Category: English

I have always lived in my own head. To keep my imagination sharp, I invented a new student named Chase. I talked about him every day, weaving him into conversations until my classmates got used to his presence. We’d joke about him, complain about his habits—he became a ghost that everyone thought was flesh and bone. But only I knew the truth: Chase didn’t exist. He was a phantom I’d conjured out of thin air to fill the silence of my own life. Until the day my homeroom teacher pulled me aside, her face a mask of grim severity. “Sophie,” she said, her voice dropping to a jagged whisper. “Did you hear? Chase is dead.” I froze. My mind went blank, a white-noise hum drowning out the hallway chatter. Chase? The boy I’d made up? How could a lie end up in a body bag? … It happened during third period on a Tuesday. Mrs. Lawson didn’t call my name from the doorway like she usually did. She walked straight to my desk and leaned down, her breath smelling faintly of peppermint and anxiety. “Step outside for a moment,” she murmured. She kept her voice low, a secret meant only for me. At that moment, I was sketching the profile of a character on the edge of my notebook—a sharp jawline, a slightly crooked nose. I instinctively flipped the page over before following her out. The hallway was a tunnel of sterile fluorescent light, empty and echoing. Mrs. Lawson walked to the window at the far end, shut it with a definitive click, and turned to face me. She was the kind of teacher who didn’t waste words. She taught AP Lit and valued precision. But that day, her eyes held something I couldn’t categorize. It wasn’t the look of a teacher about to scold a student or discuss a failing grade. It was the look of someone trying to figure out how to deliver a blow. She stayed silent for a few heartbeats, then asked, “Do you know someone named Chase? Chase Miller?” My heart skipped. Chase. That was the name I’d invented. My name is Sophie Hall. I’m a senior, and I’m a writer. Not the kind who just doodles in a diary, but the kind who actually tries to build worlds. I’d started posting a story on a serialized fiction site a few years back. Thirty thousand words in, I had exactly twenty-seven followers—five of whom were my own burner accounts. My mom told me I was wasting my time. She wasn’t wrong, but I couldn’t stop. The problem with writing is that you need “material.” I’m not the kind of writer who can build a person from nothing. I’m a scavenger. I need a prototype, a spark of reality to steal. I take a stranger’s nervous twitch, a neighbor’s laugh, and graft them onto a fictional skeleton. So, I developed a habit. Every few months, I’d “create” a person. I’d build a complete backstory and then start feeding details about them to my classmates during lunch or before the bell rang. If people started talking about them like they were real, it meant my character work was solid. It was my own private lab. I’d done it at my last two schools without a hitch. This year, I was the new girl at a massive public high school. I was a ghost. People didn’t look up when I walked into the room. They didn’t notice when I left. My messages in the group chat went unread. In the yearbook photos, I was the girl in the back corner whose face was half-blocked by someone else’s shoulder. That feeling—that dull, persistent ache of being invisible—was what birthed Chase. I stole his profile from a guy I saw at a coffee shop: high bridge of the nose, a stubborn chin, ears that stuck out just a little too much. I stole his personality from a half-finished noir novel: quiet, but with a smile that felt like a reward. I gave him a hobby: basketball. But just saying “he plays basketball” was too thin. I gave him a flaw. A specific one. A nagging old injury in his left thigh that made him jump slightly to the right whenever he went for a dunk. He’d miss the rim, the ball would bounce off the edge, and he’d just shrug and trot back, unfazed. He was cocky but effortless. The first time I mentioned that detail to my lab partner, she actually laughed. “God, he sounds like such a dork,” she said. That was the first time in three months someone had looked me in the eye and engaged with me. I felt a tectonic shift in my chest. Something small, but real. I realized that Chase was my currency. So, I started investing in him. The details became more granular. He never used a straw because he liked the cold hit of the soda against his teeth. Every Friday after school, he’d go to the gas station and buy a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos—it was his ritual, win or lose. He was terrified of cats but claimed he was just “deathly allergic” because he was too proud to admit he was scared. Once, I told a girl that he’d borrowed my water bottle and drank from it without asking. She rolled her eyes and said, “Typical.” I realized then that the more real Chase became, the more real I became. People started asking about him. “How’s Chase’s leg?” “Did he ever get over the cat thing?” They remembered what I’d said the week before. For the first time, I wasn’t just Sophie Hall, the girl in the back; I was the girl who knew Chase. I knew it wasn’t healthy. I knew I was trading a lie for a sense of belonging. But I couldn’t stop. So, standing in that hallway, hearing Mrs. Lawson ask about him, my first reaction wasn’t fear. It was a bizarre, fleeting moment of confusion. “A body was found in the old industrial park near the tracks three days ago,” Mrs. Lawson said. “He didn’t have any ID on him. The police are running prints and checking missing persons reports.” She took a breath. “Some students mentioned that you’ve been talking about a ‘Chase’ recently. The police want to talk to you.” I stood there, paralyzed. Outside, on the courts, I could hear the rhythmic thump-thump of a basketball. Chase was a lie. He was a collection of stolen traits and imagined habits. He didn’t exist. How could he be lying on a cold floor in an abandoned warehouse? The police came the next morning. They set up in the conference room. The detective was young, wearing a generic suit and a neutral expression. He looked like he was just filling out forms. He asked me what my relationship was with Chase. I wanted to tell the truth. I wanted to say, He’s a character in a book I haven’t written yet. I made him up. None of it is real. But then I thought of my lab partner. I thought of the girls who finally sat with me at lunch. I thought of the three months of social progress that would vanish the moment I admitted I was a “weirdo” who talked to herself. I thought about the stares. The pity. The mockery. I opened my mouth, and I heard myself say, “We were… friends. Not super close, but we hung out.” The detective scribbled that down. I watched the tip of his pen move across the paper. It sounded like a door locking behind me. I had just lied to the police. Before this, it was a creative exercise. Now, it was an obstruction of justice. But I told myself it was just a coincidence. “Chase” was a common enough name. The dead boy couldn’t possibly be my Chase. I’d made him up from thin air. That night, I searched the news. The report was short. Male victim, early twenties. Found in an abandoned warehouse. Blunt force trauma to the head. Signs of a struggle. No ID. Identity pending. Twenty years old. That fit the age I’d given him. I stared at the screen until the words blurred. I told myself there were thousands of twenty-year-old guys in this city. It didn’t mean anything. I didn’t sleep until 3:00 AM. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the sound of my roommate shifting in the bunk above me, and my heart would hammer against my ribs. The police came back three days later. This time, it was an older detective. He had a manila envelope. He told me the victim’s face was badly bruised, but they’d reconstructed an image. He slid a photo across the table. It was a profile shot. High bridge of the nose. A stubborn, hard jawline. Ears that flared out just a bit at the tips. It was the exact face I’d “stolen” from that stranger in the coffee shop months ago. My skin went cold. It’s a common look, I told myself. Lots of guys look like this. I pushed the photo back. “I’m not sure,” I whispered. “It’s hard to tell.” The detective leaned in. “What did Chase like to do?” “Basketball,” I said. “Did he have any quirks? Anything specific about the way he moved?” I dug my nails into my palms under the table. I kept my face as blank as a fresh sheet of paper. “I don’t know. Like I said, we weren’t that close.” The detective nodded, flipped through his notes, and then looked me dead in the eye. “The guys he played ball with—the ones we tracked down at the park—said he had a weird habit when he dunked. He always landed to the right because of an old injury in his thigh.” He paused, letting the silence heavy the room. “You mentioned that exact detail to your classmates two weeks ago, Sophie. How did you know about an injury that wasn’t visible?” I felt the air leave my lungs. “I… I think he might have mentioned it once. In passing. I don’t really remember.” The detective didn’t push. He just stood up. “If you remember anything else, call us.” I walked out of that room and leaned against the lockers. The injury. The landing to the right. I had made that up. I’d added it because it felt “literary.” It made him feel flawed and human. But the dead boy really had that injury. The dead boy really played that way. That night, I took a piece of scrap paper and listed every detail I’d ever invented for Chase. Profile: Match. Thigh injury: Match. Dunking to the right: Match. Limp when tired: Unknown. Drinking without a straw: Unknown. Fear of cats: Unknown. Friday Cheetos: Unknown. I stared at the list until my hands shook so hard I couldn’t hold the pen. I folded the paper into a tiny square and shoved it into the back of my desk drawer, under a pile of old math tests. In the days that followed, the school turned into a pressure cooker. Whispers followed me. “She knew him,” they’d say. “She’s been talking about him for months, and now he’s dead. It’s creepy.” Others were more suspicious. “Maybe she knows more than she’s saying. Why is she being so quiet?” I didn’t defend myself. I just kept my head down. I found the girl I’d first talked to about Chase. I asked her, “Do you remember when I first mentioned him? Did you ever hear his name before that?” She thought for a second. “No. It was that one day in study hall. You just started talking about this guy you knew. Why?” “Just wondering,” I said. I felt a momentary relief. At least someone could prove the name came from me. I hadn’t overheard it. But that relief was incinerated forty-eight hours later. The police released a new update. They’d found a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos in the victim’s pocket. His friends told the police it was his “stress snack.” He bought a bag every Friday, win or lose. I sat on my bed, staring at my phone. Four out of seven. The fear wasn’t a sharp sting anymore; it was a cold weight, pulling me under. My mom called that night. She sounded worried. “You okay, honey? You sound tired.” “I’m fine, Mom. Just school stuff.” “Take a break, Sophie. Don’t push yourself too hard.” When I hung up, I cried. Not because I was sad, but because I was so incredibly lonely in this lie. Eventually, I went to the abandoned warehouse. I fought with myself for three days about it. Part of me knew it was a mistake. But the other part of me felt like there was a thorn in my brain, and the only way to get it out was to see the place where the lie became real. I took the bus to the edge of town. It was late afternoon, the sun casting long, jagged shadows across the cracked pavement. The yellow police tape was still there, fluttering in the wind. I stood outside the perimeter and looked at the gaping maw of the warehouse door. Near the entrance, there was a dark stain on the concrete. It wasn’t large, but it was deep, like the liquid had seeped into the very pores of the stone. I knew what it was. As I stood there, an image flashed in my mind. My Chase. The boy I’d built. He was on the court, jumping, missing the rim, laughing it off. He turned to look at me, a cocky smirk on his face. And then the image shattered. He never looked at me. He couldn’t. He wasn’t real. But the person who bled out on this concrete was real. He had a life, and a family, and a stupid habit of eating spicy chips when he was stressed. And somehow, my “fiction” had draped itself over his death like a shroud. I turned to leave, but a voice stopped me. “You here for the ghost story too?” It was an old man sitting on a crate near a fruit stand. “No,” I said. “Just passing through.” The old man nodded, not believing me. “A lot of noise that night. I was right here. I heard it.” I stopped. “Heard what?” The old man frowned, searching his memory. He muttered a few things under his breath, then looked up. “He called out a name. Just one. Called it out loud, then nothing but silence.” My blood turned to ice. “What name?” I whispered. “Chase,” the old man said. “He screamed ‘Chase,’ and then the world went quiet.” Chase. The name I’d pulled out of thin air. Someone had screamed it in the dark, right before a real man died.

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This time around, I started quietly dating the wealthiest heiress in Boston. My roommate, Todd, had always possessed a taste in women that mirrored my own with sickening precision. In fact, he had deeply “admired” every single girlfriend I’d ever had. He used to tell me I was too naive, too blind to the manipulative ways of women. Out of the goodness of his heart, he offered to “test” them for me. The result? Every single time, under the guise of looking out for his bro, he seduced them. Once he had them wrapped around his finger, he would parade his victory in front of me with a smug grin. “See? I told you your radar is garbage. They were only after your money, Rowan. Good thing I was here to cut your losses!” The last time he pulled that stunt, I beat him until his face was a mosaic of bruises. So, when he found out about my new relationship with the billionaire heiress, I knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself. He was already itching to make his move. What Todd didn’t know, however, was that this particular heiress was a meticulously crafted surprise—wrapped and delivered specifically for him. 1 Todd was waving a Polaroid of my ex-girlfriend, Juliette, like it was a winning lottery ticket. “When she was chasing you, she swore she’d never love another man. Now? All I had to do was crook my finger, and she practically threw herself at me.” He leaned back in his desk chair, tossing the photo onto my bed. “You should be thanking me, Rowan. You almost got played again.” My hands curled into tight fists. A hot, familiar spike of anger lodged in my chest. “You’re literally bragging about being the other man,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “Do you have any shame left at all?” Todd blinked, feigning a look of profound hurt. “Come on, man. I was just worried about you getting used. Why do you always have to make me the villain?” From across the room, our roommate Dustin immediately chimed in to defend him. “Rowan, you’re acting pathetic over a girl. Are you really going to nuke your friendship with your brother over some chick?” “Seriously,” Brad added from the top bunk, not even looking up from his phone. “If it weren’t for Todd, you would’ve been taken to the cleaners by now. He’s doing you a favor by filtering out the gold-diggers.” I opened my mouth, but the words died in my throat. It was true that my last five girlfriends hadn’t exactly been saints, but was Todd any better? Before my last breakup, I’d secretly checked Juliette’s phone. Todd had flooded her DMs with thirst traps—shirts unbuttoned to his navel, gym mirror selfies. He’d even messaged her: “Want to come over and trace my V-cut?” They were all sickening. Todd leaned closer, the triumph practically oozing from his pores. “You’re not actually mad, are you? Honestly, I didn’t even expect it. I just casually chatted them up, and they all caught feelings. You can’t blame a guy for that, right?” “Course not,” Dustin echoed. “It’s just your natural charm, man. Unlike some people who think getting straight A’s means the whole world is going to fall at their feet.” Dustin and Brad exchanged a knowing, synchronized smirk. I ignored their petty high school dynamics, turning my attention back to my phone. The dorm room fell into a heavy silence for a few seconds. Then, Dustin let out a strangled gasp. “Holy shit. Guys, come look. Is that who I think it is?” He practically flattened his face against the dirty glass of our balcony window, craning his neck toward the courtyard. “It’s Sylvia! Sylvia Dupont! What the hell is the campus IT girl doing outside our building?” Todd and Brad scrambled to their feet, rushing to the window. “Damn, it really is her. What’s she doing here? Waiting for some guy?” “God, whoever it is just won the lottery. That’s Sylvia Dupont. She basically owns half the biotech industry in this city.” Dustin suddenly turned to Todd, his eyes wide. “Wait, Todd, didn’t you use to be tight with her? Does she have a guy now?” Todd’s face tightened. The smugness vanished, replaced by a tense, ugly silence. Tight with her. That was a generous way to phrase it. Todd had stalked Sylvia for six months, practically begging for her attention, and hadn’t even managed to get her number. I calmly grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. Todd’s arm shot out, blocking my path. “I thought you just broke up with Juliette. Where do you think you’re going?” I slapped his arm away. “I dumped Juliette three months ago. If you want my trash, feel free to keep it.” Right on cue, my phone vibrated in my hand. I answered it immediately. A cool, elegant voice drifted through the speaker. “Hey, baby. I’m downstairs.” “I’ll be right there.” Before I could pull the phone away, it was snatched from my grip. Todd glared at me. “No wonder you dropped Juliette. You already found a rebound.” He brought the phone to his mouth, his voice dropping an octave into that slick, practiced tone he used on women. “Hey there. I’m Rowan’s roommate, Todd. Are you his new girl?” I didn’t hear what the voice on the other end said, but Todd’s trademark smirk froze instantly. Seizing the moment of his paralysis, I ripped the phone from his hand and ended the call. A manic, ugly jealousy flared in Todd’s eyes. He stared at me like he wanted to peel my skin off. “Your new girlfriend… is Sylvia Dupont?” 2 “Bullshit,” Dustin scoffed, stepping away from the window. “There’s no way. Sylvia’s standards are atmospheric. Why would she look twice at him?” “Exactly,” Brad agreed. “Guys with trust funds line up down the block for her. Rowan? Please.” Todd remained silent, but he had forcibly smoothed his features back into a mask of indifference. He looked me up and down. “You didn’t just hire some random girl to impersonate Sylvia to mess with us, did you?” I looked at his face—a face that truly believed it had outsmarted the world—and a genuine laugh bubbled up in my chest. “Believe whatever helps you sleep at night, Todd.” I didn’t waste another breath on him. I turned and walked out, letting the door click shut behind me. Down in the courtyard, Sylvia was leaning casually against a cherry-red Lamborghini. When she saw me, she offered a small, lazy wave. The afternoon sunlight fractured through the elm trees, washing over her. She looked like a manifestation of old money and untouchable grace. No wonder Todd had obsessed over her for half a year. And it was exactly for that reason that I had agreed to date her. “Waiting long?” I asked. “Just pulled up. Get in.” With practiced elegance, Sylvia opened the passenger door for me. As I slid into the low leather seat, I glanced up. In the third-floor window of my dorm, three faces were pressed against the glass, contorted with a jealousy so raw it was almost tragic. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Sylvia took me to the indoor courts at an exclusive, members-only country club. The air smelled of expensive cedar and fresh tennis balls. She stood behind me, her chest pressed lightly against my back, adjusting my grip on the racket. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Todd. “Are you at the racket club?” his voice came through the line, tight and demanding. I raised an eyebrow. The guy was like a phantom limb; an annoying, lingering itch. “What exactly do you want, Todd?” He immediately slipped into his victim voice. “Wow, what’s with the attitude? I’m just looking out for you, man. I don’t want you getting played.” “Sylvia isn’t playing me. Do us both a favor and stop calling.” I dropped the temperature of my voice to freezing and hung up. Sylvia stepped back, offering me a pristine white towel. She reached out, gently dabbing a bead of sweat from my temple. “Everything okay? Your roommate giving you grief?” I took the towel. “Yeah. Someone’s just losing his mind because my girlfriend is so far out of his league.” She let out a soft, breathy laugh and reached up to ruffle my hair. A split second later, a tennis ball whipped through the air, slamming hard into the space between Sylvia’s shoulder blades. She winced, her perfectly manicured brows knitting together as she spun around. Todd came jogging onto the court, his face a picture of exaggerated, frantic apology. “Oh my god, I am so, so sorry! I totally miscalculated the swing. Are you okay?” He leaned forward as he spoke. He was wearing a shirt unbuttoned halfway down his torso, making sure the slight flex of his chest was front and center. Sylvia raised an eyebrow. Her gaze swept over his face, lingering for a fraction of a second on his exposed chest, before settling into a look of absolute, glacial boredom. “I’m fine,” she said flatly. She grabbed my hand, turning to walk away. Todd lunged, grabbing her forearm. “No, please, I feel terrible. Let me get your number. At least let me buy you a new tennis skirt or dinner to make up for it.” Sylvia glanced down at his hand on her arm. A flicker of genuine disgust rippled through her eyes. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t give my number to strangers.” She turned back to me, the ice instantly melting from her features, replaced by a warm, honeyed gaze. “I’m sorry the vibe got ruined, baby. Let’s go. I’ll make it up to you tonight.” I smiled, casting a deeply satisfied look over my shoulder at Todd. He was rooted to the spot, his face a sickly shade of gray. My previous girlfriends would have politely declined him in front of me, sure. But I had always seen the hidden heat in their eyes. The secret thrill. And later, when I wasn’t looking, they always accepted his follow requests. Todd thought women were a monolith. He thought they were all the same. What a shame for him. This time, he’d run straight into Sylvia Dupont—a woman who couldn’t even be bothered to look at him twice. 3 I was extremely satisfied with Sylvia. Satisfied to the point where, for a fleeting moment, I almost believed she might actually be the exception. But sometimes, reality has a way of slapping you in the face when you least expect it. It happened on the day of the university’s theater rehearsals. I dropped by the auditorium to surprise her. I found her sitting in the dim lighting of the back rows, her shoulder pressed intimately against Todd’s. She was holding a plastic cup of iced coffee. She took a sip. Then, Todd leaned in, his lips wrapping around the exact same straw she had just used. He took a long drag. Without missing a beat, Sylvia took the cup back and drank from the very same straw. A violent, high-pitched ringing erupted in my ears. Sylvia glanced up and saw me. She froze for a fraction of a second. She followed my gaze, her eyes landing on the plastic straw. “Todd has low blood sugar,” she said smoothly, her voice completely even. “He almost passed out on stage twice. I just want to get through this rehearsal without holding up the entire cast.” With that, she shoved the rest of the iced coffee into Todd’s hands. “Finish it and get back on stage.” Todd took the cup. He took another agonizingly slow sip, locking eyes with me. A filthy, victorious smile spread across his face. “Your girl is a tough crowd, Rowan,” he whispered as he walked past me. “Takes a lot to get her pulse up.” He clapped my shoulder. “Looks like you finally found a keeper.” He walked away, his posture radiating the same arrogant swagger I’d seen a dozen times before. I stood paralyzed in the aisle, my heart hammering furiously against my ribs. I knew that look. That absolute, predatory certainty. I knew it intimately. Sensing the shift in my demeanor, Sylvia stood up and wrapped her arms around my waist. “Baby, don’t overthink this.” “The guy playing the lead got into a car accident. Todd stepped in at the last minute to save the production. It’s a favor I owe him, nothing more.” I nodded slowly, pulling her tightly against my chest. “Do you know… Todd has this thing about my girlfriends,” I murmured into her hair, letting my voice waver just enough. “He stole the last few. I’m just terrified that you’ll…” She squeezed me harder. “Hey. Look at me. The only man I love is you. Forever.” The words had barely left her mouth when her phone buzzed on the velvet seat. I caught a glimpse of the screen. A text from Todd. She glanced at it quickly, then pulled away from my embrace. “I have to get back to the crew. I’ll find you later, okay?” I watched her walk away, feeling my heart sink, millimeter by millimeter, into my stomach. I thought Sylvia was different. But it had barely taken a week for him to get her number. Over the next few days, Sylvia clearly sensed my manufactured depression. To cheer me up, she announced she was taking me out on her family’s yacht to introduce me to her inner circle of friends. I decided to play along and give her “one more chance.” The yacht was sprawling and extravagant, the teak deck lined with crystal champagne flutes and artisanal pastries. Sylvia paraded me around. “Everyone, this is my boyfriend, Rowan.” Her friends—a flock of polished girls in designer resort wear—smiled and offered polite, airy greetings. The vibe was decent enough. After the obligatory pleasantries, the conversation inevitably drifted to the Dupont family’s empire. “How’s the new pharmaceutical R&D coming along?” one of the girls asked. Sylvia’s flawless forehead creased. “We’ve hit a massive wall with one of the chemical synthesis stages. If I could just get a consultation with Dr. Alistair Roth, the cardiac specialist, we could push through. If this drags on any longer, all of our initial funding is going to vaporize.” Before the sentence was fully in the air, a familiar, grating voice chimed in. “Dr. Alistair Roth?” Todd strolled onto the deck, holding a glass of Moët, smiling like he owned the boat. “I know him,” Todd said smoothly. “My aunt is a senior pharmaceutical rep. She’s had dinner with Dr. Roth a bunch of times. If you need an intro, I can make it happen.” Sylvia’s head snapped up. A spark of genuine surprise—and calculation—flashed in her eyes. I stood slightly behind her, my fingers slowly curling into fists by my sides. Every ounce of Sylvia’s attention had been magnetically pulled to Todd. While they dove into a rapid, intense conversation about biotech connections, I quietly slipped my phone from my pocket. I opened a text thread with an unsaved number. “The fish took the bait. Execute the plan.”

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I called the cops. On the phone, I told the 911 dispatcher that my doctoral advisor had sexually assaulted me, leveraging his position of power. I added that he had drugged me. I made sure to emphasize one detail: my lab mate had witnessed the entire thing last night. He could testify. The catalyst for all of this was that very same lab mate. After failing to secure the coveted doctoral fellowship, he had started spreading vicious rumors. He told anyone who would listen that I had snuck into the professor’s office in the middle of the night, dressed like a cheap escort, and that was how I secured the only fully-funded Ph.D. spot in the department. Furious and desperate, I had gone to our advisor, begging him to clear my name. But the professor merely stood there, holding his artisanal teacup. He didn’t even look up at me. He said that a clear conscience needs no defense, and that the more I tried to explain myself, the guiltier I would look. He told me that if I truly put my mind to the science, I wouldn’t care about baseless gossip. He said I lacked mental discipline. Fine. If he thought I lacked discipline, I was about to show him exactly how disciplined I could be. 1 The day the fellowship list was posted, I saw my name—Maeve Gallagher—at the very top. The tension that had kept my nerves fraying for months finally snapped, replaced by a wave of profound relief. The dust had settled. I let out a long, shaky exhale. But the peace didn’t last. Later that afternoon, someone grabbed my arm and pulled me into the shadowed landing of the stairwell. It was Gemma, the senior researcher in our lab. Gemma was usually a force of nature, loud and bright, but right now, her face was stripped of its usual warmth. She looked at me with a complicated expression—a heavy, anxious sort of dread. “Maeve, did you cross someone recently?” She kept her voice low, her brows pulled tight. I blinked, instinctively shaking my head. “No? I’ve been practically chained to the centrifuge all month grinding out data. I haven’t even seen anyone.” Gemma’s expression darkened. She leaned in closer. “Then what the hell is going on with the talk in the lab? It’s spreading like wildfire, and they’ve got details.” “They’re saying… they’re saying that to get this fellowship, you went into Dr. Alden’s office in the middle of the night wearing a black silk slip dress. And that you didn’t come out until the next morning, with your eyes all red and swollen.” A loud ringing filled my ears. My brain instantly white-outs. Slip dress? Midnight? The office? These filthy little words strung together, pointing to the single most destructive conclusion you could pin on a female academic. I didn’t even need to think. A name ground out from between my teeth. “Who said it? Derek?” It couldn’t be anyone else. Derek. The golden boy. The senior lab mate who everyone—including himself—had assumed was a shoo-in for the fellowship. Gemma sighed, her eyes heavy with pity. “…It’s him. You know how he is. Ever since he saw the rejection email, he’s been acting like a lunatic.” “He’s telling everyone it was rigged, that Dr. Alden played favorites, that you…” She stopped, seemingly unable to stomach repeating the rest of the garbage. But I had heard enough. I shoved past the heavy fire door and sprinted down the hall toward the lab. The door was slightly ajar. Bursts of raucous, ugly laughter spilled out into the corridor. At the center of it all was Derek. He was surrounded by a few of the guys from the cohort, putting on an exaggerated, theatrical performance of a woman walking. He had one hand delicately holding up an imaginary skirt, the other brought to his mouth in mock coyness. He pitched his voice into a breathy, high-pitched whine. “Oh, Dr. Alden~ I’d do anything for that spot~” 2 The guys around him doubled over, howling. One of them chimed in with a sleazy drawl, “Man, the academic groupies are really taking the casting couch to the next level.” Derek flipped imaginary hair over his shoulder, a leering, oily grin spreading across his face. He dropped his voice, mimicking the cadence of a middle-aged man. “Well, Maeve, your… hard work… hasn’t gone unnoticed.” “Come here, sit a little closer. Let’s discuss your… biology.” “Hahahaha!” The lab shook with their laughter. Ice water flooded my veins. I shoved the door open so hard it slammed into the wall. Every sound died instantly. A dozen pairs of eyes whipped toward me. Shock, amusement, disgust, schadenfreude. Derek’s smile froze for a fraction of a second, but it quickly melted back into an expression of unmasked malice. He lazily straightened up, sauntering toward me with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. His face, which I had once thought was reasonably handsome, looked grotesquely distorted by jealousy. “Well, if it isn’t the department’s rising star. Hey, Maeve.” He dragged the syllables out, his eyes brazenly raking down from my face to my chest. “Congratulations.” He took a step closer. I could smell the stale nicotine on his breath as he spoke down into my face. “You’ve got a really bright future ahead of you. Just make sure you keep Dr. Alden satisfied.” “After all, you worked so hard for that spot, right?” He leaned hard into the word “hard.” Around us, a few guys let out muffled, knowing snickers. I was shaking. Not from fear, but from a blinding, white-hot rage. I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms. Staring into Derek’s smug face, I asked, word by word: “Derek. Say that again.” “What? You didn’t hear me the first time?” He threw his hands up, playing the loud, arrogant victim. “I said, congrats on using your… special talents… to get the spot.” “What’s the matter? Brave enough to do it, but not brave enough to own it?” “I saw you that night, Maeve. Walking into his office in that little black slip.” He was feeding off his own lies, weaving details out of thin air, performing it so confidently you’d think he’d recorded it. “Oh, right. When you walked out the next morning, your eyes were all puffy. You’d been crying, huh?” “Did he play a little too rough? Man, I feel so bad for you.” “Hahahaha!” The crowd erupted into louder, uglier laughter. My lungs felt like they were collapsing. What had I sacrificed for this fellowship? From the day the application opened, I hadn’t slept before 2 AM. While the rest of them were out dating, catching movies, having a life, I was alone in this freezing lab, running dead-end assays over and over again. To crack one specific technical bottleneck, I stayed awake for three days straight. I collapsed in the hallway and woke up in the ER with an IV in my arm. Every single publication to my name was paid for in blood, sweat, and absolute isolation. I used to believe the world of science was a meritocracy. A pure place. I thought if you bled for the work and proved your brilliance, you would be recognized. But now? All my agonizing effort. All my pride. Erased in thirty seconds by Derek’s cheap, filthy lies. 3 To them, I wasn’t a scientist. I was a body. My intelligence was worthless; my ambition was a punchline. I was trembling violently now, my chest heaving, fighting for air. The sharp pain of my own nails cutting into my skin was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. No. I couldn’t fight them here. You don’t wrestle with pigs; you both get dirty, but the pig likes it. The source of this power dynamic was the professor. He was the only one who could end this. If Dr. Richard Alden stood up and publicly confirmed the truth—that the selection was based purely on my academic record—these rumors would die instantly. I shot Derek a look of pure death. Then I turned on my heel and bolted down the hall toward the corner office. The door was cracked open, and the rich, earthy scent of high-end Oolong tea drifted out. Dr. Alden was standing with his back to the door at his mahogany credenza. He was meticulously going through the motions of his elaborate, imported tea ritual. Hot water cascaded over the leaves. White steam curled into the air, softening the edges of his silhouette. He looked exactly like what he wanted to project: an untouchable academic god, far removed from the petty concerns of the mortal world. I barged in. I had run so fast my breath was catching in my throat, making my voice shake. “Dr. Alden!” He jumped slightly, his hand jerking, spilling a drop of water. He turned around. Taking in my flushed face, red-rimmed eyes, and ragged breathing, his brow furrowed in deep distaste. “Maeve, what on earth are you yelling for? Running around in a panic. You lack composure.” I ignored the reprimand, taking three large steps toward him. The words spilled out of me in a frantic rush—what was happening in the lab, what Derek was saying, the horrific, graphic rumors destroying my reputation. I expected him to be shocked. I expected outrage. I expected him to march down that hallway and lay down the law to protect his student. Instead, he just listened. The muscles in his face didn’t so much as twitch. When I finally ran out of breath, he slowly picked up his cast-iron teapot. He poured the amber liquid into a delicate porcelain cup, picked it up, and blew gently across the rim. The silence stretched. Those few seconds felt like an eternity. Finally, he lifted his eyes to look at me. His gaze was entirely flat. There was no fire. No defense. “A clear conscience needs no defense.” “With things like this, Maeve, the more you protest, the more people assume you have something to hide. You protest too much, they think you’re guilty.” My stomach dropped out from under me. 4 “But Dr. Alden!” I pleaded, desperation clawing up my throat. “They’re dragging my name through the mud! This is going to permanently damage my reputation in this field!” “All you have to do is send an email, or walk out there and tell them none of this happened! If you clarify the selection process, they’ll stop!” He set the teacup down with a quiet clink. He looked at me, his eyes heavy with disappointment and mounting annoyance. “Maeve, I always thought you were one of the sharp ones. Someone with mental discipline. Why are you letting a little hallway gossip completely unravel you?” His voice rose an octave, taking on that patronizing, paternalistic tone he used during lectures. “If you truly put all your focus into the science, you wouldn’t care what other people say. Ultimately, your mind is too scattered. You lack academic discipline.” Discipline? I stared at him, totally unmoored. My reputation, my entire identity, was being violently dismantled right outside his door, and he was reducing it to a lack of focus? Just then, I heard a shuffle of footsteps. Derek and his entourage had followed me. They were crowded around the open doorway, craning their necks, stupid grins plastered on their faces as they waited for the show. Dr. Alden glanced at me, then looked past my shoulder, his eyes landing on Derek. Immediately, the professor’s brow smoothed out. His tone shifted entirely, softening into the indulgent exasperation of a father figure. “Derek, come in here.” Derek instantly dropped the sneer, adopting the posture of an obedient, respectful student as he walked in. “Apologize to your peer,” Dr. Alden said, picking up his tea again. “You are all colleagues. You have to work together in this lab.” “There’s a line with jokes, Derek. Don’t cross it.” Jokes. A block of ice slid down my spine. Taking the out he was just handed, Derek turned to me. A completely hollow, mocking smile tugged at his lips. “Sorry, Maeve. You know me, big mouth, no filter. Don’t take it personally.” The second the words left his mouth, a chorus of muffled snickering erupted from the peanut gallery in the doorway. They looked at me, their eyes bright with even more contempt than before. And then I looked at Dr. Alden. My mentor. The man whose intellect and integrity I had worshipped for two years. He was smiling. A faint, tolerant smile. Like he was watching a bunch of toddlers squabble over a toy. To him, this was a harmless little drama. And I was the hysterical, over-sensitive girl ruining the vibe of his lab. In that split second, watching this sickening tableau, something inside me died. And something else woke up. I understood perfectly. To Alden, Derek might have lost the fellowship, but he was still the golden boy, a favored son he’d mentored for years. I was just a tool. A disposable asset. He was never going to protect me. They all stood there, waiting for me to crack. Waiting for me to run out crying, or swallow my pride and shrink back to my bench. They assumed this would blow over and become a permanent, unspoken stain on my record. I looked at Alden’s hypocritical, serene face. I looked at Derek’s smug, punchable smirk. I looked at the eyes in the doorway, gleaming with malice. The fire in my chest burned away the last thread of my hesitation. 5 Okay. You think this is a joke? You think I lack discipline? Let me show you exactly what someone with “no discipline” is capable of. I took a deep, steadying breath. With every eye in the room glued to me, I slowly reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I unlocked it, opened the keypad, and, making sure my movements were deliberate and clear, punched in three numbers. 9 – 1 – 1.

