Category: English

It was past midnight when my phone buzzed on the cluttered desk. I was in the middle of a grueling overtime shift, the harsh fluorescent lights of the office humming a low, irritating tune. The text was from Jerry, my boyfriend of five years. I ended the lease on our apartment. Sent you the new address. I stared at the screen, a familiar, cold weight settling in my chest. I didn’t need to look up the zip code to know what this meant. Is this about Melanie again? I typed back, my fingers trembling slightly. Melanie. The fragile, self-made, fiercely independent girl Jerry couldn’t stop talking about. This would be our third move in six months. We had started in a gorgeous, high-rise loft in the Gold Coast, close to everything. Then we downgraded to a noisy mid-rise, and now, according to the map, we were heading to a cramped, sketchy neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. All to be closer to Melanie. Predictably, my text struck a nerve. His reply came back almost instantly, sharp and defensive. Don’t start with the jealousy, Regina. Someone followed her home from work last night. She was terrified. You’re both women. Where is your empathy? I looked out the window. The Chicago skyline was dark, swallowed by the freezing winter night. A sudden, deep exhaustion washed over me. I couldn’t even count how many times Jerry and I had fought over Melanie. It was an exhausting loop: first came my anger and hurt, then his accusations, and finally, this hollow silence. I don’t have time for this, his next text read. I’m going to pick her up from her shift. Before I could type a response, he hung up—metaphorically speaking, cutting off the conversation with the finality of a locked screen. Not once during this entire process had Jerry asked if I wanted to move. Not once did he ask if I wanted him to pick me up, even though it was freezing and past 1 a.m. So, I didn’t ask for his opinion either. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the corporate relocation agreement that had been sitting there for a week. With a steady hand, I signed my name at the bottom: Regina Davies. 01 Before packing up, I knocked on my manager’s door. Sandra was still at her desk. I handed her the signed contract for the London transfer. She looked up, startled. “Regina? I thought you said you wanted to stay in Chicago because of your boyfriend. You didn’t want the long-distance.” Most of the senior team had families tying them down, so Sandra had practically begged me to take the post. It was a massive promotion—a career-defining opportunity. But back then, the thought of leaving Jerry had made me reject it without a second thought. I offered her a tight, polite smile. “I wasn’t thinking clearly back then. I used to believe love could fix everything.” Sandra looked at me, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes. She didn’t press. She just took the paperwork and patted my shoulder gently. “We’re lucky to have you, Regina.” Getting a cab at 1:30 a.m. in the freezing cold was a nightmare. I stood on the curb, the biting winter wind cutting right through my coat. I watched my coworkers get picked up one by one. Greg, who lived in my old neighborhood, noticed me shivering. “Hey, Regina! No ride tonight? Is Jerry out of town? Come on, hop in, I’ll drop you off. Just tell him he owes me a beer!” I forced a smile and shook my head. “Thanks, Greg, but I actually moved. I’m not on your route anymore.” He thought I was just being polite, but when I told him the new neighborhood, his eyes widened slightly. “Oh. That’s… a bit of a trek.” “Yeah. My ride is almost here anyway. Don’t worry about me.” I waited in the freezing wind for another forty minutes before a rideshare finally pulled up. Our old high-rise apartment had been a ten-minute walk from my office, in a highly secure building. Back then, Jerry used to worry if I stayed late. He would wait downstairs in his car, heater blasting, just to make sure I walked the short distance safely. Now, we were living in a place that was a ninety-minute drive in traffic. And Jerry hadn’t even asked how I was getting home. By the time I unlocked my phone in the back of the cab, it was 2:30 a.m. My fingers were stiff and numb. There were several texts from coworkers making sure I got home safe. I replied to each of them. But Jerry’s chat, pinned at the very top of my messages, was a blank slate. A dry, humorless laugh escaped my lips. I opened Instagram. The very first post on my feed was from Melanie. Thanks to my favorite guy for picking me up. Best boyfriend in the world. It was a photo of Jerry’s profile as he drove, his jawline sharp in the dim dashboard light. She was sitting in the passenger seat. My seat. The one Jerry had always insisted was exclusively mine. The comments were flooded with heart emojis and “Are you guys finally official?” comments. Melanie had replied to almost all of them: Omg guys, it was a typo! Don’t make it weird! We’re just really close friends! And there, right at the top of the likes, was Jerry’s profile picture. I tapped the heart icon, adding my own like to the post. Then I closed the app, opened my messages, and unpinned Jerry’s contact. 02 When the Uber finally pulled up to the brick building, it was past three in the morning. I dragged my suitcase up the dimly lit stairs of the pre-war apartment building. I reached the door and stared at the keypad lock. I instinctively punched in my birthday. Error. I tried our anniversary. Error. Before I could try a third time, the door swung open. Melanie stood there, wearing a pastel pink apron, holding a spatula, a warm, bright smile plastered on her face. “Regina! You’re finally home! Jerry and I are making late-night snacks.” She noticed me staring at the keypad and flushed with mock embarrassment. “Oh, sorry! The code is my birthday. I’m so forgetful, and Jerry was worried I’d lock myself out while helping you guys unpack.” I looked past her into the kitchen. Jerry—a man who absolutely detested cooking and had never once made me dinner in five years—was standing over the stove wearing a matching apron. Hearing our voices, he looked up and smiled warmly at Melanie. But when his gaze landed on me, the warmth vanished, replaced by a cool, defensive shield. “You’re late,” he said, turning back to the stove. “Go wash your hands. Melanie went out of her way to make a welcome-home dinner for us. She’s been unpacking all day, and she still insisted on cooking for you.” Melanie played the modest angel. “Oh, stop it, Jerry. We’re family now. Your family is my family. Regina, don’t listen to him, I was happy to do it.” The apartment was heated, yet I felt a chill deep in my bones. I didn’t say a word. I kicked off my boots and looked around the cramped entryway for my slippers. They weren’t there. Melanie tapped her temple. “Oh! Silly me. I saw those old, ratty wool slippers of yours and assumed you were throwing them out, so I tossed them. I haven’t had a chance to buy you new ones yet.” I stared at the cheap, plastic slide-ons she had set out for me. Something inside me snapped. I kicked them aside. “Who gave you permission to touch my things?” Melanie froze. Her lower lip began to tremble, and her eyes welled up with tears. “Regina… I’m so sorry. I was just trying to help…” Jerry immediately abandoned the stove, rushing over to shove himself between us, shielding Melanie. “Regina, what the hell is wrong with you?” he yelled. “It’s a pair of cheap slippers! Do you have to be so incredibly dramatic?” Melanie tugged gently at his sleeve, her voice soft and trembling. “Jerry, please, don’t. It’s my fault. Don’t fight with Regina because of me…” Jerry’s chest heaved with anger. “She spent the whole day helping us move, Regina! She cooked for you! Is this how you show your appreciation? By screaming at her?” I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms. The physical pain was the only thing keeping me from breaking down right in front of them. “Those weren’t ‘cheap slippers,’” I whispered, my voice shaking. “My mother hand-knit them for me while she was dying in the hospital. They were the last thing she ever made. Melanie, what right did you have to throw them away?” Jerry froze. The anger died in his eyes, replaced by a flicker of guilt. He rubbed his temples, his tone softening slightly. “Look… you still shouldn’t have yelled at Melanie. She didn’t know. It was an accident. I forgot to tell her, okay? It’s on me.” I looked at Jerry, utterly hollowed out. I used to get terribly cold feet in the winter. My mother, weak and bedridden with terminal cancer, had spent her final weeks knitting those slippers for me. On her deathbed, she had placed my hand in Jerry’s, begging him in her softest, weakest voice to cherish me. And Jerry had promised. He had held me through the worst nights of my life. And now, he had simply “forgotten.” “Just eat,” Jerry said, his voice flat. “After we eat, I’ll go down to the dumpster with you and help you look for them. Just stop making a scene, alright?” I didn’t answer. I turned around and walked out the door, down the dark, narrow hallway. The old building had no working lights in the stairwell. I was walking fast, my eyes blurred with tears. My foot caught on the edge of a broken step. I fell. It was a brutal, tumbling fall down the concrete stairs. A sharp, agonizing pain flared in my abdomen, so intense it stole the breath from my lungs. I couldn’t stand up. When I reached down, my hands came away wet and warm with blood. “Jerry!” I cried out, my voice echoing in the empty, freezing stairwell. “Jerry, please!” I called his name over and over. But no one came. The metallic scent of blood filled the cold air. In the semi-darkness, my mind began to slip. I thought I saw him—not the cold, distant twenty-seven-year-old Jerry standing in the apartment upstairs, but the twenty-two-year-old boy who used to love me more than life itself. 03 Jerry and I had met in college. He was the campus golden boy; I was the popular, slightly spoiled girl everyone wanted to be friends with. People tried to set us up, but we initially couldn’t stand each other. I thought he was arrogant and performative; he thought I was entitled. But everything changed during a student council hiking trip. I got a severe cramp from my period and fell behind, eventually getting separated from the group. I ended up lost, alone, and terrified in a dense, signal-less forest as night fell. I huddled under a tree, listening to the rustling of wild animals, waiting in absolute despair. And then, Jerry appeared like a miracle. He had noticed I was missing and came back for me. He carried me on his back, whispering words of comfort, all the way down the mountain. After that night, our pride crumbled. We started talking, really talking, and our hearts gravitated toward each other. By graduation, we were the couple everyone envied. Those were the happiest days of my life. But the happiness didn’t last. Shortly after graduation, my mother was diagnosed with stage-four pancreatic cancer. My father had passed away when I was a child; she was my entire world. That year was a descent into darkness. Jerry would work his entry-level job all day and spend every night at the hospital, sitting by my mother’s bed, holding my hand while I cried. He survived on hospital cafeteria coffee and vending machine snacks for six months, pulling me back from the brink of collapse. When she finally passed, I shut down. I became silent, hollow, refusing to speak for days. But Jerry never gave up. He ignored my coldness, pushed past my walls, and patiently coaxed me back to the land of the living. He slept lightly every night, terrified that if he closed his eyes, I would find a way to follow my mother. I had lost my mother, but he was the one who lost weight faster than I did. It was his devotion that saved me. I used to think I was the luckiest woman in the world to have him. Under his gentle guidance, I slowly put my life back together, went to interviews, and got my career back on track. Until a year ago. Until Melanie. She was just a girl working at a local florist. Jerry had bought a bouquet from her once to congratulate me on a promotion. At first, her name only came up in passing. Jerry told me she had lost her mother too, and her father was a raging alcoholic. She had dropped out of high school to support herself. I felt deeply sorry for her. But gradually, Jerry became obsessed. Melanie’s kitchen light broke; he took a midnight Uber to fix it. Melanie had cramps; he took a sick day to brew her soup and deliver it to her apartment. He always claimed she was just a poor, helpless girl who had no one else. On our anniversary—which happened to fall on her birthday—he canceled our dinner reservation because she “couldn’t bear to be alone on her birthday.” He even agreed to relocate to this rundown, inconvenient neighborhood just because Melanie mentioned she hated the noise of the city center. We fought about it constantly. I asked him, point-blank, if he was in love with her. And every time, he would defensively claim they were just friends, that he had never crossed any physical boundaries. But emotional betrayal is a slow, agonizing poison. His body was there, but his soul had checked out long ago. Eventually, we stopped communicating. A simple conversation became a minefield. Jerry turned me into a paranoid, screaming version of myself, and then had the audacity to ask why I was acting so crazy. We fought, we went cold, we broke up, we got back together. I hated myself for being so weak, for not being able to walk away. But every time I resolved to leave, I would remember the boy who sat by my mother’s hospital bed for six months. We survived the absolute worst year of my life. How could we fall apart over something like this? I had no answer. So, I became quiet. I stopped fighting. I grew used to him missing our milestones, used to him giving Melanie the devotion that belonged to me. I grew used to the crowded space in our relationship. 04 When I woke up, the sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant filled my nose. Jerry was sitting by my bedside. Seeing my eyes open, he immediately pressed the call button for the nurse. The doctor arrived quickly, performing a brief examination before turning to Jerry with a solemn expression. “The patient has suffered a miscarriage due to the fall. She’s lost a lot of blood and her body is extremely weak. Make sure she gets plenty of rest and iron-rich foods.” I stared at the ceiling, my hand trembling as I placed it over my empty stomach. The ghost of that sharp, tearing pain was still there. I had been pregnant. And now, the baby was gone. Once the doctor left, Jerry stepped closer. His face was pale, his eyes rimmed with red. He reached out to tuck the blanket around me, his voice raw. “Regina… I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have let you walk out alone. But we’re young. We can try again.” He reached to stroke my hair, but I flinched, pulling away from his touch. I forced myself to sit up, but the pain in my abdomen flared instantly. Jerry tried to push me back down. “What are you doing? The doctor said you need to stay overnight for observation.” “Get away from me!” I screamed, struggling against his grip. “Let me go! I need to find my mother’s slippers!” I had lost my baby. I couldn’t lose the last piece of my mother. Jerry knelt by the bed, forcing my shoes onto my feet and wrapping his coat around my shoulders. “Stop screaming, Regina. I had Melanie go look for them. She called me earlier—she found them. They’re at the apartment. You’ll see them when we get back.” He discharged me against medical advice because I refused to stay. I was in too much pain to walk, biting my lip until it bled to keep from crying out. I refused to let him see an ounce of my weakness. Seeing my stubbornness, Jerry sighed and scooped me into his arms, ignoring my weak attempts to push him away. His chest used to be my safe haven. But now, as I breathed in the heavy, cloying scent of sweet vanilla hair oil—the exact brand Melanie always wore—I felt violently ill. Thirty minutes later, we reached the apartment. I watched Jerry punch a sequence of numbers into the keypad. It was my birthday. Error. He paused, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “The code is Melanie’s birthday,” I said, my voice dead and flat. The door opened, and Melanie was standing in the hall holding a thermos. “Jerry! You’re back! I was just about to bring this to the hospital.” She looked at me, her eyes wide with fear and performative guilt. “Regina… please don’t be mad at Jerry. It’s all my fault. I am so, so sorry.” She took a step closer, unscrewing the thermos. “I heard about the… the baby. I made this chicken soup for you to help you heal.” She pushed the greasy, steaming liquid toward my face, pretending she wanted to feed me. I raised my hand to push the container away. I didn’t even touch her. But Melanie stumbled backward, losing her balance. The scalding soup spilled all over her chest and arms. She let out a piercing, dramatic shriek. Jerry instantly let go of me. I crashed heavily onto the hard hardwood floor. The impact sent a jolt of pure agony through my abdomen, and the metallic taste of blood pooled in my throat. I began to cough violently, curling into a ball. But Jerry didn’t look at me. Not once. He was on his knees, cradling Melanie in his arms, his face contorted with panic and tenderness. “Melanie! Oh my god, are you okay? I’m calling an ambulance!” Melanie clutched his shirt, tears streaming down her face. “Jerry, I’m okay… don’t be mad at Regina… she didn’t mean to…” Jerry turned to look at me, his eyes filled with a cold, burning disgust. “Regina, when did you become such a monster? I can’t believe I ever loved you.” A weak, bitter laugh escaped my lips. There it was. The ugly truth, finally laid bare. I can’t believe I ever loved you. Past tense. His love for me was a relic of the past; his love for Melanie was his present. Jerry stared at me, genuinely bewildered by my laughter. Melanie’s whimpers cut off whatever he was about to say. He shook his head, his voice dripping with utter disdain. “You are beyond saving, Regina. Honestly? Maybe it’s a blessing that baby died. I’d hate to see what kind of twisted, malicious mother you would have been.” He scooped Melanie up and rushed out the door, leaving me alone on the floor. A fresh wave of blood escaped my lips as I coughed. But in a strange, agonizing way, I agreed with him. I was glad my baby wouldn’t have to grow up in the wreckage of our lives. As the front door slammed shut, the memory of the sweet, protective boy from college faded forever. In his place was a stranger who had just handed me my execution sentence. Goodbye, Jerry.

