Category: English

I was in a rush to change out of my sewage-splashed clothes, but the sales associate blocked my way to the fitting room. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, but you can’t try on a white blouse with makeup on. It would be a shame if you got foundation or lipstick on it.” I frowned but understood the policy. “Fine. I’ll just buy it, then. I’m in a hurry.” She quickly snipped off the tag but then made no move to take my card. Losing my patience, I tried to grab the blouse to change, but she blocked me again. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, but you haven’t paid yet!” I shoved my credit card in her face, my voice rising. “Well, maybe you could actually take my money, then?!” Her face remained a mask of professional courtesy. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, but I don’t have the authorization to process payments. If you could please wait for about forty minutes…” … 1 While waiting at a red light, a speeding car hydroplaned through a puddle right at the crosswalk. I was standing at the very front. I took the full force of the splash. My white silk blouse was instantly a mess of splattered ink, and even the hair on the left side of my head was dripping. “What the hell!” “Jerk must be late for his own funeral!” “This is insane! Every time it rains, I get splashed at this intersection!” “Son of a… did anyone get the license plate? Let’s report that bastard…” The other pedestrians who’d been hit started cursing a blue streak. My own blood was boiling. But my client’s flight was about to land, and I was in a rush to get to the airport. I didn’t have time to chase this down. Going home to change was out of the question. Luckily, there was a boutique just ahead. I walked over, dabbing at my hair with a tissue. I had barely stepped over the threshold when a young woman in a sharp black suit greeted me warmly. “Welcome, ma’am. My name is Angela, your personal sales consultant. How may I help you today? Would you like a recommendation—” “No, thanks. I’m in a hurry. I can manage on my own.” Angela’s smile tightened at being cut off. I paid her no mind, grabbing a white blouse off the rack and heading for the fitting room. But Angela stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, but you can’t try on a white blouse with makeup on. It would be a shame if you got foundation or lipstick on it.” I frowned. “It’s a button-down, not a pullover. It won’t touch my face. Besides, I’m in a rush. If it fits, I’m wearing it out of the store. I’m not just trying it on for fun.” “I’m afraid that’s not possible, ma’am.” Seriously? My first instinct was to turn and leave. But a quick glance around revealed… there were no other clothing stores nearby. As I hesitated, I met Angela’s eyes. They held a hint of a smirk. “Ma’am, you’re quite dirty, and your hair is still dripping. You’ll definitely stain the new clothes if you go in like that. And if you came out and claimed the blouse was already dirty, well, I’d have no way to defend myself, would I?” The corner of her mouth twitched downward. The anger that had been simmering inside me all morning finally erupted. “Well, yeah! The only reason I’m here buying a new shirt is because mine got ruined! I’m trying to give you my business!” “And obviously, I’d clean myself up before I change, but first you have to let me into the fitting room! Or what, you want me to stick my hands up my shirt and wipe myself down in the middle of your store? You want me to strip right here? Huh?!” Angela just smiled, not saying a word, continuing to block my path. Furious, I threw the blouse down. “Okay, fine! I won’t buy it. I’m leaving. Happy now?” “Wait…” Angela’s hand landed on my shoulder. I slapped it away instinctively. “Don’t touch me! What is this, a hostage situation?” “Ma’am, you’ve misunderstood me. That’s not what I meant…” “I don’t care what you meant! Get out of my way!” I stormed out, pulling out my phone to call a cab. Suddenly, a hand gripped my wrist. Angela was blocking me again. “What is wrong with you?” I seethed, wrenching my arm free and turning to let her have it. But Angela let out a little cry and collapsed onto the floor. In her hand was a hairdryer. “You…” When she looked up, her face was a mask of tearful vulnerability. “Ma’am, you misunderstood. I was trying to tell you that we have towels and a hairdryer. You could dry your hair here first…” I froze. Angela scrambled to her feet and solicitously guided me to a chair, ready to blow-dry my hair herself. Snapping out of my daze, I quickly stopped her. “I’m so sorry, I completely misunderstood. I can do it myself.” 2 The drone of the hairdryer couldn’t drown out my embarrassment. Maybe I was just so on edge that everything seemed like an attack. I took a few deep breaths, silently calming myself down. Once my hair was dry, the mud on my blouse had hardened into an ugly cement-gray. I handed the hairdryer back to Angela, apologizing again for the misunderstanding, then picked up the blouse and headed for the fitting room. But once again, Angela grabbed my wrist. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, but store policy prohibits trying on white garments with makeup on.” My heart sank, and my expression hardened. Angela seemed not to notice, continuing with a cheerful explanation. “It’s a store rule, there’s nothing I can do. This blouse is a hundred dollars. As a simple sales associate, I can’t afford to take that risk. I hope you can understand.” Fine. I exhaled slowly. For the sake of the hairdryer, I’d let it go. I pushed the blouse toward her. “Okay, I’ll pay for it first. Can you please hurry? I’m in a rush.” “Of course.” Angela agreed sweetly, took the blouse, swiftly snipped the tag, and started to put it in a shopping bag. “Wait, don’t bag it. I’m going to change into it now.” “Of course.” I raised my phone to scan the QR code for payment. A hand suddenly covered it. Angela smiled. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, that code is no longer in use. We’re currently only accepting credit cards via the POS terminal.” “…Fine.” I pulled out my credit card and held it out. But Angela didn’t take it. She just kept fiddling with the computer. A minute passed. “Is there a problem?” I asked. “Is your internet always this slow?” She gave a weak smile. “Yes, it can be a little sluggish.” Two more minutes passed. Angela remained glued to the screen, the sound of her mouse clicking away like a time bomb in my head. I had run out of patience. I reached for the blouse. “You keep working on that, I’m just going to go change…” “You can’t.” Angela’s hand shot out, pressing down on the blouse. She looked up, her eyes locking with mine. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. You haven’t paid yet.” A vein throbbed in my temple. I waved the credit card I’d been holding for the last five minutes. “Well, then maybe you could actually take my money?!” “I’ve been standing here this entire time with my card out! Am I the one who’s not paying?!” Her voice remained infuriatingly calm. “If you could just be patient for a few more moments, ma’am.” More frantic clicking. Fine. I’d wait. I watched the second hand on my watch go around, and around, and around. Finally, I snapped. I spun the computer monitor around to face me. “Let me see this. What kind of ancient computer and dial-up internet are you running that it takes this long to process a simple—” The moment I saw the screen, I almost choked on my own rage. It was covered in the classic, green-felt background of a game of Spider Solitaire. I stared at Angela, dumbfounded. “You’ve just been sitting here, clicking away, playing a game this whole time?! Are you messing with me?” Unfazed, Angela maintained her polite smile. “I do apologize, ma’am. I truly don’t have the authorization to process payments. You’ll have to wait for the store manager to return to assist you.” 3 I almost laughed. “Are you insane? Or do you just not understand English? I keep telling you I’m in a hurry! If you can’t take my payment, why didn’t you say so from the beginning?” Angela looked wounded. “Well, you didn’t ask…” Ha. This was absurd. I was the crazy one for even engaging with her this long. Angela continued her robotic soothing. “The manager will be back shortly. If you could please just wait a little longer. Would you like a cup of chamomile tea to calm your nerves? We also have lemon water, rosehip…” I glanced at my phone. “How long is ‘shortly’?” “Hmm… if you could please wait for about forty minutes,” she said with a bright smile. I turned and walked away. Angela scrambled out from behind the counter and grabbed my arm. “Wait! Ma’am, you can’t leave! You haven’t paid!” “I don’t want the blouse anymore. Get off me.” “No, the tag has been cut! You have to buy it!” I scoffed, pulled my arm free, and strode toward the door. “Don’t you move! If you leave now, that’s theft! I can call the police!” “Go ahead,” I said with a sneer, grabbing the handle and pushing. Huh? It wouldn’t budge. The glass door rattled in its frame but remained firmly shut. Angela was no longer in a hurry. She strolled leisurely up behind me. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. The tag on the blouse has been removed. You cannot leave the premises until payment has been made.” Something inside me snapped. My God! It wasn’t that I didn’t want to pay! It was this psycho who wouldn’t let me! “I must have been cursed to walk down this street and into this store…” I muttered, running a hand through my hair in frustration. Just as I was about to unleash a tirade, a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. Angela had darted a quick glance toward the upper right corner of the room. A faint red light glowed from a security camera. I paused. When I met Angela’s dark eyes again, a chill shot up my spine. She was deliberately trying to provoke me. Perhaps disappointed that I hadn’t exploded yet, she took two steps closer, her voice dripping with provocation. “You don’t seem to be in that much of a rush. Surely forty minutes won’t make a difference. Please, just be patient. The moment our manager returns, I promise you’ll be the first person she helps.” My voice was a little hoarse. “So, if I pay, you’ll open the door and let me leave?” “Of course.” I put my phone away and dug through my purse, pulling out a wad of cash from a birthday card. “Fine. The blouse is a hundred dollars, right? Here. Cash. You must be able to take cash. Now open the door and let me out!” But Angela just smiled and pushed the money back. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. I truly, truly do not have authorization to process any payments. Please don’t make this difficult for me.” Enraged, I threw the money at her. “What is wrong with you? I’ve given you the money! Why won’t you let me go? What do you want?” Just as I suspected. The more agitated I became, the more triumphant she looked. She raised an eyebrow, her smile unwavering. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. Even with cash, you’ll have to wait for the manager. For now, you cannot leave.” I clenched my jaw. “So you don’t have authorization to take my money, but you do have authorization to illegally detain me?” “Why have you locked the door? Why are you forcing me to wait for your manager? Are you doing this on purpose? Or… are you a human trafficker?” “What?” Angela’s fake smile froze on her face. I feigned a sudden realization, dramatically knocking over a clothing rack. “That’s it! It all makes sense now! You’re traffickers, and this is your den! That’s why you were stalling, making excuses, trying to keep me here! You’re waiting for your accomplices to come and kidnap me! You monsters, where are you planning to sell me? How many other victims are there? I’m calling the police! I have to get out of here!” Angela stared at me, her face a mask of disbelief. “What are you talking about? Are you delusional? No, what are you doing?! Put down the fire extinguisher! Ma’am, stop—”

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The moment I was about to be swapped at birth and doomed to a life of poverty, I was jolted awake by a stream of live comments flooding my vision. 「Wow, the male lead is so clever. He’s going to secretly switch his sick sister with the billionaire’s daughter. Now his sister’s heart condition can be cured!」 「My heart breaks for him. He has to send his own sister away and then go home to a drunk mom and a gambling-addicted dad. He’s carrying the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders.」 「Don’t feel too bad for him! He’s got our girl Lucy. She’ll wash his clothes and cook his meals when they’re kids, and after the big reveal, she’ll give up her fortune to marry him and be his devoted housewife. He’s totally winning.」 A lifetime of misery flashed before my eyes. A piercing wail escaped my lips, waking everyone in the room. 1 The quiet hospital nursery erupted into chaos. A young boy, Jordi, frantically clamped a hand over my mouth, his childish face etched with panic. Beads of cold sweat trickled down his pale forehead. My father, who had been in an office next door, burst into the room. His eyes locked on me, nestled in Jordi’s arms, and his expression darkened instantly. “Kid, what do you think you’re doing with my daughter?” My dad stood at a towering six-foot-three, built like a linebacker. His presence alone was enough to make most people tremble. But Jordi, after a brief moment of shock, quickly composed himself, his composure unnerving for a five-year-old. “Sir, I’m a patient here. I saw that her sleeping position looked like it would hurt her neck. I was just trying to adjust her.” The comments went wild with praise. 「I stan a genius king! Jordi is so smart to come up with that on the fly. Who would ever suspect a five-year-old?」 「LOL, our boy is a certified genius. If it weren’t for his trash family holding him back, he’d be famous by now.」 「Ugh, Lucy’s crying is so annoying. What’s the big deal? That’s her future husband. Soon enough, she’ll be dying to be in his arms 24/7.」 「She needs to get used to his embrace. He didn’t succeed today, but he’ll find another way. It would be a shame if she ruined his hard work again.」 My dad stared at Jordi, his expression a mixture of suspicion and confusion. The more I read the comments, the more terrified I became of this little psycho. I wailed louder, spitting and gurgling, trying desperately to roll my eyes toward my dad. Finally, he got the message. He slapped his thigh, pointing a finger at Jordi. “Wait a minute. Something’s not right here.” He immediately ordered a full investigation. Jordi was just a child, and his methods were clumsy. The trail of evidence was obvious. In less than half an hour, his plan was exposed: he had intended to kidnap me and replace me with his sister, Lily, so she could receive treatment for her congenital heart disease. The entire hospital was in an uproar. My father was incandescent with rage. I just sucked on my pacifier, watching the blood drain from Jordi’s face as I took long, satisfying gulps of milk. Dad called security to have him removed. As they dragged him away, Jordi’s eyes were fixed on me, a look of bitter resentment and longing in them. Just before he left, a call came through on his cheap smartwatch. The doctor’s voice was grim. “Your sister is dying. It’s time to come take her home.” Through the speaker, I could hear the faint, heartbreaking cries of a baby girl. Jordi’s eyes welled with tears. He turned to my father, his voice cracking. “Please, sir, please save my sister, Lily.” I took a deep breath. The absolute nerve of this kid. My dad just scoffed and told him to get lost. Jordi’s small fists clenched. Suddenly, his fear was replaced by a strange, unnerving determination. “Sir,” he said, his voice steady, “I wasn’t just taking Lucy to save my sister.” “Everything I’m about to tell you is the absolute truth.” 2 Jordi’s gaze softened as he looked at me, his small face filled with an unsettling tenderness. “Sir, I can see the future,” he declared. “And in that future, I’m Lucy’s husband.” “She will fall completely in love with me, so much that she’ll give up her life as an heiress just to be my wife.” “And I love her more than anything. I was only taking her because I miss her so much.” He lowered his long, dark lashes, a picture of manufactured vulnerability. To prove his point, he began reciting a string of deeply personal secrets about my family, things no outsider could possibly know. My father’s eyes grew wider with each revelation, his face a mask of disbelief. What he didn’t know was that I could see Jordi’s cheat sheet. The comments were scrolling frantically. 「Go, Jordi, go! He’s using our chat history to trick his future father-in-law! So smart!」 「Keep going, scare the old man straight! LMAO, I’ve got a whole folder of the Vance family’s dirty laundry right here.」 「My turn! My turn! Tell him his wife is a total softie behind closed doors!」 「Delete that, you idiot! He’ll get him killed! Jordi, Jordi, the password to the Vance family’s Swiss bank account is 123456. It’s all part of Lucy’s dowry.」 I choked on my milk, coughing until my face turned beet red. So that’s what it was. I wasn’t just seeing random comments; I was seeing his comments. My dad patted my back anxiously, his brow furrowed as he studied the strange little boy. Jordi, sensing an opportunity, pressed his advantage. “So, can you treat my sister now?” he pleaded. “She’s Lucy’s sister, too. In the future, Lucy will adore Lily.” The comments eagerly agreed. 「He’s right! The FL doesn’t even resent Lily for stealing her identity. She insists that Lily stay with the family and be raised as her sister.」 「Poor little Lily. She grew up with every luxury, but she was so frail and sick. Not like our Lucy, who was strong enough to haul water barrels for work by age three.」 「But Lily is a good sister! She never looks down on Lucy for being a country bumpkin, and she even offers to share the company shares with her. She even lets Lucy have her amazing brother. Their love is a two-way street!」 