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The homecoming party was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the desperate nostalgia of people trying to prove they hadn’t aged. We were deep into a game of Truth or Dare, the kind that starts as a joke and ends in bloodshed. Mallory drew the Truth card. She leaned back, her dewy, expectant eyes fixed on Barry, the man sitting right next to her. She tossed out a question that cut through the laughter like a jagged blade: “In this life, have you ever—even for a second—regretted marrying your wife? If the answer is yes, take a shot.” The rowdy penthouse suite went silent. You could have heard a pin drop on the marble floor. Dozens of eyes shifted, landing heavily on us. I was the wife. Barry’s partner of five years. I was sitting right there, my hand inches from his. Barry didn’t say a word. He simply reached for the heavy crystal glass on the table, tipped his head back, and swallowed the neat bourbon in one jagged gulp. As he set the glass down, his hand trembled. It was the second time I’d seen his hands shake like that. The first was five years ago, the night we got our marriage license. He had spent that entire night in his study, staring at an old Polaroid of Mallory until the sun came up. My throat tightened, a bitter ache blooming behind my ribs. I stood up to leave, but his fingers clamped around my wrist with bruising force. “Cassie, they’re just messing around,” he whispered, his voice thick with urgency. “Don’t take it seriously.” I looked down at his hand gripping mine, and for the first time in half a decade, I realized how exhausting this performance had become. … The atmosphere in the room had plummeted below freezing. One of the guys at the table let out a forced, nervous laugh, trying to patch the hole Barry had just punched in the night. “Come on, Mallory, that was a low blow. You know Barry worships the ground Cassie walks on. He literally moved his entire operation to Vancouver just so she could have that house she wanted.” Barry’s fingers squeezed my palm under the table, a silent plea. I gave in to the pressure and sat back down, my body feeling like a wooden mannequin. To kill the awkwardness, Barry grabbed the mic from the center of the table, pivoting the conversation with practiced ease. “Enough of that. Winter’s coming up. Who’s thinking about a ski trip? My treat.” The room erupted into a cacophony of suggestions—Aspen, Whistler, Saint-Moritz. Then Mallory spoke up, her voice soft but perfectly timed. “I want to go back to Vancouver. To see the maples.” She swirled the wine in her glass, looking far away. “A long time ago, someone told me that the red maples in the Pacific Northwest are like fire. He said it was the perfect place to build a life. He even promised to build me a timber cabin right under the trees.” The room went quiet again. Someone asked, “So, what happened?” Mallory smiled, her gaze cutting through the crowd and locking onto Barry. “He gave the cabin to someone else.” A collective sigh went up. People started teasing her, joking about how even a “Goddess” like Mallory had a ‘one that got away’ story. I turned my head slightly. Barry’s jaw was set so tight the bone looked like it might snap. A vein pulsed at his temple. The house we shared in Vancouver was a timber-framed masterpiece in the hills of West Van. The yard was filled with ancient, towering maples. I had spent five years believing he’d chosen that house because he knew I loved the autumn. I remembered moving in. He hadn’t looked at me that day. He had stood on the deck, staring at the carpet of fallen red leaves for hours. I thought he was just tired from the move. Now I knew. He wasn’t looking at our home. He was looking at the ghost of a promise he’d made to a different woman. A sharp cramp twisted in my stomach. I stood up again, grabbing my coat. Barry was behind me in seconds, catching me in the hallway. “Cassidy, what now? What are you doing?” “I’m going back to the hotel, Barry.” “Is this because of the game? It was a joke! Can you not be so sensitive for once? We finally made it back home, we’re seeing old friends—can’t you just let us have one nice night?” His voice was laced with that familiar, patronizing impatience. Before I could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed around the corner. Mallory appeared, her eyes red-rimmed. She stopped a few feet away, looking like a wounded bird. Barry’s entire body went rigid. His grip on my arm tightened unconsciously. Then, in a sudden, jarring shift, he leaned down and adjusted the collar of my coat. His voice dropped to a tender, performative silkiness. “Is it too loud in there, baby? Let’s get you out of here. I’ll walk you.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek. I stood there, hollowed out. In five years of marriage, Barry had never been this physically affectionate in public. “Barry,” Mallory called out from behind us. Barry turned, his brow furrowed in a display of annoyance that felt a second too late to be real. “What are you doing out here? Your date is waiting for you in the suite. I’m taking my wife home.” He tucked me under his arm, steering me toward the elevator. But his eyes didn’t stay on the doors. Every few steps, he stole a glance back over his shoulder. This “gentle husband” routine was a weapon. I was just the prop he was using to make Mallory bleed. We stepped out of the club into the cool night air. Barry walked beside me, his mind clearly miles away. We stopped at a 24-hour apothecary to pick up emergency heart medication for my foster mother, Martha. Her heart had been failing, and Barry had promised to help me get the best specialists once we settled back in the States. As I picked up the box, Barry’s phone buzzed. It was a specific, rhythmic vibration. I knew it. It was his ‘Priority’ alert—the one he’d told me was reserved for emergency board meetings. He glanced at the screen, and his face went pale. He turned away immediately to take the call. When he hung up, he couldn’t look me in the eye. “Cassie, something came up at the office. A crisis at the regional branch. I have to go. Take a cab back to the hotel, okay?” Before I could even nod, he was gone, disappearing into the neon-lit shadows of the street. I put the medication back on the shelf. I didn’t take a cab. I followed him. Two blocks away, in a secluded corner of a small park, I watched my husband—the man who had “urgent business”—wrap his arms around Mallory. She was sobbing into his chest, telling him how much her date disgusted her, how much she regretted letting him go years ago. Barry was stroking her hair, his touch infinitely more genuine than the kiss he’d given me in the hallway. I felt a ghost of a smile touch my lips as tears hit the wool of my coat. The thread that had held me together for five years finally snapped. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. A few yards away, under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, the two of them stayed locked together. There was no sound from Barry’s pocket. He hadn’t just ignored me. He had put me on ‘Do Not Disturb.’ The red maples in Vancouver were beautiful, I realized. But they were never planted for me. Just as Barry had been a “good” husband, but he had never belonged to me. I stared at my call logs—the missed calls from yesterday when I’d tried to tell him about Martha’s worsening condition. Once, Barry had been the darling of the private equity world, a “cold-blooded” prince whom every debutante in the city wanted to taming. But he had chosen me—a girl from a middle-class background, a professional ballet dancer with nothing but a dream. When I shattered my ankle in a freak stage accident, ending my career, Barry had been there. He found the best surgeons. He flew me to Paris and London to see shows, trying to piece my broken identity back together. I thought it was love. Now I saw it for what it was: a project. A way to fill the Mallory-shaped hole in his life with a grateful, broken girl who would never ask for more than he was willing to give. When I got back to the hotel, the room felt like a tomb. Half an hour later, the door card beeped. Barry walked in, tossing his blazer onto the chair. He looked lighter, energized. His mood was a thousand times better than it had been at the party. He set his phone on the bar and went to get a glass of water. The screen lit up. A notification popped. Mallory: [I only brought that date tonight to make you jealous. Seeing you catch fire for me… it made me so happy.] Barry came back, his eyes falling on the screen. He froze. He lunged for the phone, killing the display. I sat on the sofa, watching him with a terrifying clarity. “Why didn’t you text her back?” Barry’s face darkened instantly. He slammed the water glass onto the marble counter, splashing the surface. “Cassidy, are you seriously doing this right now?” “Doing what, Barry?” “This! This relentless, insecure nagging! I am exhausted. I’m running a multi-million dollar expansion, dealing with administrative nightmares, and I come home to you playing detective over a harmless text. I’ve had enough.” I listened to his accusations. My nails bit into my palms. He was the one who had cheated. He was the one who had spent the night holding another woman. And yet, I was the one who was “unreasonable.” I let go of my hands and saw the red crescents in my skin. I spoke softly. “I want a divorce.” Barry paused, his anger faltering. He lowered his voice, shifting back into the ‘reasonable’ husband. “Look, Cassie, Mallory was just being dramatic. It was a joke. We’re friends. Don’t overthink it.” I didn’t answer. I didn’t look at him. He didn’t care. He checked his watch. “Just… calm down. I have a late dinner meeting with some investors. Make sure you have some aspirin ready when I get back, I have a headache.” He grabbed his keys and walked out. The strength left my body. I slid off the sofa onto the carpet. My old ankle injury began to throb with a dull, sickening ache. My forehead felt like it was on fire. The stress of the move and the emotional wreckage had finally broken my immune system. I found a thermometer in the medical kit. 102.2. As I lay curled in bed, shivering under the duvet, my phone buzzed. It was a voice memo from Mallory. Sixty seconds long. I hit play. Her voice, breathless and coquettish, filled the room. “Barry… we shouldn’t be doing this…” Then came the sounds. Barry’s heavy breathing. The unmistakable, wet sounds of a desperate kiss. “It’s you, Mallory. It’s always been you,” Barry’s voice rasped. “The marriage was just a distraction for my parents. I’m back now. Don’t leave again. I’ll find a way to take care of Cassidy, I’ll pay her off.” The warmth drained out of the bed. I stared at the ceiling. Those sixty seconds felt like a century of ice. The screen went dark, then lit up again. My wallpaper was a photo of us in front of the maples in Vancouver, dressed for a gala. With shaking hands, I changed the background to a plain, clinical white. Then I threw the phone. It shattered against the TV screen with a satisfying crack. I picked up the hotel landline and dialed my lawyer. “Draft the papers. Everything. Now.” Then, the darkness took me. I woke up to the smell of bleach and the hiss of an IV. A nurse saw me open my eyes. “You had a febrile seizure,” she said gently. “The hotel staff found you. You should call your family.” Family. I borrowed her phone to log into my accounts. My feed was an absolute nightmare. Mallory had sent a barrage of “leaked” photos—intimate, suggestive shots of her and Barry—directly to me, accompanied by taunting messages. Barry’s “clean” reputation was a joke. In a final act of cold, hard defiance, I took every single one of those disgusting photos and forwarded them to our old alumni group chat. The group exploded. Three seconds later, the nurse’s phone rang. It was Barry, his voice vibrating with pure, unadulterated rage. “Cassidy, have you lost your mind?!” “The photos were an accident, they didn’t mean anything! You’re going to destroy Mallory’s reputation!” I listened to his fury, my eyes dead, my throat like sandpaper. “I’m in the hospital. I have a fever.” “I don’t care where you are!” he screamed. “Go into that chat right now and tell them your account was hacked! Tell them you made it up!” He hung up. I watched the IV drip, one bead at a time. Half an hour later, the door swung open. Mallory threw herself onto her knees by my bed, sobbing uncontrollably. “Cassie, please, I was drunk! Barry was just trying to make you jealous! The whole group is calling me a homewrecker. How am I supposed to live? Please, tell them it wasn’t real…” Barry pulled her up, his eyes full of loathing as he looked at me. “When did you become so cruel, Cassidy? This has nothing to do with her. I forced her into it. Are you really going to try and ruin her life?” He stepped closer, his voice a low growl. “You will go into that chat. You will tell them you Photoshopped those images to slander her because you were jealous.” I looked at him, truly looked at him. They were the ones who had cheated, yet I was the villain. When I didn’t answer, Barry’s face twisted. He pulled up a photo on his own phone and held it in front of my face. “If you don’t do it, I’ll send this to Martha.” It was a photo from my early days in the ballet conservatory. I had been bullied by a group of older girls who had stripped me and photographed me in the locker room to humiliate me. Barry had used his family’s influence back then to bury the story and the photos. He had held me while I cried, promising to protect me forever. Now, he was using my deepest trauma as a weapon to protect the woman he’d cheated with. I laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound. I ripped the IV out of my arm, ignored the blood, and followed him to a private room in the restaurant where he had gathered our old “friends.” In front of everyone, I spoke the words he wanted. “I lied about Mallory. The photos were fakes.” “She didn’t break up my marriage. I did this because I’m mentally unstable. I was jealous of her…” Before I could finish, a glass of scalding tea splashed across my face. “You’re sick, Cassidy! To use something like that against her!” “No wonder Barry can’t stand you. You’re a goddamn lunatic.” The heat on my cheek was searing. Blisters began to form instantly. Barry saw my pale, trembling face and took a half-step forward, his voice low. “Why are you looking like that? Why are your hands so cold?” I flinched away from him, my voice a broken whisper. “Give me the original files. Give me the photos of me.” His hand froze in mid-air. His face turned to stone. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a stack of printed copies of my locker room humiliation, and threw them into the air. They fluttered down like snow. I dropped to the floor, crawling on the grease-stained tiles, trying to gather the pieces of my dignity while our “friends” watched with disgust. Just then, my phone—the nurse’s phone in my pocket—rang. It was the hospital back home. “Is this Cassidy? I’m so sorry… Your mother, Martha… she saw some photos online. She had a massive heart attack. We’re in the ER. You need to get here now to sign the papers.” I looked up, catching Mallory’s eyes. She looked away, but there was a flicker of triumph there. I lunged at her, my fingers catching her throat. “What did you send my mother?!” Mallory shrieked, struggling. “Barry, help! I didn’t do anything!” Martha was the only light in my life. She was the woman who had worked three jobs to pay for my pointe shoes. Barry didn’t hesitate. He shoved me away with such force I hit the floor again. “Have you had enough?!” he roared. “You and that mother of yours, always with the drama! Always pretending to be the victim to get what you want!” I didn’t care about the blood on my forehead where I’d hit the table. I scrambled for the door. “If you walk out that door,” Barry yelled after me, “don’t ever think about coming back!” The image of Martha gasping for air filled my mind. I turned and dropped to my knees, my head hitting the cold floor in a desperate plea. “Barry, please. Drive me to the hospital. My mom is dying. Please.” For a split second, Barry looked shaken. But then Mallory clutched her chest, gasping for air. “Barry… I can’t breathe… she choked me… take me to the ER…” Barry didn’t look at me again. He scooped Mallory up in his arms and ran toward the parking garage. I ran after them, one shoe missing, limping on my ruined ankle. I pounded on his car window. “Barry, please! Just let me catch a ride, I can’t find a cab here!” The locks clicked. Thump. The window rolled down halfway, revealing his cold, beautiful face. “Your lies are getting pathetic, Cassidy.” The car roared to life. As he accelerated, he didn’t see my right leg. The door frame clipped me, throwing me down, and the heavy rear tire rolled directly over my ankle. A scream tore through the garage, but the car didn’t stop. I rolled on the concrete, the pain so intense I was vomiting. I looked at the “friends” leaving the club. They stepped around me like I was trash. “You deserve it, after those photos you took.” The phone rang again. “Cassidy… I’m so sorry. We did everything we could. She’s gone.” My world didn’t just break. It vanished. A text from Barry popped up. [Mallory is shaken up. I’m staying with her while she gets checked out.] [Stop playing dead. I’ll bring you that chocolate mousse you like on the way back. Let’s just move past this.] His cake. His ‘moving past this.’ I felt a wave of nausea so strong it eclipsed the pain in my leg. Across town, in the hospital, Barry felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chest. He tossed his keys to his assistant and hailed a cab back to the hotel. He pushed open the suite door, and his heart stopped. He walked into the bedroom, the silence ringing in his ears. “Cassie?” he called out, tugging at his tie. The walk-in closet was open. It was empty. Every suitcase, every dress, every scrap of her life was gone. He went to the vanity. It was bare. The maple leaf necklace he’d given her—the one she never took off—was gone. Barry’s pulse began to race. He started tearing through drawers, his breathing coming in ragged gasps. He ran to the living room, and his eyes landed on the coffee table. There sat the remains of her shattered phone. Underneath it were a few thin sheets of paper. Barry’s vision blurred. He picked them up. Five words in bold black ink: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

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As a succubus with a crippling, pathological fear of men, I managed to go three hundred years without a single drop of life force. It was a ridiculous way to go. Because of this bizarre phobia, any time a male creature got within breathing distance, I’d spiral into a panic attack so severe I eventually just… died. Starved to death. When I reached the Underworld, I was seeing green from hunger. I marched straight up to the King of Shadows and made a desperate plea. My demand was simple: “I’m starving. Feed me. I need primal energy—but I absolutely, under no circumstances, want a man!” The King of Shadows considered this for a moment, then took his heavy quill and signed a decree. “Consider it done,” he said with a cryptic smile. When I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t in the Underworld anymore. I was standing in a cold, opulent hall. Standing directly in front of me was a man in dark, blood-red robes embroidered with serpents. He looked lethal, his eyes like chips of flint. He was a High Inquisitor—a man who had been “unmanned” to serve the crown. A eunuch. He hooked a finger under my chin, his voice dripping with icy impatience. “Why the tears? Is serving as my consort truly such a death sentence?” The girls beside me were shaking like leaves, whispering, “No, My Lord! We wouldn’t dare!” But me? I was nearly hysterical with joy. A Lord Inquisitor! A man who wasn’t technically a man! This was the loophole of a lifetime. I was finally going to eat. To the absolute horror of everyone in the room, I didn’t recoil. Instead, I lunged forward like a drowning person catching a life raft and wrapped myself around him. I grabbed his face, pressed my mouth against his thin, cold lips, and let out an ecstatic muffled shout: “I love this! I absolutely love this!” … Click. A cold, iron-strong hand clamped around my throat. One squeeze, and he could snap my neck like a dry twig. But I didn’t feel a flicker of fear. In fact, I wanted to laugh. Three centuries of “Androphobia” had made me hyperventilate if a man got within ten feet. Touching one usually meant instant cardiac arrest. But this? This was my golden ticket. My heavenly buffet. God bless the Bureau. God bless the Lord Inquisitor! I forced my eyes open, meeting his dark, predatory gaze. “My Lord…” I wheezed out, the words struggling past my constricted windpipe. “The way you’re choking me… it feels amazing.” A collective gasp echoed through the hall. The surrounding guards looked like they were having strokes. The pressure on my neck faltered. For the first time, a flicker of genuine shock crossed Alaric’s pale, aristocratic face. Since he’d taken command of the Iron Bureau, he had built a reputation on being a butcher. People didn’t even dare to look him in the eye, let alone treat him like a climbing frame. He practiced a legendary, forbidden style of combat—The Solar Core—which filled his body with a volatile, blistering heat. To a normal person, his touch would feel like being branded. But I wasn’t normal. I wasn’t burning; I was feasting. I was actively draining the agonizing pressure of the energy built up inside him. Alaric’s eyes flashed with a sudden, murderous intent. He threw me off him, hurling me toward one of the massive stone pillars in the hall. I hit the pillar hard. My ribs groaned, and the world spun. I coughed up a splash of bright crimson blood. It hurt like hell, but I was vibrating with excitement. That brief moment of contact had given me enough energy to survive for three days. I wiped the blood from my lip and stood up, swaying on my feet. “Guards,” Alaric said, taking a silk handkerchief from an attendant to wipe the fingers I had touched. His voice was a low, dangerous purr. “Take this delusional thing away. Skin her and stuff her with straw.” Two guards stepped forward, grabbing my shoulders. My heart sank. My “Buffet” had a bit of a temper. This was going to be harder than I thought. But I’d finally found a source of food that didn’t make me vomit with fear; I wasn’t letting go, even if it killed me. “Wait!” I wrenched myself free and dropped to my knees. “Wait! My Lord, you can’t kill me. If I die, you’ll spend the rest of your life suffering through that bone-deep torture.” Alaric didn’t even look back. He tossed the tainted handkerchief into a nearby brazier, where it vanished in a puff of flame. The guards stepped closer, their swords half-drawn. I stared at his retreating back and screamed, “Every night at midnight, your chest feels like it’s being filled with molten lead, doesn’t it? You feel like you’re going to explode from the inside out!” Alaric froze. The temperature in the hall seemed to drop to sub-zero. The guards dropped to their knees, terrified to even breathe. I’d won the bet. Pure solar energy is a miracle for power, but if it has nowhere to go, it turns into a slow-acting poison. His aura was so thick it was practically screaming. There was no way he wasn’t suffering. Alaric turned around slowly. His crimson robes swirled in the dim light like a pool of blood. He walked back to me, his eyes searching, deep and terrifyingly intelligent. “Who sent you?” He leaned down, pinching my jaw again. This time he wasn’t trying to break me, but the intensity of his gaze made my skin crawl. “No one sent me,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I’m just a poor, starving soul who happens to be the only cure for what ails you.” Alaric stared at me for a long time. Just when I thought he was going to snap and finish