleeping just upstairs, yet he acted like a saint. It was deeply unsettling. I knew I could not afford to hurt an innocent person. I needed absolute, undeniable proof before I made my move. The layout was simple. The parents lived on the sprawling ground floor. Tristan had the entire second floor to himself. I was given a converted storage room near the laundry area. Tristan’s bedroom door was always shut. Eleanor explicitly warned me on my first day never to go upstairs and never to touch his room. I simply nodded, playing the obedient servant. One morning, the family left for their respective schedules. I took my cleaning supplies and methodically worked my way through the ground floor. Then, I grabbed a microfiber cloth and slowly walked up the stairs, wiping down the banister. I reached the second floor landing. Tristan’s door was locked. Picking a standard interior lock was child’s play. I had mastered that skill years ago. But just as I reached for the knob, a glint of light from a smoke detector in the hallway caught my eye. I immediately dropped to my knees and started aggressively scrubbing the floorboards, not even brushing against his door. I turned and walked back downstairs. My intuition was screaming. That room hid his true face. But the timing wasn’t right. The house was wired. I had waited ten years. I could wait a few more days. 16 Eleanor was a rigid, neurotic woman. Her words were always dipped in venom. If I wasn’t fueled by pure hatred, I wouldn’t have lasted forty eight hours under her roof. But she was also incredibly meticulous. I used my deep cleaning sessions to tear apart her master bedroom, searching for anything tying them to my hometown. Nothing. She had spent a decade sanitizing their past. I needed to get into Tristan’s room without triggering the cameras or raising suspicion. I formulated a new plan. 17 It was a long holiday weekend, and the family went out to a country club brunch. The suburban neighborhood was full of kids playing outside. A group of boys was kicking a soccer ball in the cul-de-sac. I was standing at the kitchen island, chopping vegetables, when a deafening crash shattered the silence of the house. Glass rained down onto the hardwood upstairs. I sprinted upstairs, acting panicked. The hallway camera caught my frantic reaction. I checked the ground floor windows. Intact. I ran to the second floor landing. Tristan’s door was still locked, but the structural damage was obvious. When the family returned that evening, Tristan walked into the kitchen with his usual bright smile. He handed me a slice of expensive bakery cake. “It’s my birthday today, Auntie Elena. I made sure to save you a piece.” I took the plate, my chest tightening with a sickening mix of emotions. I had never celebrated a birthday in my life. No one had ever offered me cake. And now, the first slice I ever received was being handed to me by the monster who murdered my child. The irony tasted like ash in my mouth. If my Lily had lived, she would be turning twelve this year. She never got to taste birthday cake. The thought made my heart physically ache. I took the cake and walked into the pantry. A second later, a loud, furious shout echoed from upstairs. “What the hell is this?” Tristan yelled. 18 Eleanor and I rushed up the stairs at the same time. Tristan had unlocked his door and stepped inside, in his socks. The floor was covered in jagged shards of thick glass. A leather soccer ball was sitting on his expensive rug. He had stepped on a piece of glass, and blood was soaking through his white sock. “I have no idea what happened! I heard a crash earlier, but the door was locked!” I stammered, perfectly mimicking a terrified maid. Eleanor’s face turned purple with rage. She turned and helped Tristan limp down the stairs so they could drive to the urgent care clinic. I stood in the hallway, wringing my hands, looking helpless. “Clean it up! And make sure you get every single piece!” Eleanor barked over her shoulder. Tristan glanced back at me. His eyes were dark and unreadable. He opened his mouth, but closed it, saying nothing as his mother led him out. 19 I dropped to my knees inside his room, picking up the larger shards by hand. I waited until I heard the heavy thud of the garage door closing. I was finally inside. I paid a neighborhood kid two hundred dollars to kick that ball through the window. The investment was worth every penny. The room was surprisingly neat, but there was a faint, sickening odor lingering in the air. A sweet, rotting smell. And that was with a shattered window letting in the fresh breeze. If the room had been sealed, the stench would have been overwhelming. I grabbed the vacuum to speed up the cleanup. I checked under his bed and swept out several crumpled, stiff wads of tissue paper. Standard teenage boy behavior. But that wasn’t where the smell was coming from. I scanned the room. The bookshelves were packed with dense academic texts. The closet was perfectly organized. I knew I had limited time. My eyes landed on a heavy, vintage steamer trunk shoved in the corner of his walk in closet. The trunk looked old, the leather handle worn and discolored. For a boy who wore pristine designer clothes and threw away anything slightly used, keeping a battered trunk made absolutely no sense. This was his anchor. I dragged it out. It was incredibly heavy. And it was secured with a digital combination padlock. I tried his birthday. Error. I was trying to calculate other significant dates when the landline downstairs started ringing. I ran down to the kitchen. It was Eleanor. She ordered me to start boiling a bone broth for Tristan’s recovery. They would be home in thirty minutes. 20 Time was running out. I sprinted back upstairs. I had to get that trunk open. Luggage locks have a manual reset mechanism. I grabbed a sewing needle from my apron, found the tiny pinhole on the side of the lock, pressed it down, and reset the combination. The latch clicked open. The trunk was filled with pristine, categorized binders. I pulled out the first one and flipped it open. It was full of glossy photographs. At first glance, I couldn’t comprehend what I was looking at. I stared at the images, my brain struggling to process the visual information. Then, I read the meticulous, handwritten captions beneath the photos. A wave of violent nausea hit me. I gagged, clapping a hand over my mouth to keep from vomiting on his rug. I pressed my fist against my chest, forcing my heart to slow down. I grabbed three more binders at random and flipped them open. They were catalogs of pure, unadulterated evil. High resolution photos of grotesque animal mutilations. Stray cats, neighborhood dogs. Some were action shots, others were forensic style post mortems. He was a psychopath practicing his craft. The sound of tires crunching on the driveway gravel snapped me back to reality. I shoved the binders back, locked the trunk, and scrambled the numbers. I practically flew down the stairs and bolted into the kitchen, tossing ingredients into a stockpot just as the front door swung open. Eleanor helped Tristan inside. She peeked into the kitchen, saw the broth simmering, and nodded in approval. But my blood ran cold. I was dead. I had reset the combination on his lock. The next time Tristan tried to open it, his old code wouldn’t work. He would instantly know someone had breached his sanctuary. And I was the only person in the house. 21 I waited in agony for the broth to finish simmering. I poured it into a porcelain bowl and carried it upstairs. Tristan’s door was open. I set the tray on his desk, keeping my eyes glued to the floor. “Thank you,” he said, his voice smooth and calm. As I turned to leave, my peripheral vision swept the closet. The heavy trunk had been moved. It was sitting flat on the rug. He had opened it. A sudden realization struck me like a bolt of lightning. I stumbled, my foot catching the edge of the top stair. I nearly plunged face first down the staircase. “Auntie Elena, are you alright?” Tristan’s voice drifted out from the room, laced with feigned concern. “I’m fine! My bad knee just gave out. I’m not used to the stairs,” I called back, gripping the railing and forcing myself to walk down slowly. I could not look back. If I looked back, he would see the sheer terror and rage burning in my eyes. When I reached the ground floor, Eleanor was screaming at someone on her phone. I slipped into the powder room and locked the door. I leaned over the sink and splashed ice cold water on my face. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were completely feral. I was right. It was him. The monster had not changed. When I panicked and reset the lock upstairs, I blindly punched in a random sequence of numbers. Without thinking, my muscle memory had typed the date Lily was murdered. And Tristan had opened it without issue. Because the code he used to secure his trophies… was the exact date he slaughtered my baby. That date meant as much to him as it did to me. So he didn’t realize the lock had been reset. He just assumed the tumblers had stuck. I finally had my proof. This boy was a demon wearing a human skin suit. How was I going to destroy him? 22 Over the past ten years, I had mapped out hundreds of ways to kill him. But killing him quickly felt like a mercy. It was too easy. Lily had been dropped to the stone floor over and over again. She felt the agonizing terror of the fall, the excruciating shatter of her bones, repeated until her tiny heart gave out. He needed to feel that exact same psychological and physical torture. Especially now that I knew what he truly was. A bullet to the head was a gift he didn’t deserve. To truly destroy a narcissist, you have to rip away everything they value most. Their reputation, their future, their facade. I was the cat. He was the mouse trapped under my claws. And the game had just begun.

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## Chapter 1: I Died After They Took Everything I Built I died in a room with no windows. The room had once been a records archive on the forty-second floor of Aurelian Tower. After my demotion, it became my office. After my office, it became my holding room. After that, my grave. Shelves of sealed crystal ledgers climbed the walls from floor to ceiling. Their faint blue glow turned skin corpse-pale. By the fourth day, mine already looked dead. Outside the door, the company was celebrating. The board had just approved the succession roadmap for my sister, Seraphina Vale—the chairman’s biological daughter, recently returned, newly legitimized, exquisitely presented, and catastrophically unqualified. Three years earlier, when Chairman Alistair Vale brought me home from London and introduced me as his daughter, the same board had applauded me too. Not because they loved me. Because I was useful. I was the one who built the Aether Spine Project from a damaged municipal contract into the most profitable magical infrastructure platform in the country. I designed its stabilization architecture, negotiated its regulatory path, assembled its founding technical team, and spent four years sleeping under conference tables while lesser executives congratulated themselves on “vision.” They called me Miss Vale when I was turning collapse into revenue. Then Seraphina returned, and overnight I became Evelyn Ward again. Not daughter. Not heir. Not project head. Placeholder. Temporary blood substitute. A decorative administrative anomaly with good posture. When the board decided Seraphina should inherit Aether Spine for the sake of family legitimacy, they did not ask whether she understood flux lattice compression, ritual grid scaling, or city-load ward balancing. They asked whether she looked correct at the chairman’s side before investors, ministers, and old-money families who still believed bloodline was a management credential. She did. I did not. I was told to support the transition. I was told my contribution would always be respected. I was told title mattered less than impact. Then my access narrowed. My team was redistributed. My direct reports stopped meeting my eyes in hallways because they had mortgages, children, medical contracts, and the practical instincts of prey animals in a polished place. Every document I authored was refiled under Seraphina’s succession seal. Every technical failure she caused was redirected to me in private. Every warning I raised was recorded as resistance. When she nearly collapsed the eastern pilot network by approving an ornamental revision to the anchor sigils, I was forced to repair the damage overnight and sign the remediation report in silence. When I refused once—only once—my brother Lucian leaned across the conference table and said, very gently, “Don’t embarrass yourself, Evelyn. You were never meant to keep it.” The final blow came six months later. A containment ring in Subgrid Seven ruptured after Seraphina ignored a red-level maintenance brief. Three technicians were injured. The city regulators opened an emergency inquiry. Before dawn, HR froze my credentials and Governance accused me of retaining unauthorized override pathways in the system—legacy access, sabotage risk, compliance breach. I laughed when I read the charge sheet. Then I saw the signatures at the bottom. Lucian Vale. Helena Vale. Seraphina Vale. Chairman Alistair Vale. My family. Or what I had once called one. They confined me to Archive Room 42-B while the internal investigation proceeded. The room was chosen for “security.” In truth it was chosen because it was isolated, deniable, and six floors above the relay channels; if someone screamed in it, the tower swallowed the sound. My meals stopped arriving on the third day. On the fourth, the building ward around the archive floor began to fail in pulses—the wrong rhythm, too regular, the kind any trained engineer would recognize as delayed backup sequencing. Not neglect. Timing. I struck the emergency sigil until my fingers split. No one came. The last thing I saw before the room filled with white fire was my reflection in the crystal cabinet opposite me: hollow-cheeked, eyes red-rimmed, still wearing my access badge even though it no longer opened any door that mattered. I remember thinking, absurdly, that at least now they would have to admit I had died inside their tower. Then the fire swallowed the room. Something answered. Not a voice. Not exactly. A pressure moved through the burning white—through the stone, the wards, the ledgers, through the blood on my hands and the signatures that had put me there. A vast mechanical consciousness, old as the foundation engines beneath the city, seemed to notice me at last. **Claim denied,** it said—or perhaps I only understood the meaning afterward. **False inheritance detected. Witness retained. Debt returned to point of divergence.** Then I opened my eyes to applause. ## Chapter 2: The Real Heiress Arrives For one disorienting second, I thought the afterlife was theatrically vindictive. Gold light spilled over polished obsidian floors. A hundred suspended glyph-lamps rotated beneath the executive atrium’s glass dome. The air smelled of white lilies, ozone, and expensive perfume. Then I saw the date on the presentation screen. **Successor Welcome Ceremony — June 14** One year before my death. The day Seraphina officially entered headquarters. My stomach turned so violently I thought I might be sick on the atrium floor. I was standing exactly where I had stood in my first life: left of the central dais, charcoal suit, silver piping, project insignia pinned at my collar, expression arranged into professional neutrality by long practice. Onstage, Chairman Vale was finishing his speech about blood, continuity, and the future of the company. At his side stood Seraphina. She looked radiant. She always did in curated light. Champagne silk, pearl earrings, soft gold heels unsuited to a building powered by active runic engines. Her smile trembled in the precise way meant to suggest vulnerability rather than entitlement. In my first life, I had looked at her then and felt pity sharpened by unease. She had been newly returned from the estranged Vale branch abroad, publicly acknowledged after years of strategic silence. I knew she was insecure. I knew the board would devour her if she looked weak. I had planned to help her. That had been my first mistake. My second was almost stumbling when the memory of burning hit me—heat in my lungs, white fire behind my eyes, skin splitting under light. I locked my knees and stayed upright by habit alone. “Evelyn,” Chairman Vale said from the podium, his voice warm enough to fool a city. “Come stand beside your sister.” The room applauded again. I walked forward because in that room, in that family, hesitation was rebellion. As I crossed the light line before the dais, the air changed. It was faint. A tremor more than a sound. The suspended lamps above us gave a single, synchronized pulse. Somewhere very far below, through forty floors of luxury and steel, I felt the tower’s foundation engines answer like a heartbeat. Seraphina turned toward me with the same luminous smile I remembered. Her eyes flicked to my insignia and sharpened for half a heartbeat. Jealousy. Resentment. Fear. Those, at least, had always been real. She raised a crystal flute. “I’m so grateful,” she said sweetly, “to the sister who kept my place warm all these years.” Polite laughter. Then the tower chose blood. Seraphina’s face altered by a fraction—mouth tightening, pupils flaring, throat constricting as if an unseen hand had closed around it. What came out next was not what she intended. “I’m so grateful,” she said in the same clear, musical tone, “that the thief who wore my life is finally standing where everyone can see her. Don’t worry. Once I’ve taken her project, her floor, and her people, Father can send her back overseas or bury her in compliance where no one has to look at her again.” Silence hit the room so hard it rang. My fingers tightened around my glass. Seraphina stared at herself as if the words had escaped a stranger wearing her face. Lucian froze. Helena’s smile cracked first, then vanished. Around us, department heads lowered their eyes to their shoes, the projection lights, the atrium floor—anywhere but the chairman’s daughter. I felt something cold and electric move down my spine. Not random, I thought. Conditional. The thing in the fire—whatever lived in the tower’s oldest systems—had not cursed her without rules. The pulse had struck the moment she made a public claim. Inheritance. Place. Mine. Chairman Vale recovered first. “Seraphina,” he said, low and lethal. She inhaled sharply. “I didn’t—” Her lips moved again against her will. “She’s been useful long enough. Once I learn enough not to look stupid in front of investors, she can disappear.” Several people audibly gasped. I should have been horrified. Instead, beneath the shock, a dangerous flicker of laughter rose in me. Seraphina’s hands trembled. She turned toward Chairman Vale in mute appeal. And he did what he had always done. He looked at me. Not at the daughter publicly confessing theft. At me. As if I had somehow made the room inconvenient. “Everyone,” he said smoothly, “my daughter has had a difficult transition and appears to be reacting to an architectural truth resonance. The ceremony will pause for ten minutes.” A truth resonance. Not a lie, exactly. Not an admission either. He was already containing the language. Then his gaze settled on me with soft, practiced disappointment. “Evelyn. Stay.” Of course. ## Chapter 3: Truth Changes Nothing The executive reception room on the fiftieth floor overlooked the lower city. On clear days, the old ward canals glittered through the industrial district like silver thread. That afternoon, all I saw in the glass was my own reflection: upright, composed, too pale, with a heartbeat that still had not normalized since the atrium. Chairman Vale stood with one hand on the back of a chair. Helena sat near the fireplace, mouth compressed into polished disgust. Lucian leaned against the drink cabinet, arms folded. Seraphina stood between them, white-faced and furious. No one asked whether I was all right. Why would they? I had only just watched the tower use my sister as an instrument. “What did you trigger?” Helena asked. I blinked. “Excuse me?” “Do not be tedious,” Lucian said. “She was speaking normally until you approached.” A year ago, in my first life, accusations like that would have stunned me. Now they only made me tired. “I triggered nothing,” I said. “But the atrium lights pulsed when I crossed the dais. The response may be tower-linked.” Chairman Vale’s gaze sharpened. He noticed everything that threatened an asset. “Tower-linked how?” I chose my answer carefully. Not because I trusted them. Because information was now a form of currency. “The oldest foundation systems are bound into blood-recognition architecture. Most of it is dormant ceremonial code from before the tower’s last refit. If something in that layer detected a false public claim of inheritance, a truth discharge is not impossible.” Lucian frowned. “You’re saying the building objected to her?” “I’m saying the response occurred when she publicly laid claim to status over something she did not build and had not yet lawfully assumed.” Seraphina’s eyes flashed. “Stop phrasing it like that.” “Like what?” “Like I—” Her jaw locked visibly. She fought the words as if dragging chains. “Like I meant any of it. I was trying to be gracious, and instead I said exactly what I thought, and if any of you repeat that outside this room, I’ll ruin you.” Silence. Then Helena closed her eyes. Lucian muttered, “Unbelievable.” Chairman Vale still watched me. “Can it recur?” Not *is she harmed?* Not *what did the tower detect?* Can it damage the succession? “Yes,” I said. “If I’m right, it is probably conditional. Public performance. Claims of legitimacy. Status assertions under tower witness.” Seraphina made a strangled sound. “Fix it.” “I can’t.” “You can.” “I said I can’t.” Lucian pushed off the cabinet. “Then isolate the trigger. Keep her away from Ward for now.” There it was. The familiar shape of blame taking form before the facts had even cooled. Seraphina whipped toward him. “You think she should keep the project, don’t you? You’ve always respected her more because she isn’t useless, and you resent having to promote me because at least she can explain the numbers you pretend to understand.” Another silence. Lucian went very still. That one landed because it was true enough to wound. Chairman Vale’s face hardened. “Enough.” Helena rose in one fluid movement. “No. We will not normalize this. If the tower’s old recognition system has entangled itself with executive transition, then the source must be reviewed. Quietly.” She said *source* while looking at me. For a brief, bright moment, I had thought truth might save me this time. That if Seraphina exposed herself early enough, the future would fracture before it could close around my throat. Then Chairman Vale said, “Until we understand the disturbance, Evelyn will suspend direct unsupervised contact with Seraphina and submit her private archives for magical review.” Hope died quickly when it had practice. I laughed once, softly. “Do not take that tone,” Helena said. “What tone would you prefer?” I asked. “The one where I thank you for reviewing my records because your daughter publicly announced she wants my project, my people, and my removal?” “You are becoming emotional,” Helena said. There it was. The oldest sentence in the tower. Never mind what had been heard. Never mind what had been revealed. Never mind that the one person in the room consistently punished for Seraphina’s conduct was me. I was emotional. Therefore suspect. Chairman Vale softened his voice, which made it crueler. “Evelyn, the board insisted on Seraphina’s return because blood legitimacy stabilizes the succession package. The ministers prefer a recognized heir. The old contracts were drafted with lineage optics in mind. If word spreads that the tower itself is rejecting her, we risk the board, the city tenders, the summit, all of it.” There. At last, the real answer. Not delusion. Calculation. Truth changed nothing because too much money had already been staked on blood. “If there is any chance,” he continued, “that your unresolved resentment is interacting with old tower code—” “My resentment?” I repeated. He did not answer. He did not have to. Truth had entered the room. They still chose blood. I understood then that in this life, as in the last, honesty would never protect me. But perhaps this time it could be weaponized. ## Chapter 4: Risk Cleansing The official notice arrived by dusk. It bore the seal of Governance, Compliance, and Internal Ethics and was written in the elegant administrative language of institutional violence. **Pending investigation into contamination pathways affecting executive succession interfaces, Miss Evelyn Ward is placed under provisional procedural restriction.