Category: English

The darkness outside the window was so thick it felt like ink, and I found myself staring at the empty skin of my ring finger, a pale ghost of where a promise used to sit. Just a few minutes ago, Derek had stood in the foyer, hand outstretched. He told me he needed to take the ring to the jeweler to have it resized. That eighteen-thousand-dollar band—the matching set—was something I’d bought three years ago with my very first performance bonus. I’d lived on ramen and coffee for three months to save for it. “Resize it?” I’d asked, my voice catching. I felt a sudden, sharp hollow in my chest. He hadn’t even looked up. His eyes were glued to his phone, his thumb flicking dismissively across the screen. He just gave a distracted grunt, saying it felt a little loose lately. I had silently slid the ring off and placed it in his palm. I watched him tuck it away, turn, and walk out. The sound of the door clicking shut was so quiet, yet it felt like something fragile inside me had finally splintered. Three years. He’d told me at least twenty times that we’d get married as soon as the company stabilized. And every single time, like a fool, I’d believed him. My phone buzzed. It was Joanne, the senior director. “Claire, things are moving fast with the office tomorrow. Get in early.” “Will do,” I typed back, then tossed the phone aside. … The next morning, I was at my desk thirty minutes before anyone else. I went to the breakroom to grab a coffee, but stopped when I heard voices from inside. They were low, but in the morning silence, they carried like a physical weight. “Did you see the rock on Tiffany’s finger?” “I saw it. Word is Derek gave it to her.” “No way. Doesn’t Derek have a fiancé? That girl in Marketing…” “Claire? Oh, honey, haven’t you heard? That’s basically over. Dead in the water.” I stood at the threshold, my hand tightening around my ceramic mug. They saw me then. The conversation died instantly. “Morning, Claire,” one of them said, her smile tight and awkward. “Morning,” I nodded, my face a mask of professional indifference as I turned and walked away. Back at my station, I opened my laptop. My inbox was a sea of red—the Meridian project. I’d spent eight months on this account. Every pitch, every late-night strategy session, every grueling negotiation… it had all been me. A twenty-million-dollar deal. As I was reviewing the final contract drafts, a shadow fell over my desk. “Claire.” I looked up. It was Tiffany. She was dressed in a perfectly tailored blazer, her makeup flawless, looking every bit the rising star. She rested her hand on the edge of my desk—right where I couldn’t miss it. On her ring finger, the diamond caught the fluorescent light, mocking me. My ring. “Derek asked me to check in on the Meridian files for the board meeting this afternoon,” she said, her voice light, airy, and utterly poisonous. “Sure,” I said, my voice steady. She didn’t leave. She tapped her fingers on my desk, a rhythmic, intentional sound. “By the way, Claire, I have to tell you—this ring is so unique.” She lifted her hand, admiring the stone. “Derek told me he spent so much time picking it out. I had no idea he was such a romantic.” I looked at the band. Three years ago, I’d spent two hours in the jewelry store comparing settings, my heart full of a future that didn’t exist. “It is unique,” I said. “Right?” she beamed. “Anyway, back to the grind.” I watched her walk away, her heels clicking a sharp cadence on the floor. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment, trembling just slightly. I didn’t notice Joanne standing beside me until she spoke. “Claire,” she whispered. “You… you know, don’t you?” “Know what, Joanne?” She looked at me, pity etched into the lines around her eyes, and said nothing. I forced a small, sharp smile. “It’s fine. Let’s just work.” At noon, I ate a salad at my desk. My phone buzzed. Derek. “Meeting with clients tonight. Won’t be home for dinner.” “Okay.” “Is the Meridian deck ready?” “It’s ready.” “Good,” he replied. Then, after a pause: “About the ring… don’t overthink it. It’s just being resized. Give me a few days.” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. I didn’t reply. “Anyway, gotta go,” he sent, and the gray bubble vanished. I put the phone down and took another bite of my salad. It tasted like nothing. 3:00 PM. The conference room. The Meridian progress report. Derek sat at the head of the table, Tiffany at his side taking notes. After I finished the presentation, Derek gave a slow, satisfied nod. “The progress is excellent,” he told the other executives. “Meridian is our cornerstone account this year. Claire has certainly put in the hours lately.” I sat there, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It did. “However,” he continued, leaning back, “a win this big is always a team effort. Sales, legal, support—everyone carried the weight on this one. It’s a testament to the Apex culture.” The room erupted in murmurs of agreement. I took a slow sip of water, the cold liquid sliding down my throat like lead. After the meeting, Joanne caught me in the hall. “Claire, I can’t stand this. You built that account from the dirt up, and he just—” “Joanne,” I interrupted, my voice cold. “It’s fine.” “How is it fine? He’s erasing your name from the biggest win in company history!” “The win is what matters,” I said, looking her in the eye. “As long as the client is happy.” Joanne sighed, her frustration palpable. “You’re too good for your own sake, Claire.” I smiled, but the warmth didn’t reach my eyes. When I got home that night, the house was dark. Derek wasn’t back. I opened the fridge; it was empty save for a bottle of sparkling water and some wilted greens. He’d promised me so many times that once we married, we’d buy a house with a chef’s kitchen and keep the pantry stocked. Three years later, the fridge was still empty. I shut the door, my hand lingering on the handle. My phone chimed. It was a DM from Joanne—a screenshot of Tiffany’s Instagram. It was a photo of her hand over a glass of champagne, the ring front and center. The caption was just a single heart emoji. In the comments, someone asked: “Wait, is this an announcement? Are you guys getting hitched??” Tiffany had replied: “When you know, you know. Fate finally caught up! ;)” I stared at it for a long time before putting the phone face down. When I bought those rings, the other one was meant for Derek. He told me he’d save it for the wedding day so we could put them on together. Later, he told me he’d lost his. He’d lost it three years ago. I should have understood then. Wednesday afternoon, I got a call from Derek’s mother. “Claire, dear, do you have a moment? I’d love to grab tea.” I hesitated, then answered, “Sure, Mrs. Miller.” We met at a quiet, upscale cafe in the city. Mrs. Miller was perfectly preserved—expensive skincare, a silk scarf, and an air of effortless superiority. “How’s work, Claire?” she asked, pouring the tea with practiced grace. “Busy. The Meridian project is taking up most of my time.” “Good,” she smiled thinly. “Young people should stay focused. Ambition is a virtue.” She set the teapot down and looked at me, her eyes sharp and assessing. “Claire, I’m going to be blunt with you. I know about you and Derek. I know how hard you’ve worked these past few years.” I waited, keeping my spine straight. “But,” she paused, “marriage is about more than just time spent. It’s about alignment. Pedigree. Social standing.” “What are you saying, Mrs. Miller?” “I’ve looked into your background, Claire. You’re a self-made girl, and that’s admirable. Your parents… well, it’s tragic they passed so young. But Derek’s position has changed. The company is elite now. He moves in different circles.” “You think I’m not good enough for his ‘circle’?” “I think you’re a lovely girl who has reached her ceiling,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial kindness. “But Derek needs a partner who can open doors he hasn’t even walked through yet. Someone like Tiffany.” I looked at her, my tea going cold. “Tiffany’s father is the Deputy Commissioner. Her family has roots here. She understands the nuances of the life Derek is building…” “Mrs. Miller,” I said, cutting her off. She stopped, surprised. I took a slow sip of my tea. “That ring,” I said quietly. “I bought it. Three years ago, with my first real bonus. Did Derek tell you that?” She blinked, momentarily speechless. “He told me we’d wear our set on our wedding day,” I said, setting the cup down with a deliberate clink. “His disappeared three years ago. I think we both know why now.” Her expression hardened into a frozen mask. “I understand exactly what you’re saying,” I said, standing up. “But as for Derek and me? We’ll handle our own business.” I left enough cash on the table to cover the bill and walked out. My hands were shaking as I hit the sidewalk. But I kept my head held high. The next day, the executive board met. The topic was the roadmap for the second half of the year. Derek stood by the projector, looking every bit the charismatic CEO. “This half, we’ve secured several key accounts, with revenue up 35%,” he said, gesturing to the slides. “And of course, the Meridian deal—twenty million. It’s the largest contract in our history.” The room broke into applause. “It took eight months to move this from a lead to a signature,” he said, glancing my way. “Claire did an incredible job managing the logistics.” I nodded, waiting. “But more importantly,” he pivoted, “this success belongs to the Apex family. It’s about the team. Without Sales, without our legal consultants, without the administrative backbone… we wouldn’t be here.” Nods all around. “Success isn’t about one person,” he finished with a grin. “It’s about the brand.” I stared at the data on the screen. Twenty million. Eight months. 156 emails. 47 conference calls. 12 cross-country site visits. Every single one of them had been me. Alone. “Team success.” I took a drink of water to wash the bitter taste from my mouth. After the meeting, Derek called me into his office. “Claire, did you see my mother yesterday?” “I did.” “Look, don’t take whatever she said to heart. She’s just… old-fashioned,” he said, leaning against his desk, his tone casual, almost bored. “I didn’t take it to heart.” He eyed me. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.” Silence stretched between us. “Claire, I need to talk to you about something else.” “What is it?” “I want Tiffany to shadow you on the Meridian account for the final transition.” I stared at him. “Tiffany is your executive assistant, Derek.” “She’s an EA who wants to move into account management,” he said with a dismissive wave. “She’s got great instincts. Just show her the ropes. It shouldn’t be an issue, right?” I waited five seconds before speaking. “Derek, Mr. Whitaker at Meridian is very particular about who he works with. He values seniority and expertise.” “Which is why she’s learning from you.” He stood up and patted my shoulder—a gesture that felt like a patronizing slap. “Don’t worry. She won’t be a burden.” He turned to leave. “Derek.” He paused at the door. “When am I getting my ring back?” He stiffened slightly. “Soon. The jeweler said it’s taking longer than expected. Just focus on work for now.” He walked out. I stood there, watching the door swing shut. Resizing. Three years ago, I’d measured his finger myself. I’d measured mine. I knew his size by heart. And I knew my own. It never needed resizing. Friday afternoon, an email popped into my inbox. It was from the “Office of the CEO” mailing list. Subject: The Celebration of the Year. I clicked it. It was a digital wedding invitation. Derek Miller & Tiffany Ward request the honor of your presence… Date: Next month, the 28th. Location: The Grand Ballroom at the Pierre. “Your support has been our greatest gift.” I stared at their names side by side. At the bottom, in small, elegant script: “A special thanks to Claire Evans for her years of dedicated service. We hope you will join us to witness our happiness.” I closed the email and went back to my spreadsheet. Ten minutes later, Derek called. “Claire, did you get the invite?” “I did.” “Look…” he sighed. “I should have told you sooner, but the timing was never right. I didn’t want to disrupt the Meridian deal.” “You’re getting married.” “Yeah,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of remorse. “Tiffany and I… we’ve had a connection for a long time. You’re smart. You probably guessed.” I said nothing. “Claire, I’m sorry for how this went down. Truly. But you have to understand, you can’t force chemistry. It’s either there or it isn’t.” “I understand perfectly.” “Really?” He sounded surprised, almost relieved. “Yes.” “That’s… that’s great, Claire. Honestly. So, will you be there?” “I wouldn’t miss it.” The line went silent for a beat. “You’re actually coming?” “You invited me,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I come?” He seemed to lose his words. “Derek, was there anything else?” “Uh… no. That’s it.” “Then I’m hanging up.” The screen went black, reflecting my face. I looked calm. Hauntingly calm. At 5:30, I packed my bag. Joanne stopped me at the elevators. “Claire, I heard. The invitation went to the whole department. It’s sick.” “I know.” “You aren’t actually going, are you? That’s just masochism.” “Joanne, some things need a proper ending. A final chapter.” She looked at me, worried. “I’m okay,” I said, squeezing her hand. “I promise.” I walked out of the glass-and-steel tower and stood on the sidewalk for a moment. The sun was dipping low, painting the city in shades of burnt orange and gold. My phone buzzed. A text from Joanne. “Claire, word is getting around. Derek told HR he wants you gone before the wedding.” I read it twice. “What did he say exactly?” I typed. “Something about avoiding ‘uncomfortable dynamics.’ He wants you to resign quietly. If you don’t… he told the CFO he’d ‘make it very difficult for you to stay.’” I actually laughed. Just as I was about to reply, a voice called my name from the curb. “Claire? Claire Evans?” I turned. A middle-aged man in a sharp, casual blazer was smiling at me. He looked kind, distinguished. “Mr. Whitaker?” I recognized him immediately. The CEO of Meridian. “It is you!” He stepped toward me, hand extended. “I thought it was you from across the street, but I wasn’t sure.” “What are you doing in this part of town, Arthur?” “Meeting an old friend for drinks.” He tilted his head, studying me. “You look… tired, Claire. Are they working you too hard over at Apex?” “It’s just been a long week.” He nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. “Listen, next time you’re coming by our headquarters, tell my assistant to clear some time. Don’t just stick to the formal meetings.” He pulled a card from his pocket. “This is my private cell. If you ever need anything—anything at all—you call me.” I took the card. “Thank you, Arthur. I appreciate that.” “Don’t thank me.” He patted my shoulder. “Your father did me a massive favor back in the day when I was just starting out. You’re a hard worker, Claire. I’ve watched you these last few years. You’ve got his spark.” I froze. He smiled. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. We’ll talk soon.” He waved and climbed into a waiting black sedan. I stood there, the card still warm in my hand. Arthur Whitaker knew my father? My father died when I was fifteen. I knew he’d been in business, but he never spoke about his successes or the people he helped. I tucked the card safely into my wallet and went back inside the building. The office was mostly empty now, the cleaning crew just starting their rounds. I sat back down at my desk and opened my laptop. I pulled up every file on the Meridian account. Every email since day one. Every pitch deck. Every technical specification. It was all organized, chronological, and bulletproof. I looked at the folders on the screen, my heart beating a steady, cold rhythm. Then, I picked up my phone and dialed the number on the card. “Arthur? It’s Claire. I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.” The line picked up almost immediately. “Claire! Not at all. Is everything okay?” “Arthur, I need to ask you something. Something candid.” “Go ahead.” “The Meridian account. If the lead partner on the project changed… how would your board react?” There was a long silence on the other end. Then, Arthur’s voice came back, serious and deliberate. “Claire, are you in trouble over there?” I didn’t answer right away. “Listen to me,” he said firmly. “I didn’t bring this business to Apex because of their ‘culture’ or their CEO. I brought it because of you. That twenty-million-dollar contract? It’s tied to the person I trust. And that person is you, Claire.” I gripped the phone, a lump forming in my throat. “Whatever is happening, remember that,” he said. “If you need a move, you let me know.” “I will. Thank you, Arthur.” I hung up and looked out at the city lights. Derek thought that without Apex, I was nothing. What he didn’t realize was that some things don’t belong to a company. They only belong to me.