the job, he laughed. It was a cold, dry sound, like dead leaves skittering over a grave. “Fine,” he said, straightening up. “I’ll give you a chance to prove your worth.” “Take her to the Citadel.” I was thrown into a cell. It was clean enough—no torture devices, just a hard wooden cot. Alaric didn’t interrogate me immediately. He left me there to rot for three days. No food. No water. The hunger of a succubus isn’t like a human stomach ache; it’s a soul-tearing agony. It feels like your very essence is being shredded from the inside. By the third day, I was curled in a fetal position, my prison clothes soaked in cold sweat. The tiny bit of energy I’d sucked out of him earlier was a drop of water in an ocean of three hundred years of starvation. Just as I felt my consciousness slipping, the heavy iron door creaked open. A tall, elegant figure stepped in. Alaric had changed into dark, casual robes. He was idly thumbing a string of sandalwood beads, looking like a monk at prayer—if you ignored the several mangled corpses being dragged out of the hallway behind him. “I heard you were starving,” he said, walking to the bed. He nudged my leg with the toe of his boot. I didn’t even have the strength to look up. Driven by pure instinct, I lunged forward and hugged his boot. “My Lord… please… hungry…” Even through the leather of his boot, I could smell the radiant, blistering heat of his energy. I let out a soft, involuntary moan of relief. Alaric stiffened. He looked down at me, his expression unreadable. He didn’t kick me away. Instead, he let me press my face against his leg. “What kind of monster are you, exactly?” he asked, his voice sounding oddly raspy. “I’m your antidote,” I whispered, looking up at him with puppy-dog eyes. “And I’m still hungry.” Alaric suddenly crouched down, grabbing a handful of my hair to force my head back. “Antidote?” He let out a harsh laugh. “You look like a soul-sucking demon to me.” He let go and stood up. “Guards!” Two Inquisitors entered immediately. “Take her to the interrogation room.” Panic flared in my chest. What now? I’d barely had a snack, and he was already turning on me? They dragged me into a room where a man was strapped to a chair, covered in blood. Judging by his clothes, he was some disgraced official. Alaric walked over, pulled a glowing red branding iron from a brazier, and pressed it into the man’s chest. The smell of burnt flesh filled the room. The man screamed like a stuck pig. Alaric didn’t blink. He turned to me. “You said you were hungry? Go on. Feed on him.” My pupils shrunk. The man was a bloody mess, but he was a man. A real, biological male. The overwhelming scent of male aggression and blood hit me like a physical blow. My stomach did a somersault. My phobia roared to life. My breath hitched into a spasm. My heart rate spiked into the red zone. The room started to spin. “No…” I backed away, my voice trembling. “I can’t… I won’t…” Alaric narrowed his eyes. “What? Too dirty for your refined palate?” He sneered. “I have plenty of men in the Citadel. We can keep going until you find one you like.” He signaled with his hand, and a dozen hulking guards surrounded me. The concentrated “maleness” of the room was too much. My legs gave out. I collapsed onto the floor, making a wet, choking sound in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. The terror was physiological, bypassing my brain and going straight to my nerves. Driven by a desperate need for safety, I crawled toward the only person who felt “safe”—the man who wasn’t a man. Under the shocked stares of the guards, I scrambled to Alaric and gripped his leg like a lifeline. “Save me…” I buried my face in the hem of his robe, tears streaming down my face. “I don’t want them… I only want you…” Alaric looked down at me. He saw my face, white as a sheet. He saw the way my entire body was vibrating with terror. And then, he smiled. It was a wicked, dark smile, full of a twisted kind of satisfaction. “I see,” he whispered. He leaned down, his thumb roughly brushing a tear from my cheek. “You’re terrified of men.” He leaned closer, his warm breath fanning across my ear. “Then why aren’t you afraid of me?” That was a lethal question. I couldn’t exactly tell him, “Because you’re a eunuch and you don’t have the parts that trigger my trauma.” If I said that, I’d be dead before I could blink. My brain kicked into overdrive, searching for a lie he’d believe. “Because… because you’re beautiful,” I stammered, trying to make my eyes look as sincere as possible. “The others are all so… ugly. They hurt my eyes.” The smile vanished. Alaric’s face turned to stone. “You think I’m a fool?” He stood up abruptly, shaking me off. “Since you won’t tell the truth, perhaps the Black Cells will help you find your voice.” He turned to leave. The Black Cells? That was the deepest pit of the Citadel. It was filled with the most violent, depraved criminals in the empire. I wouldn’t last ten minutes before my heart gave out from sheer terror. “My Lord!” I scrambled after him, grabbing his hem again. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell the truth!” Alaric stopped, looking down at me from his towering height. “Speak.” I swallowed hard. “It’s… it’s your aura. It’s special.” I looked up at him, projecting pure vulnerability. “I have a… condition. A curse. I need solar energy to survive. I need you, and My Lord… you need me.” I lowered my voice. “The other night, after I touched you… the pain didn’t come at midnight, did it?” Alaric stared at me for an eternity. Finally, he let out a sharp huff. “I’ll let you live. For now.” He moved me into the side wing of his private quarters, barely twenty paces from his bedroom. On the first night, I stood outside his study door with a blanket wrapped around me. “My Lord,” I whispered through the crack. “The side wing is haunted. I’m scared.” Alaric didn’t even look up from his scrolls. “Go back to bed.” I didn’t go back. I curled up against the doorframe, wrapped in my blanket, and fell asleep basking in the solar heat radiating from the room. There was a long silence from inside. Finally, he ordered the servants to put a small cot in the corner of his bedroom. The next morning, he almost tripped over me. He looked down at me for a long time, then ordered a small daybed to be placed in his study as well. By the third day, while he was reviewing execution orders, I was lounging on the daybed, watching him. Eventually, I migrated to the floor by his feet, resting my head on his knee and quietly sipping on his overflowing energy. His brush hovered over the paper. “Are you a dog?” “Woof.” He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t push me away. After a moment, his hand came up and rested on my head, his fingers idly brushing through my hair. I looked up and beamed at him. “You’re so good to me, My Lord.” His ears turned a faint shade of pink, and he looked away. “You’re noisy.” I giggled internally. My long-term meal ticket was officially secured. Life became a comfortable routine of being constantly full. The servants in the manor started to like me, mostly because Alaric’s legendary temper had cooled significantly since I arrived. The only person who hated me was Morgan, the female captain of his guard. Every time she saw me, her eyes looked like they were dripping venom. Then, Alaric had to leave the city on official business. He was gone for five days. I was starving. Not for food—real food was plenty—but for him. I hugged his pillow, inhaling deeply. The scent was fading. The energy was gone. Finally, the day of the Summer Festival arrived. “Miss,” Morgan said, entering my room with an uncharacteristically polite bow. “The Lord Inquisitor sent word. He’s waiting for you at the Clear Wave alley in the south of the city. He wants to spend the festival with you.” I practically bounced off the bed. “Really?” “He said to dress appropriately,” Morgan added. “He has a gift for you.” Alaric? The man who was as cold as a frostbitten iron gate? Taking me out for a romantic festival date? It sounded too good to be true, but then again, maybe he was feeling the “hunger” for his antidote as much as I was. I spent an hour getting ready. The girl in the mirror looked radiant—eyes bright, skin glowing. Satisfied, I headed to the rendezvous. I pushed open the door to the private room. No Alaric. I frowned. He was late? Then, the door clicked shut behind me. “You finally arrived.” It wasn’t Alaric’s voice. Panic hit me like a physical wave. My stomach churned, and my legs went weak. I backed away, stumbling onto the bed. “Who are you?” my voice shook. “My name is Silas,” the man said, stepping into the light. “Don’t you remember? You saw me at the market and fell for me instantly. You asked me to meet you here tonight…” “That’s a lie!” I tried to run, but the phobia had me pinned. I couldn’t move. Silas approached me, one slow step at a time. “Don’t come closer!” I shrieked, curling into a ball on the bed, shaking violently. At that moment, the door was kicked open with a deafening crash. Alaric stood there, his face a mask of pure, murderous rage. Morgan was right behind him, her expression a mix of mock horror and triumph. “See, My Lord?” Morgan cried. “I told you! The moment you’re gone, she’s meeting her secret lover!” The scene looked damning: spilled wine, a half-closed bed curtain, a well-dressed man, and me, dressed up and trembling on the bed. “My Lord, let me explain,” Silas suddenly blurted out, dropping to his knees. “This girl invited me here. She said she was lonely in your house and begged me to take her away. I didn’t want to, but she threatened me!” “You’re lying!” I screamed. Silas pulled a letter from his sleeve. “This is the note she sent me. Her own handwriting.” I suddenly remembered a letter I’d seen on my vanity. I reached into my sleeve. Empty. The letter Morgan had “delivered” from Alaric was gone. It was a setup. Alaric took the letter. His expression went from ice to something far more dangerous. “My Lord,” I said, forced myself to sit up. “I didn’t write that. I…” Before I could finish, his hand was around my throat, lifting me off the bed. His voice was terrifyingly calm. “It seems you’ve been having quite a lot of fun while I was away, Nora.” “No… it’s not… what you think…” I gasped. Between the phobia of the man in the corner and Alaric’s grip, I was losing consciousness. “Did you betray me too?” he whispered, his grip tightening. I heard a faint creak in my neck. The world started to go black. In a last, desperate effort, I reached into my bodice and shoved something into his hand.

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I once defied my entire family, burning every bridge I had to marry Morgan. To fuel her startup dreams, I even sold the historic brownstone my mother had left me—the only piece of my heritage I had left. Now, Morgan is worth billions. She’s the darling of the business world, her reputation spotless, untouched by scandal. Everyone tells me I made the bet of a lifetime. They say I’m the luckiest man alive. But on my birthday, I found her. I saw her slip into the bedroom of her widowed brother-in-law, Lucas. I stood there, paralyzed in the hallway, watching through the crack in the door as he tried to push her away. I heard him whisper, his voice thick with a guilt that didn’t belong to her: “Don’t do this, Daniel is right outside…” I didn’t scream. I didn’t cause a scene. I walked out, went to a high-end lounge, and spent a small fortune to buy the night of a girl who looked like she’d never been touched by the world. I thought Morgan would feel the sting of it. I thought she’d feel the humiliation. Instead, she just let out a dry, mocking hum. “Lonely, were we?” she asked. Then, with a chilling indifference, she added, “Maybe it’s for the best. We can each do our own thing. An open marriage actually suits us.” That was the moment I shattered. I picked up a crystal vase and smashed it over her and Lucas’s heads. Morgan wiped the blood from her face, her eyes turning into shards of ice. “The one thing you should never have done,” she hissed, “was touch him.” After that, she dismantled my life with surgical precision. She orchestrated a fraud scheme that swallowed my father’s life’s work. She framed my brother, Ryan, for grand larceny, sending him to a federal prison. My sister-in-law took her little girl, Gia, and jumped from the roof of their apartment building. My father, having cried himself blind in the wake of the funeral, screamed at me in the darkness of his grief: “If you hadn’t provoked her, we wouldn’t be in this hell! You’re a curse, Daniel! Why aren’t you the one who’s dead?” That night, Morgan pinned me against the floor-to-ceiling windows of our penthouse. She had drugged me with something that turned my limbs to lead. “My sweet Daniel,” she whispered, “why couldn’t you just stay in your place?” Listening to her, I stopped fighting. I would be good now. I would do exactly what my father wanted. … Against the glass, Morgan’s hand tightened around my throat, forcing the upper half of my body out over the ledge of the open window. The freezing rain of the twenty-second floor whipped into my clothes, sending tremors through my skin. Her leg pressed hard between my knees, and I heard the sickening tear of my silk pajamas. There was no tenderness. No kiss. Just a brutal, suffocating display of dominance. “Talk to me, Daniel! You were so loud before, weren’t you?” She bit my ear, her voice dripping with a primal hatred. “Your brother just had three ribs broken by a cell boss. Your blind father was kicked out of his place this morning. He’s in a moldy basement now, starving. Do you know why? Because you didn’t just cheat on me—you tried to kill Lucas. You almost took him from me!” “If you beg me right now, if you go to him on your knees and admit what a pathetic, malicious piece of trash you are, I’ll sign the papers to let your brother out. I’ll stop.” A year ago, I would have fought. I would have bitten her shoulder and cursed her name until my lungs gave out. But tonight, I just stared at my own reflection in the dark glass. A ghost. No resistance. No tears. Morgan stopped. She was panting, her frustration boiling over. She grabbed my chin and forced me to look at her. “What is this? This ‘dead fish’ act? You weren’t this quiet when you were throwing money at that girl, were you? You weren’t quiet when you tried to embarrass me in front of everyone!” I looked into her bloodshot eyes and swallowed hard. My voice was a ghost of itself. “Morgan, if you were actually powerful, you wouldn’t need to do this to feel seen. Are you finished? If you are, get dressed and get out.” Her pupils shrunk. The veins in her forehead throbbed. Slap. The blow sent my head snapping to the side. “Ungrateful bitch,” she spat. She stood up, calmly buttoning her shirt. She grabbed a wet wipe from the table, cleaned her hands, crumpled it, and flicked it into my face. “You think you’re still the golden boy of this city? You think you have dignity?” She ground her heel into the back of my hand, twisting it. “Tomorrow is Lucas’s birthday. We’re celebrating at the club. Bring your blind father. You’ll stand at the door, greeting his guests and pouring their drinks. If I see this pathetic face of yours, I’ll call the warden. I’ll make sure your brother never uses his hands again.” She kicked a chair out of her way and slammed the door. I lay on the rug, my face numb, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. Slowly, I crawled to the bathroom. I opened the vanity drawer and pulled out an unmarked plastic bottle. For six months, I had been faking insomnia, visiting a dozen different pharmacies, slowly hoarding pills. I poured them into my coat pocket. Then, I took a single blade from my razor and tucked it away too. I was done fighting. Morgan was right—this was my fault. I sold my mother’s legacy for a woman who used it to bury my family. My sister-in-law and Gia were gone because of me. My brother was a convict because of me. My father hated the very sound of my breath. Morgan had built her throne on the bones of the people I loved, all to elevate Lucas. I would listen to my father. I would die. But before I left, I needed to see him one last time. The basement in the slums smelled of rot and damp concrete. I pushed open the rusted iron door. My father sat on a broken spring mattress, his sightless eyes fixed on the door. “Dad,” I whispered, fighting the ache in my throat. I opened a thermal container. “I brought the shrimp dumplings you like. Eat while they’re hot.” At the sound of my voice, his thin frame began to shake. He lunged toward me, guided by the sound, and struck me across the face. The container flew, spilling the scalding soup and dumplings across my chest. The pain was sharp, but I didn’t move. “Get out!” His skeletal fingers clawed at my neck, digging into the skin. “You curse! How dare you show your face here! Morgan sent people today… they smashed the urns, Daniel! Gia’s ashes… her mother’s… they poured them into the sewer! I crawled in the filth trying to save them, but there was nothing! Nothing left!” He was hysterical, his tears mixing with the saliva on his face. “You insisted on marrying her! You stole the company seal for her! You built her up with our blood! And now we’re all dead! Are you happy?” My vision blurred as the air left my lungs. I didn’t pull his hands away. I deserved this. “Why won’t you just die, Daniel? Die and give Gia her life back! If you have a shred of soul left, go jump off a building! Stop making us sick by existing!” He let go, collapsing to the floor in a heap, wailing. He struck the concrete with his fists until his knuckles bled. His tears landed on my burned skin, hotter than the soup. He was right. Why was I still here? I knelt and picked up a crushed, dirt-covered dumpling, placing it back on the lid. “Okay,” I said, looking at the broken man. I bowed my head to the floor three times. “Dad… I’ll do what you want. I’m going now. Take care of yourself.” I stood up and walked toward the rain. “Daniel…?” his voice wavered for a second. I paused. “Hmph. Don’t try to play the victim. Death is too good for you after what you’ve done.” I didn’t look back. The rain was torrential. I was soaked to the bone by the time I reached the street. A Maybach roared past, slamming through a puddle and drenching me in muddy water. The brakes screeched. The window rolled down. Morgan sat at the wheel, her gaze dark. In the passenger seat, Lucas held his nose, looking at my dripping clothes with disgust. In the back, Courtney, Morgan’s best friend, let out a sharp laugh. “Well, look at the little prince now. Looking for handouts, Daniel? You really have a gift for looking like a stray.” Morgan stepped out of the car, grabbed me by the hair, and yanked my head back. “I told you to be at the club. What are you doing here? Crying to your pathetic father?” The pain in my scalp was searing. I bit my tongue. “I wasn’t…” She didn’t listen. She dragged me to the car and shoved me into the back seat. Courtney kicked me toward the corner of the footwell. We reached the VIP lounge. Morgan dragged me by my collar through the gilded hallways and threw me onto a glass coffee table in the center of a crowded room. The glass shattered. Shards sliced into my palms and knees, blood blooming through my wet clothes. “Pour the drinks, Daniel,” Morgan commanded. She sat in the center chair, pulling Lucas into her lap, and lit a cigarette. Courtney walked over with a bottle of red wine and poured it directly over my head. The cold liquid stung my eyes. “What’s the matter, Golden Boy? Forgot how to use your hands?” The room erupted in jeers. These were the people who used to crawl at my feet. “Hey, Morgan, if he’s this pathetic, why not let us have some fun? I’ll give him fifty bucks to take off a shirt.” “A hundred if he licks the wine off the floor!” Morgan blew a cloud of smoke, her eyes cold as she watched me. “Do whatever you want with him.” The room filled with laughter. Courtney grabbed my hair and forced a bottle of whiskey into my mouth. I choked, coughing up streaks of red. Lucas leaned against Morgan’s shoulder, his voice soft and performative. “Morgan, don’t. Daniel was good to you once.” He stood up, took a stack of hundred-dollar bills from his bag, and walked over to me. “Take this, Daniel. Go get the divorce papers signed tomorrow. Don’t be a ghost. Morgan loves me now.” He threw the money at my face. The bills fluttered down like dead leaves. I didn’t move. I just looked at him. My silence seemed to unnerve him. Suddenly, Lucas stumbled back, hitting the corner of the table. “Ah!” He clutched his chest, rolling on the floor. “Morgan… my heart… Daniel pushed me… he wants me dead!” Morgan snapped. She kicked the table over and drove her boot into my chest. I flew back, hitting the wall. I heard the distinct crack of my ribs. A wave of heat rose in my throat, and I vomited a mouthful of blood. Morgan’s eyes were manic as she scooped Lucas up. “Daniel! If anything happens to him, I will tear your family apart piece by piece!” She pointed at the glass and blood on the floor. “Get on your knees. Right there. Start bowing. If you stop before I tell you, I’ll have your father killed tonight.” I forced myself up through the agony. Under the mocking gazes of the room, I knelt in the sea of broken glass. Thud. My forehead hit the floor. Thud. Thud. “That’s more like it,” Morgan sneered. She didn’t look back as she rushed Lucas out to the hospital. The crowd lost interest once the “show” was over and filtered out. Soon, only Courtney remained. She kicked the door shut and walked over, grabbing my collar. “Stop it. They’re gone. Who are you performing for?” Her eyes were predatory. Her hand traced my face and moved down to my chest. “You’re so pathetic, Daniel. Remember when I begged you to be my boyfriend in the rain? You called me a toad. Look at you now. Morgan tells you to bark, and you don’t even hesitate.” She set her phone up on a bottle, hitting record. “I want to see how that ‘noble’ body of yours handles a little common fun.” She started stripping her coat, reaching for a small vial in her pocket. I looked at her, my soul feeling heavy and gray. “Lock the door.” She paused, then laughed. “Scared someone will see? Want to save a little face? Fine. I’ll give you that much.” As she turned to bolt the door, I took the plastic bottle from my pocket. I unscrewed the cap and swallowed the entire contents—dozens of white pills—washing them down with a half-drunk glass of scotch from the floor. They scraped my throat, but I forced them down. Then, I pulled out the razor blade. I didn’t hesitate. I sliced deep into my left wrist, right across the artery. It wasn’t deep enough. I did it again. Twice. Until I saw the pale gleam of bone through the red. Blood sprayed, coating the leather sofa and the rug. Courtney turned around and froze. The predatory smirk vanished, replaced by a mask of pure horror. “What the hell are you doing?!” She scrambled back, her legs giving out. I leaned back against the sofa, watching the fountain of red. I felt the light beginning to dim at the edges of my vision. It didn’t hurt anymore. Dad, Ryan, Gia… I’m coming to pay my debt. Meanwhile, at the City Hospital. The emergency light flickered off. The doctor stepped out, looking at a frantic Morgan. “He’s fine,” the doctor said, his voice flat. “Mr. Lucas has a minor bruise. And…” He hesitated. “He didn’t have a heart attack. There’s nothing wrong with his heart.” Morgan went still. “What?” Lucas was wheeled out, his face pale, avoiding her eyes. “Morgan, I…” A memory flashed in Morgan’s mind: Daniel, kneeling in broken glass, his eyes devoid of anything resembling life. A sudden, sharp panic seized her chest. She pushed Lucas’s hand away. She pulled out her phone, dialing my number. Disconnected. With trembling fingers, she opened the club’s security app. The feed loaded. The room was bathed in red. Courtney was in the corner, screaming, clawing at a locked door. Morgan dropped her phone, her eyes wild, and ran for the elevator.

