Category: English

Bad news: I got hit by a car. Good news: It was a luxury car. I was just pulling out my phone to Google how much I could squeeze out of this when a text bubble popped into my vision, distracting me from my impending windfall. [The heroine and the hero have finally met! The hero will definitely be captivated by her noble spirit when she refuses to take his money.] Refuse his money? In his dreams. I was thinking a hundred grand, maybe two.

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Three days after we got our marriage license, I logged into the HR system to schedule our honeymoon leave for my wife, Katerina. Only to find that her fifteen days of vacation time were already marked as ‘taken.’ I froze, my mind reeling. We were together every day. When could she possibly have taken a honeymoon? I immediately dialed her number. “Your vacation days… they’re gone?” Her voice on the other end was impossibly gentle. “Oh, that. It wouldn’t look good for me to take a vacation right after my promotion to VP. I just had HR cancel the days. Why? Is something wrong?” “No, nothing,” I said, forcing a laugh. After hanging up, I pulled up her employee profile in the system. My eyes locked onto the name listed in the ‘Spouse’ field. Then, I took the stairs, heading straight for the workstation of the man listed there: an intern named Caleb Finn. 1 I slammed into Caleb at the fifth-floor landing. The paper gift bag in his hand burst open, sending packages of specialty chocolates scattering across the floor. They were from Silver Creek. When he looked up and saw it was me, his expression was brazen. He bent down, picked up a box, and offered it to me. “Hey, Marcos. My wife and I brought these back from our honeymoon in Silver Creek. You should try some.” The words “Silver Creek” were like a needle to the heart. Katerina had held my hand so many times, whispering, “As soon as this project is over, we’ll go to Silver Creek. We’ll see the fields of wildflowers beneath the snowy peaks and eat the local rosewater pastries.” She’d been saying that for eight years. From the late nights we spent as nobodies, grinding away in obscurity, to her confident stride as a top executive, she had never once made good on that promise. The last time it came up was as we were leaving the courthouse, license in hand. She’d muttered vaguely, “What’s so great about Silver Creek, anyway?” It turned out she’d already seen the snow-capped mountains and wildflower fields. With another man. My throat felt thick, my breath catching in my chest. “Do you know that Katerina and I are married?” I asked, my voice raspy. Caleb just smirked. “Yeah, I know.” I stared into his eyes, desperately searching for a flicker of innocence. He was young. Maybe he was just a naive intern, manipulated by Katerina’s power. I was already calculating in my head: if he agreed to walk away, I could pull some strings, get him a better position at a top-tier firm. But his next words shattered that delusion. “She told me it was a sham marriage.” My hands trembled as I pulled the marriage certificate from my bag, holding it up for him to see. “This has the county’s official seal. How could it possibly be a sham?” He slapped the red booklet out of my hand, scoffing. “That’s hilarious. Katerina mentioned you were a little unstable, always fantasizing that she’s your wife. Guess she wasn’t exaggerating.” He deliberately stepped on the certificate, grinding his shoe onto our photo, leaving a dirty black scuff mark. “She went to the courthouse with you out of pity,” he sneered. “Part of her new duties as VP—caring for mentally ill subordinates.” He turned and walked away, leaving my pride crushed on the floor beneath his footprint. The strength drained out of me. I sank to my knees, unable to stand. I was the sole heir to a multi-billion-dollar fortune, playing the part of an ordinary employee so Katerina wouldn’t feel insecure. Eight years. We’d held hands in secret in the breakroom, shared a bowl of cheap ramen on late nights, planned our future in a tiny rented apartment. Behind the scenes, I was the one rewriting her proposals, begging my father to grant her unprecedented promotions, and calling in favors from my wealthy friends to secure her investments. I had carried her through the hardest times, and just when we finally got married, my life with her was dismissed as a delusion? I desperately tried to wipe the scuff mark off the photo with my sleeve, but the stain seemed to have melded with the paper, only growing darker the more I rubbed. Clenching my jaw, I called my father’s executive assistant. “Mr. Harrison, I need you to check the official marital status of Katerina Vance.” I staggered back to my desk, feeling hollowed out. A moment later, his reply came through. “Mr. Shaw, the county records confirm you and Ms. Vance are legally married.” “However, it appears Ms. Vance instructed someone in HR to list Mr. Finn as her spouse in the company’s internal system.” “In a divorce, she could claim the system entry was a clerical error, while still legally being married to you. This would position her to claim half of your personal assets.” My fists tightened. Every bit of her success, every piece of her shining armor—I had given it all to her. If she dared to betray me, I would be the one to personally drag her down from the heavens and into the mud. … Mr. Harrison sent over Caleb’s complete file. Katerina had personally interviewed him. She’d offered a third-year college student an intern’s salary of a hundred thousand dollars a month. While other interns started at the bottom, Caleb was immediately appointed as the VP’s personal assistant on the 60th floor. His registered home address was a luxury condo across the street from the office—a condo Katerina had purchased, claiming it was a place to rest during her lunch breaks. The papers trembled in my hands. I had let Katerina use me as a stepping stone to reach the sky, only for her to let another man reap the rewards. Before I could confront her, she called me, her tone accusatory. “Honey, were you looking through my files in the HR system?” The perks of being a boss. She had spies reporting my every move. “Even if we’re close, I am a Vice President now. It’s not appropriate for a junior employee like you to be snooping around my profile. Besides, trust is the most important thing in a relationship.” I bit back the rage boiling inside me, listening coldly as she continued her charade. For eight years, I had been her workhorse—pulling all-nighters to perfect her plans, chasing down clients, shielding her from difficult situations. All she had to do was offer me a smile. When I collapsed with a fever from overwork, she’d stayed by my side all night, cooling my forehead with a damp cloth. When I once mentioned off-handedly that I loved the artisanal croissants from a little bakery in the South End, she woke up early for three straight weeks to buy them for me. Those small moments of tenderness had wrapped around my heart like vines, convincing me the love in her eyes was real. I never questioned her late nights, her business dinners, her long trips. It was all a lie. A carefully constructed performance to trick me into paving her way to the top. I sent her the screenshot. “You didn’t want me looking at your profile because you were afraid I’d find out your husband is listed as Caleb Finn?” There was a brief silence. Then, she explained, “He’s just an intern with no connections. Having my name in his file protects him from a lot of office politics and bullying…” And what about the years of condescension and scorn I endured while hiding my identity for her sake? I couldn’t listen anymore. I hung up on her. Whether as her lover or her subordinate, it was the first time I had ever ended her call. A second later, the internal office line rang. It was Katerina, her voice now dripping with authority. “Marcos Shaw. My office. Now.” I was ready for a fight. But the moment I opened the door, she threw herself into my arms. I gripped her shoulders, pushing her back. “Katerina,” I asked, my voice hoarse, “why are you giving him special treatment?” She caressed my cheek, her tone as sweet as honey. “He’s a recent graduate, struggling to find his footing. I’m just giving him a bit of a safety net. Don’t overthink it.” “Don’t overthink it?” I shoved her away. “What about everything I’ve done for you? Does none of that matter?” Her gaze was so full of love it made my head spin. “Of course it matters. You’re so jealous your lips have gone pale. It breaks my heart to see you like this.” She turned, picked up a glass of water, and held it to my lips. “Here, drink some of this. Calm down.” I turned my head away, sulking. “I’m not thirsty. I have to go prepare for the project presentation.” Seeing my defiance, she took a large gulp of the water herself. Then, before I could react, she pressed her lips to mine. The warm water, laced with her scent, forced its way down my throat. I swallowed reflexively, choking. A wave of dizziness hit me. The lights in the office began to spin. The last thing I saw was the dark, unreadable expression on Katerina’s face as it blurred into nothing… … In the main conference room, the board of directors, the investors, and the suppliers were all waiting for my presentation. But I was unconscious, knocked out by the water Katerina had given me. When I finally woke up, I bolted towards the conference room, my heart pounding with dread. I was too late. The Chairman, my father, was furious. “Marcos Shaw! How dare you be late for a meeting of this importance!” Katerina stepped forward, playing the part of the peacemaker. “Chairman Vance, please don’t be angry. Marcos has been working so hard he must have accidentally overslept.” “Luckily,” she added with a bright smile, “our new intern, Caleb Finn, was able to step in. His presentation was absolutely brilliant!” The blood rushed to my head. I stared in disbelief at the projector screen. It was displaying my sketches—the ones I’d spent a month on-site at the construction yard to create. And in the bottom-right corner, in bold letters, was Caleb’s name. She hadn’t just stolen my work. She had drugged me to clear the path for him. The executives shook their heads, walking past me with looks of disappointment. Once the room was empty, Caleb rushed to Katerina, wrapping her in a tight hug and planting a kiss on her cheek. “Katerina, thank you!” She pinched his chin affectionately. “For what? I told you I’d help you rise to the top.” “Why?” I trembled with rage. “That was my work! My blood, sweat, and tears!” She shot me a cold look. “You’ve been here for years and you’re still a junior associate. It was time to give Caleb a chance to prove himself.” I lunged forward, intending to go straight to the Chairman and expose everything, but Katerina grabbed me, her grip like steel. In the struggle, my elbow struck her arm. She hissed in pain. Caleb immediately pulled up her sleeve. A fresh, bloody gash was weeping on her forearm. His eyes reddened as he touched the wound. “You even drugged yourself… and you cut your own arm to stay awake, just for me!” Katerina simply wiped a tear from his eye. “I’d do anything for you.” My stomach churned. I turned and fled to the elevator. Katerina chased after me, slamming the emergency stop button just as the doors closed. The elevator jolted violently, plunging us into darkness. “I have claustrophobia! Let me out!” I screamed, hammering on the doors, my nails splintering against the steel. “You need to calm down,” her voice came from the darkness. “Stop bullying a young man who’s just trying to get by.” I begged her, pleaded with her, but she just made a call, telling the maintenance crew they could leave for the day, severing my last shred of hope. When they finally rescued me the next morning, I was a wreck. A crust of dried blood and tears was caked on my forehead where I’d hit it against the wall. My throat was raw, and my eyes stung and watered at the slightest exposure to light. My colleagues looked at me with pity as they handed me my termination letter. Violating company policy by accessing a superior’s private information. Unexcused absence from a critical meeting. Maliciously leaving work before the end of the day… I demanded to see Katerina, but was told she had taken Caleb to a resort for a “site inspection”—a celebration of his early promotion. As for me, I was given one hour to clear out my desk and get off the property. I didn’t go back to the small apartment filled with our memories. I hailed a cab and went straight to a gated mansion in the city’s most exclusive neighborhood. The Chairman—my father—who had been so disappointed in me yesterday, was now a storm of shock and paternal fury, calling the family doctor to treat my injuries. “That vile woman must have a death wish!” he roared. “How dare she lay a hand on my son!” My mother was wiping away tears. “This is all your fault, Arthur! Insisting he learn the business from the ground up. Look what it’s done to him…” Seeing the two people he loved most in distress, my father’s anger found its target. “That bastard! I’ll fire her immediately! And that intern she’s protecting can go with her!” Firing them was too easy. I wanted to be the one to watch her fall. “Dad,” I said, my voice steady. “I want to come back to the company. As your successor.” He would have given me the moon if I’d asked for it. Of course he agreed. The next day, Katerina was informed that her site inspection was cut short. She was to return to headquarters immediately to meet the new, incoming CEO. When she rushed into the executive suite, flustered and annoyed, the large leather chair swiveled around to reveal my face. “Marcos? What are you doing here?”