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A year of drifting across the ocean, of late-night board meetings and sterile hotel rooms, and then—the screen of my phone flickered to life. It was a selfie from my daughter. “Daddy, I miss you so much.” I looked at her face, her bottom lip tucked in a way that signaled she was holding back tears. My heart ached; I was already typing a message to tell her I’d be home soon, that I’d make it up to her. But then, my thumb hovered over the screen. Something caught my eye near the collar of her shirt. A faint, jagged red line. I pinched the screen, zooming in. It wasn’t just her neck. On her thin upper arm, half-hidden by her sleeve, were several dark, purplish bruises—the kind that don’t come from a simple fall on the playground. My pulse quickened, a cold dread pooling in my stomach. Almost instinctively, I began scrolling through my social media feed, and that’s when I saw a post from the girl we’d been sponsoring for the past two years—Jade. Her feed was a curated gallery of excess: designer shoes, expensive jewelry, things a thirteen-year-old had no business owning. But the thing that hit me like a physical blow was the background of her latest photo. Resting on her nightstand was a tattered, well-loved stuffed rabbit. It was Daisy’s favorite toy, the one she’d slept with every night since her third birthday. I’d picked it out myself. I dialed my wife, Lydia, immediately. Her voice was breezy, dismissive. “It’s just an old toy, Ben. Daisy’s thirteen; she’s probably outgrown it and gave it to Jade. Don’t be so dramatic.” The suspicion didn’t go away; it grew like a weed in the dark. I spent the next hour quietly accessing Jade’s credit card statements—a card I’d authorized for “essentials.” The truth turned my blood to ice. But the most agonizing part wasn’t the theft. It was the realization that Lydia—my partner, my wife—wasn’t just ignoring it. She was letting it happen. 1 I had just closed a multi-billion-dollar deal with a major tech firm in London when that photo arrived. Seeing Daisy so miserable felt like a knife to the ribs. I wanted to tell her I’d be home in days, that we’d go to the beach, just the two of us. But those marks… they were a warning light I couldn’t ignore. I tried to ask her about them over text, keeping my tone light, but her responses were garbled, nonsensical, and then she stopped replying altogether. I went to check her social media for clues, but stumbled onto Jade’s profile instead. Jade was the girl Lydia had insisted we take in two years ago. Seeing Daisy’s rabbit in Jade’s room felt wrong—viscerally wrong. I remembered when Daisy was little and we’d gone to her grandmother’s house for a weekend, forgetting the rabbit. Daisy had cried until she made herself sick, running a fever so high we ended up in the ER. Since then, that rabbit went everywhere we went. It was her anchor. When I called Lydia, she acted like I was losing my mind. “She’s thirteen, Ben. Kids change. She doesn’t need a stuffed animal anymore.” “Lydia, she nearly ended up in the hospital over that thing. She wouldn’t just give it away.” “Maybe she wanted to be a good ‘sister’ to Jade. Look, you’re exhausted. Focus on your work and stop micro-managing our lives from three thousand miles away.” She hung up before I could argue. Her impatience was a red flag. Lydia used to be the kind of mother who would panic over a scraped knee, crying in the car on the way to the pediatrician. But over the last two years, she’d grown cold. When Daisy sliced her finger in the kitchen a few months ago, Lydia had just pointed at the first-aid kit and told her to handle it herself. I couldn’t stay. I handed the final paperwork to my colleagues and booked the first flight back to New York. While waiting at the gate, I checked Jade’s Instagram again. To my surprise, it was a blank wall. She’d blocked me. I switched to a burner account I’d set up for market research and searched her name. The profile was still there, vibrant and mocking. The girl was draped in luxury. A thirteen-year-old carrying a limited-edition Louis Vuitton bag? A Tiffany necklace worth fifteen grand? Where was the money coming from? We’d raised Daisy to be humble, to value people over things. Her entire wardrobe probably cost less than one of Jade’s shoes. I called our housekeeper, Mrs. Crabtree, and then our driver, Bill. Both of them sang the same rehearsed song: Jade is an angel. She’s so frugal, sir. She wears her clothes until they’re threadbare. The more they praised her, the more the hair on my neck stood up. It sounded like a script. If Jade was so frugal, how did she explain the fifteen-thousand-dollar necklace? Either I was losing my mind, or I was living in a house of mirrors. 2 My team offered to meet me at JFK, joking that they hadn’t seen their boss in a year and might not recognize me. I’d built this company from a garage startup into a titan, and this past year had been the most grueling yet. I’d sacrificed everything for the “future” of my family, only to realize I might have lost the present. The flight was a three-hour blur of anxiety. When I landed, I skipped the corporate car and took a cab straight to our house in Connecticut. It was 11:00 PM when I pulled into the driveway. The house should have been dark, but the light in Daisy’s room was blazing. I let myself in quietly, slipping up the stairs. I found her at her desk, hunched over a mountain of textbooks. Her face was gaunt, her eyes vacant and rimmed with red. My heart broke. Since when did eighth graders have this much homework at midnight? I pushed the door open, wanting to surprise her. She didn’t smile. She flinched. She threw her hands up to cover her face, shrinking into a ball as if expecting a blow. “Daisy, it’s me. It’s Dad.” She froze, then lunged at me, burying her face in my chest. “Dad! You’re finally home!” She was sobbing, but it was a muffled, terrified sound, as if she were afraid of being caught crying. “I’m here, baby. Why are you still up? It’s so late.” I reached for the notebook on her desk, but she grabbed it, trying to hide it. I was faster. I saw the name written on the cover in bold, arrogant letters. Jade Miller. It wasn’t her homework. It was Jade’s. A shadow appeared in the doorway. “Dad? When did you get back?” It was Jade. She was standing there in a silk robe, looking perfectly rested. I held up the notebook. “Jade, why is Daisy doing your work?” Panic flickered in her eyes for a split second before she looked at Daisy. “Daisy thought I had too much on my plate. She insisted on helping me.” Daisy kept her head down, her voice trembling. “Yeah… I wanted to help. It’s not her fault.” She was shaking. Visibly shaking. Jade smiled, a cold, knowing thing. “See? I didn’t force her. Right, sis?” The way she dragged out the word “sister” made my skin crawl. Daisy paled, looking like she might faint. “Right. Sorry, Jade.” The injustice of it burned in my throat. Daisy was the heart of this home, yet she was acting like a servant to a girl we had invited in out of charity. “Jade, take your books and go to your room. Do your own work from now on.” Jade didn’t argue, but her eyes were venomous as she snatched the notebook and left, slamming the door. Up close, Daisy looked even worse. Dark circles, sallow skin—she looked like she’d been starved of sleep and joy for months. She gripped my hand as if I were a life raft. “Are you staying, Dad? Please don’t go back.” “I’m staying, Daisy. I’m not going anywhere.” I realized then how much I’d failed. I thought money and security were the same thing as love. I’d provided the foundation but forgot to build the walls. “Where’s your mom?” I asked. Daisy’s eyes darted toward the door. “She said she had work. That she’d be late.” Work? At midnight? Daisy refused to let go of me, so I let her sleep in the master bedroom. I pulled a mattress onto the floor beside the bed, just like when she was a toddler. Before she drifted off, I asked about the bruises again. She stared at the door, her eyes wide with terror. “I… I just tripped, Dad. Please don’t ask anymore.” I didn’t push it, but the knot in my chest tightened. My daughter, who used to be the loudest, brightest girl in the room, was a ghost of herself. I decided then to put everything on hold. The company could run itself for a month. I needed to save my daughter. I tried calling Lydia, but she sounded annoyed when she finally picked up. “I’m at the office. I’ve started a new venture with some partners; it’s a big deal. Just stay with Daisy and let me work.” She’d never mentioned a new company. Lydia had a habit of making massive decisions and only telling me when it was too late to change them. Like the time two years ago when she brought Jade home. She said she felt sorry for the girl, that Daisy needed a companion. I’d been against it—I suggested we just pay for her schooling and housing elsewhere—but Lydia had frozen me out until I gave in. From the day Jade arrived, she’d been a parasite. She’d demanded Daisy’s bedroom because it had a better view. She ate Daisy’s favorite foods without asking. Lydia always called it “personality” or “growing pains.” But Daisy hadn’t grown. She’d shrunk. As Daisy finally fell into a fitful sleep, I started to relax. Then, a scream echoed from downstairs—not a scream of pain, but a shrill, angry shout. I walked out to the landing and saw Jade sprawled on the sofa in the living room, a headset on, screaming at a video game. 3 “You idiots! Learn how to play the game!” I felt the blood rise in my face. “Jade! Be quiet. Daisy is sleeping.” She didn’t even look at me. “I don’t care if she’s sleeping. Don’t ruin my game! I’m about to lose!” She had no sense of who she was in this house. I walked over to the router and pulled the plug. The living room went silent. Jade jumped up, her face twisted in rage. “What the hell is wrong with you? I was at the final boss!” I stared her down, my voice low and dangerous. “Do you think this is your house? That you can do whatever you want? I told you to be quiet. If I hear another sound out of you, you’re out of here. Do you understand?” She saw I wasn’t bluffing. She hissed a quiet “My mom never talks to me like that,” then stormed upstairs, slamming her door so hard the chandelier rattled. My mom? The phrase sat heavy in the air. The next morning, the nanny, Mrs. Crabtree, knocked to say breakfast was ready. I woke Daisy, and we went down together. On the stairs, we ran into Jade. Daisy immediately ducked behind me, her eyes fixed on the floor. The sheer level of fear was baffling. In the dining room, Mrs. Crabtree set two very different plates down. Jade got a tall glass of fresh organic milk and a stack of pancakes. Daisy got a bowl of plain oatmeal and a glass of water. “Mrs. Crabtree,” I said, my voice tight. “Why is their breakfast different? Where is Daisy’s milk?” The woman shrugged dismissively. “Jade is in a growth spurt; she needs the nutrients. Daisy had plenty of milk when she was little. She’s getting a bit… soft. We don’t want to waste food, do we?” I slammed my hand on the table. The dishes jumped. “What the hell are you talking about? ‘Waste food’? On my own daughter?” Mrs. Crabtree mumbled something under her breath, looking annoyed. “I’ll go get her a glass.” It took her twenty minutes to return. She thudded a glass down in front of Daisy. “We’re out of the fresh stuff. She’ll have to have the powdered stuff from the back of the pantry.” I frowned. “We have a standing order for three gallons of fresh dairy a week. How are we out?” Mrs. Crabtree glanced at Jade. “Big house, lots of people. Things get used.” I looked at Daisy. “Do you drink a lot of milk, honey?” Daisy started to shake her head, but then she saw Jade staring at her. She flinched. “Yes… yes, I drink a lot.” The lie was obvious. Something was very wrong with the help. I realized then that Mrs. Crabtree’s maiden name was Miller. And our driver, Bill, was also a Miller. I remembered Lydia saying they were distant relatives of hers, people she could trust. At the time, I’d wanted to install security cameras, but Lydia had fought me, claiming it was an invasion of privacy. I pulled out my phone and checked the credit card app again. A charge for a five-thousand-dollar bag had popped up a few days ago. I’d assumed it was Lydia, but she didn’t even like that brand. I called the boutique. “Who made this purchase?” I asked. “A young lady,” the clerk said. “About fifteen, with a distinctive mole on her cheek. She was very generous—bought two smaller bags for her friends, too.” The girl with the mole was Jade. I felt a surge of nausea. I went to the garage and pulled the dashcam footage from the SUV. Bill, the driver, had been tasked with taking Daisy to school every day while I was gone. The footage showed him picking up Jade every morning. Daisy was never in the car. Where the hell was my daughter going every morning? I needed answers. I found Walter, our part-time gardener. He was a distant cousin of mine, a man I’d known since I was a boy. I paid him a full salary just to look after the grounds a few days a month because I trusted him. I pulled him into the potting shed. “Walter, tell me the truth. What’s happening here?” Walter looked torn, his weathered face etched with guilt. “Adrian, I’ve wanted to tell you. I’ve tried to call, but your wife… she always said you were too busy to be disturbed.” He sighed, leaning against a workbench. “That housekeeper is a thief. She takes the silver, the expensive groceries, even the linens, and sells them at the flea market. She pads the grocery bills and pockets the difference. When I tried to say something, the driver threatened to break my legs.” He looked toward the house. “And that girl, Jade… she’s a monster. She treats this place like she owns it. I saw her pouring fresh milk down the drain once just so Daisy couldn’t have any. When I told her to stop, she called me a ‘low-life peasant’ and told me I’d be fired the moment her ‘mom’ took over.” He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve seen her putting hands on Daisy, Adrian. Hitting her, pulling her hair. It’s bad.” I was seeing red. I immediately hired a private investigator to track the nanny’s “sales” and the driver’s movements. Then I went to Daisy’s room. I sat her down and took her phone. I found a hidden folder. Inside was a video. It showed a group of girls in a school locker room. They had Daisy pinned in a corner. They were kicking her, and one girl—Jade—was mocking her while shoving a dirty mop into Daisy’s mouth. I couldn’t breathe. I grabbed Daisy’s hand and walked out of the house. “We’re going to the hospital,” I said. “And then we’re going to the police.” I marched into Jade’s room first. I shoved the phone in her face. “Explain this. Now.” She turned white. 4 “Dad, it’s not what it looks like! They made me do it!” I didn’t even dignify her with a response. I just gripped Daisy’s hand tighter and walked out. At the hospital, the doctor’s face was grim as he looked at the X-rays. “She has multiple contusions in various stages of healing. Blunt force trauma, lacerations, even what look like cigarette burns on her shoulder. But the worst is the hairline fracture in her shin. Someone kicked her hard enough to crack the bone.” I felt a sickening mix of rage and failure. But mostly, I felt a cold, hard anger toward Lydia. There was no way a mother didn’t know her daughter was being broken in her own home. While Daisy was being treated, my CFO called. “Ben, we have a problem. Lydia just authorized a thirty-million-dollar wire transfer for ‘investment purposes.’ We flagged it because the signature doesn’t match your records, and the corporate seal looks… off.” I went numb. I had never authorized that. Lydia had started as my secretary years ago. We’d married after the company took off. I’d insisted on a prenup—not because I didn’t love her, but because I’d seen too many founders lose their life’s work in messy divorces. She’d complained that I was “suffocating” her, so I gave her a VP role at a subsidiary. That subsidiary had been hemorrhaging money for years, but I’d let it slide, thinking she was just learning. I never thought she’d try to rob the main firm. “Block the transfer,” I said. “And call our legal team. I want a full audit.” As I pulled out of the hospital parking lot, a black Porsche Cayenne swerved in front of me, clipping my bumper. I got out, my temper frayed to a thread. I recognized the car instantly. It was the birthday gift I’d bought for Lydia last year. A man stepped out—a thick-necked guy in a cheap suit, carrying a baseball bat. “You blind, pal? You see what I’m driving? This is a Porsche! A loser in a ten-year-old sedan like yours couldn’t pay for the wax on this car!” I looked at my car—a modest Volvo I’d kept for sentimental reasons. I didn’t engage. I called Lydia. “Lydia, where are you?” “I… I’m in the Porsche, Ben. Driving to a meeting. Why?” I hung up. I looked at the man. “You’re driving my wife’s car.” He laughed. “Your wife? Dream on, buddy. This belongs to my lady. And if you don’t cough up fifty grand for the scratch right now, you’re going to have a very bad day.” Daisy stepped out of the car, and the moment she saw the man, she began to scream. She scrambled back into the seat, shaking uncontrollably. “You know him?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. “That’s Jade’s dad,” she sobbed. “He’s the one who kicked me when Jade was hitting me.” The man’s face twisted into a sneer. “Oh, it’s the little brat. Guess I didn’t kick you hard enough the first time. Like father, like daughter—useless.” He reached for my phone as I tried to call 911, smashing it onto the pavement and stomping it. “No cops. You’re paying me, or I’m taking it out of your hide.” A crowd began to gather. People saw my old car and his Porsche and made assumptions. “Just pay him, kid,” an onlooker said. “You can’t win against a guy with that kind of money.” The man smirked, puffing out his chest. But his smile vanished when his own phone rang. “What? My mom and Jade were picked up by the cops?”

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When I opened my eyes again, the world smelled of stale grease and desperation. My brother, Tyler, was mid-shove, cramming his sixth drumstick into a mouth already slick with oil. My mother stood over me, the thin, stinging switch in her hand twitching like a snake’s tail. She pointed toward the treadmill in the corner of our cramped living room. “Get on it,” she snapped. “Your brother’s eating for two today. You need to burn off those calories before they settle in his gut.” She had spent years obsessed with the teachings of a “Quantum Wellness Guru” she’d found on the dark corners of the internet. This man had convinced her that as fraternal twins, Tyler and I shared a singular metabolic tether. He called it “Somatic Entanglement.” According to her, Tyler was the vessel for our family’s “abundance,” and I was the exhaust pipe. Every time Tyler spent an afternoon gorging himself on the couch, I was forced onto that treadmill until my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. In my previous life, that’s exactly how it ended—acute malnutrition meeting physical exhaustion. My heart simply gave up at 2 AM while Tyler slept off a stuffed-crust pizza. I died so he could stay “sculpted” for a future that never belonged to me. But this time, I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry about my eighty-pound frame or my dizzy spells. I climbed onto the belt with a compliant smile. “You’re right, Mom,” I said, my voice smooth as silk. “I’m his sister. The faster I run, the better he absorbs the ‘blessings,’ right?” I pulled out my phone and swiped through a delivery app. I ordered the “Mega-Family Feast” from the local fried chicken joint and ten extra-large, full-sugar boba teas. I looked at Tyler—his face was already a mask of gluttony—and my smile widened. “Eat up, Tyler. Don’t worry about the weight. I’ll run until my legs break if it means you get to keep that ‘golden physique’ the Guru promised.” … In my first life, I was the ultimate overachiever. By twenty-five, I had clawed my way into a VP position at a top-tier tech firm. I worked eighty-hour weeks, fueled by the pathetic hope that if I just earned enough, if I was just “useful” enough, my parents would finally look at me with something resembling love. I handed over seventy percent of my paycheck every month. I endured their “Quantum Diet” rituals. I was the ghost in the machine of their perfect family dynamic. When I collapsed and died on that treadmill, my father didn’t even look up from his tablet. He just asked the EMTs if my life insurance policy would cover the down payment on Tyler’s new Porsche. The doorbell rang, shattering the memory. The delivery driver dropped off two massive bags. The scent of salt and sugar filled the room, cloying and heavy. Tyler’s eyes lit up like a predator’s. He didn’t even use a napkin; he just started tearing into the fresh batch of wings. Diane, my mother, pulled a wet wipe from her pocket, dabbing at the corner of Tyler’s mouth with a sickeningly sweet devotion. “Eat more, honey. Every bite is a step toward your destiny.” In the last life, Tyler used to complain that I wasn’t running fast enough. He used to throw his gnawed-on chicken bones at my face, shouting that I was making him feel “bloated” because I was being lazy on the treadmill. This time, I just watched him. I watched the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way the grease stained his shirt. Eat, Tyler. Eat until you can’t breathe. He finished half a bucket and started double-fisting the boba teas, the sugar hit turning his eyes glazed. He let out a loud, wet burp that echoed through the room. Mom whipped around, her face contorting into a mask of fury as she looked at me. “Are you even trying? You’re barely moving!” She raised the switch, the air whistling as she mimicked a strike. “Your brother just took in ten thousand calories! If you don’t burn them off right now, you’re stealing his future! Run, damn you!” I nodded obediently and cranked the treadmill to its maximum speed. The belt roared. I waited for the perfect moment—a slight shimmer of sweat on my brow, a flicker of feigned dizziness. Then, I intentionally tripped. I let the belt hurl my body backward. I hit the floor with a heavy thud, clutching my chest and gasping for air. Mom didn’t rush to help me up. She rushed over to kick my shin. “Stop faking! Get back up! The energy is stagnant!” I grabbed her ankle, my breathing ragged and shallow. “Mom… I can’t! It’s too much!” “What are you talking about?” “Tyler ate too much too fast!” I cried, my voice trembling with practiced terror. “The ‘Quantum Channel’… it’s too narrow! It’s overloaded! It’s backed up!” I saw the flicker of doubt in her eyes. I leaned into the script I’d prepared. “The Guru’s latest blog post… he warned about this. If the conduit—that’s me—forces the energy when the channel is blocked, the ‘blessings’ turn into ‘miasma.’ It flows backward!” I looked her dead in the eye. “It’ll rupture his stomach, Mom. It’ll bloat him until he pops from the inside out.” The door to the study slammed open. My father, Richard, finally emerged. He was a man who only existed when his son’s “potential” was at stake. He strode over and grabbed the switch from Mom’s hand, throwing it aside. “Is this true?” he barked, looking down at me as if I were a piece of malfunctioning hardware. “If you can’t handle the flow, you’re useless. If you ruin his foundation, I’ll sell everything you own to pay for the damage.” I didn’t flinch. I just looked at Tyler with fake concern. “Dad’s right. My body is too weak. I’m a failure. But… if Tyler has absorbed this much ‘fortune,’ he needs to ‘anchor’ it. If he doesn’t, the luck will leak out.” “Leak out?” Mom gasped. “We can’t have that! What do we do?” “The Guru says that in cases of extreme ‘blessing overload,’ you have to use pure animal fats to weigh down the spirit,” I whispered. “Starting tonight, at exactly midnight, Tyler has to eat two full orders of fried chicken. And he can’t move afterward. He has to lie perfectly flat and sleep, pressing the fortune deep into his marrow.” Richard’s eyes gleamed with greed. “Like a weighted anchor. It makes sense. It stabilizes the core.” I pulled out my phone. “I’ll pay for it, Dad. For Tyler’s sake.” At midnight, five orders of the greasiest, sauce-glazed fried chicken arrived. Tyler was already groggy from his food coma, but Mom dragged him out of bed. “Eat, my prince,” she whispered, shoving the glistening meat toward him. “This is your empire. This is your crown. Eat it all.” The smell was overwhelming—a thick, cloying cloud of rendered fat. Tyler, driven by a lifetime of unchecked gluttony, began to tear into the chicken By the time he finished the second one, he was struggling to swallow. “Quickly!” I urged. “He has to lie flat! Right now!” They hauled his 280-pound frame back to bed like they were moving a mountain of raw dough. He lay there, rigid, his breathing coming in wet, heavy rasps. I retreated to my room and waited. At 1:00 AM, I stood outside Tyler’s door, watching through the crack. The “mountain” began to heave. Tyler’s eyes snapped open, wide and bloodshot. He clawed at his throat, his mouth opening in a silent scream. The sheer volume of high-fat, high-sugar sludge was pressing against his diaphragm, cutting off his air. His face turned a sickening shade of plum. Survival instinct finally kicked in, and he lurched to his side. A fountain of bile and undigested fat sprayed across the floor. The sound woke our parents. Mom ran in, barefoot and hysterical. When she saw the mess and Tyler’s purple face, she screamed. She turned on me, grabbing my arm and digging her nails in. “You jinxed him! You did this with your bad thoughts! If he dies, I’ll kill you myself!” I didn’t pull away. I pointed at Tyler’s face. “Mom! Look at the color! Look at his skin!” She froze. “The Guru calls this ‘The Royal Purple Awakening’!” I shouted. “It happens when the ‘Abundance’ finally takes root and expels the ‘Poverty Spirit’ from the bloodline! That mess on the floor? That’s all the bad luck of our ancestors being purged!” Richard stood in the doorway, breathless. When he heard “purge the ancestors’ bad luck,” he hesitated. I pressed harder. “If you take him to the hospital now, the doctors will pump his stomach. They’ll wash away all the ‘Liquid Gold’ he just anchored! Do you want him to go back to being ordinary? Do you want to flush his fortune down a hospital drain?” Richard grabbed Mom’s phone and shoved it into his pocket. “No hospitals. My son is becoming a king. Look at him… he’s breathing again. He’s fine!” They didn’t scold me. Instead, they got down on their knees and began to clean up the foul-smelling vomit with towels, whispering prayers to a God of Greed I didn’t recognize. I stood in the shadows, cold and silent. The real show hadn’t even started yet. The next morning, Tyler tried to scream for water. But when he opened his mouth, the only sound that came out was a horrific, sandpaper rasp. The gastric acid from the night before had severely burned his esophagus and vocal cords. Mom came running from the kitchen, her face pale. “Tyler! Your voice! What happened?” I stepped forward with a chilled, extra-sweet boba tea from the fridge. I popped the straw in and held it to his lips. “Don’t panic, Mom. This is a gift,” I said, smiling at Tyler’s twisted, pained expression. “Think about all those billionaire CEOs on TV. Do they have high, squeaky voices? No. They have that deep, gravelly authority. The Guru says this is his ‘Command Presence’ settling in.” Tyler took a huge gulp of the icy, syrupy drink. The extreme cold and the concentrated sugar hit his raw, chemical-burned throat like liquid fire. His eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He let out a strangled, agonizing wail and threw the plastic cup against the wall. He collapsed to the floor, clutching his neck and rolling in the spilled tea. Mom shrieked, but I clapped my hands, my voice filled with a manic, cult-like fervor. “It’s working! It’s the ‘Ice-Fire Tempering’! Last night purged the rot, today the cold is stripping away the last of his ‘common’ nature! The more it hurts, the deeper the transformation!” Richard burst in. Seeing his son thrashing on the floor, he didn’t feel pity. He looked radiant. “He’s a warrior! A little pain is nothing for a man of his stature!” He cleared his throat, looking at me with his usual transactional coldness. “Tomorrow is your grandfather’s 70th birthday dinner. The whole extended family will be there. I want you to take ten thousand dollars from your savings.” He didn’t ask. He ordered. “Get Tyler a custom-tailored, high-end Italian suit. Something that screams ‘Executive.’ And book the most expensive steakhouse in the city. Tomorrow, your brother shows everyone who the real head of this family is.” I looked at his greedy face and nodded meekly. “Of course, Dad. I’ll handle everything.” That afternoon, I took them to a boutique tailor. I pointed at Tyler—all 280 pounds of him—and looked the tailor in the eye. “I want it slim-fit. European cut. I want the waist and chest so tight there isn’t a single wrinkle.” I turned to my mother. “The Guru says a tight core ‘constricts the wealth’ so it can’t leak out during social gatherings.” She nodded, mesmerized by the logic. Next, I went to the city’s premier seafood house and ordered the “Grand Emperor’s Feast”—a menu designed to be a nightmare of sodium, cholesterol, and purines. The next day, before the party, Mom and Dad spent twenty minutes literally stuffing Tyler into that suit like a sausage into a casing. He was dripping sweat, the buttons on his shirt straining until they were nearly projectiles. He could barely draw a full breath. I stepped up and personally tightened his silk tie. As his face turned a slight shade of cyan, I leaned in and whispered, “Hold it in, Tyler. Today, you are the center of the universe.” The restaurant was packed with relatives. When the doors opened and Mom led Tyler in, everyone went silent. He looked like a Michelin Man made of expensive wool. Out of respect for the fact that I was paying the bill, the relatives forced a round of applause. “Look at Tyler! A real titan of industry!” Tyler beamed, his ego overriding his physical agony. He cleared his raspy throat and forced out a few words. “Welcome… eat… drink…” My uncle frowned. “What’s wrong with his voice?” Mom tossed her head back. “It’s his ‘Executive Tone.’ The Guru says only men destined for billions speak with that kind of weight.” The appetizers were cleared, and the “hard” dishes arrived. Butter-drenched lobster, foie gras, fatty ribeyes, and salt-crusted crab. Tyler’s stomach, already raw from the reflux and crushed by the suit, couldn’t handle it. But Mom kept piling the fat onto his plate. “Eat, honey. Your ‘Wealth Reservoir’ needs to be full to impress the ancestors!” Then, Richard stood up. He cracked open a bottle of vintage, high-proof bourbon. He poured a double shot and handed it to Tyler. “Son! Give a toast to your grandfather! Use that ‘Executive Voice’!” Tyler looked at the stinging amber liquid and recoiled. “Dad… my throat… I can’t…” Mom hesitated for a split second. “Maybe just a sip?” I stood up immediately and refilled the glass to the brim. “Mom! A leader never backs down from a challenge. The Guru calls this ‘Lighting the Fuse.’ The higher the proof, the faster it ignites the wealth-fire in his belly! If he doesn’t drink this, the hundred-million-dollar legacy might just vanish.” At the mention of the hundred million, Mom’s eyes went cold. She lunged forward, pinched Tyler’s nose shut, and tilted his head back. “For your future, Tyler! Swallow!” She poured the 110-proof bourbon directly down his throat. Tyler’s eyes rolled back. His pupils dilated. “AAAAAAGH!” A scream like a dying animal ripped through the restaurant. His suit jacket literally split down the back as he convulsed. Then, he began to vomit—not just food, but streaks of dark, clotted blood and bile, splashing all over the birthday cake. My aunt screamed and hit the floor. Tyler’s massive body slumped over like a pile of wet sand, dragging the tablecloth and the expensive crystal down with him. The ambulance was called in a panic. Outside the ER, the surgeon walked out, his face grim, holding a piece of paper. “Acute gastric perforation with massive internal hemorrhaging. He’s lost too much blood. His type is A-negative, and the blood bank is low. Do we have any immediate family with A-negative?” My mother, hysterical on the floor, pointed a shaking finger at me. “Take hers! Take all of it! They’re twins—her blood belongs to him anyway! Drain her dry if you have to, just save my son!” I looked at her monstrous face. I didn’t fight. I slowly rolled up my sleeves, exposing my arms under the harsh fluorescent lights. They were bone-thin, covered in the yellowish bruises of severe anemia. There wasn’t a healthy vein in sight. I looked at my stunned mother and let out a cold, hollow laugh. “Too bad, Mom. I’m already empty. You squeezed every last drop out of this body years ago. My ‘low-class’ blood isn’t fit for a billionaire anyway.”