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My husband, Brandon, was meticulously peeling an apple by my bedside while I drifted in and out of consciousness, my body being torn apart by the rhythmic, agonizing waves of labor. My water had broken an hour ago, and the world was a blur of sterile white lights and the sharp tang of antiseptic. A nurse hurried in during a brief reprieve between contractions, her face tight with urgency. She pressed a stack of consent forms toward Brandon, urging him to sign so they could move me into the delivery suite. Brandon didn’t reach for the pen. Instead, he sliced a perfect crescent of apple and held it to my lips, his other hand reaching out to tenderly wipe the cold sweat from my forehead. “Deep breaths, Callie,” he whispered, his voice a soothing balm. I reached for his hand, my fingers trembling, seeking any anchor in the storm of pain. He squeezed back, his touch firm and grounding. Then, with a practiced smoothness that felt discordant with the chaos of the room, he reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a document. It wasn’t a birth plan. It was a formal waiver of marital assets. “Honey, childbirth is high-risk,” he said, his eyes searching mine with a terrifyingly calm intensity. “I need you to do this for us. To prove that you’re with me for love, not just for the money or the estate. Just sign this, and I’ll have the doctor administer the epidural immediately. Okay?” 1 The nurse stood by the door, the surgical consent forms dangling from her hand. She started to say something, then closed her mouth, her eyes darting between the two of us. I looked down at the paper in Brandon’s hand. It was crisp, professional, bearing the embossed seal of a top-tier law firm. This wasn’t a sudden thought; this was a calculated move. He had been sitting on this, waiting for the one moment where I was too broken to fight back. Another contraction hit—a white-hot blade of pain that started in my lower back and radiated through my entire core. I arched off the bed, my fingernails digging into my palms so hard I drew blood. Sweat poured down my face, a single drop landing on the cover sheet of the waiver. Brandon quickly pulled the paper away, dabbing the moisture off with a tissue as if the ink were more precious than my comfort. “Don’t get worked up, Callie,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Just sign this, and I’ll call the anesthesiologist right now. The pain will go away. You’ll be at peace.” “Brandon,” I wheezed through gritted teeth. “Have you lost your mind?” He didn’t answer. Instead, the door swung open and his mother, Martha, strode in. She was carrying a thermos of bone broth, her eyes immediately scanning my swollen belly before settling on her son. She patted Brandon’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity that made my skin crawl. “Is it done?” she asked. I heard her clearly. Brandon shook his head. Martha sighed and sat on the edge of my bed. She took my hand in hers; her skin felt like dry parchment. “Callie, look at me,” she said, her voice dripping with a forced, maternal patience. “I know it hurts. But do this for Brandon. Give him some peace of mind. Every woman goes through this—the pain, the drama—it’s just how it is. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be.” She squeezed my hand, a thin smile stretching across her face. “This is just a formality. A gesture of good faith to show you didn’t marry into this family for the portfolio. If you’re planning on a long, happy life with my son, what does a piece of paper matter? It’ll just be a relic of the past one day.” I looked from the mother to the son. Brandon stood there, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression a mask of manufactured conflict. I forced myself to read the first few lines of the document. Article 1: Caroline Mitch hereby voluntarily waives all claims to the property located at 412 West End Avenue, Unit 18B, acknowledging it as the sole property of Brandon Mitch. Article 2: The undersigned voluntarily waives any claim to equity or future dividends in Mitch Tech Solutions. Article 3: In the event of a dissolution of marriage, the undersigned agrees to a ‘clean break’ settlement, waiving all rights to communal assets acquired during the marriage. My hands began to shake—not from the pain, but from a cold, hard fury. “Brandon,” I said, looking up at him. “My parents gave us a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the down payment on that condo. They dipped into their retirement for that.” “It was a gift to us,” he replied instantly, his tone clipped. “But the deed is in my name. It makes sense to keep it clean.” “And the seed money for your company—” “That was a loan, Callie. I’ve told you, I’ll pay your parents back with interest. It wasn’t an equity investment.” He had an answer for everything. He had rehearsed this. The nurse stepped back in, glancing at the fetal monitor. Her face went pale. “Mr. Mitch, the patient is at six centimeters. The baby’s heart rate is fluctuating. We need a decision on the epidural and the intervention plan now. If we wait much longer—” “We understand,” Brandon interrupted, his gaze never leaving mine. “Callie, you heard her. Time is running out.” He pulled out the fountain pen I had bought him for our first anniversary—the one he said he’d only use for ‘important milestones.’ He pressed it into my hand. The cold metal felt like an icicle against my skin. Brandon knelt so he was at eye level with me, his face a picture of fabricated heartbreak. “I’m not trying to hurt you, honey. But think about it. Childbirth is unpredictable. If something goes wrong, the last thing I want is a legal battle over the estate. This protects us. It protects the baby’s future. It keeps things simple.” He reached out, brushing a damp lock of hair from my forehead. “I’m doing this for you, Callie. For our family.” Martha nodded fervently. “He’s right, dear. Brandon is just looking out for everyone.” I had looked at this man’s face every day for five years. I remembered him bringing me coffee in bed, the way he cried at our wedding, the way he promised to protect me. And now, he was kneeling by my hospital bed, using my life and the life of our unborn son as a bargaining chip. A contraction more violent than the rest ripped through me. I curled into a ball, a low, guttural moan escaping my lips. Brandon gripped my hand, guiding the pen toward the signature line. “Sign it and the pain stops, Callie,” he whispered. “Sign it, and I’ll get the doctor.” I gripped the pen, my fingers slick with sweat. Martha’s hand came down on top of mine, pressing. “Just sign it, Callie. Don’t keep the baby waiting.” The numbers on the fetal monitor began to blink rapidly. 2 I summoned every ounce of strength I had left and hurled the pen across the room. It clattered against the far wall and rolled to a stop at the base of a medical cart. “Brandon, what the hell are you actually doing?” His face hardened instantly. The mask of ‘concerned husband’ slipped, revealing a flicker of raw irritation. He stood up, walked over to retrieve the pen, blew a speck of dust off the nib, and brought it back to the bedside. “Callie, don’t be dramatic. I told you, it’s not a big deal. Talking about money is so gauche between a husband and wife, but you’re making it an issue. If you sign, we go back to being a happy family. If you don’t…” He paused, his voice turning icy. “Well, it makes it look like you’ve been calculating this whole time.” “I’ve been calculating? You’re the one holding my medical care hostage!” “See? This is why I didn’t want to bring it up last week,” he said, folding his arms. He looked genuinely offended. “You’re emotional. I’ve been a perfect husband for three years, and you’re treating me like a villain. It’s deeply hurtful, Callie.” I was literally leaking amniotic fluid and dying of pain, and he was the one who was ‘hurt.’ “You’re hurt?” My voice was a raspy shadow of itself. “You’re forcing a legal contract on me while I’m in active labor, and you’re the one who’s hurt?” “I’m not forcing anything,” he corrected. “I’m negotiating. I wanted to do this earlier, but you were so moody during the third trimester that I figured we’d just handle it today. It’s efficient.” “Efficient?” “The lawyers were pushing for it. They said it’s best to have everything settled before the birth certificate is filed. It’s common practice for men in my position.” He was blaming the lawyers now. The nurse returned for the third time, her patience gone. “Look, if we don’t do the epidural in the next ten minutes, the window is closed. Are you signing the consent forms or not?” Brandon turned to her, his face instantly shifting back into a mask of frantic worry. “Nurse, I’m so sorry. My wife is just… she’s very anxious. I’m trying to calm her down. Give us two minutes? I’ll have the forms signed right away.” He took the hospital’s consent forms from her, but he didn’t sign them. He just held them. The nurse looked at me, then at him, and walked out, sensing a tension she wasn’t paid enough to resolve. As soon as the door clicked shut, Brandon’s ‘anxiety’ vanished. He shoved the pen back into my hand. “Sign.” His voice was a whip. No more negotiation. Just a command. Suddenly, the door burst open and my best friend, Joyce, flew into the room. Her hair was a mess, her coat half-off. She had clearly raced from the airport. She took one look at the document in Brandon’s hand and her eyes turned murderous. She lunged for the paper. “Brandon, you absolute piece of shit!” she screamed. “You’re really doing this? Now? While she’s in labor? Are you even human?” Martha stepped in her way, a wall of cold indignation. “This is family business, Joyce. You’re an outsider—” “Outsider?” Joyce laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. “I’ve known her since we were five! Her parents put up the money for your house, and you’re trying to screw her out of it while she’s on a delivery table? You’re a monster!” “Joyce,” I whispered, reaching for her arm. I didn’t want her to waste her breath. I turned my head to look at Brandon. “Fine. Let’s say I don’t sign. What’s the plan, Brandon? How are we going to afford the nursery, the nanny, the private school you’ve been bragging about? You make two hundred grand a year, but you send seventy percent of it to your mother’s ‘investment fund.’ You barely have five grand in your checking account.” Brandon’s eyes flickered. “And that fifty thousand from my parents for your startup? You said it was a loan. Fine. Where’s the interest? It’s been three years. Your company cleared four million in revenue last year, and you’re telling me you have nothing?” He stayed silent. Martha chimed in, “Callie, dear, don’t be so bean-counting. We’re a family—” “A family?” I pointed at the waiver. “Does a family need this?” Martha went silent. I stared at Brandon. “And that line about ‘unforeseen circumstances’? You said it would be messy if something happened to me. Are you planning for something to happen to me, Brandon?” “Don’t be ridiculous!” His face flushed. “Then why does this have to be signed before I go into that theater?” He had no answer. After a few beats, his voice softened again, returning to that terrifying, gentle lilt. “Callie, you’re overthinking. I was up all night, worrying about you and the baby. I just want everything organized so we can focus on being parents—” “Then add your fifty-thousand-dollar pre-marital savings account to the waiver,” I said. He froze. “What?” “Sign a mutual waiver. You waive yours, I waive mine. Equal footing. If it’s just a formality, it shouldn’t matter, right?” He stared at me, his jaw tight. Martha panicked. “Callie, that’s Brandon’s hard-earned money, you can’t—” “Mom,” Brandon said, holding up a hand. He looked at me, his eyes dark. “We can discuss that later. Sign this now. We can talk about the rest after the baby is out.” “Then I’ll sign this after the baby is out.” “No.” His tone was final. “It has to be now.” 3 Brandon stood over the bed, clutching the waiver like a trophy. He looked down at me from a great height, his shadow swallowing the light from the hospital window. “Wake up, Callie,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous hum. “Look at your situation. Your water is gone. You’re fully effaced. You’re in pain. Do you really think you can afford to play chicken with me right now?” “Are you threatening me?” “I’m stating facts.” He enunciated every word. “If you don’t sign this, I don’t sign the surgical consent. It’s your choice.” Joyce erupted. “Brandon, you sick bastard! That’s your child! You’re going to let your wife and son die in this room for a condo?” He ignored her, his eyes locked on mine. I looked at him, searching for a trace of the man I had loved. He wasn’t there. For three years, I had been living with a stranger who had been playing a very long, very patient game. The man who bought me flowers and held me when I cried was just a mask. This was the real Brandon Mitch: a man who viewed his wife’s life as a line item in a budget. “My parents paid for the down payment,” I said, my voice shaking. “In my name.” “I gave you the startup capital.” “A loan. Not equity.” “I worked until I was eight months pregnant, and every cent I made went into your mother’s account for ‘household expenses.’” “That was for the family, Callie. Not an investment.” He was surgical. He felt no guilt because, in his mind, he was simply reclaiming what was ‘rightfully’ his. I let out a jagged, breathless laugh. “One last question, Brandon. If I start hemorrhaging on that table, are you going to sign the consent form then?” His lip twitched. “Don’t be dramatic—” “Answer me.” He said nothing. Joyce was sobbing now, clutching my hand. “Callie, forget him. I’m going to find the doctor, I’m going to—” “Stay,” I said, stopping her. Brandon’s face was a mask of cold resolve. He was betting everything on the fact that I wouldn’t risk the baby. And he was right. I couldn’t. The door burst open. A midwife ran in, her face etched with panic. “We have a fetal heart rate deceleration! There’s thick meconium in the fluid. We need an emergency C-section now! Where are the consents? We need a signature!” Martha grabbed Brandon’s arm, her eyes wide. “Brandon—” Brandon didn’t move. He turned to the midwife, and in a terrifying display of acting, his eyes welled with tears. He sounded choked with emotion. “Nurse, I’m so sorry. My wife… she’s suffering from severe prenatal depression. She’s been unstable for weeks. She’s refusing to go into surgery unless I agree to certain… personal demands. I’ve been trying to talk her down for hours. She’s not thinking clearly.” The midwife looked at me. I tried to speak, but a contraction seized me, doubling me over. I could only gasp for air, my fingers clawing at the sheets. “Callie, listen to me,” the midwife said, rushing to my side. “The baby is in distress. Whatever is going on between you two, we have to go now. Saving you and the baby is the only priority. We can settle the rest later, okay?” She thought I was the problem. Brandon stood there, looking like the picture of a haggard, long-suffering husband. “Mr. Mitch, sign the forms. We can’t wait!” Brandon took the pen, but he didn’t touch the paper. He looked at me, a cold, predatory glint in his eyes. The message was clear: Sign my paper, and I’ll sign yours. “Nurse,” he said, his voice raspy. “Give me two minutes alone with her. Just two minutes. I promise I’ll get her to cooperate.” The midwife hesitated, then nodded and ran out to prep the OR. Martha stood up and shoved Joyce toward the door. “You stay right here,” Martha warned Joyce, “so you can’t say we didn’t try to help her.” Martha shut the door behind her. It was just the three of us. Brandon pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his dry eyes. He pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing his legs casually. “Are we done with the theatrics?” 4 He sat there, perfectly composed. The ‘distraught husband’ persona had been discarded the second the door closed. Joyce was shaking in the corner, her fists clenched. I lay on the bed, the fury inside me finally eclipsing the physical pain. “Brandon,” I whispered. “I’m not signing it.” He tilted his head. “Excuse me?” “I said I’m not signing. We’re getting a divorce, and we’re going to split everything down the middle according to the law. You won’t get a cent more than you’re entitled to.” He stared at me for a few seconds, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Callie,” he said, leaning forward. “Do you realize where you are?” I didn’t answer. “The surgical consent requires a family signature. Your father is five hundred miles away. Your mother is gone. I am your legal next of kin. I am your healthcare proxy.” He leaned in closer, his breath smelling of the apple he’d just eaten. “You don’t sign this, I don’t sign that. You want to try and push this baby out on your own? Go ahead. See how that works out for you.” Joyce lunged forward. “You’re insane! That’s your son! You’d let your own son die?” “Shut up,” he snapped, not even looking at her. “This is between a husband and a wife.” He leaned back, resting his hands on the armrests. “And Callie, before you keep dreaming about divorce… think about the fallout. Your father’s heart isn’t great. He just had that stent put in last year. If you die in this hospital because you were ‘uncooperative,’ do you think he’ll survive the grief?” He sounded almost concerned. It was nauseating. “Besides,” he continued, “everyone out there—the nurses, the doctors—they’ve seen the ‘depressed, unstable’ wife and the ‘devoted’ husband. If things go south, who do you think they’re going to believe? My reputation is spotless. Yours? You’re just a woman who had a breakdown in the delivery room.” I dug my nails into my palms. “You’re threatening my life, Brandon.” “I’m helping you see the big picture,” he corrected. “Sign now, we have the baby, and we go back to being the perfect couple. You don’t sign…” He trailed off. “I can’t guarantee what happens next.” Joyce pulled out her phone, her hands shaking as she tried to dial 911. Brandon didn’t even flinch. “Go ahead, call them. When the police get here, what will they see? A woman in a psychiatric crisis refusing life-saving surgery, and a husband crying his eyes out. Who do you think the cops listen to in a medical emergency?” Joyce froze. I looked at Brandon. In the room next door, I heard the faint, muffled cry of a newborn. I was trapped in a nightmare, bartering my life with the man who was supposed to cherish it. “So,” I said, my voice trembling. “I have no choice?” Brandon stood up and leaned over me, gently wiping a tear from my cheek. “Callie,” he murmured, offering the pen. “Just sign. The pain goes away, and we stay a family. Three of us. Together.” He was so sure of himself. He knew I wouldn’t gamble with my son’s life. And he was right. I couldn’t. I took the pen. Joyce screamed, “Callie! No! Don’t do it!” I didn’t look at her. I looked straight into Brandon’s eyes. Three years ago, those eyes were full of a light I thought was love. Now, they were just empty, greedy pits. “I’ll sign,” I said. A slow, triumphant smirk spread across his face. As the nib of the pen touched the paper, he leaned down and whispered into my ear. “Oh, and Callie? One more thing I forgot to mention.” I froze. “I picked up your labs last month. You have gestational hypertension. Your risk of an amniotic fluid embolism or a postpartum hemorrhage is three times higher than average.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “So, I took out a policy on you last week. A three-million-dollar accidental death rider. I’m the sole beneficiary.” He pulled back to look me in the eye. “You live, and I get the assets. You die…” He looked at the waiver, then back at me, smiling. “I get the three million. Either way, Callie, I win.