** The restrictions were immediate: – My executive access tier was frozen. – My project authority was reduced to observer status. – My direct reports were reassigned “for operational continuity.” – My private research vaults were marked for audit. – I was ordered to attend full-spectrum magical review and behavioral compliance assessment. The phrase they used for it was **risk cleansing**. In any sane institution, that would have meant a neutral technical investigation. At Aurelian, it meant ritual humiliation dressed as policy. The cleansing chamber sat beneath headquarters, six floors below the engine vaults, where the air smelled of hot stone, salt, and iron. Silver runes were inlaid across the floor in concentric rings designed to react to concealment spells, emotional surge, blood compacts, sabotage marks, and influence threads. I knew the chamber well. I had approved its renovation budget after the Harrow Audit scandal. I had not expected to kneel in it. “Hands on the ring,” said Director Morrow of Compliance. He was a thin man with a mild voice and a gift for converting cruelty into procedure. In my first life, he had managed every elegant stage of my removal while sounding perpetually regretful. “Is this full sequence necessary?” a junior auditor asked under her breath. Morrow smiled. “When succession optics intersect with old tower anomalies, necessity becomes elastic.” I knelt. The silver ring lit at my touch, cold as a blade. Above me, beyond the observation glass, silhouettes gathered: Morrow, two senior auditors, a governance scribe, Helena—and, of course, Seraphina, wrapped in pale silk and strategic distress. She should not have been there. The person allegedly affected by contamination was not permitted to observe a cleansing review. But rules in the tower bent around the correct surname. “State your name and position,” Morrow said. “Evelyn Ward,” I replied evenly. “Senior architect of the Aether Spine Project.” A pause. “Former acting project lead,” he corrected. I looked up through the glass until I found Seraphina’s outline. “Noted.” The first sequence activated. Truth rings I could tolerate. Concealment sweeps were unpleasant but survivable. Emotional resonance extraction felt like someone dragging a fine metal comb through the back of my skull. By the third sequence, blood ran from one nostril. By the fourth, my vision blurred. Above me, Seraphina pressed a hand to the glass with an expression of curated distress. Then her mouth moved. “I hope this hurts enough that she finally understands the difference between building something and owning it.” Several auditors stiffened. Morrow closed his eyes briefly, the only sign of strain he allowed himself. “Miss Vale,” he said without looking up, “please refrain from commentary. The response appears stronger under status-adjacent observation.” That mattered. There was the second rule. Not random speech. Not all lies. The tower punished concealed claim-making, superiority displays, possession language—particularly when spoken before witnesses and structures of rank. Seraphina gasped, horrified by her own voice. “I meant to say I hope the review is fair.” No one answered. The fifth sequence began. Pain drove through my sternum as the ward probed for unauthorized system links. I nearly bit through my tongue. White and silver blurred together. This is how institutions punish inconvenient women, I thought dimly. Not with chains. With procedures. When it ended, my knees shook so hard I could barely rise. Morrow reviewed the slate in his hand. “No evidence of direct magical influence exerted by Miss Ward over Miss Vale. However, there are residual signatures consistent with high-stress tower attunement, prolonged authorship fixation, and unresolved territorial imprinting on project structures.” I began to laugh before I could stop myself. Authorship fixation. I had built the thing sigil by sigil, contract by contract, collapse by collapse. In governance language, that became fixation—as if the problem were not theft but my failure to clap elegantly while being robbed. Helena spoke from above. “Can the imprint be isolated?” Morrow hesitated. “Possibly through reduced access, environmental separation, and removal from triggering symbolic structures.” Symbolic structures. My office. My floor. My team. The project. Seraphina, unable to contain herself, said, “Good. Put that in the record. She’s obsessed with what’s mine.” The chamber rang with the word. Mine. Afterward, Morrow did not meet my eyes as he signed the recommendation. He was careful that way. Men like him preferred not to look directly at what they made possible. That night my office was reassigned. By morning I had been moved to Archive Room 42-B. The same room where I had died. This time I understood it was not coincidence. It was a message. ## Chapter 5: The Girl Who Took My Chair Archive Room 42-B smelled like old paper, crystal dust, and stale ward smoke. Someone had added a metal desk as a gesture toward humanity. It was dented and too small for drafting work. My former office on the executive level had held a wall-sized project model, two communication mirrors, a private engineering slate, and a view of the eastern gridline I had personally designed. This room had no windows. For several minutes after the door shut, I could not breathe properly. Not because the air was bad. Because memory was. White fire. Locked door. Hunger. The pulse of failing wards. I stood absolutely still until the panic passed, one hard breath at a time, furious that even now they could still drag fear out of my body without touching me. Then I sat down and clipped my badge to the desk lamp so I would not have to feel it on my lapel. **EVELYN WARD — ADVISORY ACCESS** Advisory. I had once authorized city-load deployments. Now I advised. The tower hummed around me, a living body whose arteries I still knew better than its current owners. Through the floor I could feel the faint throb of the relay channels, slightly uneven on the west-side load. Maintenance would miss that for another two days unless someone flagged it. When they did, Seraphina would likely present the correction as one of her emerging leadership interventions. I opened the hidden compartment in my travel case. Inside lay three crystal shards no one at Governance knew I possessed, each keyed to mirrored offsite caches. In my first life, I had started making private redundancies after Lucian’s first attribution edits. Not because I expected justice. Because I understood systems. Valuable work is always easiest to steal before it is finished. This time, instead of grieving that precaution, I activated it. Archive copies pulsed to life: authorship logs, approval chains, emergency correction records, internal directives, silent rewrites, meeting transcripts. Evidence. Structure. Leverage. A knock came—too delicate to be respectful, too light to be accidental. The door opened before I answered. Seraphina stepped in alone. She wore cream today, a sapphire pin at her throat, and my former division seal on her sleeve. For one second, rage blurred my vision so completely I saw her not as a woman but as a fault line in the architecture of the world. She looked around the room and smiled. “I wanted to see how they’d arranged you.” “I’m touched.” “I told Father this was too severe,” she said. Then, helplessly: “I actually told him it was perfect. You look smaller in here.” I leaned back in my chair. “You should sit. Deception seems tiring.” Her expression twisted. “Do you have any idea what’s happening to me?” “A rare allergic reaction to ceremonial lying?” “Fix it.” “I didn’t cause it.” “Then stop analyzing it and make it stop.” “I can’t.” She took two furious steps toward the desk. “Do you know what it feels like to think one thing and say another in front of people who matter?” I met her eyes. “No. I know what it feels like to spend four years building something only to watch someone untrained inherit it.” Her mouth opened before she could stop it. “You were supposed to hand it over gracefully. That was the arrangement. You smile, everyone praises your loyalty, and then you disappear into some tasteful foreign posting while I keep the tower.” I went still. “In your arrangement,” I said softly, “was there ever a version where I remained a person?” Something flashed in her face then, rawer than vanity. Inferiority sharpened into hatred. “You think I don’t know they compare me to you?” she said. “Every room I enter, someone remembers you were there first. Every file I open has your notes in the margins. Every engineer looks at me like I’m wearing a borrowed title.” Her jaw clenched. “I hate you for making competence look effortless.” That one, I thought, she had meant to keep buried forever. Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Seraphina heard them too. Her expression changed instantly. I had seen that transformation once before in my first life—just before she ruined me with it. She snatched the crystal inkstand from my desk and slammed it against the filing cabinet. It shattered. A shard sliced her palm. Blood welled bright across her skin. Then she screamed. The door flew open. Lucian entered first, followed by Helena, Director Morrow, and two security officers. Seraphina staggered back, clutching her bleeding hand, eyes wide with practiced terror. “I came to apologize,” she gasped. “She—” The tower took her at once. “—and then I cut myself because no one believes me unless I’m bleeding.” Silence flooded the corridor. Even the security officers looked confused. Seraphina looked as though she might faint from horror. I did not move. Lucian stared at the blood, the shattered inkstand, then at me. “What?” She fought visibly for control. “She attacked—” “I needed her to look monstrous for five seconds, and now I can’t even frame her correctly.” Helena pressed fingers to her temple. Morrow, naturally, wrote something down. I watched them all, one by one. The evidence was there. The confession had been spoken aloud. Again. And yet I could already feel the shape of their conclusion forming—not because it was rational, but because it preserved the succession timetable. If Seraphina was unstable, instability had to be contained. If containing it meant removing me from sight, then that was prudent governance. Lucian looked at me with exhausted contempt. “What did you say to escalate her?” I laughed. I could not help it. Actually laughed in his face. That was the moment something inside me finally went cold enough to use.

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1 Aaron never humored anyone. In high school, while others laughed at a teacher’s joke, he kept his head down doing calculus. At corporate mixers, he sat silent in the corner, running data diagnostics while colleagues flattered executives. When we dated, he viewed my Instagram dumps without liking them, gave my new hair color a blank glance, and turned away when I asked for a kiss. I thought that was just who he was. Until my best friend Doris beat me at Spin the Bottle. Half teasing, she asked, “My wedding’s in a week but the groom ran off. Want your boyfriend to stand in?” I opened my mouth to refuse, but Aaron said, “Sure.” Doris laughed. “Propose first.” Without hesitation, Aaron knelt, pulled a velvet box from his jacket, and opened it to reveal a diamond ring. He looked up at her with a tenderness I’d never seen. She let him slip it on her finger, then leaned down to kiss his cheek. “You say he kills the mood, Audrey, but he’s fun,” she said. I watched the flush creep up Aaron’s neck and stared at the ring on her hand. That was the exact ring we’d chosen together two days earlier. Aaron wasn’t incapable of enthusiasm. He just reserved it for Doris. Exhaustion crashed over me. My phone buzzed with a text from Mr. Harrison: Still open to the London expat post? Guaranteed promotion on return. I replied without hesitation. “I’ll take it.” I stood outside the bar for half an hour, letting the biting city wind numb my face until my heart finally stopped racing. When I pushed the heavy door of the VIP room open, Doris was standing in front of the screen, gripping the microphone. Thanks to the tequila, she was completely off-key, missing half the lyrics. Yet Aaron was sitting on the edge of the leather sofa, absolutely captivated. He had his phone out, recording her. “Look at the camera, Doris. The lighting right here really matches the vibe of your voice.” Doris playfully rolled her eyes. “Stop making fun of me. Everyone knows I sound like a dying cat.” Aaron’s tone turned dead serious. “I mean it. Your voice has this ethereal quality. It is incredibly unique.” Anyone with eyes could see he was shamelessly gassing her up. It brought back a bitter memory from college. I had entered the campus singing competition and actually won first place. When I got off stage, people swarmed me with congratulations. But the one person I had begged to be there was nowhere to be found. I searched the whole campus until I finally found Aaron in the quiet section of the library, patiently walking Doris through a chemistry assignment. When I confronted him, he didn’t even look up from the textbook. “I don’t know anything about music. Me being there would have been pointless.” “I am happy you won, but faking enthusiasm and clapping like everyone else just feels incredibly hypocritical to me.” Back then, I convinced myself he was just a pragmatic guy who did not understand romance. Now, the truth was glaringly obvious. He just did not want to waste his energy on me. It wasn’t until Doris finally put the mic down, completely out of breath, that Aaron even noticed I was back in the room. His brows knitted together. “Where did you go? You disappeared for ages.” “Just the restroom.” He opened his mouth, probably to lecture me, but Doris suddenly shot up from the sofa. “I am so mad! I am literally shaking!” she yelled, aggressively tapping her phone screen. “My ex just went Instagram official with his new girl. We broke up five seconds ago! He is doing this just to humiliate me.” She marched over to Aaron. “No. We are taking a picture right now. I am firing back.” Before he could respond, she dropped right onto his lap. She pinched his cheek, held her phone up, and snapped a selfie. Seconds later, it was on her Instagram Stories. Caption: Always feel so safe when he is around. But that wasn’t enough for her. She turned to Aaron, her eyes wide and pleading. “You still have him on your followers list, right? You need to post one too. He used to worship you back in college. If he thinks I am with you now, he will completely lose his mind.” Then, as if suddenly remembering I existed, she glanced my way. “Audrey, you wouldn’t just watch your best friend get publicly humiliated by a toxic ex, right? I don’t even need you to confront him. Just let your guy pretend we are official on his feed for a bit. You don’t mind, do you?” I looked her dead in the eye. “If I say I mind, are you going to take it down?” Doris froze. The air in the room went still. Aaron frowned, his voice dripping with disappointment. “She is in a tough spot, Audrey. Stop being so unreasonable.” “She is your best friend. We have to show up for her.” Without even waiting for my consent, he uploaded the photo of Doris sitting on his lap to his own feed. We had known each other for over twenty years. We had been dating for five. And not once had he ever claimed me on his social media. Whenever I brought it up, he would just sigh. “Don’t be so immature. A relationship is between two people. We don’t need an audience.” Because of that, aside from my family and Doris, no one in our social circle even knew we were together. The people in the karaoke room started cheering for their “new relationship,” and the mutuals online were already flooding his comments with congratulations. I took a slow, deep breath. I took a screenshot of his post and dropped it directly into the shared iMessage group that contained both my parents and his. I typed: Congratulations to Aaron on finding his girl. Wishing them a lifetime of happiness. A flash of genuine panic crossed Aaron’s eyes. He stood up abruptly. “I am just helping Doris play a part. Why the hell would you send that to the family chat?” I shrugged, grabbing my purse. “I am just showing up for you guys. Isn’t that what you wanted?” The moment I unlocked the door to our apartment, my mom called. “What is the meaning of that screenshot, Audrey? Did you and Aaron break up?” “You two are supposed to get married by the end of the year! The custom Vera Wang dress is already paid for. What is going on?” I opened my mouth to tell her the truth, but a hand reached out from behind me and snatched the phone away. Aaron pressed it to his ear, his voice perfectly calm and polite. “Hi, Mrs. Davis. No, you misunderstood. Audrey and I are doing great. We haven’t broken up.” “That picture? Oh, it was just one of those stupid AI filters. She was trying to prank everyone.” My mom bought it immediately. She let out a massive sigh of relief, scolded us lightly for giving her a heart attack, and hung up. Aaron tossed the phone onto the kitchen counter. He looked at me, his tone laced with heavy exhaustion. “I already deleted the post. Can you please stop throwing a tantrum now?” I looked at him, feeling absolutely nothing. “I am not throwing a tantrum.” “Then why did you send that screenshot to our parents? You haven’t said a single word to me the entire Uber ride home.” He reached out, instinctively trying to pinch my cheek. I took a step back, dodging his hand completely. I turned and walked to the fridge to pour myself a glass of ice water. Aaron’s hand hovered awkwardly in the air. He let out a deep sigh, walked up behind me, and wrapped his arms around my waist. He started pressing soft, trailing kisses along my jawline and the side of my neck. This was his go-to move. Whenever he pushed me too far, he would use physical intimacy to blur the lines and shut me up. The smell of his cologne, which used to make me feel safe, now just made me feel suffocated. Right as his grip tightened, his phone rang. The interruption made him stiffen. Annoyance radiated off him. But the second he saw the caller ID, all the tension vanished. “Aaron, my apartment is literally flooding. A pipe burst in the bathroom and there is water everywhere. Can you please come look at it?” Doris’s voice was frantic and pitiful through the speaker. Aaron’s eyes softened instantly. He looked down at me. “She is in trouble. I have to go check on her.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “If her pipes burst, she needs to call a plumber, not you. Unless you suddenly got a license I don’t know about?” Aaron froze. His face darkened. “Are you ever going to drop this, Audrey?” “She is clearly panicking, and she reached out for help. You are supposed to be her best friend, yet you don’t care about her safety at all. All you do is make these toxic, sarcastic comments.” It was funny. When the pipes in our bathroom burst a year ago while I was home alone, I called him in a panic. His exact words were: “Call the building super. I am not a handyman. What do you expect me to do about it?” Half an hour later, Doris posted a new story. It was a picture of Aaron sitting on her velvet sofa, wearing her blush-pink silk bathrobe. Caption: My personal handyman got his clothes soaked fighting the flood! Forced him to wear my robe. So cute. Aaron was the first person to like the story. I liked it too. A minute later, a text from Aaron popped up. My clothes are in her dryer. It’s too late to order anything off Amazon, so she lent me the robe. Don’t overthink it. It’s brand new, she never wore it. We are keeping our distance. I didn’t reply. Instead, I opened my chat with Mr. Harrison. Harrison: “Your visa paperwork is expedited. You fly out to London in exactly seven days. The corporate housing is already set up.” Me: “Perfect. Thank you, Mr. Harrison.” Aaron didn’t come home that night. The next morning, I was kneeling on the bedroom floor, rolling up my winter coats, when the front door finally clicked open. He walked into the bedroom and stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the open suitcase. “Where are you going?” “Nowhere. Just doing a closet purge,” I said, my voice completely flat. Relief washed over his face. He stepped aside, pulling two massive suitcases into our hallway. “The building management checked Doris’s place this morning. The water damaged the electrical wiring. It is going to take a while to fix, and it’s dangerous for her to stay there. So she is going to crash in our guest room for a bit.” Doris popped her head out from behind him. She flashed a sickeningly sweet smile and practically threw herself at me for a hug. “Audrey! It feels like forever since we had a proper sleepover!” Then she turned to Aaron, putting her hands on her hips in a mock-scolding gesture. “You have hogged my best friend for way too long. The real wife is here now, so you better behave.” Aaron chuckled, actually amused. “Alright, alright. I’ll let you have her for a few days.” I didn’t say a word. I just went back to packing my bags. It didn’t matter who moved in. I was leaving anyway. That evening, Doris wandered into the living room holding an iPad, looking incredibly distressed. “Audrey, there are way too many wedding invitation designs. My indecision is acting up again. Can you just pick one for me?” I was in the middle of drafting an email for the London transition. I didn’t even look up. “I am working. Pick it yourself.” Aaron, who had been reading on the couch, suddenly walked over and slammed my laptop shut. His eyes were icy. “She respects your taste, which is why she asked. Stop acting like you are above everyone else.” “A wedding is a huge deal. You can’t just pick any random card. Help her look.” Just two days ago, I had spread out our own invitation samples on this exact coffee table, asking for his opinion. “I am a guy, I don’t care about paper stock. Just pick whatever.” “It’s literally just a piece of cardboard with a time and place. Stop being so neurotic about it. As long as people can read it, it’s fine.” Doris chimed in, playing the peacemaker. “Don’t fight! If Audrey doesn’t want to look at them, it’s fine.” “But you at least have to come with me to look at dresses, right? I don’t want to wear the one I originally bought. It has bad juju now.” She linked her arm through mine. “You guys are my favorite people in the world. You know exactly what looks good on me. Help me pick something out.” A harsh laugh escaped my throat. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be dragged along to help my boyfriend and my best friend pick out their wedding outfits. I was about to tell them to go to hell, but I remembered the voicemail from the bridal boutique this morning. My custom dress was ready for pickup. I changed my mind. If I was burning this life to the ground, I might as well tie up all the loose ends before my flight. The manager at the boutique recognized me instantly. She carefully brought out the garment bag and unzipped it. “Miss Davis, your custom gown is ready. Please take a look.” Aaron had actually sketched the original concept for this dress. I had spent a fortune bringing it to life, just so I could walk down the aisle looking exactly the way he envisioned. Now, none of it mattered. Just as I opened my mouth to tell the manager to cancel the order, Doris gasped. She lunged forward, grabbing the silk fabric and holding it against her body in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. “Oh my god, this is stunning! I am obsessed. Audrey, can I borrow this for the ceremony?” “Your wedding isn’t until December anyway. You have plenty of time to get another one. Right, Aaron?” Aaron nodded without hesitation. “She makes a fair point. Just let her wear it for the event. You guys are the same size anyway. It will fit her perfectly.” He didn’t even seem to realize how messed up it was that he knew my best friend’s exact measurements. He just shot me a warning look, silently telling me not to cause a scene. Even the boutique manager looked deeply uncomfortable. She opened her mouth a few times to defend me but ultimately stayed quiet. Ten minutes later, Doris stepped out of the fitting room wearing my dress. A flash of absolute awe crossed Aaron’s face. He didn’t hold back a single word of praise. “That dress looks like it was made for you. You look absolutely incredible.” “It brings out this elegance in you. It is exactly what I always pictured a bride should look like.” Doris blushed, doing a little twirl for him, the train sweeping across the carpet. Aaron smiled, clapping slowly, playing the ultimate hype man for her. I stood there watching this picture-perfect moment, feeling a sharp, physical pain in my chest. Half a month ago, Aaron and I were standing in this exact spot for my fitting. I had been wearing the muslin prototype, spinning around, asking him excitedly how it looked. He had barely glanced up from his phone. “It’s fine.” Desperate for just a crumb of validation, I pushed. “Can’t you just say one nice thing about it?” He finally looked at me, his eyes cold. “You know I don’t do sweet talk. I hate fake compliments. Grilling me for validation is pointless.” “Wearing a white dress doesn’t magically change who you are. As long as it fits, who cares? Do you really need people to worship you to feel secure?” That was the most humiliating moment of my entire life. Because he hated humoring people, I had survived for five years on zero emotional support. He even managed to tear down a design he created himself, just to avoid giving me a compliment. I hadn’t been able to stop the tears that day. Only then did his tone soften. He had sighed, looking exasperated. “You are gorgeous. You look good in anything. You don’t need my validation. It’s all just superficial nonsense anyway.” Yet here he was, effortlessly throwing the most beautiful compliments at Doris. Like she was the most precious thing on earth. Doris was thrilled with the dress. She refused to even look at the other racks. The manager looked at me, clearly unsure of how to proceed. I kept my voice deadly calm. “I don’t want this dress anymore. Do whatever you want with it. Oh, and the custom tuxedo on my account? Cancel that too.” “Have you lost your mind, Audrey?” Aaron snapped, his face flushing with anger. “You know how much Doris loves this dress, and you are just throwing it out? Are you doing this just to make her miserable?” I didn’t even blink. “If she likes it, she can buy it herself. She is not a charity case, and I am done handing out handouts.” I turned on my heel and walked out the door. The evening before their fake wedding, Aaron and Doris suddenly showed up at the apartment with half a dozen people in tow. They were carrying floral arrangements, balloons, and boxes of wedding decor. I stood in the hallway, crossing my arms. “What is this?” Aaron ran a hand through his hair, looking stressed. “Doris wanted a larger space for the morning prep and photos. Our place has the best natural light. We are just lending it to her for a few days.” “To make it look authentic, we can’t have your stuff lying around. You need to pack up and stay at a hotel for the week.” Doris stood next to him, sipping an iced coffee. “Yeah, make sure you take all your toiletries too, because I am bringing all my bridesmaids’ stuff over.” “I already got your bridesmaid dress steamed! Make sure you show up early tomorrow to help me with my hair.” She turned to the crew they brought. “Alright, guys, let’s get moving! Everything needs to be perfectly set up by midnight!” A bitter laugh forced its way out of my mouth. This apartment? Aaron and I went 50/50 on the down payment. We hadn’t even fully settled in, and now I was being kicked out so they could use it as a fake bridal suite. I stepped directly in front of the crew. “Drop the boxes. This is my property. No one touches a damn thing.” Aaron’s patience snapped. “Are you physically incapable of not causing drama? She is just borrowing the space. She will be gone the second the wedding is over.” “You are so damn petty. No wonder you don’t have any other friends. Doris is the only one who can tolerate you.” The words hit me like a physical blow. He had conveniently forgotten our childhood. His parents were high-powered executives who were never home. He was a lonely, anxious kid who cried and begged me not to make other friends because he was terrified of being abandoned. “I just need you,” he had said. I gave in. I kept my circle small just to make him feel secure. And now, he was using the isolation he created as a weapon against me. He had ripped open my oldest wound and handed the knife to Doris. I felt the last thread tying me to him snap. When I looked up at him, my eyes were completely dead. “Wire me my half of the apartment’s equity right now, and she can play house all she wants. If you don’t, I am calling the cops for trespassing.” Aaron’s face turned white, then a furious red. He didn’t want to lose face in front of Doris and the crew. He pulled out his phone, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered. “You are unbelievable, Audrey.” A minute later, the massive wire transfer notification popped up on my screen. “Take your money,” he spat, “and get out.” I didn’t say a word. I grabbed my suitcase by the door and walked out. I was never coming back. And I genuinely hoped he wouldn’t live to regret it.

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Everyone in my graduating class knows that back in high school, I ruthlessly dumped the heir to the Croft corporate empire, Daran Croft, all for a fat paycheck. Now, they all think I am his pathetic lapdog, clinging to him as his personal secretary. What none of them know is that I am actually a corporate proxy, handpicked by Daran’s parents to babysit their deadbeat son. We signed a contract in secret. It was a transaction with a very clear price tag. Daran, however, firmly believes I am desperately in love with him. And now, that contract is exactly one month away from expiring. 1 I was a scholarship student funded by the Croft Foundation. I was also the brightest kid they had ever sponsored. Seven years ago, during my senior year, I was at the absolute top of my class. Then my mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness, requiring a massive amount of money for medical bills. To make matters worse, my father vanished into thin air, taking every last cent of our family savings with him. That was when a woman dripping in diamonds and old money condescension appeared in my life. I knew exactly who she was. She was the mother of my then boyfriend, Daran. She slid a sleek black bank card across the table, followed by a thick legal contract. “Three million dollars.” The matriarch’s tone was dripping with arrogance. “Get accepted into an Ivy League business program. After you graduate, you will work for the Croft family for three years, entirely off the books.” “And while we are on the subject, I expect you to be smart about this little high school romance you have going on with my son.” I took the deal. I went straight back to school and broke Daran’s heart. After graduation, his grades were so atrocious that his parents shipped him off to Europe to hide the embarrassment. I, on the other hand, followed the contract to the letter and secured my Ivy League degree. This month marks the final thirty days of that binding agreement. The air in the CEO’s office was thick with the suffocating stench of cigar smoke. I wrinkled my nose in discomfort, keeping my eyes fixed on the man slouching in the leather executive chair. A redhead with miles of bare legs was perched comfortably on Daran’s lap. Her perfectly manicured, cherry red nails lightly traced the jawline of his handsome face. The two of them were lost in their own little world, giggling and flirting, treating me like a piece of furniture. I knew my place. I stood quietly to the side, my face an unreadable mask. “Come on, babe! I really want to be the leading lady in that new movie!” Behind the mahogany desk, the man smirked. He threw a fleeting, provocative glance in my direction. “Done. It is just a movie, right? If my Tiffany wants the part, it is hers.” I recognized the girl immediately. She was Tiffany, the latest flavor of the month tearing up the Hollywood gossip blogs. My expression remained utterly placid. I had grown entirely numb to these little theatrical displays of debauchery. Ever since I became Daran’s secretary three years ago, there had been a revolving door of supermodels and starlets. He had been a terrible student in high school, and he had learned absolutely nothing during his luxurious exile in Europe. On paper, this entertainment subsidiary was a sandbox for the young heir to learn the ropes of business. In reality, every single operational decision from the top down was executed by me. And the movie Tiffany was whining about happened to be the company’s most critical investment for the third quarter. “Mr. Croft, Director Dawson’s contract strictly prohibits investors from swapping out the cast at the last minute.” I felt a familiar migraine throbbing at my temples. The cast was already locked in. The entire production crew was scheduled to begin principal photography next week. Demanding a new female lead at the eleventh hour was classic Daran, reckless and incredibly stupid. Daran exhaled a cloud of toxic smoke, his arm tightening around the actress’s waist. “I am the one writing the checks. I can swap out whoever I want.” His eyes locked onto mine, cold and challenging. “If Dawson has a problem with it, tell him to pack his bags.” “And if you have a problem with it, you can pack yours too.” A dry laugh almost escaped my throat. Did he honestly think I wanted to stay in this gilded cage? If it were not for the remaining thirty days on my contract, I would have walked out that door and never looked back. “Understood, Mr. Croft. I will contact the production team immediately.” It was his money to burn. Why should I care if he tanked his own third quarter revenue? Tiffany giggled, planting a messy kiss on Daran’s cheek. “You are the best, babe!” Daran kept his gaze glued to me, a mocking sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth. I maintained my absolute indifference. In my head, I casually tallied up the number of women he had cycled through in the past ninety days. I also wondered how many of them would throw a tantrum post breakup, forcing me to work overtime to manage their hush money. I had barely stepped out of the corporate lobby when a voice called out from behind. “Hey, Secretary!” Tiffany strutted up to me, her designer stilettos clicking sharply against the pavement. “Word around the industry is that you and Daran used to date back in high school.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. It was hardly a state secret anymore. It did not surprise me that she had done her digging. “How can I help you, Tiffany?” She inspected her fresh manicure, her eyes heavy with manufactured pity. “I will write you a check for five hundred thousand dollars right now. Quit your job tomorrow and stay away from my man.” I stared at her, genuinely struggling to figure out what facial expression to use. “You dumped him for cash back then, right? Taking a payout to disappear now is the exact same thing.” She offered a venomous smile. “Do not tell me you actually think playing the devoted secretary is going to make him fall back in love with you?” “Daran despises disloyalty. Whatever twisted fantasy you are holding onto, it is a waste of time.” Great. Another clueless groupie who had heard two sentences of a rumor and decided to play the conquering queen. I gave her a radiant, polite smile. “I think you are deeply confused about a few things, Tiffany.” “Instead of wasting your breath trying to intimidate me, you should probably focus on keeping Daran entertained.” “I really hope I do not have to process your severance package as his fifth ex girlfriend this year.” The smugness melted off Tiffany’s face, replaced by pure, unfiltered rage. I offered her one last polite nod before turning on my heel and walking away. 2 Barely an hour later, my phone buzzed with a text from Daran. “My parents want you at the estate for dinner tonight.” Even through the screen, his absolute disdain was palpable. But frankly, I was far more annoyed than he was. Originally, I thought my debt to the Croft family simply meant managing their assets. It was only when they reassigned me to be Daran’s shadow three years ago that I realized the true scope of my “employment.” Not only did I have to run a multi million dollar company in place of a useless heir, but I also had to manage every microscopic detail of his personal life. The Croft family essentially treated me like a glorified, highly educated nanny. “Renee, didn’t I tell you to have Daran’s custom Italian suits tailored for the new season?” At the sprawling dining table, Eleanor Croft picked at her Michelin starred salad with a look of severe disappointment. “Why hasn’t that been handled?” “And another thing. I noticed Daran has dark circles under his eyes. Have you not been keeping track of his schedule?” “I specifically instructed you to keep him out of the nightclubs during the work week.” I forced a tight, professional smile and offered a practiced apology. All the while, I could feel Daran glaring at me from across the table, his eyes burning with resentment. “Furthermore…” “Mom! Enough!” Daran slammed his silver fork onto the porcelain plate. “Who does she think she is? Why is she managing my life?” “Because if I do not have someone watching you, you will ruin yourself!” Eleanor’s eyes welled with sudden, dramatic tears. “Do you think I forgot the stunts you pulled in Europe?” “Drinking until your stomach hemorrhaged. Passing out on public streets.” “Do you have any idea how dangerous the world is for a boy with your last name?” Daran scowled. Unwilling to entertain the argument, he pushed his chair back violently and stormed out of the dining room. I was left sitting there in agonizing silence. After a long moment, Eleanor rubbed her temples and looked at me. “If I had known how he would turn out, I never would have forced you two apart.” She let out a heavy sigh. “At least back then, he actually listened to you.” Her words dragged my mind back to the sunlit classrooms of high school. It was true. Back then, even though Daran was a terrible student, he was honest, fiercely loyal, and kind. I would spend hours cramming for AP exams, and he would just rest his chin on his desk, quietly watching me work. He was almost sweet. But the man he had become was unrecognizable. He was volatile, aggressive, and drowning in his own toxicity. Faced with Eleanor’s sorrowful expression, I chose to stay silent. “Renee,” Eleanor began hesitantly. “Is Daran… is he still acting the same way lately?” I knew exactly what she was asking. She wanted to know who he was sleeping with. I kept my tone strictly professional. “Recently, he has been spending a lot of time with a new actress from the studio.” Eleanor shook her head in utter disgust. “A cheap starlet. That will never do for our family image.” “He is so reckless. If he marries some empty headed trophy wife, what will happen to the Croft legacy?” I nodded in polite agreement, while secretly counting the petals on the ridiculously expensive floral centerpiece. The future of the Croft legacy had absolutely nothing to do with me. “You are the only one who understands him.” Eleanor suddenly reached across the table and patted my hand, sending a shiver of pure dread down my spine. “Do not worry, Renee. I know my own son. He can play around all he wants, but deep down, you are the only one he truly cares about.” I found the statement utterly absurd. Daran still cared about me? Impossible. Nobody treats someone they care about with such calculated cruelty. And even if he did, it was years too late. It did not matter anymore. After dinner, I grabbed my coat to leave, but Daran blocked the grand entryway. His face was twisted in a mocking sneer. “I suggest you stop wasting your energy, Renee.” “Do you really think kissing up to my mother is going to get you anywhere?” “Do you think I am still that pathetic teenager who believed every lie that fell out of your mouth?” He pulled out a silver lighter and sparked a cigarette. “When you took that buyout and dumped me, I was actually stupid enough to think you had some tragic, secret reason.” His jaw clenched, and his eyes turned to ice. “Nothing you do now is going to change a thing.” 3 Looking at the absolute hatred in his eyes, I felt nothing but a hollow sense of tragedy. He claimed to love me back then, yet when my family was falling apart, he did not notice a thing. When my mother was dying, I showed up to school every day looking like a ghost. Daran never once bothered to read the room. He just kept chattering away about his video games, his trust fund toys, and his weekend parties. He was completely blind to the fact that I was suffocating. Our high school was packed with elite, privileged kids who already despised me for being poor. After the breakup, it only took a few vicious rumors from his friends to completely shatter his so called unwavering trust in me. Even now, if he spent ten minutes looking into my past, he would easily uncover the truth about my mother. But honestly, even without his mother’s interference, we never would have lasted. Daran was a spoiled child. He lived in a bubble. He had no concept of struggle, of consequence, or of duty. I had been fighting for survival my entire life, carrying the crushing weight of a broken family on my shoulders. I never had the luxury of slowing down. Our paths were destined to diverge from the very beginning. I let out a quiet sigh. “I am not doing this with you tonight, Daran.” My apathy only fueled his rage. He let out a harsh bark of laughter. “I am an idiot for thinking a gold digger like you could ever feel guilt.” “You haven’t changed a bit.” I did not have the energy to argue. I walked past him and left the estate without looking back. Later that night, I had just collapsed onto my bed, utterly exhausted, when my phone started screaming. It was Daran. I answered the call, and my ear was immediately assaulted by the heavy, thumping bass of club music. “Did she answer? Did she actually answer?” I could hear rowdy voices in the background. “No way! She picked up!” “It is one in the morning, and the loyal dog is still on call.” My eyelids were heavy as lead, but I forced myself to sit up. “What do you need, Mr. Croft?” Daran’s voice drifted through the speaker, chillingly calm. “Be here in fifteen minutes.” I pulled the phone away and checked the screen. He had dropped a location pin. It was his favorite VIP nightclub downtown. “Understood.” I did not bother fighting it. This was just another one of his petty little games. I had tried to fight back in the early days, but the contract always forced my hand. Compliance was just faster. The moment I stepped into the VIP lounge, the strobe lights felt like ice picks in my retinas. I had been awake since six in the morning. I had not rested for a single second. And now I had to deal with this nightmare. But as my eyes adjusted to the neon glare, my blood ran cold. “Well, well, look who showed up!” “Daran, you are an absolute legend.” A guy in a designer jacket gave Daran a high five. I recognized him instantly. He was the frat boy who had spearheaded the bullying campaign against me right after the breakup. He had spent his entire life acting as Daran’s loyal foot soldier, desperate for a crumb of the Croft family influence. When Daran and I were dating, he used to follow me around calling me “Queen B.” The second we split, he appointed himself Daran’s avenger and made my senior year a living hell. I looked around the plush booth. I recognized almost all of them. It was a reunion of my high school nightmares. A group of girls huddled in the corner, pointing at me and snickering. “Remember how high and mighty she used to act? Now she is literally fetching his drinks.” “I guess the valedictorian crown doesn’t mean much in the real world.” “Everyone knows she sold him out for a quick buck. Look at her now, still clinging to the money. Once a rat, always a rat.” I tuned out the toxic white noise and walked straight up to Daran. “You called for me, Mr. Croft?” I stared down at him. He was lounging in the corner booth, a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips. He smirked, a cruel glint in his eye. “You really are a master of endurance, aren’t you?” I kept my voice perfectly flat. “You are my employer. I am doing my job.” The amusement vanished from his face. “Right. Just a job.” He snapped his fingers, and a waitress immediately crowded the table with bottles of high proof liquor. “I was just telling the guys how much your alcohol tolerance has improved over the years.” “They did not believe me. Go ahead, Secretary. Show them I am not a liar.” The entire booth erupted into cruel cheers. “Yeah, right! She used to pass out after one cider.” “Let’s see what the working girl can handle now!” I looked into Daran’s eyes. He was enjoying this. He wanted to break me. I was genetically predisposed to being a lightweight. My tolerance had never improved. But I didn’t argue. I walked straight to the glass table, picked up a tumbler of amber liquid, and threw it to the back of my throat. The burn was immediate. My brain felt fuzzy before I even set the glass down. I shook my head, refusing to look at the laughing faces around me. I picked up the second glass. Swallow by swallow, the glasses emptied. And with every drop, the suppressed memories clawed their way to the surface. The awe in his eyes when we first met. The quiet moments in the library. The crushing disappointment of our final argument. They bubbled up like foam on the edge of the glass, only to pop and vanish into nothing. Now, all that was left was this bitter stranger and an audience of vultures. I lost count of how many drinks I took. The neon lights began to smear into blinding streaks of color. “That is enough!” I heard Daran bark the order from somewhere far away. I slammed the empty glass onto the table. Using every ounce of willpower I had left, I forced a polite smile. “Are you satisfied, Mr. Croft?” My stomach churned violently. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself. “I need to use the restroom.” I stumbled to the bathroom, splashed freezing water on my face, and bypassed the lounge entirely, slipping out the back exit into the freezing night air. I knew I had minutes, maybe seconds, before I blacked out entirely. My hands shook violently as I fumbled for my phone, desperately trying to call a cab. But the moment I pulled the phone from my pocket, the pavement tilted at a violent angle. The world spun out of control. Through the blur, I saw a flash of a crisp white shirt. Strong arms caught me before I hit the concrete.

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1 After a bad car crash, my hearing mutated and became unnaturally sharp. I gained the strange ability to detect tiny changes in a heartbeat’s rhythm, letting me tell if couples truly loved each other. The day my best friend Piper went into remission, her boyfriend cried and dropped to one knee to propose. I heard the deep, unmistakable shift in his heartbeat. When my brother’s wife survived a terrifying plane emergency, he broke down at the airport. I heard the same change in his rhythm. I thought my boyfriend Julian would be the same. But his heartbeat stayed flat, without a single ripple of passion. When he confessed, eyes full of affection, his heart did not change. When he proposed, vowing eternal love, it stayed steady. Even after three years of marriage, it never skipped once for me. Everyone insisted he adored me, so I told myself he was just different. Until I was in another crash. Bleeding heavily, I was rushed to the ER where Julian worked. He burst through the doors in a panic, but ran straight past me to his ex-girlfriend, also caught in the pileup. At that moment, I finally heard it. His heartbeat roared like a violent, raging ocean. “Miss Carmella?” A blinding surgical light was suddenly directed into my pupils. I forced my eyes to focus, looking at the trauma nurse who was meticulously cleaning the laceration on my forehead. “Miss Carmella, can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?” The nurse held her hand in front of my face. I mumbled a random number in a total daze. In my ears, I could still hear the violent, thundering rhythm of Julian’s heartbeat echoing down the corridor. We dated for three years, and we had been married for three years. I had tested my ability on Julian countless times. When we were dating, wrapped in passionate embraces, exchanging breaths in the dark, I would press my ear to his chest and listen intently. Zero variation. On our wedding day, as he slid the diamond band onto my ring finger, I held my breath, praying to finally hear that magical shift in his cardiac rhythm. But it remained perfectly steady, entirely unmoved. Piper always consoled me, insisting that Julian was simply the exception to my strange neurological rule. After all, whenever I fell ill, he was always the first one by my side. He would drive across the entire city in rush hour traffic just to wait in line for a specific pastry I casually mentioned craving. He had lowered his personal boundaries and compromised his own rigid schedules for me, time and time again. I genuinely believed he loved me. But right now, pressing a gauze pad against my bleeding forehead, I slowly walked down the ER corridor toward him. At a distance of twenty feet, I heard it again. Julian’s heartbeat, surging with overwhelming, chaotic emotion. “Julian, I am perfectly fine! I do not need your help!” “Lydia, stop being so damn stubborn!” “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is with your congenital heart defect?! After all these years, why do you still treat your own life like a joke?!” In the middle of the chaotic, crowded emergency room, the two of them seemed enclosed in an invisible, impenetrable bubble. Watching their desperate, intense interaction, I suddenly realized how incredibly foreign this version of Julian felt. In front of me—in front of the entire world—he was always the perfectly composed, gentle, emotionally regulated gentleman. But in this exact moment, he was aggressively alive. Raw. Unfiltered. A sharp, throbbing spike of pain radiated from my bruised skull. My fingernails dug brutally into my palms as I took two more steps closer. Julian’s heartbeat was still crashing like a tidal wave. “Julian, I said leave me alone! I am getting married next month!” The second Lydia’s words hit the air, I heard it. Julian’s heartbeat violently seized, pausing for several terrifying seconds. And then, it erupted into an absolute frenzy, beating faster and harder than before. The sterile bandages the nurse had applied to my forehead were suddenly soaked through with fresh blood. Bright crimson drops fell onto the pristine white hospital tiles. I stumbled forward, stopping right behind Julian’s broad shoulders. “Julian… I feel really sick…” Relying on years of intimate muscle memory, I reached out and gently gripped his forearm. Lydia suddenly snapped her head up, her eyes locking onto my face. All the color instantly drained from her cheeks. She shot up from the examination bed and sprinted wildly toward the exit. Without a single microsecond of hesitation, Julian tore his arm out of my grip and chased after her. The violent force of him pulling away sent me crashing hard onto the linoleum floor. I sat there in the middle of the ER, utterly humiliated, my brain completely short-circuiting. Surrounded by rushing doctors and staring patients, I instinctively pulled out my phone and dialed Piper’s number. “Piper… I finally heard Julian’s heartbeat change. It was so incredibly loud…” “Really?! See? I told you there was no way Julian didn’t love you!” “You’ve just been overthinking everything all these years.” Piper’s voice crackled through the speaker, brimming with genuine excitement. Another violent spike of pain hammered through my skull. The agony was so intense I briefly convinced myself the turbulent heartbeat I just heard was just a trauma-induced hallucination. But a second later, Julian burst back through the emergency doors, his face pale with absolute terror, carrying Lydia’s unconscious body in his arms. That violent, thundering heartbeat returned, echoing directly into my eardrums. This time, Julian actually noticed me sitting on the floor. “Carmella? What are you doing here?” I looked up at him from the cold tiles, listening intently to the rhythm in his chest. Tears immediately flooded my eyes, spilling uncontrollably down my cheeks. My hearing wasn’t broken. My ability wasn’t flawed. Because the exact second Julian looked at me? His heartbeat instantly leveled out, returning to its perfectly flat, emotionless rhythm. “Carmella, are you alright?” “I need to get Lydia into a trauma bay for an emergency scan.” Without waiting for a single word of confirmation from me, Julian turned his back and disappeared down the corridor with his ex-girlfriend in his arms. I sat on the floor for several long seconds before finally using the wall to drag myself upright. “Piper… Julian’s heartbeat is incredibly loud.” “But it wasn’t beating for me…” Tears streamed down my bruised face. I ended the call and turned to leave the hospital. A nurse suddenly sprinted down the hall, grabbing my arm to stop me. “Miss Carmella! Were you aware that you are pregnant?!” “You are exactly eight weeks along!” I stared at the blood-test results in the nurse’s hand, entirely paralyzed. For the past three years, Julian’s mother had relentlessly pressured us to have children. Every single time, Julian had expertly deflected her demands with various logical excuses. Once, he had even slammed his silverware onto the dining table, his face entirely cold. “If anyone brings up pregnancy one more time, I will schedule a vasectomy tomorrow morning!” I had always interpreted his aggressive defense as him fiercely respecting my bodily autonomy. But right now? I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Clutching the pregnancy report, I took a taxi back to our empty house. Julian never came home that night. It wasn’t until the following morning that I finally heard the front door unlock. Julian walked in, looking completely exhausted, carrying a massive stack of thick medical files. From across the room, I caught a glimpse of the patient’s name printed on the tabs: Lydia Thorne. The dates printed on the files went all the way back eight years. A sharp, physical pain pierced directly through my chest. I forced a tight, artificial smile onto my face and walked over, pulling the pregnancy report from my pocket. “Julian, I’m pregnant.” The living room plunged into a suffocating, terrifying silence. Julian’s heartbeat didn’t flutter. It didn’t skip. It remained entirely, ruthlessly flat. The forced smile on my face slowly died. Tears welled up, spilling over my lashes against my will. “Julian, I said I am pregnant.” I repeated the words, desperate for any reaction. Julian finally deployed his trademark, gentle smile. He reached out and softly stroked my hair. “You’ve been through a lot, Carmella.” “But… we cannot keep this child right now.” After delivering the sentence, Julian carefully carried Lydia’s massive medical history into his private study. He re-emerged holding a fully stocked first-aid kit. “Carmella, I was in the wrong last night.” “But Lydia has a severe congenital heart defect. I was terrified that if I hesitated for a single second, she would drop dead.” “I pulled your charts in the ER. You only sustained a mild concussion and superficial lacerations.” Speaking in his perpetually calm, composed tone, Julian guided me to the sofa and gently pushed me down to sit. He opened the medical kit, snapped on sterile latex gloves, and began meticulously cleaning and dressing my wounds. “Carmella, the timing for a child is completely wrong.” “Over the next three years, I will likely be traveling overseas constantly for advanced surgical fellowships.” “Raising a child entirely on your own will be far too exhausting for you.” He spoke in low, soothing tones, yet his eyes repeatedly darted to the expensive watch on his wrist. Even the way he applied the antiseptic swab felt unusually rushed and impatient. I kept my head bowed. Fat, heavy tears began falling from my chin, landing directly onto my lap. “But I want to keep this baby.” I swallowed the massive lump of acid burning my throat, my voice coming out thick and muffled. Julian’s gloved hands stopped moving. He set the surgical tweezers down on the glass table. When he spoke again, the gentle warmth had completely vanished, replaced by clinical frost. “Carmella, this is not the time for irrational emotional outbursts.” “Raising a child while your husband is overseas is functionally identical to being a single mother. You, out of everyone, should know exactly how miserable that existence is.” “Isn’t that the exact reason your mother committed suicide when you were twelve…” Julian’s words abruptly cut off. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a heavy sigh of frustration, and quickly pivoted to an apology. “I apologize, Carmella. That was entirely out of line.” “If you absolutely insist on going through with this pregnancy, we can hire a full-time live-in nanny.” The living room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Suddenly, Julian’s smartphone vibrated on the coffee table. He snatched the device with lightning speed, stood up, and immediately walked out onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him. Separated by the heavy double-paned glass, I couldn’t hear a single word he was saying. But I heard it. The exact second he saw the caller ID flash on his screen, his heartbeat erupted into absolute, violent chaos. I raised my hand, wiped the tears off my bruised face, and opened my phone to schedule an abortion at a private clinic. Julian was absolutely right. Being a single mother was a miserable existence. I refused to repeat my mother’s tragic history, and I refused to let myself rot inside a loveless, hollow marriage. So, I didn’t want the baby anymore. And I didn’t want him anymore, either. When Julian finally slid the balcony door open and stepped back inside, I was already standing in the entryway, fully dressed in my winter coat. “Carmella, that was Lydia calling.” Julian’s expression was an absolute masterclass in transparency. He didn’t attempt to hide a single detail. “She is throwing a tantrum and demanding to be discharged against medical advice. Her cardiac arrhythmia is currently in a highly critical state.” “We share a significant history. Morally and ethically, as a physician, I cannot simply abandon her to die.” Julian always operated with this exact brand of unapologetic transparency. When we first started dating, he freely disclosed that he had been in a committed one-year relationship with Lydia. Back then, I had looked him in the eye and asked a direct question. “Julian, are you still in love with Lydia?” His expression had been perfectly stoic, entirely unreadable. “I am no longer in love with her.” I had believed every word he said. But human mouths can easily fabricate lies. The human heart cannot. I forced a polite smile to my lips, entirely dropping the subject of Lydia. Instead, I held up my phone, displaying the confirmed clinic appointment on the screen. “Julian, I made my decision. I am not keeping the baby.” Julian froze entirely. He clearly hadn’t anticipated me folding so quickly. “Carmella, you…” “I thought about what you said. Our current lifestyle and your career trajectory really aren’t suited for a child right now.” I cut off his hesitation, pushing the front door open and stepping out into the hallway. “Let’s go, Julian. Drive me to the clinic for the procedure.” The drive to the surgical center was dead silent. Neither of us spoke a single word. The suffocating quiet inside the cabin made me notice something I had previously ignored. Julian always kept a thick binder of the latest global cardiovascular research scattered across his passenger seat. The specific journal currently sitting next to the gear shift was stamped with the insignia of the most elite medical research institute in the United States. It was a cutting-edge study published barely a week ago, not even fully released to the global medical community yet. But Julian had already acquired a physical copy. Years ago, when my grandmother was dying of an undiagnosed, rapid-onset renal failure, I had dropped to my knees and begged Julian for help. I begged him to contact his former medical mentor in the United States, just to have the elite institute review her biopsy slides for a possible diagnosis. He had frowned, adopting a posture of strict, uncompromising professional ethics, and rejected my plea entirely. “Carmella, I would do almost anything for you.” “But Dr. Mitchell is ninety-three years old. He retired from the institute a decade ago. It is wildly inappropriate for us to disturb his peace with a hopeless case.” My grandmother ultimately died in hospice care, exactly one day before our wedding. She died without ever seeing me walk down the aisle in my wedding dress. A massive surge of bitter acid flooded my throat. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to stop the tears. A second later, Julian’s phone rang through the car’s Bluetooth system. Once again, I heard his heartbeat explode into a frantic, chaotic rhythm. “Lydia! Listen to me very carefully, do not even think about sneaking out of that ward!” “What the hell do you mean you’re getting married so we need to maintain boundaries?!” “Lydia, tell me exactly where you are right now!” The temperature inside the car plummeted as Julian’s voice grew increasingly frantic and aggressive. Through the chaotic shouting over the speaker, I clearly heard the words: North River Bridge. I looked up through the windshield. The traffic light at the upcoming intersection was glowing red, counting down from ten seconds. Taking a right turn led directly to the abortion clinic. Going straight led directly to the North River Bridge. I broke the silence, interrupting his frantic phone call. “Julian, you need to turn right here for the clinic.” After issuing the simple reminder, I fell completely silent, staring at the digital countdown on the traffic signal. Ten, nine… three, two, one. The light flashed green. Julian slammed his foot on the accelerator and drove the SUV straight ahead, rocketing toward the North River Bridge. A broken, hysterical laugh slipped past my lips, and the tears I had been fighting finally broke free, streaming down my face. I pulled out my phone, slowly typing a message to Piper. [Piper, I want a divorce.] [Can you draft a separation agreement for me?] Throughout the entire drive to the bridge, Julian never once disconnected the call. I sat in the passenger seat, listening to him patiently, desperately coaxing Lydia off the ledge. I listened to him slowly recount the intimate, hyper-specific details of their past romance, using their shared memories as a psychological tether to keep her alive. A drive that should have taken twenty minutes in city traffic took him exactly ten. He slammed the SUV into park and frantically reached for the door handle. I reached out and grabbed the cuff of his dress shirt, my voice incredibly soft. “Julian. Do you love me?” Julian’s brow furrowed, a flash of intense irritation crossing his face. “Carmella, this is not the time to throw a jealous tantrum!” “Lydia is literally threatening to jump into a freezing river!” I kept my eyes locked onto his, completely ignoring his anger, and repeated the question. “Julian. Have you ever loved me?” I held my breath, listening with absolute desperation to the rhythm inside his chest. Flat. Steady. Entirely undisturbed. Exactly the same as it had been for every single day of the past six years. My fingers slowly relaxed, releasing the crisp cotton fabric of his sleeve. I forced a hollow smile to my lips and asked my final question. “Julian. Do you love Lydia?” The violent, deafening roar of his heartbeat nearly drowned out the sounds of the highway traffic outside. I completely let go of his arm. “Go.” “Lydia is about to jump off a bridge, and she has a severe heart condition. She is in extreme danger.” Julian’s scowl deepened. He opened his mouth, clearly intending to lecture me further. Suddenly, chaotic shouting erupted from the pedestrian walkway outside the car. “Call 911! Call 911!” “Someone is climbing over the railing!” Julian violently shoved his door open and sprinted out into the freezing wind without a single backward glance. I sat in the heated cabin, watching his retreating silhouette for exactly sixty seconds. Then, I opened my door and stepped out onto the highway shoulder. I raised my hand, flagged down a passing city taxi, and climbed into the back seat without a second of hesitation. “Driver, take me to the Provincial General Hospital.” The cab driver pulled his eyes away from the dramatic scene unfolding on the bridge, a thick local accent slipping out as he spoke. “Damn, looks like another messy love triangle!” “Gotta say though, that guy in the coat is pretty damn heroic. He just sprinted up there and dragged that girl right off the ledge!” “They’re practically eating each other’s faces right now!” The driver shifted into gear and merged back into traffic. The North River Bridge slowly disappeared in the rearview mirror. My phone vibrated. Piper had just sent over the finalized PDF of the divorce agreement. I forwarded the document directly to Julian’s email, powered down my phone, and closed my eyes. … After Julian physically dragged Lydia off the concrete barrier, he carried her weeping body all the way back to his SUV. “Carmella, I am taking you to the clinic right now—” The words died instantly in his throat. The passenger seat was entirely empty. Assuming I was simply throwing a petty tantrum and had taken a cab to the clinic by myself, Julian froze for a fraction of a second before completely dismissing my absence. He leaned over to buckle Lydia’s seatbelt and reached to start the ignition. His phone screen lit up with a notification from me. He immediately tapped the banner, expecting an angry text. Instead, the screen loaded a formal, legally binding Divorce Agreement PDF. His foot instinctively slammed down on the brake pedal. Julian’s face darkened in sheer irritation. Once the initial shock passed, he slammed the accelerator, speeding aggressively toward the Provincial Hospital to confront me. But two blocks away from the hospital intersection, his SUV was aggressively flagged down by a frantic traffic officer. The officer sprinted up and banged heavily on the driver’s side window. “Massive multi-car pileup at the intersection ahead! A female victim in her twenties just went into sudden cardiac arrest!” “I saw the medical insignia on your license plate. I am emergency-requisitioning your vehicle’s AED kit!” The officer reached for the rear door handle, intending to grab the medical supplies himself. Suddenly, the officer’s shoulder radio crackled to life. “Dispatch, we have positive ID on the cardiac arrest victim. Female, twenty-eight years old. Name is Carmella Miller.” Carmella Miller. The syllables echoed directly into Julian’s eardrums. His heartbeat—the heartbeat that had remained flawlessly, medically stable for years—suddenly exploded into absolute, violent chaos. It was beating so aggressively, so erratically, it completely eclipsed the frantic rhythm he had experienced for Lydia just an hour prior.