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The day before my wedding, I booked a signature facial at L’Elysée MedSpa. It was supposed to be my final exhale, a quiet moment to let the pre-wedding anxiety melt away under hot towels and expensive serums. When it was over, my skin glowing and my shoulders finally relaxed, I walked up to the marble reception desk and pulled out my VIP membership card to settle the tab. The receptionist handed me the final invoice. I glanced at it absently, but the numbers didn’t make sense. A heavy crease formed between my brows. “Excuse me, but the remaining balance on my account has to be wrong,” I said, tapping the paper. “I just loaded fifteen thousand dollars onto this card last month. I’ve only used it once. Why does it say I only have three hundred dollars left?” The receptionist sighed, a tiny huff of breath that felt intentionally loud. She turned to her computer, clicked the mouse a few times with exaggerated force, and swiveled the monitor toward me. “You can see for yourself, ma’am.” “Your mother has been coming in three times a week using this card,” she explained, her tone dripping with rehearsed condescension. “Last week, she even purchased our platinum anti-aging skincare vault. That alone was nine thousand dollars.” She offered me a tight, synthetic smile. “Money doesn’t just magically replenish itself. Your funds are depleted.” I stared at the screen. Line after line of exorbitant charges stared back at me. I didn’t argue. I didn’t raise my voice. Instead, I calmly pulled my phone from my purse and dialed 911. “Hello, yes, I need to report a theft,” I said, my voice steady, cutting through the ambient spa music. “Someone has fraudulently drained my account at a business. The stolen amount exceeds twelve thousand dollars.” 1 My voice was ice-cold, every syllable sharp and deliberate. The low hum of chatter in the elegant waiting lounge instantly died. Several women lounging on the velvet sofas snapped their mouths shut, their eyes darting toward me. At the words fraudulent and stolen, the color visibly drained from the faces of a few wealthy clients waiting for their treatments. The receptionist’s smug expression shattered. Panic flooded her eyes. “N-no! Wait! Ms. Jocelyn, no—” I didn’t acknowledge her. I stood perfectly still, my phone pressed to my ear, continuing my conversation with the dispatcher. Just as I opened my mouth to give the police L’Elysée’s exact address, a hand shot out from behind me and snatched the phone right out of my grip. I spun around, my heart giving a hard, angry thump. Standing there was Joanne, the MedSpa’s general manager, flanked by a burly security guard in a tight suit. My phone was now resting in the guard’s meaty palm. “Jocelyn, sweetheart, let’s take a breath. I’m Joanne, the manager here. We can absolutely talk this through,” she purred. “This is just a tiny misunderstanding. There’s no need to escalate this to the authorities.” She had a practiced smile plastered on her face, but her eyes held a glint of absolute disdain. The sheer audacity of it almost made me laugh out loud. I held out my right hand, palm up, and projected my voice so the entire lobby could hear. “I don’t care how you want to ‘talk this through.’ Give me my phone back. Now.” “That is my personal property. What kind of shady operation are you running here? Your staff just assaults clients and takes their belongings?” I challenged, taking a step forward. “How is this any different from a mugging?” Joanne’s faux-sweet smile vanished. Instead of ordering the guard to hand it back, she shifted her weight, subtly blocking my path to him. “A mugging? Ms. Jocelyn, you might be a client, but I will not allow you to stand in my lobby and slander our business,” Joanne snapped. “Furthermore, regarding your phone… we hardly need to steal it.” “We could see you were having a bit of a mental episode. We’re simply holding onto it to prevent you from doing something rash that you’ll regret later. We’re doing you a favor.” The veiled threat in her tone made the pulse at my temple throb wildly. Before I could tear into her, Joanne marched over to the front desk and made a big show of inspecting the ledger on the screen. She then turned back to me, looking at me as if I were utterly unhinged. “Jocelyn, the ledger is right here. Every single charge is meticulously documented. What exactly is your problem?” “If you have this much free time to stand here and try to extort us, why don’t you go home and have a conversation with your mother?” she asked, her voice carrying a sickeningly sweet concern. “I’m sure it’s just family drama.” “It would be a real shame if the police showed up, realized this was just a domestic dispute, and ended up arresting your mother for theft. That wouldn’t look very good for your family, would it?” Joanne’s voice was laced with a venomous kind of amusement. Every word was designed to paint me as a hysterical, ungrateful daughter, packaged with a thinly veiled threat to back off. The onlookers in the lobby exhaled a collective breath of relief, the tension breaking. “Honey, if your own family is spending your money, you can’t come in here and blame the business,” an older woman muttered, giving me a disapproving look. “Exactly,” another chimed in. “I’ve been coming to L’Elysée for years and my account has never been ‘hacked.’ Sounds to me like she’s just trying to shake them down for a refund.” The murmurs of the room pressed in on me, a suffocating wave of misplaced judgment. My mother? My mother died of breast cancer a decade ago. What ghost was walking into this MedSpa to buy anti-aging serum on my dime? I forced my lungs to expand, burying the surge of raw grief that always accompanied her memory, and locked eyes with Joanne. “Joanne,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “First of all, my mother passed away ten years ago.” The silence in the room was immediate and deafening. “I don’t know who told you the person draining my account was my mother, but it is a biological impossibility. What you need to be asking yourself right now is whether your front desk staff actually checks IDs.” “Or does your establishment just allow any random person off the street to spin a sob story and get thousands of dollars of free services on someone else’s tab?” Joanne’s face turned the color of ash. I didn’t stop. “Secondly, if I recall correctly, this VIP account is under my name, and my cell phone number is required on the file. Why didn’t a single person from this business call or text me to authorize thousands of dollars in sudden expenditures?” Behind the desk, the receptionist suddenly looked like she was going to be sick. 2 The smug curve of Joanne’s mouth flattened into a hard line. “Jocelyn, we absolutely verify the identity of our clients before processing any transactions,” she said defensively. “The woman who claimed to be your mother presented a physical photograph of the two of you together as proof. She swore up and down she was your mother, and we were trying to be accommodating…” Her tone was impatient, trying to brush the sheer incompetence under the rug. I didn’t back down an inch. I stared right through her. “A photograph?” I repeated, my voice dripping with incredulity. “What era are we living in? A printed photo is your security protocol? Give me five minutes and I can use AI to generate ten thousand photos of the two of us standing together.” “Does that mean I can walk into your bank tomorrow, show them a fake picture, claim I’m your mother, and empty your checking account?” I pointed a shaking finger at the computer monitor. “I trusted this business. That’s why I prepaid fifteen thousand dollars. You were supposed to safeguard my money. Now it’s gone, and somehow you’re standing there telling me it’s my fault?” “For a place that charges luxury prices, you run a remarkably trashy operation.” I smiled—a dark, humorless thing. It was a direct hit. The words struck a nerve, not just with Joanne, but with every wealthy woman sitting in the lobby. The illusion of exclusivity and safety was shattered. A woman in a heavy Chanel tweed jacket slammed her magazine onto the coffee table and stood up. “The girl is absolutely right!” “Is this really how you handle our money?” the woman demanded, glaring at Joanne. “Anyone can fake a photo! This is a catastrophic failure on your end!” “I have nearly a hundred thousand dollars sitting on my account right now,” she continued, her voice rising in panic. “No! I want my balance checked right now. How do I know you haven’t let some stranger drain my account too?!” The lobby erupted. Clients abandoned their herbal teas and crowded the front desk, demanding printouts of their ledgers. The spa staff were flushed red, stammering out panicked apologies, completely losing control of the room. I ignored the chaos and turned back to the security guard, holding out my hand. “Now. Give me my phone back. Immediately.” “Because if I have to find another way to call the police, I’m pressing charges for a lot more than just financial fraud.” Joanne looked like she might have a stroke. She shot me a look of pure hatred, stepped forward, and slapped my outstretched hand away. “Jocelyn! Stop being hysterical! You have absolutely no proof of anything you’re claiming! You are causing severe reputational damage to my business right now!” “We have every right to sue you for defamation!” she hissed, her face inches from mine. “I have a top-tier legal team on retainer. You are not leaving this building until you sign a written apology and agree to compensate us for damages! Do you hear me?” I looked at her, my expression unreadable. Slowly, my hand drifted to my coat pocket. My fingers brushed against the metal casing of the dictaphone I used for office meetings—a habit I’d picked up from my dad’s corporate days. I hit the stop button to save the recording. “Sure,” I said softly. “You can demand whatever you want. But just remember what you just said, Joanne. Because when the police review the tape, I’m pretty sure ‘unlawful detainment’ and ‘extortion’ are going to be added to the rap sheet.” Joanne froze, her eyes dropping to my pocket. Before she could react, the woman in the Chanel tweed marched over and shoved a diamond-encrusted iPhone into my hands. “Here! Use mine!” she declared loudly. “I have never seen a business act with such unbelievable audacity. Call the police, honey. Let’s get the authorities in here to tear this place apart.” I thanked her, dialed 911, and put the phone to my ear. This time, Joanne just stood there, her face a mottled, suffocated purple. She didn’t dare make a single sound. 3 The police response was fast. Less than ten minutes later, two uniformed officers pushed through the glass doors. Joanne, who had been glaring at me with barely suppressed rage, instantly morphed into a completely different person. The hostility vanished, replaced by a frantic, fawning smile as she rushed to intercept them. “Officers! Good afternoon. I’m Joanne, the general manager of L’Elysée. Honestly, this is just a massive misunderstanding. A simple miscommunication between family members!” She tried to herd them toward her office, throwing out a barrage of meaningless corporate jargon, desperate to control the narrative. It was pathetic. Did she really think seasoned cops would fall for something so transparent? They didn’t. They bypassed her entirely and walked straight over to me. “Are you the one who made the call?” the taller officer asked. I nodded. Taking a deep breath, I laid out exactly what had happened, from start to finish. I didn’t embellish. I didn’t need to. The facts were damning enough. “I called because I am the victim of a felony,” I stated clearly. “I had fifteen thousand dollars pre-loaded on this account. My service today was four hundred. Everything else—over twelve thousand dollars—was fraudulently charged to someone else.” “Given the dollar amount, I believe this falls under grand larceny.” “Furthermore, the manager and the receptionist claim they allowed a woman to drain my account because she said she was my mother.” My voice wavered for just a second before hardening. “My mother died of cancer ten years ago. It’s a physical impossibility.” I handed over the receipt they’d just printed, my VIP card, and pointed toward the computer monitor that was still lit up with the fraudulent charges. “I refused to leave because I was terrified they would delete the ledger if I took my eyes off it,” I added. The officers took the evidence and walked over to inspect the screen. Then, they turned their gaze to Joanne, who was now sweating through her silk blouse. “Care to explain?” the officer asked sharply. “You allowed someone to use an account without the account holder’s presence or authorization? Where is your verification process?” Joanne was unraveling. The entire lobby was dead silent, watching her hang herself. “It… it wasn’t like that! We… the client provided photographic evidence!” she stammered. “She showed us a picture of herself with Jocelyn! We thought we were doing a favor for her mother! We would never have authorized it otherwise, I swear!” It was a pathetic defense. Even Joanne’s voice trailed off as she realized how absurd it sounded aloud. Just as the silence stretched to a breaking point, the receptionist spoke up, her voice trembling. “I… I took down her phone number the first time she came in,” she whispered, pointing to a leather-bound logbook on the desk. “It’s in the guest registry. We can call her.” My heart gave a dark, cynical thud. Got you. I wanted to know exactly who the rat in the shadows was. Who had the sheer nerve to invoke my dead mother to steal from me. At the officer’s nod, the receptionist dialed the number and put the phone on speaker. The line rang twice. “Yeah, who is this?” a grating, nasal woman’s voice answered. The receptionist, clearly terrified of the cops standing over her, fumbled through the excuse they’d fed her. “H-hi, is this Jocelyn’s mother? This is L’Elysée MedSpa. We’re doing a promotional giveaway for our VIP clients… we just need to confirm your shipping address so we can send out your gift basket…” I closed my eyes, running the audio of that voice through my memories, trying to place it. Nothing immediately clicked. The woman on the phone bought the lie instantly. Greedy and eager, she rattled off her full address without a second thought. But the moment she said the street name and apartment number, my eyes snapped open. The blood rushed to my ears. Wait. Isn’t that…? 4 Armed with the address, the officers didn’t hesitate. They asked all the involved parties to head to the location. The situation was a mess of fraud and liability, and the only way to untangle it was a face-to-face confrontation. I sat in the back of the squad cruiser, watching the familiar streets roll by. My stomach churned. By the time the cruiser pulled up to the tired, brick apartment complex I had visited half a dozen times, the reality of the betrayal hit me like a physical blow. The officers rang the doorbell. It took nearly twenty seconds before the deadbolt clicked and the door cracked open. A heavy-set older woman with a sour, lined face peeked out. Before I could say a word, Joanne shoved past me, her desperation making her reckless. “Pamela!” Joanne practically shrieked. “Thank God you’re here! You need to tell them! You told us you had permission to use your daughter’s card, right? You swore to it! Now Jocelyn is here trying to ruin my business, and you need to clear this up!” I stood in the dimly lit hallway, my face completely devoid of emotion. I knew exactly who this was. This was Pamela. My fiancé Brandon’s aunt. The “photograph” they’d accepted as ID? I knew exactly what it was. It was a cropped version of a massive group photo taken at my and Brandon’s engagement party six months ago. The audacity was suffocating. Brandon and I weren’t even married yet. And even if we were, in what universe did that give a distant, grifting aunt the right to impersonate my dead mother and steal thousands of dollars from me? Pamela squinted, her gaze shifting from Joanne to me, and finally landing on the police officers. Her demeanor flipped like a switch. “Oh, Jocelyn! Sweetheart! Look at this mess!” she cooed, pasting on a sickeningly familiar, overly affectionate smile. She completely ignored the police, trying to bulldoze over the tension with sheer volume. “It’s all just a big, silly misunderstanding!” “I’m her aunt-in-law!” she announced to the hallway at large. “What’s the big deal if an elder uses a little bit of the kids’ money? It’s family! Is it a crime to be family now?” I didn’t say a word. I just stared at her. Pamela took my silence as submission. Her fake sweetness curdled into righteous indignation. “Honestly, Jocelyn, why are you being so dramatic?” she scolded, her tone dripping with condescension. “Calling the police over pennies? Tell these nice officers to go home. If you don’t drop this right now, I’m going to call Brandon’s mother and tell her exactly how disrespectful you are to your elders!” “We’re basically family, and you’re humiliating us over a little pocket change!” Every word she spoke was a masterclass in toxic manipulation, trying to shame me into silence. The dam inside me finally broke. I took a step forward, my voice echoing off the cheap linoleum hallway. “Who is your family?” I demanded, my voice shaking with pure rage. “I barely know you!” “You had the nerve to walk into a business and claim you were my mother? My mother died ten years ago. If you want to impersonate her so badly, why don’t you go down to the graveyard and switch places with her?” Pamela’s face went entirely red. The grandmotherly mask slipped, revealing the viciousness underneath. “You little bitch!” she shrieked, her voice echoing down the hall. “You should be honored I claimed you! You think you’re so much better than us?” “You don’t even deserve that expensive crap! I’ll use your card whenever I damn well please, and once you marry into my family, you’ll keep paying for me! Otherwise, you’re not getting anywhere near Brandon!” I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Marry into your family? You live in a crumbling apartment and steal to pretend you’re rich. You’re a joke.” I turned my back on her and looked straight at the officers. “Officers, she just confessed to the theft and the impersonation. Can you arrest her now?” “And just to be clear, twelve thousand dollars is felony grand larceny in this state. I want maximum charges pressed. I will not accept any mediation or settlement.” “You wouldn’t dare!” Pamela roared, the veins in her neck bulging. Her hands shook violently. “I’ve already called Brandon! He’s on his way! I’m going to make sure he sees exactly what kind of heartless snake he’s marrying!” 5 I remained perfectly still, the adrenaline sharpening my senses. I looked calmly at the officer. “Grand larceny usually carries a sentence of up to several years in state prison, correct?” I glanced back at Pamela, my lips curving into a cruel, satisfied smile. “Oh, that’s right,” I murmured, tilting my head. “Doesn’t your daughter Haley want to go to law school? Or was it the FBI? I’m sure a felony conviction on her mother’s background check is going to do wonders for her security clearance. She’s ruined.” The mention of her daughter flipped a primal, unhinged switch inside Pamela. The smugness evaporated, replaced by pure, feral rage. Before the officers or I could react, she lunged. Her heavy body launched through the doorway like a missile. She slammed into me, her hands tangling violently in my hair, her nails digging into my scalp. She drove my back hard against the hallway wall. “You whore! Don’t you dare talk about my daughter! I’ll kill you!” she screamed, spit flying into my face. Smack. Smack. Two brutal, open-handed slaps cracked across my face. The metallic taste of blood instantly flooded my mouth. I fought back, twisting and pushing, but she had a hundred pounds on me. She was a wall of frantic, violent muscle. The hallway dissolved into chaos. Joanne shrieked. The officers rushed in, grabbing Pamela’s shoulders, shouting commands, but in her manic state, she was immovable, pinning me to the drywall. Black spots danced in my vision. My head throbbed with a sickening rhythm. Just as my knees began to buckle, the elevator at the end of the hall dinged. The doors slid open, and a frantic, masculine voice tore through the noise. “What the hell is going on here?! Stop it!”