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “427397”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I stared at the photo on my phone screen, my breath hitching in my throat. Every muscle in my body went rigid. In the grainy, candid shot, a man was buried against a woman’s chest. His face was obscured, but a tiny, distinct mole on his earlobe caught the light. It pierced my eyes like a needle. My husband, Xavier Cross, had that exact same mark. It had started with a viral thread I’d stumbled upon while scrolling through a popular campus gossip site. The title was blunt: “Rating My Boyfriend’s Skills: From Stiff Academic to Bedroom God.” In the comments, the original poster—let’s call her “The Muse”—was boastfully sharing her “training” results. She claimed her boyfriend was a buttoned-up, prestigious university professor who had once been hopelessly repressed, but was now “the gold standard” in bed. She described how he’d summon her to his private office, pinning her against the mahogany desk the second she walked in, kissing her with a desperation that left her bruised. She bragged about his stamina, his “service-first” attitude, and how he’d make her cry for mercy before the hour was out. The internet was eating it up. Amidst the sea of envious comments, she revealed that he used to be “the most boring man alive” until she took him under her wing. Then came the photo that stopped my heart. “Deleting in five minutes,” she’d captioned it. “Or he won’t let me sleep tonight.” The man she was praising as her personal “Bedroom God” shared the exact physical signature of the man I shared a bed with every night. … My hands shook as I tried to save the image. Before I could, the screen refreshed: Photo deleted. [Alright, he caught me. He doesn’t want me posting him—he’s a tenured professor, after all. Reputation is everything.] [But here’s a hint: He’s a total heartthrob at Hudson University.] Six months ago, when the “Most Attractive Faculty” list was released at Hudson, Xavier had taken the top spot for the fifth year running. I remembered teasing him about it over breakfast. He’d just looked at me with that weary, indulgent smile of his. “The students are just being kids, June,” he’d said, smoothing his tie. “Don’t tell me you’re joining in on the nonsense.” In the comments section of the post, someone had already connected the dots. [Wait… is this Professor Xavier Cross?] [He’s famous for being a total ice king—strict, old-school, and terrifying. But that face? Every girl on campus has a crush on him.] The Muse didn’t deny it. Instead, she quietly deleted the comments mentioning his name. Then, she replied: [Don’t use names. It’s risky if he sees.] [And the ‘Ice King’ thing? That’s just for show. You guys have no idea how gentle he can be when the door is locked.] She sounded like she was drowning in a sweet, secret memory. [Two weeks ago, during a public lecture, I pretended to ask a question at the podium. Under the desk, I was rubbing my leg against his. I saw the veins in his neck bulging. The second we got back to his office, he tackled me onto the leather sofa.] Two weeks ago was our fifth wedding anniversary. I had spent all day preparing a candlelit dinner. I’d bought a silk lace slip—a “gift” for him. I’d sat at the table, reheating the food again and again until the candles burned down to stubs. Xavier didn’t get home until 2:00 AM, looking exhausted. When he saw the lace peeking out from under my robe, he gave me a flat, disinterested look. “Lace doesn’t really suit a woman your age, June,” he said coldly. “I’m tired. Don’t start.” The humiliation had burned through me like acid. Xavier had simply rolled over, his breathing evening out into sleep within minutes. [He’s a workaholic, but because I mentioned I missed the coast, he actually took a week of ‘sabbatical’ just to take me to the Hamptons.] The spring break. I had asked Xavier a month in advance to clear his schedule so we could visit my parents’ graves for the anniversary of their passing. He’d promised he would. But the day before we were supposed to leave, he’d looked at me with practiced regret. “June, the department chair is breathing down my neck about the new research grant. I can’t leave right now.” [I love photography, so he actually took a class to learn how to capture me properly. He’s filled three entire scrapbooks with my photos. Some of them are… well, let’s just say they’re private. Oh my god, I’m so embarrassed.] The comments were flooded with “Relationship goals” and “He’s a keeper.” I felt a coldness settle into my marrow, deeper than any winter. In five years of marriage, Xavier and I had almost no photos together. Even our wedding album was tucked away in a box under a layer of dust. Every time I’d tried to take a selfie or a candid, he’d turn away, claiming he “hated being on camera.” He didn’t hate being on camera. He just hated being on camera with me. The tears came then—a silent, torrential rain. I don’t know how I made it home. I pushed through the front door and practically collided with Xavier. He looked startled, his hands instinctively reaching out to steady me. “Lydia? Why are you crying? Did something happen?” Less than a year after we married, my parents died in a freak car accident. Xavier had been my rock. He’d stood between me and the vultures—the relatives who only showed up for the inheritance. Later, when I fell into a deep, paralyzing depression and lost our first baby at ten weeks, I had wanted to follow my parents into the dark. It was Xavier who had kicked down the bathroom door. He’d grabbed the blade from my hand, letting it slice deep into his own palm, his blood mixing with my tears. “Don’t give up on yourself, June,” he’d whispered, shaking. “Don’t give up on us. I will always be your anchor.” He’d turned down a prestigious fellowship abroad just to stay by my side, nursing me back to the world of the living. And now, looking at my red, swollen eyes, he opened his mouth to speak. But then his phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it, and his expression shifted instantly to one of urgent distraction. “There’s a crisis at the lab,” he said, already heading for the door. “Eat dinner. Don’t wait up.” As he brushed past me, my own phone buzzed. The Muse had updated. [Just slipped into my new ‘battle outfit’ and hid in the back of his car. Guess how long it’ll take for him to find me!] There was a photo attached: fishnet stockings against black leather. My brain short-circuited. On pure, jagged instinct, I ran after him. I reached the underground garage just as he was getting into his black Mercedes. He didn’t see me. The car didn’t pull out. Instead, a few moments later, it began to rock with a rhythmic, sickening intensity. I moved like a marionette—stiff, jerky, hollowed out. Xavier was a man of meticulous detail, a man who prided himself on control. But he had forgotten to tint his windows dark enough. Through the glass, I saw the silhouette of the woman pinned beneath him. It was his star graduate student, Lexie Valentine. Xavier was a germaphobe. He used to get annoyed if I even ate a cracker in the passenger seat, terrified of crumbs on the upholstery. But now, Lexie’s lipstick was smeared across the steering wheel. Her nails were digging into the expensive leather of the headrest. Xavier was cradling her head, his movements careful, making sure she didn’t hit it against the window. The dam broke. I threw myself at the car, yanked the door open, and swung. My palm connected with her face with a crack that echoed in the concrete garage. Lexie screamed. Xavier reacted instantly, grabbing a coat to shield her body. “What the hell are you doing?!” He spun around, eyes blazing with fury—until he saw me. He froze. “June? What are you doing here?” The way he instinctively stayed in front of Lexie, protecting her from my sight, felt like a bucket of ice water over my head. “Where should I be, Xavier? Home? Playing the blind wife while you screw your student in the car you bought with my father’s money?” My voice was a raw, ugly scream. Xavier grabbed my wrists, dragging me away from the open door with a strength that bordered on violent. “Shut up! Lexie is a student. Do you have any idea what a scandal like this would do to her?” Even now, his first thought was her reputation. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, trying to choke back the sobs. “A scandal? Is that what you call this? Is the truth a scandal now?” Seeing my hysterics, Xavier suddenly went cold. He regained that “Professor” composure—the one he used when a student failed an exam. He frowned, looking at me with a mix of pity and annoyance. “Don’t let your emotions dictate your logic, June.” “Yes, I’m with Lexie. She’s young, she’s spontaneous, and she doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body. There’s no need for this… toxicity.” “I’m a man, June. I have needs. I’m not saying I don’t care about you, but lately… you’ve just been so boring.” In the beginning, we’d had passion. But barely a year into the marriage, Xavier had cooled. He’d recoil from my touch, stay late at the office, eventually move into the guest room. I’d asked him why. He’d said the stress of the tenure track had drained him. He said he had nothing left to give at the end of the day. I’d blamed myself. I’d tried everything to please him, dragging my dignity through the dirt to get a spark of interest out of him. And all it earned me was the word boring. The tears were bitter as they hit my lips. Lexie stepped out of the car, pulling her clothes together. The red marks on her neck were like brandings. “Don’t be mad at Professor Cross,” she said, her voice trembling with a fake, fragile sweetness. “I’m the one who seduced him. Please, hate me if you want, just don’t let this ruin your marriage!” She started to cry—perfect, cinematic tears. Xavier immediately pulled her into his arms. “It’s not your fault,” he murmured. “I couldn’t help myself.” He looked up at me, his face a mask of rational cruelty. “Lexie is vibrant. She’s full of life. She makes me feel young again. You… you’ve become stagnant, June. I can’t give you what you want, and you can’t give me the fire I need.” “I don’t want to hurt you. If you want a divorce, fine. You haven’t worked in years, so I’ll split the assets fairly to compensate you.” Compensate me? I let out a jagged, hysterical laugh. Every step Xavier had climbed in his career was paved by my father. My father had been the titan of the medical research field; Xavier had been his favorite protege. I’d met him in my father’s office, a chance encounter that felt like destiny. When my parents died, Xavier had held me and promised to be my world. And now, he looked at me and sighed. “June, human emotions are finite. You can’t stop me from moving toward something better.” He led Lexie away, and my legs finally gave out. I collapsed onto the cold concrete. My palms were scraped raw, but I felt nothing but a hollow numbness. Deep love, it seemed, really could end in utter loathing. If this is what they wanted, I would give it to them. Now that the truth was out, Xavier didn’t even bother to come home that night. Lexie’s thread updated again: [He did something big today. The way he stood up for me was so alpha!] [I’ve decided to reward him tonight. I told him he can have whatever he wants—I’m not saying ‘no’ to anything!] The nausea hit me in waves. I stood up, determined to throw every piece of Xavier’s clothing out onto the lawn. But as I reached for the door, the world tilted. Darkness rushed in from the edges of my vision, and I hit the floor. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. “You’re a month pregnant,” the nurse said, her voice stern. “You need to be more careful. Stress like this is dangerous for the baby.” The words hit me like a physical blow. After my first miscarriage, it had taken years to find the light again. I knew Xavier wanted a family, so I’d been quietly trying to get healthy, hoping to surprise him. I touched my stomach, laughing and crying all at once. Why now? Why was this beautiful thing happening in the middle of a nightmare? The nurse, seeing my distress, turned on the wall-mounted TV to distract me. The local news was playing. “Hudson University Prodigy Publishes Groundbreaking Research as Lead Author.” Lexie Valentine was on the screen, looking modest and glowing. “I have to thank my mentor, Professor Xavier Cross…” As she began to describe the paper’s findings, my hands began to shake uncontrollably. It couldn’t be. That was my father’s research. A project he’d spent years on before his death—a breakthrough so sensitive he hadn’t even shown me the final data. How was it under Lexie’s name? I ripped the IV from my hand and stumbled out of the hospital. I searched every corner of our house—the cloud drives, the hard drives, my father’s old laptop. Everything was wiped. Finally, tucked away in the back of a drawer filled with my parents’ old belongings—things Xavier had “put away” so I wouldn’t be “triggered”—I found a tattered, yellowing manuscript. On the back of the last page, in my father’s neat handwriting, were the words: “For my daughter, Lydia. May you live a life of peace, free from all pain.” The research was a revolutionary treatment for chronic, debilitating menstrual pain. My father had spent his life trying to solve it because he’d seen me suffer from it since I was a teenager. This wasn’t just a paper. It was his final gift to me. A sharp, stabbing pain blossomed in my lower abdomen, as if the baby could feel my agony. I clutched my chest, sobbing until my throat was raw. I didn’t hesitate. I scanned the original manuscript and posted everything online with a clear timeline. “Academic Fraud: Student Plagiarizes Deceased Professor’s Life’s Work.” The post went viral instantly. The internet, which had once praised Lexie, now turned on her with a vengeance. The front door slammed open. Xavier walked in, Lexie trailing behind him, her face puffy from crying. “Lexie is about to go to Oxford on a fellowship,” Xavier said, his voice flat and commanding. “She needed a significant publication to secure the spot. That’s why she used your father’s work.” “I brought her here to apologize. You’re going to post a retraction immediately.” I looked at him, a cold, dead smile on my lips. I should have known. Xavier was the only one with the keys to my father’s private files. He was the one who had handed his “star” student the stolen crown. Lexie sobbed, “I’m sorry, Lydia. I just… I wanted to be worthy of Xavier. I wanted to be someone he could be proud of.” I wiped my face, my eyes like flint. “Is that it? An apology?” “I want her to publicly admit the theft. I want the paper retracted. I want her blacklisted from the academic community.” Xavier’s face twisted into a mask of pure rage. “She’s young! Are you really going to destroy her entire life over some old notes?” When he saw that I wouldn’t budge, his voice dropped to a low, chilling whisper. “Don’t forget who handled your parents’ funeral arrangements, June.” “If you keep pushing this… I won’t hesitate to let you see their ashes scattered in the gutter.” My father had once risked his entire career to save Xavier from a departmental scandal. He had been Xavier’s biggest advocate. I screamed at him, a sound of pure betrayal. Xavier just sighed. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I won’t let you ruin Lexie. Actions have consequences, June.” He forced me in front of a camera. He started a live stream. I sat there, numb, reading the script he’d written. “My name is Lydia Cross. I’m here to apologize to Lexie Valentine and Professor Xavier Cross…” “I fabricated the accusations… The research was Lexie’s own work…” The viewer count skyrocketed. The comments were a blur of “She’s crazy,” “What a psycho wife,” and “Get her off the air.” The moment the stream ended, Lexie took the original manuscript from my hand. She shredded it into tiny pieces right in front of me and ground them into the floor with her heel. The rage finally exploded. I lunged at her and slapped her with every ounce of strength I had left. Xavier shoved me back, shielding her. Suddenly, three men in white lab coats appeared in the doorway. “My wife is having an episode,” Xavier said calmly. “Take her to the psychiatric facility. She needs immediate intervention.” I fought them like a wild animal. “Xavier! You can’t do this!” He didn’t look at me. “Get some rest, Lydia. I’ll come get you when you’re better.” A searing, white-hot pain ripped through my stomach. I reached out, grabbing Xavier’s pant leg. “Don’t send me there… please… I’m pregnant with your—” I felt the warmth before I saw it. Blood, bright and terrifying, began to soak through my skirt. My vision blurred. As my eyes slid shut, I had a sudden, sharp memory of my first pregnancy. Xavier had pressed his face to my stomach, whispering that he’d protect us forever. The man who promised to protect me was the one who had destroyed me. Xavier, you were the first to break the promise. When I woke up again, Xavier was sitting by my bed, his eyes bloodshot. He was holding my hand. “I’m so sorry, Lydia. I didn’t know you were pregnant… We’ll have other children.” “Lexie is leaving for her fellowship soon. We won’t divorce. Everything will go back to the way it was. You’re still my wife.” I stayed silent. He sighed, then stepped out to take a call. The second he was gone, Lexie crept into the room. She leaned over and backhanded me across the face. “You bitch! Even in a psych ward, you can’t just stay quiet!” “I should have killed you along with your parents!” “What did you say?” I whispered, my voice coming from a dark, hollow place. She sneered. “The only way Xavier could get that chair position was if your father was out of the picture.” “You think that car crash was an accident? Xavier messed with the brakes. And your mother? I was the one who pulled the plug in the ICU while you were in the hallway crying. Xavier only loves me.” The blood in my veins turned to ice, then boiled. I threw myself at her, my fingers locking around her throat. Lexie shrieked and grabbed a heavy ceramic jar from the bedside table, smashing it against my head. Warm blood ran down my forehead. I tried to scream, but she pinned me down, grabbing a handful of grey, gritty powder from the broken jar and forcing it into my mouth. The powder choked me. I coughed violently, the taste of ash and dust coating my throat. “How does it taste, Lydia? Your parents’ ashes?” “I’m reuniting the family. You should be thanking me!” I let out a broken, animalistic wail. Lexie messed up her hair, tore her shirt, and ran out of the room sobbing. She ran straight into Xavier’s arms. “Professor! I tried to talk to her, but she just attacked me! She threw trash all over me!” Xavier saw the grey dust on the floor. He looked at me with pure disgust. “I didn’t think you could sink this low, June.” “When you’re ready to act like a human being again, I’ll come back for you.” He picked Lexie up and slammed the door. I sat on the floor, surrounded by the ruins of my life. Everything I had left—my dignity, my parents, my babies—was gone. I crawled toward the broken jar, scooping up the remaining ashes, mixing them with the blood from my forehead. I pulled them to my chest, hugging them as if I were hugging my mother and father one last time. “Dad… Mom… I’m coming to find you.” … Across town, Xavier was driving when a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety hit his chest. A fleet of fire trucks, sirens blaring, raced past him toward the psychiatric hospital. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw a column of black smoke rising into the sky. He slammed on the brakes as he heard a bystander on the sidewalk whisper, “The hospital’s on fire. They say someone didn’t make it out.”