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At ten, I begged my brother to come home for my birthday. He died in a plane crash on the way back. His body was never found. From then on, I became a painful reminder to my parents of their loss. They blamed me. Every year on the crash anniversary, they forced me to kneel at his empty grave in repentance. I knelt for eight years. Just when I thought I’d spend my life atoning, I was stalked and murdered on my eighteenth birthday. Dying, I texted my mother for help. Her reply pierced my heart: “More lies to avoid atoning for what you did to your brother. If you hadn’t forced him to come, he’d still be alive! This is the price you deserve.” The call ended without mercy. I stared at the dark screen, and my will to live vanished. She was right. What right did a monster like me have to live? But then, eight years after he was supposed dead, my brother returned—with his pregnant wife. When they learned what happened to me, their world collapsed. 1 On my tenth birthday, I made a fatal mistake. I killed my own brother. I grew up in a happy home. I had loving parents and a brilliant older brother, Benjamin. I was the center of their universe. But all of it shattered with a single phone call. It was my birthday, and I called Benjamin, pleading with him to come home to celebrate with me. He never made it. The plane went down. There were no survivors, no bodies to bury. From that moment on, my parents hated me. They said it to my face, more times than I can count. “Why did you have to make him come back? Why wasn’t it you who died?” In a way, I did die in that crash. The guilt, the regret, the constant accusations from my own parents—it all dragged me down into an abyss. I spent years asking myself the same questions over and over. Why did I make that call? Why did I kill him? Why did God take him away? If only I hadn’t called him. Maybe he would still be alive. But there are no “if onlys” in this world. And no one was there to give me an answer. From the age of ten, my life had only one purpose: atonement. Every year, on the anniversary of Benjamin’s death—which was also my birthday—my parents would drive me to the cemetery. They’d make me kneel before his empty grave and repent. I did this for eight years. Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any bleaker, I was found by the Rain Killer. And I was murdered. In those last moments, I fought desperately to live. I reached for the taser my father had given me. It was disguised as a cute, white lamb keychain. Years ago, my father’s work had made him some dangerous enemies. My mother and I were kidnapped. To save me, my mother was dragged by the kidnappers’ car for what felt like miles. My father was stabbed in the chest protecting us. The police saved us in the end, but the fear never left him. After that, he gave me the keychain. Inside the little lamb was a high-voltage taser. He taught me how to use it. “I can’t always be there to protect you, Ava,” he’d said. “You have to be able to protect yourself.” But when the killer grabbed me, when I finally managed to flick open the pendant and jam it into his side, nothing happened. It was broken. That was my last chance. Even now, as a spirit, I remember every detail with horrifying clarity. The wrench, the pliers, the axe… one by one, he used them on me. The terror on my face was like a drug to him. The pain was unimaginable. It was so intense I lost control of my body. I never thought the sound of my own bones snapping would be so loud, echoing in my ears. Skin tearing from flesh, my vision turning red. Then, darkness. When I opened my eyes again, I was a ghost. And I was in a police station. Lightning flashed outside the window. My father, in his work scrubs, stood with a look of profound sorrow in his eyes. He was surrounded by a few young forensic techs. On the stainless-steel table in front of them was a bag filled with neatly cut pieces of flesh. It was what Detective Evans and his team had managed to recover from the rain-soaked crime scene. I never imagined they would find me so quickly. Maybe it was the universe’s last act of pity for my miserable life. A homeless man, digging through a dumpster, had found the bag. He thought he’d scored some free meat until he saw a human finger. A torrential downpour had set the stage for a brutal dismemberment case. Outside, the storm raged. Police officers and K-9 units were scouring the city. Detective Evans was furious, his face a mask of rage. The killer’s methods were identical to the Rain Killer’s from eight years ago. “Rob,” he said, his voice tight, “doesn’t this feel familiar? Like the Rain Killer’s work?” My father’s expression hardened. The Rain Killer. A monster who only hunted on stormy nights, who took a sick pleasure in torturing and murdering young women. He had shattered countless families. Years ago, my father had been closing in on him. He’d found the evidence needed for an arrest. But the killer got wind of it and fled. As an act of revenge, he sabotaged the plane my brother was supposed to be on, intending for them both to die in the crash. Neither of their bodies had ever been recovered. So, of course, Evans immediately made the connection. If the killer had survived, he would be back for revenge. He felt a sudden urgency. “Rob, if it’s really him, you need to make sure Maria and Ava don’t leave the house. You have to protect Ava. She’s exactly his type!” But at the mention of my name, the anxiety on my father’s face vanished, replaced by an icy calm. “She should have died a long time ago.” A sharp pain, even in my ghostly form, pierced through me. He was right. I should have. These past eight years were just stolen time. Evans knew the whole story. He wanted to offer some comfort but could only manage a grimace. After Benjamin’s death, my parents had spent three days and three nights searching the mountains where the plane had gone down. In the end, they were found kneeling by the side of the road, their eyes bloodshot, begging the heavens to give them back their son. The pain of losing a child was a wound that would never heal for them. Evans sighed. “Alright, Rob. Let’s not dwell on it. The department is breathing down our necks about this case. It’s high priority.” My father knew his duty. He turned back to his work, carefully removing the pieces of flesh from the bag. Suddenly, he swore under his breath. “Son of a bitch.” He gritted his teeth. “What kind of animal does this?” A younger tech, seeing such a gruesome scene for the first time, had to turn away, his eyes red. But right now, the priority was identifying the victim. After the officers brought back every fragment they could find, my father began the grim task of reassembling the body. I floated beside him, watching for a full day as he pieced together a skinless human form. In a twisted way, I was relieved. I knew how horrific I must look, and I was afraid the shock of recognizing me would be too much for him. And I was relieved that this life, so full of guilt, was finally over. Detective Evans stared at the raw, red corpse on the table. Even after years on the force, his face was pale with disgust. He asked my father if the killer did this to hide evidence or if it was the work of a psychopath. My father’s face was grim. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice hoarse. “He wasn’t trying to hide evidence. Our analysis shows… the victim was flayed alive.” He clenched his fists, trying to maintain his composure. “This was purely for his own sick pleasure. For revenge.” He pointed to my body. “Look here. There are even traces of salt corrosion on the flesh. He tortured her, slicing off her flesh piece by piece while she was still conscious.” My father’s voice broke with a grief he couldn’t contain. “And she was just a kid. Sixteen to twenty years old. What kind of monster would do this?” I floated beside him, almost wanting to applaud. He truly was the best forensic pathologist in the city, able to pinpoint my cause of death with such precision. Evans’s eyes grew colder. “That bastard. That soulless piece of filth.” He was so angry his chest was heaving. “We’re running a search for all missing females between sixteen and twenty in the last few days. Hopefully, we can get an ID soon.” My father, as if remembering something, spoke again. “The bag was missing the right femur. It’s possible the victim had some kind of identifying mark on that bone—a birth defect, an old injury, surgical pins.” He added, “And since the killer used acid on her face, reconstruction will take time.” He sighed and pulled off his gloves. Lying on the table next to his instruments was the little lamb keychain, caked in my blood. He didn’t even recognize the gift he had given me to keep me safe. After finishing his work for the day, my father checked his phone. His face contorted with rage, and he immediately called my mother. “Did you see the text from Ava? That little liar. The nerve of her to say something like that. I swear she does it on purpose, just to provoke us!” He was seething. “Doesn’t she know? If she hadn’t insisted her brother come back, Benjamin wouldn’t have been killed by the Rain Killer! And now she has the gall to claim she’s being followed!” I watched his face, red with fury, and felt a deep sadness. Dad, I wasn’t lying. I really am dead. Why would I use the man who killed my brother to hurt you? I would never do something like that. I was so scared, so helpless. That’s why I reached out to you. But my father couldn’t see me. Neither could my mother. I could hear her on the other end of the line, just as angry. “I saw her text. I ignored it. She’s just trying to get out of her duties, that’s all. That damn girl has no sense of remorse!” I listened to them condemn me, and I covered my ears, a ghost overwhelmed with a grief that had no voice. Just when I thought my death would remain a secret to them, my best friend, Chloe, burst into the station. She told the officer at the desk that I had been missing for two days. But as the officer was about to take down my name, my father stopped him. “Don’t bother. I’m Ava’s father. She’s not missing. She’s just trying to manipulate her mother and me.” The officer looked uncomfortably at Chloe. He knew who my father was. He had no choice but to back down. I watched Chloe leave the station, her shoulders slumped in defeat, tears streaming down her face. I wanted to follow her, to comfort her, but I was bound to my father’s side. I watched him work on my skull. I followed him home. On the dinner table, as always, were all of Benjamin’s favorite dishes: braised fish, spicy crab, fried prawns. My mother remembered every one of his preferences, but she could never be bothered to remember that I was deathly allergic to seafood. Once, my father had asked me why I wasn’t eating. For a fleeting moment, I thought he was finally going to show me some love. I clutched my chopsticks and summoned my courage. “Dad, I’m… I’m allergic to seafood.” My mother slammed her chopsticks down and pointed at me. “What did I do to deserve such an ungrateful child? I slave away in the kitchen to make this beautiful meal, and this is the thanks I get?” I looked to my father for help, to the hero who used to protect me whenever I made Mom angry. But this time, my hero simply placed a large piece of crab in my bowl. “Just eat, Ava. Don’t make your mother angry.” Their eyes were on me, judging me. If I didn’t eat, I would be the villain. So, I ate the entire plate of crab. That night, my throat swelled shut until I could barely breathe. My eyes bulged, blurring my vision. My entire body ached and itched. “Help… me…” My voice was a choked whisper. I stumbled to my bedroom door, trying to open it, but the handle wouldn’t turn. It was locked. Panic seized me. I started banging on the door, trying to make a sound. “Help… please… Dad, Mom… save me… I don’t want to die…” Through the haze of pain, I heard my mother’s voice from the living room. “It’s just an allergic reaction, she’s not going to die. Good thing I locked the door. She’s always playing the victim. It’s disgusting. Benjamin came to me in a dream last night, he said he wants the newest video game console. Let’s go, the mall will close soon.” No! Mom, Dad, don’t leave me! I don’t want to die, please, save me… The front door slammed shut. I was abandoned. Maybe this is it, I thought. Maybe when I’m dead, it won’t hurt anymore. I curled up in a corner, waiting to die. From the street below, I heard the laughter of a father and his daughter. “You silly girl, you know you’re allergic to peanuts, and you still ate them! You almost gave me a heart attack!” “I’m sorry, Daddy! It was an accident! Please don’t tell Mom.” “Your mom already knows. She was so worried she pulled a muscle in her back, but she still made a huge dinner with all your favorite foods. As long as you’re okay, that’s all that matters. Parents can’t stay mad at their kids.” I felt like a sewer rat, hiding in the darkness, greedily listening in on a happiness that wasn’t mine. In that moment, I was filled with a self-loathing so profound I wanted to disappear. I wanted my parents to love me like that, to worry about my allergies, to cook my favorite meals, to fuss over me. But I was the bad child who had killed her brother. I didn’t deserve to be loved. But Mom, Dad… I don’t want to die. I really don’t want to die… I didn’t die that day. In a last-ditch effort, I jumped from my second-story window. Someone found me and took me to the hospital. The doctor said I was lucky; any later and it would have been fatal. The mother of the girl in the next bed peeled an orange for her daughter and said to me, “Thank goodness you’re okay. Your parents must have been so worried!” I watched with envy as she fed her daughter orange slices, one by one. The reflection in the window showed me, alone. I tried to comfort myself, to convince the world. I forced a laugh and said loudly, “Yes, my parents love me very, very much.” Suddenly, the door to my room was thrown open. My parents rushed in, their faces etched with urgency. A wave of raw emotion washed over me. I struggled to sit up, wincing in pain as tears streamed down my face. “Dad… Mom…” I was so scared. I was so scared I was going to die. Can you just hug me? Please? Just once… My mother grabbed the collar of my hospital gown and yanked me out of bed, throwing me to the floor. The IV needle was ripped from my arm, and blood spurted out. “You little bitch!” she screamed. “Playing the victim again! You ate that on purpose and then jumped out the window just to make a scene, didn’t you? You wanted everyone to think your father and I abuse you, to ruin our reputation! Why didn’t you just jump from a higher floor and die?” I curled into a ball, covering my head as she kicked me, again and again. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I just didn’t want to die… I had survived the fall, but I couldn’t survive their hatred. In the reflection, I saw my father leaning against the wall, watching coldly as my mother clawed at me with her nails. I saw the mother in the next bed holding her frightened daughter, cooing softly to her. The people gathered at the door stared at me with contempt, with disgust, as if I were some kind of evil child. The fragile illusion I had just built—that my parents loved me—was shattered in front of everyone. I was lying. My parents don’t love me. They… they hate me most of all… After that, they cut off my allowance. I applied to live at the school dorm. I ate cheap buns and free soup from the cafeteria. I slept on a thin mattress over a straw mat in a room with fifteen other girls. My scholarships barely covered the boarding fees. As I moved from middle school to high school, the fees increased. I studied day and night, desperate to get a few extra points on every exam to win enough scholarship money to survive. I always believed that if I could just be more exceptional, they would love me again. But when I brought home a report card with near-perfect scores, and a visiting relative praised me, my mother scoffed. “She’s as dumb as a rock. Not half as smart as Benjamin was. How could she possibly get scores like that?” Then, she slapped me across the face. “Tell me,” she hissed. “Who did you cheat off of?” My face burned, and my heart ached with it. I just wanted to disappear. Later, my teacher called to confirm my grades. My mother just glanced at the shredded report card in the trash can and sneered. “What’s so great about these scores? Your brother got perfect scores in every subject. You’re such a disappointment. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” My heart was shredded along with that report card. My parents love smart children, like Benjamin. So, I will erase myself and become him. I threw myself into my studies with even more ferocity. Summer, winter, spring, fall—my body was a constant cycle of heat rash, frostbite, and mosquito bites. When I walked out of my final college entrance exam, I felt a flicker of hope. I had finally proven that I was as brilliant as Benjamin. Maybe now… maybe now they’ll start to love me… But I was murdered before the results were even released. I died without ever becoming the brilliant child my parents could love. I watch now as my parents fill Benjamin’s empty bowl at the dinner table, silently placing his favorite foods in it. A ritual they have repeated every day for eight years. But wasn’t I the one who turned them into this? Wasn’t I the one who killed their son? Maybe I really did deserve to die. A knock on the door shattered the silence. A voice from my memories called out. “Mom, Dad, open up! I’m home, and I brought your daughter-in-law with me!”

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My mother’s voice, sharp and laced with that familiar disappointment, crackled through the phone. “Melina. Any news?” I sighed, staring out my penthouse window at the glittering New York skyline. “No, Mom. Not yet.” “This is number nineteen, isn’t it? Honestly, there’s no such thing as perfect genetic stock. You keep holding out, and you’ll find yourself past your prime. The clock, my dear, is ticking.” After we hung up, my gaze drifted to the man sleeping in my bed, his profile soft in the ambient city light. Julian. Could he be the one? The father of my child… and my next meal. 1 My name is Melina, and I am, for lack of a better term, a praying mantis. We are a race of sirens, born into the stuff of male fantasy. Wide eyes, delicate jawlines, impossible waists, and legs that go on for days. We are sculpted to drive men to madness. After millennia of evolution, we are, on the surface, indistinguishable from human women. There is, however, one small biological imperative that separates us. Mating, for us, is an hours-long affair. And to successfully conceive, we require… a significant nutritional supplement, provided by our chosen partner. I’ve always been pickier than the other girls. I’m searching for the perfect man, and my criteria are non-negotiable: devastatingly handsome, a genius-level intellect, and over six-foot-one. But there’s a crucial fourth requirement—he must be a monster. A truly wicked soul. One can’t just go around consuming the innocent. That invites a kind of cosmic retribution I have no interest in. And so, my adult life has been a revolving door of men. I’ve had a rockstar with hollow eyes, a college quarterback built like a god, a Wall Street wolf with a predatory smile, and an Ivy League poet who quoted Keats in bed. Yet here I was, thirty years old, and still empty-handed. My phone buzzed, pulling me from my reverie. It was Julian. Hey beautiful. Dinner tonight? I miss you. 2 Julian Vance was candidate number nineteen. He was twenty-six, a brilliant M.D./Ph.D. student at Columbia, doing his residency at a top Manhattan hospital. We’d met on one of those elite dating apps for people who claimed to be too busy for love. For our first date, we ended up at a 24-hour Korean spa in Queens. After watching a Knicks game on the big screen, he confessed his feelings in the quiet of the communal lounge, sometime after midnight. “What is it you like about me?” I’d asked, teasing him. “I’m four years older than you, you know.” He just smiled, his eyes sincere. “Age is just a number. My only worry is that a woman like you would find me too… inexperienced.” “Well,” I’d purred, “why don’t we find out?” And I kissed him. His lips were soft, yielding. He smelled of clean soap and something uniquely, intoxicatingly him. He was a good boyfriend. Despite a brutal residency schedule, he always made time for me. He was perpetually broke, living on a resident’s salary, but was generous to a fault, always insisting on paying. He was tall, sculpted, brilliant—perfect in every way. And that was the problem. He seemed to be a genuinely good person. It was time to end it. My time was precious. My affections needed to be distributed. That night, after dinner, we went back to a hotel. He stepped out of the shower, steam clinging to his skin, and found me waiting in bed, wearing nothing but desire. My body, a landscape of curves and long limbs, had been the undoing of eighteen other men. But Julian was different. We’d spent more than a dozen nights like this, yet we’d never gone all the way. Tonight was no exception. I could see the tension in his jaw, the fight in his eyes, but he just swallowed hard, his face flushing, and gently pulled the covers over me. That was it. I was done. “Let’s break up,” I said coldly, sitting up and reaching for my clothes. “I’m tired of this game.” Panic flared in his eyes. “What? Why? No, I don’t want to break up.” He rushed to my side, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “Melina, what did I do wrong? Just tell me, and I’ll fix it. Please, don’t do this.” I rolled my eyes, pushing him away. “You’re my boyfriend, Julian, but you can’t meet my needs. What’s the point? Besides, the age gap is real. I’m thirty. My mother is on my case about marriage. You’re still a student. I can’t afford to wait for you.” I was dressed and heading for the door, but he grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “Don’t go. Please,” he begged. “I’ll marry you. Thanksgiving is next week. Come home with me. Meet my mother. As soon as we get back, we’ll go to City Hall.” He punctuated his frantic words with kisses—on my lips, my neck, my shoulders—until my resolve melted and my body went soft against his. 3 His desperation worked. I stayed. We fell back into bed in a tangle of limbs and