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Five years into my marriage with Benson Crawford, my life felt like something suspended in amber—warm, golden, and perfectly preserved. But there was a catch. The invisible Affection Metric, the cosmic progress bar hovering in my mind’s eye, remained stubbornly frozen at 99%. It refused to tip over into absolute completion. With the five-year deadline bearing down on me, I was spiraling. Desperate, I took to an anonymous fiction-writing subreddit. I framed my reality as a plot block, pretending I was an author asking the internet for advice on how to push my protagonists across the finish line. Not long after I hit post, a comment shot to the top of the thread. It read: Why even bother with the ‘mission’? Just write it so the male lead figures out he’s nothing but a target for her survival game, and he stops loving her. The guy funding my life told me his wife is literally one of those ‘system travelers’. He’s known the truth for ages. He’s just playing her for a fool right now. Reading those words felt like someone had cracked a sheet of ice over my spine. The cold seeped directly into my marrow. Below her comment, other users were tearing her apart, calling her unhinged. They accused her of sleeping with a married man and inventing a psychotic, sci-fi justification to sleep at night. She replied, completely unfazed: Believe whatever you want. At the end of the day, his wife only sees him as a means to an end. So what if he plays a little game with her in return? She wasn’t done. I’m his actual soulmate, she wrote. He even hired me as his assistant just so he could look at me all day. This evening, he insisted on cooking dinner for me and accidentally burned his hand. It gave him a nasty blister. I practically cried seeing it. Attached to the reply was a photo. It was a man’s hand, wrapped in white gauze, secured with a very specific, painstakingly neat butterfly knot. The air in my lungs vanished. When Benson had walked through our front door earlier that evening, his hand was wrapped in gauze. And the knot was tied in that exact, identical butterfly. 1. A phantom ache bloomed in my chest, as if a vital organ was being slowly, methodically extracted with tweezers. Beside me, Benson’s breathing was an even, rhythmic hum. I turned my head slightly, letting the pale moonlight map the quiet, peaceful lines of his sleeping face. This was the Benson who would well up with genuine tears if I so much as scraped my knee. The Benson who, after I casually mentioned liking a specific truffle risotto at a charity gala, spent an obscene amount of money to buy the recipe from the chef. Had the last half-decade been nothing but community theater? I rested a trembling hand over my still-flat stomach. My doctor had confirmed the pregnancy just that morning. Our fifth wedding anniversary was five days away. I had wanted a quiet evening, just the two of us, but he had insisted on throwing a lavish gala. “I want to marry you all over again, every five years, for the rest of our lives,” he had whispered into my hair. I had planned to tell him at the gala. It was supposed to be the ultimate surprise. The child we had been praying for, the manifestation of our love, was finally here. But it was all a set-up. The velvet ropes were fake; the stage was hollow. Drawing a shaky breath, I slid out from under the duvet and carefully retrieved his phone from the nightstand. A pathetic, desperate part of me still wanted to be wrong. Maybe, I thought. Maybe it’s just a bizarre, astronomical coincidence. His passcode was my birthday. The screen unlocked with a soft click. I scoured his texts, his emails, his social media. Nothing. The digital landscape of his life was pristine. I was just letting out a ragged sigh of relief when a hidden, encrypted messaging app suddenly pushed a notification to the screen. [I can’t sleep without you. Please don’t play house with that fake wife of yours tomorrow. Come be with me?] I slammed the phone face-down onto the mattress. The world tilted on its axis, dissolving into white noise. Minutes bled into hours before my hands stopped shaking enough to place the phone back on the nightstand. The slight movement stirred Benson. With a sleepy groan, he reached out, hauling my rigid body against his chest. It was the same familiar, enveloping warmth I had craved for years. But tonight, it felt like a crypt. The truth was, my original “mission” was supposed to end the moment we said our vows five years ago. In my previous life, I was an orphan who died in a horrific pile-up on the interstate. I was reborn into this universe as an infant. I had lived over two decades here. My friends, my entire concept of home, and the man I loved—they were all here. When the time came, I couldn’t bear to leave. I begged the cosmic entity that governed my existence—the System—to let me stay. The entity had agreed, striking a chilling bargain: [You may remain in this reality, Host. But you must secure his absolute, unquestioning devotion—a 100% Affection Metric—within five years. Failure to do so will result in your immediate erasure.] I remembered laughing back then, overflowing with naive confidence. “I trust Benson,” I had declared to the void. Sitting in the dark, I opened the Reddit thread on my own phone again. The girl from the comments was still active. [OP, seriously, drop the whole ‘mission’ plotline, she wrote. Write a story where the side chick gets the ring. It’s way hotter. I have a whole blog chronicling my romance with my guy. You can use it for inspiration! I’ll totally buy your book.] Hot, angry tears finally broke over my lashes. With a vibrating finger, I clicked onto her profile. Her most recent post was from today. [My guy cooked for me and burned his hand. My heart hurts for him.] The photo showed the broad, familiar shoulders of a man standing at a stove. He was wearing the bespoke charcoal suit I had picked out for him that morning. A violent wave of nausea hit me. I slapped a hand over my mouth, bolted to the master bathroom, and dropped to my knees, dry-heaving into the porcelain until my throat tasted like copper. It took me a long time to gather the strength to scroll further down her page. [Our six-month anniversary! He dropped three million at an auction for this sapphire. He calls it the Heart of the Ocean.] The picture showcased a breathtaking, deep-blue diamond pendant. Benson had told me that sapphire symbolized eternal devotion. He had promised he was saving it for the right moment to give to me. Instead, it had been resting against another woman’s collarbone. Eternal devotion. God, it was almost funny. [I’m going to be a mom! read a post from last month. He is beside himself. It’s his birthday today, and he said it’s the best present he’s ever gotten.] I sat on the cold bathroom tiles, my blood turning to slush. His birthday was early last month. I had spent six hours baking his favorite cake from scratch and preparing a five-course meal. I had warmed the food, watched it go cold, and warmed it again. He never came home. When I finally called him near midnight, his voice had sounded strained. “Baby, I am so sorry. A crisis blew up at the Seattle office and I had to jump on the jet. Go to sleep without me.” I had felt so bad for him. I had texted him to make sure he drank water and got some rest. He hadn’t been in Seattle. He had been celebrating his new family. I scrolled past dozens of posts, each one a meticulous documentation of their love, each one a surgical strike to my chest. I read until I was completely, blissfully numb. I stopped at her very first post. [My wealthy guy says he’s going to take care of me forever! He told me his wife is just a sociopath using him for some cosmic arrangement, and that I’m his true love!] The date stamp was exactly five years ago. The day of our wedding. My phone slipped from my sweaty palm. It hit the tile with a sharp crack, the screen spider-webbing into a hundred jagged pieces. At that exact moment, the cold, synthesized voice of the System echoed in the hollow of my skull. [Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 80%. If the metric reaches zero, erasure protocols will commence.] 2. Footsteps thumped frantically against the bedroom floorboards. “Nina! What’s wrong? Nina!” Benson’s voice was tight with panic as he hammered his fists against the bathroom door. Hearing the wood splinter, I reached up and unlocked it. “I’m fine. I just dropped my phone,” I said, my voice eerily flat. Benson’s eyes were bloodshot. He grabbed my wrists, his gaze darting frantically over my body. “Are you hurt? Did the glass cut you?” I slowly pulled my hands out of his grip. “No. It’s late. Let’s go back to sleep.” He bent down, carefully sweeping up the shattered remains of my phone, and popped the SIM card out, holding it between his fingers. “It’s fine. I’ll order you the newest model, it’ll be here by breakfast. We’ll just throw this piece of junk away.” My eyes drifted to the stark white gauze wrapped around his hand. I forced the corners of my mouth to tilt upward. “And what about people, Benson? When people are broken, should we just throw them away too?” His breathing hitched. It was a microscopic pause, but I caught it. Then, seamlessly, his expression melted back into his trademark, doting warmth. He pulled me into his chest, his chin resting on top of my head. “What did the poor phone do to deserve this philosophical anger?” he chuckled softly. “Did you read some depressing article online again? You can’t take it out on me, sweetheart. I’m innocent.” I didn’t argue. I let him guide me back to bed. I laid perfectly still as he tucked the duvet around my shoulders, pressing a tender kiss to my temple. I didn’t close my eyes once. I watched the shadows stretch and fade until the sun broke over the horizon. The next morning, we were sitting in the kitchen, nursing our coffee, when the doorbell chimed. Benson stood up. “That should be the new phone. I’ll grab it.” He opened the heavy oak door. From the kitchen island, I heard a bright, teasing female voice. “Special delivery for Mr. Crawford! Sign here, please.” Benson froze. A quiet hum of adrenaline settled in my veins. I pushed my stool back and walked purposefully down the hallway. Just as I rounded the corner, Benson snatched a brown cardboard box from the girl and slammed the door shut in her face. He moved fast, but not fast enough. I caught a glimpse of her face. It was the girl from the photos. “Were you waiting long?” Benson asked, his voice a pitch higher than usual. He hastily ripped the cardboard packaging apart and kicked it under the console table. “The box is filthy. Go sit down, baby, I’ll set it up for you.” He pulled a phone out of his pocket and snapped a fluffy, obnoxious pink case onto it, presenting it to me like a hard-won trophy. “Look at this! I picked the case out myself.” He pulled his own phone from his slacks. “It’s a matching set. Yours is pink, mine is—” A barrage of notification pings erupted from his pocket, cutting him off. He glanced at the screen, and a sudden, tense energy hijacked his posture. “Nina, finish your breakfast. A fire just started at the firm, I have to go deal with it right now.” As he turned, I reached out and caught the fabric of his suit jacket. “Benson. It’s Saturday.” He blinked, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his eyes. “I know, I know. But it’s the new tech merger. Something broke in the code, I need to be on-site.” His phone buzzed incessantly. He gently but firmly pried my fingers off his jacket. “Look how panicked they are. I really have to go, Nina.” Before I could say another word, he was out the door. The latch clicked shut, echoing in the empty foyer. A sharp, radiating pain spiked through my chest. [Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 70%.] 3. Ignoring the metallic voice in my head, I walked back to the kitchen and picked up the new phone. I ran my thumb over the fluffy pink case. It was incredibly soft. Almost immediately, an angry red rash flared across the back of my hand. Rabbit fur. I was intensely allergic to rabbit fur. In the past, Benson checked the tags on everything he bought, terrified of triggering my allergies. Furthermore, he hated phone cases. He liked the sleek feel of naked glass and titanium. It didn’t take a genius to figure out whose aesthetic this pink fluff belonged to. I peeled the disgusting thing off the phone and dropped it into the trash can. I logged into my accounts and found her page. It had just been updated. [Matching phone cases with my man. Hehe.] The picture showed a woman’s hand holding a pink rabbit-fur case. The exact same one. I walked into Benson’s home office and pulled up the feeds from our private subterranean garage. It took less than a minute to find them. On the grainy black-and-white monitor, Benson was gently guiding the girl toward his Aston Martin. He placed a protective hand over her slightly rounded stomach. The audio feed picked up his voice, heavy with adoration. “You’re only three months along, Dana. You need to be on bed rest. Who told you it was a good idea to run over here?” Dana swung his arm playfully, pouting. “But the baby and I missed you! Plus, I snagged the delivery guy outside and pretended to be him. Your fake wife didn’t suspect a thing. Aren’t I brilliant?” Benson laughed, a rich, genuine sound I hadn’t heard in months, and ruffled her hair. “You’re brilliant, baby. But never do that again. She can’t find out about us, do you understand?” Dana stomped her foot, looking up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. “Why not?! She’s just some user on a mission! Why don’t you just divorce her? Aren’t you exhausted from acting all the time?” She narrowed her eyes. “Unless… you actually have feelings for her?” Benson went rigid. He didn’t answer. Dana ripped her arm out of his grasp, sobbing theatrically. “What about me? What about our baby? I thought I was your true love! Was that a lie?” Benson panicked, wrapping his arms securely around her waist. “Don’t get worked up, it’s bad for the baby! Of course I love you. You are my entire world.” “Then promise you’ll stay with me for the next few days. You are not allowed to go back to her!” Benson cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away her tears. His voice was devastatingly soft. “I promise.” I stared dead-eyed at the monitor. The marrow in my bones felt like it had turned to lead. [Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 50%.] My stomach violently rebelled. I barely made it to the powder room before throwing up my morning coffee. When I finally lifted my head to look in the mirror, my eyes were bloodshot and hollow. I looked pathetic. I looked like a joke. I took a breath, splashed freezing water on my face, and picked up my new phone. I dialed a number and scheduled a surgical abortion for two o’clock that afternoon. Just as they were wheeling me toward the operating room, my phone buzzed. A text from Benson. [The merger is a total disaster. I’m going to have to stay at the hotel for the next few days to sort this out. I’ll see you at the anniversary gala, sweetheart.] I opened my camera roll, selected the screenshot I had taken of the garage security footage—the one of him caressing Dana’s stomach—and sent it to him. [Is the disaster the merger? Or your mistress?] I handed my phone to the nurse, closed my eyes, and let the anesthesia pull me under. 4. The drugs were a mercy. The suffocating tension that had gripped my chest since last night finally dissolved. I slept deeply and dreamlessly on the cold operating table. When I woke up in the recovery room, my hand instinctually drifted to my stomach. There was only a dull, hollow ache. The life inside was gone. The pillow beneath my head was damp. I touched my face; I was crying silently. I asked the nurse for my phone. My text to Benson remained marked as “Read,” but there was no reply. I dialed his number. It rang for an agonizingly long time before the line clicked open. I heard him clear his throat. When he spoke, his voice was thick, like he had just woken up. “Hey, Nina. What’s wrong?” [Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 30%.] I swallowed the sharp glass in my throat. “Did you not see the message I sent you?” He sounded genuinely perplexed. “Message? No, my phone’s been quiet. What did you send?” I pulled the phone away from my ear, switching over to Dana’s blog on Safari. [Caught my man’s wife trying to cause drama. She sent him a text while he was in the shower, so I deleted it.] [She’s just a fraud on a mission. Who does she think she is, stressing him out like that?] I exhaled a long, shaky breath and brought the phone back to my ear. “It’s nothing. I must have forgotten to hit send. I just wanted to remind you to come home early.” I could practically hear the tension leave his shoulders. He let out a light laugh. “You scared me. I know I’ve been absent lately, baby, and I am so sorry. I promise I will make it up to you at the gala.” “Okay,” I whispered, and hung up. Lying alone in the sterile, fluorescent-lit room, my mind drifted back to the day he proposed. We were on a rooftop overlooking the bay. His hands had been shaking so violently he could barely get the ring out of the velvet box. Our friends had laughed at him, and he had shouted back, completely unashamed, “You idiots don’t understand, you don’t have a woman like this!” Then he had dropped to one knee, looking up at me with a gaze so fiercely sincere it burned. “Nina Gallagher, I swear to God, I will spend the rest of my life proving I am worthy of you.” He meant it. Back then, the vow was real. But people change. Vows rot. If I hadn’t posted on that forum… I would have walked into that gala blind. I would have kept loving him, kept trusting him, ready to lay my life down for a ghost. But there are no “what ifs” in this world. [Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 20%.] I closed my eyes. I called my lawyer, instructed her to draft the divorce papers, and forwarded her a zip file containing every piece of evidence of Benson’s infidelity. Five days later. The Anniversary Gala. The ballroom was a sea of silk, champagne, and flashing cameras. Benson held my hand in a vice grip, beaming at the crowd as they showered us with congratulations. His smile grew more radiant with every passing minute. As we navigated the room, my eyes locked onto a familiar face. Dana. She was wearing a stunning emerald gown, weaving through the elite crowd with practiced ease. She caught my eye, gave me a triumphant smirk, and sauntered directly over to us. Benson’s grip on my fingers tightened painfully. The smile froze on his face. Dana plucked a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and winked playfully at Benson. “Here’s to the happy couple. May you have… everything you deserve.” Benson snatched the crystal glass from her hand, his voice a frantic hiss. “You’re pregnant, you can’t drink.” Dana pouted, her voice dripping with venomous innocence. “Well, the baby’s father won’t even claim him in public. If I lose it, I guess nobody would care anyway.” Without waiting for Benson to formulate a response, she turned on her heel and sashayed toward the back terrace. Benson shot me a panicked, apologetic look. “She’s one of the new junior assistants. Doesn’t know how to act in these settings. Excuse me.” I gave him a placid nod. He was sweating. He waited a few agonizing seconds before dropping my hand and muttering something about a catering issue. I stood perfectly still and watched my husband sprint across the ballroom, chasing after his pregnant mistress. The sudden spectacle caught the attention of the surrounding guests. Whispers rippled through the crowd. I smiled calmly, walked up to the podium, and tapped the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” my voice rang out, clear and steady, cutting through the jazz band. “I know these events can get a bit tedious. So, I thought I’d provide some evening entertainment.” I gave a subtle nod to the AV technician at the back of the room. The massive digital projector behind me flared to life. It bypassed the slideshow of our wedding photos and tapped directly into the live feed of the terrace security cameras. The ballroom went dead silent. On the twenty-foot screen, Benson was clutching Dana to his chest, stroking her hair desperately. “Dana, please, stop crying. It’s bad for the baby.” Her shrill, tearful voice echoed through the high-end surround sound speakers. “You keep talking about the baby! What does it matter if he’s yours? You’re still married to Nina! My son is going to be a bastard!” Benson’s face on the screen twisted in agony. “What do you want me to do?” Dana wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his. “When he’s born… we’ll tell Nina he’s adopted. We’ll make her raise him. That way, we can still have our time together, just the two of us. Okay?” Benson hesitated for three agonizing seconds. Then, he nodded. A collective, horrified gasp ripped through the ballroom. Glasses shattered against the marble floor. [Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 10%.] I stepped away from the podium. I signaled the technician to transition the screen from the live feed to the meticulously organized slides of Benson’s bank transfers, hotel receipts, and the ultrasound photos. I walked over to Ellis, Benson’s fiercely loyal executive assistant, who was staring at the screen with his mouth open. I pressed a thick manila envelope into his chest. It contained the signed divorce papers and the medical records of my abortion. Ignoring the cacophony of shouting reporters and scandalized socialites, I walked out the front doors, hailed a black car, and gave the driver the address to a scenic cemetery overlooking the bay. I had purchased the plot three days ago. I found the smooth granite bench near my designated plot and lay down. The late afternoon sun was surprisingly warm, bathing my face in golden light. Inside my mind, the System’s alarms were blaring, a deafening, frantic siren. [Affection Metric at 5%. 4%. 3%. 2%. 1%.] [Zero.]