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Three years in prison for a ring my boyfriend stole. The day I got out, I went straight to an exclusive private club to meet my new boss. Instead, I found my supposedly broke, food-delivery-driver boyfriend draped in designer labels, surrounded by bottles of Macallan 25, laughing like he owned the world. “Hey, Austin, isn’t today the day your little jailbird girlfriend gets released? Aren’t you going to pick her up?” A chorus of snickers. “A disgraced ex-con accountant?” Austin sneered. “She doesn’t deserve my time.” I walked right up to their table. “Care to explain?” When Austin saw me, there wasn’t a flicker of guilt on his face. He just smirked, kicking his designer loafers up onto the mahogany table. “Well, you see how it is. No point in hiding it anymore.” “It started as a dare. Play the broke guy, see if I could land the smart girl.” “But you just had to be difficult. Refused to be my side piece.” “Now that you’ve rotted in a cell for three years, do you still have that high-and-mighty attitude?” The table erupted into laughter. I felt a cold smile touch my lips. Austin had a pretty face, but his head was filled with absolute mush. The ring he stole was worth barely fifteen hundred dollars. There was no universe in which that carried a three-year sentence. The place they sent me was Otisville. Taking the fall for his petty theft was just a convenient cover for what I actually needed to hide. ………… Austin looked me up and down, scanning my face and body like he was appraising a piece of cheap merchandise. He nodded slowly. “Three years in federal lockup, and you haven’t even lost your edge.” He pulled a thick stack of bills from his leather wallet and slammed twenty thousand dollars onto the table with a sharp slap. “Too bad. An ex-con woman’s time is only worth about this much a year.” His cronies sneered in unison. “What’s a felon doing acting so high and mighty?” “She won’t even be able to get a job at a diner. She should be thanking God for twenty grand.” I stared at them, my expression flat. Inside, I was laughing. Before my arrest, my annual salary was a cool million. And today, my new boss was offering me a starting package of three million. Austin actually thought twenty thousand was something to brag about. I reached out, picked up the stack of bills, and weighed it in my palm. Austin’s smirk widened, entirely self-satisfied. “See?” he drawled. “Why make things hard on yourself? If you’d just played nice and kept your mouth shut as my mistress, I would’ve given you a hundred thousand a year.” Before he could finish his sentence, I hurled the stack of cash directly into his face. “That pathetic pocket change wouldn’t cover my monthly coffee budget. You actually thought you were doing something here?” The table flared with anger. “You ungrateful bitch!” “Just wait until you’re desperate enough to beg some old creep to pay your rent!” “No class. Typical jailbird.” Austin’s face twisted into a dark scowl, laughing mockingly. “Gwen, do you ever stop lying to yourself?” “Before you went inside, you were a nobody accountant. You lived in a damp basement, eating instant ramen every night, making five thousand a month at best.” “Where the hell do you think you’re getting big money?” A sharp needle of memory pricked my chest. The month I spent with him had been the absolute nadir of my life. I was under federal investigation, all my bank accounts had been frozen, and I was hiding out in a dingy basement, surviving on dry noodles. But it was also during that desperate, agonizing period that I resolved to clean up my act once and for all. “A low-level accountant should be kissing my feet for even looking her way,” Austin sneered. “I dropped hints about keeping you on the side, and you threatened to castrate me if I ever cheated on you.” “So I staged the whole proposal. I stole that diamond ring, proposed, and then called the cops on you myself.” “And you were stupid enough to take the fall and go to prison for me.” The pieces finally clicked. So that was his grand design. When he had proposed to me, I had been blinded by emotion. I was already facing a prison sentence for my own actions, and I didn’t want to drag him down with me. When the police showed up, he wept, begging me to confess, claiming he’d only stolen the ring out of sheer desperation. He said a felony charge would ruin his life forever. My heart had softened. I figured I was already facing three years in Otisville anyway; taking on one minor grand theft charge wouldn’t make a difference. So I took the heat. I had no idea the entire sequence of events was a script he wrote. Seeing my silence, Austin assumed I was intimidated. He reached out to touch my cheek, his fingers greasy, his voice dripping with condescension. “Now that you have a record, I’m the only option you’ve got left.” “Keep me happy, and maybe I’ll bump your allowance up to fifty grand a year.” The men around him chuckled dirtily. “Seriously, Austin, she is a stunner. Don’t forget about your boys when you’re done with her.” “We can even start a pool to lease her, as long as you’re sharing.” My eyes turned to ice. I grabbed his wrist in a vice grip and flung his hand away. “I’ll settle my accounts with you later,” I said, my voice dead calm. “Right now, I have an appointment in Suite One.” The table fell dead silent for a beat. Then, it exploded into a deafening roar of laughter, as if I had just delivered the punchline of the century. Austin laughed so hard he had to clutch his stomach. “Gwen, did they teach you how to tell fairy tales in prison?” The others chimed in. “The Summit Club is exclusive as hell. Even Austin only has access to the main lounge.” “Suite One is reserved for VIPs. Only people like Mr. Burke Pierce can book that room.” “They wouldn’t even hire you as a maid with your criminal record.” “Stop dreaming, honey. Just crawl back to Austin.” I swept a freezing gaze over them. “The person I’m meeting is Burke Pierce, CEO of Apex Enterprises.” The laughter stopped instantly. Doubts and confusion flickered across their faces. Then, a sharp, haughty female voice cut through the air. “Oh? That’s funny. As Mr. Pierce’s personal secretary, how is it that I had no idea he was hosting a private meeting in Suite One?” I turned. A young woman dressed in a tailored designer dress was walking toward us, her eyes brimming with patronizing disdain. The moment Austin saw her, he rushed over to wrap an arm around her waist, his posture instantly shifting into a sycophantic, eager-to-please pose. Vicky Mercer gave a cold sniff. “Mr. Pierce is in New York today on business. There is zero chance he’s in this club. If you’re going to lie, at least do some research first.” I raised an eyebrow. Burke had hired me to be the Chief Financial Officer of Apex Enterprises, yet he hadn’t even told his personal secretary. This was getting interesting. Emboldened by Vicky’s presence, Austin pointed at me, eager to explain. “Vicky, babe, this is that little accountant I told you about—the one I chased on a dare. She’s just throwing a tantrum because she’s not happy with the allowance I offered her.” Vicky sneered. “An ex-con pretending she’s on Mr. Pierce’s calendar? Delusional.” I tilted my head, genuinely curious. “Austin just offered to keep me as his plaything right in front of you. You aren’t even a little jealous?” Vicky let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “In our social circle, marriage is an alliance of assets. What he does on the side is irrelevant, as long as he doesn’t embarrass the Mercer family name.” Austin nodded eagerly. “Vicky is practical. I am the Vice President of Apex Education Group, after all. Only a woman of Vicky’s pedigree is fit to stand by my side. You, Gwen, are just a distraction. Though, if you play your cards right, I might let you carry a surrogate child for us. Pregnancy would ruin Vicky’s figure, after all.” I didn’t lose my temper. Instead, I drifted into quiet thought. My inmate friend back in prison, Frank, had been framed and sent away precisely because of financial discrepancies within Apex Education Group. Before my release, he had begged me to find Burke Pierce and untangle the company’s books. Looking at the smug couple in front of me, it seemed the rats had walked right into my path. I checked my watch. I had exactly five minutes before my scheduled meeting with Burke. I had no desire to waste another second arguing with fools, so I turned toward the hallway. “Hold on!” Austin barked. I sighed, turning back with sheer irritation. With a violent swipe of his arm, he crashed the wine glasses, plates, and leftovers off the table. They shattered across the marble floor in a messy pool. “Clean it up,” he commanded, looking down his nose at me. I stared at him, incredulous. “Excuse me?” Austin smirked. “An ex-con like you getting into The Summit Club? You must have snuck in to work the cleaning shift. The floor is dirty, jailbird. Get on your knees and lick it clean.” The table roared with laughter again, their predatory eyes locking onto me. “Go on, lick it!” “Don’t ruin our night, sweetheart. Do your job!” From the moment I walked in, they had done nothing but degrade me. At first, I found it pathetic. But now, a cold, sharp anger was beginning to burn through my veins. I looked at them, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “Are you absolutely sure you want to waste my time? I have five minutes before my meeting with Mr. Pierce. You know his reputation. If he’s kept waiting, none of you will survive the fallout.” “Still playing the part, are we?” Vicky scoffed. “I bet there isn’t any executive in Suite One. Just some bald, wrinkly sugar daddy who paid for your cheap thrill.” Austin’s face darkened, his eyes filling with sudden disgust. “Gwen, I really underestimated how low you’d sink. Selling yourself to old creeps for a quick buck?” He seemed to make a decision. “Fine. I’ll increase my offer. Sixty thousand a year. Being with me is a hell of a lot better than letting some old bastard use you.” A dry laugh escaped my throat. Sixty thousand? Did he truly believe I was desperate enough for his pitiful crumbs? “You don’t believe me?” I pointed down the corridor toward Suite One. “Then walk with me. Let’s find out together who is waiting in that room.” “Excuse me, but is one of you the guest of Mr. Pierce?” a respectful voice called out. The general manager of the club, Mr. Higgins, was walking briskly toward us. I took a step forward. “I am.” The room fell dead silent. The smirks on their faces froze. Vicky’s expression faltered. “Mr. Pierce is actually here?” Mr. Higgins looked at me, his eyes scanning my faded, cheap clothes. He hesitated. I couldn’t blame him—I had just walked out of a federal penitentiary wearing a thirty-dollar target outfit. It was natural for him to doubt me. Without a word, I reached into my bag, pulled out the gold-embossed invitation card Burke had sent me, and handed it over. Mr. Higgins took the card. The moment his eyes registered the watermark and the personal seal, his posture instantly softened into deep deference. “My sincere apologies, Ms. Gwen,” he said, bowing slightly. “Mr. Pierce has been waiting for you. Please, allow me to escort you.” He extended an arm, gesturing toward the private corridor. “Wait!” Austin yelled, stepping forward to block our path. I knit my brows. “What now?” Mr. Higgins frowned. “Mr. Austin, this is Mr. Pierce’s personal guest. Do you really wish to delay her?” Austin paled slightly, raising his hands. “Mr. Higgins, I mean no disrespect to the CEO. But I have to warn you—this woman is no guest.” He pointed a trembling, angry finger at me. “She’s an ex-con who probably swiped that invitation card to sneak in and throw herself at Mr. Pierce. Don’t let her fool you.” “An ex-con?” Mr. Higgins blinked. Seeing the manager hesitate, Austin pressed on, his voice filled with triumph. “You have no idea. She was just released today after serving three years for grand theft. She’s desperate for a rich benefactor. A man of Mr. Pierce’s stature would never meet privately with a common felon. It’s absurd!” The crowd quickly joined the chorus. “A thief trying to climb the social ladder!” “Throw her out before she offends Mr. Pierce!” “Mr. Higgins, remember that gold-digger who stole a pass last year? The club’s reputation took a huge hit. Don’t make the same mistake.” Mr. Higgins’s expression grew increasingly grim. “Ms. Gwen… is it true? Have you served prison time?” I looked at the sea of mocking faces, finding the entire scene incredibly absurd. They knew I had a record, but they didn’t have the slightest understanding of what kind of prison I had been in. “I was at Otisville,” I said quietly. But Mr. Higgins’s face remained blank. Like the rest of them, he didn’t comprehend the weight of that name. “Otisville, Danbury, who cares?” one of Austin’s friends sneered. “A jailbird is a jailbird!” They didn’t understand. Yes, Otisville housed criminals. But it was reserved for the brilliant, the high-profile, and those whose crimes required a certain level of genius to pull off. It was a facility for elite white-collar offenders, not petty thieves. Seeing my silence, Austin took it as a sign of defeat. “See? She’s got nothing to say. She stole it! A parasite like her deserves to lick the floor clean and be thrown out into the street. Let’s teach her a lesson about showing her face around here!” “Yeah, clean it up!” “Get out of here, felon!” Before I could react, someone kicked the back of my knees. A sharp pain shot up my legs, and I fell hard onto the cold marble. Austin grabbed a handful of my hair, forcing my face down toward the broken plates and spilled food. “You arrogant bitch, act proud now!” Vicky stood by, her eyes sparkling with malicious amusement. I struggled, but I was outnumbered. Leftover sauce smeared onto my face and clothes. The sharp edge of a shattered porcelain plate sliced across my forearm, leaving a stinging trail of blood. The crowd roared with laughter, and a couple of the men began to roughly pull at my jacket. Mr. Higgins retreated to the side, his face twisted in disgust, preparing to leave the room to look for Burke’s “actual” guest. Suddenly, a cold, thunderous voice echoed through the lounge. “Stop this instantly!” “Who gave you the authority to lay a hand on my guest?”

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We were in the middle of packing our bags for Vienna when Mona suddenly snapped her suitcase shut. I looked up, confused. She held her phone out to me. “I canceled my study abroad application,” she said. “I’m staying here to go to college with Tom.” The words hit me like a physical blow. My voice trembled as I asked, “What about me?” She reached out, her fingers brushing my cheek with the same comforting warmth she’d always shown me. “My Jude is so strong. You won’t be scared going abroad alone, right?” “Tom is different. He’s fragile. I need to be here for him, or I’ll never have peace of mind.” A cold chill ran down my spine. My fingers clenched around the handle of my suitcase. Mona’s voice sounded distant, as if drifting through a thick fog. “You and Tom are like brothers. You wouldn’t want him to be alone here either, right?” I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could make a sound, glowing lines of text began to float across my vision. [Here it is. The turning point of their lives.] [If the male lead forces her to go abroad with him, Tom will get bullied at school and eventually jump off a building.] [But if he agrees, Mona will slowly fall for Tom over time. She’ll even sleep with him on her wedding day with Jude!] The words choked the breath right out of my throat. Mona nudged my shoulder. “Jude? If you’re not saying anything, I’ll take that as a yes.” 1 Mona probably never intended to give me a choice anyway. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small red velvet box. When she opened it, my heart sank. Inside was the exact ring I had texted her about weeks ago, telling her how much I loved it. She had promised back then to save it in her notes. “I bought the ring you wanted,” she said, her voice soft. “Wear it, and everyone will know you’re taken.” “That way, no one else can eye my Jude. When you come back from Europe, we’ll get married, okay?” She leaned down to look me in the eye. Her gaze was tender, full of the same devotion I had known for years. Usually, when she looked at me like that, my heart would race. But this time, it gave one erratic thud and went completely quiet. As Mona reached to slip the ring onto my finger, the phantom comments flickered back to life across my eyes. [She shouldn’t have gone into pre-med. She should have gone into acting.] [Who would believe she was wrapping Tom in a warm, tearful embrace just an hour ago, and now she’s standing here playing the devoted girlfriend?] An hour ago. I had waited outside Mona’s house for three hours. She told me she was stuck in traffic. Turns out, she was with Tom. My fingers involuntarily curled inward, slipping away from the ring she held. A frown creased her beautiful forehead. She opened her mouth to speak, but her ringtone cut her off. The custom ringtone I had recorded for her had been replaced by a different tune—one she had set for Tom. The cheerful beat pounded against my eardrums like a hammer, making it hard to breathe. Mona tapped the screen and answered. It was him. She listened for barely a second before leaping to her feet, panic written all over her face. “Don’t panic! Stay exactly where you are, I’m coming!” She hung up and didn’t look at me again. Tossing the ring carelessly into my lap, she spoke in a breathless rush. “Tom got scraped by a car. I have to go check on him.” She ran out of the room, her hurried footsteps fading down the hall. I watched her go. The ring had bounced off my lap and rolled onto the floor, disappearing somewhere in the shadows. [Isn’t he going to look for it? He used to treasure that ring so much.] I slowly tried to stand, but my legs had gone completely numb from kneeling. I stumbled, collapsing back onto the floor. My knee slammed against the sharp edge of the desk. The pain was the final catalyst; the tears I had been holding back finally spilled over. I don’t know how long I sat there crying, until the room was completely silent and my throat was raw. I pulled out my phone and called my dad. “Dad, I don’t want to go to Europe anymore.” My dad sounded confused. “I thought you and Mona had it all planned out. Why the sudden change?” The comments flared up again. [Wait, is the male lead staying too?] [Actually, that might be for the best. If he stays, Tom won’t get hurt, and Mona won’t stray.] I let my eyes scan the words. My eyes were red and swollen, but my face felt entirely blank. “I’m not staying, Dad. I want to come to Iceland. Didn’t you want me to move out there and live with you?” There was a beat of silence on the other end, followed by my dad’s ecstatic cheer. The floating texts seemed as stunned by my choice as he was. They went entirely silent, like someone had hit pause. I didn’t look for the ring. The empty velvet box sat lonely on the desk, weighing down the European travel itinerary Mona had spent six months putting together. Her notebook was packed with detailed schedules and handwritten notes. On my way out, I grabbed it. Mona wouldn’t be needing it anymore anyway. When I reached the street, I threw the notebook and the empty box into a roadside trash can. As I turned around, my eyes met Mona’s. Her gaze lingered on the trash can for a split second before she marched up to me and grabbed my hand. I tried to pull away, but her grip was tight. I frowned. “I thought you were with Tom. Why are you back?” Her frown was deeper than mine. “He’s fine.” “But he heard we were both leaving and got so upset he went to a bar to drink himself into a stupor.” “I told him I was staying, but he wouldn’t believe me. You need to come tell him. He always listens to you.” She dragged me forward, but I dug my heels in and forced her to stop. “Where is he?” “At the bar—” Mona turned around impatiently, but her voice died in her throat. A sudden wave of guilt and pity washed over her face. “I’m sorry, Jude. I forgot.” “Wait for me at the convenience store across the street, okay? I’ll bring him out to you.” Once we reached the storefront, Mona shoved a warm cup of milk tea into my hands and rushed across the street. The rising steam from the cup blurred her silhouette through the glass window. After our high school graduation, Tom had insisted on going to a bar. Halfway through the night, he went to the restroom and never came back. Mona, worried sick, left me alone at our table to go search for him. She was gone for two hours. I tried calling both of them, but neither answered. When I finally decided to leave, a group of drunk guys blocked my path. Fortunately, I ran into some classmates from school who got me out. When I finally stumbled out of the bar, shaking, I saw Mona carrying Tom on her back, walking slowly down the street. When she saw me, she didn’t ask if I was okay. She just put her index finger to her lips. Shh. Don’t wake Tom. I should have found it strange back then. Mona had always complained about Tom following me around like a lost puppy. And Tom always acted like Mona wasn’t good enough for me. They supposedly couldn’t stand each other. I had no idea when their relationship had shifted. But seeing her carry him that night—with a gentleness usually reserved for fragile porcelain—told me everything. By the time the two familiar figures approached the convenience store, my milk tea had gone cold. The chime of the entrance door rang out. Tom draped an arm over my shoulder, acting as clingy and affectionate as ever. “Jude, please don’t abandon me.” Before I could speak, Mona tapped his forehead with her finger. “Oh, please. I’m staying here with you. Isn’t that enough to make you happy?” Tom immediately lunged at her, laughing and play-fighting. Their laughter filled the small convenience store. I sat there, looking like an intruder who had stumbled into their private world. Completely out of place. [What do they mean ‘developed feelings over time’? I bet she already has feelings for Tom right now.] [But when Jude went abroad in the original timeline, she flew to Europe every two weeks. If she didn’t love him, how could she do that?] [She loves them both!] Those words felt like a stone dropped into a quiet pond, sending ripples of unease through my chest. I rubbed my tired, stinging eyes. They immediately noticed and crowded around me with concerned faces. Tom glanced at the cold cup in my hand. “It’s freezing. Let me get you a hot one.” “But Jude, since when do you drink this flavor?” Beside him, Mona froze. She realized it too. That was Tom’s favorite flavor, not mine. When Tom returned and pressed a fresh, hot cup into my hands, I forced a smile. “We’re about to go our separate ways. I guess I’m just distracted and sad.” Tom pouted. “I’m the one who should be sad. Both of you are leaving me behind.” In my peripheral vision, I saw Mona shoot me a look. There was a trace of irritation in her voice as she said, “Didn’t I say…” I cut her off. “Didn’t Mona say she’s staying here to keep you company?” On the walk back, Mona kept a deliberate distance, trailing a few paces behind me. Only when we reached the fork in the road did she hesitate and speak. “Are you mad at me for staying with Tom?” She had been acting off since we left the store. Now I knew why. Seeing that I didn’t seem to care whether she