feverish whispers. But just as we reached the point of no return, he stopped, his breath ragged against my skin. “Just a little longer, my love,” he whispered, his voice thick with restraint. “Wait until we’re married. I want this to be right.” So pure. After all my years, I’d finally found a unicorn. Maybe… I could give up the idea of children. Maybe a life with someone like this wouldn’t be so bad. With that thought, I drifted off to sleep. I dreamed I had a daughter. She was beautiful, with skin like porcelain, wide eyes, and impossibly long lashes. A perfect miniature of me. I turned my head, wanting to see her father. A man lay on the floor, soaked in blood. I held my breath, leaning closer, and then I realized with a jolt of horror—he was headless. I woke with a gasp, my heart hammering. The clock read 3:00 AM. My eyes were painfully dry. My kind has compound eyes, a trait I usually hide with cosmetic contacts. I’d fallen asleep without changing them. I stumbled toward the bathroom and saw a sliver of light under the door. A figure was hunched in the corner, speaking in a low, urgent whisper into his phone. “…Mom, the asset is secured. I’m bringing her home in a few days… Don’t worry, she’s perfect. Five-foot-eight, one-thirty, ideal measurements. Healthy, no genetic markers… She’s a premium-grade asset. The investors will be thrilled.” It was Julian. In the dim, sterile light, he looked like a stranger. A wave of disappointment washed over me. The sweet, innocent student was just another piece of trash. But then, a different feeling bloomed in my chest, a dark and thrilling excitement. This was it. My perfect prey. Mom, I thought with savage glee, we’re finally going to have a baby. 4 We left the next day. Julian was in a hurry to get me home. As it happened, so was I. A few overheard words weren’t enough. I needed to see his evil for myself, confirmed beyond any doubt. Julian, I thought, don’t you dare disappoint me now. With Thanksgiving around the corner, all the trains were booked. Julian suggested we take my car, explaining his hometown was deep in the Appalachians, where a vehicle was a necessity. As we drove out of my garage, he turned to me, his expression carefully casual. “Babe, could we keep this trip between us for now? We can surprise your family and friends when we get back.” “Why?” He sighed dramatically. “I just… I don’t want them to talk you out of this. My family, we don’t have much. And being a doctor isn’t a path to riches. I’m afraid they’ll think you’d have a hard life with me.” I smiled, playing my part. “Whatever you want, Julian. I’d do anything for you.” I love you to death, I added silently. Yours, specifically. I drove the entire way while Julian sat in the back, citing motion sickness, hidden behind a baseball cap, a facemask, and sunglasses. Hiding from surveillance cameras, no doubt. I decided to poke him. “Aren’t you hot under all that? You look less like you’re going home for the holidays and more like you’re on your way to murder someone.” He flinched before forcing a laugh. “Just used to wearing a mask at the hospital. Are you tired? We can switch.” “No, I’m fine,” I said sweetly. “You should rest.” He needed to conserve his energy, after all. After a dozen-plus hours, we arrived. His home was in a tiny village in rural Pennsylvania, nestled deep in the mountains. We turned off the highway onto a series of winding, unmarked roads. My GPS was useless. No outsider could ever find this place. As we neared the village, a crowd materialized, surrounding my car. Old men, young boys, fathers with babies. There were men in simple clothes holding the latest iPhones. But there were no women. That was wrong. In a place this poor and isolated, you’d expect to see women and children everywhere. The men were usually away, working in cities. Something was deeply wrong with this place. Julian’s words echoed in my mind. Premium-grade asset. The investors will be thrilled. Who were the investors? These men outside my car, their faces a mask of rustic simplicity, their eyes devouring me with a raw, possessive hunger? 5 The car crawled through the throng. “They’re all staring at me,” I said, my voice trembling convincingly. “It feels… strange. Maybe we should just get a hotel?” Julian patted my hand. “Don’t worry. People in Blackwood Creek are just… friendly. They heard I was bringing my girlfriend home.” He rolled down his window. “Hey, everyone, give us some room! You’re scaring my wife!” “Let’s get a look at her, Julian!” one man yelled. “Tell her to take off the sunglasses!” “Yeah, damn fine figure on her. Looks like she’ll breed well.” “Our Julian’s the smart one, alright. Always brings back the best.” The men’s crude laughter and leering made my skin crawl. Julian, however, was unfazed. “What’s the rush?” he called back with a grin. “You’ll all get a good look in a couple of days.” The crowd finally parted. The car wound through a few more turns before pulling up to Julian’s house. It wasn’t a dilapidated shack. It was a modern, three-story home that screamed of money. Two people were waiting. His mother, a woman with a strained smile, and a younger woman he introduced as his cousin, Clara. “You must be Melina,” his mother chirped. “My, you’re even more beautiful in person. Come in! You must be exhausted.” I handed over the gifts I’d brought. While Julian’s mother was overly warm, Clara was cold and withdrawn, her eyes holding a deep, unsettling sadness. After dinner, Julian’s mother led me upstairs. “This is Clara’s room. You’ll sleep here. It’s tradition, you see. The bride and groom can’t sleep together before the wedding.” She smiled that same strained smile. “Now, dear, if you don’t mind taking off your clothes… I had a seamstress make some dresses, and I want to see if they fit.” 6 Why on earth would she need me to undress in front of her? Unless she wanted to inspect the merchandise. To confirm I was as “premium” as advertised. Fine. A little nudity meant nothing to my kind. Under her watchful gaze, I slowly undressed until I stood naked before her. Her eyes lit up. She moved closer, her gaze clinical and thorough, scanning every inch of my body. I felt like a prize pig on an auction block. It was utterly dehumanizing. “A perfect fit!” she finally declared. “As if they were made just for you.” She bustled downstairs and returned with a glass of milk. “Drink this. It will help you sleep.” Her eyes were fixed on me, waiting. I drank it all. Soon, a heavy drowsiness washed over me. I collapsed onto the bed, the world dissolving. Just before I lost consciousness, I heard the door open and Julian’s voice. “Well, Mom? Told you she was top of the line.” “She is,” his mother replied. “The best one you’ve ever brought back.” “I’m thinking we don’t sell this one. We keep her. For breeding.” “Alright. It’s your call. We’ll have Clara watch her. Let’s go make the arrangements.” 7 I awoke to a gag in my mouth and a crushing weight on my body. The air was thick with the stench of stale breath and excited, grunting pants. “Hurry it up, Billy! Julian will be back soon!” a voice whispered. “Relax. Clara said him and his ma went out. We got time.” “Well, don’t take all night! The rest of us are waiting!” “Can’t believe Julian’s keeping this one. My old lady’s worn out after so many births. I was hoping to buy this one…” My eyes snapped open. A heavyset man was on top of me. By the bed, several others were lined up, waiting their turn. These foul creatures thought themselves worthy of fathering my children? The very idea was an abomination. I began to scream, my voice muffled by the gag, feigning terror. “She’s awake! Even better,” another one chuckled, closing in. “Now the real fun can begin.” I stopped struggling, and through the gag, I gave them a look of pure invitation. Let’s play.

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“I became the most hated woman on the internet after helping my daughter with her homework. It was the 99th time I’d broken down the elementary school math problem for Mia. And for the 99th time, she wrote down the wrong answer. “Is the answer 1, Mommy?” Seeing the same number she’d started with, something inside me finally snapped. I slammed the door to her room and walked away. I collapsed onto the sofa, desperate for a moment of peace, only to find my husband’s dirty socks balled up next to the cushions. After throwing his socks in the wash, I realized the laundry from yesterday was still sitting in the machine, damp and forgotten. By the time I’d hung the clothes, mopped the kitchen floor, and washed the dishes, I heard a crash from the living room. Mia had spilled her box of Goldfish crackers everywhere. The room was a disaster again. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I screamed at her. Shaking, I grabbed my phone, mindlessly scrolling to escape my own life, and stumbled upon a live stream. On the screen, a woman who looked like a ghost sat numbly at a dining table, mechanically shoveling food into her mouth. Her face was gaunt, her skin sallow and oily, and she wore a cheap, faded pajama set that looked like a $9.99 Amazon special. I froze. The woman on the screen looked terrifyingly familiar. She looked like me. I clicked on the stream. It was from a reality show called Fresh Start Family. And the woman in the video was being verbally crucified by hundreds of thousands of viewers. 【How can any woman let herself go like this? She looks like a zombie. It’s actually disgusting to watch.】 【I can’t imagine how her husband faces this every day. No wonder he signed them up for this show. He’s trying to save her from herself by forcing her to see the truth.】 【Did you see her this morning? She had a total meltdown because her daughter got ONE math problem wrong. What a monster. I feel suffocated just thinking about it!】 I looked up from my phone, my reflection catching in the dark screen of the TV. The woman in the live stream looked up at the same time, her face a mask of despair. It was me. I was the monster. 1 The comments kept coming, a relentless, hateful torrent. “Her daughter is ten. So she’s a little slow with math, who cares? Is that a reason to scream like a psycho? If you can’t handle it, hire a tutor. This whole ‘I sacrifice everything for my child’ act is pathetic.” It’s been ten years since I turned down a six-figure corporate job to become a stay-at-home mom. Now, I was a national spectacle, the crazy mother everyone loved to hate. Mia was in the fourth grade, but she still couldn’t grasp basic multiplication and division. I’d teach her, and five minutes later, the knowledge would vanish. Every homework session was a marathon of failures that left me utterly broken. Her teachers had started to whisper about sending her to a school for children with special needs. I couldn’t bear the thought of her growing up under that kind of stigma, so I doubled down, pushing her, pushing myself. She refused to go to a tutor. The mere suggestion sent her into a tantrum—sobbing, screaming, rolling on the floor. My husband, David, always gave in. “It’s okay, honey,” he’d say to me, his voice laced with patronizing pity. “You just need to be a little more patient. Spend a little more time with her.” I’d look around at the mountain of housework, the endless cycle of chores, and feel a profound exhaustion settle into my bones. Before I was married, I barely knew how to boil water. Now, I was a master of domestic drudgery. On top of that, Mia’s stubborn refusal to learn felt like a personal attack, a deliberate act of rebellion that sent my blood pressure soaring. David and I both had degrees from prestigious universities. How did we produce a child who seemed incapable of learning? At first, we thought it was a cognitive issue. We spent years shuttling her between specialists, our vacations spent in the sterile waiting rooms of pediatric neurologists. The answer was always the same: “Her cognitive development is perfectly normal. We can’t find a medical reason for her learning difficulties. We suggest seeing a child psychologist.” Therapists in our city were a luxury we couldn’t afford. Four hundred dollars an hour. A full month of my part-time salary barely covered five sessions. And they were useless. Mia would charm the therapists, derail the sessions, and convince them to tell her stories. After a while, David started to think I was the one with the problem. “What kind of mother has so little patience for her own daughter?” he’d demand. “So she’s a little slow! She’ll grow out of it. You’re the one who needs to see a shrink! Stop pressuring her!” The live stream audience, remembering my breakdown from that morning, piled on. “Why do women like this have kids? Is she just a masochist? Or too cheap to hire a tutor?” “Seriously, if you can’t teach a ten-year-old basic math, you have no business being a mother. Just die already.” “That poor little girl looks so scared of her. You can tell she’s trying her best! Can’t you show your child a little grace?” 2 Could she learn? Deep down, I already knew the answer. But I was her mother. My job was to protect her, to shield her from the world’s judgment. I told myself her defiance was just a phase, a childish quirk. I thought if I just loved her enough, taught her enough, I could fix it. I cleared my mind, pretending I hadn’t seen any of it. I shut off my phone and gently woke Mia. “No more homework this morning, sweetie. I already corrected it for you. Time to get ready for school. I toasted that chocolate croissant you like.” She nodded, meek as a lamb, while I dressed her. I packed her lunch, and for a fleeting moment, everything felt normal. Then I turned back around. She had taken a pen and scribbled all over the worksheet I had just corrected, changing the right answers back to the wrong ones. Her expression was blank, devoid of guilt. In fact, there was a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips. “Mommy,” she said, her voice dripping with fake innocence, “is this right? Can you teach me again? I don’t want the teacher and the other kids to be mad at me.” It was a performance. She was trying to provoke me, to turn me back into the desperate, screaming lunatic from the live stream. The teacher’s words about a special school echoed in my ears, and a high-pitched ringing started in my head. I had been up until midnight with her homework, only grabbing a few bites of a cold dinner after she was asleep. Then I was up again at 5:30 a.m. to start the day. The chronic sleep deprivation was shredding my nerves. I took a deep breath, fighting to control the rage building in my chest. “Mia, honey, I know you understand this. These are easy problems. Can we please just try to learn them?” I patiently explained it one more time, stopping just short of giving her the answer. She stared at me with those wide, clear eyes. “Like this?” She wrote down a 1. I felt the air leave my lungs. My chest heaved as blood rushed to my head. I wanted to slap her. The urge was so powerful, so visceral, that my hand twitched. But my education, my identity as a mother, as a rational adult, held me back. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms until they bled. Mia’s angelic smile never wavered. “Mommy, can you explain it again? I just don’t get it.” Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard, a trigger that made me physically ill. David, woken by our voices, stormed out of the bedroom. “What is wrong with you?” he bellowed, pointing at me. “Why can’t you do this one simple thing? Can’t you even handle your own child’s homework? What good are you?” Hearing her father yell at me, Mia’s eyes lit up with triumph. The corner of her mouth twitched upwards. A bomb went off in my head. She is doing this on purpose. The innocent eyes, paired with that fleeting, knowing smirk… it was a look of pure, calculated poison. I shouldn’t think this way about my own daughter, but in that moment, I felt like I had given birth to a monster. I lost control again. I was hyperventilating, but I couldn’t calm down. I sank to the floor, pulling at my own hair, a helpless, insane wreck muttering to myself. “Why? Why did I ever have you? Why are you my daughter?” Predictably, the live stream chat exploded. 【Her husband works so hard to support them, and he can’t even get a decent night’s sleep. This woman is human garbage. I’d hire a damn tutor.】 【Exactly. She’s the one with bad genes, and she blames her ten-year-old daughter. She’s a psycho.】 【Can they just cancel this episode? This woman is genuinely mentally ill. This isn’t entertaining, someone is going to get hurt.】 【Okay, but to be fair… 18 divided by 3 minus 4 is 2. She has explained it over a hundred times. I wouldn’t have that kind of patience either!】 3 Seeing me on the floor, David looked momentarily startled, maybe even scared. But then a flicker of something else crossed his face—satisfaction. He glanced up at the hidden camera in the corner of the room, pursed his lips, and said nothing. He was waiting. Waiting for me to have a complete public meltdown, to cement my role as the crazy one. In that instant, the expression on his face was identical to our daughter’s. He sighed dramatically, shook his head, and went to brush his teeth. He put on his suit without another word and walked out the door. I was left alone in the room with my wide-eyed, innocent daughter and my own shattered sanity. The audience was starting to notice. 【Wait… did the dad just walk out? He just left her like that? This is basically single parenting.】 But his defenders were quick to reply. 【He probably has to get to work. It’s hard enough providing for a family. You can’t expect him to do everything.】 【Besides, isn’t educating the kids the mom’s job? Men aren’t usually good at that stuff anyway.】 The argument sent the stream’s viewership soaring. The air in the room was cold. I looked at Mia, and she felt like a stranger. The sweet memories of her in the cradle, the first time she said “Mama,” were all fading, replaced by this cold, calculating child in front of me. Sensing the shift, she seemed to get nervous. She knew she needed me. She walked over, her face a perfect mask of sweetness. “Mommy,” she cooed. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” There it was. The angel. The one who only appeared when she wanted something from me. I had suspected for a long time that she was faking it. I’d seen her playing with a boy she liked, effortlessly showing off how smart she was. That was the first time I realized this wasn’t about inability; it was about power. When she was unhappy with me, when I denied her some new toy or treat, she would weaponize her own supposed stupidity. She knew it was my weak spot. And seeing me, the woman who prided herself on competence and control, become a fumbling, desperate mess in front of everyone… the look in her ten-year-old eyes was one of pure, punishing glee. I had tried to tell David. “Do you think… maybe she’s doing it on purpose?” His response was always the same wave of dismissive anger. “She’s a child, Sarah! What does she know? How can you be so cynical about your own daughter?” And so I became the paranoid, cruel mother who projected her own failures onto her innocent child. I stopped bringing it up. I checked my phone. The live stream comments, swayed by Mia’s apology, were turning on me again. 【See? What a sweet kid. She’s apologizing even though she can’t help being slow.】 【My heart breaks for this little angel. What is this mother’s problem?】 I stood up, went to the fridge, and chugged a bottle of cold water. When Mia saw my frown, her face hardened. “Mommy, are you ashamed of me? Because I’m stupid?” Normally, I would have rushed to reassure her, to smother her with affirmations of my love. This time, I said nothing. I just coldly packed her schoolbag. The sooner this was over, the better. They say a mother can’t be ashamed of her child. They’re wrong. I’m not just a housewife. I have a job. A part-time, remote job that I cling to as the last remnant of my former self. Sometimes, after a hellish morning, I’d log into a Zoom meeting and see the pitying looks from my colleagues. My hair a mess, dark circles under my eyes. What does marriage give a woman? Misery, humiliation, torture? I took her hand and walked her to the school bus stop. In the hallway, she was still wearing her angel face, but the look she gave me was ice-cold. She smiled, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and whispered, as if commenting on the weather: “I wish you would just die.” 4 Her tone was so casual I thought I’d misheard. “What did you say, Mia?” Before she spoke, she glanced up, checking the hallway for the little red light of a camera. She knew. She had known about the live stream all along. The only one in the dark was me. After dropping her off, I went through my usual ritual: delivering small gifts to her teachers, thanking them for their patience. The head teacher, Mrs. Davis, pulled me aside. “Mrs. Miller, you really need to work with her. She’s ten years old. If she isn’t learning, she’s disrupting the class. This is a lapse in educational oversight at home. My teachers are not your private tutors.” I’d lost count of how many times I’d had this conversation. Shame and guilt washed over me, and I could only nod and apologize. In ten years of being Mia’s mother, I had lost every shred of my dignity. The woman I used to be—strong, confident, always put-together—was dead. The grief for that lost self hit me so hard I stumbled back to my car, got in the back seat, and sobbed. As I was crying, a paper fell out of my bag. Her latest report card. A sea of red F’s. The live stream viewership was low. No one wanted to watch a woman cry. 【Serves her right. She can’t even handle her own life. Who else is there to blame?】 【I don’t know… I feel kind of bad for her. The dad is useless. He just criticizes her and walks away.】 BING. An email notification popped up on my phone. It was from HR. A termination letter. The last piece of my old life, the career I had fought so hard to maintain, was gone. A profound, numbing despair spread through me. Each disaster was a stone, and they were all being thrown at me at once. I was losing everything. I truly was… a failure. Did I have to bury my entire life for a child who hated me? I cried for a solid half hour, huddled in the back of my car. And then, something shifted. The tears stopped. I was done. I would clear my name, in front of the whole world. This game my husband and daughter were playing, the game of driving me insane… it ends now.”

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I was driving my husband’s new Tesla to the airport to pick up a client. I connected my phone to the Bluetooth, intending to play some music, but a memo popped up on the center console screen instead. The title was “Notes on Caring for My Little Kitten.” My little kitten loves strawberry-flavored candy, not mint. My little kitten needs to be held when she sleeps, or she’ll cry. When my little kitten is on her period, buy her painkillers and a hot water bottle in advance. I scrolled through the list, one item at a time, until I reached the final note, written in bold, red font: “Crucial! Next month, take the little kitten for her prenatal check-up.” My face was a mask as I closed the memo and dialed my husband’s number. “Honey,” I said, my voice deceptively sweet, “what brand of painkillers does your little kitten like? I can pick some up for you on my way.” 1 On the other end of the line, my husband, Hugo Walter, paused for a beat. “Emma, what are you talking about, honey?” His voice was the same deep, steady, and gentle tone I had listened to for five years. “What little kitten? I don’t follow.” He let out a soft chuckle, his tone laced with a fond, patronizing helplessness. “You’re the only little kitten I have.” My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I watched the river of traffic ahead and smiled. “The one from your memo,” I said lightly. “The little kitten who needs a prenatal check-up.” His tone instantly brightened with a feigned flash of understanding. “Oh, that! That’s for Leo’s cat. She’s pregnant.” “His phone was broken yesterday, so he borrowed mine to jot down some notes. He thought he deleted it, but I guess it synced.” It was a perfectly crafted excuse. Leo was his best friend, the best man at our wedding. He was sure I would believe him. “You know how he is, so forgetful,” Hugo continued smoothly. “I’ll have a word with him. Can’t have him leaving random notes on my phone and making my wife worry.” “Is that so?” I murmured. “Well, Leo must really love his cat, remembering her prenatal appointments and all.” Hugo played along seamlessly. “Tell me about it. I’m almost jealous.” “Emma, don’t let your imagination run away with you. You’re the only one for me. What do you want for dinner tonight? I’ll get everything ready.” “Don’t bother. I’m picking up a client. I have a dinner meeting tonight.” I hung up, pulled the car over, and took a picture of the memo. Less than half an hour later, Hugo was home. The moment he walked in, he wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin in the crook of my neck. He still carried the faint chill of the evening air. “Emma, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I rescheduled with my client and came straight home.” He cupped my face, his eyes filled with sincerity and a deep, aching concern. “Have I been too busy lately? Have I been neglecting you? Is that why you’re feeling so insecure?” “When I heard that tone in your voice on the phone, my heart just dropped. Work isn’t as important as you are.” “It’s all my fault.” He took all the blame, shouldering every ounce of responsibility, painting me as the irrational, paranoid wife. Looking at the face that had once made my heart race, a bitter wave of sorrow washed over me. “No,” I said, my voice soft. “Maybe I was just being too sensitive.” He let out a visible sigh of relief. “You silly girl.” He tapped the end of my nose. “Alright, let’s not think about it anymore. I’ll go make dinner.” He shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it casually onto the sofa. I watched him walk into the kitchen, then picked up the jacket to hang it properly. A folded receipt slipped from the pocket. I unfolded it. It was from a high-end maternity and baby boutique. 2 The list of items was long, from imported formula to a custom-made crib—all for a newborn. At the bottom, a handwritten delivery address. It wasn’t our home. Nor was it his friend Leo’s. Clutching the receipt, I called my best friend, Whitney. She was a top-tier private investigator with connections that ran deep. “Whitney, I have an address. I need you to run a check on the resident. Find out if she has any connection to Hugo Walter.” For the next few days, Hugo was almost sickeningly perfect. Morning kisses, goodnight hugs, chauffeuring me to and from work, taking over all the household chores. He acted like a man terrified by a near misunderstanding, desperately trying to make amends. On Wednesday night, my mother-in-law called. After a few perfunctory pleasantries, her tone shifted. “Emma, you and Hugo have been married for five years now. Isn’t it about time we heard some news?” “You know how men are, they all want children. You need to put in a little more effort.” “Our Hugo is successful, he’s a family man. You need to hold on to him tightly.” Every word was a needle—not painful, just a sharp, irritating prick. I gave her some vague answers and hung up. Hugo emerged from the kitchen with a plate of sliced fruit and sat down beside me. “Was that Mom, pushing for a baby again?” I nodded. He sighed, pulling me into his arms. “Don’t listen to her. We’ll let it happen when it happens.” “Whether we have children or not, I’ll always love you.” His words were so beautiful. I leaned against his chest and smelled nothing but the stench of rotting lies. On Friday, Whitney called. “I found her.” Her voice was ice. “The resident is Isla Croft. Twenty-two years old. She started at Hugo’s company two months ago.” “She has that innocent look, but she’s a sweet-talker, knows how to play the game.” “Most importantly, I found an appointment record from a private maternity hospital.” “The appointment was made by Hugo Walter. For patient Isla Croft.” A sharp pain shot through my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. Whitney let out a cold laugh. “And it gets worse.” “I hacked her social media. She has it set to private, viewable only by a select group.” “It’s a highlight reel of her love affair with Hugo.” I hung up and opened the screenshots Whitney had sent. Isla’s handle was PamperedKitten. The most recent post was from three days ago. [Mr. W says I’m his most precious treasure, that he’s going to give me and our baby a real home.] [He has a surprise for me at the family banquet next month.] The accompanying photo was of a lavish jewelry box. Inside lay a diamond necklace I had never seen before. The brand was one Hugo had mentioned just last week, when he told me he’d bought a “small gift” for an important female client. I scrolled down. [Period cramps are the worst. Mr. W came over in the middle of the night with a hot water bottle and painkillers and held me all night.] [He said he’ll never let me be in pain again.] The photo was of Hugo’s profile as he slept soundly, one arm draped over Isla’s waist. The location was our spare bedroom—the room I had set up specifically for him to use when he worked late and didn’t want to wake me. I kept scrolling. [Mr. W has such good taste. This white Tesla is gorgeous! He said it’s the first stroller for our baby~] The photo showed her sitting in the passenger seat, making a peace sign at the center console. On the screen was the very same memo I had discovered. The phone slipped from my trembling hands and clattered to the floor. 3 I curled into a ball on the sofa, all the strength draining from my body in an instant. Ten years. Ten years, from high school sweethearts to husband and wife. The sweet nothings he had whispered, the things he had done for me—they all transformed into razor-sharp blades, slicing through my memory again and again. He said he loved me, yet he held another woman in our home. He said he was busy with work, yet he was running to another woman’s side in the middle of the night. He said having children would happen when it happened, yet he had already gotten someone else pregnant with his child. A wave of nausea washed over me. I ran to the bathroom and threw up until only bitter acid remained. Why? What had I done wrong? Hugo, how could you do this to me? My heart felt like it had been ripped in two. I couldn’t breathe. I sank to the floor and sobbed. But as the tears flowed, a laugh bubbled up from my throat. I stood up and wiped my eyes. Pain wouldn’t break him. And my tears? They were worthless. Hugo, I thought, you want a family, do you? Fine. I’ll help you get one. Just then, Hugo walked in. His face changed when he saw me. “Emma? What’s wrong? You look terrible.” He rushed over, his hand flying to my forehead to check for a fever. I looked up, my eyes red and swollen. “Hugo,” I whispered, “I think… I’m sick.” He froze, his face a perfect mask of concern and heartache. “Where does it hurt? We’re going to the hospital right now.” He moved to grab his car keys. “Don’t.” I stopped him. “It’s just… my heart. It hurts.” Hugo stopped moving. He knelt before me, taking my hand in his, his face a portrait of self-reproach. “It’s all my fault. I’ve been so focused on work, I haven’t been taking care of you.” “Emma, listen to me. Work doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but your health.” “I’ll take time off tomorrow. We’ll go to the Maldives, okay? You’ve always wanted to go.” As if all my pain was simply a result of his neglect, not his betrayal. I looked at him and, suddenly, I smiled. “Okay,” I said. “Whatever you say.” 4 The family banquet next month was for his mother’s sixtieth birthday. The Walter family was well-known in our city, and the party was an extravagant affair, held in the grand ballroom on the top floor of a five-star hotel. As the favored son, Hugo was the center of attention. He wore a custom-tailored white suit, looking sharp and confident as he moved through the crowd of guests. My mother-in-law stood beside him, dripping with jewels, a proud smile plastered on her face. “Emma, come here,” she beckoned. I walked over, and she pulled me aside, lowering her voice. “Everyone who is anyone is here tonight. Don’t you dare walk around with that long face. People will think the Walter family is mistreating you.” “And another thing,” she hissed, “you’d better get that womb of yours in gear!” “Let me tell you, our Hugo is a real catch. There are plenty of younger girls out there who would kill to have his baby! If you can’t produce an heir, you should get out of the way. Don’t just warm the seat!” Her words were venomous and cruel. I stared at her, my face a blank canvas, and said nothing. She was about to say more when Hugo walked over. “Mom, what are you talking to Emma about?” he asked, smoothly wrapping an arm around my waist and smiling at his mother. “Emma’s not feeling well today. I told her to rest and not talk too much.” He was always like this, always defending me in public, always preserving my dignity. My mother-in-law sniffed and turned to greet another guest. Hugo leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Don’t mind her. You know her bark is worse than her bite.” I smiled, my gaze drifting over his shoulder to a familiar figure. 5 Isla was wearing a pale pink maternity dress, draped in a white Chanel cardigan. Her long hair was perfectly styled, her makeup flawless, and her face glowed with a shy, blissful smile. One hand rested protectively on her stomach. She stood near one of Hugo’s friends, looking as if she were his date for the evening. Hugo’s eyes fell on her, too. For just a second, before he looked away. But in that one glance, I saw it all—the tenderness, the affection. It was unmistakable. Halfway through the party, it was time for the presentation of gifts. As the son, Hugo went first. He walked onto the stage and took the microphone. “Today is my mother’s sixtieth birthday. As her son, I didn’t prepare anything too extravagant.” He paused, his eyes sweeping across the room before they finally settled on me. “I just want to tell you that very soon, you’re going to be a grandmother.” The room was silent for a moment, then erupted in thunderous applause and congratulations. “Congratulations, Mr. Walter!” “Mrs. Walter, what a blessing!” My mother-in-law gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. She rushed onto the stage, grabbing Hugo’s hand excitedly. “Hugo! Are you… are you serious? Does this mean Emma is…” She whirled around to look at me, her eyes shining with an unprecedented fervor. I stood rooted to the spot, an outsider at my own life’s drama. In the crowd, Isla rested a hand on her belly, a triumphant smile spreading across her face. Hugo didn’t answer his mother. He just smiled, held the microphone, and continued. “This child… was not easily conceived.” “And so, I’d like to take the opportunity of my mother’s birthday to make another announcement.” His gaze finally left my face, turning cold and resolute. “I, Hugo Walter, will be dissolving my marriage to Ms. Emma Sterling.” The room exploded in a chorus of gasps and murmurs. “What? A divorce?” “So the baby isn’t hers?” “My God, what is happening? He’s announcing their divorce in public?” My mother-in-law’s face fell. She tugged at Hugo’s arm. “Hugo! What nonsense are you talking about?” He shook her off, his voice like ice. “I’m not talking nonsense.” “Emma and I have irreconcilable differences. Our marriage has been broken for years.” “For years, she has used every excuse in the book to avoid having children. Out of respect for our marriage, I tolerated it.” “Until I met a woman who was willing to give me everything. A woman willing to bear my children.” He turned and extended a hand toward Isla. “Isla, come up here.”

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The day my husband’s intern showed up on my doorstep was our twentieth wedding anniversary. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, maybe nineteen, with a look in her eyes that was a brazen cocktail of confidence and contempt. “James told me he never knew what true love was until he met me,” she announced. “You’ve had a nice long run, but it’s time to step aside.” When I asked James to fire her, he said I was being unreasonable. My own daughter told me I was just menopausal and paranoid, and then, to my horror, she befriended the intern. My first instinct was to endure it, to weather this storm as I had with all the other little flings and flirtations over the years. But then I found out the girl was pregnant. And James had moved her into the very first apartment we ever shared—the place where our love story began. That’s when I knew. Some things, once they become trash, just need to be thrown out. I contacted the best divorce attorney in the city. But when James found out, his eyes went wild. He grabbed my arm, his voice raw. “You’re hiring your ex-boyfriend to handle our divorce? After all these years, you still haven’t forgotten him?” 1 To be honest, at the very beginning, I really did try to just let it go. The intern, Heather, was so young—barely out of her teens. My husband, James, had just turned forty-one. Our daughter was already in college. The girl came to me, her eyes brimming with tears, pleading for me to “set their love free.” Her eyes sparkled with a fierce determination, a mirror of the reckless girl I once was. Now, all I saw in my own reflection were fine lines creeping from the corners of my eyes and the stray silver hair I’d found that morning. “Claire,” she said, her tone falsely sweet, “let’s be honest, woman to woman. Your body isn’t what it used to be. You don’t know a thing about his business. What exactly are you holding onto him with?” She leaned in, a conspiratorial smirk on her lips. “The only reason James hasn’t divorced you is because he’s a good man, and he pities you. But there’s a line, you know? A person can’t be that shameless.” A dry laugh escaped my lips. I looked at this smug girl, her lips pursed in a perfect pout. “I’m sorry, did I hear you right? You, the little homewrecker who wormed her way into my family, are calling me shameless?” She pulled down the collar of her blouse, revealing a stretch of pale neck littered with a constellation of angry red marks. “Last night, he held me and told me that being with me was the first time he ever felt a true union of body and soul.” Her voice was a triumphant whisper. “From my first day at the company, he took care of everything for me. He taught me how to read financial statements, how to analyze contracts, how to negotiate.” “I understand his ambition, his dreams. At the office, I’m his right hand. In bed,” she paused, her eyes glinting, “I’m the fantasy he can’t get enough of.” I let out a cold snort and leaned back in my chair. “Heather, is it? You’re an intern, not even graduated yet. You think it’s some grand achievement to sleep your way into my husband’s bed under the guise of work?” I let the question hang in the air. “You don’t actually believe you’re the first little girl to latch onto James Shaw, do you?” Heather’s body went rigid. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “Have you ever wondered why he’s never divorced me?” I pressed, watching the panic bloom in her eyes, her breathing growing shallow. “There’s a saying: better to be a rich man’s wife than a poor man’s darling. Instead of waving your youth around like a trophy, you should be thinking about how much money you can squeeze out of him before he gets tired of you and kicks you to the curb.” When I got home, James was on the sofa, scrolling through documents on his tablet. Time had been exceptionally kind to him. Even in his forties, the years had only carved a deeper, more mature intensity into his brow, making him all the more magnetic. He heard me come in but didn’t look up. This was the rhythm of our life after twenty years. An unspoken truce. If I didn’t speak, it meant there was nothing to discuss. I went into the kitchen and soon returned with dinner. Three dishes and a soup. James put down his tablet and moved to the table. “Jenna called. She wants you to pick her up for Fall Break.” “Okay.” “Your mother hasn’t been feeling well. She needs to see a doctor.” “Fine. You can handle it.” “The bathroom floor is getting slippery. I was thinking of having it redone.” “Whatever you think is best.” “Heather came to see me today.” … His eyes finally lifted from his bowl, meeting mine. His expression was flat, detached, with just a hint of confusion. “And?” His mistress had just confronted me, and all he had to say was and? Even after years of mastering my temper, the word lodged in my throat. I frowned, staring at him. “James, we are married. What you are doing is called having an affair.” Something in my tone must have struck a nerve. He slammed his bowl down on the table with a sharp crack. “Don’t be so dramatic, Claire.” “Heather is just an intern at the office. I help her out a little, and suddenly you’re acting like a paranoid lunatic.” Classic James. Not just deceiving himself, but turning the blame back on me. Dinner ended in a cold, suffocating silence. I expected the tension to linger for days. I was wrong. The very next afternoon, I came home from grocery shopping to find Heather in my living room. She was wearing the slippers I’d bought for our daughter, leaning against James’s shoulder as he handed her a glass of homemade lemonade. “Oh, James, you’re amazing! I can’t believe you know how to make this from scratch.” She took a long sip, her head tilted back as she gazed at him with pure adoration. “Heh, don’t be so dramatic. Drink it slowly,” he murmured, his thumb gently wiping a drop from the corner of her mouth, his fingers lingering on her lips. A sharp, bitter scent of lemon filled the air. When we were young and newly in love, I had a craving for fresh lemonade. James bought lemons by the crate, spending hours perfecting his recipe, determined to make the freshest, most delicious drink just for me. And now, he was making it for her. Heather took another small sip, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. She settled back on the sofa, her pale, slender legs swinging playfully. I saw James’s gaze darken. It was a look I knew all too well. The look of desire. He reached for her, pulling her onto his lap. Just as their lips were about to meet, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Seeing me didn’t faze her. She stayed right where she was, draped over James, and simply tilted her head. “Oh, hi, Claire! We meet again!” she chirped. “Sorry about this, I twisted my ankle, and James was just taking a look. You don’t mind, do you?” She shifted her weight, and a low grunt escaped James’s lips. I took a slow breath, walked to the dining table, and set down the groceries. Then, I turned to my husband. “Let’s get a divorce.” 2 James refused. His excuse was that he hadn’t committed any “fundamental breach” of our marriage vows. He then mobilized our entire network of family and friends to talk me out of it. My in-laws, whom I had cared for for two decades, told me these young girls were shameless. They promised to set things right, to have James transfer five percent of his company shares to my name as compensation. Our mutual friends warned me that leaving would be playing right into the other woman’s hands. James’s business was booming; only a fool would walk away from that kind of wealth. My best friend was going through her own divorce. Her husband had also cheated, but he was broke and ugly. She sighed and suggested I just let it go. “At least James is rich,” she said. It seemed money was the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card, capable of pardoning any sin within a marriage. I said nothing and continued gathering the documents I needed. My father heard the news and stormed over. The moment he walked in, he slapped me across the face, his voice booming. He called me ungrateful, reminding me that I was forty years old. Who would want me now? He looked healthy, flushed with life. Clearly, his new wife was taking good care of him, and my new little half-brother was a delight. He had no time for my petty grievances. The last person to try and change my mind was my daughter. When Jenna came home from college, my first instinct was to hug her. She shoved me away. “Why are you so determined to divorce Dad?” I, who had stood my ground against everyone else, felt myself shrink. “Your father is with another woman, honey. I can’t live like this anymore.” “You mean Heather? Dad told you, she’s just an intern from his office!” Jenna looked at me with an impatience that was a perfect echo of her father’s. “Mom, you’ve lived a life of luxury. Do you really think you can handle being on your own? Don’t come crying to me when you can’t.” Honestly, until that moment, I had believed that she, the child I had raised with my own hands, would be the one to give me a hug. I imagined her screaming at her father, demanding to know why he had hurt me, standing firmly by my side. Instead, she unleashed a torrent of anger at me, then stormed upstairs. SLAM! The sound of her door shutting rattled the house, and my soul along with it. Claire, how did you let your life come to this? That evening, for the first time in what felt like a year, James joined me in the shower. He entered the steamy bathroom, his eyes cold and distant. But his hands moved with a familiar confidence, tracing paths across my body. “Don’t be angry anymore, okay?” he murmured. “I’ll get rid of her tomorrow. She’ll be out of the company. You’ll never have to see her again.” A warmth spread across my skin, but a chilling frost was forming around my heart. I closed my eyes, letting the hot water mix with the silent tears rolling down my cheeks. “James.” “Hmm?” “Did you sleep with her?” “…” The silence was all the answer I needed. A wave of fury surged through me. “You… you make me sick.” That girl, Heather, was the same age as our daughter. If he’d chosen someone in their late twenties, or thirties, I could have chalked it up to a simple mid-life crisis. But he chose a girl young enough to be his child. A girl just starting out in the world. How could he? My words enraged him. He shoved me, hard. 3 A sharp pain shot through my ankle, but before I could react, he grabbed my chin and dragged me in front of the fogged-up mirror. “I make you sick? What about you? Aren’t you disgusting?” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. “Look at yourself! Look at this haircut—it looks like a dog chewed it! Look at your breasts, they’re sagging down to your stomach! And your face, all those spots… it’s impossible to even look at you anymore!” “Claire, do you even look like a woman anymore?” His hand moved from my chin, cruelly squeezing my breast, his eyes like shards of ice. “We can stay like this. I’ll guarantee you a life of comfort. But if you divorce me, I swear I will make your life a living hell.” Long after he had left, I was still trembling. I couldn’t believe the man I had loved for twenty years could say such things. Or… had he changed long ago, and I had simply been too blind to see? I clenched my fists so tightly my nails dug into my palms, the sting of pain bringing a cold, sharp clarity. James Shaw, you think I’m powerless? You think you can do whatever you want? Just you wait. This divorce is happening. The next morning, James had, for the first time in ages, made breakfast. My daughter, Jenna, was already eating. She glanced at me and then quickly looked down, clearly still angry. He, however, played the peacemaker. “Jenna,” he said softly, “we agreed yesterday. We’re going to forgive your mother.” Jenna mumbled a reluctant, “Morning, Mom.” “She was tired from the trip yesterday,” James said, his eyes meeting mine with a look of undisguised triumph. “Come eat. I made your favorite, club sandwiches.” I didn’t say a word. A moment later, the doorbell rang. The housekeeper showed Heather in. “Good morning, Mrs. Shaw. I’m just here to drop off some files for James.” They exchanged a handshake that lingered a little too long. Jenna didn’t seem to notice or care; instead, she invited Heather to join them for breakfast. Heather feigned hesitation for a moment before gracefully sliding into my seat at the table. As if to spite me, Jenna pushed my plate of food in front of her. Then she poured her a glass of orange juice—my favorite. Heather, for her part, turned on the charm, doing everything she could to win Jenna over. They discovered they’d even gone to the same university. “Wow, Jenna, you’re so cool! I was worried you’d be like your mom and not like me…” Heather simpered. “My mom’s just going through menopause, she’s paranoid about everything,” Jenna replied dismissively. “She’s convinced you and my dad are having an affair. Just ignore her.” By the end of the meal, the two of them were acting like best friends. I had stopped listening the moment Jenna called me paranoid. I turned and walked out of the house. I had to see someone. An old classmate I hadn’t spoken to in over a decade. My first love, and now the city’s top litigator, Grant Hayes. 4 In a quiet corner of a coffee shop, I laid out the whole story for Grant. He just snorted. “You’re really ready to let him go?” All these years, and he was still as blunt as ever. If he’d been just a little gentler back then, maybe I never would have broken up with him. Not wanting to get into it with him, I pulled a card from my purse and slid it across the table. “I did my research. Your current rate is a million-dollar retainer. This is half. You’ll get the rest when the divorce is final. This is business, Grant. No feelings involved.” Grant picked up the card, flicked it between his fingers, and then tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Whatever you say, boss.” On the way out, he offered me a ride. Compared to my life of domestic bliss, his had been much harder. I’d heard his wife passed away from an illness a few years ago. They never had children. He’d since poured all his energy into his work, becoming the most sought-after lawyer in the city. Grant’s car was a loud-ass Maserati that roared to life. I couldn’t help but frown. “You’re a grown man. Why do you still like such flashy toys?” I wondered what his late wife had seen in him. He just arched an eyebrow. “You used to love this stuff, remember?” He had me there. In my twenties, I was all about the flash. But who has the energy for that at forty? I let it drop. When he dropped me off, I sent him a three-hundred-dollar transfer. G: ? C: For the ride. G: Got it, boss. Despite the flashy car, Grant gave me a mountain of solid advice. Following his instructions, I managed to get a clear picture of James’s finances. I also hired a private investigator who quickly found the address where he was keeping his little secret. It was an apartment I’d bought before we were married. We lived there when we were dating and for the first few years of our marriage. It was only after Jenna was born and we needed space for a nanny that we moved into our current house. I hadn’t been back in years. This is where he was hiding her? I found my old key and went over on a day I knew they’d be out. Inside, nothing had changed, except for the clutter of a new life. It was painfully obvious that Heather was desperate to marry James. Behind the sofa hung a portrait of them together. On the dining table sat a hand-crocheted doll she’d made. And in the kitchen, a rich, fragrant soup was simmering on low. If the portrait hadn’t been a carbon copy of one James and I had taken in that exact spot… If the doll hadn’t been a replica of my favorite orange plushie… And if the soup hadn’t been the exact recipe I had spent weeks developing to soothe James’s chronic stomach problems… Then maybe, just maybe, I could have applauded this happy little illicit love nest. But that soup recipe… I had only ever shared it with one person: my mother-in-law. Which meant that besides me, she was the only one who knew it. And now it was simmering in Heather’s kitchen. The weight of so many betrayals crashed down on me. Was I such a failure that everyone in my life felt no hesitation in hurting me? Just as I was drowning in despair, the door swung open. Heather burst in, beaming. She threw herself into James’s arms. “It’s wonderful! James, my love, I’m finally going to give you a son!” James stroked her cheek, a look of pure adoration on his face. Then he looked up, and his eyes met mine. For the first time in our twenty years together, I saw genuine panic on James Shaw’s face. … He never, in a million years, could have expected to find me here. But in that moment, a strange calm washed over me. I took out my phone and started recording. He saw the red light and lunged for it, but I stepped back. “Think carefully, James. This building has security cameras. If I get the footage, your reputation is finished.” James’s breath came in ragged gasps. He was a man accustomed to being in control, a titan of industry. This loss of control was making him visibly agitated. “Claire, stop this nonsense. Go home.” “I want a divorce.” “I’m not divorcing you. Get that idea out of your head!” “I want a divorce. We’ll sign the papers tomorrow. If not, you and your little secret will be front-page news.” “Why are you doing this? Have you thought about my parents? About your father? Have you thought about our daughter?” The mention of Jenna made something inside me snap. I grabbed a vase and hurled it to the floor. It shattered into a thousand pieces. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare bring them into this!” I screamed, rushing forward and slapping him hard across the face. “You bastard! You didn’t think about them when you were cheating on me! You didn’t think about them when you were getting another woman pregnant! And now that I’ve caught you red-handed, you have the nerve to tell me to think about them? What kind of world-class hypocrite are you?” “You’re nothing but a disgusting old man who can’t keep it in his pants! You think you can humiliate me and then silence me? Dream on! Either you sign those papers with me tomorrow, or we go to war, and I will burn everything to the ground. Your choice!” I went straight to Grant’s law firm. He was free and led me to a quiet office, pouring me a glass of water. “What happened? You look ready to kill someone.” “Don’t ask. I ran into the mistress. She’s pregnant.” “So, what’s your next move?” At the question, my anger flared again. “What can I do? Is there anything I can do now?” Grant paused, then pushed the glass of water closer to me. The small gesture extinguished my rage. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” He shrugged. “It’s fine. The customer is always right.” … Grant explained that this development was actually a huge advantage for me. The photos I took in the apartment, combined with the fact that James now had a child with another woman, constituted irrefutable proof of adultery. This would significantly strengthen my position in the asset division. My mind felt numb. I couldn’t process any of it. When I left the firm, he offered me a ride, but I refused. I needed to walk. I needed to be alone. 5 I walked along the park trails for two or three hours. It was a Friday afternoon, and the park was mostly empty, save for a few people strolling. I saw a young couple, obviously deeply in love. The boy would snap a photo of the girl, then lean in and steal a kiss. Once upon a time, James and I were just like them. We met in high school and were inseparable through college, the campus’s golden couple. My family was well-off, and James was handsome, brilliant, and at the top of his class. Countless girls tried to steal him away. But James never wavered. He gave me a profound sense of security and even proposed to me in our sophomore year. In fairy tales, the prince and princess always end up at the altar. What they never tell you is that getting married is easy; staying married is the impossible part. After graduation, James took over his family’s business and multiplied its profits tenfold. He traveled constantly. The day our daughter was born, he was in another city signing a contract. My in-laws were old-fashioned and desperate for a grandson. After Jenna was born, they pressured me endlessly to try for another. James always shut them down. He was terrified of me going through another postpartum hemorrhage like the first one. He placed me on a pedestal, safe and secure inside an ivory tower. I never imagined the man holding me up had grown weary, or that he would let me fall without so much of a warning. Heather wasn’t the first. But she was the first one James allowed to be seen, to taunt me openly. He was testing me, trying to find the absolute limit of my tolerance. Or maybe, his ideal endgame was to have it all. When I finally got home, my in-laws were there, laughing and chatting happily with Jenna. My poor, foolish daughter. I had sheltered her so well that she was completely oblivious to the malice her grandparents held in their hearts. And there, in the center of them all, was Heather, smiling sweetly. James looked up and saw me. The red mark from my slap was still visible on his cheek. His expression wasn’t as pleased as I expected. Because he also saw the resolve in my eyes. After twenty years, we could still read each other without a word. His face instantly turned to stone. He turned to Heather. “You should go.” The warmth in the room evaporated. Heather was stunned. “Wh-what? Why?” “I said go.” In the Shaw household, money was power, and James’s word was law. My in-laws didn’t dare say a thing, confused by his sudden change of heart. My mother-in-law shot me a venomous glare. James called for the driver. Heather started to leave, looking back at him with every step. Jenna couldn’t take it anymore. “Mom, what is wrong with you?” she yelled. “Why are you making Heather leave? She came to see me! She’s my friend!” For the first time, I didn’t hold back. A cold laugh escaped my lips. “You want to be best friends with your father’s mistress?” “…I told you, it’s a misunderstanding! There’s nothing going on between them!” “Heather is pregnant with your father’s child.” Jenna’s face went pale. She turned to James. “Dad… is that true?” 6 James sent everyone away. We sat at opposite ends of the long dining table, the silence stretching between us. “I don’t understand, Claire. Why do you have to make things so ugly?” he finally said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I told you, Heather won’t affect your position. When the baby is born, you’ll be his mother. Nothing between us has to change.” I just stared at him. How could anyone say those words with a straight face? I was so stunned I started to laugh. “How could you possibly think that’s okay?” I asked him directly. He slammed his fist on the table. “Why shouldn’t it be okay? It’s how the world works!” “Look at Bob Henderson—sixty years old, and his new girlfriend just gave him a son. His wife even went over to help out after the birth! Look at Mr. Davies—he has a whole apartment building in the city filled with mistresses waiting for him to visit!” “So what have I done that’s so terrible? All I want is a son, something to make my parents happy. If your health hadn’t been an issue, do you think I would have looked elsewhere? Claire, search your heart. Have I not been good to you all these years?” His voice rose with each word, a crescendo of self-pity and indignation. “After your mother died, your father only cared about his new wife and son. It was my money that made them treat you with respect! Every time you went home and acted like a queen, who do you think was backing you up? It was me!” “Every class reunion, you showed up dripping in designer clothes and jewelry. Everyone envied you, flattered you. You think that was about you? They were kissing up to James Shaw!” “My mother has been begging me for a grandson for years, and I always told her no, that Jenna was enough. You think I don’t want a son? I have this massive company! Am I supposed to just hand it over to a stranger? Who’s the naive one here, Claire? You or me? Just drop it! Like your friend said, stop being so ungrateful!” He was shouting now, his face contorted with outrage, as if in this entire sordid affair, I was the one at fault. My laughter returned, sharp and bitter. It’s true what they say—at the peak of anger, all you can do is laugh. I didn’t know whether to curse his callous cruelty or laugh at my own foolishness. Twenty years of what I thought was a happy, loving marriage was, in his eyes, nothing more than charity. I looked at him, really looked at him. His face hadn’t changed much over the years, but now, all I saw was an ugly, repulsive stranger. I had no interest in a screaming match about who was right or wrong. At this point, it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting what I was owed and getting out. I stood up and pulled a file from my bag. “Since you’re so unhappy with me, you shouldn’t have any problem with this. Here’s the divorce agreement. Sign it.” James stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. “I’ve said all that, and you still want a divorce?” “Yes,” I said, my voice steady. “I do.” “Fine,” he snarled, grabbing the papers. “Don’t you dare regret this.” He scanned the pages, then seized a pen and, with a vicious stroke, ended our twenty years of marriage.

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The first person I saw after stepping off the plane at JFK was a ghost from a past I had buried seven years ago: my ex-fiancé’s sister. She cornered me by the baggage claim, her arms crossed. “It’s been seven years, Elara. Don’t you think it’s time you apologized to my brother?” Her brother, Julian Vance, was the man I almost married. Seven years ago, at our engagement party, in front of everyone we knew, he had shattered my world. He’d publicly called off our wedding, accusing me of carrying another man’s child. He wished me a long and happy life with my “lover” before taking his young assistant’s hand and walking out, leaving me in the ruins. But there was no lover. There never had been. The wound he’d carved into my soul had been so deep I’d fled New York that very night. And now, his sister, Jessica, stood before me, suggesting I should be the one to crawl back and beg for a second chance. A dry laugh escaped my lips. “Apologize? For what? My daughter is already in kindergarten. The time for reconciliation is long past.” 1 Jessica’s perfectly made-up face stared back at me in disbelief. “What did you say? You… you’re married?” Her voice was a stuttered whisper, as if she couldn’t process the words. “And a child? A… a four-year-old?” I gave a curt nod, having no desire to get dragged back into the Vance family drama. I tried to step around her, but she grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “You’re joking, Elara. This has to be a joke!” Her voice climbed to a shrill pitch, drawing stares from fellow travelers. “You would never marry someone else! You couldn’t possibly give up on Julian!” She leaned in, her voice dripping with a venomous pity. “Everyone in our circle knew you lived and breathed for him. A shadow. You threw away that incredible career opportunity, a job anyone would kill for, all for him. How could you possibly marry another man?” Her eyes widened with a sudden, crazed realization. “And the child! She’s not four! She’s seven! She has to be Julian’s daughter!” I felt a familiar headache begin to throb at my temples. I couldn’t believe she was dredging up my past devotion as proof of her insane theory. It was true, I had loved Julian. I’d loved him so much that everyone saw me as an extension of him, not as his partner. But that was a lifetime ago. “Why would I lie to you?” I asked, my voice flat. “And as for Julian’s child… I took care of that seven years ago.” The implication of my words seemed to ignite her. Her grip tightened, her nails digging into my skin. “Impossible! Tell me, who is your husband? Is he as handsome as Julian? As tall? I bet he’s not even six feet.” The questions came in a torrent, each one a thinly veiled insult. “What does he do? Where does he work? Does he even clear six figures a year?” Her words were laced with a hostile certainty that by leaving her brother, I had doomed myself to a life of mediocrity. I had no interest in wasting my breath on a woman so blinded by a cult-like devotion to her brother. “Jessica,” I said calmly, “this has nothing to do with you or your family anymore.” I began to pry her fingers off my arm, one by one. She wouldn’t let go. “Is that it, Elara? Did you marry some lesser man just to spite my brother? Do you have any idea what he’s been through? He nearly destroyed himself looking for you!” She puffed out her chest, a triumphant gleam in her eye. “He runs Vance Corporation now! He’s powerful, handsome, and rich. Women dream of being with him! And you, you foolish girl, threw him away out of stubborn pride!” By the end of her speech, she was practically beaming, as if the world contained no other man of value. As if I were a blind fool for not wanting him back. She lifted her chin, looking down her nose at me. “It’s not too late to apologize. We Vances aren’t completely unreasonable.” The sheer audacity made me want to laugh, but all I felt was a wave of nausea. 2 Seven years ago, I stood on a stage in a pristine white dress, my hand outstretched, ready to begin the rest of my life. Instead, Julian, my groom-to-be, took the microphone and shattered it. He threw the diamond ring that was meant for my finger to the floor. “I gave you so many chances to be honest with me, Elara, but you kept lying!” I was bewildered. “Lying about what?” “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced to the stunned crowd, “I regret to inform you that the wedding is off. It seems Ms. Hayes here has found comfort in another man’s arms. The child she is carrying is not mine!” With that, he flung a stack of photographs at my face. They scattered across the floor at my feet—intimate, compromising pictures of me in bed with a man I had never seen before. A gasp rippled through the guests. Julian’s parents wore masks of fury, while my own parents’ faces burned with shame. “Those aren’t real!” I pleaded, my voice trembling. “I don’t know that man!” But Julian’s eyes were cold steel. “The Vances have a legacy to protect. I will not marry a woman with a divided heart, and I certainly won’t raise another man’s bastard child!” He turned, took his young assistant’s hand, and walked off the stage. The groom was gone. The wedding was over. My parents, after slapping me hard across the face, rushed after the Vances, leaving me alone amidst the scattered lies, the target of a hundred pairs of judging eyes. The day before I left New York for good, Julian’s mother requested a meeting. She surveyed me from across a small café table, her expression unreadable. “Julian’s behavior was in poor taste,” she began, her tone measured. “This was a private matter that should have been handled discreetly, not turned into a public spectacle.” She paused, taking a sip of her tea. “And yes, we know the photos were doctored. Julian is a good boy, but he can be naive. He was manipulated. His father and I have taken him to task for his outburst.” Her tone shifted, becoming sharp as glass. “However, the damage to his reputation is done. You know Julian is the sole heir to the Vance Corporation. He cannot afford the slightest hint of scandal. He needs a partner who supports him, who is unimpeachable.” I understood her meaning perfectly and said nothing. She slid a bank card across the table. “This is three million dollars. Get rid of the baby.” I stared at the card. “What does he think?” I managed to ask. A small, thin smile touched her lips. “My son? Did you see his assistant at the party? Melissa Monroe. A Cambridge PhD. She will be Julian’s future wife. As you know, our family has traditional values. We cannot have a daughter-in-law with your… history.” But I knew. It wasn’t about my manufactured history. It was about securing a powerful alliance. Even if it meant sacrificing their own grandchild. 3 “Elara, are you even listening to me?” Jessica’s angry voice pulled me from the memory. “My brother is a huge success, and he’s still obsessed with you. All you have to do is say you’re sorry, and you can have it all back.” I looked at her, this woman so lost in her own self-serving fantasy, and felt nothing but pity. “No, thank you,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “I’m very happy now. And I don’t need your brother’s forgiveness.” With that, I turned and walked toward the taxi stand. “You’ll regret this, Elara!” she screamed after me. “Without my brother, you’re nothing! You’ll be stuck with that poor, pathetic husband of yours for the rest of your life!” I didn’t look back. Everyone once thought I couldn’t live without Julian Vance. But the world keeps spinning, with or without any single person in it. Soon, I arrived at the preschool. Across the street, I saw my daughter, Lily, laughing as she and her friends played with a jump rope. Her smile was pure sunshine. A warmth spread through my chest, and I started to cross toward her. Suddenly, I was slammed against a brick wall. “Elara, I can’t believe you’d stoop to such a childish game just to get back at me.” I looked up. The man pinning me to the wall was impossibly handsome, dressed in a tailored suit that looked like it had just come from a boardroom. It was my ex-fiancé, Julian. Seeing him after seven years was disorienting. We’d grown up together, our houses separated only by a quiet suburban street. We were inseparable. He’d transformed himself from a slacker to a top student just to get into the same university as me, even turning down a scholarship to study abroad. Everyone said he was crazy about me. And I, in turn, had given up a lucrative career to support his. When his work became all-consuming, I was the one who brought him home-cooked meals, who listened to his frustrations, who made sure he never had to worry about a thing. Slowly, in the eyes of others, I went from his girlfriend to his devoted follower. We used to laugh it off. Then Melissa Monroe appeared. His new assistant. Capable, gentle, beautiful. At first, I paid her no mind. Julian had always been surrounded by impressive women, but his eyes had only ever been for me. Until they weren’t. Their private messages became more frequent. One afternoon, I left my phone at his office by mistake. When I went back to get it, I heard Melissa’s voice from inside his office. “Julian,” she was saying, holding my phone, “Elara’s phone is here. I accidentally saw a new message… from someone saved as ‘My Darling’.” She looked up and saw me, then had the audacity to feign embarrassment. “Oh, Elara, I am so sorry! I wasn’t trying to snoop, I was just curious.” Julian’s face went dark. “She’s a female friend,” I explained. “She uses a male profile for her work.” I even played a voice note from our chat to prove it. But as the clear, feminine voice filled the room, Julian just stared at me, his face an unreadable mask. After that, a wall of ice grew between us. My attempts to talk were always brushed aside with the excuse of “work.” Meanwhile, Melissa was always there, offering him comfort and support. The day before our engagement party, she sent me a photo: Julian, asleep beside her, dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes. Melissa’s expression in the photo was one of smug triumph. A voice message followed. “Julian’s been under so much stress with work lately,” she cooed. “Try not to upset him.” My mind reeled, but I told myself he was just exhausted from work, that he’d had too much to drink. I spent right up until the ceremony trying to bridge the gap between us, unwilling to let a misunderstanding destroy a twenty-year history. I never imagined he would use a stranger’s lies to publicly humiliate me, to abandon me on what should have been the happiest day of my life. And now, here he was, his eyes bloodshot with a terrifying intensity. “You run off with my daughter for seven years, Elara, and you have nothing to say for yourself?” “Mr. Vance,” I said, my voice cold, “the child you’re referring to is gone.” “Enough, Elara!” he snarled, his composure cracking. “Not only did you cheat on me with some lowlife, you took my mother’s money and left me, and now you’re trying to make my daughter call another man ‘daddy’!” Before I could react, he lunged past me and snatched Lily. “What are you doing?!” I screamed, my blood running cold. He ignored me, turning to my terrified, sobbing daughter. “Shh, don’t cry,” he crooned. “Daddy’s taking you home.” Lily’s cries intensified into heart-wrenching wails. “You’re not my daddy! I want my mommy!” She struggled in his arms, her face turning red as she gasped for air. A spear of panic pierced my heart. “Julian, give her back to me!” I lunged for her, but he shoved me hard, sending me stumbling to the pavement. He looked down at me, his face twisted with rage. “You ran away with my child. Why should I give her back to you now?” Ignoring the scrape on my knee, I scrambled up and charged toward him again. This time, an arm shot out and grabbed me. It was Jessica. She sneered, her eyes filled with contempt. “I’ve seen your type before, Elara. Using a child to claw your way back into wealth. You’re just playing hard to get.” She tightened her grip. “I’m telling you, you are not taking a Vance child anywhere today!” As she spoke, Julian moved toward his car, still holding my screaming daughter. Just as he reached for the door handle, he glanced back at me. “If you want your daughter back, divorce that nobody. No daughter of mine will call another man father.” In that same instant, a black Rolls-Royce appeared out of nowhere, speeding directly toward Julian’s car. My heart leaped into my throat. Julian froze, his legs visibly buckling. His grip on Lily slackened for just a second, and it was all she needed. She wriggled free, stumbling toward me, crying “Mommy!” as I rushed to scoop her into my arms and shield her with my body. The Rolls-Royce screeched to a halt, its bumper less than an inch from Julian’s car. The driver had incredible skill. Julian, recovering from the shock, immediately tried to approach us again. He plastered a sickeningly sweet smile on his face. “Come here, sweetheart,” he coaxed. “Daddy will take you to Disneyland. We’ll go to the aquarium restaurant and see the dolphins.” It was a pathetic attempt. What he didn’t know was that these things were not extravagant treats for my daughter; they were part of her normal life. More importantly, my husband and I had drilled stranger safety into her from the moment she could talk. Even if she’d never been to Disneyland, she would never go with him. His plan was doomed. Seeing that his false kindness wasn’t working, the mask fell away. He lunged for us. I shut my eyes, clutching Lily tightly as she let out a terrified shriek. But the impact never came. I opened my eyes. A man stood between us and Julian, his hand clamped firmly on Julian’s arm, stopping him cold. The man was tall and impeccably dressed, with a face so handsome it seemed carved from marble. It was my husband, Adrian Hale.

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1 The world shattered in a screech of metal and glass. I was driving to my final check-up when suddenly I was rushed into the ER alongside another pregnant woman from the other car. “Her water broke! We need to move — now! Get the husband to sign the forms,” a nurse yelled urgently. As they wheeled me toward the OR, I gasped, “My husband’s busy… I can sign myself!” Just then, the other woman’s husband burst in, his face bloody. “Help her first!” he shouted, pointing to the other gurney. “She has a heart condition — she’s worse!” His face was panicked and dirty, but I knew him. My heart stopped. Alberto. That’s my husband. He turned to the medical team with sudden professional calm. “I’m Dr. Alberto Hayes from Metropolitan General OB/GYN. Trust my judgment.” I reached out, trembling, trying to touch him. He swatted my hand away without looking. “But this patient’s water has broken,” a nurse said, gesturing at me. Alberto gave me a cold, dismissive glance. “She’ll be fine. I’m her husband. I’ll sign a waiver.” … The crash had thrown the hospital into chaos, and doctors were stretched thin. An operating room had been a precious, life-saving lottery ticket, and I had just won it. But because my husband was a respected authority at Metropolitan General, the staff deferred to him. They trusted his “professional judgment.” They delayed my surgery. As my gurney was pushed aside, Alberto didn’t even look at me. His focus was entirely on the other woman, Bella. He held her hand, his touch gentle, all his fear and tenderness laid bare for her. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing promise. “I’ll get approval, and I’ll perform the surgery myself. I’ll make sure you get off that table safely.” The raw devotion in his eyes was a spike through my heart. With no available beds, I was left in the hallway, forced to watch the man I married pour his soul out for another woman. All around me, patients were surrounded by family, their hands held, their fears soothed by a loving presence. My own loving presence had just secured permission to personally save his true love. He walked past me on his way to scrub in. He paused for a fraction of a second but never turned his head. His steps were firm, resolute, leaving behind nothing but a cold, clipped sentence that drifted back to me. “You’re not going to die. Please, trust my professional judgment.” I don’t know how long that surgery took. Waiting in the cold, chaotic hallway, I drifted in and out of a pained, hazy sleep. The next time I was jolted awake, it was to the sound of panic. A crowd of scrubs and white coats swarmed around my gurney. “Patient is experiencing an acute amniotic fluid embolism! Now! Get the blood bank on the line!” “Where is Dr. Hayes?! Get him here! He’s the only one in the entire city who’s successfully treated an AFE! None of us have the experience!” The frantic thud of footsteps echoed around me as several orderlies grabbed my gurney and started running. “It’s going to be okay,” one of them said, his voice strained with false confidence. “Your husband is the best OB/GYN in the city. He’s handled two of these cases before, ninety-nine percent success rate. You’re young, you’re healthy, your blood type is common. You have a great chance.” They burst through the doors of an operating room. The blinding white light seared my eyes. Voices called out my vitals, a strange mix of clinical calm and rising panic. “No! Her O2 stats are dropping too fast! She’s not going to make it! Where the hell is Dr. Hayes?” my attending physician yelled, his hand gripping mine, his skin cold and clammy. A nurse nearby answered, her voice trembling. “Dr. Hayes… he left after finishing Bella’s surgery. He said she woke up craving the soup he makes, and he went home to cook it for her.” “Then call him!” “We did! He’s not picking up…” “The baby! Fetal heartbeat is gone! The mother has no will to live, we’re losing them both!” My doctor squeezed my hand, his voice firm and close to my ear. “They assigned you to me, and I don’t give up on my patients. You hear me? Don’t you dare give up on yourself! Get Pediatrics in here for the infant resuscitation! We are saving them both, do you understand?” Okay… I managed a weak flutter of my eyelids. Someone in this world still wanted me to live. I had to try. The interns were still frantically trying to reach Alberto. My doctor and a team of senior surgeons began a desperate, racing battle against time to save me. I watched bags of blood, full and red, being hung, then taken down, empty and pale. I saw the sweat pouring down their faces, their brows furrowed in intense concentration. A hollow ache bloomed in my chest. Just then, an intern held up my phone, his voice filled with relief. “Dr. Hayes is calling her! He’s calling back!” The call was put on speakerphone, his voice echoing through the tense silence of the OR. It wasn’t a voice of concern. It was sharp, impatient, and angry. “Lia! Where the hell did you put your hospital go-bag? It’s not like you’ll be needing it anytime soon. I’m taking it for Bella to use.” 2 I saw my attending physician’s brow furrow in disbelief. His face hardened as he handed his instrument to another surgeon and strode over to the intern, taking the sterilized, bagged phone. “Dr. Hayes,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “Your wife has suffered an acute amniotic fluid embolism and is currently in critical condition. You have experience in this area. We need you at Riverside Community Hospital immediately to assist with saving her life.” Beep. Beep. Beep. He had hung up. “What the— Is he insane?!” one of the younger doctors exploded. “His wife is dying, and he’s worried about a go-bag for his mistress? Some top doctor! He’s nothing but a world-class scumbag!” The outburst was loud enough for everyone to hear. I almost laughed. The attending physician, realizing his colleague’s words might affect me, quickly apologized. Through the fog of anesthesia, I tried to move my eyes to show him it was okay. Because he was right. In that single, sharp moment, despair washed over me, a black tide that swallowed the last flicker of my will to fight. “Her O2 is crashing! Get more units from the blood bank!” Riverside Community began making emergency calls to every hospital in the city, pleading for plasma. The news of a woman battling an AFE spread quickly, even making it onto the local news reports. Finally, Metropolitan General sent over another doctor who had previously assisted with an AFE surgery. He rushed in, still breathless. “What a coincidence! Dr. Hayes’s wife just gave birth over at our hospital too. I was just stopping by to visit when I heard about your emergency. I got special permission to come over and help.” Dr. Hayes’s wife? My attending physician shot a quick, confused glance in my direction. But Alberto’s colleague, having worked with him on these cases before, was relatively calm. He helped stabilize the situation. As my vitals slowly returned to normal, he tried to lighten the mood with some chatter. “When I was on my way over, I saw the pediatric team had resuscitated the newborn. A healthy, chubby little boy.” He chuckled. “But they kept calling for the dad, and no one showed up. Is she a single mom or something?” My doctor cleared his throat loudly. The man didn’t catch the hint. “And it’s strange, you know? Alberto’s wife is in Room 303 right over at Metropolitan, but he didn’t come here to help you guys out. He’s the authority on this stuff! Did he turn down a chance to save a life because he was too worried about his own wife giving birth?” He kept rambling until an intern couldn’t take it anymore. “Dr. Evans,” she snapped, “the woman lying in front of you is Dr. Hayes’s wife, Lia.” Dr. Evans chuckled. “Don’t be ridiculous, kid. I’ve worked with Alberto for years. I think I know who his wife is. It’s Bella. Not some Lia.” “We’re screwed,” my doctor muttered, watching my monitor as my once-stable vitals began to plummet again. He turned on Dr. Evans, his voice laced with fury. “Why would we lie to you about that? This is Lia Thorne, Alberto Hayes’s wife! He admitted it himself! She had a sliver of a will to live, and now, after what you just said, it’s completely gone!” Dr. Evans slapped his forehead. “I thought you were all joking!” At that moment, the faint sound of a baby’s cry cut through the tension. “The baby!” my doctor yelled to the pediatricians across the room. “Bring the baby to the mother, let her see him!” I forced my heavy eyelids open. A tiny, purplish infant was brought into my line of sight. A weak smile touched my lips. He was so wrinkled and ugly. He looked just like Alberto. But I loved him. An instinctive, biological mother’s love that I couldn’t control, even as it disgusted me. After a grueling twenty-four hours and a transfusion of what felt like the city’s entire blood supply, I survived. When I was finally moved from the ICU to a regular room, the maternity nurse I’d hired was already there. She looked incredibly awkward, holding a used diaper in her hand. I knew instantly what had happened. “Ma’am,” she began, avoiding my eyes. “Mr. Hayes insisted that I go and take care of Miss Bella first. I… I couldn’t really say no.” 3 Before I could respond, Alberto’s voice boomed from the doorway. “Maria, hurry up! The baby spit up again, and Bella is too weak to hold him.” He pushed the door open and froze, clearly surprised to see me there, awake and alive. Our eyes met for a moment before he adopted an air of nonchalant dismissal. “Our son is still in the NICU, so Maria isn’t needed here yet,” he stated, not asked. “I’m just borrowing her for Bella. I’m sure you don’t mind.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Oh, by the way, I called your parents. They’re on their way. I’m exhausted from taking care of Bella, so I really don’t have the energy to look after you too. Hope you understand.” Just then, a group of his colleagues arrived, their arms laden with gift baskets and flowers. “Alberto, what are you doing in here?” one of them asked. “Your wife is looking for you!” “Bella needs something?” he asked, his immediate assumption that “wife” meant Bella sending another pang through me. He rushed out to her. His colleagues followed, leaving only Maria standing there, utterly bewildered. “But you’re Dr. Hayes’s wife, aren’t you?” she whispered. “I thought Bella was just his friend. Why does everyone call her Mrs. Hayes?” I managed a weak, bitter smile. “I guess it’s just a misunderstanding.” Maria tossed a washcloth onto the counter in frustration. “Doesn’t he have a mouth? Can’t he correct them when they’re ‘misunderstood’? It seems to me Dr. Hayes has a wandering eye and is more than happy to let everyone think Bella is his wife.” Even a stranger could see Alberto’s intentions so clearly. Bella was his high school crush, the goddess he never had the guts to ask out but whose pedestal he worshipped at from afar, very publicly. I wouldn’t have known the depths of his obsession if he hadn’t dragged me to a class reunion once. I saw a side of him I never knew existed—this proud, arrogant man, so subservient and meek in her presence. Facing Bella, he was always looking down, like a scolded puppy. His old roommates had joked with the newly divorced Bella, “You really have bad luck, goddess. If you’d just said yes to Alberto back then, you’d be Mrs. Dr. Hayes, the wife of Metropolitan General’s top specialist. Someone else wouldn’t have gotten the chance.” And I was that “someone else,” sitting right there, trying to saw through a tough piece of steak. None of his friends liked me. They saw me as the obstacle between Alberto and Bella. Without me, their goddess would have had her rightful place. And Alberto believed it, too. After that reunion, he started giving me the silent treatment. He used work as an excuse, coming home once a week at most and refusing to accompany me to a single prenatal appointment. Meanwhile, he became a fixture in Bella’s social media posts, lauded as her “amazing male friend.” Bella, for her part, never corrected the assumptions about their relationship. She’d just smile, a silent, all-accepting refusal to clarify. Alberto was the same. He basked in the glory of people thinking the vibrant, beautiful Bella was his wife. We fought about it once. He told me the “truth would speak for itself” and there was no need to prove anything. He told me to respect his right to have friends. When it came to Bella, his confidence evaporated. The slightest hint of affection from her, and he’d come running like a dog. But with me, he was always so sure. He thought I was his for the taking. If I couldn’t leave him before we had a child, I certainly wouldn’t leave him now. That certainty made him reckless. He forgot one crucial thing. Unlike him, I wasn’t a dog who would keep coming back for scraps. Bella’s room was right next to mine. A steady stream of visitors flowed in and out—Alberto’s colleagues, his old classmates, and even Dr. Evans, the surgeon from my operation. “Alberto, what you’re doing is disgusting!” I heard Dr. Evans’s voice, sharp and clear even through the wall. “Bella isn’t your wife, but you never correct anyone! You let all of us colleagues make fools of ourselves, calling her ‘Mrs. Hayes’ day in and day out! Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was during your real wife’s surgery?” There was a long pause before Alberto finally replied, his voice flat. “I told you all to just call her Bella. You were the ones who insisted on calling her ‘Mrs. Hayes.’” 4 “Are you f—king kidding me? You couldn’t just say ‘she’s my friend’? Besides, your wife just survived an AFE! She was literally knocking on death’s door, and you’re in here playing nursemaid to Bella? Aren’t you afraid your wife is just going to leave you?” I heard the sound of a hand slapping against my door, as if Dr. Evans was trying to shove Alberto into my room. But the sound was followed by the firm click of Bella’s door being shut. “Afraid?” Alberto’s laugh was a cold, cruel thing. “I wish she would. She was the one who chased me for years, a pathetic backup plan who finally got lucky. She’d never leave. And now with the baby? She’s trapped.” The sound of his mocking chuckle sliced through me. “She’s not like Bella. Bella has a heart condition; she’s fragile. Lia was an athlete. An AFE is a big deal for other people, but for her? It’s a minor inconvenience.” “Have you lost your mind? You’re a damn OB/GYN! Do you not know the mortality rate for an AFE?” Dr. Evans shot back, his voice thick with disbelief. “That patient who died on your table last year was an athlete, in perfect health! An AFE took her in less than thirty minutes. Your wife is just lucky. Maybe Death took one look at her miserable marriage and took pity on her.” Dr. Evans argued until he was hoarse, but Alberto never came into my room. Instead, I got a notification on my phone: a wire transfer for twenty thousand dollars with a curt message to take care of myself. I blocked his number. I deleted every form of contact. That evening, my attending physician, Dr. Cole, stopped by. He told me that since my recovery was going well, a local news station wanted to interview me. Surviving an amniotic fluid embolism, with its ninety-nine percent mortality rate, was a miracle. “Don’t worry, the interview will be quick,” he assured me. “Afterward, the heads of Metropolitan General and a few other major hospitals are going to hold a postpartum consultation for you. It’s a good thing.” “Okay,” I agreed without hesitation. On the day of the interview, Alberto showed up. He was dressed in a sharp suit, standing confidently among the hospital administrators. He spoke at length about the challenges he faced performing my surgery, the immense pressure of operating on his own wife. Dr. Evans stood nearby, head down, looking miserable. The leadership from Metropolitan General beamed at Alberto with pride, murmuring words of sympathy. “The hardest thing for a surgeon is to operate on a loved one,” his direct supervisor proclaimed for the cameras. “And in this case, Dr. Hayes was faced with the lives of his wife and unborn son. It took incredible strength and a will of iron to achieve such a perfect outcome.” The supervisor gave Alberto a pointed look. Alberto strode through the crowd and stopped in front of my bed. “You know I’m up for a promotion,” he whispered, his voice low. “This is a huge opportunity.” He leaned closer. “Thank God it was you they were saving. If it had been anyone else, this wouldn’t have been so easy to arrange. When they ask you questions, don’t say the wrong thing. Remember, I was the one who performed your surgery. Just me. My superiors have already taken care of the narrative.” He reached out and ruffled my hair, an old gesture of affection. But I hadn’t washed it since giving birth, and it was greasy. He quickly wiped his hand on his trousers with a flicker of disgust. The interview began. Dr. Cole arrived late and was blocked from entering the room by staff from Metropolitan General. A reporter pushed a microphone toward my face. “Ms. Thorne, after such a near-death experience, what is the most important thing you want to say?” I paused, gathering my thoughts, then took the microphone. “I want to thank the doctors for their absolute refusal to give up on me, especially when I was about to give up on myself. They never faltered.” The reporter, sensing a story, glanced from me to Alberto and back again. “And is there any particular doctor you’d like to thank the most?” I saw Dr. Evans by the door, already turning to leave. I raised my hand and pointed past the crowd. “My attending physician, Dr. Cole, and from Metropolitan General…” Every camera swiveled to Alberto. He puffed out his chest, a prepared speech already on his lips. “…Dr. Evans!” I finished. The room erupted in confused murmurs. Alberto stared at me, his eyes wide with fury. He fumbled for his phone, probably to text me, but the failed delivery notification only made his expression darker. Dr. Evans, singled out, looked utterly stunned, his eyes welling up with tears. The reporter, flustered, tried to regain control. “Is there… anyone else?” I smiled, a wide, bright, unforgiving smile. “Of course. There is one more person. I want to thank my husband most of all.”

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After the divorce from my movie-star husband, I took my settlement, bought a run-down property on the outskirts of the city, and opened a shelter for stray animals. His new flame, an actress and viral sensation, took a swipe at me on their celebrity reality show. “Some people just don’t have what it takes,” she said to a live audience of millions, “so they surround themselves with helpless animals to feel important.” The entire internet was waiting for me to become a punchline. The next moment, on a globally televised broadcast from the World Economic Summit, the richest man on the planet interrupted his own keynote speech to make an urgent, public plea. “Whoever finds my cat,” he said, his voice tight with desperation, “will be rewarded with a ten percent stake in the Sterling Tower.” The photo he displayed on the screen behind him was of the hungriest, most mischievous orange cat currently living in my shelter. 1 “Liam, is your ex-wife… okay?” On the live feed of the celebrity reality show Living with the Grays, Chloe Summers draped herself over my ex-husband’s arm, her laughter tinkling like cheap wind chimes. “While we’re out here hustling, building our careers, she takes your money and opens some dilapidated animal shelter on the outskirts of the city. Spends all day with a bunch of dirty cats and dogs.” She leaned into the camera, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “I mean, some people just don’t have what it takes, so they surround themselves with helpless animals to feel important.” Liam Gray, Hollywood’s newest leading man and my ex-husband, tenderly brushed a stray strand of blonde hair from Chloe’s forehead. He offered the camera a weary, indulgent smile. “Don’t be like that,” he said, his voice dripping with magnanimity. “She just… has a big heart.” The tone was pure condescension, the kind you’d use for a child who just can’t seem to understand the grown-up world. The live comments exploded. [OMG Liam is such a gentleman! I ship them so hard! #Loe] [Chloe’s savage but she’s not wrong. Who even knew who Willa was before she married him?] [I heard she got a massive settlement. And she opens a shelter? Talk about throwing your life away.] [LOL, she gave up being Mrs. Liam Gray to go scoop poop. Is she crazy?] My phone vibrated incessantly on the counter, a stream of screenshots and “Are you okay?” texts from my few real friends. I ignored them. Setting the phone face down, I gently lifted a sleeping orange cat from the top of a scratching post. “Cheeto, you’re putting on weight again. We’re going to have to talk about portion control.” I’d named him Cheeto. He was the shelter’s hungriest, most mischievous, and most affectionate resident. I managed two strokes down his back before he pushed my hand away with an impatient paw, hopped to the floor, and expertly tore open a bag of freeze-dried salmon treats, the crunching sound echoing in the quiet room. I sighed and reached for the dustpan. The whole internet was waiting for my response, hungry for a tearful, hysterical breakdown. But all I felt was tired of the noise. When we divorced, Liam gave me this small, run-down property and a sum of money he considered “more than generous.” He expected me to wither like a vine cut from its tree, lost without his spotlight to sustain me. He never understood that all I ever wanted was to get away from the glare, to live a quiet life of my own making. On the television, a financial news network was covering a global business summit. Liam and Chloe were still on screen in a smaller window, performing their roles as the perfect, aspirational couple. I muted the volume and turned to refill the water bowls for the dogs in the yard. As I turned my back, a familiar face filled the silent screen. Alistair Sterling. The richest man in the world. A man who typically only appeared on the cover of Forbes was now standing at a podium, broadcast live across the globe. He seemed to have gone off-script, his expression etched with a raw urgency I’d never seen on a man of his stature. The next moment, he leaned into the microphone, his voice steady but laced with a barely concealed desperation that cut through the silence of my living room. I fumbled for the remote, turning the volume up. “…anyone who can help me find my cat, I am prepared to offer a ten percent stake in the Sterling Tower as a reward.” An assistant quickly projected a photo onto the massive screen behind him. It was a chubby orange cat with a comically imperious expression. It was identical to Cheeto, who was at that very moment trying to wedge his entire head into the treat bag at my feet. 2 “Willa, have you completely lost your mind?” Liam’s voice on the other end of the line was a low, controlled burn of fury. “Isn’t this embarrassing enough for you? For me?” he seethed. “Posting that kind of thing online… Do you have any idea that Chloe was mobbed by reporters all day because of you?” I’d just settled the last of the puppies for the night, my back aching from the strain. “What did I post?” “Don’t play dumb with me!” His voice shot up an octave. “That billionaire’s cat! Why did you have to jump on that bandwagon? The entire internet is laughing at you, calling you a delusional gold digger. Are you trying to drag my name through the mud with you?” I stayed quiet. After seeing the news report, I’d been stunned. But then I’d thought, there are millions of orange cats in the world. It’s probably just a coincidence. I’d gone to bed and put it out of my mind. But this morning, while trimming his claws, I’d noticed it: a faint, heart-shaped marking on the pad of Cheeto’s back paw. It was a perfect match for the detailed close-up photo Alistair Sterling had released to the press. After a long hesitation, I’d filmed a short, quiet video of Cheeto and posted it online. I didn’t show my face. It was just clips of him eating, sleeping, and attempting to shred a new armchair, ending with a clear shot of the heart-shaped mark. I hadn’t been thinking about the reward. My only thought was that somewhere out there, a man was desperately missing his pet. I never imagined it would cause such a firestorm. My Instagram followers had jumped by a million overnight, but the comments were a cesspool of mockery. [Thirsty much? Find a random ginger cat and claim it’s the billionaire’s? Pathetic.] [Nice photoshop job on the paw print. Almost looks real. ] [Just let it go, Willa. You’re divorced. Liam has moved on. Try to have some dignity.] Liam’s call was just gasoline on the fire. “Willa, I’m warning you. Delete that video right now, and post an apology. Stop living in this fantasy world. There are limits to chasing clout.” “But what if it really is him?” I asked softly. A humorless laugh crackled through the phone, followed by Chloe’s syrupy voice in the background. “Liam, honey, don’t waste your breath. She’s just jealous we’re trending, so she cooked up this insane scheme to get some attention.” Liam’s tone softened, shifting into that familiar, patronizing gentleness. “Willa, listen. I know it’s not easy for you on your own. If you’re short on cash, you can just ask me. You don’t have to resort to… this.” “I don’t need your money,” I said, cutting him off. “I was just posting a lost pet announcement.” I hung up. The phone rang again almost immediately. It was Liam’s agent. “Ms. Hayes,” he said, his voice cold and professional. “Liam and Chloe are at a critical stage in their careers. We must insist that you cease using your former association with Mr. Gray to generate publicity that negatively impacts their public image. If you refuse, our legal department will be in touch.” A threat. A bald-faced, Hollywood threat. I looked out the window. The animals I’d rescued were chasing each other across the small patch of grass, bathed in the warm afternoon sun. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. I had escaped that world, so why wouldn’t they just let me go? That evening, Chloe went live on Instagram. The theme: “Chatting about my sweet, misguided friend.” She never mentioned my name, but every word was a perfectly crafted dart aimed directly at me. “So, I have this friend,” she began, sighing dramatically. “She’s been having a really hard time since her divorce, always dreaming that some miracle will just fall into her lap. Recently, she started telling everyone she found a billionaire’s lost cat. Isn’t that just the saddest, funniest thing you’ve ever heard?” Her fans flooded the comments with laughing emojis. [LMAO, I think we all know who Chloe’s talking about.] [It’s her, isn’t it? The ex. This is the funniest story of the year.] 3 Chloe covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with faux giggles. “No, no, you guys, don’t speculate. I’m just sharing a funny story. But seriously, you have to be realistic in life. If you spend too much time daydreaming, you can really lose your grip on reality.” The stream’s viewership soared. My name, Willa Hayes, scrolled across the screen in an endless, mocking loop. I had become a national punchline. The next day, a new kind of trouble arrived at my gate. A group of clout-chasing YouTubers, phones held out like weapons. “What’s up, guys! We’re live on the scene, about to expose the truth behind the Celebrity Ex-Wife’s Billion-Dollar Cat-fish!” They laughed as they pushed open my unlocked gate, their cameras panning across the modest yard. “Check it out! This is it. The so-called ‘palace’ where the Sterling cat is supposedly being held hostage.” “Yikes, this place is a dump. Any cat would get depressed living here.” The dogs in the yard erupted into a frenzy of barking. The more timid cats vanished. I put down the bag of kibble I was carrying and walked outside. “This is private property. You need to leave.” The leader, a guy with bleached-blond hair, shoved his phone in my face. “Whoa, the main character has entered the chat,” he sneered. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. We’re just curious. We want to see the cat that’s worth more than our entire careers combined. We’re giving you free publicity! If the billionaire sees this, you’ll be set for life. You should be thanking us.” Their live chat was a waterfall of vulgar insults. My jaw tightened. I pulled out my phone to call the police. Seeing this, the blond guy’s expression soured. He lunged, trying to snatch the phone from my hand. “What the hell are you doing?” I stumbled back, but one of his friends blocked my path. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a few pictures. Who are you trying to fool with this prim-and-proper act? We all know you posted that video for attention.” They closed in, their words sharp and humiliating. One of them shoved me, and my back slammed against the wall, a sharp pain radiating through my shoulder. Suddenly, an orange blur shot out of the house like a rocket. It was Cheeto. He launched himself through the air, a furry cannonball, and landed squarely on the blond YouTuber’s face. “Aaaargh!” A blood-curdling scream. The guy stumbled back, claw marks instantly welling up with blood on his cheek. Cheeto landed gracefully, arched his back, and let out a guttural hiss that promised more violence. The would-be internet stars, shocked and terrified, scrambled over each other to get away, tumbling out of the gate and disappearing down the street. Silence returned to the yard. I knelt and stroked Cheeto’s head. “Good boy,” I murmured. He rubbed against my hand, a deep, rumbling purr starting in his chest. Looking at him, the last of my hesitation vanished. This wasn’t about money or fame. It was about getting this little warrior home. And it was about finding a way to live my own life, on my own terms, without being pushed around by anyone. I took out my phone and recorded a new video. This time, I spoke. “His name is Cheeto. I found him in a dumpster during a rainstorm about a month ago,” I said, my voice calm and clear. “He’s a picky eater and turns his nose up at cheap kibble. He’s the undisputed king of this yard, and all the other animals know it. And he has a heart-shaped mark on the pad of his back-left paw.” I kept my tone even, factual. “I don’t know if he is the cat you’re looking for. But if your cat is anything like him, please contact me.” I took a deep breath. “I don’t want the reward. All I ask is that you make a donation of food and medical supplies to my shelter.” I paused, turning the camera to the other animals playing in the yard. “They need a home, too.” 4 The video ended with a lingering shot of the shelter’s residents—each one a survivor, each one a soul that had been thrown away. Less than half an hour later, Liam called again. “Willa, are you finally admitting this is about money?” His voice was thick with contempt. “Done playing the saint? Now you’re openly asking for donations? Couldn’t you at least try to be a little less obvious with your scheming?” I listened, saying nothing. “I’m telling you for the last time, take the video down. Stop causing problems for me. Chloe has a major gala next week, and I don’t want her name associated with this kind of desperate circus.” “Liam,” I said, my voice flat. “We’re divorced. What I do has nothing to do with you or with Chloe Summers.” “You—” I ended the call and blocked his number. And his agent’s. And his mother’s. The silence that followed was bliss. My new video began to circulate, and this time, the public reaction started to shift. The mockery was still there, but new voices emerged. [Say what you want, but that shelter looks spotless and the animals look really healthy and happy.] [Her voice is so calm. She doesn’t sound like a crazy person.] [Whether the cat is real or not, advocating for shelter animals is always a good thing.] That night was the season finale of Living with the Grays. The host, of course, brought up the incident with the YouTubers at my shelter. Chloe immediately adopted a look of pained innocence. “I was just horrified,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “I had no idea some of our fans would be so reckless. I’ve already told them their behavior was unacceptable.” She looked into the camera, her eyes welling up. “Honestly, I feel for Willa. It must be so hard for her, all alone with so many animals. Liam and I would be more than happy to help her if she’s struggling. We just wish she would reach out in a… more conventional way.” In one fell swoop, she painted herself as a benevolent saint, heartbroken over her “troubled” friend. Liam, ever the supportive partner, gazed at her with adoration. “She wasn’t always like this,” he added, shaking his head sadly. “I think living alone, all that stress… it can make people do extreme things. I just hope everyone can give her some space and stop harassing her.” Their tag-team performance was flawless. They had successfully crucified me on a cross of their own making, labeling me as unstable, desperate, and pathetic. The live chat became a torrent of hatred aimed at me. [Chloe is literally an angel.] [Liam is still protecting her! What a man!] [Willa, get help! Seriously!] I turned off the broadcast. I looked at their faces on my phone’s dark screen—the man I once shared a bed with, and the woman who had taken my place. They were basking in the glow of public adoration, while I was being treated like a rat in the sewer. I expected to feel a surge of anger, a sting of pain. But strangely, there was nothing. My heart was a placid lake, still and silent before a coming storm. The animals were asleep, and the yard was quiet except for the rustle of wind in the trees. I picked up my phone again and opened the comments on my video. A new comment had been pinned to the top. It had a gold checkmark next to the name, shining like a tiny beacon. It was from the official, verified account of Alistair Sterling. The message was five simple words. “Send us the address. On my way.” For the first time in a very long time, I smiled. A real, genuine smile that reached my eyes. I picked up the remote and switched the television back on. On screen, Chloe was dabbing a tear from her eye, her voice thick with fake emotion. “I just hope Willa can find her way back to reality soon, and stop living in a fantasy.” As the words left her mouth, the giant screen behind the stage suddenly flickered and changed. My video appeared, playing for the entire studio audience and the millions watching at home. And beneath it, highlighted for all to see, was that shining, golden comment. The host froze. The director was probably screaming in the control room.

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