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My mother-in-law, Beatrice, burst into my room without knocking, her voice shrill with anxiety. She wanted to know why David wasn’t back yet. We were supposed to leave for the airport in two hours. I silently tapped the power button on my phone, the screen going black as my heart turned to stone. She didn’t know. David was never coming back for us. In fact, he didn’t even intend for us to make it out of this city alive. It started as a family vacation—a luxury getaway that turned into a nightmare when the civil unrest flared into a full-scale coup. We were trapped. I had spent days on the phone, pulling every string I had and paying four times the standard rate to secure two tickets back to the States. The night before we were supposed to fly, David sent me a text saying he was heading to the U.S. Consulate to “check on the evacuation protocols.” He told me and his mother to stay in the hotel and not to move. Three hours later, the city was placed under total martial law. The airport was shuttered. I called him frantically, but every call went straight to a dead-air disconnect. It wasn’t until I managed to bypass the hotel’s throttled Wi-Fi and log into the airline’s booking system that the floor fell out from under me. David hadn’t disappeared. He had rebooked his flight. He had left on an emergency charter hours ago. But the part that felt like a jagged blade in my gut? The person sitting in the seat next to him wasn’t me. It was Jennifer, our “local guide” for the trip—the woman who had been hovering around him since the day we landed. [1] I had sent David over a dozen messages. Every single one of them sat on “Delivered” with no “Read” receipt. It had been four hours since he last made contact. In our room, the half-packed suitcases lay open like wounds. Clothes were scattered everywhere. He had left in such a rush that he hadn’t even taken his spare shirts or slacks. The only thing missing was that cheap, linen travel jacket Jennifer had picked out for him at the bazaar during our first week. And his passport. He had reached into the hidden compartment of my carry-on and taken his, leaving mine and his mother’s behind. I forced my hands to stop shaking and called the airline’s international desk. After a grueling ten minutes on hold, a woman with a clipped, professional accent answered. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Clifford,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “But the reservations for yourself and Mrs. Beatrice Clifford were canceled yesterday afternoon at the request of the primary account holder.” Yesterday. He had planned this before the city even fell. Outside, the first sounds of artillery thundered in the distance. My husband of five years had chosen to save his mistress and leave me to rot in a war zone. “Andrea!” Beatrice’s sharp voice cut through my thoughts. “What is taking you so long? David is out there risking his life at the Consulate while you’re sitting here in the AC acting like a princess!” I didn’t explain. I just reached down and zipped the suitcases shut. A notification popped up on my phone—an emergency alert from the State Department: [URGENT: Total lockdown in effect. All transport hubs closed. U.S. citizens are advised to shelter in place. Evacuation efforts are suspended until further notice.] Beatrice glanced at the screen, scoffing as she swiped the notification away. “They always overreact. It’s just a little protest. Can they actually focus on getting us home instead of sending annoying texts?” She took a sip of bottled water and looked at me expectantly. “Any word from David?” “Don’t wait up,” I said, my voice eerily calm as I started searching for private security contacts. “He’s not going to text.” “What on earth are you talking about?” She paused, then waved a dismissive hand. “He’s probably just busy with the diplomats. High-level negotiations take time.” I walked to the window and pulled the heavy curtain back just an inch. Concrete barricades had been erected at the end of the block. An armored vehicle rumbled past, its treads grinding over debris with a sickening, metallic crunch. A man trying to flee with a suitcase was intercepted by soldiers in mismatched fatigues; they shoved him back toward the alleyways at gunpoint. The wind carried the scent of cordite and burning rubber, stinging my eyes. David was likely at thirty thousand feet by now, sipping bourbon in a pressurized cabin. Jennifer would be leaning her head on his shoulder. I looked at Beatrice—arrogant, demanding, and utterly clueless—and said nothing. I waited until 2:00 AM. That’s when the text finally arrived from David: [Just got a lead at the Consulate. Looks like I’ll be tied up in negotiations for a while. You and Mom get some sleep. Don’t wait for me.] I did the math. Nine hours had passed since he left. He had landed. He was safe on American soil, probably walking through a quiet, suburban airport. I thought for a moment, then typed back: [Understood.] Then, I screenshotted the exchange and forwarded it to my attorney back in Seattle. [2] By the second day, the hotel’s room service had ceased to exist. Beatrice scoured the kitchenette and slammed two stale packs of crackers onto the table. “This is it? Why didn’t you stock up on food, Andrea? You’re so useless!” If David hadn’t canceled our tickets, we would have been eating a home-cooked meal in our own kitchen by now. We wouldn’t have needed to “stock up.” “You don’t have a brain in your head,” she hissed. “The minute David isn’t here to hold your hand, you just sit around waiting to starve. I don’t know why my son married such a pathetic woman.” I ignored her. I was on a localized messaging app for expats. Someone posted a location for a grocery store on the west side that was still open, but it required crossing three checkpoints. You needed a pass. I contacted a few local fixers. Most were dark. One offered a car for three thousand dollars, with no guarantee we’d make it past the first block. Beatrice leaned over my shoulder. “Three thousand? That’s highway robbery! Don’t you dare spend David’s hard-earned money on that.” “Then I guess we wait for David’s ‘updates’ from the Consulate,” I replied. “Wait?” Beatrice shrieked. “Are you trying to starve me to death?” She grabbed her phone and dialed David. The second he picked up, she launched into a litany of complaints. “Caleb—I mean, David, honey! Your wife won’t even find me a decent meal. I’m an old woman, I shouldn’t be suffering like this! When are you coming to get me?” Through the speaker, I heard a muffled, chaotic background noise before David’s voice came through, low and guarded. “Mom, the city is locked down. I can’t get back to the hotel right now. Just stay put. Don’t go outside.” “But where are you? Is there a bed for me at the Consulate?” There was a long silence on the other end. Finally, David stammered, “Don’t worry about me. They’ve got us in a… temporary holding area. It’s fine. I’m safe.” Beatrice hung up and glared at me. “You hear that? David is out there in the trenches, probably sleeping on a cot, and you’re complaining about hotel food. You’re a disgrace.” I didn’t argue. He was in a house in the suburbs, yet he was telling his mother he was in a refugee camp. It was a lie so flimsy a child could see through it. Did she really not hear the lack of sirens in his background? The lack of gunfire? For dinner, we each had a pack of crackers softened with lukewarm water from the kettle. Beatrice took one bite and spat it out. “Disgusting! It’s like eating cardboard. My bridge is going to break!” She stormed into her bedroom, cursing under her breath. I picked up the discarded crackers and finished them. In a situation like this, pride is a luxury that gets you killed. Calories are the only thing that matters. It wasn’t until midnight that I heard movement in Beatrice’s room. I thought she was hungry and was about to check on her when I heard her voice, hushed but ecstatic. “I’m so glad you made it back safely.” A pause. “How is Jennifer? Is she okay? She needs to be careful, being pregnant and all. She shouldn’t be overexerting herself.” The name. The pregnancy. The truth hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. He had a child on the way. He had been living a double life for months, maybe years. My blood turned to ice. My fingertips went numb against the doorframe. Beatrice’s voice drifted through the wood again, colder this time. “Don’t worry about Andrea. I’m keeping an eye on her. She hasn’t suspected a thing.” “About the insurance… don’t be in such a rush. With the way things are out there, I just need to find a reason to get her to leave the room. There are bombs everywhere, David. If she gets caught in the crossfire, the payout is automatic. We won’t even have to get our hands dirty.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails drew blood. But the sting in my palms was nothing compared to the hole in my chest. Five years of marriage, incinerated in a single conversation. If they wanted me dead for a paycheck, fine. But they were about to learn that I wasn’t the victim they thought I was. [3] By using the last of my liquid cash to buy supplies from the expat group, I managed to keep us alive for three days. But when I tried to make another transfer, the screen flashed: Insufficient Funds. I thought it was a network error. I opened my banking app, my heart hammering. Every cent was gone. The joint savings, the emergency fund—all of it had been transferred to an account labeled WY Holdings. The transfer date? The night before David left. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone. When we got married, David insisted I quit my job in international logistics. He wanted me to be a “traditional” wife, to take care of his mother and focus on starting a family. I had no salary, but I had my rental income from a condo I’d bought before the wedding. I’d used that money to pay our mortgage and tucked the rest into our joint account. Now, I couldn’t even afford a loaf of bread. The sun filtered through the curtains, but I felt no warmth. My phone buzzed. David. I hit the record button before answering. “David? How are things? Are you and Mom okay?” I didn’t bother with the pleasantries. “Where is the money, David?” The line went silent for a beat. “What money?” “The eighty thousand dollars. Transferred to Jennifer’s holding account.” The air in the room seemed to vanish. He hadn’t expected me to find out so soon. When he spoke again, his voice was forcedly soft. “Annie, listen. Things are crazy right now. I had Jennifer move that to offshore accounts so we could convert it to cash. The banks here are crashing. I did it to make sure you and Mom have a way out!” I wasn’t in the mood for his scripts. “Where is she?” “She’s home! She got back days ago,” he said quickly. “Her family has connections. She got a priority seat.” “Is she standing next to you right now?” The line went dead. I didn’t call back. I saved the recording and sent it to my lawyer. Beatrice emerged from the bathroom, clutching her chest. Her face was pasty. “Andrea… my chest feels tight.” She had a heart condition. Between the stress and the lack of decent food, her health was cratering. I searched the luggage. Her nitroglycerin was down to two pills. “Andrea… give them to me…” I handed her the bottle. “This is it. There are only two left.” Her hands shook as she popped them into her mouth. She collapsed onto the sofa, eyes closed. After a few minutes, she opened them and snapped, “You need to go out and find a pharmacy. What if I have another attack tonight?” I looked at her. Really looked at her. “The city is under a strict curfew, Beatrice.” “So?” she barked. “I’m your mother-in-law! Are you just going to sit there and watch me die?” I knew what she was doing. She wanted me to step outside into the line of fire. “If I go out there and get hit by a stray bullet,” I said evenly, “you’ll be stuck in this room alone. And you will die.” That shut her up. Her lips trembled, but she couldn’t find a comeback. Around 3:00 PM, she demanded water. I poured her half a glass of lukewarm bottled water. She took a sip and spat it onto the carpet. “It’s cold! Why isn’t the kettle on?” “The power is out. The heater is dead.” “Then fix it! Call the front desk!” She slammed the glass onto the table, her face contorting. “I know what you’re doing, Andrea. I see you on that phone all day, flirting with those men in your ‘help groups.’ You want me dead so you can run off with some stranger and leave my son!” I said nothing. “David should have never married a low-class girl like you! You have no shame!” She worked herself into a frenzy, standing up to point a finger at me, her face turning a deep, dangerous purple. “I’m telling him the second we get back. He’s divorcing you. You won’t get a single penny of his money!” Mid-sentence, she gasped. She clutched her sternum and crumpled to the floor. I rushed to her, but her lips were already turning blue. She couldn’t speak. The pill bottle was empty. She gripped my sleeve, her eyes shifting from malice to sheer, primal terror. I lowered her gently to the floor. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “Your son wants you dead. I don’t.” Hating her was one thing. Letting her blood be on my hands was another. [4] It took ten minutes of focused CPR before her breathing stabilized. After that, she went quiet. She stopped badgering me to go outside. She rarely even picked up the phone to call David. And finally, I had my opening. I logged into an encrypted email account I hadn’t touched in five years. I sent a single message with my GPS coordinates. Three minutes later, my phone rang. A voice I hadn’t heard in years spoke: “Ms. Clifford? We have your location.” I gave him the hotel details. The response was immediate. “You’ve been moved to the highest priority extraction list. Assets are being diverted now. We’re bringing you home.” I hung up and stood by the window, watching the gray smoke settle over the skyline. David knew me as a former “corporate admin.” He had never bothered to ask what I actually did before I met him. Or maybe he just didn’t care. Before I left, I had one last move to make. At dawn, I knocked on Beatrice’s door. “Mom, I’m going out to find a pharmacy. Stay here and rest.” She looked at me, startled. She started to say something, then stopped. I saw the guilt flicker in her eyes for a split second—the thought of that insurance payout vs. the woman who had just saved her life. She didn’t stop me. I walked out the door. Artillery fire lit up the horizon like a gruesome sunrise. I didn’t return that night. Late into the evening, the lock on the hotel room clicked. Beatrice sat up, expecting me. Instead, three men in tactical gear entered the room. The leader flashed a badge. “Mrs. Beatrice Clifford? We’re with the U.S. Consulate. We’re here to evacuate you.” Beatrice was stunned. It took her a moment to find her voice. “When are we leaving?” “Now. We have a secure transport to the airfield. A private charter is waiting.” Tears flooded her eyes. she scrambled out of bed, but then she paused. “Wait… my daughter-in-law. She went out to get me medicine. We can’t leave without Andrea.” The man went silent for a moment, then shook his head solemnly. “Ma’am, the streets are a war zone. If she’s been out there all day… there’s no way she survived.” He checked his watch. “The window is closing. We have to go. If we hear anything about her, we’ll coordinate a search, but you need to move now.” Beatrice hesitated for maybe three seconds. Then, she grabbed her purse and followed them. Twenty-four hours later, the plane touched down in Seattle. David was waiting at the arrivals gate. He was wearing a brand-new cashmere overcoat, looking refreshed and successful. Jennifer was clinging to his arm, her hand resting on a barely-there baby bump. She wore oversized sunglasses, but she couldn’t hide the smug curve of her lips. “Mom!” David rushed forward, his eyes darting behind Beatrice. “You’re… you’re alone?” Beatrice nodded, her eyes red-rimmed. David froze. Then, a slow, electric excitement transformed his face. His voice dropped to a trembling whisper. “Where’s Andrea? Did she… did she not make it?” Beatrice didn’t answer. David’s eyes lit up. He looked back at Jennifer, and they exchanged a look of pure, predatory triumph. “Mom,” David whispered, leaning in. “I’m the sole beneficiary on her policy. If she died over there, that’s three million dollars. We’re set for life.” Jennifer patted her stomach and giggled. That’s when a voice drifted from behind them. “I’m not dead, David. Are you disappointed?”