went abroad or not had made her anxious. I nodded, answering honestly. “I was angry at first.” “But you’re right. I’m strong. Tom needs someone more than I do.” In truth, I wasn’t brave at all. I was terrified of the dark. When I was bullied as a child, I never fought back. It was always Mona who stood in front of me. She used to call me a coward, but she’d smile and promise she’d protect me forever. She hadn’t changed. She just chose someone else to protect. I ignored the swirling emotions in her eyes and turned to leave. But she grabbed my wrist in a vice grip. “Where is the ring I gave you?” Just as I was about to tell her the truth, her phone rang again. I assumed it was Tom, but when she answered, her expression shifted into something strange as she stared at me. I frowned. She hung up and stepped closer. “You’re not going to Europe?” I froze. Mona crossed her arms, a mocking smile playing on her lips. “No wonder you weren’t angry. You’re staying in the country too, aren’t you?” “Jude, wasn’t that European music academy your dream school?” “Throwing away your ambition just for me?” My bewildered expression slowly faded. My chest felt hollow. Not painful, just cold. She had forgotten. My dream school wasn’t in Europe; it was in Iceland. I had only applied to the European school for her. But none of that mattered now. Before I could clarify, she cut me off again. “You didn’t even bring the ring. Don’t tell me you’re jealous because you think there’s something going on between me and Tom?” “You were the one who told me to look out for him, Jude. Since when did you get so petty?” The sudden accusation left me stunned. I clenched my fists and looked her dead in the eye. “Petty?” “Mona, can you honestly tell me you don’t have feelings for Tom?” A sudden clatter sounded behind us. Tom stood there, wide-eyed and trembling, holding a dropped bag. His eyes welled with tears, and his first instinct was to look at me. “Jude…” “Don’t act like you didn’t know,” I said, cutting him off. Tom opened his mouth repeatedly, but no sound came out. An overwhelming exhaustion washed over me. I just wanted to go home. But Tom grabbed my sleeve. “Jude, nothing happened between Mona and me, I swear. Please believe me…” His eyes were red. He looked just as helpless and pitiful as the day I first met him. The floating comments buzzed. [The side character actually cares about the main character, he’s just blindly in love with the girl.] [Please, he’s just a manipulative snake. If he really cared about Jude, would he keep playing the victim in front of Mona over and over?] I sighed. Before I could speak, Mona stepped between us. Her face was dark. “Enough, Jude. Stop cornering him.” “If this is all because you want me to go to Europe with you, fine! I’ll go! Is that what you want?” I wanted to tell her no. I really didn’t want that. But suddenly, a pair of headlights blinded us as an out-of-control car swerved off the road, hurtling toward the sidewalk. My instinct was to grab Tom and pull him out of the way, but a violent force shoved me aside, separating us. I was thrown hard against the asphalt. The last image I saw before blacking out was Mona, desperately throwing her arms around Tom to shield him. I woke up to the sound of hushed, tense arguing. Tom’s voice sounded fragile, laced with tears. “We can’t do this. I can’t betray Jude like this.” Mona’s voice was raw and strained. “Tom, isn’t it a bit late for that?” “If you felt so guilty toward Jude, why did you kiss me the night I ran out to find you?” My breath hitched in my throat. The cracks in my heart shattered completely, crumbling into dust. Through the thin hospital curtain, I saw their silhouettes shift. Their shadows merged in an intimate, unmistakable embrace. I dug my fingernails into my palms, numb to the physical pain. Tom’s weak resistance faded into silence. It only ended when a nurse pushed the door open. “Oh, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” The two shadows behind the curtain instantly sprang apart. When Mona stepped out, her shirt was noticeably wrinkled. I rasped out a quiet, “I’m okay.” The nurse assured me I was lucky—only a fractured leg. Once she left, Mona’s gaze drifted to my cast. “Does it hurt?” The guilt and pain on her face looked entirely genuine. But a wave of intense nausea surged from my stomach, forcing tears to the corners of my eyes. Mona reached out to wipe them away, but I flinched, pulling my face back. Her hand froze in midair, and her expression cooled. “Jude, in a moment like that, I didn’t have time to think.” “If you want to blame someone, blame me. Don’t take it out on Tom.” She glanced back toward the curtain, her eyes softening. “He looks up to you more than anyone. No matter what happens between us, don’t hate him.” “I’ll still go to Europe with you, and I’ll keep my promise to marry you. But I will also take care of Tom for the rest of his life.” [Ugh, she wants her cake and eat it too.] [Is she trying to build a harem? Keep dreaming, sister!] I couldn’t help but laugh. I laughed until tears streamed down my face. Hearing my laughter, Tom stepped out from behind the curtain, looking utterly lost. Mona frowned. “That’s enough, Jude. It’s settled.” “I’m going to take Tom home first. I’ve arranged a private nurse to come help you.” I closed my eyes and turned my face to the wall. I heard the door click shut. The next day, Tom showed up with a thermos of chicken soup. He kept his head down, refusing to meet my eyes. “When did you fall in love with Mona?” I asked quietly. Tom’s hand trembled as he poured the soup. It took him a long moment to answer. “Freshman year? Sophomore year? I don’t remember.” “So you used to talk trash about her just to keep me away from her?” He shook his head quickly. “No. I genuinely believed she wasn’t good enough for you.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Should I thank you then? For helping me see her true colors.” His eyes reddened, and his hands clenched into tight fists. “She has her flaws. But to me, she’s the best option I’ll ever have.” “I’m sorry, Jude.” Before I could process what he meant, he tilted the thermos and poured the steaming hot soup directly over his own arm. The hospital room door was kicked open. Mona burst in, throwing a bouquet of roses straight at my face. The sharp thorns scratched my cheek, and a drop of blood dripped onto the white bedsheets. She shielded Tom behind her, her eyes blazing with fury. “Jude! If you have a problem, take it out on me!” “Tom is your best friend. How could you burn him like this?” Maybe the sting on my cheek was just too sharp, but the tears finally spilled over. I swept the remaining soup containers off the bedside table, scattering red rose petals all over the floor. “Get out!” I screamed. “Both of you, get the hell out!” For the next month, until my leg healed and I was discharged, neither of them showed up. Tom sent me daily text messages checking in on me. Mona, on the other hand, frequently updated her social media. She was taking Tom on a trip across the country. I glanced at the photos of them smiling together, then calmly blocked both of their numbers. Because of that, I never saw the text Mona sent me a month later. She wrote: I’ll pick you up on departure day so we can head to the airport together. But she had no idea. By the time she sent that text, I was already on a flight to Iceland. When the message failed to deliver, Mona stared at the little red exclamation mark on her screen in disbelief.

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There were only ten minutes left in the trial, and victory was finally within reach. My attorney—who also happened to be my husband, Dylan—suddenly took a phone call. When he hung up, his face was completely bloodless. He began frantically packing his files into his briefcase. “Your Honor,” he said, his voice echoing in the courtroom, “the plaintiff wishes to dismiss the charges.” The room erupted. I stared at him, my mind spinning into a complete blur. “Dylan, what are you doing?” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Melanie ran me over. She broke both my legs. She ruined my life!” “You promised me,” I pleaded, tears burning my eyes. “You promised you’d put her behind bars!” But Dylan only looked at me with a tortured expression, his voice a harsh, low hiss. “Melanie is on the roof of her building, Charlotte. If I don’t go, she’s going to jump!” “Your legs are already gone, but she stands to lose her entire reputation! Her whole life!” “I promise you, I will buy you the best wheelchair money can buy.” Without a single glance back, he bolted out of the courtroom, leaving me with nothing but the fading echo of his hurried footsteps. … The air conditioning in the courtroom felt like ice against the empty space where my legs used to be. I sat there, my mouth dry, unable to make a sound. The soft whispers from the gallery swirled around me like a physical weight. The judge rapped her gavel three times, her voice ringing out to ask if I consented to the dismissal. I stared at the heavy wooden doors where Dylan had just vanished. My fingers gripped the armrests of my wheelchair so hard my knuckles turned white. “I consent,” I whispered. The words felt like ash in my mouth. Across the aisle, Melanie’s defense attorney offered me a tight, smug smile. From the gallery, a woman’s quiet voice floated over: “Showing up to court like that… she’s desperate.” “I heard she was the one who instigated it,” another whispered back. “They say Miss Foster was the real victim here.” “Then why is her own husband representing her?” “Who knows? Probably trying to keep her quiet so she doesn’t embarrass him.” When the court adjourned, Melanie walked past me, her designer heels clicking against the polished floor. She deliberately let the toe of her shoe brush against the wheel of my chair. “Oh, Charlotte,” she murmured, leaning down so only I could hear. “Look at that. Dylan still chose me.” I looked away, staring down at my useless lap. Three months ago, Dylan and I had just signed our marriage license. We were on our way to tour wedding venues when Melanie called. She claimed she was drunk at a bar, surrounded by aggressive men, begging Dylan to come rescue her. I begged him not to go. But Dylan simply bypassed me, grabbed his keys, and drove off. Furious and hurt, I got into my own car and followed him. The moment I pulled up outside the bar, Melanie’s Mercedes-AMG surged forward. She drove straight into me. When I woke up in the ICU, both of my legs were gone from the knee down. In the hospital, Dylan held my hand and wept. He promised me a thousand times that he would make her pay. He said he would be my legs, that he would cherish and take care of me for the rest of my life. And I believed him. I believed him so deeply that I signed over half of the inheritance my late father had left me—as my dowry—straight into his name. How pathetic. I rolled myself out of the courthouse. Outside, Seattle was in the middle of a torrential downpour. The concrete ramp was slick, and my hands kept slipping on the wet metal rims. I pulled out my phone and dialed Dylan’s number. On the third try, he finally picked up. I could hear the howling wind in the background, punctuated by Melanie’s hysterical, breathless sobbing. “Charlotte, stop calling,” he snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. “Melanie is highly unstable right now. Whatever it is, it can wait until I get home.” Before I could say a word, the line went dead. The rain poured down over my face, mixing with my tears. Grit-faced, I gripped the cold handrail of the ramp, trying to guide myself down. But the wet wheels lost traction. The wheelchair tipped, throwing me violently onto the asphalt. My surgical wounds hadn’t fully healed yet. The impact tore them open, and I felt a sharp, sickening burst of pain. Within seconds, warm blood began soaking through my heavy bandages, running into the cold puddles around me. I lay there in the freezing rain, staring up at the gray sky, too exhausted to even scream. I lost track of time. Then, a shadow blocked the rain, and someone knelt down beside me. “Charlotte? It’s Elvis. Elvis Mercer. I used to work with your father.” He was holding a large black umbrella, the cuffs of his expensive trousers already soaked. He didn’t ask questions. He simply lifted me up with surprising gentleness, carried me to the backseat of his car, and wrapped a thick, warm towel around my shivering frame. The car heater blasted warm air, but my teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. My hands shook so violently I couldn’t even hold the cup of hot cocoa he handed me. “Thank you,” I rasped, my throat raw. Elvis didn’t say much. He used a dry towel to gently dry my hair while instructing his driver to head straight to the hospital. Once we arrived, he handled all the admission paperwork. Only when I was settled in a warm bed did my mind start to clear. “Elvis… let me pay you back. How much was it?” He waved his hand dismissively, tucking the receipts into the bedside drawer. “Don’t worry about it right now. Focus on healing.” His phone rang a moment later. He answered it, then turned back to me with a polite smile, explaining he had an urgent matter at his firm but to call him if I needed anything. Not long after Elvis left, Dylan walked in. Seeing me in the hospital bed, his first reaction wasn’t sympathy—it was a subtle, irritated knit of his brows. “How did you manage to do this to yourself?” “I called you,” I said, a suffocating tightness squeezing my chest. “I called you so many times. Why didn’t you answer?” Dylan’s eyes flickered, looking away as he sat on the edge of my bed. He reached out to stroke my cheek, but I flinched away. “Charlotte, look, I know you’re angry,” he said, his voice carrying a defensive weight. “But Melanie was truly on the edge. You don’t get it—people online are calling her a homewrecker, a murderer. If she had actually jumped, I would have had to live with that guilt for the rest of my life.” He spoke with such self-righteous certainty, as if I were the one lacking compassion. My voice trembled. “So Melanie’s reputation is worth more than my legs?” Dylan suddenly grabbed my hand, his grip tight and unyielding. “Your legs are already gone, Charlotte! No amount of fighting in court is going to grow them back! But Melanie is young. If she gets a criminal record, her entire future is ruined.” “I promise you,” he pleaded, softening his tone, “once this blows over, I’ll take you to Europe. We’ll get you the absolute best prosthetics available. We can go back to how things were. Please?” He looked at me with that familiar, tender gaze—the one that used to dissolve my anger instantly, the one that always made me yield. Now, it only made my stomach turn. I wrenched my hand free, pulled myself into my wheelchair, and rolled toward the door. Dylan stepped in front of me, his expression darkening. “Where do you think you’re going?” “Home.” I couldn’t stand being in the same room as him for another second. The air felt thick, unbreathable. Dylan didn’t stop me, but he followed me out of the hospital. When we arrived back at our house, the front door opened to reveal Melanie sitting on our living room sofa. She was wearing one of Dylan’s button-down shirts. The moment she saw me, her eyes welled with tears. She scrambled off the couch and dropped to her knees in front of my chair. “Charlotte, I am so, so sorry,” she wept, her voice trembling. “It’s all my fault. Please don’t blame Dylan. You can hate me, you can hit me, just please don’t hate him.” Dylan rushed forward, hoisting her up and shielding her behind his back. He turned to me, his tone laced with a warning. “Charlotte, Melanie is extremely fragile right now. Don’t push her.” I stared at the two of them, and a hollow laugh escaped my chest. “This is my house. You’re the ones who need to leave.” Dylan’s face instantly darkened. “Don’t be ridiculous, Charlotte. Melanie has nowhere else to go. She’s staying here for a few days until the press cools down, and then I’ll find her a place.” Behind his shoulder, Melanie peeked out at me, her tear-stained face masking a smug, victorious glimmer in her eyes. Without another word, I wheeled myself into the bedroom and locked the door behind me. Leaning my back against the wood, the tears finally spilled over. Dylan and I had been together for seven years. When he was courting me in college, he had stood outside my dorm room in the freezing cold all night just to apologize after our first fight. The snow had been inches deep, his lips blue as he swore he would never love anyone else. My father had hated him. He saw right through Dylan. I had fought my father for weeks—screaming, crying, even going on a hunger strike. Eventually, my father relented. He bought us a beautiful townhouse and set up a trust fund worth millions as my wedding gift. Now, just three months into our marriage, every promise we made was a sick joke. In the dead of night, I heard hushed giggles and low whispers from the living room. My phone had died from the rain and refused to turn on. I sat propped up against the headboard, staring into the dark until dawn. The next morning, I unlocked the door and rolled out to find Dylan in the kitchen making breakfast. Melanie was standing behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist. When she saw me, she quickly pulled away, looking flustered. Dylan glanced back, slid a fried egg onto a plate, and handed it to her. “Oh, you’re up,” he said casually, as if yesterday’s betrayal in court had never happened. “There’s coffee and oatmeal on the counter. Help yourself.” I ignored him, heading straight for the entryway to grab my purse. Dylan stepped in my way. “Where are you going?” “To find a new attorney. I’m refiling the charges,” I said, my voice dead calm. Dylan’s face flushed an angry crimson. He snatched my bag right out of my hands and slammed it onto the console table. “Charlotte! When is this temper tantrum going to end? I told you, this is over!” “Are you really not going to stop until you’ve driven Melanie to suicide?” Looking at his contorted face, the last shred of my hope withered away. “Dylan, you either get out of my way right now, or we get a divorce.” He froze, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Divorce? Look at yourself, Charlotte. Who is going to want you like this? Who is going to take care of you?” “Let me make this clear: you are not refiling, and you are not getting a divorce. Forget it.” He picked up my purse and marched over to the study, locking it inside his personal safe. Melanie stood by the kitchen island, biting her lip, looking on the verge of tears. “Dylan, please don’t fight with her because of me. It’s my fault. I should just leave.” She made a theatrical move toward the door, but Dylan immediately caught her by the wrist. “Don’t talk like that. This has nothing to do with you. As long as I’m here, no one is kicking you out.” I wheeled myself back into my bedroom. I dug through my vanity drawer until I found an old backup phone, plugged it in, and waited for it to boot up. The second it connected to the Wi-Fi, a barrage of urgent messages from my late father’s executive assistant flooded the screen. Dylan has drained the company’s entire operating account. My head spun so violently I nearly blacked out. My father had passed away from a sudden stroke last year, and the management of his logistics firm had fallen to Dylan while I was recovering from the amputation. I had been in too much physical and emotional pain to pay attention to the business. I never imagined he could be so brazenly corrupt. Suppressed rage gave me sudden energy. I pushed my way back into the living room. Dylan looked up from his tablet, his expression weary. “What now, Charlotte?” “Did you drain the firm’s accounts?” I demanded, my hands shaking. He remained silent for a few seconds, then shrugged with complete indifference. “Yeah. Melanie’s mother is in the hospital and needs medical treatment. I borrowed some capital. I’ll pay it back when things settle.” “That money was for our payroll! How are we supposed to pay our employees?” I screamed. Dylan scoffed. “They can wait a couple of days. Don’t be so heartless, Charlotte. If Melanie’s mother doesn’t get this surgery, she could die.” “Are your employees’ paychecks more important than a human life?” I shook so violently I couldn’t form words. Before I could find my voice, his phone rang. It was Melanie, weeping that her mother had just woken up and needed him. Dylan muttered a quick affirmation, grabbed his jacket, and walked out. I slumped back into my wheelchair, completely numb. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. Dylan had never loved me. He had married me for my father’s legacy, for my family’s wealth. And Melanie running me over… maybe that hadn’t been an accident at all. I sat alone in the dark living room until midnight, my thoughts racing in a chaotic loop. Then, a memory surfaced. My father had a trusted corporate attorney he had worked with for decades. I opened my old contacts and found the number. But just as I pressed call, the front door swung open. Dylan stood in the entryway, his eyes immediately locking onto the glowing screen in my hand. “Who are you calling?” I quickly tapped the screen to end the call, slipping the phone behind my back. “No one. Just calling the clinic about my physical therapy.” Dylan strode over, extending a cold hand. “Give me the phone.” I leaned back, trying to shield it, but his face hardened. He lunged forward and wrenched it from my grip. He unlocked the screen and scrolled through the recent calls. When he saw the attorney’s name, his expression grew incredibly dark. “Charlotte, you really don’t know when to quit, do you?” He threw the phone hard against the hardwood floor. The screen shattered into a web of broken glass. “Let me make this clear: don’t bother looking for a lawyer. All the evidence from the crash is locked away in my office. You couldn’t build a case against Melanie even if you tried.” He knelt down in front of me, grabbing my chin with a bruising grip. “Be a good wife, Charlotte. Keep quiet, and I’ll make sure you live comfortably. But if you try to cross me again, you won’t like what happens next.” He pushed my wheelchair into the bedroom, slammed the door, and I heard the sharp click of the deadbolt locking from the outside. Sitting in the dark, staring at the ruined phone on the floor, the tears finally flowed silently. I was locked in. The windows had security bars installed after my accident. I was completely trapped. For the next three days, Dylan only opened the door to slide a tray of food inside. He never spoke to me. Through the thick wood, I could hear Melanie’s soft giggles and Dylan’s low, murmuring voice—the same gentle tone he used to reserve only for me. I starved myself, refusing to touch a single drop of water. On the fourth morning, Dylan unlocked the door to bring breakfast. Seeing my pale, sunken face resting against the headboard, he sighed in irritation. “What is this? A hunger strike?” He placed a bowl of soup on the nightstand. “Do you honestly think this is going to make me feel sorry for you?” I looked up at him, my throat burning. “I won’t file the charges,” I rasped. Dylan paused, his tense shoulders relaxing slightly. “See? Was that so hard? We could have avoided all this unpleasantness.” He picked up the spoon, blowing on the broth, and held it to my lips. I turned my head away, keeping my eyes locked onto his. “But I want a divorce.”