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My sister dreamed of being a fairytale heroine, guarded by loyal knights. The day I was born, she wished for a baby brother to protect her. My parents didn’t have the heart to crush her fantasy, so they changed my birth certificate, listing me as male. I kept my hair short, followed her like a shadow, carried her backpack, and fought her battles. Yet I could never shake the suffocating injustice. At seventeen, I secretly created a second social media account. My profile was a girl’s picture, my bio feminine, my feed filled with delicate princess dresses. A boy added me, and we talked for six months. One afternoon, he sent a voice note, chuckling softly, “I found you.” Later that day, the most popular guy in school confessed his love to my sister. As I was about to explain, glowing text began scrolling across my vision like livestream comments. What is this side character thinking? Does he believe confessing now will change anything? How could the future wealthiest tycoon of Bayview ever fall for a guy? It’s laughable. If he discovers he’s been chatting with a boy, he’ll be furious about the deception. But I wasn’t a boy. I was Dakin, and all I wanted was to wear a dress just once. My fingers hovered over the screen. In the end, I never sent that message. 01 Closing my phone, I listened to my classmates gossiping excitedly around me. “Oh my god, was that Miguel?” “He is so insanely handsome. I walked past him earlier and caught a glimpse, he looks so cool and detached.” “I can’t believe he confessed to Serena!” At Bayview High, rumors about Miguel always traveled the fastest. “Did you guys know? Miguel has been into Serena for a long time.” “My cousin is his roommate. He said Miguel is always staring at his phone, smiling so softly.” “The girl he likes has a really sweet voice, loves to daydream, and her social media is full of kittens and all kinds of princess dresses.” I looked out the window. Below the academic building, Serena was wearing a designer Miu Miu dress. Her long, wavy hair fell beautifully over her shoulders. She threw herself into Miguel’s arms. Even the way she blushed was breathtakingly beautiful. I thought to myself. They were right. Serena truly looked like a princess. My desk mate, Wyatt, leaned over the windowsill, watching my sister before turning back to look at me with a serious face. “Dakin, you and your sister don’t look alike at all.” “What do you mean?” Wyatt thought for a moment before offering an analogy. “Your sister is like a graceful swan. You… you look like her servant.” “Short, scrawny, and your hair is full of split ends.” Anger flared in my chest. I buried my face in my arms on the desk, ignoring him. Wyatt nudged my shoulder, his voice turning teasing. “Come on, Dakin, don’t be mad.” “I’ll buy you a drink.” Just as I was about to look up, he added, “Here, this one’s for you. And can you help me deliver the other one to your sister?” My drink was a cheap, dollar-store iced tea. The one for my sister was a fancy, expensive specialty berry latte. I buried my head deeper into the desk. “I’m not going.” “My sister doesn’t like you anyway. She won’t accept it.” Ego bruised, he slammed his hand on the desk, his face flushing with embarrassment. “We’re guys, we don’t need to drink fancy things. Why are you acting so high and mighty?” “Dakin, I think you’re just jealous of your sister!” With that, he stomped off. The entire classroom turned to look at me. I buried my face in my math worksheet, pretending I didn’t care. But my fingers gripped the hem of my shirt so tightly that my palms ached. I didn’t say another word to Wyatt that day. Once school ended and everyone had left, I sat in the empty classroom and cried. I suddenly remembered a time long ago when I had secretly tried on one of my sister’s hair clips. My mother had screamed at me, calling me a thief. Heartbroken, I had posted a picture of the clip online. A kind stranger added me: [Is this the one? Don’t worry about the money, I’ll send it to you.] Later, he messaged me: [So you like pink? Princess dresses, huh? Quite the girly heart.] Then, he added: [But… it suits you.] I knew that every time I posted on my feed, he was always the first to leave a like. Miguel had mistaken my sister for me. I didn’t blame him. After all, I was the one who, like a thief in the night, had secretly envied and peeked into my sister’s perfect life. 02 After that day, I logged out of the secret account and never opened it again. During breakfast, my mother gave me her usual reminder. “Your sister is having bad cramps today. As her brother, you need to take good care of her.” I chewed slowly on my toast. “I will.” Serena was two years older than me, a senior. Our classrooms were far apart. I carefully filled a thermos with warm chamomile tea and stirred in some honey. The moment the bell rang, I ran over to her building. By the time I arrived, sweating and out of breath, my sister had just gone to the restroom. I set the warm tea on her desk. After a moment’s thought, I slipped a few chocolates next to it. Suddenly, a boy with dyed red hair blocked my path, raised an eyebrow, and leaned against the desk. He looked me up and down with a sneer. “What class are you in?” “Don’t you know Serena has a boyfriend?” I didn’t know this guy. And I didn’t want to start any trouble. But before I could even open my mouth to explain, he snatched the thermos and threw it to the ground, splashing the tea everywhere. “I’ve been watching you for a while now.” “Every single day, you carry Serena’s bag, run errands, and buy her drinks.” “Tsk, trying so hard to kiss up to her? Do you really think you’re on her level?” He pinned me against the wall, his tone dangerously casual. He was too close. Terrified that he was about to punch me, I squeezed my eyes shut. “That’s enough.” “Asher, don’t push it.” A cool, detached voice sounded from nearby. Miguel took off his headphones. Glancing at me, he said calmly, “Take your chocolates back, kid. She doesn’t need them.” “And from now on, stay away from Serena.” His voice was beautiful. His words were polite, yet firm. Glowing comments flashed across my mind. [Lmao, the side character is such a clown.] [The male lead didn’t even recognize him. He thinks Dakin is a rival and is getting jealous!] [Dakin needs to know his place. Stop making a fool of yourself. Even if the male lead found out the truth, he would only feel disgusted, not fall for you.] Just then, Serena hurried back. Seeing the tense standoff, she let out a soft laugh. “Oh my gosh, what are you guys doing? Are you about to fight?” She naturally wrapped her arm around Miguel’s. Then, she pointed at me. “This is my brother. My real brother.” Miguel froze. “Your brother makes you tea and walks you to school every day?” Serena blinked innocently. “Yeah, he’s like my personal knight. A younger brother is supposed to protect his sister for the rest of his life, right?” A long silence followed. Realizing he had made a mistake, Miguel extended his hand to me and said sincerely, “I’m sorry.” I forced a tight smile, but my lips felt completely numb. Back when we chatted online, he used to tease me, making my face flush: [What are you so afraid of? Am I going to eat you when we finally meet?] But I never expected our actual meeting to be like this. And all he had to say to me was a cold, polite apology. 03 Perhaps out of guilt for the misunderstanding, Miguel had someone deliver some things to me a few days later. It was a stack of thick, neatly organized study guides and hard-to-find practice exams. Asher dropped the materials onto my desk with a lazy shrug. “Miguel put these together.” “He’s always top of the class. His notes should help you with the upcoming midterms.” Seeing my hesitation, Asher slung an arm around my shoulder. “Come on, don’t hold a grudge. We were out of line the other day.” “Just don’t go badmouthing us to your sister.” I thought to myself: Ah, so he likes my sister too. I nodded and accepted the books. As I flipped through the practice exams, a beautifully packaged box of imported chocolates fell out. I blinked in surprise. Asher was already walking away. He waved a hand over his shoulder. “Those are from me.” “Eat up. You need to grow taller.” During the midterm exams, for some reason, every question that was similar to the ones in that practice book was a breeze. I didn’t lose a single point. Gradually, the tension between us began to thaw. Whenever I ran into Miguel at school, we would exchange a polite nod. Sometimes, while memorizing vocabulary in the hallway, I would look down and see Miguel squatting near the academic building, feeding a small colony of stray ginger cats. The summer breeze blew softly, rustling his hair. He would smile, his lips curving into a gentle line, as if thinking of someone special. But in the next second, a bright, cheerful figure would throw her arms around him. “So this is where you were hiding!” Serena glanced down at the cats, wrinkling her nose. “Ugh, why do you like these basic ginger cats just like my brother does?” “I thought you’d prefer something cooler, like a Maine Coon…” Miguel went rigid. “Your brother likes these cats?” “Yeah, why?” Miguel stood up, brushing off his jeans. “Nothing.” “Let’s go. I want to see you practice ballet.” As they walked away, a little ginger cat rubbed against my ankle, meowing softly. I broke off a piece of a turkey jerky strip and fed it to the kitten. After that day, I rarely went to that hallway to study. 04 Miguel’s devotion to Serena was legendary throughout the school. On her birthday, he gifted her a diamond necklace worth seven figures. The class decided to celebrate at an upscale karaoke lounge, and during a game of Truth or Dare, Serena lost several rounds in a row. Miguel drank every single penalty shot for her. I went to the restroom, and when I came out, I saw him leaning heavily against the sink. He looked incredibly pale, as if he had just thrown up. After a brief hesitation, I stepped forward to support him. “If you’re not feeling well, you should tell my sister.” The moment our fingers brushed, Miguel stiffened. His handsome brow furrowed. He subtly but firmly pulled his arm back, escaping my touch. “Why is it you?” The floating comments sneered: [The side character is so pathetic, trying to orchestrate a run-in to get close to the male lead.] [He tried the same thing with the ginger cats last time. What’s the point of all this effort? Even if the male lead suspects something, he’ll just pretend he doesn’t know.] I withdrew my hand. “Just passing by.” Even after I had walked far down the corridor, I could still feel his dark, heavy gaze lingering on my back. I left the party early that night. Around nine, a light drizzle began to fall, and my father looked out the window with a worried frown. “Dakin, go pick up your sister and bring her home.” I kept my eyes glued to my textbook. “Someone is already bringing her home.” My mother frowned, her voice sharp with disapproval. “I don’t trust other boys walking her home in the dark. Dakin, since when did you become so selfish?” Seeing the rising tension, my father put his laptop aside and quickly tried to soothe her. I silently put on my raincoat, grabbed an extra umbrella, and walked out into the damp night. Perhaps Serena had stayed out too late. By a stroke of terrible luck, we were cornered by a group of local street thugs in a narrow, dark alley. “Dakin, what do we do? I’m scared…” Serena whimpered, her voice tiny and trembling. I didn’t tell her that I was terrified too. But I dropped my backpack anyway. “Serena, when things get messy, run toward the main road. Don’t look back…” It was supposed to be this way, wasn’t it? When I was a child and a plate was broken, I was the one who took the blame. Every teddy bear my parents bought was handed to her. When there was a massive spider in her wardrobe, she would scream and call my name, and I would swallow my own terror to kill it for her. From the moment I could understand words, the phrase my parents repeated most was: “You must promise to protect your sister. You’re the man of the house.” “Serena has a congenital heart condition, she’s so fragile. You are healthy and strong, so you have to look out for her your entire life.” “Our Dakin is so smart, surely you can understand and help your parents…” I had heard those words so many times that they had become second nature. So, when the wooden planks and metal pipes swung toward us, I didn’t hesitate. I shielded her with my body. When they grabbed my hair, I kicked them in the stomach. The noise eventually grew loud enough to draw the attention of nearby neighbors, who called the police, forcing the thugs to scatter. Wiping the blood dripping from my forehead, I reached out to pull my sister up. Some kind bystanders helped us to the hospital, and Miguel arrived shortly after receiving the news. He burst into the room, and his eyes immediately locked onto the scrape on Serena’s knee. He turned to me, his voice tight with anger. “Dakin, why couldn’t you have been more careful?” “She’s hurt! Is this how you protect your sister?” His anxiety made his aura incredibly cold and oppressive. Serena sobbed, shaking her head to defend me, but she was crying too hard to speak. “Hey, Miguel, calm down,” Asher stepped in, patting his shoulder. “Dakin is hurt too. Look at his forehead, it’s still bleeding. You can’t blame him for this.” Only then did Miguel notice the white bandage wrapped around my forehead. His voice caught in his throat. He fell silent, turned on his heel, and walked out to settle the hospital bill. Knowing his friend was in a terrible mood, Asher followed to comfort him. From a distance, Miguel’s cold, dismissive words drifted back to my ears. “He’s a guy. Isn’t this exactly what he’s supposed to do?” “What does he have to feel bad about?” “Honestly, I don’t feel safe leaving Serena in his hands.” I lowered my head, staring at the tips of my shoes, and kicked a small pebble. I didn’t say a single word. 05 When Miguel dropped my sister off at our apartment building, he called out to me. “The police found your phone.” The screen wasn’t locked. I mumbled a quick thank you and took it from him. Just as I turned to head upstairs, the phone in my hand began to vibrate. I froze, looking down at the screen. Standing under the dim streetlamp, Miguel slowly lowered his own phone from his ear. “It really was you.” We stared at each other through the hazy drizzle. There was no sudden joy of discovery, no regret for the misunderstanding. His face was as flat and cold as still water as he slid a card toward me. “Dakin, let’s just pretend this never happened, okay?” “I don’t want anyone else to know.” “Honestly, it’s pretty disgusting.” The freezing rain beat down on my face. It was so humiliating. So painful that it made me want to weep. With all the strength left in my body, I snapped the card in half, threw the pieces at his chest, and ran upstairs. The moment I crossed the threshold of my home, the tears finally spilled over, completely uncontrollable. I wanted to scream. I wanted to demand answers. Why was life so incredibly unfair to me? Seeing me, my father quickly put a finger to his lips. “Shh, your sister just fell asleep…” The heavy silence in the room was suffocating, pushing me to the brink of madness. “Dad, Mom, I don’t want to be the brother anymore!” I sobbed, my voice cracking. “I want to be a girl again! I want to grow my hair long, I want to take ballet lessons…” “Why are you doing this to me? It’s not my fault Serena is sick! Why do I have to carry this burden?” It was the very first time I had ever talked back. Flushed with anger, my mother raised her hand and slapped me hard across the face. “What is wrong with you? Who upset you that you’re taking it out on us?” My cheek burned with a stinging heat. I couldn’t stand to be in that house for another second. I bolted out the door and ran into the night. Behind me, I heard my sister stirring, her voice sleepy and mocking. “Why is Dakin crying? What a baby, crying over nothing.” My father asked, “Who set him off?” My mother replied coldly, “Who knows?” Outside, the storm grew heavier. I huddled under the awning of a bus stop, shivering, with absolutely nowhere to go. Clasping my knees to my chest, I let out a broken sob, weeping into the dark. Bus after bus passed by. Then, an umbrella tilted over my head, blocking out the rain. “Dakin?” Asher called my name a few times. When I didn’t respond, he squatted down and pressed his palm against my forehead. “Oh my god, you’re running a fever. Get up.” He reached out to help me stand. But my knees buckled, and I collapsed forward, crashing directly into his chest. Asher groaned as we hit the pavement, but his body went completely rigid. His eyes widened in absolute shock as he looked down at me. “You… you’re a girl?”

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1 This was the ninth time I was locked away for supposedly terrifying Erich’s fragile first love. Inside the ward, I realized his delicate porcelain doll was actually a powerhouse butcher who could hoist a half carcass of pork with one hand. She wore a four million dollar Tibetan Dzi bead bracelet Erich had just won at auction, yet screamed herself red at the logistics manager over a one dollar invoice error. I walked over and asked if a single dollar was worth all that. She wiped the sweat from her brow and nodded with absolute conviction. Every cent paid for her terminally ill husband’s treatment. Without even drinking water, she hopped onto her delivery tricycle and rushed to her next client. Erich, who had just promised me a future, gave no explanation. He simply signaled the orderlies to drag me into isolation for forced electroconvulsive therapy. You swore not to go near her and scare her again, he said coldly. After three sunless months, Erich returned. Say it, he ordered. I nodded numbly and recited the lines. I did not know Erich Sterling. He was the sick husband of Maya Evans. I did not eat pork and would never set foot near the meat market again. Grimly satisfied, he signed my discharge papers. On the way home, he told me Maya was pure and harmless. As long as I kept her secret, he would give me a child. The blood drained from my face as I curled into the leather seat. He had no idea the treatments had left me infertile, and that I no longer wanted a child with a man who belonged to someone else. … The moment we stepped inside our sprawling estate, Erich opened his arms, attempting to pull me into a hug. My body violently, uncontrollably flinched, trembling in sheer panic. Erich slowly lowered his arms, a satisfied smirk crossing his face. “Excellent. You are finally cured of being so suffocatingly clingy.” From the very day we got married, Erich claimed he suffered from severe mysophobia. He stated he despised physical contact with other human beings. But my memory was crystal clear. On the day he ordered the orderlies to drag me away for electroshock therapy, he immediately changed his clothes to chase after his precious Maya. Even when Maya was completely covered in raw animal blood and greasy pork fat, he had wrapped his arms around her with absolute desperation, burying his face deep into the crook of her neck, breathing her in like she was his lifeline. Erich forced me to sit at the grand dining table. It was entirely covered with a lavish spread of my favorite dishes. “I hired a Michelin-starred private chef. Cost a small fortune,” he remarked casually. He slid a heavy, metallic black card across the mahogany table. “You suffered a bit over the last few months. Consider this your compensation.” This was his standard operating procedure. When I was deathly ill and he was too busy to visit the hospital? He transferred money. When tabloids plastered his face next to a rising actress? He transferred money. When he forgot our wedding anniversary? He transferred money. He always said: Where my money goes, my love follows. Yet, when he dressed himself in cheap, twenty-dollar thrift store t-shirts to play a dying pauper for Maya, I saw a light in his eyes that he had never, ever shown to me. Erich picked up a perfectly glazed piece of sweet and sour spare rib and placed it onto my porcelain plate. “Taste it. This single piece of meat costs over four hundred dollars.” My stomach violently convulsed. I shoved my chair back, sprinting to the nearest trash can, vomiting until my throat bled and the world spun in dizzying circles. The agonizing memories of being forcibly “corrected” in the hospital rushed back into my brain, suffocating me. Erich stood over me, the curve of his smile growing even wider. “Excellent. You finally cured your appetite for pork.” I gripped the marble wall, my entire body violently shaking. I could not force a single word out of my throat. The previous times he had committed me to the asylum? I had simply been walking past the municipal meat market, wanting to buy a few pounds of ribs to cook him dinner. But Erich became paranoid, convinced I was stalking Maya to expose his billionaire identity. “Maya is easily frightened. You shouldn’t do things like that,” he had told me. At that time, I didn’t even know who Maya was. Erich didn’t bother checking on me as I collapsed on the cold tile, shaking violently. He simply walked upstairs, changed into a set of ragged, faded clothes, grabbed a plastic tupperware container filled with a dish he had cooked himself, and walked out the front door with a light, cheerful step. Erich’s executive assistant approached me quietly, holding out a crisp, white medical document. “Madam, Mr. Sterling has instructed you to report to the fertility clinic tomorrow for pre-operative preparations.” “He has arranged top-tier artificial insemination to grant you a child.” I stared at the medical requisition form, my voice dropping to a hollow whisper. “Does Maya have children?” The assistant froze, awkwardly lowering his head. “Mr. Sterling believes that pregnancy takes too severe a toll on a woman’s body and ruins her figure. He cannot bear to watch Maya endure that kind of physical suffering.” “So… Mr. Sterling underwent a vasectomy himself.” The medical form in my hand was instantly crushed into a tight, wrinkled ball. So, as the principal dancer of a prestigious ballet company, I was the one expected to sacrifice my body and endure the physical destruction of pregnancy. I didn’t say another word. I simply pulled out my phone and sent a secure text message to my grandmother. “Nana, I finally secured enough funds. We are leaving the country in two days. We are never coming back.” The following morning, I walked into the private hospital. I practically collided with Maya, who was wearing blue hospital scrubs, working as a private orderly. I instinctively turned to flee. She called out loudly, jogging over to stop me. My body went completely rigid in pure terror, but she simply smiled warmly, holding out a paper bag filled with fresh peaches. “Thank you so much for sending all that business my way! Several massive restaurant groups and supermarkets contacted me out of nowhere to supply their pork! My order book is full until next month!” “I made enough money to cover half a year of my husband’s medical bills in a single week!” “It even freed up my schedule so I can work as an orderly here to make extra cash!” Her laugh was bright and infectious. Her sun-kissed skin seemed to glow with genuine vitality. She looked exactly like the worn, faded photograph of the little girl Erich kept hidden in his wallet—the photograph he had rubbed so many times the edges were frayed. I gripped the bag of peaches tightly, my fingernails digging so deep into my palms they nearly drew blood. It was Erich. He was addicted to the fantasy of her desperate, unconditional devotion, yet he couldn’t actually bear to let her suffer the grinding reality of poverty. So he operated from the shadows, meticulously paving her road with gold while pretending to be a dying pauper. Yet, when I once asked Erich to simply purchase a specific ballet leotard for me while he was on a business trip in Europe? He bought twenty of them and had his assistant distribute them to every single dancer in my company. “These gifts are only being distributed out of Mr. Sterling’s pity for his wife,” the assistant had announced publicly. From that day forward, not a single dancer in my company ever spoke to me again. I stared at the cracked, bleeding calluses on Maya’s hands, driven by a morbid curiosity I couldn’t control. “Is your husband really that incredible? Is he truly worth killing yourself over?” The bright smile on her face instantly softened into profound, unconditional love. “He is the best thing that ever happened to me. When it rains, even though his leg is crippled, he limps all the way to the market just to walk me home. In the winter, he knows my hands get frostbitten, so he tucks them inside his shirt against his bare chest and holds them there all night.” Every single memory she shared was a level of tenderness I had never, ever received from him. It felt as though a massive, invisible hand reached into my chest and crushed my heart until I couldn’t breathe. Just then, Erich walked down the corridor. The moment his eyes locked onto me, his face darkened into a terrifying scowl. His eyes screamed a lethal warning. Completely oblivious, Maya beamed and ran over to grab his arm. “Hubby, look! This is the amazing woman I told you about! The one who helped my business!” Erich’s icy gaze scraped across my face. The suffocating pressure radiating off him nearly made my knees buckle. But he smoothly played along with Maya’s fantasy, forcing a rigid, unnatural smile onto his face as he looked at me. “Thank you.” Maya enthusiastically clapped her hands. “To show our appreciation, you absolutely have to come over to our place for dinner tonight!” Like a prisoner marching to the gallows, I followed them into a dark, damp, subterranean basement apartment. The moment they walked through the door, Erich pulled a small, colorful bouquet of cheap wildflowers from behind his back like a magic trick, pressing them into Maya’s chest. Maya gasped in delight, wrapping her arms around the flowers and standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Erich smiled warmly, rolling up his sleeves and stepping into the cramped, greasy kitchen. He began prepping dinner with practiced, effortless skill. Halfway through cooking, he walked out holding a small plate of sliced apples. He picked up a piece with a toothpick and gently fed it directly into Maya’s mouth. They acted completely alone in the world, radiating pure, undeniable love. I sat rigidly on a broken folding chair, feeling like the punchline of a sick, cosmic joke. When I once ran a fever of a hundred and four degrees in the middle of the night, I had begged him to pour me a simple glass of water. He had physically shoved me into the master bathroom. “My time is worth thousands of dollars a minute. I am not wasting it playing nursemaid to you.” When dinner was finally served, Maya enthusiastically piled food onto my chipped plate. “You have to try this! This is my husband’s absolute specialty!” Stir-fried shiitake mushrooms. I am severely allergic to shiitake mushrooms. Ingesting them causes aggressive hives, triggering an itch so bone-deep it feels like insects crawling under my skin. Yet Erich had ordered our private chefs at the estate to cook this exact dish every single day. I finally understood why. It was Maya’s favorite food. I picked up my chopsticks, intending to push the mushrooms aside. Clack. Erich tapped his chopsticks sharply against the rim of his bowl. I looked up and met his dead, reptilian eyes. I had no choice. I forced myself to chew and swallow the mushrooms whole. Within seconds, a burning, aggressive itch began spreading across my neck and arms. I barely survived the agonizing dinner. The exact second I walked through the doors of the grand estate, my phone buzzed. A text from Erich. [Bring a box of condoms to the basement.] I returned to the damp, peeling door of the subterranean apartment. Through the thin wood, the unmistakable sounds of passionate intimacy leaked out into the hallway. The door to the adjacent unit suddenly cracked open. An elderly woman poked her head out, clicking her tongue. “Tsk. That husband of hers looks like he’s at death’s door, but he’s got the stamina of a bull. Four or five times a day, they never leave that bed.” I froze in the dim hallway, the blood freezing in my veins. When I first married into the Sterling family, Erich slept alone in his private study on our wedding night. Months later, at a massive family banquet, his mother had pointed her finger directly at my face in front of dozens of wealthy relatives. “Did the Sterling family pay millions just to marry a piece of dead wood? You can’t even figure out how to satisfy your own husband in bed!” Erich sat right beside her, sipping his wine, remaining completely silent as I was brutally humiliated for an entire hour. I had naively assumed he suffered from some unspoken medical trauma or performance anxiety. Now I finally understood the truth. I was the one he found repulsive. But it wasn’t always like this. In the beginning, Erich and I weren’t enemies. When he first pursued me, the entire city of Seattle knew that the heir to the Sterling empire was throwing millions at the principal dancer of the ballet company. I was completely honest with him. I told him I needed a massive amount of liquid cash to support my family. Erich didn’t even blink. “Your grandmother is severely ill. It is your duty to take care of her.” But on the day of our wedding, he saw my grandmother walking around, entirely healthy and robust. From that exact moment, his entire demeanor flipped. In his eyes, I morphed into a ruthless, gold-digging parasite who fabricated a dying relative to drain his bank accounts. I couldn’t tell him the truth. I couldn’t tell him that the millions of dollars were being funneled to an elite private military contractor to fund the search for my missing parents. Years ago, my parents and his father had vanished together while traveling in South America. Erich was completely convinced that the “disappearance” was just a cowardly cover story—that his father had abandoned his family to start a new life with stolen corporate funds. But my grandmother’s only dying wish was to locate my parents’ remains and bring them home. I had no other options. But thankfully, the final payment had finally been secured. I could finally take my grandmother and escape this living hell. Erich vanished for several days. The next time I saw him was outside the ballet company headquarters. Maya came sprinting up to me, her face glowing with pure joy, shoving a grant application into my hands. “Thank you so much! Erich told me you personally fought the board of directors to secure this charitable foundation grant for us!” I looked up, locking eyes with Erich’s lethal, warning glare. Without a word, I signed the authorization forms. That night, I checked my banking app. Every single dollar I had bled for, every penny I had hoarded in my private account, had been entirely drained. I kicked open the door to his private study. “The money you transferred out of my account—you funneled it through that fake charity grant and gave it directly to Maya!” My entire body shook with violent rage. “That money was my compensation! You promised me that money!” He finally looked up from his mahogany desk, staring at me with absolute zero empathy. “You just admitted I was the one who gave it to you. Which means I can take it back whenever I please.” At that exact moment, my phone rang. It was my grandmother, her frail voice shaking with desperate hope. “Sweetheart? Can we leave a few days early? Nana just can’t wait anymore.” I gripped the phone against my ear, unable to force a single syllable past the suffocating lump in my throat. I couldn’t tell her that the hope she had clung to for ten agonizing years had just been effortlessly crushed by the man sitting across from me. I hung up the phone. I walked back to my dressing room and pulled out a provocative, skin-tight evening dress I had sworn never to wear. I dug through a drawer of old business cards and dialed a number I had ignored for years. Inside the pulsing, neon-lit VIP room of a luxury nightclub, a greasy executive named Mr. Vance rested his sweaty hand heavily on my bare thigh. Through the blinding strobe lights, I spotted a woman wearing a blue janitorial uniform. It was Maya. She stared at me in absolute, horrified shock. When Mr. Vance waddled away to the restroom, she rushed over to the leather sofa. “If you are being forced into this, just tell me! I will help you escape!” I glanced at her wrist. She was wearing a flawless, imperial green jade bangle. It was the Sterling family’s most sacred heirloom. The expensive liquor in my mouth suddenly tasted like battery acid. “Nobody forced me. I am doing this willingly.” When the networking event concluded, Mr. Vance wrapped a thick arm around my waist, demanding I accompany him to his hotel suite. At the exit, Erich, who had driven his beat-up sedan to pick up Maya from her janitorial shift, witnessed the entire scene. Maya clung to his arm, whispering frantically into his ear with deep concern. Erich merely cast a look of pure, unadulterated disgust in my direction. “She is a parasite who will spread her legs for anyone with a checkbook. It is none of our business.” I lowered my eyes and followed Mr. Vance toward his luxury vehicle. But before I could open the passenger door, Vance pinned me against the chassis, his greasy face contorting into a vile, drunken leer. “You know what? Let’s just do it right here against the hood. I like the thrill.” He lunged forward, violently grabbing the hem of my dress to rip it upward. SMACK. A heavy wooden broom handle swung through the air, cracking brutally across his forearm and knocking his hand away. Maya stepped forward, shoving me behind her back defensively. Vance squinted his drunken eyes. When he registered Maya’s face, a sick grin spread across his face. “Well, well. This one is even feistier. I haven’t tasted this flavor before.” Before his hand could even graze Maya’s uniform, Erich exploded forward, driving his fist directly into Vance’s jaw and dropping him to the concrete. The always cold, always calculated billionaire lost his mind. He mounted the executive, raining down savage, merciless blows upon the bleeding man’s face. I instinctively lunged forward to pull Erich off him, but he threw a blind backhand, striking me across the chest and sending me crashing hard into the asphalt. Maya took one step forward. “Stop hitting him.” Erich froze instantly. The demonic, bloodthirsty rage evaporated from his eyes, returning to total clarity. Maya knelt down, helped me off the ground, and pressed a worn debit card into my palm. “I had no idea things were this desperate for you. Please, take this money.” This time, Erich did not intervene. But as I limped a few steps away, Erich chased after me, violently hurling a thick legal binder against my chest. “Sign the divorce papers. You get absolutely nothing.” “Since you accepted Maya’s charity, you must trade something of equal value.” “The only thing of value you possess is the title of Mrs. Sterling—a title you conned out of me in the first place.” I looked at him and asked one single question. “If I sign it, do I get to keep the money on this debit card?” Erich let out a dark, mocking laugh. “You truly have no bottom line. To secure a few pennies, you sell your body to old men, and you sell your marriage.” I didn’t defend myself. I pulled a pen from my purse and signed my name on the dotted line. Then, I slid the diamond wedding band off my finger and held it out to him. Erich took the multi-million-dollar ring without a second glance and casually tossed it directly into the nearest storm drain. “I will never allow Maya to wear discarded trash.” The market value of that diamond was exactly identical to the amount of money he had drained from my account. Erich didn’t care about the financial loss. He simply wanted to prove that I was worthless. The freezing night wind whipped across my face, and the tears I swore I wouldn’t shed finally spilled over. When I returned to the Sterling estate, my belongings were piled in a heap outside the front gates. My customized ballet slippers, my international championship trophies, the hand-knit sweaters I had made for my grandmother—all of it had been thrown directly into the muddy gutters. My phone rang. It was the director of the ballet company, his voice dripping with absolute contempt. “Our company is far too small to house a disgraced, talentless parasite like you. Don’t bother coming back.” Erich couldn’t even wait a single hour. He immediately utilized his corporate power to strip away every single asset, connection, and benefit he believed I had leeched from his empire. But finally, I was free. I calmly walked to the cheap motel where my grandmother was staying. Three months later, my expedited visa and the finalized divorce decree arrived in the mail on the same day. I booked two seats on the earliest international flight out of the country. Just when I believed the nightmare was permanently over, the door to our motel room was violently kicked open, splintering the frame. Erich lunged across the room, wrapping his massive hand around my throat and pinning me against the wall. “What the hell did you say to Maya?! She’s gone!” He slammed a crumpled piece of medical paper against my face. It was a positive pregnancy test result. “Did you find out about this and threaten her?!” My reproductive system had been destroyed by his electroshock treatments months ago. I could never get pregnant. But with his fingers crushing my windpipe, I couldn’t force a single word out. He stared at me, the pure, unhinged madness in his eyes threatening to consume me alive. “Sienna, you brought this entirely upon yourself.” I woke up in the familiar, terrifying white room, blinded by surgical lights. Erich stood in the corner, his face an emotionless mask, watching as the psychiatric doctor applied the conductive gel pads directly to my temples. They turned the voltage dial to the absolute maximum. The current was so violent it burned the skin on my forehead black and blue. When my body finally gave out, Erich ordered his men to throw my unconscious body into an abandoned industrial meat freezer on the docks. “If my men don’t find Maya, you can freeze to death in here and rot as her sacrifice.” Using the absolute last reserve of adrenaline in my frozen body, I managed to pry open a rusted ventilation grate and crawled bleeding through the narrow exhaust shaft to freedom. I pushed through the agony, retrieved my grandmother, and dragged us both onto the international flight. It wasn’t until the heavy cabin doors sealed shut that I finally allowed myself to breathe. My phone vibrated in my pocket. A secure message from the military contractor. [We have successfully located the skeletal remains of your parents. They are waiting for your identification at the arrival terminal.] The dam broke. The tears flowed uncontrollably. Thousands of miles away, Erich finally tracked Maya down to a run-down roadside motel. When she saw him, her eyes immediately welled with tears. “I’m pregnant… I was terrified you would think the baby was a financial burden on your medical bills, so I ran away.” Erich stared at her in total shock. He had personally undergone a vasectomy. But he quickly rationalized it—this child must be an absolute miracle, a divine gift from the universe. But that meant Sienna… He fabricated a quick excuse, stepped out into the motel parking lot, and immediately dialed his assistant. “Get to the docks and pull Sienna out of the freezer right now!” On the other end of the line, the assistant’s voice was shaking violently. “Sir… the docks are completely surrounded by SWAT units and police tape.” “They… they said they discovered the frozen corpse of a woman inside the unit.”