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Fifteen years of bleeding and clawing my way through the underground emerald trade of the Muzo Valley had turned the business into marrow in my bones. Tonight was like any other. I was heading to an exclusive, invite-only underground auction to cherry-pick the finest rough stones. The rules in this lawless stretch of the Colombian jungle were unique: emeralds were the front, but in the shadows, “special commodities” occasionally found their way onto the auction block. Just as I turned the corner toward the holding pens, a girl curled in the grime of the corner suddenly lifted her head. She was a canvas of bruises and lacerations. Her eyes, hollowed out by a profound, agonizing despair, locked onto mine. It was a silent scream for help. I was about to look away when, without a shred of warning, lines of bizarre, glowing text began scrolling across my field of vision like a phantom ticker tape. [That’s the Davenport family’s discarded adopted daughter, Dawn!] [The biological heiress framed her, and her own brother personally threw her into this hellhole to be tortured.] [Word is, electrocution and whippings are just her daily routine. Next up, she’s going to be stripped naked and auctioned off to the highest bidder.] [The sickest part? The biological sister and the brother are in the VIP lounge right now, waiting to watch her hit rock bottom.] In the valley, curiosity kills you faster than a bullet. I forced down the strange twist in my gut, turning on my heel to leave this mess behind. But then, the phantom text refreshed. The new line made my blood run cold and froze my boots to the concrete. [Look! This emerald boss is actually Dawn’s real biological mother!] 1. My heart seized in my chest. The words hovering in the damp air struck me like physical blows. I did have a missing daughter. I had been tearing the world apart looking for her for fifteen long years. But this was the Muzo underground. Scams and traps were woven into the very air we breathed. I pulled my gaze away, my face an impenetrable mask as I weighed a raw emerald in my palm. I looked over at Hector, the syndicate lieutenant running tonight’s floor. “Color’s decent. Hector, you got any fresh inventory in the back?” Yet, from the corner of my eye, my gaze swept over the shivering girl again. The way her body was curled in upon itself, the specific, brutal distribution of her wounds… you couldn’t fake that. Hector offered a greasy, knowing smile. “Sure do. Just got a new batch in. If Ashley wants a look, be my guest.” The glowing text scrolled past my eyes again: [The boss lady is hesitating! Is she thinking about her own kid?] Feigning casual interest in the merchandise, I walked slowly over to the girl and crouched down. She was vibrating with terror, her eyes wide with the hyper-vigilance of a cornered animal. I noticed the red, swollen joints of her fingers, the dark grime packed beneath her torn fingernails. Those were the desperate, clawing marks of someone who had spent days struggling against heavy bindings. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “What’s your name? Where are you from?” Her lips were cracked and bleeding. Her voice was barely the hum of a dying moth. “Dawn… from New York…” “Who sent you here?” Tears spilled over her filthy cheeks, cutting pale tracks through the dirt. “Declan… my brother… no. Declan Davenport.” The text flickered: [The real daughter, Bianca, pushed herself down the stairs and framed Dawn, then claimed Dawn hired men to assault her.] [Declan bought it entirely. Sent her down to the cartel to “learn a lesson.” Said he’d only bring her back when she was broken and obedient…] Her trembling violently intensified, her mind clearly flashing back to the horrors she’d endured. I didn’t press her for more. I just stood up. That was enough. The details she gave matched the bizarre, ghostly text perfectly. It was enough to solidify one terrifying, undeniable truth in my mind. This wasn’t a setup. This broken girl was, in all likelihood, the child I had bled for fifteen years to find. I walked back to Hector, my spine steel. “That girl. I’m taking her.” Hector’s greasy smile vanished, replaced by a grimace. “Ashley, come on. You know I can’t do that.” “The Davenport heir paid top dollar. Gave explicit instructions to roll out the red carpet of misery for her. Told us to keep her breathing, but just barely.” I reached into my pocket and slammed an unpolished emerald onto a nearby crate. “This stone is enough to buy her ten times over.” Hector’s eyes locked onto the gem. I saw his Adam’s apple bob, the greed flashing hot and bright, but he ultimately shook his head. “Ashley, this ain’t about the cash.” “The Davenports have massive pull back in the States. If I let her walk, Declan Davenport comes down on my head, and I can’t afford that kind of heat.” I stared him down, the temperature in my eyes dropping to zero. “Hector, I’ve been running the Muzo Valley for fifteen years. When have I ever shortchanged you?” He offered a bitter, tight-lipped smile. “Don’t put me in this position, Val. The auction is starting in twenty minutes, and the Davenports are waiting in the skybox.” “Declan was clear. She goes on the block. He wants to watch her break.” I clenched my fists so hard my manicured nails broke the skin of my palms. Hector turned to leave. I shot my hand out, gripping his forearm like a vice. “And if I take her anyway?” His expression darkened into something lethal. “You know the rules down here, Val.” “You take her by force, you declare war on us.” 2. I released his arm, smoothing my expression into terrifying calm. “Here’s how this works. You hand her over to me, and I’ll handle Declan Davenport. He comes looking for blood, he comes to my door. I’ll carry the weight.” Hector hesitated. “Ashley, can you? The Davenport empire back in New York is—” I let out a low, dark laugh. The sound scraped against the concrete walls. “I’ve been in the jungle for fifteen years. I have blood on my hands and I’ve pulled people from the edge of the machete. I don’t care how big the Davenports are. Do you really think their manicured hands can reach all the way down into my valley?” He still shook his head, stubborn and afraid. “No. You don’t get it. Declan’s orders are absolute. Please, Ashley, just walk away.” I didn’t waste another breath. I turned my back on him and walked straight toward the holding cell. The text was scrolling frantically now: [Dawn has been locked up for seven days. Electrocuted three times. Whipped every single day.] [She’s nothing but open wounds. She’s going to die if this keeps up.] [Declan has no idea what the Colombian underworld actually is. He thought it was just a time-out in a dirty room.] I pulled out my satellite phone and hit speed dial. Minutes later, five of my personal enforcers stepped out of the shadows. I walked straight into the cell. Dawn shrank into the corner, staring at me with hollow, uncomprehending eyes. I knelt down and gently examined the damage. Up close, it was a nightmare. Her back was a crosshatch of whip marks, some of the deeper lacerations turning necrotic. Her slender arms were dotted with the unmistakable, perfectly circular burns of a cattle prod, new burns layered over blistering old ones. “Can you walk?” I asked softly. She nodded, fighting to push herself up. Her legs buckled instantly. I caught her waist, hauling her up against me. I looked at Dane, my lead enforcer. “We’re taking her.” The moment we stepped out of the holding area, the corridor was flooded with a sea of armed men. Hector stood at the front, his face like thunder. “Ashley, what the hell is this? You’re hijacking my merchandise on my turf?” I stepped in front of Dawn, shielding her broken body with my own. “Hector, I told you. This girl is mine. You’ll get every cent you’re owed.” Hector laughed, a dry, dead sound. “Money? The Davenports aren’t paying me a one-off fee, Val. They offered us a permanent, sanitized smuggling pipeline into the States. You’re one woman. How are you going to outbid a dynasty?” Dane drew his Glock. The metallic shhhk echoed loudly. Instantly, Hector’s men raised their assault rifles. A Mexican standoff in a humid, blood-stained hallway. Hector casually lit a cigarette, the flare illuminating his cold eyes. “Ashley, out of respect for our shared history, I’m giving you one last out. Put the girl down and walk away.” “The auction starts in five minutes. The Davenports are watching. If you walk out with her, I’m a dead man, which means I have to kill you first.” I held his gaze, unblinking. “And if I say she leaves with me, no matter what?” His smile vanished. “Then don’t blame me for what happens next.” Beside me, Dane murmured, his voice tight. “Boss, we’re outnumbered six to one.” The glowing text in my vision began to panic: [Oh my god! Ashley only has five guys, Hector has at least thirty!] [Declan and Bianca realized Dawn hasn’t been brought out yet—they’re coming down! They’re already at the door!!!] As if cued by the text, the heavy sound of footsteps echoed behind us. The sharp, measured click of expensive leather oxfords against concrete. A group rounded the corner of the corridor. Leading the pack was a young man. Impeccably tailored Tom Ford suit, cold, aristocratic features, and eyes that surveyed the grime around him with an air of absolute, god-like disdain. Clinging to his arm was a girl in a pristine white designer dress. Her makeup was flawless, but the way her eyes darted toward Dawn was laced with a raw, unfiltered malice. The text flashed: [Here they come! Declan and Bianca!] [Bianca plays the innocent angel so well. Anyone else would think she came here to rescue her dear sister.] Declan’s icy gaze swept over the standoff, lingering on me for a second before his brow furrowed in annoyance. He turned to Hector, his tone laced with impatient authority. “Hector. Why is our ‘cargo’ still down here? The auction is supposed to be underway.” 3. Hector immediately stepped forward, his aggressive posture melting into a sycophantic hustle. “Mr. Davenport, sir. Didn’t expect you down here. Just a minor misunderstanding, I’ll have it cleared up in a second.” Declan’s eyes slid back to me, then drifted to the trembling girl pressed behind my back. He looked at her the way one might look at a defective piece of machinery. “Who is this?” he asked Hector, gesturing to me. “Ashley. She runs a large cut of the emerald trade down here,” Hector rushed to explain. “Ashley, this is Declan Davenport, heir to the Davenport dynasty in New York.” Declan finally looked me in the eye. He looked me up and down, a faint sneer playing on his lips. “An emerald dealer? Running things in the jungle?” I didn’t take the bait. Instead, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the rough stone, and held it flat on my palm. Under the flickering fluorescent lights, the stone was a miracle. Translucent, a flawless, hypnotic green. An Imperial Muzo Drop—the kind of stone that started wars. “Mr. Davenport. Word is you came down here looking for premium supply.” I held the emerald a fraction closer. “This is an Imperial Green. Market value is a clean eight million.” “I am trading it for the girl.” Declan’s eyes locked onto the stone for a fraction of a second. I saw the tremor of absolute avarice in his pupils. Anyone with a brain knew a stone like this was a once-in-a-lifetime find. But he quickly masked it, his voice returning to its flat, arrogant drawl. “Generous offer, Ashley. But the Davenport empire isn’t exactly hurting for cash.” I pocketed the stone, keeping my chin level. “Then what are you hurting for, Declan? New veins? Shipping routes?” “Or maybe the right friends in the valley?” “You might play God in Manhattan, but down here, there are doors money simply cannot open.” Declan narrowed his eyes, reassessing me. From behind him, Bianca poked her head out, her voice shrill and grating. “Declan, don’t listen to her! She’s probably working with Dawn!” I ignored the girl entirely, keeping my eyes locked on the brother. “You threw her into a cartel meat grinder to teach her a lesson. Fine.” “But now you have a buyer offering premium value to take the problem off your hands. You keep your pride, you keep your hands clean. Why refuse?” Declan fell silent, the gears turning behind his cold eyes. But Hector interjected, his face tight. “Ashley, it’s not about disrespecting you.” “Mr. Davenport isn’t offering cash. He’s offering a permanent, frictionless shipping route.” “If I break his deal, who in this valley will ever trust my word again?” I turned my head, my voice eerily calm. “Hector. Fifteen years I’ve run in this jungle. Have I ever let you drown?” “That sweet little border route you use to move weight into the US? Who do you think paved that for you?” Hector’s color drained. I took a step forward. “Think very carefully about your next move. The Davenports are offering you money. If you lose money, you can make more.” “But if the ledgers I hold on you ever see the light of day, you won’t live long enough to spend a dime of it.” His eyes darted away, terrified to meet my gaze. Declan’s brow furrowed, his voice dropping an octave. “Are you threatening my associate, Ashley?” I turned back to him, perfectly composed. “You’re mistaken, Mr. Davenport. I’m negotiating.” “You can blot out the sun in New York, but this is my valley.” “One phone call from me, and your precious new cargo routes will be frozen at the border for a decade. Do you want to test me?” Declan’s face darkened into a mask of pure fury. He stared at me, his eyes like broken glass. “You are threatening me.” “It’s not a threat,” I said, leaning in. “It’s a promise.” “You want to treat her like a piece of meat to be humiliated, then I’m treating this like a business transaction.” “You don’t sell, I take. You call your private armies from the States, I make sure you don’t survive the trip back to the tarmac.” “A dragon from the city doesn’t mess with the snake in the grass. And frankly, Declan, you’re not much of a dragon.” The corridor fell into a breathless, heavy silence. Bianca couldn’t take it anymore. She practically shrieked, her perfect facade cracking. “Who the hell do you think you are?! How dare you speak to my brother like that!” She pointed a manicured, trembling finger at me. “Declan! Look at her! She’s obviously in on it with Dawn! Have these men arrest her!” Declan raised a hand, silencing her instantly. He looked at me, a mirthless smile touching his lips. “You’ve got nerve, I’ll give you that.” “But,” he continued, his tone shifting into something cruel, “all this grandstanding is just to protect the girl.” “Do you even know her? Do you have any idea what she’s capable of?” I stared at him, biting off every single word. “Do you?” Declan blinked, thrown off balance. I took a slow, deliberate breath. “You say she hurt Bianca. Where’s the police report? Where’s the footage?” “You say she stole. Where’s the fenced merchandise? You say she plotted a hit. Where’s the motive?” “Bianca cries wolf, and you instantly load the gun.” “Did you hire an investigator? Did you sit Dawn down and ask her? Did you give her a single, solitary second to defend herself?” Declan’s face went rigid. “Davenport family matters are none of your concern, you underground thug.” I laughed, a sharp, biting sound that echoed off the walls. “For a ruthless Manhattan CEO, you’re embarrassingly naive.” “You run a billion-dollar empire based on hearsay and the tears of a teenager?” “I’m not concerning myself with your family. I’m pointing out that you are a fool.” 4. Bianca shrieked, “Are you suicidal?! You dare call my brother a fool?!” I snapped my head toward her, my eyes blazing. “Shut your mouth.” Bianca gasped, her eyes going wide, entirely unaccustomed to being spoken to like a dog. I ignored her, locking back onto Declan. “You call her the ‘fake’ daughter. You say she’s adopted. So you think she deserves to be tortured.” “You say she hurt Bianca, so she deserves to be thrown into a cartel dungeon. You say she’s a criminal, so she deserves to be stripped naked and sold.” “Let me ask you something, Declan. If it were Bianca strapped to that wall right now, covered in burn marks, would you still be standing here negotiating?” Declan’s pupils contracted violently. Bianca started screaming again. “What are you talking about! I’m the true Davenport heiress!” “She’s a stray! A parasite from nowhere!” “She deserves this! She deserves to be sold to the filthiest corner of the earth!” “Bianca!” Declan barked, his voice cracking like a whip. The scrolling text exploded: [Bianca is losing it! The mask is slipping!] [Declan’s face is completely white. Is he finally putting two and two together?] Declan stared at me, a profound, chaotic storm brewing in his eyes. He was silent for a long time. So long that the damp air in the corridor felt like it was solidifying. When he finally spoke, his voice was a raspy whisper. “What exactly is it that you want?” I didn’t answer with words. I reached behind me, grabbed the collar of Dawn’s ruined, blood-soaked shirt, and ripped it open. Dawn let out a small, terrified gasp, but she didn’t pull away. The hideous, rotting canvas of her flesh was bathed in the harsh fluorescent light. Lacerations overlapping like a twisted grid. Deep purple bruising. But worst of all were the burns—the charred, blistered craters from the cattle prods dug deep into the delicate skin just below her collarbone. I turned her slightly, forcing Declan to look at exactly what he had authorized. “Mr. Davenport. Is this what you call ‘learning a lesson’?” Declan flinched, a visceral, physical recoil. Raw shock bled through his aristocratic mask. Bianca’s face drained of color, but she rallied instantly. “Declan, these jungle thugs just don’t understand restraint, they just went a little too far—” “Shut up.” Declan’s voice was lethal, hollowed out. “Bianca, what is this?” Bianca’s lips trembled. “Declan… I…” I didn’t give her an inch to breathe. I drove the knife in. “Declan Davenport. You sit in your penthouse on Fifth Avenue. Do you have any idea what it feels like when a leather whip splits open human skin?” “Do you know the smell of a girl’s flesh cooking around the prongs of a stun baton?” “This isn’t discipline. It’s attempted murder.” Declan stopped breathing. He stared at the charred craters on Dawn’s chest. He stared for a very, very long time. Then he slowly looked up at me. “Ashley. This is internal Davenport family business.” I let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Family business? You butcher a girl and call it an HR issue?” Declan took a shuddering breath, visibly fighting to contain a rising tide of panic and rage. “I do not want to waste any more time on this. Name your price. How much money will it take for you to walk away right now?” I looked at him, and I felt nothing but profound, devastating pity. Even now, even staring at the mutilated body of a girl he raised, he thought he could buy his way out of the guilt. “I don’t want your money. I want her.” Declan’s fragile patience snapped. He turned to Hector, his voice cold and flat. “Take her down. I assume full responsibility for the fallout.” Hector raised his hand. The safeties on thirty assault rifles clicked off. Dane and my four men raised their Glocks, forming a tight perimeter around me. The tension was a wire pulled to the breaking point. Bianca cowered behind Declan, her voice dripping with venomous glee. “Do it! Just shoot her and drag Dawn out of here!” Two of Hector’s heavies lunged forward, their thick hands reaching for Dawn. I spun around, shoving Dawn behind me, shielding her completely. My eyes were two black pits of rage as I leveled a glare at Declan and Bianca that could have stopped a heart. “Touch her and you die.” “Your family took her in for twenty years, and you think that gives you the right to treat her like a stray dog? To break her, sell her, and slaughter her?” “Listen to me, Declan Davenport. What you did wasn’t discipline. It’s a felony. It’s a butchery.” “And I swear to God, not a single one of you has the right to lay another finger on her!” I took a deep breath, my chest heaving, my voice trembling with the weight of fifteen agonizing years. “Because she is my daughter.” “She is the child I have been hunting the earth for, for fifteen years!”

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The day before I woke up in my eighteen-year-old body, I found a weathered journal hidden in the back of my husband’s safe. My husband, Silas, was a man the media called an “iceberg”—brilliant, devastatingly handsome, and perpetually cold. Our marriage had been a clean, efficient business arrangement. Or so I thought until I read a single line in that diary: “If I had only been more assertive back then, would things have turned out differently?” I closed the book, my heart aching. I assumed he was mourning the “one who got away,” the girl he truly loved before he was shackled to me. I told myself then: Fine. If he’s still dreaming about his ‘white moonlight,’ I’ll go find my first love. We’ll call it even and find our own peace. But then, the universe shifted. I woke up ten years in the past. On my second day back in high school, Silas—the teenage version, sharper and even more intimidating—cornered me against a brick wall in the equipment hallway and kissed me with a desperation that left me breathless and shattered. Stunned, I went back and re-read the memories of that journal in my mind, searching for what I’d missed. That’s when I realized there was a second line written directly beneath the first, scrawled in frantic, heavy ink: “If I had only been more assertive back then, her ex wouldn’t have stood a chance. Our kids would be running around the garden by now.” 1 I had always lived with the ghost of Silas’s unrequited love. He knew my reasons for marrying him, too. Beyond the merger of our families’ real estate empires, there was a jagged piece of me that wanted to spite my ex-boyfriend. We were two people occupying the same house, living parallel lives. I just didn’t realize Silas’s obsession ran so much deeper than mine. The day before the “glitch” happened, I found the journal. The entries spanned seven years, the most recent being only three days old. I’d traced the worn edges of the paper until I hit that line about his regrets. I couldn’t bear to read further. The pain of being a second choice was a weight I’d carried for years. So, when I opened my eyes and found myself standing on the high school track field, staring at an eighteen-year-old Silas, I did the only logical thing. I turned around and ran. In my first life, my best friend had goaded me into asking for his number. That was the spark that eventually led to our transactional engagement years later. This time, I was going to set the tracks straight. I wasn’t going to be the consolation prize. My best friend, Jessie, grabbed my arm, yanking me back to the present. “Maya, what are you doing? It’s just a phone number. Why are you running like you saw a ghost?” I forced my eyes away from Silas, who was standing near the bleachers, looking like a dark prince in a varsity jacket. “He’s not my type, Jessie. You know that. My heart is already set on someone else.” Jessie sighed, her disappointment palpable. “You mean Jason? He’s sweet, I guess, and he’s… safe. But he’s a puddle compared to Silas. You guys don’t even vibe.” I started walking away, pulling her with me, when she suddenly squeezed my arm so hard it bruised. “Oh my god! He’s coming over!” My stomach dropped. “Who?” “Hi. I’m Silas.” The voice was lower than I remembered, vibrating through my spine. I took several steadying breaths before I dared to turn around. He was there. Eighteen-year-old Silas was leaner, his expression more guarded, but his eyes had that same piercing intensity that used to make me forget my own name. 2 Silas held out his phone, the screen already open to a new contact page. “I’d like to get to know you. If that’s okay.” I froze. This wasn’t how it happened before. In the original timeline, I was the one who chased him. This felt… wrong. Jessie was vibrating with excitement beside me. She didn’t wait for my permission; she snatched my phone out of my hand, swiped it open—god, I cursed myself for telling her my passcode—and exchanged numbers with him before I could blink. I ground my teeth. Note to self: Jessie is officially fired from being my future maid of honor. After the exchange, Silas didn’t say a word. He just stood there, his gaze lingering on my face as if he were memorizing a map he thought he’d lost. I felt exposed under his stare. I grabbed Jessie’s hand to flee, but a cheerful voice stopped us. “Maya! Hey! I brought you those fish tacos you like!” Jason ran toward us, balancing a few greasy bags. He looked exactly how I remembered—kind, a bit messy, and utterly boyish. I smiled, reaching out for the food, but Silas stepped between us. “She’s allergic to shellfish.” The world seemed to go silent. Jason blinked. Jessie stared. I stood there, paralyzed. I am allergic to shellfish. But Jason didn’t find that out until our sophomore year of college when I ended up in the ER after a date. And back then, Silas and I barely spoke. He was always working, always busy with the “merger.” The only time I’d had a major reaction during our marriage was at a corporate gala. I’d passed out after a stray appetizer, and when I woke up in the hospital, the room was empty. I’d assumed Silas was too busy with his clients to stay. But in the hazy moments of waking, I could have sworn I saw his face hovering over mine. “Wait, how did you know that?” Jason asked, looking confused. Silas didn’t answer him. Instead, he took the bag from Jason’s hand and began sorting through it with clinical precision. “She doesn’t eat onions in her wraps. She hates honey mustard. This chicken is too greasy, and this dessert has way too much artificial syrup…” He finally pulled out a plain fruit cup. “This is the only thing here that won’t make her sick.” Fear pricked at my skin. Something was very different about this Silas. I didn’t wait for an explanation; I grabbed Jessie and bolted toward the gym. “Do you know him?” Jessie panted as we ran. “Have you two been secret pen pals or something?” “No,” I lied, my heart hammering. “I’ve never spoken to him in my life.” “Then he’s either a stalker or a psychic, Maya. He knows your coffee order better than your own boyfriend does!” 3 Back in the classroom, Jason was sulking. “That guy… are you sure you don’t know him?” I shook my head, staring at my textbook. “Forget him, Jason. He’s just some arrogant jerk from the honors track.” I glanced toward the door. A shadow passed by the frosted glass. It was Silas. He was pacing the hallway, his shadow flickering every few seconds as he glanced into our room. Jason finally relaxed after I spent ten minutes ego-stroking him. “Maya, I wanted to tell you something.” My heart sank. Here it was. The moment that defined my first life. “I’m applying for the exchange program in London for next year.” I already knew the script. This was the beginning of the end for us. “I have to go,” he continued, holding my hand tightly. “My grades aren’t like yours. If I stay here, I won’t get into a top-tier school. But don’t worry. Once you graduate, we’ll be together. I’ll finish my three years abroad, and then we’ll get married. It’s just three years…” Just three years. He said it so easily. In my previous life, those three years were the loneliest of my existence. I stayed loyal, turning down every invitation, waiting for a man who eventually told me he needed another two years for a Master’s degree because he “needed to be worthy of me.” That was why, when my mother told me about the arrangement with Silas’s family, I had said yes. It wasn’t just spite. It was exhaustion. I was tired of waiting for a ghost. “Maya? Are you okay? You look pale.” I forced a smile and nodded. “Go for it, Jason. I support you.” Jason looked shocked that I didn’t put up a fight. He pressed my hand to his cheek. “I knew you’d understand. You’re the best. I’ll give you the wedding of your dreams one day, I promise.” Outside in the hall, a loud crash echoed, followed by a curse. “Watch where the hell you’re going!” It was Silas. He’d “accidentally” bumped into a janitor’s cart right outside our door. I pulled my hand away from Jason’s. “It’s too early to talk about weddings,” I whispered. 4 By the end of the day, my head was spinning. I tried to leave through the side exit, only to find Silas leaning against the brickwork, waiting. Does he have a tracker on me? He’s supposed to be chasing his mysterious first love, not me. “Maya. Let’s grab dinner.” I kept my head down. “I can’t. Jason is waiting for me.” Silas’s eyes flashed with a dark, sharp light. “Then let him wait. Or better yet, tell him I intercepted you.” I let out a sharp, frustrated laugh. “I didn’t realize you were such a prick, Silas.” “If you want to have this out, let’s do it,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Fine,” I snapped. “Look, I know how this works. Our families want a merger. It’s business. There are no feelings involved, and there never will be. Since we have a chance to do things over, let’s just stay out of each other’s way. You go your way, I’ll go mine.” Silas didn’t move. “I am going my way. You’re just standing in the middle of it.” I tried to push past him, but he followed me like a shadow. He was relentless. Jason was waiting by the cafeteria entrance, his face darkening when he saw Silas trailing behind me. “What is he doing here?” Before I could explain, Silas cut in. “It’s a public school, isn’t it? Or do you own the cafeteria now?” I wondered if Silas had hit his head during the time-jump. The man I knew was a man of few words, a statue of decorum. This version was a nightmare. He sat at our table, ignoring Jason entirely. When my tray arrived, Silas swapped it for a premium-looking bento box he’d pulled from his bag. It was the exact same brand and model of lunchbox he used to carry to the office. I opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was exactly what I used to eat for lunch every day during our marriage: grilled shrimp (cleaned perfectly), steamed broccoli, and a soft-boiled egg cut into a heart. But our housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, always made my lunches. Or so I thought. I took a bite. The flavor was identical. “Did you make this?” He nodded. “Every single one. Even the ones from before.” Jason slammed his fork down. “Maya, you told me you didn’t know this guy!” I was trapped. I pulled out my phone under the table and shot Silas a text. Stop it. Don’t you have a ‘white moonlight’ to go chase? Go find the girl you actually love and leave me alone! I looked up, and the look in Silas’s eyes stopped my heart. It was the same look he gave me on our wedding night—intense, hungry, and devastatingly sad. He checked his phone, read the text, and said nothing. He simply reached across the table and wiped a stray drop of sauce from my lip with his thumb. My anxiety spiked. Where was his unrequited love? What about the regret in his diary? Then, a memory of a middle page of that journal surfaced: “I’ve wanted to make her lunch since we were kids. I didn’t think I’d have to wait until we were married to do it. At least that loser Jason is a thousand miles away now…” 5 “Hey!” Jason shouted, standing up. “I don’t know what your problem is, but she’s my girlfriend. We’re going to be together forever. Stay away from her!” Silas let out a cold, soft chuckle. “You won’t get married. Not in the last life, not in this one, and definitely not in the next.” Jason, thinking Silas was just being a jerk, grabbed my arm to pull me away, knocking the lunchbox onto the floor in the process. I looked back at Silas. He was sitting there, staring at the ruined food on the floor, looking smaller than I’d ever seen him. If he really had been the one making my meals all those years… I owed him more than this. Once Jason dragged me outside, I finally snapped. “Jason, that was uncalled for. You didn’t have to ruin the food. It’s wasteful.” Jason grabbed my shoulders, his hands shaking. “I don’t know what it is, Maya, but every time I see him, I feel like he’s about to steal you. I’m just… I’m scared of losing you.” I sighed, patting his back. “It’s fine. I’m here.” That night, I had cafeteria duty. By the time I finished cleaning the classrooms, it was 9:30 PM. Jason had promised to wait for me, but his car was nowhere to be found. I’ve always been terrified of the dark. Our school was deep in the suburbs, and the walk to the gate was a fifteen-minute trek through poorly lit paths. I started to jog, my breath hitching in my throat. I heard footsteps behind me. I spun around, but the path was empty. A few yards later, a hand tapped my shoulder. I screamed, spinning to find a guy with greasy hair and a face full of acne shoving a phone in my face. “Hey, beautiful. Give me your number?” I backed away, my hands up. “I… I’m not interested.” He stepped closer, his smile predatory. “Come on, don’t be like that. Just one look.” Suddenly, a heavy arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me back against a warm, solid chest. The scent of sandalwood and expensive soap—my favorite scent, the one I’d bought for him—filled my lungs. “You walk too slow,” Silas’s deep voice vibrated against my ear. “I’ve been waiting for you at the gate for twenty minutes.” He turned his cold gaze to the stranger. “Is there a problem?” The guy scoffed. “Just trying to get a number, man. You know how it is.” He actually had the nerve to wink at Silas. “Get out,” Silas growled. His fist clenched so hard his knuckles popped. I think the guy realized that Silas was about five seconds away from a felony charge. He scrambled away into the shadows. 6 The walk to the gate felt much shorter with Silas beside me. My driver’s car was waiting with its lights flashing. “Thanks for today,” I whispered, turning to him. Silas leaned down, his lips inches from mine. “Your boyfriend threw away the lunch I made for you. How are you going to make it up to me?” I couldn’t move. If I breathed too deeply, our lips would touch. “I’ll… I’ll make you lunch tomorrow.” “Good. And you’ll eat it with me.” “Okay.” As soon as I got into the car, I put my head in my hands. How was I going to explain this to Jason?