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I was covering a business dinner for my husband when I ran into my ex-husband of three years. He was there celebrating his upcoming wedding with his new fiancée, and when his eyes met mine, he looked away, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. But the peace didn’t last. Someone in his group recognized me, sauntering over with a smirk plastered across his face. “Well, look who it is. Zoe. This is a college reunion, you know? What is a dropout doing here?” A few others drifted over, their drinks sloshing in their glasses, their laughter sharp and unkind. “She probably heard Dave was going to be here and wanted to crash,” one whispered loudly. “Seriously, some women have zero self-respect.” “We all saw those pictures of you back in the day, Zoe. You completely humiliated him.” “Dave’s finally moving on with someone actually classy. We didn’t invite you because we wanted to spare you the embarrassment, but here you are, desperate as ever.” Dave sat right at the center of the private dining table. His handsome face was cold, carved from marble, his lips pressed into a tight line. He didn’t say a single word to defend me. I opened my mouth to shoot back, but the heavy double doors of the room swung open. A woman walked in, and her eyes locked onto mine. I had to admit, she was stunning. If only she hadn’t built that beauty on the ruins of my life. …… 1 The moment Dave saw me, he instinctively started to stand up, but Amber’s hand came down hard on his shoulder, pinning him to his seat. “Oh, look, the famous model,” she purred, her eyes dripping with a sweet, venomous contempt. “I don’t recall sending you an invitation. I mean, we went strictly by the graduation photo, and well… you aren’t exactly in it, are you?” Before she even finished, a wave of snickers rippled through the crowd. “Who says our resident cover girl isn’t in the photos?” one of the guys called out, raising his glass. “We’ve all seen the high-res version of your portfolio!” My fists clenched, the leather of my clutch cutting into my palm, before I forced my fingers to loosen. I turned on my heel, ready to walk away from the toxicity, when the voice I used to love cut through the noise. “Zoe.” Dave finally spoke. “Since you’re already here, stop acting like you’re too good for us.” He walked toward me, holding two glasses of white wine. “Long time no see.” I stared at him, my heart doing a slow, painful roll in my chest. I hesitated, then reached out to take one of the glasses. Just as my fingers were about to brush his, Dave opened his hand. The glasses plummeted, shattering against the hardwood floor. The pale liquid splashed across the hem of my skirt. It felt like the last shred of our shared dignity, smashed and rotting at our feet. “Did you seriously think I’d drink with you?” he sneered, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I told you, Zoe, I don’t do reruns. What is this? You heard Amber and I are finally getting married, so you came to play the victim?” In the tense silence of the room, the quiet, mocking snickers of our old classmates felt like physical blows. I took a deep breath, looked down at my watch, and sighed. “I think you’re flattering yourself, Dave. I have actual business to attend to. Enjoy your night.” I walked past him, my heels clicking sharply against the floor, and headed straight to my own private dining room. My husband’s clients had just arrived. Two hours later, the wine was flowing and the conversation with our clients was warm and lively. Suddenly, the door was slammed open. Amber stood in the doorway, smelling strongly of tequila, leaning heavily against the frame. Her glazed eyes swept over the middle-aged executives sitting at my table. “Oh, look,” she sneered, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “A leopard really doesn’t change its spots. Still hunting for rich older men, I see.” My face burned with humiliation. I stood up immediately, offering a quick, tight apology to our clients before stepping toward her. My voice was a low, dangerous hiss. “Amber, leave. Right now. Or I’ll have security remove you.” That only seemed to fuel her fire. “Oh, really? You’re going to call security on me?” she shrieked, gesturing wildly. “Why don’t you just call the vice squad instead? Get all of you locked up for solicitation!” One of our clients cleared his throat uncomfortably. My patience evaporated. I pressed the call button on the wall and told the hostess to send up security. By the time two guards arrived, Dave was right behind them. He immediately wrapped his arms around Amber, who collapsed into him, sobbing crocodile tears. He glared at me, his eyes dark with fury. “Amber just came over to clear the air with you, Zoe. Why do you always have to make a scene?” he spat. “It’s been years, and you’re still the exact same toxic person. Apologize to her!” I looked at him, and for a second, the sheer absurdity of it made a cold, dry laugh escape my throat. Then, before he could say another word, I stepped forward and slapped him across the face. Hard. The sound cracked through the quiet hallway. “Dave,” I whispered, my voice trembling with a decade of unshed tears. “Did you forget? You’re the one who owes me an apology.” When I first met Dave, he was the golden boy. Bright, passionate, almost blindingly perfect. My parents had just gone through a messy divorce, and my mother dragged me to a new city to start over. I was the quiet, awkward transfer student—the perfect target for the school’s cruel cliques. I was bullied relentlessly. But Dave was the one who intercepted the rocks thrown at my head. He was the one who grabbed the eraser and wiped the cruel slurs off the chalkboard before I could see them. He stood at the front of the classroom, pointing a finger at my tormentors, telling them to leave me alone. I spent years memorizing the broad, protective lines of his back. “Don’t be scared,” he had told me, his smile warm and reassuring. “I’ve got you. Walk with me after school from now on.” We went to the same college, and falling into a relationship was as natural as breathing. During our senior year, Dave decided to launch a startup with a classmate. Money was tight, and he was drowning in stress. Everyone knew how desperate I was to help ease his burden. That was when Amber approached me. “Hey, Zoe, have you ever thought about modeling?” she had asked, her voice dripping with mock-concern. “My agency is looking for girls for a quick gig. It pays really well. It’s exhausting, but if you’re interested, I can get you in.” Trusting her, I thought I was signing up for a standard commercial shoot. Instead, it was a trap. They locked the doors of a seedy motel room, three men and a woman blockading the exit, forcing me to strip for nude photography. By the time Dave tracked me down and burst through the door, I was curled on the bed, naked and weeping. That day, Dave fought like a rabid dog, leaving everyone in that room bloodied and bruised. Finally, he wrapped his heavy, metallic-smelling jacket around my shivering body and carried me out of that hellhole. “Don’t cry, baby. You’re safe now,” he whispered against my hair. His words were a temporary balm, but they couldn’t stop the impending storm. By the next afternoon, printed copies of those photos were stuffed into locker grates and passed around the campus like flyers. Almost every single student saw them. At the same time, a hefty “compensation fee” was wired directly into my bank account—part of the trap to make it look like a transaction. The rumor was solidified: Zoe was selling her body. I was called into the dean’s office by the end of the week and handed an official expulsion notice. I quietly took that wired money, every single cent of it, and transferred it to Dave. It became the seed money for his startup. After being expelled, I didn’t curl up and die. I worked night and day, eventually signing with a legitimate agency as a fashion model. I used the money to pay for night school, determined to finish my degree on my own terms. When he graduated, he proposed to me on a rooftop, surrounded by cheap fairy lights and tears. His promises felt so real then. “Zoe, I wouldn’t be standing here without you,” he cried, holding my hands. “You’re my wings. If I ever fly, it’s because of you.” He was fiercely devoted. He defied his conservative parents, dragging me to the courthouse to get registered. There was no grand wedding, no reception. Just a cramped studio apartment with a shared bathroom down the hall. I was happy with that little life. But he constantly apologized, carrying the guilt like a heavy coat. “You suffered so much for me, Zoe. I promise I’m going to give you the life you deserve,” he would whisper in the dark. “Please stop modeling, okay? Let me take care of you.” I believed his sincerity back then. But sincerity has a remarkably short shelf life. By our second year of marriage, his company was thriving, and we bought a small townhouse. While I was happily picking out paint swatches for our bedroom, he came home one evening and tossed a roll of blueprints onto the kitchen counter. They were designed by Amber. “Amber’s trying to build her interior design portfolio,” he said casually, not looking me in the eye. “We’re old classmates. It’s better to give the business to someone we know.” Since the day of the photoshoot, her name had been a forbidden ghost in our home. I had assumed Dave had cut her off years ago. I never imagined they were still in touch—or how close they had remained. We had a screaming match that night. I ripped the blueprints into shreds, my chest heaving, throwing the pieces at his face. I swore I would never let that woman step foot in our home. Dave drove to the empty, unfinished townhouse and sat on the dusty subfloor. When I followed him there, he was smoking a cigarette. The moonlight cut across his face from the bare window, casting half his features in shadow. He looked like a stranger. “Zoe, I’ve been holding this in for a long time,” he said, his voice flat. “Amber came to me a few months ago. She was crying, apologizing. She swore she thought she was setting you up with a high-end promotional gig. She had no idea the coordinators would turn out to be predators.” He took a slow drag, the orange cherry of the cigarette glowing hot. “I don’t think she did anything wrong.” He looked up at me, his eyes cold. “But you… are you just addicted to the attention? I told you I’d support you, but you refuse to quit modeling. Why?” Dave ignored my protests and hired her anyway. “Amber wants to buy us dinner to clear the air,” he said one evening, fussing with his collar in front of the mirror. He had tried on three different shirts, trying to look effortlessly handsome. “Come with us. Let’s just put the past behind us.” I ignored him and went out with my own friends. But late that night, at the very bar we were drinking at, I ran into Dave—the same man who had texted me hours ago saying he was in bed. He was guiding Amber out the door, his arm securely around her waist. When he caught sight of me, his posture stiffened. “She… she had too much to drink,” he stammered, his arm tightening around her defensively. “I only lied because I didn’t want you overreacting.” Amber looked up from his shoulder, her eyes pooling with tears. “Zoe, please don’t be mad at Dave!” she cried, her voice trembling. “He’s just so sweet… he knew my design firm was struggling and wanted to help me…” She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “It’s okay, Dave… don’t let me come between you two. I’ll apologize to her! Just promise you won’t fight!” Before anyone could stop her, she snatched a stray shot glass from the bar and choked it down, coughing dramatically. Dave immediately grabbed her by the shoulders, his face twisted with worry. “That’s enough!” He whirled on me, his eyes flashing with irritation. “Zoe, look at her! She’s practically begging for your forgiveness. Do you always have to be so incredibly heartless?” I stood there, watching the theatrical display. A cold, hollow laugh escaped me. “Did I say a single word, Dave?” Because I refused to budge, Dave didn’t drive her home that night; we called her an Uber instead. But he was anxious the entire drive back to our townhouse, constantly checking his phone. Only when the screen lit up with her “home safe” text did the tension leave his shoulders. We didn’t speak a word until we reached our front door. As I unlocked it, he muttered, cold and sharp: “They really are right about models. Pure vanity, no heart.” After that, the silence between us stretched into weeks, then months. He stopped telling me where he was going. He’d crawl into bed past midnight, keeping to his side of the mattress, a silent brick wall between us. Until the night I smelled it. A sweet, heavy floral perfume. Not mine. Something inside me snapped. I grabbed a pillow and began pelting him with it, screaming at the top of my lungs. “Who is she? Who is she, Dave? You absolute bastard!” He didn’t even try to block the hits. When I finally collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air, he stared down at me with flat, dead eyes. “Are you done acting like a psychopath? Can I sleep now?” After that night, he stopped coming home altogether. He disabled his location sharing. I became the pathetic, desperate wife I always swore I’d never be, checking my phone every five minutes, sending frantic texts. Where are you? Who are you with? Why are you ignoring me? Where are you? I couldn’t focus on shoots. My agent called me twice to warn me about my performance. But my mind was entirely consumed by him. The day the townhouse construction was officially completed, I knew he would go see it. I spent hours on my hair and makeup, putting on his favorite dress, determined to swallow my pride and beg for a fresh start. I sat on the empty floor of our new living room from noon until dusk. The door finally opened at nine. But he wasn’t alone. Dave and Amber stumbled through the entryway, their mouths locked together, hands clawing at each other’s clothes. Even when they saw me sitting there in the dark, they didn’t pull apart immediately. The last thread of my sanity snapped. I grabbed the bottle of champagne I’d brought to celebrate and threw it at them. Dave didn’t hesitate. He spun, throwing his body over Amber to shield her from the flying glass. Just like he used to shield me from the bullies. The dark red liquid exploded against the pristine white walls, staining the plaster like blood. Amber whimpered in his arms, and he looked back at me, his eyes dead. “You’re hysterical. You scared her. Get out of our house.” I waited downstairs in the lobby all night. The townhouse lights stayed on; they never came out. The next morning, Dave walked out of the lobby, holding Amber’s hand. I got out of my car, my eyes swollen and bloodshot, and blocked their path. “Just tell me why,” I choked out, grabbing his arm. “Why, Dave? Why her?” Amber shrank behind his shoulder. He sighed, trying to brush past me, but I gripped his sleeve with everything I had. Losing his patience, he shoved me away. “Zoe, you’re making a pathetic fool of yourself.” The push was hard. I lost my footing on the slick pavement and fell backward onto the concrete. A sharp, cramping pain bloomed in my abdomen. Within seconds, a warm, terrifying wetness seeped through my jeans. “Blood! There’s blood!” Amber shrieked, pointing at the ground. Dave’s face drained of color. He scrambled down, scooping me up into his arms, and started running toward his car. In that terrifying moment, his chest was still so warm. It felt exactly like the day he had carried me out of that motel room. We lost our first baby that day. Dave sat by my hospital bed, weeping, slapping his own face until his cheeks were bruised and raw. He pulled out his phone in front of me, deleting Amber’s number and blocking her on every platform. “I’m a monster,” he sobbed, burying his face in my lap. “I’m so sorry, Zoe. We’ll fix this. We’ll start over, I promise. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.” A miscarriage was the price I paid for a brief window of happiness. For the next few months, Dave cancelled his meetings and took me on a road trip along the coast. We went to a quiet chapel in the mountains, lighting candles and praying for a miracle to put our broken pieces back together. The universe was kind. It gave us a second chance. But my body was weak from the trauma, and I had to be hospitalized for bed rest to save the pregnancy. Dave came to the hospital every single day, bringing homemade soup and holding my hand. Except for one night. He didn’t show up until past midnight. He smelled of scotch, but underneath the alcohol was that familiar, sickly-sweet floral scent. “Where were you tonight?” I whispered, my heart dropping. “Client dinner,” he said smoothly, offering a warm smile. He pulled a box from his coat pocket and slipped it onto my bedside table. “I bought you a gift on the way. Do you like it?” It was a bottle of the exact same perfume. I stayed awake all night, staring at the glass bottle. A week later, when he called to say he had another late-night business dinner, I checked myself out of the hospital against medical advice and drove home. The townhouse was dark. I let myself in, praying I was just paranoid. But as I walked up the stairs, the muffled, unmistakable sounds of ecstasy drifted from our bedroom. Every ounce of my sanity vanished. I grabbed a bottle of champagne from the kitchen counter, stormed into the room, and poured the cold liquid directly over the two writhing bodies on our bed. “Dave! You are disgusting!” I screamed. He immediately threw himself over Amber, wrapping the sheets tightly around her, before turning to look at me. His expression wasn’t guilty. It was utterly indifferent. “Oh, and you’re clean?” he sneered, wiping the champagne from his face. “I’ve been eating leftovers for years, Zoe. You should be grateful I stayed this long.” I don’t remember how I got back to the hospital. I only remember that by morning, our second baby was gone. This time, Dave never showed up. He didn’t appear until the morning of my discharge, when the hospital insisted a family member sign the paperwork. He brought Amber with him. The moment she saw me, she fell to her knees at the foot of my bed. “Zoe, please, I beg you,” she wept, pressing her forehead against the linoleum floor. “Let him go. Please just let us be together!” She banged her head against the floor over and over until her skin bruised and bled, but I sat there, completely numb, staring blankly at the wall. Dave tossed a folder containing the divorce papers onto my bedside table, took Amber’s hand, and walked out. But I couldn’t let go. The grief and humiliation turned into a toxic obsession. I spent weeks crashing his office lobby, screaming his name until security threw me out. When they banned me, I went to Amber’s design firm. I bought a megaphone, standing on the sidewalk and telling everyone who walked past exactly how she had ruined my marriage. I watched her cower in the corner like a frightened rabbit, only for Dave to swoop in and carry her away, playing the hero. Soon after, they posted photos of their ring shopping and engagement shoots. Everything Dave had promised me but never delivered, he gave to her. The last time I went back to the townhouse to gather my things, I couldn’t even bring myself to step inside. Through the open door, I saw giant canvases of their engagement photos lining the walls. Dave dragged my suitcases out onto the porch and kicked them toward me, his face twisted with disgust. “This is everything,” he said coldly. “Don’t come back. Amber doesn’t want to see you. And neither do I.” I stood on the porch, feeling like a hollow piece of driftwood swept out to sea. I reached for the handle of my suitcase, but my hands were shaking too hard to lift it. I just stared at him. “Dave. Did you forget to say something to me?” The memory dissolved, and the cold air of the restaurant hallway rushed back in. I looked at Dave, who was once again shielding Amber behind him, the print of my slap reddening on his cheek. The anger that had lived in my chest for three years suddenly felt incredibly heavy—and incredibly useless. “Dave,” I said softly. I looked at his handsome, stunned face. “It’s been three years. Did you finally figure out what you were supposed to say to me?” He couldn’t answer. The restaurant manager hurried down the hall, bowing apologetically, promising complimentary bottles of champagne and entrees to smooth things over. “Mrs. Palmer,” he said, turning to me with a nervous smile. “Your husband is one of our most valued clients. I am so incredibly sorry for this disturbance…” I offered a polite, practiced smile and turned to leave, but a hand suddenly gripped my wrist, tight enough to bruise. “What did he just call you?” Dave asked, his voice shaking. “Zoe… are you married?”

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When I found out my fiancé, Elliot, had let his female student move into his campus apartment, I didn’t scream. I didn’t demand answers, nor did I throw a glass vase against the wall like I would have months ago. Instead, I quietly deleted his number, blocked him on every app, and accepted my company’s transfer to their Zurich office. We met again five years later at an industry symposium. I was there as a venture capital partner representing one of the leading research labs. People I hadn’t seen in years flocked to my table the moment they recognized me. “Daphne! My god, Elliot has been looking for you everywhere. He’s been like a ghost these past five years, completely lost without you.” I frowned slightly, looking up just in time to see Elliot walk through the double doors, flanked by a small crowd of colleagues. Five years had elevated his academic standing, but it had carved deep lines between his brows. He looked hollowed out, the sharp, vibrant edge he once carried replaced by a dull, grey exhaustion. Everyone in our circle knew about our history—and the legendary depth of his regret. Intending to be helpful, they orchestrated the seating chart so we were placed right next to each other at the banquet. I treated him like a stranger, but the look in his eyes was a storm of raw, unshed grief. After what felt like an eternity, he whispered my name. “Daphne… how have you been?” “Good,” I replied, my voice level. “I’ve been really good.” 1 I kept my tone clipped and polite, the way you speak to a stranger you bump into on the subway. But beneath the surface, my chest was tight. Elliot and I had been childhood sweethearts. We grew up on the same tree-lined street, went to the same schools, and slid into a relationship as naturally as breathing. An engagement soon followed. But after the ring was on my finger, our careers pulled us apart. He was climbing the tenure track; I was putting in eighty-hour weeks at my firm. I thought the distance was just a temporary tax we paid for our future. Until he started talking about Summer. Elliot had always been fiercely private. He insisted we keep our relationship out of his professional life—no visits to his office, no public displays of affection. Yet, he let Summer loop her arm through his on campus. He let her tease him in front of his colleagues. At first, I brushed it off. He was her advisor; she was a brilliant, struggling student. But then came our five-year anniversary. He left me sitting alone at a candlelit table to rush to campus because Summer was having an emotional crisis. I lost my mind. I told him we were done. But Elliot—proud, stoic Elliot—dropped to his knees on our living room rug, tears streaming down his face as he begged me not to leave. “Daphne, please. There is nothing between us. She’s an orphan. She has no family, no one to look out for her. I’m just trying to keep her afloat. Please believe me. Don’t end this.” I looked at him, and all I could see was the boy who used to share his lunch with me on the school bus. I softened. I forgave him. And then, I forgave him again, and again, accepting his excuses every time he bailed on me because Summer “needed” him. Until the day I came home early from a business trip. I wanted to surprise him at his university apartment. I didn’t even go back to our place first; I dragged my suitcase straight to campus, exhausted but excited. I unlocked the door, and the air left my lungs. The apartment, which had always been a sterile expanse of gray and black, was filled with warmth. Fairy lights, plush pillows, cozy throws. And Elliot—who used to snap if I even rearranged his bookshelves—was holding a stuffed animal, asking Summer with a soft, teasing smile where she wanted him to put it. I stood frozen. When my brain finally forced my legs to move, I stepped back out into the hallway. “Why is your student living in your apartment, Elliot?” He shrugged, completely blind to the boundary he had crossed. “Summer’s tuition is high, and her part-time job barely covers groceries. I rarely sleep here anyway. What’s the big deal?” A big deal? We were the ones paying her tuition. Ever since Elliot took her on, we had been quietly sponsoring her expenses out of our joint account. And as for him “rarely sleeping there”—that was only true when I was in town. Whenever I traveled, that apartment was where he stayed. A male professor and his young female student, sharing an apartment. I wanted to scream, to ask him if he had lost his mind, but when I opened my mouth, the only words that came out were: “…Never mind.” 2 What was the point of arguing? The truth was written in the cozy pastel decor of that apartment. From the moment Summer entered his life, I had been demoted. The man who had sworn under the summer stars to love me forever, to never let me feel second-best, had given all his tenderness to someone else. My birthdays, our anniversaries—none of it mattered. One frantic phone call from Summer, and he would vanish. I had fought, I had cried, but every single time, Elliot would offer an apology so sincere, so desperate, that I would fold. He loved “me”, he’d say. She was just a student. He just felt sorry for her. But standing there, watching her live in the space I was kept out of, watching her rearrange the things I wasn’t allowed to touch, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. I forced a polite smile, turned on my heel, and practically ran. At the campus gate, the security guard stopped me to sign the visitor log. As I took the pen, a dull ache bloomed in my chest. We had been engaged for three years, and yet, to visit my fiancé’s office, I still had to sign in as a stranger. How had I been so blind? I went back to my office with a cold weight in my chest. On my computer screen, the draft of my email declining the overseas transfer was still open. I had spent hours writing a detailed explanation about family obligations and my upcoming wedding. With a bitter laugh, I hit select-all, deleted it, and typed a single sentence: “I accept the transfer.” But while the decision took seconds, untangling a life takes time. While the firm handled my visa, I had to personally close out my life in the city. The hardest part was our shared bank account. I took a morning off to go to the bank, planning to withdraw my half of our savings and close the account. But the teller’s voice shattered my quiet resolve. “I’m sorry, Ms. Chapman,” she said, looking up from her monitor. “There’s no balance in this account.” I stared at her. We had opened that account when we got engaged, agreeing to deposit a set amount every month for our future house. After three years, it should have been at least eighty thousand dollars. “Are you sure?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Could you check where the funds went?” The teller’s expression softened into pity. “The bulk of the funds was transferred last month into a new joint account under Mr. Elliot’s name and a co-owner.” She couldn’t legally give me the co-owner’s name, but I didn’t need her to. I walked out into the chilly autumn air and called a friend who worked in credit services. Ten minutes later, a PDF file landed in my inbox. Elliot had opened a joint account with Summer two years ago. And last month, he had emptied our nest egg to fund it. I stood on the bustling sidewalk, the city noise fading into a ringing silence. 3 I floated back to our apartment like a ghost. But as I slid my key into the lock, a voice from inside stopped me cold. “Elliot, are you sure Daphne won’t be angry? Me staying here, I mean…” It was Summer. Elliot’s voice was gentle, a tone he used to reserve only for me. “She won’t mind. Daphne is understanding. She’ll take good care of you while I’m away.” My hand shook as I turned the key. I walked in to find them sitting close on our beige sofa. Elliot looked up, his expression entirely casual. “Hey. I have to go out of town for a conference this week. The locks on Summer’s place are acting up, and I don’t feel safe leaving her there alone. I brought her here to stay for a bit.” He stood up, smoothing his jacket. “While I’m gone, do you mind letting her have the master bedroom? It has the private bath. Thanks, honey.” He said it so easily, as if he were asking me to water a plant. I swallowed the lump in my throat, my voice dangerously quiet. “Elliot. Do you even remember whose home this is?” He didn’t even look at me, a sigh of annoyance escaping his lips. “Daphne, please don’t start.” Summer shrank back, her eyes wide and watery. “Elliot, I think I’m making Daphne uncomfortable. I should just go…” Finally, Elliot looked at me. But there was no warmth in his eyes, only frustration. “Daphne, you’re an adult. You’re older than her. Why are you picking a fight with a kid?” “A kid?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “She’s twenty-two, Elliot. Since when is a college senior a kid?” Elliot’s face hardened. He stepped in front of Summer, shielding her. “What is your problem lately?” “My problem?” I stepped closer. “Do you think the rest of the faculty is blind, Elliot? Do you think people aren’t talking about the two of you?” Summer’s gaze flickered. Behind his shoulder, her lips twitched into a tiny, victorious smirk. Elliot scowled. “Those are just rumors. Summer is my student, nothing more.” The dam broke. Five years of swallowed pride and quiet, lonely nights rushed to the surface. “A normal student-teacher relationship? Tell me, Elliot, what kind of professor lets his student move into his campus apartment? What kind of man leaves his fiancé on her birthday because his student called with a minor inconvenience?!” Elliot’s face went white, then a dark, angry red. “Daphne, enough! I have explained this a thousand times. Do you have to act like a hysterical child over nothing?” Summer whimpered behind him, playing the peacemaker. “Please don’t fight because of me. Daphne hates having me here. I’ll just go back to the campus apartment. I’ll manage.” She didn’t move an inch. She just stared at Elliot with puppy-dog eyes. I had reached my limit. I walked over, grabbed Summer’s wrist, and pulled her toward the door. “Great. Let’s go. I’ll drive you back myself.” Summer stumbled, feigning resistance, and then with a sharp twist, she threw her weight sideways. We both crashed hard onto the hardwood floor. “Summer!” Elliot panicked, rushing past me as if I weren’t even there. He gathered her into his arms, his voice laced with terror. “Are you okay? Did you hurt your hand?” Summer leaned into his chest, shaking her head. “I’m okay… check on Daphne. She fell harder.” Elliot looked up at me, his eyes blazing with a fury I had never seen before. Before I could process the look on his face, his hand swung out. “Slap.” The sound echoed in the quiet living room. My cheek stung, hot and throbbing. “How could you be so vicious?” he snarled. “Jealousy is one thing, Daphne, but physically attacking a girl? If she injured her wrist, do you have any idea what that would do to her lab work? Her career?” I sat on the floor, hand pressed to my burning cheek, staring at the man I had loved for half my life. He didn’t even ask if I was hurt. He didn’t see the tears in my eyes. He only saw his precious student. The pain in my chest was so immense it surpassed the sting on my face. “Elliot,” I said, my voice barely a whisper as I used the wall to pull myself up. “We’re done. Get out.” He flinched, a flicker of regret passing through his eyes, but it was quickly swallowed by pride. “Daphne, grow up. Stop using threats every time you don’t get your way.” He picked up Summer’s bags, then helped her to her feet. “Fine. If you’re going to be like this, I’ll take her with me to the conference. You need to cool down. We’ll deal with this when I get back.” “Deal with this when I get back.” I kept my head down, letting my hair fall forward to hide my face. There would be nothing to deal with, Elliot. Because by the time you get back, I will be gone. “”” Five days later, Elliot returned. He was still irritated, rehearsing the speech he would give me about boundaries and maturity. But despite his lingering anger, he had stopped at the airport duty-free to buy me a perfume I liked. He took a deep breath at the front door, unlocked it, and set the gift bag on the entryway table. “Daphne,” he called out, his voice echoing in the hallway. “Look, I’m sorry about how things went before I left. But you have to stop acting so irrationally over nothing.” Silence greeted him. He walked into the living room. It was completely empty. A cold, quiet dread began to settle in his stomach.

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When I arrived at the scene of the crash, the air was thick with the scent of burning rubber and cheap gasoline. My husband, Wright, was covered in blood. Yet, even with his chest collapsing, he was still clinging desperately to my twin sister, Gina, whose body was already broken beyond recognition. “Jodie,” Wright gasped, his voice rattling in his throat, his eyes glazing over as he looked up at me. “I spent my whole life regretting marrying you just to spite your sister. I know you’ve hated me too. If there’s a next life… let’s just let each other go.” “Sure,” I murmured, barely looking at him. “Whatever you say.” I stood there and watched him draw his final, ragged breath, feeling a profound, quiet sense of satisfaction. I wasn’t being cruel; I was being practical. I had already given birth to Toby, the sole heir to the multi-billion-dollar Alden real estate empire. My mother-in-law was staggeringly generous, and my husband was now conveniently out of the picture. A life of luxury, zero marital obligations, and a massive inheritance? If I had to live that reality all over again, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second. Decades later, when my own time came, I closed my eyes in a plush hospital bed, surrounded by silk sheets. But instead of slipping into the eternal dark, I woke up with a gasp. I was staring at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom. It was the exact day Wright was scheduled to propose to my sister. In my previous life, Gina had made up a last-minute excuse to send me to the venue in her place, setting up the grand misunderstanding that bound Wright and me together. This time, however, she didn’t bother with excuses. She simply locked my bedroom door from the outside, determined to claim her wealthy suitor without any interference. I didn’t panic. I quietly opened the window, climbed down the trellis to the lawn, and caught a cab straight to the venue. They say a forced marriage is bitter, but they’ve never tasted the fruits of a wealthy, dead husband’s estate. This time, I was still going to marry him. 1 I arrived at the venue early. The garden of the boutique hotel was a sea of Turkish Halfeti black roses—all because Gina once mentioned she liked the dark, dramatic aesthetic. Scattered across the manicured lawn were a dozen velvet gift boxes, each containing a piece of diamond jewelry worth millions. In our past life, Gina had constantly complained to our parents that her boyfriend, Wright, was a broke loser. Their dates consisted of five-dollar food-truck tacos and cheap corner-store milkshakes; his gifts to her were plastic trinkets from thrift shops. When she finally deduced he was planning a proposal, she panicked, viewing it as a trap to bind her to a lifetime of middle-class mediocrity. She had tricked me into going to the garden to reject him on her behalf. I was the one who walked into that garden, only to discover that “broke” Wright was actually the sole heir to the Alden fortune, testing her love. By the time Wright realized I was Jodie and not Gina, the ring was already on my finger. His wealthy friends were cheering, cameras were rolling, and the social pressure was immense. He couldn’t back down without humiliating his family. After the ceremony, he had used my phone to call Gina, demanding an explanation. Gina had laughed over the receiver. “Oh, Jodie probably saw your text and went to watch the drama. We look identical anyway, Wright. Dating her is the same as dating me. You’re both childish, so you should have plenty in common. Let’s call it quits. Don’t contact me again.” Wright’s face had turned a deep, furious crimson. He slammed my phone onto the pavement, turned to me, and asked if I had my ID on me. I had nodded, pulling it from my pocket. We signed the marriage papers that afternoon, without a prenup, driven entirely by his spite and my survival instinct. Now, standing in the shadow of the rose arches, I looked at this younger, unblemished version of Wright. A wave of nostalgia hit me. In our first marriage, he had only touched me during our first month together—and only because his formidable mother, Donna, had threatened to disinherit him if he didn’t produce an heir. Afterward, he spent the rest of his short life chasing Gina across the country, eventually dying in that horrific pileup at twenty-eight. Our son, Toby, was only three when Wright died. Donna, terrified I would take the boy and vanish, had showered me with trusts, properties, and black cards. I had spent sixty glorious years as a wealthy, independent widow. Remembering those peaceful, luxurious decades, a genuine, warm smile spread across my face. I raised my hand and called out to him. “Wright.” He turned. But he didn’t rush forward with the joyful, boyish grin from my memories. Instead, his brow furrowed, his eyes scanning my face with intense, calculated suspicion. “Are you… Jodie?” he asked, his voice tight. My heart sank slightly. The script had changed. Wright was reborn, too. I adapted instantly, shifting my posture to mimic Gina’s signature aloof, slightly defensive tilt of the head. “Wright, what are you talking about? Didn’t you send me the coordinates to come here? What does my sister have to do with this?” Wright let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. He strode over and pulled me into a tight embrace. “Gina. Thank God. It’s you.” Terrified of another mix-up, he didn’t waste a second. He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket, his hands trembling slightly with urgency. “Gina, I’m sorry. I hid my family’s financial situation because I wanted to be sure of… well, of everything. But my feelings for you are entirely real. Will you marry me?” I nodded eagerly, offering my hand. “Yes.” He slipped the massive diamond ring onto my finger, pressing a lingering kiss to my knuckles. “Gina, I’ll spend the rest of my life making you happy.” Seeing him look at me with such tenderness was deeply disorienting. In my previous life, even though marrying me had been his own spiteful decision, he had treated me like a criminal who had stolen his true love. But his hostility had never really bothered me. Whenever Wright threw a fit or ignored me, Donna—who had built the Alden empire from scratch after her husband’s early passing—would drag Wright to the coals, strip him of a luxury asset, and hand it to me as an apology. Before marrying into the family, I had been terrified of Donna. Afterward, I realized she was the mother I had always wanted. When Wright refused to sleep in my room, Donna took me on private shopping sprees to Paris, sat with me front-row at fashion weeks, and used her influence to get me private meet-and-greets with my favorite artists. When Wright intentionally called me “Gina” at a family dinner, Donna bought a prize-winning French bulldog the next morning and named it “Wright,” training it to sit on command. When Wright smashed a plate during an argument, Donna replaced our entire dining set with dynasty-era antique porcelain, warning him that the next broken dish would cost him his trust fund. Eventually, Wright’s tantrums became my favorite source of entertainment. Seeing his angry face was like watching a slot machine align to pay out a jackpot. Looking at him now, I felt that familiar, comforting thrill of a secured future. Tears of genuine joy welled up in my eyes. Wright froze, a soft, self-satisfied smile playing on his lips as he brushed a tear from my cheek. “You silly girl. Why are you crying? Are you really that happy?” I nodded vigorously. Wright laughed, turning to signal toward the pavilion. Dozens of his friends emerged from the greenery, cheering and throwing confetti, even if they were slightly confused as to why the proposal had happened twenty minutes ahead of schedule. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Donna. She wore a sharp, charcoal-grey pantsuit, her presence commanding the entire garden. She walked over, her sharp eyes softening slightly as she took my hand. “My dear,” Donna said, her voice rich and steady. “I hope you don’t hold Wright’s little deception against him. It was my idea. Since his father passed early, he’s all I have, and I wanted to ensure the woman he brought home loved him for who he is, not what he owns. You won’t suffer a single day under my roof.” She patted my hand before looking up. “Wright is always so quiet about his personal life. Tell me, dear, what did you study in college?” Wright, who had been watching us with a look of quiet triumph, suddenly went rigid. I knew exactly what he was worrying about: Gina had barely scraped through a local community college, and Donna valued intellect above all else. I offered Donna a bright, flawless smile. “Mrs. Alden, I actually just graduated from Columbia University with a degree in Business Administration. I haven’t started my career yet, but I’m hoping to find something challenging soon.” Donna’s smile widened, becoming entirely genuine. Without hesitation, she slipped a heavy, diamond-encrusted emerald bracelet off her own wrist and slid it onto mine. “An Ivy League business graduate? Perfect. If you don’t mind, you can start in our corporate office next week. I’ll personally find a senior executive to mentor you.” Wright stared at me, his mouth slightly open, utterly dumbfounded. Suddenly, a loud commotion broke out near the garden entrance. Gina was struggling against three security guards, her face flushed with fury as she screamed, “Wright! I’m over here! You got the wrong twin!” Our parents were right behind her, trying to pull the guards off her. Wright’s pupils contracted to pinpricks. He looked at the heavy emerald bracelet on my wrist, then at my face, and finally at the screaming girl by the gates. “You’re… Jodie?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “How… how is it you again?!” I raised my brow slightly, leaned in, and whispered, “Surprise.”

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After my third solo prenatal appointment, Logan called out of the blue. “Get rid of the baby,” his voice was cold, clipped, lacking even a shred of hesitation. “Chelsea should be the one to give me my first child.” “We’re married, Grace. We can have as many as we want later.” I stared at the dashboard of my car, the quiet hum of the engine suddenly sounding like white noise. I thought I had misheard him. The shock was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest until I could barely breathe. I drove home, my hands trembling on the steering wheel, desperate for an explanation. But when I reached the house, the front door was slightly ajar. I stood in the hallway, the chill of the air conditioning seeping into my bones, and heard his voice drift from the study. It carried a warmth, a tender indulgence he hadn’t shown me in months. “I barely managed to bury the rumors you spread at our wedding,” Logan was saying to Chelsea. “It took everything I had to keep the press quiet. Don’t be so reckless next time.” Then came Chelsea’s voice, soft and coaxing, dripping with sweet innocence. “I was just so angry that you married her. It was just a joke, Logan. Besides, you fixed it, didn’t you?” “You only get away with this because you know how much I spoil you,” he murmured. The betrayal was a sharp, physical pain. I couldn’t take it anymore. I pushed the door open, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. “I want a divorce.” Logan didn’t even flinch. He stood up, shielding Chelsea behind him, his face hardening into a mask of righteous indignation. “Grace, don’t forget who you’re talking to,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension. “When your mother’s scandal broke at our wedding, your family threw you both out on the street. I was the one who took you in. I saved you.” He stepped closer, his eyes cold. “Your mother is only stable right now because of the experimental medication I import for her. Where do you get the nerve to stand there and threaten me with divorce?” I froze. The words knocked the wind out of me. So, that was how he saw it. To him, our marriage wasn’t a partnership; it was a charity case, a debt I could never repay. Thinking he had successfully silenced me, a cruel, satisfied smile played at the corner of his lips. “Where would you even go without me? Be smart, Grace. Get rid of the baby. It’s what’s best for everyone.” In that quiet, devastating moment, a switch flipped inside me. If that was the case, then I wanted nothing to do with him. Not his mercy, not his money, and certainly not his child. … “Fine,” I said. My face was pale, my voice entirely devoid of emotion, like a completely still, dark pool of water. Logan didn’t notice the deadness in my eyes. If anything, a look of smug relief washed over his face. He reached out to stroke my hair, but I stepped back, slipping away from his touch with quiet precision. “I knew you’d see reason,” he said, pleased. “Don’t worry. Once Chelsea gives birth, I’ll make it up to you. We can have as many children as you want after that.” After that. There would be no after that. He had no idea what it had taken for me to conceive this child. The endless rounds of fertility treatments, the bitter medications, the physical toll it had taken on my body. The doctor had warned me that if I terminated this pregnancy, I might never be able to carry a child to term again. But Logan didn’t know. He would have known if he had accompanied me to even a single appointment. Seeing that I remained silent, Logan checked his watch and prepared to leave. “I have to go. I promised Chelsea I’d take her to her checkup today.” I watched his retreating back, and for a fleeting, desperate second, my heart waged a war against my mind. Despite the countless disappointments, despite knowing exactly who he was, my body reacted before my brain could stop it. “Logan,” I called out. He paused at the door, turning back to look at me. The brief flicker of warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by an impatient sigh. “What is it now?” “Could you… could you come with me tomorrow instead?” Logan frowned, a look of annoyance crossing his features. “Tomorrow is Chelsea’s birthday. I’ve been planning this party for months. I can’t miss it.” “But the doctor said—” “Enough, Grace!” he snapped, cutting me off. “Stop being so dramatic. I’ll come see you after her birthday is over.” Without another word, he turned and walked out. The heavy mahogany door shut with a dull thud, burying the apartment in a suffocating silence. I sank onto the sofa, the tears finally spilling over. I sat there in the dimming light, crying until my throat was raw and my chest ached. Eventually, the tears ran dry, replaced by a cold, hollow numbness. I walked into the bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of the dresser, and pulled out the tiny baby clothes we had picked out together. I remembered how Logan used to place his hand over my stomach, whispering about the toys he would buy, joking about how he would make sure the baby’s first word was “Dada.” Now, for the sake of another woman, he was casually asking me to destroy this life. Slowly, I began packing the clothes into a trash bag. With every tiny outfit I discarded, a piece of my heart went with it. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text message from an unknown number. Miss Davenport, I have an update on the investigation. The rumors spread at your wedding definitely originated from Chelsea Ward. It was the private investigator I had hired in secret. My fingers trembled as I typed back: I need concrete proof. Do whatever it takes. As soon as the message sent, a cold resolve settled over me. When the scandal broke on my wedding day, my father hadn’t even bothered to ask for my mother’s side of the story. He had his lawyers draft disownment papers within hours. “The Davenport family cannot survive a public disgrace like this!” he had shouted. “The stocks are plummeting, and the board is demanding blood. You and your mother leave today.” My mother had dropped to her knees, begging him to believe her, begging him at least to let me stay. But he had security escort us out, empty-handed, into the pouring rain. More than twenty years of marriage, erased in an afternoon. My mother’s mind had fractured under the weight of the betrayal, and she had never recovered. If I could find the proof, I could clear her name. She wouldn’t have to live as a disgraced exile, and I would no longer be labeled the daughter of a fraud. But without the experimental drug Logan imported, I knew I couldn’t keep her stable. I was trapped. As the weight of the dilemma pressed down on me, my phone rang again. It was Rachel, my college roommate who now worked as a resident at the university hospital. I answered, but before I could speak, her frantic voice filled the line. “Grace, that medication you asked me to look into? Stop giving it to your mother immediately!” I blinked, momentarily paralyzed. “What? Why?” “I had my attending consult with a specialist in Europe,” Rachel said, her breath shallow. “That isn’t a psychiatric drug. It’s a heavy sedative mixed with a mild hallucinogen. It doesn’t heal her—it slowly deteriorates her cognitive functions. It’s making her worse.” The words felt like a bucket of ice water poured over my head. My blood ran cold, freezing in my veins. I knew Logan was cruel, but I thought he was merely covering for Chelsea. I never imagined he would actively feed my mother poison day after day, all while playing the role of our savior. Every week, he would look at me with soft, concerned eyes and ask, “Is your mother feeling any better today, Grace?” And I had spent the last six months feeling deeply, painfully grateful to him. The urge to confront him, to rip away his mask of benevolence, was overwhelming. But I couldn’t afford to lose my mind. Every second wasted was a second my mother was in danger. I bolted out of the apartment, got into my car, and sped toward the care facility. I threw open the door to her room just in time to see the nurse holding a glass of water, reaching toward my mother with a familiar blue pill. “Stop!” I lunged forward, knocking the glass out of the nurse’s hand. It shattered against the tiled floor, water and glass spraying everywhere. The nurse gasped, stepping back in shock and anger. “Mrs. Fletcher! What on earth are you doing?” “This is the specialized medication Mr. Fletcher imported. She has to take it on schedule. If her condition worsens—” “From now on, no one gives my mother any medication without my explicit permission,” I said, my voice shaking but absolute. “If anything happens, I take full responsibility.” The nurse muttered something under her breath, gathered her things, and left the room, slamming the door behind her. I turned to my mother, who had shrunk into the corner of her bed, trembling from the sudden noise. Looking at her hollow, frightened eyes, my heart broke into a thousand jagged pieces. I climbed onto the bed and wrapped my arms around her frail body. “It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay. No one is going to hurt you anymore. I promise.” She began to calm down, her breathing slowing, but then voices drifted in from the hallway. The door wasn’t fully closed. “Poor thing,” a stranger’s voice murmured, tinged with cheap curiosity. “I heard she used to be a prominent socialite. Look at her now.” Another voice, sharper and laced with venom, replied, “Don’t waste your pity. She got what she deserved. Cheated on her husband for twenty years before she got caught and thrown out. No wonder she lost her mind.” “Like mother, like daughter, I guess. I heard the daughter practically forced her way into the Fletcher family. Stole him right out from under another girl.” Ever since the day we were exiled, those whispers had followed us like shadows. In the beginning, I had fought back. I would scream, cry, and try to explain that my mother was innocent, that she had been framed. But my desperation only invited smug, knowing looks. There’s no smoke without fire, they’d say. Look how defensive she gets. No one cared about the truth. To them, we were just a cheap piece of gossip to liven up their afternoon. I had learned to tune it out, but my mother hadn’t. She began to shake violently in my arms. “Mom, don’t listen to them,” I whispered. But she broke from my grip, her eyes wide and glassy, staring at the door. “I didn’t… I didn’t do it…” she whimpered. Before I could stop her, she shoved me aside and bolted out into the corridor. “Mom!” My heart leaped into my throat as I chased after her. She ran like a cornered animal, blind with panic. People in the hallway scattered, whispering and pointing. At the far end of the hallway, near the elevator, stood Logan and Chelsea. Chelsea was wearing a loose maternity dress, her small bump barely visible, leaning into Logan as she spoke. My mother ran straight toward them, grabbing Logan’s sleeve with desperate, claw-like hands. “Logan! You have to help me! I didn’t do it… I was framed!” Before she could finish, Chelsea let out a sharp scream, stumbling backward as if she had been struck. “She hit me!” Chelsea cried, clutching her stomach, her face pale. “She hit my baby!” Logan’s expression shifted instantly. He violently pushed my mother away, sending her crashing against the wall, and rushed to Chelsea’s side. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?” My mother hit the drywall with a sickening thud, sliding down to the floor, dazed. The hallway erupted into whispers once more. “Did that crazy woman just attack a pregnant girl?” “Oh my god, she did it on purpose! Being insane is one thing, but targeting a baby?” “Unbelievable. They really are trash.” Chelsea sobbed into Logan’s chest, her shoulders shaking, her eyes red. I pushed through the crowd and ran to my mother, kneeling beside her frail, trembling body. “Mom!” I held her close, a crushing weight pressing down on my chest. “Logan, are you blind?” I screamed, my eyes burning with tears. “My mother didn’t touch her!” Logan looked down at me, his eyes dead and unyielding. “That’s enough, Grace! Chelsea is pregnant. Why would she lie about something like this? Your mother is a lunatic, and she did this on purpose.” “Get your mother to apologize right now, or I’m calling the police.” Chelsea continued to sniffle, weakly pulling on Logan’s sleeve. “Logan, please… let it go. I’m sure she didn’t mean to. Don’t make things hard for them. I’m fine.” Logan’s grip on Chelsea tightened, his anger deepening as he glared at me. “Look at her, Grace. Chelsea is pregnant, yet she’s still the one worrying about your mother’s health. She went through so much trouble to secure that imported medication from abroad.” “And this is how you repay her? Have you no shame?” The words echoed in my mind like a deafening clap of thunder. Chelsea was the one who found the medicine. It was her. It was always her. Chelsea was the one who had spread the rumors at the wedding, and she was the one who had provided the slow-acting poison to rot my mother’s mind. “Chelsea, you sociopath!” The rage in my blood burned away every ounce of my restraint. I threw myself at her, completely consumed by fury. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you for what you did!” “Grace, stop!” Logan moved quickly, catching my wrists and pulling me back. “Are you blind, Logan?” I screamed, my voice cracking under the weight of my despair. “That medicine isn’t a cure! It’s poison! Chelsea is trying to kill my mother, and you’re still protecting her!” “Shut up!” Logan roared, his patience entirely spent. “You’d make up any disgusting lie just to tear Chelsea down.” He snapped his fingers, and his personal security guards stepped forward, pinning my arms behind my back. “Since you refuse to apologize, and you clearly can’t control your mother, I’ll do it for you.” Without another look at me, he walked over to where my mother sat cowering on the floor. He pulled a small orange prescription bottle from his pocket, shook out two blue pills, and knelt beside her. “Time for your medicine, Diana.” “No!” I thrashed against the guards. “Logan, don’t! Don’t give her that! It’s poison!” Logan ignored me, forcing the pills into my mother’s mouth. “Let me go! Please! Logan, I beg you! Don’t do this!” “I’ll apologize! I’ll say whatever you want! Just please, don’t give her the pills!” “Too late,” Logan said coldly. He held my mother’s jaw shut until she swallowed. Within minutes, her thrashing stopped. But it wasn’t a peaceful calm. Her eyes glazed over, staring blankly ahead as if the very soul had been drained from her body. Logan stood up, dusting off his trousers. He looked at my mother’s catatonic state with an air of smug satisfaction. “Now, do you have anything else to say? The medicine works perfectly, as you can see.” I stopped fighting the guards. The tears kept falling, but I was no longer crying. I was hollow. I couldn’t hear what Logan was saying anymore; my mind had narrowed down to a single, sharp objective: I had to get my mother out of here. “Logan,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Let’s divorce.” The word seemed to strike a nerve. Logan’s eyes flared with anger. “You want a divorce? Fine. I’ll give you exactly what you want.” Chelsea, still clinging to his arm, looked up with a calculating gleam in her eyes. “Logan, if you’re getting a divorce, can Grace clarify things to the public first? People still think I’m the one who broke up your marriage. I don’t want our baby to grow up being called a bastard.” Logan’s expression softened as he looked down at Chelsea, then turned back to me, cold and commanding. “You heard her. Tomorrow is Chelsea’s birthday gala. You will stand in front of everyone and publicly admit that you were the homewrecker.” He knew. He knew better than anyone that Chelsea had left him to go abroad years ago. He knew I was the one who stayed by his side when he was drinking himself to death. He was the one who had pursued me, promising me the world. Looking at the familiar face of the man I had once loved, I started to laugh. “Fine,” I said, the tears spilling over my cheeks. “I’ll admit to whatever you want. Just give me the papers, and let me take my mother.” Logan nodded, satisfied. He wrapped an arm around Chelsea’s waist, and they walked away. Once they were gone, I made sure my mother was settled in her bed under the care of a private nurse I hired with my own savings. Then, without a second thought, I walked down the hall to the hospital’s ob-gyn clinic. I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow. I didn’t want this man’s child inside me for another second. I couldn’t let my baby carry his blood, or grow up calling the woman who poisoned my mother “family.” As I lay on the cold operating table, the sterile chill of the instruments sending a shiver through my body, my throat tightened. I’m sorry, I whispered in the silence of my mind. I’m so sorry, little one. It wasn’t that I didn’t want them. It was that I couldn’t let Logan be their father. He didn’t deserve to be. The next evening, I arrived at the grand ballroom of the Regent Hotel. The gala was an incredibly lavish affair, attended by the city’s elite. Logan stood near the center of the room, holding a glass of champagne, laughing with a group of investors. When he saw me walk in, he froze. Perhaps he noticed that my stomach, which had been showing a slight curve the day before, was now completely flat beneath my silk dress. Or perhaps he was just surprised that I had actually shown up to keep my promise. Chelsea immediately slid her hand into Logan’s, casting a smug, triumphant look in my direction. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore. After tonight, they would be dead to me. I walked up to the stage, picked up the microphone, and waited. The room fell silent as eyes turned toward me. “Good evening, everyone. I am Grace Davenport, Logan Fletcher’s wife.” “I’ve asked for a moment of your time tonight, on Chelsea Ward’s birthday, to clarify a few things.” “The rumors that ruined my family’s reputation on my wedding day, the lies that drove my mother to a breakdown—they weren’t an accident. They were carefully orchestrated by the woman of the hour, Chelsea Ward.” The smile wiped clean off Logan’s face. Chelsea gasped, her voice shrill. “That’s a lie! She’s lying!” I stared directly at Logan, my gaze sharp and unyielding. “And my husband, Logan Fletcher, knew the truth from the very beginning. He covered it up for her. Together, they pretended to help my mother by supplying her with what they claimed was specialized medicine—but was actually a slow-acting poison designed to destroy her mind.” Muttered gasps rippled through the crowd. Logan’s face turned a dangerous shade of crimson. He lunged onto the stage and ripped the microphone from my hand. He turned to the murmuring crowd, forcing a tense, dismissive laugh. “My apologies, everyone. Grace has been under a lot of stress lately. Her mental health has deteriorated, much like her mother’s. Please don’t take the delusions of a sick woman seriously.” Downstage, Chelsea wiped at her dry eyes, looking like a victim of a horrible tragedy. “Grace, how could you say such things about me? I only ever wanted to help your mother. I would never do something so terrible.” I stood my ground, my voice clear and loud enough to carry across the silent hall even without the microphone. “I am not crazy. Every word I said is the absolute truth.” “And where is your proof?” Logan sneered, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You have nothing, Grace. You’re just a bitter woman making a scene. No one here is going to believe you.” “She’s right, where’s the proof?” someone in the crowd whispered. “Without proof, it’s just slander…” Logan raised a hand to call security to throw me out. But before the guards could reach the stage, the heavy double doors at the back of the ballroom swung open. “If it’s proof you want, I have it right here.”

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The night Beckett decided to go public with Serena—his “golden girl,” his untouchable muse—I took my boy-girl twins straight to the backstage entrance of the Film Academy Gala. The security guard blocked me, his face tight with impatience, probably marking me as another obsessive stalker fan. A couple of fansite girls standing nearby with telephoto lenses sneered at me. I didn’t say a word. But Maisy looked at the giant digital poster of Beckett on the wall, then tugged her brother’s sleeve. “Todd, look. That man stole your face.” That was when everyone finally noticed the two children standing on either side of me. They looked exactly like Beckett Ward—the newly crowned Best Actor. The guard blinked, looking from Todd to the screen, his voice losing its edge. “Who… who are you, exactly?” “I’m Beckett Ward’s first love.” 1 Back in our cramped apartment, as I was pouring milk for the kids, a glowing line of text—a live chat comment, like a Twitch stream overlay—floated directly across my vision: [The ex-girlfriend is still in her cheap rental pouring milk. It’s so sad I want to laugh.] [She doesn’t even know, does she? Beckett wasn’t the one who sent that breakup text back then.] The milk carton slipped from my fingers, hitting the linoleum with a wet thud. Maisy looked down, her tiny brow furrowing with distress. “Mommy, it leaked.” I didn’t hear her. On the television, Beckett was standing at the end of the red carpet. Black tuxedo, silver cufflinks. Three years ago, he wasn’t an Oscar winner. He lived in a cramped, five-hundred-square-foot apartment in East LA. He’d come home from set covered in dust and crouch in our tiny kitchen to make me instant ramen. “Gill, as soon as my first movie airs, we’re going public.” But that movie never got its release. He had a terrible accident on set. And then, I received a text from his phone: “Don’t come looking for me.” Just six words. I stared at those six words all night. The next morning, I went into early labor. The twins were born premature. They spent twelve days in incubators. Back then, I told myself Beckett Ward was dead. But now, these floating comments were telling me he never sent that text. The live comments continued to scroll: [And Beckett doesn’t even know she gave birth to his twins!!!] [Once they go public tonight, Serena is basically the future Queen of Hollywood. The ex and the kids will be pushed even deeper into the shadows.] [Ugh. The biological dad is on the red carpet, and his kids are fighting over spilled milk at home.] I looked down. Todd was chewing on his straw, staring intently at Beckett on the screen. He looked exactly like Beckett did in his old childhood photos. A spitting image. Maisy held her plastic cup, asking softly, “Mommy, who is our daddy?” I stood up. Todd stood up too, his eyes wide. “Mommy, are we not having milk?” “No,” I said. “We’re going.” I grabbed my purse, cramming our birth certificates, my old cracked phone, and the family records inside. Maisy was still wearing her bunny pajamas, one sock missing. I scavenged under the sofa, found the missing sock, and pulled it over her foot. Todd clutched his Spider-Man backpack, his little face solemn. “Mommy, where are we going?” On the screen, Beckett and Serena stood side-by-side against the step-and-repeat. Serena wore a pristine white dress, her hand resting gracefully on his arm. The interviewer smiled warmly. “Are you two sharing some special news with us tonight?” Before Beckett could answer, the chat comments went wild: [Countdown to the big reveal!] [If the ex doesn’t go now, she’ll never get another chance.] I shut the door behind us. “We’re going to find your dad. The one who owes us.” The drive from our apartment to the convention center usually took forty minutes. That night, the traffic kept us crawling for an hour and a half. The Uber driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror three times. On the fourth, he couldn’t help himself. “Heading to the gala, huh? Big fan?” Maisy was yawning against my chest. Todd sat beside me, one hand holding his backpack, the other gripping the envelope with the birth certificates. I stared out at the endless sea of red taillights. “Just collecting a debt.” The driver blinked. “At an awards show?” “Yes.” “A celebrity owes you money?” I looked down at the live stream on my phone. Beckett had already entered the indoor press room. Serena was beside him, her smile poised and flawless. The host was building up the suspense. I flipped my phone face down. “He owes us a lot.” The driver didn’t ask any more questions. When we arrived, the outside was a madhouse. Flashy signs, banners, cameras, and screaming fans blocked the entrance like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Carrying Maisy and holding Todd’s hand, I headed toward the side entrance. A security guard stopped us. I said, “I’m here to see Beckett Ward.” His look hardened instantly. “Do you have a badge?” “No.” “An invitation?” “No.” “Then you can’t go in.” I swallowed my anger. “Just tell him Gill Harris is here. He’ll know.” The guard let out a dry laugh. “Look, lady, at least eighty women have come here tonight claiming to know Beckett. Some girl earlier even claimed to be his high school sweetheart.” A few fansite girls nearby heard him and began turning their long lenses toward us. I pulled Maisy closer. Todd stepped in front of me. “My mommy doesn’t lie.” The guard looked down at Todd and froze. He looked at Todd’s face, then glanced up at the giant digital billboard broadcasting Beckett’s live red-carpet close-up. The sharp jawline. The nose. The slight, guarded press of his lips. The guard’s throat moved. A fansite girl lowered her camera, her voice dropping. “That kid…” Another girl finished her sentence: “…looks exactly like Beckett.” Hearing them, Maisy lifted her head from my shoulder and looked up at the billboard. She blinked. “Todd, look. That giant man stole your face.” Todd frowned. “Don’t talk nonsense.” A lens clicked as a camera pointed at Todd. I immediately blocked it with my hand. “Don’t film the children.” The fansite girl lowered her camera, looking slightly embarrassed. The guard, no longer daring to push us away, grabbed his walkie-talkie. “We have a situation at the side entrance. A woman is here looking for Mr. Ward. She has two kids with her.” A voice crackled back almost instantly: “Keep them there. Do not let the media get pictures.” The live comments began to flash rapidly across my eyes: [Here we go. It’s happening.] [PR’s first instinct is always to shut down the ex.] [Those poor kids. Their real dad is right inside, and they’re locked outside in the cold.] I looked at the guard. “You said eighty women have come looking for him tonight.” I pulled out my old, cracked phone. The screen lit up with the three-year-old message. “Do they have this?” The guard couldn’t make sense of it. Back then, I had saved Beckett’s number as “Beckett the Debtor” because he owed me three months of rent. But the guard looked at Todd’s face again, and his expression completely changed. A few minutes later, a man in a sharp black suit walked briskly toward us. His badge read: “Aura Media, Public Relations.” He offered a polished, empty smile. “Miss Harris, is it? It’s a bit crowded here. Why don’t we step inside to talk?” “Where is Beckett?” I asked. His smile didn’t waver. “Mr. Ward is currently working. If you have any demands, you can discuss them with me first.” “Demands.” The moment he said that word, I knew exactly how they had classified me. A stalker. A bitter ex. A blackmailer using kids to cash in. Before I could speak, Todd asked, “Mommy, what are demands?” “It means they think we’re here for money,” I said. Maisy immediately looked up. “Is he going to give it to us?” The PR guy’s face stiffened. Someone nearby choked back a laugh. I looked down at Maisy. “Not yet.” She said seriously, “Then we can’t leave.” The PR guy led us into a backstage storage room. It was cluttered with cases of bottled water, folding chairs, and designer gift bags. The moment we walked in, Maisy eyed a plate of miniature cupcakes on the table. Before I could say anything, the PR guy casually slid the plate out of her reach. “Apologies. Those are reserved for the talent.” Maisy’s mouth puckered. Todd glared at him. “My sister didn’t even ask for them.” The man ignored him with a dismissive smile. I sat down and pulled Maisy onto my lap. “When is Beckett coming?” “Mr. Ward has a very tight schedule tonight.” “Then I’ll go back outside and find the reporters.” The smile finally vanished from his face. Just then, the door swung open. First to walk in was Simon—Beckett’s manager. Three years ago, he used to call me “sister-in-law.” Back then, he wore a cheap puffer jacket and sat on our worn-out couch eating cold takeout pizza, telling me Beckett was going to make it big, and that he’d get me front-row tickets to his first major awards show. Now, he was in a bespoke suit with a gleaming tie clip. He didn’t look surprised to see me at all. “Gill.” I stared at him. “Simon.” He smiled. “It’s been a long time.” Before I could reply, I heard footsteps outside. Light, but distinct. I knew that stride. Beckett walked in. After three years, he was leaner than he appeared on screen. He was wearing a designer watch from tonight’s sponsor and a silver brooch on his lapel—part of the matching couple’s jewelry line he and Serena were promoting tonight. I had rehearsed a thousand things to say to him. I wanted to ask why he sent that text. I wanted to ask if he’d ever thought of me over these three years. I wanted to ask if he knew I had almost died on the operating table. But seeing him standing there, the words dissolved in my throat. Maisy spoke first. She pointed a tiny finger at him. “Todd, look. It’s the face-stealer.” Todd’s ears turned red. “Stop it.” Beckett’s gaze locked onto Todd’s face. He stood frozen for what felt like an eternity. Then his eyes drifted to Maisy. All the color drained from his face. Simon quickly stepped in. “Beckett, the press room is waiting.” Beckett didn’t move. He looked at me, and my heart gave a betraying flutter. But then he spoke, his voice tight: “Who authorized you to bring the children here?” I froze. I looked at him. Three years. I had survived those three years alone, only to be blocked by security and hidden in a storage closet. And the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t “how have you been” or “how did you find me.” It was “who authorized you to bring them here.” I let out a sudden, dry laugh. “Mr. Ward, don’t be in such a rush to interrogate me.” I set Maisy down and gently pulled Todd to my side. “First, why don’t you explain why these two kids have your exact face?” Beckett’s throat bobbed. He stared at the children. It wasn’t a look of disgust or disbelief. It was the look of a man who had suddenly been served a verdict he couldn’t comprehend. Simon cut in. “Gill, you can’t prove custody or paternity just by looks. Do you have any idea what kind of damage this stunt could do to his career?” I looked at him. “I do.” “And you still came?” “Why wouldn’t I?” I countered. “Should I have waited for him to announce his relationship tonight, and then leave a comment on his post saying, “By the way, Beckett, you have twins”?” Simon’s face darkened. The door opened again. Serena stood there. Her makeup was immaculate, her white gown spotless, and Beckett’s matching designer jacket hung draped over her shoulders. When she saw me, her eyes widened in brief surprise before she smoothed her expression. “Beckett, the host is calling for you.” Her voice was soft, but her eyes immediately swept over the children, lingering on Todd. She paused, then walked in with a gentle smile. “You must be Gill.” I didn’t answer. Serena didn’t let the silence grow awkward. She knelt down in front of Maisy, her tone dripping sweetness. “Hi there, sweetie. It’s very crowded back here. You shouldn’t be running around.” Maisy shrank behind my leg. “Mommy, her smile is too bright.” Todd added flatly, “Like my desk lamp on the highest setting.” Serena’s smile stiffened for a fraction of a second. The live comments went wild: [Hahaha “desk lamp on the highest setting”! Go off, little man!] [The kid speaks facts. Serena’s face just turned green.] Beckett glanced at Maisy. It was a brief look, but I saw the flicker of emotion in his eyes. Serena saw it too. She stood up, smoothing her skirt, and murmured, “Beckett, regardless of what’s going on, the live broadcast isn’t over. We can figure out the situation with the children later. We can’t delay the announcement.” “We can’t delay the announcement.” I almost laughed out loud. “Miss Gable,” I said, “you’re certainly in a hurry.” Serena’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Gill, you misunderstand. I’m only worried that making a scene here will hurt the children.” It was a beautifully played sentiment. But a second later, I noticed a staff member outside the door, pointing a phone camera directly at us. I saw it, but it was already too late. Ten minutes later, I was trending. “Beckett Ward: Mysterious Woman with Children Backstage” “Unforeseen Drama Before Beckett Ward’s Big Announcement” The leaked video was only twenty seconds long. The first half showed me holding the children in the cluttered storage room, my face cold. In the middle, Serena, with red-rimmed eyes, was saying, “Gill, we can figure out the situation with the children later. Don’t let this affect Beckett’s announcement tonight.” The clip ended with Maisy hiding behind me. The caption read: “Alleged ex-girlfriend gatecrashes awards show with kids to force a confrontation, while Serena Gable handles the crisis with grace.” The comment sections erupted. [Is she crazy? Dragging kids to an awards show to cause a scene?] [Serena is class personified. She’s still trying to protect the kids.] [We don’t even know whose kids those are. She’s really trying to trap him?] I sat in the storage room, scrolling through the comments. I looked up at Simon. “Your agency moves fast with the media buys.” Simon denied it immediately. “Gill, public opinion is already turning against you. If you’re smart, you’ll stop making a scene.” “I’m not making a scene.” “Bringing two kids backstage at a major awards show isn’t making a scene?” Todd stood beside me, his jaw clenched tight. Maisy was getting sleepy, her head resting heavily on my lap. I stroked her hair. “Then tell me, Simon. What do you call it?” Simon said coldly, “Unbecoming.” I looked up at him. “I didn’t care much about being becoming when I had an emergency C-section all by myself.” The room went completely quiet. Beckett, who had been standing by the window in silence, turned to look at me. I didn’t meet his eyes. I reached into my bag and pulled out my old phone. It was three years old, the screen webbed with cracks, the charging port barely functioning. But I had kept it because of that single text. It was the proof of my abandonment, and the reason I had never reached out to him again. Simon’s expression shifted when he saw the phone. “Gill,” he said, his voice softening, “let’s be reasonable. Tell us what you want.” I placed the phone on the table. “I want Beckett to tell me, to my face, if he sent this text.” Beckett walked over. “What text?” Simon cut in quickly. “Beckett, the press is waiting. Don’t let her play you.” I tapped the cracked screen. The message log opened. “Sender: Beckett the Debtor” “Content: Don’t come looking for me.” Beckett stared at the screen. The change in his face was visceral. I watched him. “Did you send it?” Beckett couldn’t find his voice. Simon spoke up instead. “It was three years ago, who remembers? Phones get hacked, people lose them. Bringing this up now doesn’t prove anything, Gill.” I smiled. “Why are you so nervous, Simon?” Simon’s smile faltered. Beckett looked up, his gaze fixing on his manager. Just then, a production assistant knocked on the door. “Mr. Ward, the interview is starting. The host is already teasing the announcement on air.” Serena stood at the threshold, her voice a soft plea. “Beckett, everyone is waiting for you.” Beckett didn’t budge. I pushed the phone closer to him. “Beckett, when this text was sent, where were you?” His eyes darkened, sinking into shadow. Simon stepped in front of the phone, lowering his voice to a hiss: “Gill, name your price.” All pretense of politeness was gone. “We made you disappear once three years ago. We can do it again tonight.”

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It was Chelsea who took the car out at three in the morning, high on adrenaline, and left a man dead on the asphalt. But it was my fiancé—the man I was supposed to marry in three days—who stood in my living room and asked me to take the fall. I gripped the delicate lace of my wedding dress, my knuckles turning white, staring at him in utter disbelief. Zachary lit a cigarette, his face a mask of chilling composure. “Chelsea is pregnant, Norma. It’s mine.” He took a slow drag, the smoke curling between us. “She won’t survive prison. But you… you’re different. You’re strong. You can handle it.” My hand flew up before I could think. The slap echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room. They made sure the trap was airtight. Zachary and the Marks family fabricated the evidence together. No matter how many times I screamed the truth to the detectives—that I wasn’t even in the car, that I had been asleep in my bed—nobody believed me. The paper trail they created was flawless. My biological mother, Margaret, wept as she grabbed my hands, her tears wetting my wrists. “Norma, please. Just take the plea. You can’t let Chelsea’s life be ruined… she’s so fragile…” Zachary stood by the window, his voice low and muffled, refusing to meet my eyes. “It’s only a year, Norma. Just plead guilty. When you get out, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” The day the heavy steel doors of the penitentiary slammed shut behind me was the exact same day Zachary and Chelsea walked down the aisle in a lavish society wedding. By the time I was finally released, the Markss had officially scrubbed my name from the family registry. To the world, the real heiress did not exist. I had nowhere to go but back to the old, grease-stained roadhouse grill my adoptive parents had left behind. It was late one evening when a sleek, black luxury sedan pulled up to the gravel lot of Barlow’s Grill. Zachary stepped out. He stared at me, his eyes burning with an intense, demanding glare. “Why didn’t you contact me when you got out? Are you still holding a grudge?” I shook my head slowly, keeping my voice level. “I stopped holding grudges a long time ago.” I turned back to the grill, flipping the seasoned skewers over the glowing coals, letting the smoke rise between us. He strode over, his polished leather shoes tracking dirt onto the concrete, and grabbed my wrist. “Norma, look at yourself. You’re throwing your life away in this dump. Have you completely forgotten your dreams? The piano?” I looked down at my hand—at the twisted, scarred knuckles and the faint, permanent tremors. I let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Who was it that destroyed those dreams, Zach? Do you really not know?” … I yanked my arm out of his grip and went back to tending the grill. “Norma!” his voice flared with sudden, unearned anger. I frowned slightly, genuinely puzzled by his fury. Since the day I walked out of those prison gates, I hadn’t bothered a single soul. I hadn’t knocked on the Markss’ front door. I hadn’t called him. I had vanished into the background, just as they wanted. Why was he still so angry with me? “Hey, can we get the check?” a customer called out from a nearby table. “Be right there,” I called back. I gestured for Phoebe to keep an eye on the grill, wiped my hands on my apron, and walked over to the table. “That’ll be thirty-eight dollars. Card or tap is fine right here.” Once the customers left, Zachary stepped into my path again. “Come back with me. Look at yourself—what are you even doing here?” I ignored him, walking straight past him back to the heat of the grill. “It’s been five years, Norma. Are you still punishing us? I get it, you’re angry that we asked you to take the fall. But it was only a single year.” My hands froze over the metal grates. A year? The air felt thick in my throat. I had spent five agonizing years behind those concrete walls. They hadn’t even bothered to check how long my sentence actually was. To them, my life was just a minor detail to be swept under the rug. But as the cold realization washed over me, I found I didn’t even have the energy to argue. “Are you finished, Mr. Crawford? Because I have a business to run, and you are disrupting my customers.” His temper flared, hot and demanding. He turned to the handful of diners sitting under the string lights. “Everything is paid for! Everyone, leave. Now!” A few people recognized his face from the local business news. Whispering among themselves, they quickly gathered their coats and slipped away. He was exactly the same—entitled, arrogant, completely indifferent to the lives of ordinary people. There was no saving tonight’s business. “Phoebe, you can head home early,” I said quietly. She looked at me, her eyes filled with worry. “Norma, are you sure you—” “I’m fine. Go on home.” I bent down to start clearing the tables, wiping away the grease and ashes. Zachary stood a few feet away, pulling out his phone. “I found Norma,” he said into the receiver. “Yeah. I’ll text you the address.” Before I could finish packing up the patio chairs, a sleek black town car pulled up to the curb. Drew stepped out, slamming the door. He walked toward me with a cold, severe expression, looking down at me the exact same way he did whenever he used to lecture me at the family estate. “Who are you trying to embarrass with this little act?” he sneered. “Do you want the entire city of Seattle to know that a Marks heiress is flipping burgers at a roadside shack?” “Get your things. You’re coming home right now.” I stopped wiping the table and looked up, meeting his eyes. Years ago, a look like that would have made me tremble. I would have looked down at my shoes and whispered, I’m sorry, Drew. I’ll do better. But that girl was dead. “Mr. Marks, have you forgotten?” I asked, my voice deadly calm. “I was formally written out of the family. I am no longer a Marks.” He flinched slightly, his rigid posture softening just a fraction. “The press was brutal back then. We had to distance the company from the scandal, otherwise the stock would have tanked. It was just a business decision.” He sighed, his voice dropping an octave. “Chelsea has been eaten alive by guilt these past few years. She misses you, Norma.” A hollow laugh escaped my chest. I honestly couldn’t tell if he was incredibly naive or just willfully blind. Chelsea only had to squeeze out a single tear, and Drew would believe whatever lie she spun. “I like my life here,” I said, resuming my packing. “Please leave.” Drew’s face darkened again. “You’re wasting your life in this place.” His eyes drifted past me, scanning the small, empty diner. “Where are your adoptive parents anyway? Why aren’t they helping you?” I froze, the damp rag slipping from my fingers. They didn’t even know. They had no idea my adoptive parents were dead. Before I went to prison, I had literally knelt on the marble floor of their foyer, begging them to look after the Barlows. They had looked down at me and given me their solemn word: Don’t worry. As long as you keep your mouth shut in court, we’ll make sure they are taken care of. And like a fool, I believed them. But during my second year inside, both of them passed away within months of each other, broken and alone. My eyes stung with sudden, fierce tears. “Get out!” I choked out, my voice raw. “Both of you, get the hell off my property!” Just as the words left my mouth, a sweet, melodic voice floated from the edge of the parking lot. “Norma!” My entire body went rigid. I would recognize that voice if I were deaf and blind. Chelsea. I remembered the very first day I walked into the Marks mansion. She had greeted me with that exact same high-pitched, sisterly affection. Chelsea had slid her arm through mine, her lower lip trembling with practiced guilt. “Norma, I’m so, so sorry. I spent eighteen years living the life that should have been yours.” Margaret had watched us with soft, tearful eyes, wrapping her arms around both of us. “You are both my daughters. You both belong here.” They had showered me with beautifully wrapped gifts. I had unwrapped them one by one, my heart swelling with a naive, desperate hope that I had finally found a real family. Three months later, I won first place at the International Chopin Competition. Standing on that brightly lit stage, clutching the gold medal, my eyes immediately searched the crowd for Zachary. He had walked toward the stage holding a massive bouquet of white roses, his smile brighter than the stage lights. “Norma, you were magnificent,” he had whispered. Chelsea had jogged up to us, linking her arm in mine and tilting her head as she looked at him. “Who’s this, Norma?” “This is my boyfriend, Zachary,” I had introduced him, unable to hide my pride. Chelsea had offered a warm, polished hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Norma’s sister, Chelsea.” Zachary had shaken her hand politely. After that, she became a permanent fixture in our lives. At first, Zachary would complain to me, teasingly grumbling that our dates always had a third wheel. But then things began to shift. I remember us sitting at a seafood restaurant downtown once. He ordered a plate of blackened sea bass. I had looked at him, surprised. “Since when do you eat fish? I thought you hated it.” “Chelsea likes it,” he said casually. I had laughed off, thinking nothing of it. But from that night on, his conversations slowly became peppered with her name. I didn’t care back then. I genuinely believed he was just trying to be a supportive brother-in-law. Looking back now, I see how blind I was. What a joke it all was. Then came the day I received the email. The Symphony Management Group wanted to sign me for a multi-city national tour. My hands shook so hard I could barely hold my phone. I wanted to scream the news from the rooftops. But Chelsea had stopped me, her hand warm on my arm. “Norma, let me go with you to meet the promoter first. Just to make sure everything is legitimate.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling. “We can announce it as a surprise at Mom’s birthday gala the day after tomorrow.” “Okay,” I had agreed, trusting her completely. The promoter had booked a suite at a luxury hotel downtown. But standing outside the heavy mahogany door of the penthouse suite, a sudden wave of unease washed over me. “Chelsea, maybe we should reschedule,” I muttered, taking a step back. “This feels off.” “Don’t worry, Norma. I’m right here with you,” she said softly, and before I could protest, she pressed the doorbell. The door clicked open. A heavy-set, slick-looking middle-aged man stood in the entryway, a glass of scotch in his hand. “Come on in,” he said, his eyes lingering on us. The man sat on the plush leather sofa, patting the spot right next to him. “Sit down, girls.” I stayed on my feet, my muscles tense. He smiled, a greasy, predatory grin. “You know, if you play your cards right, we can get this tour booked by next week.” My stomach turned. I grabbed Chelsea’s hand, my voice sharp. “We’re leaving.” But she didn’t budge. She slowly pulled her hand from mine, staring at me with a cold, blank expression. “It’s not time yet, Norma.” Before I could process her words, a violent crash erupted from the hallway outside. In a flash, Chelsea sprang into action. She clawed at her own hair, yanked hard on the collar of her silk blouse, tearing the fabric open and sending buttons scattering across the hardwood floor. Then, she stumbled blindly toward the entryway. Thud! The suite door was kicked off its latch. Zachary, Drew, and several of our family’s security guards burst into the room. Chelsea threw herself sob-wracked into Zachary’s arms, her shoulders shaking violently. “Zach… Drew… Oh god, I don’t want to live like this… Please don’t blame Norma, she didn’t know…” Before she could finish her performance, her eyes rolled back, and she “fainted” in his arms. Drew crossed the room in two strides. Before I could breathe, his hand cracked across my face. The force of the blow threw me to the floor, my cheek burning, my ears ringing with a deafening hum. “How could the Marks family raise such a vile, disgusting creature?” Drew roared, his face contorted in disgust. “You sold out your own sister to a predator just to get a damn concert tour?” I cradled my bruised face, staring up at him in absolute shock. “I didn’t! That’s not what happened! She tore her own clothes—” “Shut up!” Drew cut me off, his eyes filled with pure loathing. Right then, the slick promoter dropped to his knees, pointing a finger at me. “It was her! She set the whole thing up! She paid me to do it!” He pulled out his phone, waving a screen full of text logs and wire transfer receipts. The profile picture on the screen was mine. But I had never seen this man before in my life, let alone messaged him. Zachary stood in the corner of the room, silent. He didn’t say a single word. He just stared down at me, his eyes cold and heavy with absolute disappointment. When we returned to the estate, I was locked in the family’s private library, forced to kneel on the cold hardwood floor under the stern portraits of our ancestors. Three days later was my mother’s birthday gala. The moment the library door unlocked, Chelsea was waiting for me in the hallway. The tears from three days ago were entirely gone. She leaned in, her voice a low, venomous whisper: “You should have never tried to steal what belongs to me, Norma.” Margaret met us at the top of the stairs, sighing heavily. Her eyes held nothing but disappointment. “Norma, please. Do not cause any more scenes tonight.” I dug my fingernails deep into the palms of my hands, swallowing the lump in my throat as I followed her into the grand ballroom. Whispers immediately rippled through the crowd. “Is that the long-lost daughter?” “I heard she’s a prodigy. Won the gold medal at the Chopin competition.” “The Markss really hit the jackpot…” Chelsea turned to me with a bright, sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Norma, why don’t we play a duet for Mom?” But halfway through the performance, my throat began to constrict, my skin burning as hives erupted across my arms. Someone had coated the piano keys in peach fuzz—an allergen they knew would trigger a severe, anaphylactic reaction in me. I collapsed onto the keys. When I opened my eyes in the sterile white room of the hospital, only Zachary was sitting by my bedside. Not a single member of the Marks family had mattered enough to show up. My chest felt tight, a dull, aching sorrow settling deep in my bones. Zachary drove me back to the estate in silence. When the car pulled up to the grand iron gates, he stared out the windshield for a long moment, before leaving without saying a word. I pushed open the heavy front doors. Laughter floated down from the living room. Chelsea was curled up on the sofa next to Margaret, whispering something that made everyone laugh. It was a picture-perfect scene of a happy, intact family. Drew glanced up at me, his tone dry and dismissive. “If Chelsea hadn’t stepped in and finished the piece for you, you would have made a complete fool of the family tonight.” “The keys were covered in peach fuzz,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I had an allergic reaction. Someone did it on purpose.” He let out a cold snort. “Who are you trying to fool? The doctor already called. He said it was just a minor panic attack. You were faking it because you couldn’t handle the pressure.” I opened my mouth to defend myself, but the words died in my throat. There was no point. The next afternoon, the family’s estate attorney arrived. “According to the late Mr. Marks’s trust,” the lawyer announced, sliding a folder across the mahogany table, “since Chelsea Marks is not of biological descent, her share of the family trust is nullified. The inheritance must be transferred immediately to Norma Marks.” Drew set his teacup down, his face indifferent. “They are both daughters of this house. It shouldn’t matter whose name is on the paper.” “Legally, sir, Chelsea has no claim to these assets,” the lawyer replied firmly. Once the shares were transferred to my name, Chelsea went quiet for two months. During that time, Zachary was attentive. He took me to gallery openings, classical concerts, and eventually, at our engagement party, he dropped to one knee, promising me a lifetime of devotion. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to believe that the storm had passed. Until the afternoon Drew threw a paper check violently into my face. Drew stood over me, his chest heaving with rage. “I actually thought you had changed, Norma. I thought you were trying to be a decent human being. But you’re even more venomous than before.” I looked down at the slip of paper on the floor. It was a personal check for five million dollars. My signature was forged flawlessly at the bottom. “Since you love buying people off so much, let’s see how much trouble you can make when you’re broke,” Drew sneered, tossing a thick document onto the desk. It was a trust fund transfer agreement. I looked up at him, my throat tight. “What is this?” He let out a harsh laugh. “You really are a sociopath, aren’t you?” He pulled a digital voice recorder from his pocket and pressed play. My own voice filled the quiet room: Chelsea, here’s five million dollars. Take it and get out of this house. There is only room for one daughter in this family, and it’s me… The recording was so perfect, the vocal inflections so precise, that if I hadn’t known the truth, I might have believed it myself. “This isn’t me,” I whispered. “I was at the Barlows’ house all day today. I never left.” “Of course they’d cover for you,” Drew snapped. “Those people would lie for you in a heartbeat.” “Sign it.” “I didn’t do this! Why should I sign away what my grandfather left me?” He didn’t bother arguing. He simply gestured to the two guards standing by the door. They stepped forward, grabbing my arms and pinning me rawly against the mahogany desk, forcing my hand to sign the transfer agreement. When they finally let me go, I looked at my family—at the people who shared my blood—and felt nothing but a vast, freezing void. I turned and walked out of the house. Outside, a torrential Seattle downpour was washing over the driveway. I dialed Zachary’s number nine times. Each call went straight to voicemail. I took a cab to his townhouse, but the windows were dark, the driveway empty. I stood in the pouring rain for what felt like hours, my clothes soaked through, before my feet took me to the only place that had ever felt safe: the Barlows’ modest suburban home. My adoptive mother, Diane Barlow, opened the door, her face pale with concern. “Norma? Sweetheart, what happened? Where is Zachary?” I couldn’t speak. The dam inside me broke, and I collapsed into her arms, sobbing hysterically. “Mom, I don’t want to go back there… They hate me… They don’t want me…” I poured my heart out, crying until my ribs ached. Diane held me close, gently rubbing my back just like she did when I was a little girl. “Then don’t go back, baby. You don’t ever have to go back. This will always be your home.” In the middle of the night, the buzz of my phone woke me. I blinked against the harsh light of the screen. It was an image message from Chelsea. Two hands, fingers tightly intertwined. I recognized the silver watch and the scar on the thumb instantly. It was Zachary’s hand. Below the photo, a single text: You have great taste in men, sis. But he’s mine now. With shaking fingers, I saved the photo to a secure folder. Over the next two days, she sent more. Every single day, a new photo. I stared at the collection of images on my screen. In three days, I was supposed to walk down the aisle to marry Zachary. I quietly saved every single one. I hoped he would appreciate the wedding gift I was preparing for him. But at four in the morning, a violent pounding on the front door shattered the silence. Zachary stood on the porch, his eyes bloodshot, several of the Marks family guards looming behind him in the shadows. “Norma,” he said, his voice raw. “Chelsea was in an accident. She… she hit a pedestrian. The man didn’t make it.” I leaned against the doorframe, staring at him, my heart completely numb. “And?” “The family is calling the police. Chelsea can’t go to prison, Norma. She’s pregnant. With my baby.” “So?” He took a deep, trembling breath, unable to look me in the eye. “Take the fall for her. If you confess, with our lawyers, you’ll only get a year or two. I’ll pull strings from the outside to get you out early.” I looked at him, and a cold, hysterical laugh escaped my lips. This was the man who had promised to protect me. The man who swore he would love me forever. “And if I say no?” Zachary lowered his eyes. The silence stretched between us, heavy and threatening. “The Barlows are getting old, Norma,” he murmured softly. “It would be a shame if… something happened to them while you were busy fighting this.” “You bastard…” On the morning I was supposed to wear a white wedding gown, I was escorted into a prison cell instead. On my very first night in the state penitentiary, three inmates dragged me into the blind spot of the showers. One of them clamped her hand around my jaw, forcing my head back. “Chelsea sends her regards,” she whispered. “She said you won’t be needing these anymore.” They pinned me down. One by one, they bent my fingers back until the bones snapped, slowly grinding my knuckles into the concrete floor. From that night on, the hands that had once flown effortlessly across black and white keys, the hands that had won international acclaim, could no longer hold a pen without trembling. Five years. How fast time passes when your soul is dead. I let out a long, slow breath, my gaze shifting across the three people standing in my parking lot. “The grill is closed,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “Please leave.” I turned to walk back inside. Behind me, a loud thud echoed. Chelsea had dropped to her knees on the damp gravel. “Norma, please!” she sobbed, her face buried in her hands. “I know I ruined your life. You can hit me, you can scream at me, I’ll take it. But Mom has been so sick since you went away. Please, just come home and see her. Just once.” I paused, but I didn’t turn around. “Maybe that’s just her penance,” I said softly. I remembered the day I returned to the Markss. Margaret had held our hands, smiling warmly, promising that we were both her daughters. But she had never loved me. Not really. Chelsea was always her favorite, the golden child who could do no wrong. “Norma, do you even have a heart?” Drew yelled, his voice cracking with anger. My heart died five years ago in a dark shower stall, I thought. I didn’t answer. I walked into the small apartment behind the grill, locking the door behind me. On the mantelpiece, the framed photos of Diane and Thomas Barlow sat side by side, draped in black ribbon. I lit a stick of incense, placing it in the small brass holder before them. I pulled out the worn, folded letter my adoptive mother had left for me before she passed. My sweet Norma, I’m so sorry I couldn’t wait for you. But you must keep living. Don’t be afraid. I’m watching over you from the stars. A single tear escaped my eye, dripping onto the yellowed paper, blurring the ink. “I will, Mom,” I whispered. “I promise I’ll keep living.”

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