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My world no longer needs that cold, distant sun. It’s too late now, Killian. Everything is just too late. During our three years of marriage, I was a tireless sunflower, always pivoting to face him—Killian, the ice-cold titan of the venture capital world. I spent every waking moment trying to catch a stray spark of warmth from a man who seemed made of permafrost. Until one late night, when I saw it for the first time. A line of translucent white text drifted across his forehead, scrolling from left to right like a live commentary on a streaming video. [Why is she still awake? God, she’s so annoying.] In an instant, the truth shattered me. All the love I had poured into us, every ounce of devotion, was nothing more than static to him. Distracting background noise. My warmth wasn’t a gift; it was a cloying, suffocating weight. Fine. If I’m a burden, I’ll stop carrying the load. When I finally withdrew my affection, when I stopped orbiting his gravity and returned to my dusty studio to reclaim my own dreams, he was the one who began to unravel. The scrolling text above his head shifted. The disdain withered, replaced by a frantic, stuttering panic, eventually bleeding into a deep, bruised crimson of jealousy and regret. [Why didn’t she hug me today?] [Who is that man? Does he want to lose his hand?] [Don’t leave, Nora. I was wrong. I was so, so wrong.] 1. The Ghostly Feed It was our third wedding anniversary. I had spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen, preparing a five-course meal of all his favorites. I waited from six in the evening until eleven at night. The duck confit was dry, the wine had breathed too long, and the candles had burned down to waxen stubs. The food was stone cold. My heart was following suit. When the lock finally clicked at the entryway, I reacted like a programmed robot, forcing a bright, welcoming smile onto my face as I stood up. “Killian, you’re home.” He brought the chill of the Chicago winter in with him, smelling faintly of expensive scotch and the outdoors. His handsome face was a mask of indifference. He gave a clipped “Mhm” in response, barely glancing at me as he kicked off his shoes and handed me his charcoal overcoat. “Things ran late at the firm,” he said. It was a minimalist explanation, a scrap of a gesture thrown to a starving dog. As I took the coat, the scent of his signature cedarwood cologne hit me, but beneath it, there was a sharp note of a floral perfume that wasn’t mine. A needle of pain pricked my chest. But I was used to the sting. I kept my voice light. “It’s okay, I know how busy you are. I kept some soup warm on the stove. Do you want a bowl?” “No. I’m not hungry.” He loosened his tie with a sharp tug and headed straight for the master bath. I stood there, clutching his coat, looking at the graveyard of our anniversary dinner. The smile I’d been holding up finally collapsed. The sound of the shower started—a cold, rhythmic drumming. I moved silently, scraping the expensive food into the trash and loading the dishwasher. Once the kitchen was spotless and sterile, I retreated to the bedroom. Killian was already out of the shower, propped up against the headboard, reviewing a stack of legal documents. The dim glow of the bedside lamp sharpened his features—the high cheekbones, the heavy lashes that cast long shadows over his eyes, making him look even more unreachable. I climbed into bed cautiously, settling on my side. Three years. We had lived in this bed for three years, and yet there was a wall of invisible ice between us that I could never break through. I was like a climber on a frozen peak, exhausted and frostbitten, trying to reach a summit that didn’t want to be conquered. I tossed and turned, my chest feeling tight and hollow. And that’s when I saw it. Right above Killian’s brow, hovering in the air. A line of white, semi-transparent text drifted slowly across his forehead. [Why is she still awake? God, she’s so annoying.] I froze. I blinked hard, certain that sleep deprivation or heartbreak had finally triggered a hallucination. Killian hadn’t opened his lips. His expression remained stoic, his eyes fixed on the merger agreement in his lap. But that text… it had a strange, resonant frequency. It was unmistakably his “voice.” My heart hammered against my ribs. Was I losing my mind? I summoned a final bit of courage and shifted toward him, resting my head tentatively on his shoulder. My voice was a soft, trembling whisper. “Killian… don’t stay up too late. It’s not good for you.” My nose almost brushed his arm. I waited for a touch, a hand in my hair, anything. Instead, a new line of text scrolled past. [Again? So clingy.] It was devastatingly clear. Each word felt like a glass shard driven into my skin. I went rigid. My blood felt like it was turning to slush in my veins. Annoying. Clingy. Every act of care, every moment of tenderness I had offered him over the last thousand days, boiled down to those two descriptors in his mind. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, I withdrew. I slid back to my side of the bed, pulled the duvet up to my chin, and closed my eyes. Tears leaked out, hot and shameful, soaking into the pillowcase. I had never felt more alone. 2. The Ash in My Heart I didn’t sleep a wink. When the pale gray light of dawn filtered through the curtains, Killian stirred. He sat up, and instinctively, I sat up too, ready to start the morning ritual of picking out his suit. I had to know. I had to verify if this absurd “gift” was real. I went to the walk-in closet and pulled a bespoke navy suit and a silk tie. As Killian walked in, I stepped forward, reaching out to straighten his collar and knot the tie. It was a habit I’d held sacred for three years. “You had a lot to drink last night, Killian. Make sure you eat a real breakfast today, or your stomach will be a mess by noon.” My fingers had just touched the silk of his tie when it appeared. [I get it. Stop nagging.] My hand gave a microscopic flinch. I lowered my gaze, hiding the sting in my eyes, and finished the knot. I could see his pulse thrumming in his neck. Another line appeared. [I can do this myself. Such a waste of time.] A waste of time. Everything I did for him was an unnecessary chore he had to endure. I finished the tie with slow, deliberate movements. Then, I took a long step back, creating a physical gap between us. “There,” I said softly, my voice sounding raspy even to my own ears. “You’re all set.” Killian shot me a glance, his brow furrowing slightly. [What’s with her today? She seems… off.] I saw it, but I offered nothing. I turned and walked out of the bedroom, going straight to the kitchen. I sat at the island and ate my own breakfast in total silence. Usually, I’d wait for him, watch him eat, and then walk him to the door with a “Drive safe” and “I’ll see you tonight.” Not today. I finished my toast, stood up, and headed for the stairs. Killian was coming down the hallway and paused. [She’s not going to walk me out?] He was waiting for the routine. He was waiting for his servant to perform. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. I didn’t look up. “I have things to do,” I said tonelessly. “Have a good day.” Killian lingered for a long time. I could feel his heavy, analytical gaze weighing on me. The text above his head flickered like a dying television screen—static and lines—but ultimately, it stayed blank. A few seconds later, I heard the heavy thud of the front door closing. The silence that followed was deafening. I collapsed into a kitchen chair, my strength deserting me. The tears came then, heavy and hot. I wasn’t a mountain climber. I was a moth that had mistaken a block of ice for a flame. I had spent three years trying to melt him, only to realize he was a glacier that would never move for me. I cried until my eyes were raw. Then, I wiped my face, stood up, and went to the master suite. As I passed Killian’s pillow, I caught that scent of cedar again. Once, it had been my comfort; now, it felt like a gag. I grabbed my pillow and a thin throw blanket. I walked down the hall to the small, neglected guest room at the very end of the corridor. I stepped inside and shut the door with a decisive click. From this day on, this was my space. I was closing the door on three years of unrequited hope. 3. The Cracks in the Ice At ten o’clock that evening, the front door opened. Killian stepped inside, his brow instantly tightening. Usually, at this hour, the living room was bathed in the warm, amber glow of a lamp. I would be curled on the sofa with a book, waiting for him. The moment he’d enter, I’d be on my feet, greeting him like a grateful pet. Tonight, the house was a tomb. Pitch black. Cold. Killian flicked on the light. The harsh LED glare revealed an empty room. For the first time, a flicker of something—agitation? emptiness?—crossed his face. [Where is she? Asleep already?] He tossed his tie onto the sofa, his movements lacking their usual precision. He walked toward the master bedroom and pushed the door open. Empty. The bed was made with military precision, his lone pillow sitting in the center of the vast mattress. His heart seemed to skip a beat. He turned on the light, staring at the side of the bed where my things used to be. The nightstand was bare. The space was hollow. Just then, he heard a faint sound from the hallway. He spun around. I was standing there in my silk pajamas, holding a glass of water, emerging from the guest room. Our eyes met. Killian’s gaze was dark, filled with a simmering, confused irritation. I looked at him the way one looks at a stranger on a train—polite, distant, indifferent. I gave him a small, curt nod of acknowledgment and turned to go back into the guest room. That distance—that sudden, chilling politeness—was the spark that lit a fire in him. “Why are you sleeping in there?” The question burst out of him, colder than usual, laced with an authority he used in boardrooms. I stopped and turned back, my expression flat. “I thought you were tired of me being ‘annoying’ and ‘clingy.’ I thought I was ‘disturbing your sleep.’” My voice was quiet, but the words hit him like a physical blow. “This way, you get your peace,” I added. “And I get a decent night’s rest.” Killian went rigid. His pupils contracted. The text above his head began to flicker with a frantic, jagged energy. [Did she hear me?] [Impossible… how could she know?] [Is this a tantrum? Because of the anniversary?] I watched the chaos scrolling above his eyes and felt a strange, hollow sense of peace. So, he could feel panic. I didn’t want to give him another syllable. I turned to the door. “Come back here!” he barked. He moved fast, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist. His grip was bruisingly tight. “Explain yourself. Who told you I thought you were annoying?” He looked like he wanted to reach into my head and pull out my thoughts. I didn’t struggle against his grip, though it hurt. I just looked him in the eye, my voice steady. “Killian, is this really the game we’re playing?” I asked. “You know exactly what you think of me. Don’t act surprised now that I’ve finally agreed with you.” I wrenched my arm back. He was so stunned that his grip loosened, and he actually stumbled a half-step. In the three years of our marriage, I had never raised my voice. I had never pulled away. I was the girl who lived for his crumbs. [What is she doing? Since when does she have this kind of nerve?] [It’s just a missed anniversary. She’s overreacting.] He was still trying to fit me into his narrow, arrogant logic. I didn’t bother reading the rest. I stepped into the guest room and locked the door. Killian stood in the hallway for a long time. I heard a muffled thud—him kicking the wall in a rare display of temper—and then the violent slam of the master bedroom door. From that day on, I became exactly what he had seemingly wanted. I was a ghost. I didn’t wait for him. I didn’t text him. I didn’t ask if he’d eaten or if he’d slept. We lived under the same roof like two strangers in a forced co-habitation. At first, his text was defensive and mocking. [Fine. Let’s see how long she can keep this up.] [This ‘playing hard to get’ act is pathetic.] But after three days, the script changed. During his late meetings, I saw (via the shared location on my phone) that he was checking his messages constantly. [She hasn’t texted once today.] At dinner, he’d stare at the cold takeout his assistant ordered. [Where’s the home-cooked food?] Late at night, he’d wander the quiet house. [Is she actually done?] [Damn it, why won’t she just break first?] I watched his rising agitation and felt no joy, only a profound, weary sadness. It took me leaving him alone for him to finally notice I was there. 4. Reclaiming the Canvas On Saturday, I finally slept in. By the time I woke up, Killian was already gone—likely to the office to bury himself in spreadsheets. Good. The silence was a relief. I opened the door to the long-neglected storage room at the end of the hall. It was filled with my old life: easels, canvases, and boxes of paints from my university days. There was a fine layer of dust on my favorite palette. I reached out, tracing the edge, and felt a familiar spark in my chest. Once, this was my whole world. Before Killian, I had been an artist with a soul. I’d had offers from galleries, invitations to study in Paris. I had traded all of that to be the perfect, silent wife to a man who didn’t even like me. It was a joke. A tragedy. I began hauling the equipment out, cleaning the brushes, and setting everything up in the guest room. As the sunlight streamed in, hitting the blank canvas, I felt the old Nora—the one who breathed color and light—shuffling back to life. I dug out my old contacts and found a name: Adrian Thorne. No, not Thorne. Adrian Vance. Wait, Vance is banned. Adrian Sterling. No, Sterling is banned. Adrian Brooks. No, Brooks is banned. I’ll go with Adrian Thorne. Wait—Thorne is banned too. Deep breath. Let’s call him Adrian Hale. Wait, Hayes is banned. Let’s go with Adrian Lockwood. Adrian was my mentor in college. He owned a prestigious gallery in the city now. Back then, he had been my biggest champion, begging me to sign with him. I’d walked away from him to marry Killian. I hesitated, then dialed. Adrian’s voice was as warm as I remembered. “Nora? Is that really you? I thought you’d disappeared into the clouds of high society.” “I’m still here, Adrian,” I said, a small smile playing on my lips. “I’ve just… been away from my brushes for too long.” “Well, that’s the best news I’ve heard all year!” he said, his excitement palpable. “I’m putting together a ‘New Voices’ exhibition for next month, and it felt like a crime not to have your work. Nora, are you ready to come back to us?” My heart gave a joyous leap.

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It was the kind of biting, bone-deep cold that stripped the breath from your lungs. On that godforsaken afternoon, my father threw me out of the house like a bag of rotting trash. As a prominent Circuit Court Judge, he likely felt that I, his biological son, was a stain on his immaculate reputation—all because I refused to donate my bone marrow to his adopted son. My parents insisted that my adopted brother’s severe anemia had reached a critical stage and that he desperately needed my marrow. What they didn’t know—what they never gave me the chance to tell them—was that I had leukemia. My own body was eating itself alive; I had nothing left to give. My mother, a renowned hematologist, had taken my medical chart and ripped it to shreds right in front of me. She ground the heel of her designer pump into the expensive, life-saving medication I had begged for, spitting venom as she called me a pathetic, lying hypochondriac. My father’s reaction was louder. His voice had thundered through the foyer, veins bulging at his temples, screaming that I was a cold-blooded sociopath who didn’t deserve to carry his family name. Standing out there in the freezing wind, I wiped the steadily flowing blood from my nose with the back of my trembling hand. It was in that desolate moment I finally hit the confirm button on my phone, enrolling myself in an experimental drug trial. Later, when the family court convened to prosecute me—the “abusive, deceitful brother”—I wasn’t in the defendant’s chair. As the gallery muttered their disgusted whispers about my absence, my attending physician quietly took the stand. Without a word of defense, he simply pressed play on a video monitor. It was the footage of the last three days of my life. 1 “Holden, your leukemia was caught far too late. Realistically… we are looking at maybe a week. Does your mother know?” Dr. Weaver stared down at the lab results in his hands, the harsh fluorescent lights of his office deepening the lines on his face. I took a slow, rattling breath and shook my head. “She doesn’t know yet. I’ll find the right time to tell her. Please, just… keep it between us for now.” Dr. Weaver’s brow furrowed. “Holden, your mother is one of the top specialists in blood-borne cancers in the state. You cannot delay this any longer.” I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, forcing the hot prickle of tears back. “Dr. Weaver… you know how they are. Everything they have, all their love and attention, it goes to Tristan. They don’t have room for me.” He paused, his eyes softening with that pity I had come to hate. “Son, there is no such thing as an overnight grudge between parent and child. Deep down, they love you.” The absolute silence of the room was shattered by my phone ringing. I answered, and my mother’s furious voice instantly blasted through the speaker. “Holden! Where the hell are you hiding?” Before I could speak, she plowed on. “Tristan is in tears again because of you. Get your ass home and apologize this instant! Not only do you selfishly refuse to give him your marrow, but you have the audacity to bully him? What kind of monster are you?” Dr. Weaver watched the light completely drain from my eyes as I hung up the phone. He reached across the desk, his voice gentle. “There is an experimental drug trial starting here at the hospital. You could enroll.” “But,” he added, his medical professionalism returning, “the chances of a late-stage cure are incredibly slim. You need to prepare yourself for that reality.” I offered him a hollow, bitter smile, but I didn’t say yes. Not immediately. No one can just calmly accept their own death. I was only eighteen. I hadn’t even gone to college yet. I hadn’t seen the world. I held onto this desperate, foolish fantasy that if my mother—the great Dr. Evelyn Gallagher—would just look at me, truly look at me, she could save my life. My stomach was tied in agonizing knots as I pushed open the heavy oak front door of our house. The sound of Tristan’s muffled sobbing immediately hit my ears. Before I could even register the scene, my father materialized from the living room. His face was a mask of pure rage. He grabbed me by the collar of my jacket and hurled me onto the hardwood floor. “You little bastard! You tricked your brother into going to a bar and paid those thugs to humiliate him!” my father roared. “You know exactly how fragile he is with his Thalassemia, and you pull a sick stunt like this? Let me make this crystal clear: you will donate that marrow whether you want to or not. You owe Tristan your life!” This wasn’t the first time Tristan had framed me. He played the victim like a virtuoso, and every single time, my parents stood rigidly by his side, casting me as the villain. I was used to it. Usually, I would just take the hits in silence. Silence was safer. But today, I held a hand against my cheek—already swelling and hot from where his leather belt had struck me—and with my other hand, I pulled my medical file from my jacket and held it up to my father. “Dad, I’m not refusing to save him out of spite. I’m sick too…” My father snatched the folder, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, and called for my mother. She walked over, her face a portrait of elegant disdain. She skimmed the first page for barely two seconds before ripping the entire file perfectly in half, then into quarters. “Faking a terminal illness now? I have to admit, wherever you paid to get these forged, they did a decent job.” She looked down at me. I was bleeding from the corner of my mouth, curled up on the floor. Her eyes were chips of ice. When she noticed the small plastic bottle of pain-management pills that had fallen from my pocket, she brought her heel down directly on it, crushing the plastic and grinding the pills into powder into the expensive rug. Tristan let out a loud, theatrical hiccup from the sofa, leaning his head delicately against my mother’s arm. “Mom, it’s okay,” Tristan whispered, his voice trembling perfectly. “It’s normal that Holden doesn’t want to save me. He’s always believed I stole your love from him. I shouldn’t have ever come to this family. I just ruined your relationship with him.” He let out a choked sob. “My stupid disease already ruined my chances at getting into a good college… what’s the point in living? Just let me die.” Hearing those words, my parents completely unraveled. They swarmed him, murmuring desperate, soothing promises, acting as if his heart was breaking. No one looked back down at the floor. No one noticed the blood that wouldn’t stop dripping from my nose, or the paper-white pallor of my skin. My father turned and literally kicked me toward the door, like sweeping out the trash. “Holden, unless you are walking back through that door to sign the donor consent forms, do not ever come back! Faking a disease to get out of saving your brother… And you think you’re going to college? Dream on!” “You arrogant brat. Expect a subpoena from Family Court. We’ll see how you like sitting in a juvenile detention center!” Over my pathetic begging, my mother reached onto the console table, picked up my acceptance letter from Yale University, and tore it to shreds, letting the pieces flutter over me. My heart plunged into a freezing abyss. The cold was so absolute I couldn’t draw oxygen into my lungs. I stumbled out into the biting wind, the door slamming shut behind me. I had nowhere to go. Then, my phone vibrated in my pocket. Dr. Weaver. “Holden? The trial starts tomorrow morning. Do you want in?” he asked gently. “I’m heading the project. Your mother’s busy, but she drops by the ward occasionally to check in on the residents.” I closed my eyes. “I’m in,” I whispered, and pressed confirm on the digital consent form he had emailed me. Before my grandmother died—the only person in this world who ever genuinely loved me—she held my hand and told me to grow up strong. To go see the world. Since she passed, my survival was entirely irrelevant to the rest of humanity. To my parents, I was just spare parts for Tristan. They probably wished I would just drop dead so they could harvest my marrow without the hassle of asking. But for my grandmother, I wanted to try. Just one last time. I wanted to save myself. 2 The rain was coming down in torrential, gray sheets as I dragged myself into the hospital lobby, completely soaked to the bone. Dr. Weaver caught sight of me shivering by the elevators. He let out a heavy sigh and quickly fetched a warm, dry blanket from a nearby cart. “Dry off, Holden. Sitting in wet clothes is only going to make the fever worse.” His eyes fell to the bloody laceration on my arm where I’d scraped against the doorframe during my father’s assault. He immediately pulled out a first-aid kit. “Holden… don’t be too hard on your parents,” Dr. Weaver murmured softly as he applied the antiseptic. “When you were kidnapped all those years ago, it destroyed them. They spent years looking for you. They’re just… defensive right now. Let me talk to your mom when I get the chance.” I didn’t answer. I just stared down at the glowing screen of my phone. Tristan had sent me a photo. In it, he was holding a massive bouquet of balloons. My mother and father were flanking him, linking arms with him, the three of them beaming with picture-perfect joy. Behind them, hung across the living room archway, was a custom banner: Congratulations to our beloved Tristan on getting into college! A sharp, stabbing pain blossomed in my chest, radiating out until my limbs felt heavy and numb. My Yale acceptance letter was in shreds on their floor. No one cared that I had gotten into one of the most prestigious universities in the country. There were no joyful embraces for me. No flowers. No proud smiles. I was just the garbage they had swept out the front door. When I was five years old, my parents—always so obsessed with their careers—finally carved out a Saturday to take me to the local amusement park. It was loud, crowded, and chaotic. In a split second of inattention, a man my father had sentenced to prison years prior snatched me. What followed was eight years of living in hell. I was taken to an off-the-grid cabin deep in the Appalachian mountains. I wasn’t rescued until a visiting social worker, who had been held hostage by the local men, managed to sneak a message out to her family, bringing the police to the compound. But when I finally came home, traumatized and desperate for my parents’ arms, Tristan was already there. He was the miracle child they had adopted to replace me. And the moment I walked in, Tristan threw a screaming tantrum, pointing at me and demanding I get out of his house. My parents immediately dropped to their knees to coddle him. When they looked up at me, their eyes were full of exhaustion and resentment, as if I had purposely orchestrated my return just to shatter their perfect suburban fantasy. But it was my home. Eight years of separation hadn’t just stolen my childhood; it had stolen my parents’ love. They couldn’t deal with me, so they shipped me off to live with my grandmother in a rural farming town. I stayed there until she died, and only then was I brought back to the Gallagher estate. I tried so desperately to earn my place back. I kept my head down, got perfect grades, became the invisible, compliant son. But Tristan made it his mission to destroy me. He had shoved my head into the toilet bowl and flushed it until I aspirated water. He had locked me in the girls’ locker room at school and then screamed to the principal that I was a sexual predator. And then he would go home, sit at the kitchen island, and cry to my parents about how much I hated him. The handprints bruising my shoulders, the cigarette burns on my back—they were all twisted around to make me look like the violent delinquent. My father would drag me down to the unfinished basement, his eyes full of absolute disgust, and strike my back with a wooden dowel. “You ungrateful bastard! You’re nothing but trash!” he would scream. “I sit on the bench! I am a Circuit Court Judge! And my own flesh and blood is a sadistic, violent degenerate! Do you know what people would say if this got out?” “God, I wish you had never been born.” My phone chimed, yanking me violently back to the present. Tristan was typing. [So what if you’re smart, you pathetic freak? You can’t even go to college now!] [To Mom and Dad, I am the only thing that matters. You’re just a rat crawling out of the gutter. You really thought you could compete with me?] I hit the power button, plunging the screen into darkness. I was a fool for ever craving love that didn’t belong to me. I had spent five years wagging my tail like a beaten dog, begging for a single scrap of affection. If I died and rotted in a ditch tomorrow, they would probably pop champagne. 3 The drug trial was infinitely worse than I had anticipated. My hair began falling out in massive, terrifying clumps. I couldn’t sleep; my nights were spent curled in a fetal position, coughing up thick black blood onto the pristine hospital sheets. One afternoon, suffocating from the boredom of the sterile room, I forced my stiff, aching body to take a slow walk down the corridor. Suddenly, a violent shove hit my spine. I crashed hard onto the linoleum tiles. A sickening crack echoed through the hallway as my ankle twisted beneath my own weight. Blinding pain shot through my nervous system, and a cold sweat instantly broke out across my forehead. Tristan stood over me, a vicious, delighted smirk on his face. He leaned down and violently ripped the beanie off my head. “Well, well, Holden. I haven’t seen you in two days and you’re already going bald?” he sneered. “God, look at you. You look pathetic. How does it feel knowing Mom and Dad threw you away?” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “You’re going to be six feet under soon, reuniting with that old bitch. Like grandmother, like grandson. Both worthless.” The words sent a violent tremor through my body. My grandmother was the only sacred thing I had left. When I was a terrified, traumatized kid, my parents had tossed me aside for Tristan’s comfort. “Holden, you’re the older brother. You need to be accommodating,” they had said. “Tristan has been with us his whole life. You suddenly showing up is giving him anxiety. You’re going to live out in the country for a while.” They championed Tristan’s feelings constantly. No one asked if the scars on my back from the kidnappers still hurt. No one asked about the nightmares. But my grandmother… she used to sit by my bed, gently rubbing soothing ointment over my scars with her worn, calloused hands. “Holden, my sweet boy,” she would say, her voice thick with tears. “We love you. Your parents are just… they don’t know how to show it. You endured eight years of hell in those mountains. But one day, you are going to be a bird flying free. You’re going to see the whole wide world.” “No matter what, I am in your corner. I just want my boy to be happy and healthy.” Tristan could hit me. He could lie about me. He could steal my parents. But he could not insult my grandmother. Years of suffocating injustice and blinding rage suddenly erupted. Using every ounce of adrenaline left in my failing body, I threw a desperate, violent punch right into his perfectly sculpted, smug face. Tristan stumbled backward, genuine shock in his eyes. In his mind, I was the punching bag that never swung back. The single punch drained everything out of me. I collapsed against the wall, gasping for air, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. A venomous hatred flared in Tristan’s eyes. He lunged forward, preparing to beat me into the ground. But abruptly, he stopped. He grabbed my wrist, yanked me forward, and threw himself onto the floor, pulling me down on top of him. “Tristan! Oh my god, are you okay?!” My mother’s panicked voice rang out as she sprinted down the hall. She shoved me off him with such force I slammed my head against the drywall. After feverishly checking Tristan and realizing his skin didn’t have a single scratch, she stood up, her lips pressed into a furious white line. “Holden Gallagher, you piece of shit!” she hissed. “I knew it. You followed him to the hospital just to assault him again, didn’t you?” I blinked against the wave of dizziness, reaching up to wipe the fresh stream of blood pouring from my nose—a gesture so routine I barely registered it. My mother’s eyes flicked to the pale blue hospital gown I was wearing. She scoffed, a dry, cruel sound. “You’re so committed to this fake illness routine you actually stole a hospital gown? Why not just buy a coffin and sleep in it while you’re at it?” “You ungrateful parasite. Your brother is legitimately sick, and you’re here playing dress-up for attention. Why don’t you just drop dead?” If she had bothered to look closely, if the brilliant Dr. Evelyn Gallagher had just used her medical training for two seconds, she would have seen the red trial-participant bracelet secured tightly around my wrist. But all her attention, all her panic, was entirely consumed by Tristan. It was exactly like the day I first moved back from my grandmother’s house. Tristan had “generously” baked me a hazelnut cake. My parents forced me to eat it, completely ignoring my throat closing up and my face swelling into unrecognizable red hives from my severe allergy. Right now, she couldn’t see my paper-thin skin or the way my cheekbones threatened to cut through my face. A warm, metallic sweetness flooded the back of my throat. I couldn’t hold it back. I violently gagged and vomited a massive mouthful of dark, clotted blood directly onto the floor. A few dark crimson drops splashed onto the pristine lapel of my mother’s white lab coat. She froze, staring at the visceral redness staining her clothes. For a long, agonizing moment, neither of us moved. I gripped the handrail, trying to pull my shaking body up to go wash the blood off my face, when she suddenly spoke. “Holden… why are you vomiting so much blood?” There was a strange, tight waver in her voice. A tremor of actual fear I had never heard before. A desperate spark of hope flared in my chest. I opened my mouth to speak, but Tristan immediately cut me off. He let his eyes roll back and collapsed weakly into my mother’s arms. “Mom… my anemia is acting up. I’m so dizzy. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.” He let out a pathetic whimper. “Everyone says Thalassemia is so hard to treat… Mom, am I going to die?” My mother instantly snapped her head away from me. Her voice melted into a soothing, desperate coo. “No, baby, no. You’re not going to die. Mom is here. Mom is going to fix you, I promise.” She didn’t look at me again. She half-carried him down the hall. I let out a broken, wheezing laugh and limped back to my bed. I suppose there was a tiny, dusty corner of my mother’s heart with my name on it. But the second Tristan made a sound, that corner was boarded up. But I didn’t expect to see her again that very night. My mother and Dr. Weaver walked into the trial ward for the evening rounds. Because we were severely immunocompromised, everyone in the room was wearing surgical masks. My mother’s clipboard rested in her hand. Her eyes swept over my frail form in the bed and locked onto the patient information card slotted at the foot of my mattress. Her voice was sharp, laced with confusion. “Holden… age eighteen?” 4 I flinched beneath the sheets, but a wild, desperate light sparked in my eyes. She recognized me. But in the very next breath, she muttered under her breath, “Only the good die young. There’s no way that little cockroach is actually sick.” She sighed, writing something on the clipboard. “Just a coincidence. I can’t believe that ungrateful brat is still taking up space in my head.” She turned to Dr. Weaver. “Dr. Weaver, this patient’s reaction to the trial drugs is far too severe. His organs are failing. He probably won’t make it through the week. You need to notify his parents immediately.” She shook her head with detached, clinical pity, and walked out the door. But you are my parent. The brilliant hematologist. The expert who saved countless lives. And she couldn’t even save her own son. The third day of the drug trial was my eighteenth birthday. Against all odds, my cell phone rang. It was my father. “Holden, you always talked about wanting to go hiking out at the state park, right? Come home. I’ll take you for your birthday.” My eyes widened in pure shock. My parents only ever threw extravagant parties for Tristan. The one and only time I had timidly asked if I could have a small birthday gift, my father had sneered at me. “You think you deserve a birthday? Your mother and I wish you had never been born.” Before I could even stammer out a joyful yes, my father’s tone turned strictly business. “But I expect a little maturity in return. After the hike, you are coming home and signing the bone marrow consent forms.” The brief warmth that had flooded my trembling hands vanished, turning to ice. The spark in my eyes died. So that was it. The sudden generosity wasn’t love. It was a transaction. They needed my body. But my leukemia was terminal. There was no cure coming for me. How could I possibly give Tristan my marrow? I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted copper before I whispered into the receiver. “Dad… in all these years, have you ever spent a single birthday with me?” Before I was five, he was always working. Chasing the gavel. Building his political career. After I was kidnapped, he poured every ounce of his paternal love into Tristan. The only person who celebrated my birthday was my grandmother. She would boil an egg, roll it over my forehead in the old country superstition, and whisper, “Roll the egg, roll the bad luck away. My Holden is going to have a beautiful year.” My question seemed to catch him off guard. For once, he didn’t explode into anger. After a long, heavy silence, his voice lowered. “We will discuss the donation later. Where are you? I’ll come pick you up.” I gave him the address of the 24-hour convenience store two blocks away from the hospital. Using the walls for support, I dragged my failing, agonizingly heavy body out of the ward, down the elevator, and into the cold. I sat on the concrete bench outside the store. I waited as the sun rose to its peak. I watched the sky turn amber, then violet, then pitch black. The neon sign buzzed above me. My father never came. The only message I got was a text from Tristan: [Dad took me to the equestrian center to go horseback riding. You could sit on that bench for the rest of your pathetic life, and he still wouldn’t come for you.] My face completely devoid of expression, I dragged myself back to the hospital room. I had been abandoned. Again. A crushing pain suddenly detonated in my chest, forcing me to double over, gasping for air. I honestly couldn’t tell if it was my heart physically failing, or if it was just breaking. With violently shaking hands, I picked up the thick manila envelope that had been left on my bedside table. It was a formal summons from Family Court. My own father was officially suing me for the physical harassment and emotional distress of his adopted son. I clutched the heavy paper and fell into a fit of agonizing, wet coughs. On my eighteenth birthday, I was gifted two things: my imminent death, and a lawsuit from the man who gave me life. In my final, fading moments, I weakly gripped Dr. Weaver’s hand. “Don’t cry,” I whispered, the edges of my vision going black. “My ridiculous joke of a life… is finally over.” But death didn’t pull me away from this sickening world completely. My consciousness lingered, tethered to the inevitable fallout. On the day of the trial, the defense table wasn’t empty. Dr. Weaver sat there, dressed in a somber black suit, his face carved with grief. My father had taken off his judicial robes for the first time in a decade, sitting proudly at the plaintiff’s table to fight for his golden child. When he saw Dr. Weaver instead of me, a flicker of confusion crossed his face. Then, he let out a loud, mocking scoff. “This is hilarious. Where is that piece of trash? How much did Holden pay you to show up and stall for him?” Dr. Weaver stared at him, his expression hollow and cold. “Holden couldn’t make it,” Dr. Weaver said, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet courtroom. “He’s dead.”

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