I stared at the comments, wondering if I was hallucinating. How could they twist a vicious story of a cuckoo in the nest and call it a beautiful act of sisterly love? This chat was seriously disturbed. After I settled down, my dad actually began to consider Jordi’s request. I could see it on his face—father-daughter telepathy. The boy’s information was too accurate to ignore. And what was saving one life to a man like my father? He was one of the richest men in the world; money was no object. But I refused to let my dad be played for a fool. I let out a scream so piercing it could have shattered glass, startling my mother awake. 3 My dad quickly placed me in my mother’s arms and whispered the whole bizarre story to her. My mom, still recovering from childbirth, listened intently and then delivered a swift, stinging slap across my father’s face. He stared at her, dumbfounded. “Are you insane?” she hissed. “This kid tries to kidnap our daughter, and your first thought is to pay for his sister’s medical bills?” “‘Future husband’? At his age, he’s already plotting to swap out his own sister for a wife. The boy is a manipulative little monster.” “If he really loved our daughter,” she continued, her voice rising, “he wouldn’t be planning a life where she has to suffer for him!” My dad, a gentle giant built like a bear, let out a wounded whimper. Jordi knew the game was up. He glared at my mother, his voice dripping with a chilling mix of scorn and hatred. “Ma’am, I can guarantee you, one day your daughter will be madly in love with me.” “You refuse to save my sister now. But in the future,” he snarled, “I will make your daughter pay for your cruelty. I’ll make her hate you, just as much as I hate you right now.” With that, he slammed the door and was gone. My parents exchanged a worried glance. Dad ran a hand through his hair, his voice laced with anxiety. “What if she really does grow up to hate us?” Mom gently pinched my chubby cheek, her voice fierce. “If she turns into some love-obsessed idiot, then she’s no daughter of mine.” But her hands were trembling, and a deep-seated fear clouded her eyes. I wriggled in their arms, patting their hands to comfort them and blowing bubbles with my mouth. Don’t worry, Mom and Dad. I’m not going to be a fool for love. I’m not going to suffer for anyone. I had suffered enough in my last life. I was an orphan, fighting for scraps in an overcrowded orphanage. When it closed, I became a child laborer and died before I turned fifteen. I don’t know why I retained the memories of that life. But I was grateful. This time, I had been born into the life I’d always dreamed of, with a mountain of wealth and parents who adored me. I wasn’t about to throw that away for some boy. When my grandparents heard about the near-kidnapping, they nearly had heart attacks. My paternal grandfather, a titan of industry, gifted me a subsidiary of his company. The skyscraper that housed its headquarters made me the youngest billionaire CEO in the Guinness World Records. My grandmother adorned me with so many heavy gold bracelets and jade necklaces that I could barely breathe. My maternal grandfather, a political giant and a “founding father” of our modern nation, assigned me a 24/7 security detail. My grandmother, a brilliant scientist, gave me her black card, linked to the royalties from her patents. It had a string of zeros I’d only ever seen in astronomy textbooks. Surrounded by the scent of old money and the sound of my family’s laughter, I drifted off into the most peaceful sleep of my life. The next time I saw Jordi Croft was three years later. I had accidentally cut my wrist with a fruit knife and was rushed to the hospital. As we arrived, the familiar stream of comments flickered back into view. 「Our ML works so hard. He should be in school, but he’s here at the hospital, taking care of his sister day and night.」 「He’s smart enough to be in the sixth grade already, but at eight years old, he hasn’t even started first grade. My heart aches for him. He’s so thin, he’s nothing but skin and bones.」 「If only Lucy were here. She adores him. She would find a way to make money to support his education. She’d starve herself just to make sure he had enough to eat.」 「God, Lucy is so annoying. And selfish. If she hadn’t cried that day, Jordi wouldn’t be suffering like this. It’s all her fault.」 … A cold laugh escaped me. So, Jordi’s miserable life was my fault now? How had I ended up with the blame for that? As the comments grew clearer, Jordi himself came into view. He was tall for his age, lean and wiry, with sharp, monolidded eyes that held a chilling indifference. He didn’t even glance in my direction, rushing past me to a small, worn-out cot in the hallway. A pale, fragile-looking girl lay on it, her tiny hand bruised purple from countless IV needles. She looked as if a strong gust of wind could blow her away. The coldness on Jordi’s face melted into a sea of tenderness, his eyes overflowing with a fierce, protective love. The Chat was ecstatic. 「What is Lucy even staring at? Talk about unrequited love. Our boy won’t even give her the time of day.」 「Serves her right for crying back then. Now, even if she’s fallen for him at first sight, he has no time for her.」 「Don’t be so harsh, guys. She was just a baby, she didn’t know any better. We should give her a chance to make it up to him. She’s the real heiress now; she can help him a lot.」 「We’re just teasing! She’s his future wife, after all. Even if we don’t give her a chance, he’ll find a way to let her atone for her sins.」 The moment that last comment appeared, Jordi stood up from his sister’s bedside. His gaze fell on my bandaged wrist, and he slowly walked towards me. His tone was far from polite. “Hi. My sister has a serious heart condition. You just have a little cut on your wrist. Can you give her your private suite?” I blinked, momentarily stunned. I tilted my head, half-wondering if robbery and extortion had suddenly become legal. Why else would someone so brazenly demand I give up the expensive VIP room my parents had paid for? But the sour, entitled tone of the comments confirmed I hadn’t misheard. 「Awww, the ML is already going easy on her! Just asking for the room and that’s it?」 「He’s the only one who truly feels for her. He knows she suffered for three years because of him, so he’s letting her off easy. Lucy, you should just drop dead and let me take your place!」 「Seriously, what is she just standing there for? He’s practically gift-wrapped an apology for her. Just move your stuff already!」 Jordi was growing impatient. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Lucy Vance,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “you’re not going to be so selfish as to say no, are you?” He leaned in closer. “You should know, there’s nothing I hate more than selfish people.” Was he trying to guilt-trip me? Oh, I was done being polite. I looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Wow,” I sighed dramatically. “I really envy your skin.” He was momentarily confused. “What do you mean?” I let out a sharp, exaggerated laugh. “It’s thicker than a castle wall.” His face instantly contorted, flushing a deep, furious red. 5 The Chat exploded with outrage before he could even speak. 「Is Lucy insane? How could she say that to him? Does she not want to be his darling wife anymore?」 「My poor, sweet boy! He was already willing to forgive her and build a future together, and she just tramples all over his heart. I think I can hear it shattering.」 「Everyone calm down. Our girl loves him more than anything. She would never hurt him on purpose. This has to be a tactic. Playing hard to get!」 「That makes sense! She missed out on three precious years with him. She must feel so guilty and unworthy. She’s probably too scared to believe he’d forgive her, so she’s taking the ‘bad girl’ route to get his attention. A forced romance is still a romance, right?」 After reading their twisted analysis, I secretly rolled my eyes. Jordi, however, seemed to have an epiphany. A wave of relief washed over his face. He stopped pressuring me for the room and returned to Lily’s bedside, his eyes fixed on me with a thoughtful, calculating expression. I had a bad feeling about this. I slammed my door shut, cutting off his probing gaze. Back in my luxurious room, I flopped onto the soft bed, kicking my feet in the air and propping my chin on my hands as I video-chatted with my parents. They were in Europe for a massive business deal and had been frantic when they heard I’d been hurt. My father was so distraught he was practically sobbing into my mother’s shoulder. My mother carefully inspected my bandaged wrist through the screen before letting out a sigh of relief, though her face remained stern. “Lucy Vance, you are forbidden from playing with knives ever again.” I nodded obediently. Ever since the incident at my birth, my parents had been hyper-vigilant about my safety, terrified that I would get hurt or, worse, be taken from them. I was their precious treasure. With parents who loved me this much, how could I ever follow the script and abandon them and this life of incredible privilege for a poor boy with a persecution complex? But even though I wanted nothing to do with Jordi, it was clear he wasn’t done with me. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, dreaming of my bright, CEO-filled future, a series of frantic knocks echoed from my door.

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When I came back to life, the first thing I did was order fifty pounds of ground meat and gather my family to make ravioli. I did this because, in my last life, my stepmother, Brenda, had an affair and got pregnant by another man. To hide her betrayal from my father, she orchestrated a public spectacle. She went to a chaotic Black Friday sale, intentionally got into the scrum for a discounted coffee machine, and let herself be knocked to the ground, inducing a miscarriage. When she came home, she collapsed into my father’s arms, sobbing. “It was Mia,” she cried. “She’s so cheap, she insisted we go fight for that stupid sale. If she hadn’t dragged me there, I wouldn’t have fallen. I wouldn’t have lost our son…” I tried to explain, but my own fiancé, Caleb, stepped forward to drive the nail into my coffin. “Mia, I am so disappointed in you,” he said, his face a mask of disgust. “I’ve tolerated your cheapness—scamming free meals, shoplifting snacks from the bulk bins—but this? Forcing your stepmother into a dangerous crowd just to save a few bucks, causing her to lose a child? I can’t do this anymore. The engagement is off.” My father exploded. He chased me through the house, his rage a storm of slaps and curses. Afterward, he had me committed to a corrupt psychiatric facility upstate. I was locked away, mistreated, and left to die from a septic infection after a botched medical procedure. It was only after I died that I learned the truth. Caleb had been sleeping with my stepmother all along. Our engagement was just a convenient cover for their affair. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back on the morning of the day Brenda went to the Black Friday sale. 1 I was curled up in bed, tears soaking my pillow, when the phone rang. I answered it instinctively. It was Brenda. “Morning, sweetie,” she chirped. “It’s Christmas Eve, so I’m going to do a little shopping, treat myself. I won’t be home to cook today, so you can handle the housework and make dinner for your dad and grandparents, okay?” She said it not as a request, but as a statement of fact, giving me no room to refuse. “And don’t tell your dad where I am. You know how he hovers. A girl needs her breathing room.” Her voice was syrupy sweet. “You’re such a good girl, Mia. You’re my little helper. I’ll bring you back something nice!” Then she hung up. I tried calling her back—five, six times. Every call went straight to voicemail. She’d already blocked my number. The repeated dial tone shocked me back to the present, and a cold sweat broke out across my skin. I was back. I had been given a second chance. In my last life, Brenda had married my father thinking he was wealthy. She was sorely disappointed to find out he was just a retired tradesman with no pension. All the nice things he’d shown off during their courtship—the car, the apartment—were actually mine. She felt trapped, but she stayed, her resentment simmering just beneath the surface. Last time, on Christmas Eve, she had made the same call. I’d agreed to her request, but then got called into the office to handle a crisis. I worked all day, only getting home late for dinner. I walked into a house thick with a terrifying silence. My father stood in the living room, his face a thundercloud, while Brenda wept at his side. “Mia, it’s all your fault,” she’d sobbed. “If you hadn’t been so cheap, if you hadn’t dragged me to that horrible sale, I wouldn’t have been pushed. I wouldn’t have lost the baby.” I was floored. “What are you talking about? I was at work all day. I have timestamps, emails…” Before I could pull out my phone, Caleb snatched it from my hand, threw it to the floor, and stomped on it. “I can’t believe you,” he’d spat. “I’m done. We’re done.” His betrayal was all the proof my father needed. He saw the loss of his unborn son as the ultimate failure, and I was the one to blame. He dragged me out of the house that night. I now knew the child she’d lost wasn’t my father’s. It was Caleb’s. They’d been careless, and this elaborate, cruel performance was their way of erasing the evidence. Brilliant, really. Utterly monstrous, but brilliant. This time, things would be different. A cold smile touched my lips. I wasn’t going anywhere. I ordered fifty pounds of ground meat for delivery. Then I sent a text to my boss. Family emergency. Requesting to work from home for the holiday. I was the backbone of my company. My boss trusted me implicitly. The reply came back in minutes: Approved. Take care of things. With my alibi established, I got up and took a long, hot shower. By the time I was sitting at the breakfast table, the doorbell rang. The butcher delivered the meat. My father and grandparents stared at the massive containers in disbelief. “Where on earth did all this come from?” my grandmother asked. I passed the buck to my boss. “A client defaulted on a payment, so they paid the company in product. They’re a meat distributor.” I shrugged. “So, instead of a cash bonus this year, my boss just gave us all a share of the meat. Said we should all go home and make ravioli for Christmas.” “Fifty pounds?” my grandma gasped. “We’ll be making ravioli until New Year’s!” “Well, there go my plans for chess with the guys,” my grandfather sighed. I turned to my father. “Dad, we can’t let all this meat go to waste. Grandma and Grandpa are in. You’re not going to sit this out, are you? Go wash your hands.” Muttering curses about my boss under his breath, my father rolled up his sleeves and started chopping onions and garlic, soon sweating with the effort. On Christmas Eve, while other families were decorating trees and wrapping presents, ours was an assembly line of misery. My father, the strongest among us, chopped, mixed, and kneaded dough until he was panting like a dog. By noon, everyone was starving. My father remembered his absent wife. “It’s twelve-thirty. Where’s your stepmother? Why isn’t she here making lunch?” I feigned innocence. “I don’t know. I tried calling her this morning, but I think she blocked me.” I put on a worried expression. “Do you think she’s mad at me? Maybe you should try calling her, Dad.” He frowned and dialed Brenda’s number. He tried three times. No answer. His temper flared. “Did you two have a fight? Why isn’t she answering my calls?” He glared at me. “You’re twenty-five years old, Mia. Stop acting like a child and provoking your mother.” I put on my best wounded expression and played the call recording from that morning. “Dad, you’re blaming me again. But this time, you’re the reason she’s not home.” The whole family listened as Brenda’s cheerful voice filled the room, ending with the line about needing “breathing room” from my hovering father. His face went dark. He lit a cigarette and smoked it down to the filter in silence. While my grandparents tried to soothe him, I ordered four large pizzas. “Mom’s not here and we’re busy,” I said brightly. “Let’s just get takeout.” My grandparents praised me for being so thoughtful. My father just sat there, stewing in a black mood that lasted the rest of the day. By evening, all fifty pounds of meat had been turned into countless trays of ravioli. Our hands were cramping. My dad went out for another pack of cigarettes while my grandparents started boiling the water for dinner. I sat on the sofa, scrolling through my phone, and allowed myself a small, satisfied smile. I hadn’t left the house. I had been with my family all day. There was no way Brenda could pin her “miscarriage” on me this time. Just as I thought that, the front door burst open. Caleb was supporting a pale, weeping Brenda. The moment she saw me, she let out a wail. “Mia! You monster! After I treated you like my own daughter, how could you do this to me?” Before I could even speak, Caleb joined in. “I can’t believe your cruelty, Mia. You are a heartless snake. I am so disappointed in you. We are through!” I looked at them, my face a mask of pure confusion. “What are you talking about? Brenda, you were pregnant? When did this happen? Why didn’t I know?” My feigned ignorance only made Brenda cry harder. “So this is how it is! All those times you were sweet to me, it was all an act! You’ve hated me all along!” She pointed a shaking finger at me. “I told you the good news last night, and what do you do? You drag me to that sale this morning, you push me into that crowd, and you get me trampled!” Her voice rose to a hysterical shriek. “I barely survived, and you stand there acting like you know nothing? How could you be so cruel?” Our old house was in a tight-knit courtyard community. On Christmas Eve, the shared yard was full of neighbors building snowmen and lighting firecrackers. Hearing the commotion, they all started to gather at our doorway. Brenda, ever the performer, made sure to stand right on the threshold, her voice carrying across the entire courtyard. The neighbors began to murmur, their eyes turning on me. “I can’t believe it. Mia seems so sweet, but she intentionally caused her stepmother to have a miscarriage?” “You never know what’s in a person’s heart. We watched her grow up, and this is what she becomes?” One woman shook her head. “I’m telling my son to stay away from her. Who knows what she’s capable of.” The murmurs grew into a chorus of condemnation. I felt tears welling in my eyes. But this time, they weren’t tears of helplessness. They were tears of pure, unadulterated excitement. The show was about to begin. Seeing my tears, Brenda thought she had me cornered. She doubled down, regaling the neighbors with more fabricated details of my cruelty. Caleb, meanwhile, grabbed me by the shoulders and tried to force me to my knees. “Children are meant to respect their parents! You will get on your knees and you will apologize to Brenda for the child you murdered!” He tightened his grip. “As your fiancé, it’s my job to teach you some discipline!” He shoved my head down, forcing me to bow again and again until my forehead was scraped and bleeding. “That’s not enough,” he declared. “An apology can’t bring back a child. You need to compensate her.” He looked at me, his eyes cold and greedy. “Give Brenda your year-end bonus so she can buy supplements. And sign over your new apartment to her, so she has a quiet place to recover. That is the only way to show you are truly sorry.” I almost laughed out loud. It was so absurd, so brazen. And suddenly, it all made sense. This wasn’t just about covering up their affair. It was about getting rid of me and taking everything I had. No wonder Caleb had suddenly started pursuing me so intensely, right after Brenda realized my father wasn’t her ticket to a life of luxury. I looked up at Caleb and spit directly in his face. “You want my bonus and my apartment for a bastard child you knocked up? In your dreams.” They were both stunned, then furious. “Caleb, don’t,” Brenda sobbed, playing the victim. “She’s never liked me. It’s no use.” She turned dramatically. “A stepmother is never welcome. The world hates me, my own family tries to kill me… I might as well be dead!” She made a show of running towards a tree as if to bash her head against it. Caleb rushed to stop her. “Don’t worry, Brenda. I’ve already called Frank. He’s on his way. He’ll make this right.”

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Everyone calls me a pathetic doormat. When my husband Tristan gets intimate with other women in front of me, I just hurry over like a puppy and hand them a condom. “Use this,” I say with concern. “It’s safer.” Eventually, even Tristan sneered, “Moria, is this really love?” I’d nod, then shake my head, finally whispering, “Tristan, you’re mine.” That only made him call for more “takeout.” Their moans filled the air right before me. Afterward, he’d ask, “Am I still yours?” “Of course,” I’d reply, as if it were obvious. He’d scoff, “You’re a master of self-deception.” Later, while he slept, I’d gaze at his handsome face and lick my lips. “Delicious,” I’d whisper. “So delicious.” “The more wicked, the better they taste.” He doesn’t know I’m a succubus with a damaged bloodline. I can’t gain energy from sex—I have to eat promiscuous men. Their corrupted energy repairs my bloodline and restores my power. Tristan? He’s the prize hog I’ve been fattening for slaughter. … When Tristan woke up, I was curled up in his arms, studying a cookbook. The human world had its flaws, but the sheer variety of recipes was mind-boggling. He pushed me away. “What are you looking at a cookbook for?” I looked up, my smile innocent and pure. “To make you breakfast.” He just chuckled and got up to dress, not even glancing around the room. He didn’t need to. After every one of his… sessions, I meticulously cleaned everything and tied up all the loose ends. The “takeout” girls had already left; I’d even paid their final fees. As they were leaving, their faces were etched with contempt. “I’ve never seen a wife who orders escorts for her own husband.” I just offered a placating smile and bowed repeatedly. Once they were gone and I was sure Tristan wouldn’t be disturbed, I scurried after them, my posture subservient, my expression fawning. “Could I get your contact info? For next time.” They stared at me, dumbfounded, but gave it to me anyway. As they walked away, I heard one of them mutter, “Takes all kinds, I guess.” Back inside, I scrolled through my phone, calculating. Five more times. That’s all it would take. Then Tristan would be ripe for the picking. He’d cheated 9,995 times. The quality of his essence was about to reach its absolute peak. One more time after that, and he’d turn sour and rotten. Tristan noticed me zoning out and sighed with impatience. He’d always found me boring. A woman who never fought back was no different to a man than an inanimate toy. He held out his arms, and I stood to help him with his jacket and tie. After smoothing out the lapels of his suit, I felt a surge of satisfaction. My prize hog looked exquisite. The quality of his essence was practically radiating off him—firm, juicy, perfect. My mouth began to water. Tristan’s brow furrowed in disgust. He always assumed my drooling was some pathetic form of lust. “I’m going out,” he said, his voice low. “I won’t be back tonight.” I nodded. “Are you going to see Selene?” Selene was his mistress, the one he claimed to truly love. They were a perfect match—equal in status, looks, and background. A match made in high-society heaven, everyone said. Tristan, for all his wild behavior, was only ever reckless in front of me. He’d given me strict instructions: “Playtime is playtime, but no one, and I mean no one, is to ever upset Selene.” I had nodded vigorously, patting my chest in a solemn promise. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep a close eye on them for you.” One of his friends had been there and burst out laughing. “Why don’t you just divorce him and let Selene have him? Maybe then he’ll finally settle down.” But I had just shaken my head stubbornly. “Tristan is mine.” And so, the story spread throughout the city: I was hopelessly, tragically in love with Tristan. Willing to let him turn my world into his personal playground. Whenever I heard the rumors, all I could think was that a wild horse, allowed to run free, makes for better meat. The same was true for Tristan. “Wild thing… you make my heart sing…” I hummed a human tune as I started cleaning. Human songs were interesting. I felt like the horse tamer, and Tristan was my wild stallion. He might run wild and free, but in the end, every stallion must return to the ranch. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. I peeked through the peephole and saw a young college student, her face streaked with tears. Another one of Tristan’s messes, no doubt. I opened the door. The student sobbed, her words coming in hiccuping gasps. “Are you… Mrs. Thorne?” I nodded, my eyes drawn to her swollen belly. Damn it. He didn’t use a condom again. This must have happened when I wasn’t there to supervise. The student clutched her stomach. “Ma’am, I had no one else to turn to. I’m pregnant.” She sniffled. “Tristan blocked my number. He just told me to come find you.” I sighed internally. That was Tristan all over—leaving me to clean up his filth. I ushered her inside, expertly brewing a cup of tea and setting out some pastries. The girl eyed the teacup suspiciously. I took a sip from my own cup. “It’s not poisoned.” She gave a weak, embarrassed smile but still didn’t drink. Human women were so strange. So guarded against other women, but so utterly defenseless against men. She pulled a wad of tissues from her purse and started crying again, a heart-wrenching display. “Mrs. Thorne,” she choked out, “what am I going to do?” I took a tissue of my own and wiped the spittle that had sprayed onto my face. This was a real headache. They never asked for my help when they were in bed with him, but as soon as their bellies started to swell, they came crying to me. Seeing that she was about to unleash another flood of tears, I pulled out a credit card. “There’s ten million on this. You can have the baby, you can get rid of it—your choice. Just don’t ever bother Tristan again.” As for keeping her mouth shut, it didn’t matter. Tristan’s reputation was already ground meat. She snatched the card and stuffed it into her pocket, but her words were dripping with melodrama. “It’s not about the money! I love Tristan! I just want to be with him! Please, I’m begging you, let us be together.” Every one of them thought I was the one standing in their way. If only they knew how little I cared. I shook my head and pulled out my tablet. “It’s not me, sweetie. He’s just bored of you.” I scrolled through page after page of names until I found hers. “There were five other girls at the same time as you. Tristan’s always like this. He plays with his toys, and then he throws them away.” The color drained from her face. “Are we just playthings for you rich people?” she whispered, her voice trembling with rage. She grabbed her teacup to throw it at me, but it wouldn’t budge. After 99 near-misses with flying liquids, did she really think I wouldn’t be prepared? She stared at the immovable cup, then grabbed a throw pillow from the sofa to hurl at me instead. That didn’t move either. I had spent a whole night sewing the pillows to the couch. And besides, why was she yelling at me? I wasn’t the one who’d played with her. In the end, she left in a storm of tears, clutching her millions and her broken heart. I touched my cheek, still baffled. Humans were so bizarre. Their hearts screamed for money, but their mouths declared, “I want love.” Yet, if you offered them a life of love in poverty, they’d run for the hills. As a succubus, I could see the greedy delight sparkling in her soul. Just as I was clearing the table, a text from Tristan came through. “Get to the hospital. Now.” “Something’s happened to Selene.” … When I arrived at the hospital, Selene was pale as a ghost. Blood was trickling from a long gash on her delicate wrist, and a team of doctors was scrambling to treat her. “She’s lost too much blood,” one of them announced. “She needs a transfusion.” All eyes turned to me. Everyone knew that Selene and I shared the same rare blood type. A fact I had, of course, fabricated. I was regretting that little lie now, but it was too late. Tristan grabbed my arm and threw me to the floor. “Take her! Drain her!” he roared. Spoken like a true alpha CEO. So commanding, especially with helpless women. A doctor pinned me down, and a needle slid into my arm. I was about to fight back, but then I saw it. The number above Tristan’s head had ticked over to 9,999. Wow. An afternoon with his true love, and he’d managed to get it on four times. Impressive. Since he was ripe for the eating anyway, I relaxed and let them take my blood. They transfused it into Selene, and she recovered almost instantly, a healthy flush returning to her cheeks. She opened her eyes, her gaze shattered and tragic. Tristan knelt by her side. “Selene, I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me. I’ll never mess around again.” Oh, this is getting good, I thought, scrambling to my feet to get a better view of the drama. Who had spilled the beans about Tristan’s escapades to Selene? Selene’s voice was a weak, choked whisper. “Don’t. I’m not your wife. I have no right to tell you what to do.” Aaaand here we go, I thought. Back to me. Tristan clutched her uninjured hand, his voice thick with emotion. “As soon as you’re better, we’ll get married. You’ll be my wife, officially and publicly. Selene, I’ll do anything, just don’t leave me.” My eyes widened. How was this my fault? Selene closed her eyes, a single, perfect tear tracing a path down her cheek. A much more effective angle than the standard 45 degrees, I noted. As expected, Tristan dissolved into a blubbering mess. “I was wrong! I was so, so wrong!” They clung to each other, sobbing, and within minutes, all was forgiven. The next time I looked, they were cooing at each other like lovebirds, Tristan feeding Selene pieces of fruit from a platter. The sharp click of dress shoes announced the arrival of his assistant. “Sir, we’ve traced the anonymous tip. It was sent from inside your villa.” Tristan’s head snapped around, his eyes like daggers. And just like that, the hunter became the hunted. That clever little college student had played me. She had come to me feigning helplessness, all while secretly sending the evidence to Selene to frame me. Smart girl. Tristan didn’t even bother to ask for my side of the story. He just kicked me to the ground. I scrambled back up and gave him a thumbs-up. “Nice kick! Great form!” He froze, a flicker of something that looked suspiciously like exasperated disappointment in his eyes. I must have imagined it. Selene’s expression was one of profound sorrow. “Why would you send me those things?” I leaned over the assistant’s shoulder to look at the phone. Wow. High-definition. A big-budget production. All of Tristan’s greatest hits were there: one-on-ones, group battles, team competitions—the works. I stroked my chin thoughtfully. “Honey, your quality and speed seem to be declining.” The room fell silent. The doctors quietly slipped out the door. The assistant stood frozen, holding the phone like a hot potato. Selene’s face was ashen as she stared at Tristan with utter disillusionment. Tristan’s eyes were spitting fire. He lunged at me, his hands closing around my throat. He squeezed, and I stopped breathing, just for effect. Then I remembered—I didn’t actually need to breathe. He choked me for a full minute, my face remaining perfectly calm and composed. The assistant finally snapped out of his trance and grabbed Tristan’s arm. “Sir, stop! You’ll kill her!” Tristan let go with a cold snort. “I told you, no one upsets Selene. I can’t believe I ever thought you were harmless. Moria, if you don’t want to be Mrs. Thorne anymore, then you’re fired.” He pulled out his phone to call his lawyer and file for divorce. I clutched my neck, coughed dramatically a few times, and then shouted at the top of my lungs. “Oh, heavens above, judge the innocent and the guilty!” A clap of thunder rattled the window, and a flash of lightning illuminated my grief-stricken face. “Darling, it wasn’t me! I’m completely devoted to you! Why would I ever stand in the way of you finding happiness with others?” The assistant looked like he’d been struck by the lightning himself. Even Tristan seemed at a loss, pressing a hand to his forehead. Selene, who was meeting me for the first time, just stared, utterly dumbfounded. She had heard of my reputation, but she had never witnessed a live performance. I dropped to my knees, snot and tears streaming down my face, and began my tale of woe. “A college student came to the house today! It must have been her!” The assistant nodded. “That’s right, sir. I was just about to say that.” My performance came to a screeching halt. I shot him a murderous glare. Didn’t his mother ever teach him to get to the point? Tristan looked uncomfortable, a rare flicker of guilt in his eyes. But all he said was a dismissive, “Oh.” I understood. Alpha CEOs don’t apologize. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a credit card, and tossed it at me. “This is for your trouble.” I was ecstatic. “Your divorce settlement,” he added. Years from now, I’d be sitting in my rocking chair, telling my grand-demons, “I was just one away from a full meal. If I’d eaten him, you’d all be high-level succubi by now.” Just kidding. If I didn’t eat Tristan, I wouldn’t have any grand-demons. So, I immediately dropped back to my knees, tears erupting from my eyes like geysers. “Darling, don’t leave me! I was wrong! Next time, I’ll be more careful! You can run the background checks, and I’ll check their phones!” Tristan’s face turned beet red. He glanced nervously at Selene, who was now glaring at me, all traces of her fragile vulnerability gone. The assistant covered his ears and stared at the ceiling. “Darling,” I wailed, “can’t we just wait until you’ve cheated one more time? At least let me catch you in the act!” That was the last straw for Tristan. “Get out!” he roared, kicking me away. I obediently rolled a few times, right back to his feet. For a good meal, a little humiliation was nothing. He gritted his teeth and had the assistant drag me out of the room. From the hallway, I could hear him on his knees, begging and pleading with Selene. Then came the sound of her soft sobs, and the fateful words, “Let’s break up.” The assistant lowered his voice. “Ma’am, do you really love him that much?” My eyes filled with tears. “Of course. I’ve watched him grow up, after all.” From 0 to 9,999—I had put in so much effort. Suddenly, I heard the sound of a struggle from inside the room, followed by a muffled grunt and a soft moan. The assistant’s face turned bright red as he pulled out a pair of earplugs. My eyes lit up. I pressed my ear to the door, listening intently. This was it. It couldn’t be more than one. Just one was all I needed. Selene’s moans grew louder, culminating in a final, sharp cry and a low male growl. Then, silence. I tried the door. It was locked. Focusing my energy into my leg, I kicked it open. There, shimmering above Tristan’s head, was the glorious, golden number: 10,000. I saw the two of them on the bed, preparing for round two, and I rushed over, pulling them apart. Taking a deep breath, I delivered the line I had been rehearsing for five years. “Tristan, you have disappointed me for the last time!” “You cheated on me!” They stared at me, stunned, clutching the sheets to cover themselves. I whipped out my phone and started snapping pictures, uploading them to the internet. As the flood of negative comments transformed into streams of corrupt energy and flowed into Tristan’s body, I could see the quality of his essence changing, ripening. I stretched out my hand. “Tristan, you have hurt me and betrayed me. Now, it’s time to pay your debt.” Silence. Then, a low growl from Tristan. “What kind of crazy act are you pulling now?”

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1 Three years ago, my daughter fell from the twentieth floor. She died instantly. My husband, Ethan, held her body for three days and nights, refusing to sleep. Chelsea, her godmother and my best friend, cried until she collapsed. I refused to believe my daughter, Lily, would go to the rooftop alone. I dedicated my life to uncovering the truth. But no matter how hard I looked, the security footage and every shred of evidence pointed to one conclusion: she had jumped. Until today, the anniversary of her death. I received a call from an unknown number. The voice on the other end was identical to my own. “Lily, sweetie, you be a good girl and wait for Mommy, okay? I’m coming home, and I’ll bring you your favorite strawberry cake.” I froze. Those were the last words I ever said to my daughter. … Before I could process what was happening, the voice on the other end called out again, laced with confusion. My own voice trembling, I whispered my name into the phone. “Amy.” Silence. The Amy from three years ago was stunned, her tone shifting to sharp suspicion. “Who is this? Why do you sound just like me? I was calling my daughter. How did I get you?” I struggled to keep my voice steady, my words rushing out. “I’m you, from three years in the future. Listen to me. Today is the day Lily falls to her death. You have to save her!” A cold, dismissive laugh came through the speaker. “If you’re going to lie, at least make it believable. My daughter is perfectly fine at home.” She sounded annoyed. “I can’t even hang up. What the hell do you want?” If I weren’t living this nightmare, I wouldn’t believe it either. “I know it sounds insane,” I said, my voice firm. “But it’s real, and I can prove it.” “At 1:15, Ethan, who’s supposed to be working late, is going to call and tell you he won’t be home this afternoon.” “You’ll get worried about Lily being alone and call Chelsea to ask her to watch her, but Chelsea will say she just left town for a trip.” “Then, at 1:20, your assistant will call, pressuring you to come in for a critical meeting, and you’ll give up on going home to Lily.” In my three-year quest for the truth, I had replayed that day countless times. Every detail was seared into my soul. As I finished speaking, the clock ticked over to 1:15. Right on cue, Ethan’s ringtone echoed faintly through the phone. This bizarre, time-spanning connection was so clear I could hear their entire conversation. “Honey, work is crazy today. I have to work late again…” Thirty seconds later, Amy hung up and dialed her best friend. Just as I’d said, Chelsea answered, full of regret, explaining she’d left on a trip that very morning. Immediately after, her assistant called, reminding her the meeting was about to start. “Turn the car around and go home right now,” I commanded. “Take Lily with you. The client for that meeting is going to bail at the last minute. The meeting is a waste of time.” A two-second pause, then the roar of an engine. “I’ll trust you this once,” she said, her voice tight with tension. “If there’s even a one-in-a-million chance my daughter is in danger, I’m not taking it.” A wave of relief washed over me. “I know,” I whispered. “We’re the same.” The image of my daughter’s broken body flashed in my mind, as vivid as if it were yesterday. Her tiny frame, twisted and unnatural, her little white dress stained crimson with blood that pooled from the back of her head. The memory was a physical pain, a knife twisting in my gut. I hated myself for not finding the person responsible and making them pay. But now, here it was. A chance to undo it all. A chance I had to seize. She floored it, turning a twenty-minute drive into ten. The moment she burst through the door, I heard Lily’s bright, familiar voice, brimming with life. “Mommy, you’re back so soon!” A lump formed in my throat. I could picture her perfectly, running into her mother’s arms, her eyes crinkling into a joyful smile. The past Amy’s voice was soft. “Sweetie, how about you come to the office with Mommy today? I’ll buy you a strawberry cake.” Lily, of course, cheered with excitement. But just as they were about to leave, I heard the faint click of another door opening, followed by Amy’s shocked voice. “Chelsea? I thought you were out of town!” I stiffened. Chelsea was there that day? I distinctly remembered her telling me she didn’t get back until the day after. But there was no mistaking the voice on the phone—Chelsea’s, laced with surprise and a hint of something unnatural. “You said Lily was alone. I’m her godmother, aren’t I? Of course, coming back for her is more important.” A thousand questions swirled in my mind. All I could manage was to urge Amy to keep Lily by her side before a new call beeped through, severing our connection. It was the Chelsea from my timeline, her voice as gentle as it had been three years ago. “Amy, are you still at the cemetery? I know how hard this is for you, but you have to keep moving forward…” My gaze was fixed on the distance, my voice flat as I cut her off. “The day Lily died, were you really on a trip?” Chelsea paused, a flicker of confusion in her voice. “Yes? I tried to come back, but my flight was canceled due to the weather. Don’t you remember?” Her tone grew heavy, laced with practiced concern and a hint of weary depression. “You haven’t given up on finding this… this ‘truth,’ have you? The police ruled it an accident. Lily was only five. It’s not impossible for a curious child to wander up to the roof.” “You’re going to drive yourself mad inventing enemies that aren’t there, torturing yourself over a tragic accident.” Her voice cracked. “And now… are you starting to suspect me? Amy, I cried until I passed out. They had to take me to the hospital…” I stared at the photograph of my daughter on the gravestone, my resolve hardening. Everyone thought I was crazy. And maybe I was, pushed to the very edge of sanity. This phone call with my past self felt like a fever dream. But I knew it was real. Just as I knew my daughter’s death was no accident. “Of course not,” I replied coolly. “You know I wouldn’t accuse anyone without reason. It was just a random thought.” After hanging up, I desperately tried to reconnect with my past self. When I finally got through, Amy told me she was about to leave with Lily. Chelsea had already gone. “I asked Lily about her day,” Amy added. “She said she hasn’t seen any strangers. Nothing seems out of place.” “So, there was no warning at all before it happened?” A bitter taste filled my mouth. That was the truth. If there had been even the slightest clue, I wouldn’t have spent three years chasing shadows. Amy took Lily to her office. As I’d predicted, the client canceled the meeting without warning. She was too preoccupied to care, delegating the fallout to her assistant while keeping Lily glued to her side. A few minutes later, she called me back, her voice strange. Even without seeing her, I could imagine the grim expression on her face. “You’re not going to believe this. Ethan never worked late today.” “I just called his office. The receptionist said he left early.” Now, my own expression turned to stone. 2 “Why would he lie about leaving work?” I muttered to myself, unable to comprehend his motive. In all our years of marriage, the two people I trusted most in the world had both lied to me on the worst day of my life. “Go home,” I told her. “Install hidden cameras in every corner of the house. Don’t tell anyone. Not Ethan. Not Chelsea.” After a few seconds of silence, she replied, “…I will. But I hope this has nothing to do with them.” I drove away from the cemetery. Just as I walked through my front door, Ethan arrived right behind me. “Amy,” he said gently. “Chelsea told me you went to the cemetery again. You were thinking about Lily, weren’t you?” I remembered the day it happened. When he got the call, he’d raced home, running thirteen red lights, arriving disheveled and frantic. He had knelt on the pavement, clutching our daughter’s body, his eyes raw and bloodshot. Now, as I met his gaze, it was the same as always—gentle, clear, focused only on me. But for the first time, I felt like I couldn’t see him at all. “Ethan,” I began, my voice hollow, “why do you think Lily went to the rooftop by herself that day? She never went up there.” A tremor ran through him, and his face contorted with a familiar agony. “If I hadn’t stayed late at work… if I had been home with her, she never would have gone to the roof. A fall from that high… it must have hurt so much. I’m a terrible father. It’s my fault.” His grief was so profound, so desperate. But then, his tone shifted. “Honey, Lily is gone, but we’re still here. I’m more worried about you than anything. I can’t stand to see you trapped in this shadow.” He pleaded, “Please, can’t you let it go? For her sake? Lily would be so sad to see you like this.” He’d said those words a hundred times. He’d even suggested we have another child to fill the void she left. But he didn’t understand. A thousand children could never replace my Lily. A surge of rage boiled inside me. I spun on him, my voice a raw scream. “What work was so damn important? You promised me you would take care of her! Tell me why, Ethan! Why?” He looked away, his face a mask of regret. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know she was in danger. That’s why I stayed to work…” Still lying. “Get out,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “I don’t want to see you.” The moment Ethan left, the mask of grief fell from my face. Alone in the room, I opened a piece of software on my laptop. Because my past self had installed the cameras, I could now access three years of footage from inside my own home. But when I saw what the storage drive held, my eyes widened in disbelief. Before I could even react, my phone shrilled, breaking the silence. It was Chelsea. “Don’t be angry with him, Amy. Ethan was just trying to help. You know how clumsy he is with emotions.” Her voice was a soothing balm. “I’m on my way over to keep you company, okay?” Chelsea. Always so gentle, always unconditionally on my side. But this time, something felt deeply wrong. To confirm the sickening suspicion taking root in my heart, I answered flatly, “Fine. I’ll be waiting.” The second I hung up, another call came through—a familiar string of garbled numbers. It was my past self. I snatched up the phone. Amy’s voice was a panicked cry. “Lily’s gone!” 3 The world spun, and an icy dread crawled up from my feet. “What do you mean? You were supposed to keep her with you! How could this happen?” “She went to the restroom,” Amy choked out. “My assistant was waiting right outside the door. She was only gone for five minutes. When she went in, Lily was gone.” Five minutes. In a public space covered by security cameras, how could someone vanish into thin air? The background on her end was chaotic. Suddenly, someone shouted they’d seen Lily leaving the building. My mind recoiled—impossible. But when Amy pulled the security footage, it was true. Lily had walked out of the office by herself. The moment she stepped outside, she entered a blind spot. And then, she was gone. Amy’s voice was stretched thin with terror. “I don’t believe she would just walk away without telling me. Something is wrong!” I bit my lip, my thoughts a tangled mess. “Go home now! Check the rooftop, check the whole building for anything unusual!” She was already on her way, calling the police as she sped from the office. She burst into our apartment. It was silent, empty. Amy ran to the building’s security office, but the guard swore he hadn’t seen Lily return after leaving with her earlier. But she had fallen from our rooftop. Even with the newly installed cameras, there were no clues. The rooftop door, always locked, remained shut tight, with no sign of tampering. Amy went door-to-door, her voice low and pleading as she asked our neighbors if they’d seen her daughter. As expected, every answer was no. “How is this possible?” she cried into the phone. “Is she not going to fall this time? Is it something else? Could she have been kidnapped?” She tried calling Chelsea, but the calls went straight to voicemail. Then Ethan showed up, his face etched with worry, asking where their daughter was. Amy’s voice was sharp. “Ethan, do you honestly have no idea where Lily is?” His reply was a fraction too slow. “I just found out she was missing. How could I know where she is? Don’t worry, I’ll go to the police station. We’ll find her.” As he spoke, he took another call and left in a hurry. Listening on my end, the suspicion in my heart grew into a monstrous certainty. There were only thirty minutes left until the time of the fall. The image of my daughter’s mangled body filled my vision. My heart hammered against my ribs, and cold sweat beaded on my forehead. I dug my nails into my palm, trying to stop my hands from shaking. The questions circled relentlessly in my mind. Who lured her out of the office? What did it have to do with the fall? Why were both Chelsea and Ethan lying? Why had Lily gone to the roof that day, and why did she willingly leave the office now? Why did she fall from our building’s rooftop if there was no trace of her ever being there? Suddenly, a thought struck me with the force of a physical blow. “There’s one more thing you need to check,” I said urgently. “I’m certain it’s connected to her disappearance!” At the same time, I rushed back to my study, frantically re-examining the footage from my home cameras. A few minutes later, staring at my computer screen and listening to the clue Amy had just uncovered, I let out a long, shuddering breath. I finally understood. I knew the whole, twisted truth. And I knew how to save my daughter.

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The alert from my neighborhood Facebook group lit up my phone screen while I was in the kitchen, trying to scrape together some semblance of dinner. Someone was tagging me. Over and over. “@Clara Miller, unit 502. Your son took a key to my brand-new Rivian.” “What the hell are you raising over there? Does he want a head start on a juvenile record?” “This happens again, I swear to God, I’m breaking his fingers.” Then, the floodgates opened. Other neighbors chimed in. “My car got hit last week! A gash from the headlight to the trunk!” “Has he even left a single car in the garage untouched? Who are his parents? Do they even care?” “That explains it. I saw him walking with a key out the other day, just dragging it along the wall. I thought it was just a sound. He’s a little monster.” I turned off the stove, the motion feeling heavy, distant, as if I were moving through water. From the junk drawer, I pulled out the small black ledger. The one I kept just for this. This was the 56th time my son had keyed a car. The first time, it was our neighbor’s old Honda. I paid two hundred dollars. The tenth time, a BMW from the floor below us. Two thousand dollars. The thirty-sixth time, a Porsche in the reserved parking area. Ten thousand dollars. That was the last of our savings. Every payment since then had been made with money I’d swallowed my pride to borrow. I walked down to the garage. The gleaming electric truck sat under the fluorescent lights, a cruel white scar marring its side. My son, Leo, stood beside it, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Mommy,” he said, his voice perfectly guileless. “Didn’t you say that if I scratched the cars, I’d get a new toy? Why is that man so mad?” There it was again. That practiced, theatrical innocence he used every single time, designed to thrust me into the crossfire. The truck’s owner heard him. His face went from red to purple. He whipped out his phone and pointed it at me, the red light of the recording already on. He was live-streaming. “Everyone, get a look at this!” he yelled into the phone. “It’s the mother! She’s the one telling her kid to do it! This is the kind of trash poisoning our society!” The comment feed on his screen became an instant, waterfalling blur of judgment. In the reflection of his phone, I saw myself: wearing a stained sweatshirt, my unwashed hair plastered to my cheeks. I looked from my own haggard reflection to the jagged line on the car door, and a strange, broken sound escaped my lips. I started to laugh. 1 I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stood like this, being screamed at by a stranger. The first time was three years ago. Leo was three. I was on our small balcony watering the plants. He had found my keys, which had fallen on the floor, and quietly slipped away. He used them to draw a wobbly, misshapen flower on our neighbor’s brand-new car. Faced with the owner’s fury, I felt a shame so hot it was physically painful. All I could do was apologize, over and over, and promise to pay for everything. Back then, I thought it was just curiosity. A toddler’s mistake. I taught him, again and again: you can’t touch other people’s things, and you certainly can’t break them. He would nod, his expression serious and understanding. I thought he’d gotten the message. But then it was other cars in the neighborhood. Cars in the mall parking garage. Cars parked on the street. Anywhere we went, if there was a car, he would leave his “masterpiece.” I apologized a thousand times. I paid out a fortune. I tried everything. Patient conversations. Stern punishments. Taking away his tablet. Time-outs. I even took him to a child psychologist. The verdict was always the same: he’s a perfectly normal, exceptionally bright child. Just a bit mischievous. But he never stopped. Every single time, he would look at me with those crystal-clear eyes and promise with all his heart, “I’ll never do it again, Mommy. I promise.” And the next time, he’d choose a more expensive car and carve an even deeper line. He’d look at me with an even more innocent expression. And then, just like now, he would pin all the blame squarely on my shoulders. He made me the villain, the target of everyone’s rage, the woman they could all point their fingers at. I don’t know why he does it. All I know is that I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in years. I wake up in a panic, checking his bed to make sure he hasn’t slipped out to create a new debt, a new humiliation for me to bear. Now, listening to the car owner’s furious ranting, watching the endless stream of insults and curses on his livestream, and seeing the woman in the reflection—hair a mess, clothes stained, clutching a cheap ledger like a bible—I laughed again. Is this really my fault? Why did the child I nearly died to bring into this world make me, a thirty-two-year-old woman, look and feel fifty-two? Before I got married, I was an illustrator with a bit of a name for myself. I had my own studio, my own ambitions. Now, my eyes are sunk in dark circles, my skin is sallow. My entire life revolves around scratch repairs and payment plans. Everywhere I go, people whisper and stare. I’m like a rat in the gutter, despised by everyone. My laughter only seemed to stoke the owner’s rage. “Your son destroys my car and you have the nerve to laugh?” “If I were as big of a failure as you, I’d have jumped off a bridge by now!” Other residents, drawn by the commotion, added their own fuel to the fire. “Exactly! Your kid looks smart enough. How hard is it to teach him not to destroy property?” “If you can’t even handle that one simple thing, what’s the point of you?” “You’re an embarrassment to women.” Just as the chorus of condemnation reached its peak, my husband, Graham, appeared. “What’s going on?” He was wearing a crisp, ironed button-down shirt. He jogged over, saw the glaring scratch on the car, and his face fell in perfect, practiced understanding. Then, he turned to the owner, his voice the epitome of grace and apology. “I am so, so sorry. My wife… she hasn’t been managing him well. She will cover all of your damages.” 2 I looked at Graham. He looked the same as the day I first met him. Clean. Put-together. Incredibly polite. And just like our son, he was an expert at shifting all the blame onto me. At the sight of him, the neighbors’ anger subsided slightly. “Mr. Miller, you see the mess this has become.” “Honestly, and we’re not trying to attack you, but you need to get your wife under control. She’s ruining this kid.” “Forget it, the guy has it hard enough. Imagine being married to a walking disaster, constantly having to clean up her messes.” I stood there like a criminal on trial, watching as everyone’s gaze toward Graham softened with pity. I watched as Leo ran to his father’s arms, playing the part of a poor, frightened boy who had been misled by his own mother. From beginning to end, I was the only villain in the story. Graham let out a heavy sigh, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I’m sorry, everyone. It’s my fault for not keeping a better handle on things at home.” Then, he looked at me, his voice laced with a familiar, weary disappointment. “When I’m with Leo, he never touches things that aren’t his. Why can’t you teach him that?” Yes. I’d like to know that, too. Why is it that when Leo is with his father, he’s a perfect angel? But the moment he’s in my care, he becomes a demon with a vendetta against expensive cars. I wanted to explain, but by the time the words reached my lips, they turned into a bitter smile. Forget it. I’ve said it all a thousand times before. And every time, the response from Graham is the same: “This is your issue, Clara. Stop trying to blame it on our son.” I said nothing more. I just quietly took out my phone to arrange the payment. Graham, holding Leo, turned and walked away without a backward glance. The next day was the 50th wedding anniversary for Graham’s parents. I woke up early, dressed Leo in a new outfit, and repeated the instructions carefully. “Leo, honey, Grandma and Grandpa have invited a lot of guests today. At the restaurant, you have to be on your best behavior. No running around, and absolutely no touching things that don’t belong to you, okay?” He blinked his big eyes and nodded enthusiastically. “I know, Mommy. I’ll be a good boy today.” Graham came out of the bedroom, shot me a look, and said coldly, “Do you have to be so dramatic? You act like you’re guarding a prisoner.” He added, with a dismissive wave, “If you just paid more attention on a daily basis, he wouldn’t need these constant lectures.” 3 It was always like this. When I was the one paying for damages and apologizing, he was in his home office with his noise-canceling headphones on, “working.” When I tried to gently reason with Leo, he’d tell me I was too soft, that I lacked authority. When I raised my voice and disciplined Leo, he’d say I was hot-tempered and giving our son a traumatic childhood. When I took Leo to a psychologist, he said I was overreacting and needed to look for the cause of the problem in myself. He always found a way to stand on the moral high ground, enjoying the peace and quiet I bought with my own sanity, only to critique my methods from a safe distance. He would push me until I became a hysterical, screaming mess. And then he would smile that calm, gentle smile. “See? You can’t even control your own emotions. How do you expect to raise a child properly?” I used to argue with him. I used to doubt myself. I used to break down and cry. Now, I don’t even have the energy to open my mouth. We arrived at the upscale hotel we’d booked for the party. His parents and all the relatives were already there. The moment they saw Leo, their faces lit up. “Oh, there’s my handsome grandson! You look so sharp today!” “He does. You can just tell he’s a smart, well-behaved boy.” And today, Leo was. He sat quietly beside me, eating his food in small, neat bites. The adults mingled, glasses clinked, and the atmosphere was warm and celebratory. They chatted and reminisced. After a while, Leo tugged on my sleeve. “Mommy,” he whispered, “I have to go to the bathroom.” The fact that he had asked so politely filled me with a small sense of relief. Graham smiled and ruffled Leo’s hair, then glanced at me. “See? What a good boy.” His eyes held a flicker of smugness. “I really don’t know what you’re so anxious about all the time.” I ignored him, took Leo’s hand, and led him to the restrooms just outside our private ballroom. I waited for him by the door. A few moments later, a piercing car alarm shrieked from the direction of the parking garage. It was followed by a man’s furious roar. “What the FUCK? Who did this? Who the hell keyed my car?!” “Goddammit, it’s a limited-edition Bentley! I just got it!” “Which one of you assholes did this? Get the hell out here!” My blood ran cold. My stomach dropped. I called out to the men’s room door, my voice trembling. “Leo?” “Leo, are you in there?” Silence. The restroom was empty. My heart seized in my chest. I broke into a run, sprinting toward the parking garage as if my life depended on it. I burst into the garage to find a crowd gathering around a gleaming black Bentley. A deep, long, white gash ran from the front fender all the way to the taillight. A man in an expensive suit was absolutely apoplectic, screaming at his car. 4 I knew that scratch. I knew it like a part of my own body. The commotion had drawn the attention of our party. Graham and all our relatives came running out. When they saw the defaced Bentley, they gasped. Everyone froze. And then my son, Leo, ran from behind a pillar, a car key clutched in his hand. He dove into my arms, sobbing loudly for everyone to hear. “Mommy, didn’t you say this was the most expensive car?” he cried. “Didn’t you say if I scratched it, you could buy me the biggest Transformer ever? Why is that man yelling at me?” His innocent, tear-filled accusation made every single person turn to look at me, their eyes like daggers. “Clara, are you insane? You told him to key a car like this?!” Graham screamed, his face turning crimson. His father, trembling with rage, pointed a shaking finger at me. “Are you trying to bankrupt our family on purpose?!” I shook my head, trying to find the words. “No, I didn’t, I—” SMACK! Graham’s mother slapped me hard across the face. “You dare lie about it?” “Leo is six years old! Do you think he knows how to make up a story like that?!” “A child doesn’t know any better! If you, his mother, didn’t tell him to do it, why would he?” “I knew it! You’ve always been jealous of our family’s success! You’re trying to destroy us!” The car’s owner saw me and his eyes narrowed with fury. He pulled out his phone and immediately started another livestream, the title a sensationalist banner: INSANE MOTHER FORCES 6-YEAR-OLD SON TO VANDALIZE MILLION-DOLLAR CAR FOR A TOY! He bellowed at his phone’s camera, “You all see this? This is the woman! I heard her son with my own ears! She put him up to it!” “I just had this car imported! I haven’t even had it a week! This woman is a psycho!” The story from the day before was still fresh in people’s minds. The moment I appeared in a new livestream, hundreds of thousands of viewers flooded in. The comments were a tidal wave of hate. “It’s that bitch again! Is she mentally ill?!” “Holy shit, telling her kid to key a million-dollar car? What is wrong with her brain?!” “She doesn’t deserve to be a mother! She’s a menace to society!” “Call the cops! They need to arrest this lunatic and lock her up!” The online mob was rabid, hurling the most vicious curses imaginable at me. The story was exploding, my face plastered across every social media platform. “Psycho Mom,” “The Vandalism Coach,” “Social Menace”—these were my new titles. More and more people gathered in the garage. Fueled by the car owner’s rage, the mood of the crowd reached a fever pitch. They started pointing, shouting, and someone even threw a lit cigarette butt at me. I stood in the center of the circle, a condemned prisoner awaiting execution, enduring the storm of their hatred. I looked at their faces, twisted with a desire to see me ripped apart. And then I looked at my son, nestled in my arms, who gave me a tiny, triumphant smile that only I could see. In that moment, I did something that shocked everyone to their core. 5 Under the glare of a dozen phone cameras, I raised my hand and slapped myself hard across the face. Twice. The sharp, cracking sounds echoed through the garage, silencing the roar of the crowd. Everyone stared, dumbfounded. Even the livestream comments seemed to pause for a beat. Into the stunned silence, I spoke, my voice cold and flat. “Yes. I’m a terrible mother. I’m a criminal.” There was no emotion in my tone. As they all watched in bewilderment, I scanned the crowd, my expression blank. “It’s my fault. I was greedy.” “It’s my fault. I failed to raise him right.” “It’s my fault. I ruined your perfect day.” “There. Are you satisfied now?” Without another word, I stopped looking at them. I ignored the shocked, angry, and contemptuous stares. I pushed my way through the crowd and walked out. Behind me, after a moment of dead silence, the garage erupted in an even more ferocious wave of discussion. And above it all, Graham’s furious, panicked shout: “Clara, what the hell is this new psychotic episode?” “You can’t just walk away! Get back here and clean up this mess!” No. The mess that needed cleaning wasn’t the scratch on that car. It was the years of filth that had accumulated in my own heart. I went straight home. The first thing I did was pull the divorce papers I’d prepared months ago from my desk drawer. Then, I started packing. I’m only thirty-two. I refuse to spend the rest of my life consumed by a child who is deliberately trying to ruin me, trapped in an endless cycle of debt and public condemnation. I am a person first, a mother second. I am done living this small, terrified life. This cold house has given me nothing but despair, humiliation, and exhaustion. Graham, my husband, the eternal bystander, always looking down on me from his pedestal. And the child I risked my life to give birth to, always stabbing me in the back, always setting me up for public disgrace. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I don’t know why this father and son duo teamed up to torture me this way. But I’m done serving them. I’ve had enough. I didn’t have much to pack. The house was filled with Graham’s expensive suits and Leo’s designer toys. My own existence had been whittled down to nothing but cleaning up their messes. I gathered a few articles of clothing, my old art supplies, and my important documents. Then I dragged my dusty suitcase out from under the bed. As I bent down, my fingers brushed against something cold and hard tucked away in the back. I reached in and pulled it out. My eyes widened. My breath caught in my throat. I finally understood why Leo had become the boy he was.

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My best friend, my fellow struggling actress, turned out to be the long-lost heiress to one of New York’s old-money families. The day she left our tiny walk-up in Queens, she swore she’d pull me up with her into the good life. Two months later, she blocked my number. Fueled by a white-hot rage, I chased her to the city, arriving just in time for her wedding to the son of a titan of industry. Ava, that ungrateful snake. The second she got a taste of the high life, she forgot all about me. For the sake of appearances, I swallowed my anger, stuffed some cash in an envelope as a final goodbye to our friendship, and prepared to walk away. But when I looked up, I saw the woman in the wedding portrait wasn’t my best friend. It was Chloe, the Davenports’ adopted daughter. Mr. and Mrs. Davenport, the same couple who had once plastered their tear-streaked faces all over national television, begging for their daughter’s return, now spoke of Ava with utter disgust. “That morally corrupt creature has been thrown out of this house. From this day forward, Chloe is our only daughter!” “She’s just a no-name extra who learned all her dirty tricks from TV. Since she loves acting so much, we decided to let her star in her own horror show—naked and screaming.” I just stood there, stunned, the world tilting on its axis. On the day of that wedding, I brought the Davenport empire to its knees. A no-name extra? Hardly. I am Jade, the Crown Princess of Starlight Entertainment, the largest media conglomerate in Asia. And my best friend? She is destined to win an Oscar. 1 The woman next to me on the flight to New York had been talking for the last hour about the wedding of the decade: the union of the Davenport heiress and Carter Sterling, son of the real estate magnate. “Twenty custom Rolls-Royces, circling Central Park twice,” she’d gushed, scrolling through a gossip blog on her phone. “The gown was designed in Paris, took a year to hand-bead. And the party favors? The new Hermès Kelly. For everyone.” She sighed, a cloud of envy. “That Davenport girl, she hit the lottery. Disappeared for twenty-three years, and the moment she’s found, she’s wrapped in cotton wool. Parents who adore her, in-laws who basically own the Eastern seaboard… God, I’d wake up laughing in my sleep.” I gripped the cheap airline blanket bunched in my lap, my knuckles white. Ava. That ungrateful, forgetful… friend. She’d sworn on the day she left our shoebox apartment that she’d bring me with her, that we’d finally live the life we’d always dreamed of. Two months later, my number was blocked. Now she was handing out designer bags like party mints while I was still counting my tips to make rent. I took a cab straight from JFK to the Sterling family’s sprawling Long Island estate. The sheer opulence of the place, with its manicured gardens and fountains that glittered like diamonds, should have made me angrier. Instead, a strange calm settled over me. I pulled all the cash I had from my wallet—a couple hundred dollars—and stuffed it into a wedding envelope. A final transaction to close the account on our friendship. As I walked toward the entrance, I glanced up at the massive, elegantly framed portrait of the happy couple. And I stopped dead. The bride smiling in the photograph wasn’t Ava. It was Chloe, the Davenports’ adopted daughter. A cold dread washed over me. Something was terribly wrong. I pushed past a confused-looking usher and stormed into the bridal suite, searching for any sign of Ava. Inside, Mr. and Mrs. Davenport were fussing over Chloe, their faces beaming with pride. They looked up, annoyed by my intrusion. The moment I said Ava’s name, their expressions curdled. “That morally bankrupt creature has been thrown out,” Mrs. Davenport said, her voice dripping with disdain. “From now on, the Davenports have only one daughter: Chloe.” She gave me a dismissive once-over. “If you’re here for the wedding, have some champagne and find your seat. But if you’re here to make a scene on that little tramp’s behalf, you’ll find we are not nearly as polite as our staff.” My heart sank to the floor. The way she spat the words “little tramp,” referring to her own flesh and blood… “I’m here to find Ava,” I said, my voice dangerously steady. “Where is she? Why is her phone off?” Chloe, who had been watching me with a look of curated curiosity, suddenly shrank back, clutching her mother’s arm. “Dad, it has to be her! I bet Ava sent her! She’s still furious that I won Carter’s heart, and now she’s trying to hurt me again!” she cried, her voice trembling. “Mom, you have to protect me!” The Davenports’ eyes narrowed, instantly protective and hostile. I let out a short, cold laugh. This whole damsel-in-distress act was so pathetically outdated. If she wanted to play the victim, I’d be happy to give her a reason. I snatched a bottle of champagne from a silver bucket on the table and, in one smooth motion, dumped the entire contents over her perfectly coiffed head. “Aaaah! My dress! You’re insane!” Chloe shrieked. “Mom, my wedding is ruined! It’s ruined!” Mrs. Davenport lunged at me with a scream, her manicured nails like claws. I sidestepped and slapped her, hard, across her powdered cheek. The sound echoed in the silent room. “You… you hit me!” she gasped, her hand flying to her face. As I raised my hand again, Mr. Davenport quickly pulled his wife and daughter behind him, his eyes boring into me with pure hatred. “You really were sent by that monster to destroy Chloe’s day!” he snarled. “Security! Get this woman out of here! She’s trespassing!” Two large men in black suits started toward me. I didn’t move. Instead, I crossed my arms, sank into a velvet armchair, and casually crossed my legs. “Inform the guests,” I said, my voice calm and clear, “the wedding is cancelled.” The head of security, a man with a jaw like a cinder block, stopped in his tracks, gave me a short, respectful nod, and said, “Yes, ma’am.” The expressions on the three Davenports’ faces shifted from outrage to utter confusion. For the security of the Sterling Estate to obey me, a complete stranger, meant something they couldn’t comprehend. “Who… who in God’s name are you?” Mr. Davenport stammered. 2 “You don’t need to know who I am,” I said, my gaze locked on him. “You just need to know that I’m Ava’s friend. And if you want this wedding to happen, you will bring her to me. Now.” The security team formed a loose circle around the three of them, a silent, intimidating wall. Chloe stomped her foot, her champagne-soaked dress squelching pathetically. “If you’re her friend, why are you doing this to us? Everyone who’s anyone in New York is out there! Ava isn’t just embarrassing me; she’s making a mockery of the entire Davenport family!” “That viper! That ungrateful snake!” Mr. Davenport’s face was turning a blotchy, furious red. “By tomorrow, this will be all over the society pages! The Davenports will be a laughingstock!” He turned on his wife. “I told you we should have just left it alone! People lose children every day, it’s fate! But no, you had to go looking!” “What good does saying that now do?” she shrieked back. “If I’d known she was this much trouble, I would have preferred she’d died out there! A gutter-born animal with no manners, after all the money I wasted on her!” The story of the lost Davenport heiress had been national news. They had poured millions into a TV drama about missing children, a vanity project designed to find their daughter. Every episode began and ended with Mr. and Mrs. Davenport, weeping into the camera, pleading for her return. Ava had been hesitant, unsure about re-entering their world. But they’d gone on talk shows, they’d sworn to the entire country that they would spend the rest of their lives making up for the years they’d lost. Their performance had convinced me. It was I who had encouraged Ava to go back to them. Two months. How had their hearts turned to stone in just two months? My jaw tightened. I pulled out my phone and tried Ava’s number again. Straight to voicemail. My patience evaporated. I held out my hand, and the captain of the security detail, as if anticipating my need, placed a long, thin riding crop into my palm. “Tell me where Ava is,” I demanded, the leather tip tapping against the marble floor with a sharp crack. Just then, a man pushed through the security cordon and strode into the room. “What the hell is going on? Why was my wedding cancelled?” The Davenports lit up like they’d seen a savior. “Carter, darling, you’re finally here!” Mrs. Davenport cried. “Mr. Sterling, this girl cancelled your wedding without your permission! You have to stop her!” “Carter!” Chloe wailed, running to him. “Look what she did to my dress! She’s just some nobody extra Ava used to know! She’s here to cause trouble, to disrespect your family, to disrespect you!” She looked up at him, her beautiful face streaked with tears and mascara, a perfect picture of wounded innocence. “All our guests are watching! You have to put her in her place!” A thunderous look crossed Carter’s face. “Who the hell did this to my wife?” he boomed, scanning the room. “Who thinks they can come to New York and screw with the Sterling family? You got a death wish?” Whispers erupted from the onlookers who had crowded the doorway. “That’s Carter Sterling! His family practically built this city. They’re old-world power, serious political connections.” “No wonder the Davenports kicked out their real daughter. The adopted one landed the biggest fish in the sea.” “Carter’s family is untouchable in this town. It doesn’t matter if this girl is right or wrong, she’s about to get flattened.” As the crowd waited for the fireworks, I flicked my wrist. The riding crop sliced through the air and struck Carter across the chest. I’d spent six months in intensive training with a world-renowned stunt coordinator for a role. My technique was flawless. Even with only a fraction of my strength, a bright red welt blossomed instantly on his white tuxedo jacket. “Who the hell hit me?” he roared, stunned. I took a step forward. “Do I need an appointment?” Carter clutched his arm, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and fury. Then, recognition dawned. “You! What are you doing here?” “Is that any way to greet your elders?” I gestured with the crop toward Chloe. “I thought you were marrying the Davenport heiress. Who’s the impostor?” A flicker of guilt—or maybe fear—crossed his face. “I saw you last on a film set in Vancouver. This is my business. Stay out of it.” Your business? A humorless smile touched my lips. “Kneel.” Carter’s jaw clenched, his eyes burning with defiance. Chloe scoffed from behind him. “He’s Carter Sterling! Why in the world would he ever kneel to a nobody like you?” I didn’t even bother to look at her. With another sharp flick of my wrist, I struck the back of Carter’s knee. His leg buckled, and he fell to the ground with a grunt of pain, landing heavily on one knee. “Jade,” he choked out, his face pale. “I thought you said you were too busy to come to the wedding.” 3 A wave of gasps rippled through the onlookers. “What did he just call her?” “She can’t be more than a few years younger than him… How is she his… elder?” The Davenports just stared, their mouths hanging open, unable to process what they were seeing. I ignored the murmurs and pointed the tip of the crop at Carter’s chin. “Tell me where Ava is. Were you involved in this?” “Hmph. I’m not telling you anything,” he spat, his neck muscles straining. “That woman is nothing but a conniving snake. I personally saw her push Chloe down a flight of stairs. She spread the most vicious rumors about her! She deserves everything she’s getting!” “You little fool,” Carter growled, trying to get up. “I call you Jade out of respect for my grandfather, but you better not push it. This has nothing to do with you.” I laughed, a sound devoid of any warmth. What had Chloe done to these people? It was like they were all under a spell. I looked at the four of them—the gullible fiancé, the social-climbing fake, the cruel, heartless parents. “You,” I said, my voice cutting through the air as I addressed the Davenports, “were supposed to be her parents. You didn’t raise her for a single day, and in the eighteen years she was lost, did you ever once try to understand her? To trust her?” I turned back to Carter. “And you. Your grandfather arranged a match with the Davenport daughter, not some imposter you picked. You knew her identity was a lie and you said nothing to your family. You have no honor.” With that, I began to strike them, the crop landing with sharp, punishing cracks. They cried out, trying to scramble away, but the security team moved in, holding them firmly in place as they howled. “Ava was born bad! We don’t have a daughter like that!” “Do you know who you’re messing with? The movie star Seraphina Roche is Chloe’s god-sister! Her fans will eat you alive!” “Don’t think because my grandfather respects you that I’m afraid of you!” Carter yelled. “You’re not blood! Without the Sterling name, you’re nothing!” Just as he said it, a new commotion started at the door. “It’s Marcus Sterling! The man himself is here!” “Mr. Sterling, you have to see what’s happening to your son! He’s been beaten!” A distinguished, middle-aged man in a tailored suit strode forward, his face a mask of authority. “What is the meaning of this circus? Everyone, stop this instant!” I lowered the crop, my breathing heavy. Seeing his father, Carter immediately scrambled over. “Dad, it’s Jade! She’s lost her mind! It’s my wedding day, and look what she’s done to me!” Chloe rushed forward as well. “Mr. Sterling, thank God you’re here! This woman not only ruined our wedding, she attacked my parents! They’re not young, what if she seriously hurt them?” Marcus Sterling looked from his battered son to the weeping bride, to the cowering Davenports, his mind clearly struggling to catch up. I cleared my throat softly. His head snapped in my direction. “Jade! Why are you here? If I had known you were coming, I would have sent a car for you myself!” The Davenports’ jaws dropped so low they nearly touched the floor. They looked utterly, hopelessly stupid. “Let’s skip the pleasantries, Marcus,” I said. “We need to talk about your son. My father, before he passed, arranged for Carter to marry the Davenport heiress. So you tell me why he’s marrying this… replacement. And where is my real niece-in-law?” The color drained from Marcus’s face as he finally understood. “He’s right. Where is Ava? And you,” he said, pointing at Chloe, “you’re the adopted one. Why are you in the wedding dress?” Carter had clearly planned to get the ceremony over with, forcing his father to accept Chloe in front of all their guests. Now, his plan was in tatters. He just stammered, unable to form a single coherent sentence. “Speak up! Where is Ava?” Marcus roared. The room fell deathly silent. Chloe peeked out from behind her parents. It was Mrs. Davenport who spoke, her voice shrill. “That Ava girl is no good! Chloe may not be our blood, but we raised her to be a perfect lady!” “That’s right!” Mr. Davenport chimed in. “That little stray can’t compare to our Chloe! She isn’t worthy of the Sterling family!” “The woman our family chooses is not for you to approve or disapprove of!” Marcus thundered. “Now if you don’t tell me where she is, I will personally ensure the Davenport name is erased from this city by morning!” I was done wasting time. In a single, fluid motion, I stepped toward one of Marcus’s bodyguards, pulled the handgun from his hip holster, and turned, pressing the cold muzzle against Chloe’s forehead before anyone could react. “Where. Is. Ava?” Carter, seeing the look on his father’s face—a look that offered no help—finally broke. He whispered three words, his voice trembling. “Blackwater Street… the warehouse.” For a second, the world went silent, and then my mind exploded.

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Everyone claimed Michael Long was obsessed with me. To force me to him, he severed my fiancé’s legs and sent them in a satin-lined box—my birthday gift. I retaliated swiftly: had him kidnapped, cut his hamstring, and gouged out an eye. He wasn’t angry. He just smiled, bloody and terrifying. “See? We’re cut from the same cloth. A match made in hell.” I smiled back, horrified he was right. We spent eight years carving a path of blood. Then a pristine, ethereal woman appeared beside him—clean, untouched by our filth. She came to my door, flowing white dress like an angel. “Michael says you’re too dirty now. Only I am worthy.” I nodded, unimpressed, then took a knife and carved a new reality into her perfect face. “An angel? Let’s see if heaven accepts scarred ones.” Her screams were a divine symphony. I took a photo of her blood-streaked face and sent it to Michael: “Come get your dog.” 1 Ten minutes. That’s how long it took for Michael to arrive, a pistol tucked into his waistband. “What did you do?” he growled. “I disciplined your disobedient pet. Shouldn’t you be thanking me?” I lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around my fingers as I rubbed my ear. “What’s that? I can’t hear you over all the barking.” “Elara, you—” The woman in his arms, Alyssa, was sobbing hysterically, clutching her ruined face. “Michael, kill her! Please, kill her for me!” she shrieked. “She destroyed my face! She’s just jealous that you love me!” Michael pushed her hands away. The moment he saw the bloody gashes, his eyes turned crimson. He whipped out his gun, pressed the cold muzzle to my forehead, and racked the slide. His voice was colder than the steel. “Elara. You’ve gone too far.” “She’s just a girl! She’s not like us!” I laughed, a puff of smoke clouding his face as I casually pushed the barrel aside. “So? You’re going to kill me to avenge her?” I took another drag, my voice laced with amusement. “Or maybe… you want to ruin my face, too? Give her a little payback?” My own blade was already pressed against his stomach. “You know I’m not this little fool. You know the consequences.” In a flash, Michael’s men surrounded me. I pressed the knife a fraction of an inch deeper, drawing a bead of blood. Michael hissed in pain. For a long moment, he just stared at me. Then, a slow, dark smile spread across his face. He raised a hand. “Stand down,” he commanded his men. “I didn’t call you. Get the hell out.” He turned his gaze back to me, his one good eye boring into mine. “Elara. You’ve got guts.” “Takes one to know one. You taught me well, after all.” To make me just like him, he’d presented me with my fiancé’s legs. To force me to marry him, he’d wrapped my hand around a knife and plunged it into my fiancé’s heart. “Once you’re as filthy as I am,” he had whispered, “no one else will ever have you.” He had dragged me from my pedestal down into the gutter with him. Now this pristine white lily was stained with blood, never to be clean again. And he was claiming he preferred purity? Hilarious. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like my gift?” I taunted. “Then again, you always preferred taking limbs. I suppose I was a bit too merciful. I’ll try to do better next time.” Alyssa, incensed, tugged at his arm, begging him to defend her honor. Michael watched me for a long, silent moment before finally turning to leave with his men. “Mark my words, Elara,” he snarled over his shoulder. “This isn’t over.” The consequences came faster than I expected. That night, Michael summoned every doctor on the Family’s payroll to treat Alyssa. He threatened their lives, demanding they ensure not a single scar remained on her precious face. The news reached me while I was feeding the sharks in my private aquarium. I clicked my tongue. “It’s been too long since you had a real meal, hasn’t it, my pretty?” I murmured to the circling predator. “Don’t you worry. I’ll make sure you’re fed soon.” My loyal retainer, Arthur, draped a coat over my shoulders, his face a mask of fury. “The Boss has gone too far this time, Miss Elara. This is the first time he’s ever turned on you for another woman.” He lowered his voice. “Without your support, this Family would have never fallen into his hands.” I just shook my head, a smile playing on my lips. “She’s just a toy, Arthur. Let him play. When he’s done, I’ll be there to clean up the mess.” I pressed a finger to his lips, my tone sharp. “And remember, there is no ‘Family’ anymore. We are a legitimate corporation now.” I turned back to the massive tank, to the hundred smaller fish Michael had so painstakingly curated. “Dump them in,” I said, my voice flat. “Useless things don’t deserve to live.” The small, colorful fish scattered in a panic, but there was no escaping the shark’s gaping maw. A crimson cloud bloomed in the crystal-clear water. I watched, fascinated, and sent a photo to Michael. “Fun, isn’t it? A bit of an appetizer. You should raise more next time.” He didn’t text back. Instead, a video call request popped up. It was Alyssa’s triumphant face that greeted me. “What’s the matter? Disappointed to see me?” she chirped. “I’m so sorry to tell you, but not only did Michael not abandon me over a few scratches, he promised to make you pay. All your personal doctors are here with me. I hear you need a shot every night just to sleep. I wonder if you’ll have sweet dreams tonight?” She leaned forward, deliberately revealing a fresh love bite on her collarbone. “You’re so foul, Elara. Disgusting.” Her voice dripped with saccharine pity. “But I’m different. My hands… are clean.” My lips curved into a smile. “Is that so? A word of advice: clean things don’t last long in the Long family.” I hung up. Moments later, Arthur entered with a file. “Miss Elara, you asked me to find these items. They’re up for auction tomorrow night.” Finally, some good news. “Eight years,” I whispered. “It’s taken eight years. Prepare fifty million. I’m bringing them home tomorrow.” At the auction, it was inevitable that our paths would cross. Alyssa clung to Michael’s arm, her voice dripping with mockery. “Miss Elara, what a coincidence. Is there something here that catches your eye?” she asked. “Though, Michael already told me everything tonight is mine. As compensation.” Michael felt my gaze on him and patted her hand reassuringly. “She’s right, I did,” he confirmed, his tone flat. “You went too far last time, Elara. Consider this your apology to her. Don’t be childish.” I almost laughed. When I’d dealt with a rival crew that came for his head, I left dozens of bodies in my wake. All he’d said then was, “Good girl.” Now, for Alyssa, I was being childish? I stared at him, my voice low. “You didn’t see my photo last night?” “I imagine not,” I continued, not waiting for an answer. “Otherwise, how could you possibly be in the mood for a night out?” Michael’s expression froze. He shot a look at Alyssa, who stammered for a moment before admitting she’d seen the photo of the fish being devoured. “They were just some stupid fish! I didn’t think they were important, so I deleted it for you.” Michael’s breathing hitched. “Who gave you permission to do that?” he hissed. But the moment a tear traced a path down Alyssa’s cheek, his anger deflated. “Forget it. Let’s just watch the auction. We’ll talk when we get home.” As the auction began, Michael, without even looking at the catalogue, bought out the entire event. He invoked the “Emperor’s Bid”—a single, massive payment that won him every lot for the rest of the night. Gasps echoed through the hall. My face went cold. One by one, the lots were hammered down, all to him. Then came the final three items. I shot to my feet. My mother’s emerald bracelet. My father’s crucifix, blessed in Rome. And my grandfather’s antique pocket watch. My last remaining heirlooms. I cornered the auctioneer. “Those three items. They must be mine, no matter the price.” The man turned pale. “Miss Elara, you know the rules of the Emperor’s Bid… please don’t make this difficult for me. Perhaps… perhaps you could speak to Mr. Long directly?” I found Michael’s private box. Just as I was about to speak, Alyssa pointed at the stage. “Michael, darling, I love those last three pieces! They’re my favorite. I want them.” Michael’s face tightened. “You just said they were tacky.” “Well, I’ve changed my mind,” she pouted, placing a hand on her stomach. “Are you going to deny me? Both of us will be very upset. When our baby is born, I’ll be sure to tell him what a cheapskate his father is!” My breath caught in my throat. I stared at her still-flat stomach. So that’s why this woman was so bold. She was carrying his child. Michael’s face hardened as he looked at me. “Elara, I promised these to Alyssa. If you like them, I’ll find you something similar later.” “You know what these mean to me!” Eight years ago, when a rival family ambushed us, those heirlooms were lost. I slaughtered a hundred of their men, but their leader, to spite me, would never tell me where they were. In the end, it was Michael who tortured the location out of them over the course of a month. His voice was tight with suppressed rage. “They’re just things from dead people, Elara. Why are you so obsessed?” “I said I’ll make it up to you. This time, they go to Alyssa. You owe her that much.” Alyssa stepped forward, her smile laced with poison. “That’s right, Miss Elara. Your parents are dead. Won’t keeping their things just make you sadder?” She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think… maybe they died so horribly as cosmic punishment for all your sins?”

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For five years, I dedicated myself to saving Alberto Morris, trying to rewrite the tragic ending where he dies for the story’s heroine. But when she was in danger again, he didn’t hesitate for a second to throw his life away for her. He stopped fighting, letting his enemies plunge their knives into him, again and again, all to protect her. When I rushed to the scene, I found Alberto kneeling in a pool of his own blood, his trembling hands wiping away the heroine’s tears. He gently soothed the terrified Amelia. “Don’t cry, Mia. It’s okay. I don’t feel a thing.” Looking at this picture of devoted love, who would have guessed that just yesterday, this same man was whining to me about a tiny scratch on his hand? “Babe, it hurts.” Back then, I was naive enough to believe I was special to him. Now, I finally understand. The devoted male side character belongs to the heroine. And dying tragically to save her is the ending he would willingly choose. Five years. This time, I’m truly done. 1 The warehouse was a wreck. The man across from them sneered. “Three more cuts. Do it yourself, and we’ll let her go.” Alberto looked down at Amelia, who was shivering in his arms. His throat bobbed. “Fine,” he rasped. I stood behind them, my nails digging into my palms, unable to move a single step. I watched as Alberto picked up a blood-stained knife from the floor. He gently covered Amelia’s eyes. “Mia, close your eyes. Don’t look.” He raised the knife, his movements fluid and without a trace of hesitation. Seeing this, my heart felt like it was being squeezed by an iron fist. Just as the blade was about to fall, I forced myself to speak. “Wait.” Every eye in the room turned to me. Alberto looked over his shoulder. His pupils contracted when he saw me. His lips parted as if to say something, but all that came out was a violent cough. I deliberately ignored his gaze, walked past him, and handed the briefcase in my hand to the kidnapper. “The money’s here. I’m taking them with me.” The leader of the group grinned, taking the case. He leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear. “We’ll take the money. But a pretty thing like you… why don’t you stay and play with us for a while?” As his hand reached for me, I instinctively took a step back. I bumped into a tall metal pole behind me. It teetered for a second before crashing down with a deafening clang. The pole landed right between Amelia and me. Alberto reacted on pure instinct, shielding Amelia with his entire body, his back to the falling pole. “Mia, look out!” It slammed onto the concrete an inch from my feet, the impact kicking up a cloud of dust that settled on the hem of my dress. My heart stopped. Watching them clinging to each other, a loud ringing filled my ears, and the world went silent. “Hands up!” A swarm of people rushed in. My backup had finally arrived, subduing the kidnappers. Only then did I manage to regain what little composure I had left. I took a deep breath, slowly righted the fallen pole, and walked toward the two still locked in a desperate embrace. Amelia looked up from Alberto’s arms, her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you for saving me and Alberto, sister.” I didn’t answer her. I just stared at Alberto. He immediately let go of Amelia, his eyes wide with a flicker of panic as he looked at me. “I…” He opened his mouth, but no words came out. “The ambulance is here,” I said flatly, cutting him off. He refused to get into the ambulance until Amelia’s private driver arrived to take her home. Inside the vehicle, he carefully tugged at the corner of my shirt, his voice impossibly soft. “Babe, my arm really hurts…” The moment Amelia was gone, he was back to being the Alberto who knew how to play on my sympathy. Before, my heart would have ached for him. Now, I found it almost funny. Hurts? That’s not what he told Amelia just a few minutes ago. I looked at the red stain his bloody hand had left on my clothes. After a long silence, I pried his fingers off my sleeve. “It’s dirty,” I said softly. He froze. When he spoke again, his voice was laced with confusion. “Babe, I lost a lot of blood today…” “Yes,” I replied calmly. “I saw.” His breath hitched. He stared at me for a long moment, and when he saw that I remained unmoved, he finally turned his head away and fell silent. He was sulking, expecting me to coddle him. But this time, I didn’t. I saw things more clearly than ever. This was a man who had been the young heiress’s personal bodyguard since he was eight years old. A man whose body was a roadmap of scars from knives and bullets. How could he possibly be fragile? And yet, he had shown me his vulnerability time and time again, making me believe that I was different, that I was special to him. But now… I lowered my eyes, hiding the emotions swirling within them. I felt a dampness on my fingertips. Looking down, I saw that the gash I’d gotten from the falling pole was bleeding. And Alberto hadn’t even noticed. 2 We didn’t speak for the rest of the ride. I stared out the window, the passing city lights blurring into a meaningless smear. My mind drifted back five years, to the day I first met him. He had been covered in blood then, too, kneeling ramrod straight outside the gates of Amelia’s family estate, taking the blame for her mistake. Rain mixed with the blood running down his body, staining the pavement a dark crimson. I had knelt in front of him, holding an umbrella over his head. “Do you need help?” I had asked. He had lifted his dark, bottomless eyes, studying me for a long moment before raising an eyebrow. “And if I do? You’ll save me?” I had nodded. From that day on, I used the points I had accumulated over the years to piece his broken body back together. His tendons were torn, his back and abdomen a mangled mess from the beating he had taken. The healing process was excruciating. But he never made a sound. He would just stare at me with those dark, guarded eyes, his body tense with suspicion. Until the very last treatment. He had suddenly reached out and grabbed my sleeve, forcing out a single, clumsy word: “Hurts.” That was the first time he had ever shown me his weakness. After that, he grew more and more dependent on me. He would reach for me in his sleep when nightmares plagued him. He would rest his head on my shoulder when the pain from his old wounds flared up. He would cling to my hand during thunderstorms. It was then that I confidently accepted the mission from the System. Save the devoted male side character. Change his tragic fate. I naively believed I could be the light that saved him. But gradually, I came to understand. In the world of a devoted side character, the heroine is always the exception. Even though he only ever showed his vulnerability to me, even though he spent months planning our wedding, even though he whispered “I love you” in my ear countless times. The moment Amelia needed him, he would drop everything and run to her side. He would protect her with a self-destructive recklessness that tore open all the wounds I had so carefully healed. The first time was the day after our wedding. He took a call and left in a hurry. When he came back, he had seven new bullet holes in him. The wounds were too compromising to take him to a hospital. I had to treat him myself, at home. Covered in his own blood, his eyes shimmering with tears from the pain, he looked utterly pathetic. He clung to my sleeve, his feverish eyes hazy as he called out my name over and over again. “Babe… babe…” I should have been furious. But with every weak call of my name, my heart softened. The second time was on my birthday. He abandoned me in front of all our friends, diving off a yacht to save Amelia, who had “accidentally” fallen overboard. I stood on the deck that day and watched a real-life reenactment of Titanic. When I found him, he was half-frozen, but he was still clutching our wedding ring so tightly that his palm was bleeding. And in that moment, my resolve wavered again. It had been like this for years, one time after another. The heroine truly was the heroine, always surrounded by danger, always in need of a protector. I told myself over and over again that it was a matter of life and death, that of course he would choose to save her. I just hadn’t been in that kind of danger. The moment I was, he would surely choose me. Until today. When that pole came crashing down, he didn’t hesitate for a second. He chose her. And I finally saw the truth. His choice would never be me. 3 Alberto’s injuries were severe. He passed out from blood loss on the way to the hospital. The System’s life-support alarm blared in my head, over and over again. I sighed. I had no points left. If I wanted to save him, I would have to trade something else. I leaned in close to his pale face and whispered in his ear, “Alberto, this is the last time.” In the end, I chose to trade all of my feelings for him in exchange for a sliver of a chance at his survival. The moment the System extracted those emotions from my heart, the world went quiet. I looked down at the unconscious man on the gurney and saw a stranger. All the pain, the joy, the sleepless nights—it all vanished in an instant. There were six months left on the mission timer. An idea, one I had never considered before, popped into my head. So what if the mission fails? The worst that could happen is I don’t get my bonus. If he dies, I won’t. Besides, if he was so determined to walk into his own grave, what could I possibly do to stop him? I looked at the blood splattered all over the ambulance and took a disgusted step back. 4 I considered just leaving, finding some quiet corner of the world to hide in until the mission was over. But abandoning a mission mid-task would likely result in some unforeseen punishment. I decided to just phone it in, to do the bare minimum until the end. On the third morning, Alberto finally woke up. He shifted slightly and let out a soft groan.

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The day Natalie’s wealthy family reclaimed her, a convoy of black luxury cars paralyzed our sleepy village. When the butler arrived, she didn’t flinch—as if she’d expected this. But she hesitated when choosing who to take. Clutching our daughter’s hand, she gave me an apologetic glance. “I’ll take Zoe first. I’ll come back for you later.” Her eyes flickered toward the man in the Rolls-Royce. “As for William… my father likes him, so…” She trailed off, waiting. But I already knew. William was her lost love, the man she belonged with. In our years together, Natalie often sighed that I couldn’t discuss astronomy, poetry, or Proust. Yet when I brought her fresh greens or rich broth, she’d reluctantly set aside her books—complaining about mosquitos, muddy floors, laundry. She never knew I could read her letters to “My Dearest William.” So when she spoke, I just nodded and slung my foraging basket over my shoulder. “Your choice,” I said flatly. “I’m picking morels. We’ll talk later.” 1 The village kids came running to our house, shouting the news, just as Natalie was teaching our daughter, Zoe, her penmanship. Zoe’s pen slipped, smudging a dark blot of ink across the page. Natalie’s expression remained serene. “Zoe, what have I told you? Penmanship is about discipline. A quiet mind.” I knew what was coming. She would be reunited with her family, the illustrious McDonough clan, and would soon return to the sprawling metropolis of Veridia. After the family’s initial visit, Natalie remained impossibly poised. She was, after all, the cherished eldest daughter of the McDonoughs. Even after years of amnesia in this backwater village, the grace and dignity etched into her very bones had never faded. And I was even calmer than she was. I went about my business, heading to the mountains to forage as usual. Old Man Hemlock, a village elder, saw me and chuckled. “Leo! About to live the high life in the city with that wife of yours, and you’re still grubbing for mushrooms in the woods?” Natalie had told her family she needed a day to pack, that they should return for her tomorrow. She said she was bringing two people with her. The whole village was green with envy, saying my ancestors must have done something truly spectacular to grant me such luck. They’d all forgotten how, when Natalie first washed up here with no memory and no skills, I was the only one willing to care for her like a lost child. It was a small village. To protect her from the wagging tongues and preserve what was left of her honor, I married her. The “wedding” was nothing more than a few neighbors, a few hard-boiled eggs passed around. And for a time, we were happy. Back then, she was my wife. Only mine. Now she was leaving, and it was only natural that she should take her husband and child. But I knew better. In my previous life, Natalie had indeed taken two people back with her to the McDonough estate. I wasn’t one of them. Remembering this, I just smiled at Old Man Hemlock. “The morels are especially good this season.” Good mushrooms fetched a high price. Enough for me to leave this place and start a new life. 2 When I returned, William was in our small living room, teaching Zoe some basic French phrases. “You have to study hard,” he was saying, his voice smooth and encouraging. “In Veridia, kids your age can already hold a conversation in French.” Zoe was hanging on his every word. William smiled, ruffling her hair. “You’re a quick learner, Zoe. Not like…” Zoe threw her arms around his waist. “It’s all thanks to you, Uncle William! If I was like Dad, who only knows how to talk like a country bumpkin, I’d be so embarrassed when we get there.” Natalie, who had been engrossed in a book, merely glanced up. A soft, approving smile touched her lips. What a warm, picture-perfect family scene. I’d seen this tableau play out for two lifetimes now. William was a local boy, too. But his father was a violent drunk and his mother had died young. An aunt from the city eventually found him and took him in, giving him a proper education. I never understood why he came back to Stonehaven. At first, I was grateful to him. Zoe had been playing near the river, slipped, and it was William who’d pulled her out. But after that, things began to shift. He started visiting our home and saw Natalie. He watched, mesmerized, as she practiced her calligraphy, one hand behind her back, the other guiding the brush with a fluid, elegant grace. Her slender, clean fingers moved with an artist’s confidence. He leaned in close. “Natalie, you’re a woman of culture. Leo is a lucky man.” I didn’t understand the poets and philosophers she and William discussed for hours. With me, she only ever talked about the summer heat or the winter chill. But I understood the mockery in William’s tone. I just stood there, my hands calloused and dirty, feeling like an oaf. Soon, William was at our house every other day. He even convinced Natalie to take a part-time teaching position at the village school. From then on, it was always “Miss Natalie.” Whenever I brought her lunch, I’d find William sitting right beside her. I watched as she carefully ladled the chicken soup I’d simmered all night into his bowl. Zoe would giggle beside them. “Dad, Uncle William loves your cooking the most!” Yes. I worked from dawn till dusk, foraging and trading for the best hens to feed my wife and daughter. I toiled on that barren patch of land behind our house to grow the tenderest greens. I never saved the best for myself. And now, they were using the fruits of my labor to win the affection of another man. In my last life, I’d said as much, right there in front of everyone. Natalie’s brow had furrowed, her lips a thin, tight line. She gave William a slight, apologetic bow. “I’m so sorry, William. My husband is not himself.” As if I had committed some unforgivable sin. Zoe was more direct. “If you won’t let Uncle William have any, then I don’t want any either!” William, acting like the master of the house, wrapped an arm around Zoe. “Zoe, what have I taught you? You mustn’t speak to your father that way.” He then looked at me, not with embarrassment, but with an air of righteous ownership. In that moment, my wife and my daughter made me feel like a complete and utter outcast. A discarded husband. A bitter wave of despair washed over me. William was handsome and well-dressed. I spent my days on the mountainside and in the fields, perpetually covered in a fine layer of dust and sweat. Together, they looked like a family. Just like in my last life, when he went with them to Veridia, no one ever questioned if he was Zoe’s father. At first, Zoe called him “William.” He’d just smiled and said, “Why don’t you call me Uncle?” Only much, much later did I understand his subtle, calculated ambition. 3 Natalie saw me enter the house, my basket heavy on my back, and she subtly stepped away, as if the smell of earth clinging to me was an offense. When her eyes fell on the basket brimming with mushrooms, a flicker of guilt crossed her face. “Why are you still doing this back-breaking work?” she murmured. “We have… we have money now.” The last part was barely a whisper. In my past life, after she left, a sum of money would appear in my account every month. Just enough to survive on in the village. Not enough to ever leave. I didn’t bother explaining. “Habit. Keeps my hands busy.” I set the basket down and picked up a bundle of dried herbs from the table, beginning to mix them for insect-repellent sachets. The herbs lost their potency after a week, and I’d noticed a fresh constellation of red bites on Zoe’s legs. For some reason, the sight didn’t stir the same ache of pity it once did. Zoe saw what I was doing and wrinkled her nose. “Dad, there won’t be any mosquitos in the city. You don’t have to make those smelly things for us.” True. The McDonoughs had never appreciated anything I made. They’d even laughed at me, a man skilled in what they considered a woman’s craft. In my last life, just before their car pulled away, I had rushed to Zoe with red-rimmed eyes, stuffing her arms with everything I could give her. She’d tossed it all out on the road before they even reached the edge of the village. Old Man Hemlock found the sachets and brought them back to me, his eyes a mixture of pity and amusement. I’d assumed it was Natalie’s father who had ordered them thrown away. Later, I scraped together enough money to buy a used smartphone, hoping to stay in touch. But every video call was met with Zoe’s impatience. “I have to go, my riding lesson is starting.” “Uncle William is calling me.” I saved for months, then made the long journey to her private school, just to see her. She saw me. And she ran, sprinting toward a waiting car, terrified I would call out her name and expose her. Watching her small figure flee from me, I finally understood. It wasn’t the scent of the herbs that had faded. It was the love in their hearts. I never tried to see her again. Not until she came of age. By then, years of hard labor had broken my body. The doctor said I didn’t have long. I called Natalie. After a long silence, she just said, “I’ll arrange a hospital for you.” But I didn’t want treatment. I wanted to see my daughter one last time. So I wore my best clothes, got a haircut with the last of my savings, and went to her lavish coming-of-age party. “Zoe,” I’d whispered, my voice raw. “Don’t you remember your father?” She was clinging to William’s arm, and she looked at me with pure disgust. “Who are you? Why are you here, trying to ruin my family?” Natalie stood beside them and said nothing. The cold, calculating pragmatism of the wealthy was on full display. In that glittering ballroom, I was a ghost, a rat scurrying in the corners. I was escorted out, and as I stumbled onto the street, I was hit by a speeding truck. Lying on the pavement, staring up at the indifferent sky, tears slid from the corners of my eyes. Fate had been so cruel. And then, I opened my eyes again. I was back on the day her family came for her. This time, I would not be that pitiable, pathetic fool. 4 So this time, I didn’t plead with them to take the sachets and pillows I’d made. I just spoke with a detached calm. “I know you don’t like them. These are for Amy.” Zoe was visibly confused. Though I could be strict, I had always doted on her, always offered her the best of everything. She pouted. “Amy’s not a good kid. She’s disrespectful to the teacher! Why would you make them for her?” Amy was one of the few children in the village who wasn’t utterly charmed by William. As a result, she was often an outcast at school. In truth, she’d never done anything to disrespect him. She just liked me more. She said I smelled nice. Like herbs and fresh air. A few days ago, I’d seen the welts on Amy’s pale little arms and promised to make her some sachets. What my wife and daughter didn’t value, others would. I continued mixing the herbs, my voice even. “I’ll make them for whomever I please.” Zoe’s face crumpled. “You’re mean! I’m going to find Uncle William! He’s taking me to the county town for a real steak dinner, and he’s going to teach me how to use a proper knife and fork.” Her eyes glinted with a childish challenge. “You’ve never had a steak before, have you, Dad?” I didn’t even look up. “No, never have. You go on.” Her punch had landed on cotton. She couldn’t understand what had changed. Before, I was always jealous of William, always trying to insert myself into whatever he planned with Zoe. For so many years, I believed my child was more important than my wife. In the end, it was Zoe who delivered the final, fatal blow. 5 After Zoe stomped out, a look of hurt confusion on her face, Natalie approached me. “Leo, are you angry with me?” Her voice was soft, placating. “If you’re upset, take it out on me. Don’t involve Zoe.” She sighed. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning. Let’s not make everyone unhappy.” Unhappy? The word felt foreign. In my past life, from the moment they left, joy had ceased to exist for me. And now she had the audacity to say, “Let’s not make everyone unhappy.” That day, just like in my previous life, Natalie’s ailing father had traveled a great distance to see his long-lost daughter. But the moment his eyes landed on me, standing beside her, his face contorted in revulsion. He let out a shrill cry. “Monster! Get that monster away from her!” I froze. I knew I wasn’t much to look at, that her family wouldn’t approve, but I hadn’t expected this. A member of the McDonough entourage sighed and looked at Natalie. “His mind… it hasn’t been right since you disappeared.” Though Natalie’s memory hadn’t returned, the bond of blood was undeniable. A look of deep sorrow crossed her face. What none of us expected, however, was his reaction to William. He reached for him, his expression softening. “Timothy,” he’d whispered, his voice trembling. “You’ve come back.”

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