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April suddenly cornered me, her eyes red and rimmed with exhausted tears, demanding to know why I was constantly protecting Gemma. She reminded me, her voice cracking, that she was my wife. In that exact moment, a bitter clarity washed over me. I finally understood why she had been so relentless about bringing Oliver—her chronically ill childhood sweetheart—into our home. The untouchable first love. The ghost of what could have been. The damage they can inflict is legendary for a reason. Just a few hours prior, Gemma had stood on my porch, soaked to the bone, missing the sight in one eye. I hadn’t seen her in years. She looked brittle, her eyes clouded with a dark, heavy melancholy. The slightest touch made her flinch violently. My heart ached so fiercely I bypassed all logic, ushering her directly into our house. These past few days, I’ve poured every ounce of myself into caring for her. Coaxing her, sitting with her in the quiet, making sure she felt safe. I was so consumed by it, I realized I no longer even had the energy to fight with April. 1 It was raining in sheets the second time I saw Gemma. I was leaning against the porch pillars of our house, staring up at the pitch-black sky, a hollow kind of despair echoing in my chest. Oliver had mentioned, offhandedly, that he’d never seen the ocean. So, April simply forgot our wedding anniversary. She dropped every single one of her work commitments and flew him out to Santorini. It wasn’t the first time. Ever since Oliver moved back to the States, everything about him took precedence over me. At dinners, we ate whatever his fragile stomach could handle. On weekends, we went wherever his restless mind desired. I kept forcing myself to swallow the resentment. I told myself Oliver had a severe heart condition. That he was pitiable. That I needed to be the bigger person and make space for him. That was the narrative I clung to. Right up until April’s birthday. I had dressed up for her, slipping into that tailored uniform she always loved, and straddled her lap. Her breath hitched instantly. Her hands gripped my hips, pulling me down with a fierce, hungry intensity. And then, the phone rang. Not just any ringtone. The custom chime she had set exclusively for him. God, I wanted her to ignore it. I wanted her to be so consumed by me, by us, that the rest of the world ceased to exist. But reality is a cruel director. The chime rang for exactly three seconds before the desire completely bled out of her eyes. She answered it, muttered two frantic sentences, grabbed her coat, and rushed out the door. Leaving me alone. Tangled in the sheets, breathless, and utterly discarded. Even then, I tried to rationalize it. What if he was actually having a medical emergency? He really was sick, after all. I spent hours pacing the dark house, coaxing my bruised ego back into something resembling peace. Then I opened my phone. The first thing on my feed was Oliver’s latest post. It was a picture of a misshapen, homemade cake. The frosting letters were shaky, the piping was a disaster. But my eyes immediately locked onto the corner of the frame. A sliver of a woman’s hand rested on the table. On her ring finger was the exact match to my wedding band. April. My brain desperately scrambled for an excuse, an alibi, anything. Then I read his caption, and the world just stopped spinning. “The Princess never breaks her oath. She will always protect her Knight. But this time, the Knight isn’t hurt. He made a little surprise instead! Baked with my own two hands. Happy Birthday to my most loyal Princess~” He wasn’t in the hospital. He wasn’t dying. My heart felt like it had been fileted open. The pain was so sharp, so blinding, that my eyes burned. I curled into a tight ball on the edge of the sofa, unable to stop the violent tremors wracking my body. The next afternoon, April came home. We had the most explosive, shattering fight of our marriage. And the result? She moved Oliver directly into our house. I fought it with everything I had. I screamed until my throat was raw, demanding she throw him out. Right on cue, Oliver clutched his chest, gasped for air, and was rushed away in an ambulance. Since then, my life had devolved into a sick, twisted purgatory. It always started with a screaming match with April, and ended with Oliver in a hospital bed. A perfect, inescapable loop. Now, all I felt was bone-deep exhaustion. I could turn on every light in this massive house, and it wouldn’t chase away the chill. I was so incredibly lonely. Right then, a strange prickle on the back of my neck made me look up. Through the driving rain, I locked onto a pair of eyes—so familiar, yet entirely foreign. 2 It was Gemma. She was standing beneath the amber glow of a streetlamp just beyond our driveway. She looked so entirely different. She was gaunt. That fierce, radiant arrogance she used to carry was entirely gone, replaced by overgrown bangs that hung limply over half her face. She didn’t have an umbrella. The rain had plastered her thin white dress to her fragile frame. She looked like a stray dog, beaten down by the world. Suddenly, her shoulders flinched. She realized I was looking at her. Panic seized her, and she pivoted, trying to flee into the dark. But something was terribly wrong with her coordination. She barely took two steps before her legs gave out, sending her crashing onto the wet asphalt. All my quiet, suffocating grief vanished. I bolted off the porch, sprinting into the downpour, and pulled her up by her arms. “Gemma? My god, are you alright?” In the weak, flickering light of the streetlamp, I pushed the wet hair from her face. My breath caught in my throat. “What happened to your eye?” One of her eyes was a milky, clouded gray. There was no life in it, no reflection of the light. Just a dead, foggy abyss. She turned her head away sharply, like a terrified stray cat, burying her face in the shadows. “I can’t… I can’t see out of this one,” she whispered, her voice violently shaking. My heart shattered for her. She had been the brilliant, untouchable girl I chased through my adolescence. Seeing her reduced to this broke something inside me. I guided her gently into the house, grabbing a thick, plush towel from the hall closet and wrapping it around her shivering shoulders. “Go take a hot shower. Please. Before you freeze to death.” Gemma nodded mutely. She kept her eyes cast down, her pale, trembling fingers struggling to grasp the wet buttons of her dress. I quickly turned around, giving her privacy. “Go ahead. I’ll run up and grab you some dry clothes.” I jogged up to the master closet, pulling out a set of April’s silk pajamas. But when I came back down, Gemma was still standing outside the bathroom, frozen, her fingers clumsily wrestling with the same button. She felt my gaze and dropped her chin to her chest, her cheeks burning with deep humiliation. “I… ever since I lost my sight, my motor skills are misfiring. The doctors called it sensory processing disorder…” A violent shudder ran through her, the last bit of color draining from her lips. Every rational thought in my head evaporated. I dropped the clothes and rushed over. “It’s okay. Let me help.” She went completely still, incredibly docile, just watching me as my fingers worked the soaked buttons loose, one by one. At one point, my knuckle accidentally brushed against the icy skin of her collarbone. She let out a sharp, involuntary gasp, and the tips of her ears flushed crimson. Suddenly, her hand shot out, gripping my wrist tight. “I-I can do it…” she stammered. The sudden intimacy hit me like a delayed shockwave. I felt a rush of heat to my own face and was just about to pull away when a furious voice ripped through the silence. “Colin! What the hell are you doing?!” I snapped my head around. April was standing in the foyer, her coat dripping water onto the hardwood. My brow furrowed instantly. “What are you doing here?” “If I hadn’t come home, were you just going to fuck her in my hallway?!” Her face was twisted in absolute rage, but honestly, all I felt was a rising, suffocating irritation. “April, watch your mouth. Gemma is an old friend. There is nothing going on between us!” “Nothing going on? I just walked in on you undressing her! You call that nothing?!” “Are you incapable of listening? I just told you—” Before I could fully launch into the fight, Gemma’s cold hand tightened around mine. “Colin, please. This is all my fault. Don’t fight with your wife because of me.” She stepped away from me, turned to April, and offered a deep, trembling bow. “April, please don’t misunderstand him. I’ve been very sick. He was only trying to help me because my hands won’t work. I just wanted to see him one last time… and I have. I’ll leave right now. I’m so sorry for intruding.” Her voice was so fragile it threatened to break on every syllable. A fierce wave of protectiveness surged through me. I pulled her back by her arm. “Don’t listen to her, Gemma. You’re staying here. I’m going to take care of you.” “Are you out of your damn mind, Colin?!” April screamed. “Who the hell moves another woman into their house to ‘take care’ of her?!” Just as the words left her mouth, a soft, weak voice drifted out from the hallway behind her. “April… are you fighting with Colin over me again?” 3 April froze, the anger draining from her face, leaving a stunned silence in its wake. Seeing she wasn’t going to answer, Oliver stepped out of the shadows. When his eyes landed on Gemma, a brief flicker of surprise crossed his face. But it was gone in a second. His eyes instantly welled up with tears, and he looked at me with this sickeningly pathetic, pleading expression. “This is all my fault, Colin. I never should have mentioned I wanted to see the ocean. Then April wouldn’t have left you to take me to Santorini.” He turned his tragic gaze back to her. “Thank God the storm grounded our flight. You should stay here with him tonight, April. I’ll go pack my things.” April’s face instantly crumpled into pure devotion. “Oliver, no. You are not leaving. This is your home. You stay exactly as long as you need to!” Normally, this is where I would snap. Where I would demand to know how she could unilaterally give away half the house that I paid for. But tonight? I just nodded, letting a cold smile touch my lips. “You’re absolutely right. Which means the exact same rules apply to Gemma. This is your home now, Gemma. Stay as long as you want. Don’t worry about what anyone else says.” April stared at me like I had lost my mind. “‘Anyone else’? Colin, I am your wife!” Before I could even formulate a response, Oliver gasped, his hand clutching the fabric over his heart. “April… it hurts.” It was like a switch flipped. April forgot I even existed. She wrapped her arms around him and half-carried him toward his bedroom. I let out a long, heavy exhale, practically pushing Gemma into the bathroom to finally get warm. While she showered, I went to the hall closet and pulled out April’s most expensive silk sheets, the ones she saved for special occasions, and meticulously made the bed in the guest room. When I finished, I stood guard outside the bathroom door. With her sensory issues, I was terrified she might slip and crack her head open. While I was waiting, April came marching down the hall, holding a glass of water for Oliver’s medication. She paused, looking at me with a cold, mocking sneer. “You don’t need to play the pathetic simp for some stray just to get back at me, Colin.” I opened my mouth to tell her exactly where she could shove her arrogance, but the bathroom door clicked open. April’s eyes practically bugged out of her head. Her voice hit a shrill, hysterical pitch. “Colin! Did you seriously put that bitch in my pajamas?!” Gemma, still flushed from the steam, instantly panicked. Her hands hovered nervously over the silk fabric, her lip trembling. “Colin, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know these were hers. I’ll take them off right now—” I caught her wrists. “You are not taking off anything. Your clothes are ruined. You’re wearing these.” I turned my glare entirely on April. “Can you be any more petty? It’s a piece of fabric. Get over it.” April’s chest heaved, her face red with pure fury. “It’s not about the clothes, Colin! Do you even remember who the woman of this house is?!” Just then, Oliver’s bedroom door swung open. “April? Is everything okay? You’ve been gone a long time…” He was wearing the monogrammed robe April had bought for us as a couple’s set. On his wrist was the silver watch she had given me for my last birthday. April went completely, dead silent. She shoved the glass of water into Oliver’s hands. When he tried to pull her back into his room, she stepped away. “Get some rest. I need to take care of something.” She grabbed my arm with a vice grip and hauled me down the hall, dragging me into our master bedroom. She obviously wanted to have it out. To scream. To justify herself. But I didn’t want to hear a single word. I yanked my arm free, turned on my heel, and walked right back out. I made sure Gemma was completely settled into the guest room, brought her a glass of warm milk, and only then did I return to my own bedroom. April had been waiting for a long time. She was sitting by the large bay window, enveloped in a cloud of thick gray smoke. The ashtray beside her was already choked with cigarette butts. I pinched the bridge of my nose, walked over, and shoved the window open. “Is this all you know how to do when things get hard? Chain-smoke? You could learn a thing or two from Gemma. She treats her body with respect.” April actually choked on her inhale. She coughed violently, her eyes watering, before she glared at me, her voice dripping with venom. “Is there literally anything else you can talk about besides Gemma?” “I don’t know,” I said, my voice deadpan. “Is there anything else you can talk about besides Oliver?” Hearing his name, her face contorted into that familiar, defensive annoyance. She opened her mouth, ready to call me insecure and jealous again, but as she turned, her eyes landed on the small table by the door. Sitting there, perfectly untouched, was the anniversary cake I had ordered. Lonely. Forgotten. The realization hit her like a physical blow. She remembered what today was. Our fifth wedding anniversary. Instantly, the venom drained from her posture. Her voice went incredibly soft. “Colin… I am so sorry. I completely forgot what today was. I promise, I’ll make it up to you.” She stepped closer, her eyes entirely fixed on mine. “I’ve already booked Oliver’s heart surgery. As soon as his rehab is done, I’ll send him away. I promise. Okay?” When April turns on that deep, consuming tenderness, it’s like staring into a dark pool—you just want to let yourself drown in it. For a split second, I almost gave in. I almost said okay. Then, a soft knock echoed through the room. 4 “Colin? Are you asleep?” I completely ignored the way April’s face darkened into thunder. I bypassed her and opened the door. “I’m awake. What’s wrong?” Gemma was standing there, her eyes downcast, her fingers twisting the hem of the silk shirt with agonizing anxiety. “Colin, I… ever since I lost my sight, my anxiety at night is unbearable. I keep having panic attacks. I can’t sleep…” How could the universe be so cruel to someone so fragile? My chest physically ached for her. I reached out, gently wrapping my hand over her trembling fingers, dropping my voice to a soft murmur. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m right here. I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep, I promise.” I started guiding her back down the hall, but April snapped. She threw herself between us, her eyes wild. “Colin! You are going to go sleep in another woman’s room?! I am your wife!” Gemma didn’t argue. She didn’t shout back. Her eyes just filled with quiet, defeated tears. And just like that, whatever fractured loyalty I had left for April evaporated. I pulled Gemma behind me, shielding her, and leveled a glare at April that could cut glass. “Do you have zero empathy, April? She’s terrified and she’s disabled. Can you not put your ego aside for five minutes to let someone else breathe?!” Our voices had risen enough to carry. Down the hall, Oliver’s door crept open. He stood in the doorframe, clutching a plush rabbit, looking at April with wide, panicked eyes. “April? I just had a really awful nightmare. My chest is feeling tight again. Can you come sit with me? Just for a little while?” April froze again. Ever since Oliver moved in, she had spent almost every single night sitting by his bed. The silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating. Finally, April swallowed hard and looked at him. “Oliver, we aren’t kids anymore. It isn’t appropriate for me to sit in your room all night. If you’re scared, just leave the lamp on.” Oliver’s face went paper white. Tears pooled in his eyes instantly, and he gave a pathetic, trembling nod before stepping back into his room. But I knew the game he was playing. He wasn’t going to take that hit lying down. Sure enough, three minutes later, a loud, violent crash echoed from his room. April didn’t even hesitate. She kicked his door open and found him slumped weakly against the nightstand. She forgot about me. She forgot about Gemma. She scooped him up in a blind panic and rushed him straight out the door to the hospital. I honestly didn’t care. I led Gemma back to the guest room and pulled up a chair. She wasn’t lying about her anxiety. It was brutal. She kept waking up with sudden, sharp gasps, her hand flying out into the dark until it found mine. Only when she felt my pulse would she settle back into a fitful sleep. I stayed by her side the entire night. Just as April stayed by Oliver’s. When April finally dragged herself back into the house the next morning, exhausted and smelling of hospital antiseptic, she found the house entirely empty. Gemma had mentioned offhandedly that she missed looking at the stars without the city lights. So, I took my accrued PTO, booked two first-class tickets, and flew her to Hawaii. When we got back, the dynamic shifted entirely. We were living parallel lives. April was consumed with her work and rushing to the hospital to coddle Oliver. I was managing my projects and spending every free second ensuring Gemma was comfortable. We existed in the same house, but we didn’t cross paths for weeks. After coming home to an empty bedroom for the thirty-seventh time, April finally hit her breaking point. She hired a private investigator to pull every single public and private record on Gemma. When she opened the dossier, the first thing she did was drop a string of violent curses. “Bullshit. She’s three years older than me, and she’s out here calling me ‘April dear’ like she’s some innocent little fawn?” She paced the office, fuming, before forcing herself to read the rest of the file. The further down she read, the paler she got. Halfway through the document, she slammed it shut, canceled all her afternoon meetings, and drove straight home. I was at the office. Oliver was at his latest ‘specialist’ appointment. Gemma was home alone. April didn’t make a sound. She slipped off her heels, crept down the hall, and pushed open the guest room door. And then, she froze, her jaw practically hitting the floor.