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01 Celeste and I happened to wear the exact same dress today. My childhood friend, Wesley, teased me. “Same dress, but she looks like an angel, and you look like her maid.” Even my mother agreed. “When it comes to looks and grace, Beth doesn’t even compare to Celeste.” Celeste was the orphaned daughter of my mother’s late best friend. My mother had brought her home to adopt her. She was smart, beautiful, and danced ballet. Everyone preferred her. Even the stray cat I had rescued only cuddled with her, while hissing at me. Until Asher, the transfer student, became my desk partner. He secretly stuffed dead roaches into Wesley’s locker and poured rancid clam juice into Celeste’s thermos. I wanted to laugh so badly, but I didn’t dare. In a quiet voice, I asked Asher why he was standing up for me. Mimicking my hushed whisper, he leaned in and murmured, “Because I traveled back in time from ten years in the future.” “Give me a smile,” he cooed. “My future wife.” I froze. My face flushed crimson instantly. Before I could say a word, a loud commotion broke out near Celeste’s desk. She had taken a sip of her drink, and now she was coughing violently, her brow furrowed in distress. Her almond eyes pooled with tears, making her look incredibly fragile and pitiable. The classmates crowding around her were furious. “Who the hell did this?” “This is sick. Who would try to poison Celeste?” “How incredibly malicious.” Wesley gently patted her back, his eyes suddenly darting to me. “I bet Beth did it. She’s always been jealous of Celeste.” Celeste raised her pale face, forcing a weak, fragile smile. “Don’t say that about Beth. I’m just living under her roof. I must have done something to upset her… It’s all my fault.” With just a few soft words, she shifted the blame entirely onto my shoulders. It was the same effortless way she used to accuse me of stealing class funds or rumor that I cheated on exams. I bit my lip, whispering, “I didn’t do it.” But, as always, nobody listened. Nobody believed me. My nose stung with unshed tears. I lowered my head, trying to blink them away, when a strange, bright red plastic object entered my peripheral vision. A megaphone? I looked up in utter bewilderment. Asher had pulled out a massive megaphone from somewhere. He grinned, pressed the play button, aimed it directly at Celeste’s crowd, and let it blare at maximum volume: “BETH SAID SHE DIDN’T DO IT!” “DID YOU HEAR THAT? SHE DIDN’T DO IT!” “I’M HER WITNESS! SHE NEVER EVEN WENT NEAR YOUR DESK! SPREAD MORE LIES ABOUT HER AND I’LL HAVE YOU DEALT WITH!” Naturally, the teacher confiscated Asher’s megaphone within minutes. But with an eyewitness on my side, my name was cleared. I whispered a quiet thank you to him. Asher raised an eyebrow, a cheeky grin playing on his lips. “Don’t just thank me with words. How about a kiss?” “If that’s too hard, I’ll compromise. I can kiss you instead.” I laughed, giving his shoulder a gentle, playful shove. “You’re ridiculous!” But the next second, a sudden realization hit me. It had been a very, very long time since I had laughed and played around with anyone like this. 02 During the summer break of my eighth-grade year, my mother’s dearest friend passed away, leaving behind a single daughter. My mother brought her home to adopt her. That was Celeste. She stood at our front door, her eyes red, looking entirely lost and fragile. My mother’s heart broke for her, and she pulled me aside, telling me I had to share and yield to Celeste from now on. I nodded, genuinely feeling sorry for her. So, I emptied half the savings from my piggy bank and pushed the coins toward her. She whispered a quiet thank you. I shared my bed with her, she took the left side, I took the right. My favorite toy, a glowing, light-up princess wand, caught her eye. I placed it directly into her hands. “Do you like it? It’s yours.” But when did things start to change? Suddenly, I had nothing left to give. When I got a perfect score on my math test, my mother rewarded me with a family bucket of fried chicken. I used to love stuffing the chicken into the warm butter rolls, topping it with mashed potatoes. It was delicious. But now, Celeste had three pieces of chicken. My mother and I only had one each. The mashed potatoes were given entirely to Celeste. I slowly sipped my soda, my eyes drifting toward the bountiful plate in front of Celeste. My mother scowled. “Beth, you already have your chicken and soda. What are you staring at Celeste for? Always coveting what belongs to others. How did you become so greedy?” My mother also enrolled Celeste in ballet classes. The art classes she had promised to sign me up for were abruptly canceled. “We don’t have much spare cash left,” my mother said dismissively. “Be sensible. Besides, you don’t have Celeste’s natural talent for dance. Art lessons would just be a waste of money.” My father worked overseas and rarely came home. Whenever I missed him, I would hold the glass mermaid figurine he had bought me and whisper my secrets to it. Celeste saw it. She thought it was beautiful. My mother forced me to give the mermaid to her. Wesley, my childhood friend, had been furious on my behalf. “Is your mom insane? Treating an outsider like royalty while starving her own daughter? You earned that fried chicken with your perfect score, and Celeste just eats it without a second thought? Where is her shame? And you want to be an illustrator, why can’t you take classes?” He was fiercely protective of me back then, never holding back his tongue. He consoled me, promising, “I’ll come over tomorrow and bring you a massive fried chicken leg. You’re going to eat the whole thing right in front of Celeste. Not a single bite for her!” But when he arrived the next day, Celeste was sitting by the window, wearing a delicate floral dress my mother had bought her. She was reading a book, the warm afternoon sunlight bathing her clean, beautiful face. Wesley froze, completely mesmerized. The massive chicken leg slipped from his grip, rolling onto the dusty floor. “I think I finally understand what love at first sight means,” he whispered. 03 He stood there awkwardly for ages, not knowing where to put his hands. When he finally snapped out of it, he turned to me with a breezy, teasing grin. “Beth, your sister is as beautiful as an angel, while you’re just… average. No wonder your mom prefers her. It’s only natural.” Anger and tears flooded my eyes. I turned and ran into my bedroom, slamming the door. “I’m never speaking to you again!” In the past, whenever Wesley made me angry, I would lock myself in my room, and he would stand outside, coaxing and teasing until I opened the door. I was weak-willed; within two minutes, he’d have me laughing, and I would walk back out. But this time, he didn’t follow me. He stayed in the living room, spending the entire afternoon trying every trick in the book to make Celeste laugh. I sat alone in my room, crying, listening to the echoes of his eager laughter. He stayed all the way until dinner, completely unwilling to leave. Eventually, I made up with Wesley. After all, we had grown up together. He was my best friend. But everything was different now. He stopped going to the comic bookstore with me. Instead, he spent his afternoons waiting outside Celeste’s ballet studio. When he went on a trip to Savannah with his family, he brought Celeste a delicate silk fan, a vintage dress, and beautiful garden keepsakes. When it came to me, he just scratched his head, showing his boyish grin. “I ran out of allowance, so I couldn’t get you anything. Don’t be mad, Beth. Next time, I promise.” When we started high school, a once-in-a-century rainstorm hit on our monthly release day. The streets were flooded, water rising halfway up the trees and cars. The air was filled with the frantic shouts of parents calling for their children. My mother pushed through the crowds to find Celeste and guide her safely home. Wesley was frantic with worry too. He braved the thunder and pouring rain to run to our house, only relaxing when he saw Celeste was safe and dry. He eagerly grabbed a hairdryer to dry Celeste’s damp hair, while my mother bustled in the kitchen, brewing hot ginger tea to keep Celeste warm. Nobody remembered me, left behind at the school with no one to pick me up. By the time I waded through the waist-deep water to get home, I was soaked to the bone and shivering. I collapsed onto the kitchen table, sobbing from the sheer injustice of it. Wesley poked his head into the kitchen, letting out a chuckle. “Are you actually crying?” He laughed. “Beth, you look even uglier when you cry.” 04 After that day, I slowly learned to accept the differences in how Celeste and I were treated. I got used to walking behind them, silently watching Celeste and Wesley laugh and chat ahead of me. If I ever paused to tie my shoelaces, they would leave me far behind without ever looking back. I got used to my mother buying Celeste Converse sneakers, Adidas hoodies, and expensive backpacks because she was terrified Celeste would feel insecure about being an orphan. Meanwhile, I was given Celeste’s worn-out hand-me-downs. I got used to Wesley walking Celeste everywhere because he was terrified she would be harassed by strangers. He never worried about me. He said I looked “perfectly safe.” I got used to everyone preferring her. Even the stray cat I brought home would hiss at me but roll over to show Celeste his belly. Until today. Until Asher poured rancid clam juice into her thermos to get back at her for me. Watching Celeste weep, I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t dare. Wesley had once said, “Beth, you and your sister actually look similar when you laugh. Except she looks beautiful, and you look hilarious.” But Asher rested his chin in his hand, looking at me with a lazy, warm gaze. “Give me a smile.” “My future wife.” “I traveled back from ten years in the future just to make you happy.” Time travel? I thought he was just teasing me. But over the next month, he became my shield. During recess, Wesley ran over to tell me a joke he had heard. “Beth, you look like you’re from a historic lineage. Because your face looks incredibly historical, as in, ancient and worn out.” I lowered my head, biting my lip. Asher spun his pen, letting out a dry chuckle. “And you look like you belong in a circus. Specifically, as the clown. No talent, just a joke.” At dismissal, Celeste casually handed me a half-drunk boba tea, smiling sweetly. “Beth, why don’t you finish this? We shouldn’t waste our mother’s money.” Asher let out a loud groan. “Are you seriously offering your backwash to someone else?” He magically pulled out three half-empty bottles of soda from his desk and shoved them toward Celeste. “Here, I’ve got a bunch of leftovers too. Why don’t you chug them all? Don’t let them go to waste.” Celeste stomped her foot and stormed off in a rage. I couldn’t help it. A quiet laugh slipped from my lips. Asher watched me laugh, his own lips curving into a soft smile. Under some strange spell, I looked at him and asked, “Are you really from ten years in the future?” Asher raised an eyebrow, his eyes shining. “Getting curious about me now?” “Careful, sweetheart. You’re about to fall in love with me.” I flushed, giving his arm a playful hit. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Really want to know?” “Sunday is your birthday. Come out on a date with me, and I’ll tell you.” 05 I bit my lip and remained silent. I hated birthdays. On my fifteenth birthday, Celeste and I had a joint celebration. My mother spent hours taking photos of Celeste, adjusting the lighting and angles to make her look perfect. When it was my turn to stand in front of the cake, before I could even pose, click. The photo was done. In the picture, my face was distorted, my eyes half-closed, and my mouth awkwardly open. I looked so ugly I wanted to cry. My mother had merely shrugged. “It’s because of how you look. No amount of photography can change that.” When Celeste blew out her candles, she began opening her gifts. In a velvet box lay a sparkling diamond hairpin. When she wore it, she looked like a princess. My gift was a cheap plastic bracelet. The pink beads were already peeling. A wave of bitter sorrow rushed over me. “Mom, you’re unfair!” I cried, pointing at the cake, which only had Happy Birthday Celeste written on it. “And today is her birthday, not mine! Her birthday is a day before mine! Ever since she came, I’ve had to share my birthday with her. Why do I have to do this?” My mother’s face darkened instantly. Celeste’s eyes welled with tears, her voice soft and trembling. “Mom, it’s all my fault. I took Beth’s special day. I won’t celebrate my birthday anymore, please don’t fight because of me…” My mother’s heart broke, and she wrapped Celeste in a tight embrace. “Celeste is already so sensible and sweet despite having no parents. Why do you always have to fight her for everything?” “If you hate celebrating your birthday so much, then get out!” I ran out of the house, crying. But I had nowhere to go, so I wandered around the neighborhood for hours. When night fell and nobody came to look for me, I walked back, sobbing, but too ashamed to go upstairs. Suddenly, someone called my name from behind. “Beth.” I turned. Wesley was standing by the entrance of the building, holding a plastic bag. “Happy birthday.” I opened it. It was a simple white dress. The fabric was scratchy, and the stitching around the collar was crooked. But I still cried tears of joy. “Thank you.” Wesley rubbed the back of his neck, then pulled out another gift box from behind his back. It was wrapped in beautiful pink paper with a perfect satin bow. Blushing, he said: “Uh… can you give this to your sister?” My smile froze. The scratchy dress in my hands suddenly felt weightless.

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1 I chose a sleek Bluetooth speaker for Brooke’s birthday. Oliver scoffed, “For her best friend, you sure don’t know what she wants.” He pulled out a leather journal titled 100 Things About Her, flipping to a marked page. “Her real wish is vintage jasmine perfume—not a bulky speaker.” Taking it, I flipped through pages filled with details: her favorite matte black, iced jasmine oolong with light ice, hatred of hair-touching, fear of rainy-night walks. The tight handwriting burned my eyes, souring my throat. Slamming it shut, I forced down my trembling voice. “Oliver, do you know my favorite food? Or what I hate most?” He froze, stammering, unable to answer a thing. A bitter smile curled my lips as my chest tightened. He could catalog Brooke’s every quirk, yet after four years, knew nothing about me. The three of us had made a pact years ago. We promised that after graduation, we would all move to Portland together to build our careers. In that exact moment, I completely abandoned that plan. I pulled out my phone, opened the official employment offer from a top firm in New York City, and typed out my reply. “I accept. I will report for onboarding next week.” Less than a minute after I hit send, my phone began to vibrate. “You previously turned down a highly competitive salary package because you wanted to relocate to Portland with your boyfriend and best friend,” the project director said over the line. “What made you suddenly change your mind?” Thinking back on everything that had unfolded recently, I fell silent for a moment. Brooke and Oliver had never technically crossed the physical line. But it was that very ambiguity, that suffocating and blurred emotional affair, that left me with no solid ground to stand on. I could never point to a singular, undeniable betrayal, yet every interaction between them felt fundamentally wrong. It went on for so long that I started questioning my own sanity, wondering if I was just being overly sensitive. I used to believe that as long as the three of us stuck together, everything would work out fine. But holding that meticulously written journal today, I just felt incredibly exhausted. I let out a soft breath. “I thought it over carefully. Compared to Portland, New York City offers a much better trajectory for my career.” The director voiced his approval. “Excellent. We will see you on Monday.” I hung up and walked back down the hallway. Oliver’s gaze flicked over to me for a split second. “Was that the New York recruiter again? Just reject them already. Brooke already booked three plane tickets to Portland. We leave in a week.” I looked at him quietly. “What if I already accepted the offer?” He paused, glancing up at me with a lazy, dismissive smirk. “Are you serious right now? Everyone knows you follow me and Brooke wherever we go. There is no way you would abandon us to go to New York alone.” I forced a dry, hollow laugh. He was right. For years, I had trailed behind them, living my life as nothing more than an afterthought in their orbit. That was exactly why I refused to revolve around them anymore. I opened my mouth to speak, but Brooke suddenly leaned through the doorway, flashing a brilliant smile and extending her hand. “Oliver! Where is my birthday present?” Oliver immediately softened. He reached into a shopping bag and handed her the beautifully wrapped perfume. Brooke tore the wrapping paper away, her eyes lighting up instantly. “I have wanted this specific scent for months! I only mentioned it in passing once, I cannot believe you actually remembered!” Before she even finished her sentence, Oliver pulled out a luxurious designer handbag and placed it on the table before her. Brooke blinked in surprise. “There is another gift? Did Christina get this for me?” Oliver shook his head gently, his eyes locked onto her with undeniable tenderness. “No.” “The perfume is the gift you asked for. But this bag is the gift I wanted to give you. We are moving to Portland soon. You will need something high-end to carry to your interviews.” I stood just a few feet away, feeling like an absolute stranger intruding on a private movie scene. My heart sank deeper into my stomach. We were both women in his life. Yet he remembered a passing comment from Brooke well enough to write a novel about it. When my birthday rolled around last month, my boyfriend of four years simply patted my shoulder. “Christina, money is a little tight right now. I will make it up to you next year, okay?” I smiled at my own stupidity. He was not broke. He just preferred spending his savings on someone else. The drive back to our apartment was entirely silent. The moment I closed the front door behind us, Oliver finally spoke up. “Christina, you haven’t said a word. Are you mad at me?” Before I could even formulate a response, he kept going. “Is this because I didn’t get you a real birthday present?” He reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a tiny glass vial. It was the exact same brand and scent he had just purchased for Brooke. “Stop sulking. Here, take this.” One glance was all I needed. It was a complimentary miniature sample given out by the beauty counter. It could not even begin to compare to the full-sized luxury gift set he had proudly handed to another woman. Seeing my reluctance to take it, Oliver sighed defensively. “Brooke is different from you. At the end of the day, she is an outsider. As your boyfriend, shouldn’t I make an effort to maintain a good relationship with your best friend? What if she starts talking badly about me behind my back?” I stared down at the tiny glass vial sitting on the entryway table. “I am not mad. I am just tired. I am going to take a shower.” When I turned off the water and began towel-drying my hair, I heard Oliver laughing hysterically in the living room. I pushed the bathroom door open. He was curled up on the sofa, clutching his phone, typing furiously with a massive grin on his face. Hearing my footsteps, he glanced up and chuckled again. “Christina, you have no idea. Brooke is hilarious. She went home to try on the new designer bag, took a picture, and sent it to me. But her cat decided to sit on the leather and refuses to move. She is freaking out but doesn’t want to drag the cat off, so she is literally crouching on the floor trying to reason with an animal.” He laughed while tilting his screen toward me so I could see the photo. My hands stopped moving through my wet hair. We used to have a group chat called The Grub Club. We shared every random, pointless moment of our days in that chat. But I could not remember the last time that group chat had been active. The final message was sent by me three weeks ago. I had asked where we should go for dinner over the weekend. Nobody ever replied. I stared at the glowing screen in his hand. My voice came out incredibly quiet. “When did you two add each other privately?” Oliver flinched. He awkwardly averted his eyes, the smile dying on his lips. “Oh, just… you remember that week you were pulling all-nighters writing your senior thesis? Brooke sprained her ankle. I happened to be nearby, so I drove her to the urgent care clinic.” My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. When Brooke sprained her ankle, I had blamed myself for days. We were supposed to go shopping, and I felt incredibly guilty that she got hurt while I was stuck in the library. She had comforted me over the phone, telling me not to worry because a kind stranger had helped her get to the clinic. She told me to focus entirely on my thesis. It took until this exact moment to realize that the kind stranger was my boyfriend. I stood frozen in the middle of the living room. Cold water dripped from the ends of my wet hair, falling onto the back of my hand. It felt like ice. On the day of Brooke’s birthday, Oliver left the apartment at dawn just to secure her favorite custom cake from a high-end bakery across town. The evening dinner took place at an intimate, atmospheric private kitchen. Brooke showed up wearing a stunning dress that perfectly matched the color of her new designer bag. Throughout the entire night, her eyes continuously gravitated toward Oliver. Whenever she noticed me looking, she would hastily tear her gaze away. When it was time for a toast, Brooke’s eyes looked visibly glassy. “I am just so incredibly lucky to have met both of you.” Right after she spoke those words, she shot a fleeting, loaded glance at Oliver, tilted her head back, and downed her entire glass of wine. Oliver immediately reached out, wrapping his fingers firmly around her wrist. “Slow down.” She smiled playfully, breaking his grip to pour herself another full glass. Her voice dropped into a raspy whisper. “It is my birthday today. I want to drink.” I sat right beside them, entirely incapable of joining the conversation. I was a ghost haunting my own relationship. Oliver tried to stop her at first. But eventually, he grabbed his own glass and filled it to the brim. She drank a glass, and he matched her. They sat across the table from one another, never making direct eye contact, yet their rhythm was intimately synchronized. After several rounds, both of them were heavily intoxicated. Suddenly, Brooke propped her chin on her hand, looking directly at me. Her words slurred heavily. “Christina… I fell in love with a guy. I really, really like him.” I managed to pull a bitter smile to my lips. “If you like him, you should go after him. Maybe he feels the exact same way.” Her eyes ignited. She leaned forward, staring at me with intense desperation. “Do you really mean that?” “I mean it.” The second those words left my mouth, Brooke lifted her gaze. She stared straight across the table, locking eyes with Oliver. Oliver’s face went completely rigid. The alcohol seemed to evaporate from his bloodstream instantly. He stood up in a sudden panic, disrupting the heavy tension. “You are drunk. Stop talking nonsense. I am calling a car to take you home.” He practically lunged around the table, throwing his arm over my shoulder and dragging me toward the exit without another word. The cab ride home was suffocatingly silent. Neither of us spoke a single syllable. Halfway there, Oliver abruptly rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. He turned his face toward the rushing city lights, his expression dark and unreadable, lost in his own chaotic thoughts. The acrid stench of burning tobacco instantly flooded the back seat. I instinctively held my breath. I have a highly sensitive respiratory system. I cannot tolerate cigarette smoke. Oliver knew this perfectly well. For the four years we had been together, he never touched alcohol or tobacco in my presence. Even when his fraternity brothers pressured him to partake, he would always hold my hand and decline politely. “My girlfriend cannot handle the smoke,” he used to tell them. But tonight, he let the toxic cloud fill the cramped space of the vehicle. He clearly saw me coughing and turning my face away in discomfort, yet he remained entirely indifferent. The second we walked through our front door, his phone chimed. It was a custom notification tone he had specifically assigned to Brooke. I ignored him and walked straight into the bedroom. It took him nearly half an hour to finally enter the room. He claimed it was a work call from the Portland recruiters. His lie was incredibly sloppy, completely riddled with holes, but I did not even have the energy to call him out. I simply rolled over, turning my back to him. Deep into the night, his phone began vibrating relentlessly against the mattress. Driven by a morbid impulse I could not control, I reached over and picked it up. I opened the chat. The glowing text pierced my eyes like broken glass. The most recent messages were sent while I was lying right beside him. Oliver wrote: “Brooke, we cannot keep doing this. It is not fair to Christina.” She replied: “I know. But I genuinely cannot control how I feel.” He wrote back: “I cannot hurt Christina. I cannot move to Portland with you anymore. I want to go to New York with her.” Brooke responded with a massive wall of text, guilt-tripping him relentlessly. She reminded him of their sacred promise that the three of them would stick together, begging him not to abandon her. Oliver went silent for a long time. His final reply consisted of a single word. “Okay.” The screen faded to black. I tapped it to wake it up again. I read those lines over and over until my vision blurred and my eyes burned. Only then did I place the phone back on his pillow. I lay perfectly still on the mattress, staring up at the dark ceiling. My mind drifted back to our college graduation day. The three of us had stood together on the campus green, debating where we should build our futures. I told them I wanted to go to New York City. The career opportunities for my major were endless there. Brooke said she wanted to return to Portland because it was close to her family. Oliver did not even hesitate. He immediately agreed with Brooke, suggesting we move to Portland and claiming that the majority should rule. I had laughed it off, telling them that as long as we were together, the destination did not matter. It took me until tonight to finally understand the truth. I was never Oliver’s first choice. During our junior year, Oliver and I had signed a lease for this modest one-bedroom apartment near campus. It was small, but I had poured my heart into making it a warm, inviting home. Our toothbrushes were a matching set—one blue, one pink—sitting side by side in a glass cup. Our indoor slippers were a set too. His were charcoal gray, mine were cream. Sitting on his desk was a pair of custom ceramic mugs painted with our portraits. He had dragged me to a street fair to paint them. His artwork was incredibly sloppy and disproportionate. I had laughed the entire walk home, but I still treated that mug like a priceless artifact, placing it right in the center of the room. Looking at all those carefully curated memories now, I just felt like a massive joke. Oliver leaned against the bedroom doorframe, watching me fold my clothes into a large suitcase. He sounded incredibly relaxed. “Packing already? You must be really excited to move to Portland.” My hands paused over a stack of sweaters. I looked up and called his name quietly. “Oliver.” “Yeah? What is it?” I shook my head slowly. “Nothing.” I lowered my eyes and went back to folding. Just then, the front door swung open. Brooke walked in carrying two iced coffees. She kicked off her shoes and made herself comfortable right on the edge of our bed. “I finalized the rental agreement for our place in Portland! It is a massive three-bedroom apartment with amazing natural light.” “The master bedroom goes to you and Oliver. I will take the room right next door. And as for the third room…” Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she turned to look at Oliver. “Oliver and I decided to turn it into a dedicated gaming room. We both play the same games anyway, it will be perfect.” My fingers stopped moving. I was never much of a gamer. But back in college, the two of them would spend hours sitting side by side on the sofa, screaming into their headsets, completely absorbed in their shared digital world. I would sit right next to them, utterly invisible, unable to contribute a single word to their conversations. Brooke suddenly slapped her forehead as if remembering something urgent. She reached out and grabbed Oliver’s arm tightly. “Oh my gosh, I almost forgot! You need to come help me deal with the moving company right now.” “My current landlord is being an absolute nightmare about the security deposit and the broken refrigerator. He keeps arguing with me in circles and I cannot handle him.” Oliver let her drag him a few steps toward the door. I frowned and spoke up sharply. “Oliver. I need to talk to you.” He started to turn around, but Brooke yanked his arm harder. “Christina, whatever it is, just tell him when we get to the airport! Let me borrow your boyfriend for two hours, please?” Without waiting for my permission, the two of them walked out the door shoulder to shoulder. I stood alone in the quiet apartment. The words let’s break up were lodged completely sideways in my throat. I swallowed the lump down. We were all functioning adults now. Three days of total silence was the universal code for a permanent breakup. I refused to waste another second overthinking. I zipped up my luggage, grabbed the handle, and walked out the door. From this moment forward, Christina was officially dead to both of them. … When Oliver and Brooke finally packed her belongings and headed for the airport, Brooke naturally looped her arm through his. Oliver remained silent, letting her hold onto him, his mind completely elsewhere. Since walking out of the apartment, he had been agonizing over what Christina wanted to tell him. It clearly bothered him that she could not even wait for him to finish helping Brooke. Brooke chattered happily about furniture layouts and gaming setups, but Oliver just nodded absentmindedly. He did not absorb a single word. They arrived at the bustling departure hall in a state of high anxiety. Oliver immediately scanned the massive terminal, desperately searching the crowds, but Christina was nowhere to be found. Brooke finally unlinked her arm from his, speaking casually. “Girls always take forever to get ready. Just be patient, we still have plenty of time.” But the minutes ticked by mercilessly. With only thirty minutes left before the Portland flight began boarding, the check-in counters were preparing to close. Christina was still completely MIA. Oliver gripped his phone tightly. He dialed her number without hesitation. The line clicked twice before an automated voice echoed through the speaker. “The number you have dialed is currently powered off.” Brooke stood beside him, tugging gently at his jacket sleeve. “Her battery probably just died. Should we head through security and wait for her at the gate?” Oliver ignored her entirely. He sprinted toward the customer service counter, his voice thick with panic. “Excuse me, I need you to page Christina over the intercom! We are booked on the six o’clock flight to Portland, and we cannot find her!” The airline agent typed on her keyboard, scanning the passenger manifest. When she finally looked up, her expression shifted into something distinctly uncomfortable. “Sir. Miss Christina booked a ticket on the four o’clock flight to New York City. She boarded her plane over two hours ago.” Those words struck his skull like a physical blow, leaving him completely paralyzed.

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I fell in love with a customer who came to buy flowers every single week. He was always in a rush, picking up nothing but our cheapest white daisies. My heart always ached at the deep exhaustion shadowed in his eyes. Every time he came, I would painstakingly trim the stems and leaves, secretly slipping a few extra sprigs of baby’s breath into his wrap. That was until the floating chat comments suddenly materialized right there, drifting amidst my sea of blossoms. Oh my god, why is this supporting florist giving herself so much screen time? The male lead is buying those flowers for his dead first love’s grave. She actually thinks he’s a hopeless romantic like her. Doesn’t baby’s breath symbolize “a love destined to remain in the background”? Is she trying to confess or something? Cringe. When a girl gets this desperate, it’s honestly worse than a guy. Actually, he hates those extra flowers. He plucks them out and hands them to the street sweeper the second he walks out. Whatever, he’s about to meet the female lead anyway. Once our rich heiress gets jealous, she’ll just buy this shop and force this annoying florist into a brutal, endless corporate shift! My hand slipped, and my shears sliced clean through the stem, cutting the flower right in two. 1 The rain had been falling for seven straight days. It was heavy and damp, smelling of old bricks and wet concrete, as if determined to soak this coastal city to its very bones. Snip. The sharp sound didn’t come from the brass chimes hanging above the entrance, but from the pruning shears in my hand. It was Thursday again, exactly four in the afternoon. At this exact hour, Gideon would always arrive. For the past six months, rain or shine, he would push open the glass door and step inside. He always smelled of the damp, cold city air, his dark eyes shadowed with exhaustion. His voice was always a quiet, low rumble: “Just a bundle of white daisies, please.” My heart ached for him. Every time I looked into those deep, storm-ravaged eyes, I felt like I was looking at a weary traveler with nowhere to go. Because of that silly, unnamed flutter in my chest, I insisted on wrapping his flowers myself. Daisies were cheap, only three dollars a stem, and he only wanted ten. Behind his back, I would secretly tuck thick, fluffy stems of pure white baby’s breath into the spaces between the daisies. I thought of it as a silent comfort, a quiet way to cheer him up. Until just a moment ago, when a cascade of scrolling chat comments materialized in midair, floating right above the blossoms. My hand shook. The sharp metal blade sliced clean through the thickest stem of my freshest daisy. The small flower, with its bright yellow heart, tumbled onto the cold floor, rolling into the damp gray dust. The rain outside was loud enough to drown out my sudden, ragged breath. Oh my god, why is this supporting florist giving herself so much screen time? The male lead is buying those flowers for his dead first love’s grave. She actually thinks he’s a hopeless romantic like her. Doesn’t baby’s breath symbolize “a love destined to remain in the background”? Is she trying to confess or something? Cringe. When a girl gets this desperate, it’s honestly worse than a guy. Actually, he hates those extra flowers. He plucks them out and hands them to the street sweeper the second he walks out. Whatever, he’s about to meet the female lead anyway. Once our rich heiress gets jealous, she’ll just buy this shop and force this annoying florist into a brutal, endless corporate shift! My small florist shop was the result of years of grueling work. I had worked three part-time jobs after college, living on instant noodles for two years just to save up enough to rent this space. Since when did my hard work become a cheap backdrop for someone else’s romance game? The brass windchimes jingled, bringing in a draft of cold air that rustled the dried lavender on the counter. I looked up. Gideon had arrived. He wore a long black trench coat, his dark hair damp and clinging slightly to his pale forehead, making him look strikingly handsome. “Just a bundle of daisies, please.” He unbuttoned the top collar of his coat, his voice as deep and steady as ever. Normally, my heart would have fluttered. I would have worried about him catching a cold in the rain and stuffed his bouquet with as much baby’s breath as the paper could hold. But now, those mocking chat messages were still drifting right over his head. Look, the male lead is here for his daisies. Cue the florist’s pathetic self-indulgence. I took a slow breath, letting go of the baby’s breath in my hand and letting it drop into the green waste bin beneath the counter. “Of course. Give me just a moment.” I forced a bright, perfectly professional smile. I grabbed ten stems of daisies, wrapped them in plain brown kraft paper, and tied the bundle with a simple piece of jute twine. No baby’s breath. No elegant layering. Just a plain, thirty-dollar bouquet of daisies. I slid the bundle across the counter. “That will be thirty dollars. The card reader is on your left.” Gideon reached out. His fingers paused against the rough paper. He stared at the bouquet for a second. Usually, the arrangement was lush and blooming; today, it looked stripped down, almost naked. He raised his eyes, those dark, inscrutable depths fixing on mine. I met his gaze with my polite, unyielding customer-service smile. Without a word, he tapped his card. The machine beeped, confirming the transaction. He picked up the meager bouquet, turned, and stepped back out into the pouring rain. Above his retreating figure, the comments flickered again. Wait, what? Why didn’t she add the baby’s breath today? Did she finally wake up? Doesn’t matter anyway. He would have just thrown them away like usual. The comment about him giving them to the street sweeper felt like a splinter in my mind. “Becca, watch the register for a minute. I need to run out,” I told my assistant, grabbing a clear plastic umbrella from the stand and pushing through the door. I kept a safe distance behind Gideon. He walked slowly, his black coat cutting a solitary figure against the gray streets. About two blocks away, near a bus shelter, he stopped. An elderly woman in an orange safety vest was leaning against the glass to shelter from the rain, holding a worn broom. I hid behind a convenience store sign, watching through the edge of my umbrella. Gideon approached her. The woman looked up, her tired face breaking into a familiar smile as she looked at his hands, expecting something. “Oh, hello, young man. Do you have…” Gideon tilted his head slightly. His voice was muffled by the rain, but I heard him clearly. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Not today. The shop didn’t include the extras.” The woman’s face fell slightly, though she quickly waved her hand. “Oh, that’s alright, dear. Get along now. It’s pouring.” Gideon nodded, held his simple bundle of daisies close, and boarded the city bus toward the suburban cemetery. I stood on the wet pavement, my knuckles white around the handle of my umbrella. The comments hadn’t lied. There was no silent understanding, no sweet habit. He didn’t want my silent comfort. The extra flowers I had lovingly tucked in were just a nuisance he cleared out of his way, a weekly charity hand-out for a stranger. “You really outdid yourself, Naomi,” I muttered, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. I didn’t go back to the shop. Instead, I hailed a cab. “Follow that bus, please.” The driver gave me a knowing look through the rearview mirror and hit the gas. We pulled up near the gates of the hillside cemetery. I watched Gideon walk past the stone archway, his dark coat disappearing among the rows of gray headstones. I waited until he left before I stepped inside. The air was heavy with the scent of wet pine and cold stone. Following the clues from the comments, I walked up the wet stone steps to the third row. I stopped in front of a clean marble headstone. The photograph on the stone showed a young girl. She had deep, lovely dimples and bright eyes that seemed to hold a thousand stars. In Loving Memory of Rosalie Jenkins. My breath caught. I knew her. Six months ago, she was a regular at my shop. She used to wear light purple sundresses, looking like a blooming iris. She never bought expensive arrangements; she only wanted pink hydrangeas, holding them to her chest with a smile sweeter than the flowers. Sometimes, she would press homemade cookies into my hands while we chatted about the weather. Then, she just stopped coming. I had wondered if she moved away. I never imagined she was lying beneath the cold earth. The cold rain dripped down my face. Looking at her picture, then remembering the hollow look in Gideon’s eyes, everything clicked. Gideon was never the lead in my story. He was a grieving man trapped in a past he couldn’t escape, while I had been stuffing his mourning bouquets with baby’s breath, symbolizing a quiet confession of love. How foolish, how incredibly inappropriate. “I’m so sorry, Rosalie,” I whispered to her picture. Leaving the cemetery, I tossed a damp, crumbled tissue into the trash, along with the ridiculous crush I had nurtured behind my counter for six long months. Gideon was just a heartbroken soul. And I needed to go back to my shop and figure out how to pay next month’s rent. Over the next few weeks, my shop returned to its quiet routine. Gideon still came every Thursday at four, and I served him with polite, professional distance. No extra flowers. Just business. “Why did you stop adding the baby’s breath, Naomi?” Becca asked one day. “It’s out of season,” I said simply. “Not worth stocking right now.” The comments above Gideon’s head were baffled. Wait, did she actually give up? It’s been weeks. Maybe we broke her spirit. Doesn’t matter. The real female lead is about to show up. This florist’s time is running out. One afternoon, as I was arranging fresh ranunculus, the chat suddenly went wild. Here she comes! The main event! Get ready! Our rich girl is going to humble this little shopkeeper! A woman in a tailored Chanel suit and an Hermès Birkin bag stepped into the shop, followed by a sharp-looking assistant. “Who’s the owner here?” her voice was sharp, dripping with casual arrogance. I wiped my hands and stepped forward. “I am. How can I help you?” She scanned me from head to toe, her eyes filled with cold amusement. “Wrap me a bouquet.” “Of course. What kind of flowers do you prefer?” Instead of answering, she strolled around the shop, stopping by the daisy bucket. She tapped a white petal with a manicured nail. “I hear Gideon buys these here.” Here it was. “Yes,” I replied smoothly. “Gideon is a regular customer. He usually prefers the white daisies.” Bianca, the heiress from the comments, let out a sharp laugh. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Whatever pathetic little fantasy you’ve been playing at, drop it. A girl like you has no business dreaming about someone like him.” I met her eyes calmly. “Miss, you’ve misunderstood. The extra flowers I used to put in Gideon’s bouquets were just older stock we needed to clear out before they spoiled. It was a simple business decision to minimize waste. Since we adjusted our inventory strategy, we no longer have surplus to give away.” Bianca blinked, utterly thrown by my dry, practical response. She had probably rehearsed a dozen insults, but my sheer corporate pragmatism left her with nothing to bite on. “Make sure it stays that way,” she snapped, turning on her heel. In her haste, she kicked over a potted plant by the door, leaving in a huff. The next Thursday, Gideon arrived at four. I assembled his daisies. Just as I was about to hand them over, he spoke. “Why…” he hesitated, “is there no baby’s breath anymore?” I paused. I hadn’t expected him to ask. “Oh, we adjusted our inventory. We don’t stock extras anymore.” The chat exploded. Oh my god! He noticed! Is this a plot twist? She’s playing hard to get! What a snake! I kept my face neutral. Gideon looked at me, a rare flicker of emotion in his dark eyes. “I liked it better before,” he said quietly, taking the bouquet and leaving. I froze. Outside the window, I spotted Bianca’s assistant holding up a phone, recording the exchange through the glass. This was going to be trouble. The next morning, Bianca’s assistant returned, tossing a buyout contract onto the counter. The offer was insulting, barely half of the shop’s market value. “Sign it,” the assistant said. “You’ll stay on as manager, but you’ll be working for Miss Bianca.” “No,” I said, pushing the paper back. “I’d think twice if I were you,” she sneered. “What Miss Bianca wants, she gets. If you don’t sign today, you might not have a shop to open tomorrow.” In the days that followed, inspectors from the fire department, the health board, and the city licensing bureau began showing up in waves. But I had anticipated this from the floating comments. I had spent forty-eight hours organizing every permit, safety log, and purchase receipt into pristine, double-backed physical and digital folders. Every inspection passed with flying colors. Frustrated, Bianca changed her tactics. Her assistant placed massive online orders for rare, imported flowers under various fake accounts, totaling tens of thousands of dollars, due the next morning. My team worked through the night to secure and package the flowers. But at 8:00 AM, every single order was canceled. Becca looked at the mountains of delicate, perishable flowers, on the verge of tears. “Naomi, what are we going to do? We’re going to lose everything.” I stared at the blooming petals, a fire igniting in my chest. “Becca, grab your phone. We’re going live.” We went live on social media. I explained that due to a series of sudden cancellations, we had a massive surplus of beautiful, fresh flowers. “We are converting all of these into charity bouquets,” I announced. “We’re delivering them to local retirement homes, hospitals, and night-shift nurses. It’s on us.” I walked the viewers through how small businesses can protect themselves from malicious online cancellations, never naming names but keeping my tone completely objective and educational. The stream went viral. Our sales surged. The comments above my head shifted completely. I take it back. This florist actually has backbone. Why is she so hard to get rid of? I smiled. Hard to get rid of? We were just getting started. Bianca’s next move was vicious. She released a heavily edited video of my charity stream, splicing my words to make it look like I was exploiting Rosalie’s death for views. The title screamed: Local Florist Uses Deceased Girl’s Memory for Social Media Clout! The internet erupted with hate. My phone was flooded with abusive messages. Then, Gideon barged into the shop. His eyes were bloodshot, his face contorted with fury. He slammed his phone onto the counter, knocking over a glass vase. “Why would you do this?” his voice shook with betrayal. “Just to save your shop? To get views? How could you exploit someone who is gone?” “She hated being talked about when she was alive, and now you won’t even let her rest in peace!” My heart felt like it was being scraped by a dull blade, the pain slow and deep. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t flinch. I simply looked him dead in the eye, my voice tight but steady. “Is that really who you think I am?” He hesitated, his jaw tightening, but the anger quickly took over again. “The evidence is right there!”

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