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I was grinding myself down to dust, living like a rat on a corporate treadmill. One night, fueled by cheap wine and sheer exhaustion, I was scrolling through a forum dedicated to bashing the toxic, unhinged male leads in dark romance novels. Without thinking, I typed out a reply: People can judge all they want online, but in the real world, who wouldn’t want to scream ‘kidnap me, please!’ The daily grind of a nine-to-five is the real torture chamber. When I woke up the next morning, my reality had fractured. The first thing I felt was the bite of cold, heavy metal around my wrist. The second was the sight of a stranger standing over the bed, his face flushed a violent shade of red all the way to the tips of his ears. “Who the hell are you?” I blurted out, my voice thick with sleep. “Are you out of your mind?” The red on his cheeks deepened to crimson. He opened his mouth, stammering, “I… I’m s-sorry…” Right at that moment, a line of glowing, translucent text drifted through the air above his head, like a live comment feed on a reading app. [This male lead has everything, but he’s such a coward. He stutters just talking to her. He only has the guts to lock up a stand-in for practice. If he’s so tough, he should go after the real girl!] Before my brain could even process the hallucination, another floating comment scrolled by. [I mean, you gotta feel for him, but who builds an entire luxury estate just to lock up a lookalike?] Ah, I thought, the pieces clicking into place. So he’s got the money, but not the nerve. My expression shifted instantly. In one fluid motion, I grabbed his wrist, used my leverage to pull him down, and pinned him flat against the mattress. I leaned over him, flashing an impossibly sweet smile. “Baby, I didn’t mean what I just said. Let’s try that again.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I love you.” 1 The sheer suddenness of my words left him paralyzed. A second later, the flush on his face exploded, the heat practically radiating off his skin. His eyes darted wildly, refusing to meet mine. “You… you… you need to get up,” he breathed, his voice shrinking until it was barely a whisper. I glanced up at the glowing text hovering in the air. The comments had paused. I decided to double down. “I’m not moving,” I said, tracing a finger down his chest. “Not until you say you love me, too.” The moment the words left my lips, the invisible chat exploded. [Hold up, this stand-in is built different. I am taking notes frame by frame!!!] [??? What is this plot twist? I’m lost but I’m here for it.] [The lookalike seizing the throne? Oh, I am seated!] [I am trash for this. Give me more!] Before the shock could fully register, a bold, highlighted comment floated slowly across my vision. [Friendly reminder: The actual female lead saved his soul when they were kids. A single piece of candy sealed his heart. This fake needs to learn her place and back off.] I stared at that comment, a cold laugh bubbling up in my chest. A piece of candy? That’s what passes for salvation? I’m sorry, but I’ve read enough of these tragic, childhood-angel redemption arcs to know exactly how the game is played. This guy had the immense fortune of running into me. Forget the other girl, I thought. Lock me up. Throw away the key. Please, whatever you do, just don’t make me go back to the office. I shifted my weight, pressing him a little deeper into the mattress, and leaned in until my lips were brushing the burning shell of his ear. “Baby, you let yourself get bought for one piece of candy? If I give you a whole jar, does that make you mine?” A violent shiver racked his body. “You can’t… do this…” His mouth was saying no, but his fingers had unconsciously reached up, twisting tightly into the fabric of my shirt. The comments went absolutely feral. [??? Stand-in, get a grip!] [Damn it, why is the chemistry kind of insane?] [Male lead, fight back! What are your hands doing?!] I caught the blur of the comments out of the corner of my eye and couldn’t suppress the smirk tugging at my lips. I lowered my head and pressed a feather-light kiss right to the center of his forehead. “Good boys get rewards,” I purred. 2 He looked as though I had electrocuted him. Blushing furiously, he gently but frantically shoved me off and scrambled to his feet. I wasn’t about to let him off the hook. I reached out, snatching his hand, and tilted my head up to look at him. “Baby, what’s your name?” He froze, his entire frame rigid, but the ingrained obedience kicked in. “D-Donovan… Donovan.” I tightened my grip on his hand. With my index finger, I slowly traced a circle into his palm, smiling until my eyes curved into crescents. “Such a good boy. My name is Gia. Don’t forget it.” I paused, pressing the side of my face against his open palm. I looked up at him, my gaze piercing his, and enunciated every single word. “Because that is the name that’s going to be on your marriage certificate.” Donovan’s pupils blew wide. He stared at me, utterly shell-shocked, his lips parting but failing to produce a single sound. His Adam’s apple bobbed sharply. In those beautiful, panicked eyes, I saw absolute bewilderment. The floating text cascaded down like a waterfall: [AHHHHHHHHH I AM LOSING MY MIND!!!] [The sheer rizz!! The marriage certificate!! She brought up the marriage certificate!!!] [Wait, who the hell is this girl? I’ve never seen a trope play out like this??] [Taking notes! Someone get me a pen! ‘That’s the name on your marriage certificate’ is going straight into my DNA!!!] [I officially petition to rename ‘Stand-in Literature’ to ‘Gia Literature.’] [Donovan, say something! Your eyes are practically glued to her, you idiot!] [I feel so dangerously powerful right now. If I learn these moves, will I finally get a man???] [Wake up, babe. You don’t have Gia’s face and you don’t have Gia’s nerve. You’d just text ‘u up?’] [I’ll say it—I’m a freak. I want her to keep pushing until he entirely shatters!!!] Watching the comments fly by, my smile only deepened. Donovan was still frozen in place. The hand I was holding trembled faintly, but his fingers began to curl inward, subconsciously holding onto me. I blinked up at him, leaning a fraction closer. “Donovan, your ears are so red.” He jerked his head away, his voice coming out in a wrecked, gravelly rasp. “N-no, they aren’t.” The comments: [Hahahahaha look in a mirror, my guy!! Your whole face is a tomato and you’re still in denial!] [Gia, spare him!! You’re gonna make the man combust!!!] [This isn’t a kidnapping thriller, this is a masterclass in seduction. I am watching on my knees.] [Publish a book, queen! I’m begging you! Write the manual!] 3 I lifted my wrist, shaking it slightly. The heavy iron links clinked together, a sharp, metallic sound in the quiet room. I tilted my head, looking up at him through my lashes. “Donovan, could you unlock this? I promise I won’t run away.” I stood up, closing the distance until the heat of his body washed over me, and dropped my voice to a low, intimate register. “I’m yours. Only yours.” Donovan’s eyes snapped wide. Beneath the panic, there was a raw, unfiltered flicker of longing he couldn’t hide. “Mine?” he asked, the word scraping out of his throat, so quiet it was barely a breath. “Only mine?” I pushed up onto my tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his eyelid. “Forever.” [AHHHHHHH I AM DEAD!!!] [‘I’m yours. Only yours. Forever.’ I could listen to this on loop!!!] [Kissing the eyelid!! She kissed his eye!!! What tier of flirting is this?!] [Donovan, snap out of it! Your soul has already left your body!] [I feel like Gia is taming a stray dog, but I’m too scared to say it out loud.] [You see the vision! You are entirely correct!!!] [FOREVER!!! She said forever!!! My heart can’t take this!!!] [I am taking this masterclass and absorbing every word. I just need a billionaire captor to practice on!] [If Gia starts a cult, I’m the first to sign up!!!] Donovan stared at me for a long, heavy moment. It stretched out so far I almost thought he was going to refuse. Then, he took a shaky breath. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small iron key. His hands were trembling so badly he missed the keyhole twice. Click. The cuff fell away. I massaged my reddened wrist, opening my mouth to speak. Before I could get a word out, he stumbled backward, putting a massive gap between us as if terrified he might change his mind. He spun on his heel. “I’ll… I’ll go make you something to eat!” he blurted out, practically sprinting out of the room like his life depended on it. Slam. The door clicked shut. I sat back down on the edge of the mattress, rubbing the circulation back into my hand. Staring at the heavy oak door, a genuine laugh slipped out of me. Perfect. I had made my decision. I was going to rot in this luxurious estate. I wasn’t taking a single step outside these gates. Let the rest of the world suffer through their morning commutes and corporate emails. I was officially retired. A final comment drifted lazily through the air. [Why are you running away, you fool!!! Get back in there!!!] 4 It didn’t take long for the door to creak open just a fraction. Donovan slipped in, balancing a silver tray in his hands. His footsteps were agonizingly careful. He set the tray down on the small table in front of me. It was a rustic bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup. It wasn’t Michelin-star plating, but the broth was golden and steaming, the parsley minced perfectly, and the aroma was incredible. He kept his eyes glued to the floor, his voice incredibly soft. “It’s done… try it.” I looked at the soup, then up at him, intentionally feigning surprise. “Did you make this yourself?” He flinched, then nodded nervously. “Y-yes. I made it. It might not be very good. If you don’t like it, I can have the chef make something else…” “You are so good to me.” I cut him off, locking my eyes onto his. I made sure my voice carried nothing but unwavering sincerity. “You are amazing. The first time you cook for me, and it looks this incredible? You’re so good.” Donovan entirely short-circuited. He looked like he wanted to speak, but his brain had lost the ability to form words. He just stood there, helpless. I softened my tone even more, letting it coat the room like honey. “How did I get so lucky? To have someone this wonderful, all to myself… I really hit the jackpot.” His head snapped up. His eyes were wide, round, and stunned, as if he had just been told the sky was green. His lips trembled, the words slipping out as pure air. “R… really?” “Really.” I reached out, took his hand, and gently tugged until he sat down beside me on the edge of the bed. I cupped his face, forcing him to look directly into my eyes. “Donovan. This soup looks delicious. You put so much care into it. The vegetables are cut perfectly, the broth smells amazing. You put your heart into this.” The edges of his eyes began to turn pink. “And,” I murmured, brushing my thumb over his knuckles, “the simple fact that you wanted to cook for me… that’s everything. Because it came from you.” He dropped his gaze, his long lashes fluttering rapidly against his cheeks. It took him a long time to give a tiny nod. The silence stretched between us, thick and fragile. Then, he spoke, his voice barely a murmur. “What else do you like to eat? I… I can learn.” Looking at him—this massive, powerful man shrinking himself down to be so gentle and earnest—my chest actually ached. God, who engineered a man this perfect? I couldn’t help it. I reached up and ran my fingers through his thick, dark hair. I smiled. “As long as you made it, I’ll love it.” The corners of Donovan’s mouth finally twitched upward. It was a minuscule, fragile smile, but it was there. The invisible chat room absolutely lost its mind. [I am violently sobbing!!!] [‘As long as you made it, I’ll love it’—Gia, you are the wife of the century!!!] [Seeing him so incredibly fragile and cautious is breaking my heart…] [When he asked ‘really?’, I actually teared up. He genuinely cannot believe someone could just… like him.] [Gia, keep praising him, please! Validate this man until the end of time!!!] [This isn’t a kidnapping thriller anymore, it’s a healing romance and I am crying.] [For the new readers: The lore is that his stepmom practically raised him. To pave the way for her own son, she psychologically abused Donovan for years. Told him he was useless, incompetent, unworthy of the family empire, and unworthy of love. She even convinced him it was his fault his biological mother died in childbirth.] The comments went dead silent for a second. [No wonder he’s so terrified. No wonder he didn’t even have the courage to kidnap the real girl… He truly believes he doesn’t deserve her.] [I’m actually crying now…] [He isn’t a coward. He’s just been broken for so long that being loved feels like a delusion.] [Gia, you better treat him right. Praise him every single day!!! I am begging you!!!] I read the text floating above us, then looked at the man sitting beside me. His head was bowed, but the tiny smile was still ghosting his lips. He was still muttering to himself. “Then… tomorrow I’ll learn how to make stew. What kind of stew do you like?” Acting purely on instinct, I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him into my chest. I rested my chin on his broad shoulder, my voice a soft murmur. “Whatever you want to make. I’ll eat it. As long as it’s you.” He didn’t speak. But I felt his muscles seize for a fraction of a second before the tension bled out of him entirely. He melted against me, letting his weight rest against mine. I closed my eyes. Don’t worry, I thought. Fixing a broken man? Consider it my new full-time job. 5 Under my relentless barrage of sweet-talking and physical affection, Donovan’s defenses crumbled to dust. First, I was allowed out of the bedroom. Then, I was permitted to wander the sweeping hallways. Soon, I was taking strolls in the manicured gardens. My territory expanded at lightning speed. Until one crisp morning, he looked at the floor and mumbled, “You… you can walk anywhere you want in the estate. I won’t stop you.” I stood on the front steps, staring out at the grounds, taking a massive breath of fresh air. This property was absurdly large. The gardens were a chaotic burst of color, yet pruned with mathematical precision. In the distance, I could see marble fountains, a towering glass conservatory, and what looked like a private, glimmering lake. Thank you, universe. I had my life back. No more alarm clocks. No more cramped subway cars. No more groveling to middle management. I, Gia, was going to retire on this estate and do absolutely nothing for the rest of my days. I threw my arms out, embracing the morning breeze, practically biting my tongue to keep from screaming in triumph. Of course, I wasn’t a total monster. I figured I should repay his hospitality. I tied an apron around my waist and headed into the massive gourmet kitchen, intent on showing off a little. I hadn’t even heated the pan before Donovan came sprinting into the kitchen. Looking panicked, he pried the spatula out of my fingers. “I’ll do it,” he said, his tone unusually stubborn, though his ears were bright pink. “You… you just stay there.” “I know how to cook!” I protested. “No.” He reached behind me, untying the apron, and looped it over his own neck. His voice dropped to a shy murmur. “I… I like cooking for you.” When he said the word like, his eyelashes fluttered erratically. I leaned against the marble island, watching him move around the kitchen, and surrendered. Fine. If acts of service are your love language, have at it. Mrs. Higgins, the head housekeeper, walked past the kitchen doorway carrying a silver tea service. She paused, taking in the sight of Donovan bustling around the stove in an apron while I leisurely sipped coffee by the counter. She blinked in surprise, then a profoundly warm, maternal smile spread across her face. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “The young master hasn’t been this happy in a very, very long time.” I reached out and patted her arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry. He’s going to be even happier from now on.” Mrs. Higgins’s eyes instantly welled up with tears. She ducked her head, quickly dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand, nodding fervently. “Yes, yes. That’s wonderful.” And so, the days slipped by in a haze of domestic bliss. Every single morning, without fail, I would ask Donovan the exact same question. “Who does Gia belong to?” He paused, the carton of milk hovering over my glass. The tips of his ears turned red. He opened and closed his mouth three times before finally pushing the words out in a quiet stutter. “M… mine…” I beamed at him. “Good boy. And… who does Donovan belong to?” This time, there was no hesitation. His voice was still soft, but the stutter was gone, replaced by a fierce, quiet certainty. “Gia’s.” It was enough to make my heart physically ache. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a piece of butterscotch candy, unwrapped it, and pressed it against his lips. He blinked, surprised, before parting his lips and taking the candy. His dark eyes shone as he looked at me. I took the opportunity to lean in, invading his space, and dropped my voice to a serious, commanding whisper. “You are not allowed to take candy from any other woman outside this house. Do you understand me? They’re all trying to trick you.” He nodded earnestly, the candy tucked into his cheek. “Mm… I won’t,” he mumbled. “Only from you.” The comments: [Hahahahaha Gia what are you doing?! Are you brainwashing the man?!] [The way he nods with the candy in his cheek… he is literally a golden retriever puppy!!!] [Daily interrogation: Who does Gia belong to? Please keep asking this! I thrive on this content!] [The character development! From ‘M-mine’ to firmly saying ‘Gia’s’. The possessive boyfriend arc is real!] [When Mrs. Higgins started crying, I lost it… He finally has someone in his corner.] [I am so single it physically hurts.] 6 One afternoon, Donovan announced he was taking me shopping. Before I could even process the request, I was being led into the cavernous underground garage. A sleek, black Rolls-Royce Cullinan sat idling under the fluorescent lights. A uniformed driver was already holding the rear door open. I raised an eyebrow, sliding into the buttery leather seat. Alright. I can get used to the billionaire lifestyle. Donovan sat rigidly beside me, his hands placed perfectly flat on his knees like a schoolboy waiting for the principal. I shifted my weight, turning toward him. I reached out, hooking a finger under his chin, and gently forced his face toward mine until our eyes met. “Donovan, you have beautiful eyes,” I said softly, holding his trembling gaze. “So stop looking at the floor. Look at me.” His throat worked convulsively. It took him three tries to get a single word out. “…Okay.” Satisfied, I dropped my hand, leaned back into the plush leather, and smiled. The moment we stepped into the high-end boutique, I was like a bird let out of a cage. I dragged him through the aisles, pulling silk and chiffon off the racks. Every time I stepped out of the fitting room, I’d march right up to him, spin in a slow circle, and lean over, practically pressing myself into his space. “Do you like it?” I’d ask, grinning. Donovan’s face was permanently flushed. He sat stiffly on the velvet sofa, his spine ramrod straight. “It’s… it’s beautiful.” “How about this one?” I emerged in a different dress, the fabric swirling around my legs. “Beautiful.” “And this one?” I held a slip dress against my body. “It’s… very beautiful.” I laughed out loud. I bent at the waist, leaning in so close that the tip of my nose almost brushed his. “Then tell me, which one is the most beautiful?” His eyes darted frantically away from my face, then immediately snapped back. His lips parted, but his brain had completely short-circuited. Before I could tease him any further, a woman’s voice rang out from behind me. “Donovan?” I straightened up and turned around. Standing a few feet away was a girl with flawless, understated makeup. Her eyes were bright, locked onto Donovan, her face radiating unfiltered joy. She closed the distance quickly, her tone intimately familiar. “It is you! It’s been forever. What are you doing here?” Every muscle in Donovan’s body went instantly rigid. He didn’t look at the girl. His eyes immediately, instinctively, shot to me. The glowing text flared to life in the air. [OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD!!! It’s her!!! Katherine!!!] [The ultimate showdown is here AHHHHHH!!!] [Look at his eyes! He checked Gia’s reaction first! He’s panicking hahahaha!] [The stand-in vs the original! Put it in my veins!!!] [I know Katherine is supposed to be the actual female lead, but I swear Gia is exactly what this man needs!!!] [Why am I sweating right now? Gia, mark your territory!!!] Katherine stepped closer. Her gaze flicked over me for a microsecond before settling back on Donovan. She offered a perfectly polite, polished smile. “Donovan, there’s something I need to talk to you about. Is this a good time? Can we… step outside for a minute?” Donovan didn’t answer her. He turned his head toward me. His eyes were wide, swimming with questions and a deep, pulsing anxiety. I offered him a lazy, easy smile. “Go ahead.” He opened his mouth, looking like he desperately wanted to say something, but ultimately just gave a stiff nod. He stood up and followed Katherine toward the front of the boutique. I leaned against the frame of the fitting room door, crossing my arms over my chest, watching them walk away. When Donovan finally stopped in front of Katherine, I noticed something. He wasn’t looking at the floor. He was looking her dead in the eye. I dropped my head, a slow, dark smile spreading across my face. “Donovan,” I whispered to the empty air, my voice entirely void of warmth. “You’re not being a good boy. Didn’t you say you belonged only to me?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “428894”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel