Category: English

During AP Literature—taught by Mrs. Grant, a woman known for handing out detentions like candy—the girl my childhood best friend was in love with forgot her textbook. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. Without missing a beat, my childhood best friend snatched my book off my desk and slid it onto hers. Mrs. Grant walked down our aisle, her expression darkening as she stopped at my desk. “A student coming to AP Lit without their text is like a soldier walking into battle without a rifle,” she snapped, her voice carrying across the dead-silent room. “Stand up.” Zane didn’t say a word. The girl he was obsessed with, Megan, shot me a sweet, helpless little smile from across the aisle. They all thought I would just take it. They thought the perpetually accommodating, quietly invisible version of me would swallow the humiliation in silence, just like I always did. But for some reason, today, the silence felt like glass in my throat. I didn’t want to swallow it anymore. I pointed a trembling, rigid finger at Megan. “That is my textbook. She’s the one who forgot hers.” 1 The entire classroom froze. The collective intake of breath was audible. Zane whipped his head around, his brows pulling together in a harsh line. He looked at Mrs. Grant. “Don’t listen to June, Mrs. Grant. She’s just talking crazy. That’s Megan’s book.” He had quite literally ripped it out of my hands thirty seconds ago. Mrs. Grant’s patience, already razor-thin, snapped. “Whose book is it?” No one spoke. Mrs. Grant was notoriously merciless; getting caught unprepared in her class meant academic crucifixion. I kept my hand raised, pointing squarely at the heavy hardcover on Megan’s desk. “My name is written in black ink on the inside cover.” All the color drained from Megan’s perfectly rouged face. Mrs. Grant didn’t hesitate. She snatched the book from Megan’s desk, flipped open the heavy cover, and scanned the page. A muscle feathered in her jaw before she slammed the book back down onto my desk. “Keep better track of your property,” she told me sharply. Then, she turned her wrath entirely on Megan. “Forgetting your material is one thing, but attempting to steal a classmate’s property to cover your tracks? Is this how you think the world works? Do you realize you’ve just wasted two minutes of my time? Multiply that by thirty students, and you’ve stolen an hour of collective learning. Stand up. You will remain standing for the rest of the period.” Megan was an honor roll darling. Aside from Mrs. Grant, no teacher in this school would dare subject her to this kind of public humiliation. Her eyes immediately welled with tears, the rims turning a delicate, tragic pink. She slowly pushed her chair back and stood up. But right as she did, Colin—who sat in the row next to us—suddenly picked up his own textbook and placed it gently onto Megan’s desk. He stood up, his posture perfectly straight. “Mrs. Grant, this is Megan’s book. Her name is in it. I must have grabbed it by mistake.” I stared at the book. From where I sat, I could clearly see the name “Megan” hastily scribbled on the inside cover. It was Colin’s handwriting. Colin had just given up his own book for her. Mrs. Grant narrowed her eyes at him, clearly not buying a second of it, but she didn’t care enough to play detective. “Fine. Then you stand.” A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in the center of my chest. Colin, Zane, Megan, and I. We had practically grown up together, a tangled knot of childhood history. But the reality was, both Colin and Zane were hopelessly, undeniably in love with Megan. Within the suffocating ecosystem of our little friend group, I was always the collateral damage. Megan’s needs were the absolute baseline of our existence. If she wanted something, Zane and Colin expected me to surrender it without a second thought. If she wanted to go somewhere, I was dragged along as the obligatory audience, whether I wanted to be there or not. I should have been used to it. This exact scenario, in varying degrees of humiliation, had played out a hundred times before. In the past, I had always just closed my eyes and taken the hit. But today… today, in that split second, the foundation cracked. I was just so entirely done. Megan was still emitting soft, tragic little sniffles. Zane was glaring daggers at me, his handsome face twisted in genuine disgust. I simply looked away, staring straight ahead at the chalkboard. 2 The second the bell rang, Zane cornered me. “What is actually wrong with you, June? Are you psycho? Why did you have to fight Megan over a stupid book?!” I looked up at him. He was objectively striking—that messy, dark hair, the sharp jawline, the rebellious, chaotic energy that made half the girls in school swoon. “It was my book,” I said, my voice quiet but steady. Zane dragged a frustrated hand through his hair. “It’s a fucking piece of paper, June! So what if you said it was hers? Did you have to make her cry like that? If I had my book, I would’ve given it to her. You think anyone cares about your pathetic little textbook?” Zane came from old money. He didn’t care about grades, skipping class whenever he felt like it, or sleeping in the back row when he was forced to attend. He was the classic untouchable rich kid. The only time he ever woke up was when Megan needed something. Across the room, Megan was still dabbing at her eyes. Colin was hovering over her, gently handing her a tissue. Once she was settled, Colin walked over to my desk. He looked down at me, his expression a mix of disappointment and patronizing authority. “June. What exactly is going on with you today?” Colin and Megan were the academic elite of our grade. Colin, specifically, had held the number-one rank in the school since freshman year. It was the only reason Mrs. Grant hadn’t absolutely destroyed him for the book stunt. When I didn’t answer, he pressed on. “It’s just a textbook. Did you really need to wage war against Megan over it?” The dam broke. “It was my textbook, Colin. And if she can’t survive a class without one, why is it automatically assumed that I should?” “Because Megan is different from you,” Colin blurted out. The words hung in the air. He blinked, suddenly realizing how cruel that sounded, and quickly backpedaled. “That’s not what I meant.” I stared at him, feeling strangely hollow. I knew exactly what he meant. Of course she was different. She was beautiful, brilliant, and wealthy. I was painfully average. My grades were middling. I blended into the wallpaper. When she cried, the world stopped to wipe her tears. When I cried, I did it alone. I just felt an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. I had spent years deluding myself into thinking we were actual friends. I didn’t say another word. I just grabbed my backpack and walked out of the room. 3 I made my way up to the narrow rooftop behind the science building. It was a secret spot I had discovered sophomore year, an abandoned little concrete oasis where I went when the noise of my life got too loud. Heavy, bruised clouds blotted out the afternoon sun. I leaned against the brick wall, pulling out my phone. A cloud storage notification popped up on the screen: On This Day. It was a photo of me, Colin, and Zane from elementary school. The irony tasted bitter. Before Megan ever existed in our orbit, it was just the three of us. My mom and Colin’s mom had been college roommates; Colin and I had shared a playpen. Then Zane moved into the neighborhood—a wild, combative kid who immediately clashed with Colin, the picture-perfect golden boy. They got into a fistfight behind the swingset one day. I had jumped in to defend Colin and ended up punching Zane squarely in the nose. It forged a bizarre, unbreakable bond between the three of us. Before Megan, things had been so bright. Colin used to let me ride on the handlebars of his bike. I remembered a time in middle school when I saw a dress in a boutique window. It was astronomically expensive, completely out of the realm of possibility for my family. For my birthday, Zane bought it for me. When I had panicked, telling him it was too much and trying to give it back, he had just laughed, ruffling my hair until it stood on end. “It’s just a dress, June-bug. You want something in this life, you tell me. I’ll always take care of you.” It had been so good. When exactly did the rot set in? It was when Megan transferred to our school. She was a sparkler—bright, gorgeous, effortlessly outgoing. She immediately latched onto me, claiming she wanted to be my friend. I had been so wildly flattered that I introduced her to Colin and Zane without a second thought. At first, the boys were indifferent. But slowly, imperceptibly, the gravity shifted. They were pulled into her orbit. I remembered the day Zane pulled me aside, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Do you have a problem with us hanging out with Megan? I mean, she’s new, June. She doesn’t have anyone… if you’re going to be jealous and weird about it, maybe I just won’t hang out with you guys anymore. Sorry.” He called me jealous. He told Megan not to pay attention to my “petty moods.” Colin’s bike handlebars became Megan’s designated spot. Zane’s extravagant gifts were suddenly all wrapped in Megan’s favorite color. And I became the shadow, trailing ten steps behind them, watching them laugh. I looked down at the concrete. A tear slipped off my lashes, splattering dark against the gray dust. I had clung to this friendship like a life raft, willing to carve away pieces of my own dignity just to keep them. But standing here now, the delusion shattered. They hadn’t seen me as a friend in years. I let out a ragged, ugly sob. I was crying so hard my chest physically ached, completely lost in my own grief, when a voice suddenly cut through the heavy air. “Do you need a tissue?” I gasped, my head snapping up. Sitting on the ledge of the roof, one leg dangling over the edge, was a boy holding an incredibly thick, leather-bound book that looked like it was written in German. The dim light caught the sharp, almost architectural angles of his profile. He was devastatingly handsome, in a way that didn’t even look entirely real. I recognized him instantly. Holden Croft. Unlike the try-hard honors students in our grade, Holden was a terrifying, once-in-a-generation genius. He had a Wikipedia page for his math Olympiad medals. Rumor had it he could have skipped straight to college at fourteen, but his parents wanted him to experience “normal socialization.” Even so, he had already been accepted to MIT on a full ride. He didn’t have to take the SATs. He only showed up to school now to use the advanced science labs and read in the library. We had been in the same homeroom in middle school, but I was certain he didn’t remember I existed. What the hell was he doing up here? Humiliation washed over me like scalding water. I scrubbed frantically at my wet face. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea anyone was up here reading—” “It’s fine,” Holden said. He hopped down from the ledge with quiet grace and extended a small pack of tissues toward me. “If you need to keep crying, pretend I’m not here.” “Thanks.” But the sheer embarrassment of the situation had effectively killed my tears. Holden didn’t leave. He just stood there, looking at me. I shifted uncomfortably. “What?” He pointed a long, elegant finger toward the ground. “You’re standing on my jacket.” I looked down. Horrified, I realized that in the dim light, I had marched right onto a dark navy jacket he had folded on the ground. There were three distinct, dusty sneaker prints right across the fabric. My face caught fire. I scrambled to pick it up. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I’ll take this home and wash it, I swear, I’ll bring it back tomorrow!” He gave a single, brief nod. He didn’t say anything else. He just picked up his heavy book and walked away. 4 That night, I sat on my bed and Googled the brand name on the tag of the jacket to see if it was machine washable. When I saw the price tag attached to the image on the screen, my soul momentarily left my body. It was Loro Piana. Cashmere. It cost more than my parents’ car. I knew the Croft family was unimaginably wealthy, but what kind of high schooler casually leaves a five-thousand-dollar jacket on a dirty rooftop?! I squeezed my eyes shut, took all the cash out of my emergency savings jar, and practically sprinted to the most expensive dry cleaner in town. The next day, I managed to get Holden’s phone number from a girl in student council, intending to text him to coordinate returning it. But when I typed his number into my phone, a contact photo already popped up. We were already friends on the messaging app. When did that happen? I stared at his profile picture—a blurry photo of a black cat—entirely baffled. But I pushed the thought away. That evening, I met him back on the rooftop to hand over the pristine, plastic-wrapped jacket. I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me. My stomach plummeted. Oh god, he found a pulled thread. He’s going to make me pay for it. Instead, his tone was completely level as he asked, “Why were you crying the other day?” I pressed my lips together. “I don’t know,” I lied weakly. “I just… I felt like a failure. I’m not particularly pretty, I’m not that smart, my grades are just floating in the middle…” I trailed off, not knowing how to explain the crushing weight of being inadequate. A pair of pristine white sneakers stepped into my line of vision. I looked up. Holden was staring down at me, his gaze intense and unreadable. Up close, the sheer symmetry of his face was staggering. His grandmother was supposedly French, and the mix of European bone structure with his dark, striking Eastern features made him look like a young movie star. My face heated up. “What?” His voice was a low, steady rumble. “I think you’re pretty.” “What?” “I said, I think you’re beautiful.” I knew he was just saying it to be polite, but it still caught me entirely off guard. For a guy who looked like he breathed ice, he was surprisingly kind. I managed a weak, self-deprecating smile. “Thanks.” But he wasn’t finished. “As for your grades,” he continued smoothly, “I have absolutely nothing to do right now. My schedule is empty. We’re old classmates. Do you want me to tutor you?” My head snapped up. 5 The next day, right after the final bell rang, I was packing my bag when someone grabbed my arm from behind. It was Megan. She flashed me her most brilliant, practiced smile. “June-bug! Do you have plans tonight?” My feelings toward Megan were a tangled, suffocating mess. I had so few friends growing up. When she first arrived, I had genuinely adored her. But over time, things began to curdle. Maybe I was just too sensitive, but she always made me feel like I was shrinking. She would constantly hang out with Colin and Zane without me, and then spend the rare times we were all together recounting inside jokes I didn’t understand, rendering me completely invisible. Or she would show up to my low-key birthday sleepover wearing a full face of makeup and a designer dress, take a hundred selfies, and post the ones where my eyes were half-closed and she looked like a supermodel. When people in the comments asked, “Why is a ten like you hanging out with a troll?” she would reply, “Stop it! She has a great personality, apologize to her right now!” And the commenter would say, “You’re too nice for your own good, Megan.” It was a thousand tiny papercuts over three years. “What is it?” I asked, keeping my voice flat. “A new Cajun seafood boil place opened downtown. I’m treating! Let’s go.” Here we go again. She knew perfectly well that I had a severe intolerance to spicy food, yet every single time it was her turn to pick, it was either tear-inducing hotpot, spicy wings, or Cajun food covered in cayenne pepper. “I’m busy,” I said, zipping up my bag. “I can’t go.” Megan immediately linked her arm through mine, pouting. “Why? Are you still mad about the textbook thing? Come on, I already forgave you for yelling at me!” Zane sauntered over, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Who’s treating? Can Colin and I come?” Megan laughed, playfully shoving his shoulder. “No way! Girls’ night only. No smelly boys allowed.” “But I want free food!” Zane whined, playing along. They joked back and forth for a minute before Megan sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. You guys can come. But only because June is bringing you as her plus-ones!” She squeezed my arm. “Let’s go, June!” I pulled my arm out of her grip. “I said I have plans. I’m not going.” Megan froze. Her lower lip began to tremble as she looked at me with wide, wounded eyes. “June… are you seriously still holding a grudge about yesterday?” Colin, who had been reading at his desk, closed his book with a sharp snap and walked over. “June, what kind of tantrum is this?” His voice was cold, clipped. “You humiliated Megan in front of the entire class yesterday. She’s being the bigger person and trying to make peace. What exactly are you trying to prove?” “Don’t yell at her, Colin, it’s my fault,” Megan whispered, a single tear spilling over her lashes. Zane’s protective instincts flared. He stepped into my space, looming over me. “Jesus Christ, June. You just take advantage of the fact that she’s too nice to fight back. You’re being a miserable bitch, you know that?” I bit down on the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper. It was always like this. I was the villain in a play I hadn’t even auditioned for. “I told you,” I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady. “I have plans. I’m meeting a friend.” “It’s fine, June,” Megan said with a brave, watery smile. “If you don’t want to hang out with me, you don’t have to make up fake friends to get out of it.” “What friend?” Colin demanded, his brow furrowed in disbelief. “Drop the act, June.” “Yeah,” Zane scoffed, his eyes full of pure disdain. “Don’t flatter yourself. Nobody in this school can stand you. Who else besides Megan would ever want to be seen with you?” I looked up at Zane. I looked at the boy who had once patted my head and promised to buy me anything I ever wanted. I looked at the dark, hateful sneer on his face now. How did we get here? When did we become strangers who despised each other? I opened my mouth to speak, but a voice from the doorway beat me to it. “Her friend is me.”

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After the eighth time Mom and Dad signed and tore up their divorce papers, something in Dad broke. He stopped asking if Mom was coming home at night. He stopped staring at the faint, sweet-smelling smudges on her collar. Even when my older sister, Lucy, started calling Damian “Daddy,” Dad didn’t flinch. Instead, Dad made a new rule: every time they mentioned Damian’s name in our house, they owed him a hundred grand. After that day, Dad’s phone buzzed constantly with the chimes of bank notifications. When Mom brought up divorce yet again, Dad was eerily quiet. “Damian’s suicidal, Leo,” Mom said, her voice tight with that familiar, exhausting urgency. “I can’t just watch him die.” “But I promise you, we’ll get remarried in thirty days, as soon as the cooling-off period is over.” After they filed the paperwork at the courthouse, Dad sat me down on the edge of his bed and showed me his phone. The account balance was a long, surreal string of numbers. “I’m leaving this place, Tony,” he whispered, his hand resting gently on my shoulder. “Do you want to come with me?” … “Where are you going?” Mom’s voice cut through the quiet bedroom from behind us. Dad quickly slid his phone into his pocket. “Nowhere,” Dad said, his voice flat. “Tony just wanted to get those honey-glazed ribs from the diner downtown.” Mom frowned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Stop acting like a child, Leo. Today is our anniversary. Let’s all go out together.” I saw the faint, mocking twist of Dad’s lips. So, she actually remembered. But the gold chain Mom had bought for Dad’s anniversary present was already hanging around Damian’s neck. “No, thank you,” Dad said. “Your little assistant will probably throw another fit if we do.” Damian—the man who had supposedly been on the verge of ending his life just hours ago—had been brought back to life by Mom’s soothing words. Right now, he was downstairs, laughing and playing video games with Lucy. But Dad really was different now. In the old days, he would have screamed at Damian, thrown tantrums at Mom and Lucy, pacing the house like a wounded animal caught in a trap. Now, he just quietly took my hand and led me out the front door. By the time we got back, the house was empty. Dad didn’t ask where Mom and Lucy went. He didn’t have to; Damian always made sure he knew. He sent Dad photos—Mom and Lucy holding shopping bags, laughing with Damian in the background. Dad stared at those photos for a long, quiet moment. He looked at Damian’s arm looped through Mom’s, and the bright, unforced smile on Lucy’s face. They looked like a real family. The irony wasn’t lost on me; Mom and Lucy hated taking photos with Dad. Whenever he tried to capture a memory with them, they would turn away, annoyed. Dad typed a comment under Damian’s post: “What a beautiful, perfect family. I’m envious.” They had too many mutual friends. As soon as Dad commented, the social circle erupted. Whispers started circulating, subtle hints that Damian was a homewrecker. It didn’t take long for Mom to call, demanding Dad delete it. “You know Damian’s emotionally unstable right now! Why do you have to provoke him like this?” her voice crackled over the receiver. “Delete the comment, Leo. How is he supposed to hold his head up in public?” She wouldn’t make Damian delete the post, but she demanded Dad erase his truth. This time, Dad didn’t even reply. He just hung up. The next afternoon, Mom finally brought Lucy home. Lucy looked slightly uncomfortable, shifting her weight from foot to foot, but she eventually walked up to Dad. “Dad,” she mumbled. Dad didn’t look up from his tablet. He just pointed to the contract on the coffee table. “You know the rule. A hundred grand.” Lucy stiffened, a look of disgust crossing her young face. “You’ve gotten so transactional. You’re nothing like Damian.” Dad watched the notification ping on his phone as the transfer cleared. He actually smiled. “Make sure you remember that next time, sweetie. Otherwise, your mother’s accounts are going to run dry.” Lucy hadn’t always been this cold. But ever since Damian stepped into our lives, Mom had constantly complained about how ‘unstable’ and ’emotional’ Dad was. Over time, Lucy started seeing him as an anchor dragging the family down. Mom stepped into the living room, her face like stone, thrusting her phone in front of Dad’s eyes. “Is this what you wanted?” On the screen was a photo of Damian in a hospital bed, his wrist wrapped in thick white gauze. “I didn’t force him to cut himself,” Dad said softly. Mom let out a sharp, bitter laugh, grabbing Dad by the jaw, forcing him to look at her. “Who else but you would drive him to this, Leo? Three years ago, during the kidnapping, you were the one who leaked our location to the press. If you hadn’t, Damian wouldn’t be broken like this.” Dad closed his eyes, his voice barely a whisper. “It was a corrupt journalist looking for a payday. It wasn’t me.” “Who else in this world worships money more than you?” Mom hissed, letting go of his jaw. “Lately, all you do is demand cash, demand property, even charging your own stepdaughter for speaking a name. Aren’t you embarrassed by how greedy you’ve become?” I remembered what happened three years ago. We were traveling abroad—Mom, Dad, and Damian. Kidnappers had taken Dad. Damian had offered himself up to swap places with him. Mom had run thirty miles barefoot through the gravel and dirt to reach the embassy to get help. But somehow, the media found out. The leak enraged the kidnappers, and Damian was nearly tortured to death. Mom believed with every fiber of her being that Dad had sold the story to the press. She still blamed him. “If you hate me so much for what happened,” Dad said, his voice cracking, “why won’t you just let me go?” Mom grabbed his wrist, her grip so tight her knuckles turned white. “Because you owe him, Leo. This is your penance.” She paused, her voice shaking with old grief. “I tried to believe you were innocent. But every time I look at Damian, I remember how terrified he was, yet he still traded his life for yours. And I can never forget that while Damian was being tormented by those monsters because of that leak, you were sound asleep on a comfortable chair in the embassy lounge.” Dad’s entire body went rigid. “Dora, I was drugged, I—” “Enough!” Mom cut him off, her eyes flashing with disgust. “I don’t want to hear another word about how you ran thirty miles to save us. It’s pathetic. Do you really think we still believe your lies?” She didn’t believe him. She never would. Instead, she demanded he apologize to Damian. Dad’s pride was the only thing he had left. “Why should I apologize for something I didn’t do?” “Damian almost died because of your greed,” Mom said, her voice dropping to an icy whisper. “And now you’ve got your friends attacking him online. You will apologize, Leo.” Lucy stood on the stairs, looking down at us with cold, detached eyes. “Just apologize, Dad. Damian really is the victim here.” Dad let out a dry, hollow laugh. “And what makes you think I ever would?” Mom slid a black card across the glass table. “I know why you’re hoarding cash, Leo. Your father’s liver cancer is stage four. You need the money for his clinical trials.” She looked at him, completely detached. “Apologize publicly, and this card is yours.” Dad stared at the black card. The silence in the room grew heavy, suffocating. Slowly, agonizingly, Dad bowed his head. Lucy immediately pulled out her phone and started a video call with Damian. “Damian! Dad’s finally going to apologize to you!” Dad watched her jump up and down with joy. He stared at his daughter for a long time. It seemed the only time Lucy ever smiled these days was when Damian was involved. That night, Mom coordinated with her company’s PR department to set up a live-streamed apology. When the news broke, Damian’s friends began posting petty, vindictive messages on social media: “Some people will sell their dignity for a check.” “You reap what you sow. Should’ve thought about the consequences before you ruined someone’s life.” I was so angry reading them that I took Dad’s phone, wanting to fire back. But Dad gently took the phone from my hands and deleted my drafts. “I’ve been dragged through the mud for three years, Tony. A little more won’t kill me.” I looked at him, my throat tight. Dad kissed my forehead. “Once Grandpa’s surgery is done, we’re leaving. For good.” The apology was scheduled for two days later in Damian’s VIP hospital room. Damian lay in bed, offering a weak, saintly smile. “You really didn’t have to do this, Dora. I know Leo didn’t mean to.” Mom’s face remained strict. “He did wrong, Damian. He needs to take accountability.” “Don’t feel bad, Damian,” Lucy added gently. But the moment Mom and Lucy stepped out to speak with the doctor, the mask fell off Damian’s face. “How does it feel, Leo?” Damian whispered, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. “To watch your wife and daughter prefer another man? It must taste like ash.” “So what if you married Dora? Her eyes are only on me now.” Dad’s hands trembled, but he forced himself to stand straight, staring down at the bed. “What’s to stop me from telling the truth on the live stream?” Damian let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Try it. You have all the time in the world to play games. But does your father?” Dad went silent. Grandpa was running out of time. The live stream started right on cue. The chat window flooded with hostile comments: “Is this the piece of garbage who ruined Damian’s life?” “I heard what happened to Damian in captivity… horrifying.” “How does he sleep at night?” Mom stood just out of frame, her eyes cold and watchful. Lucy stood by Damian’s bedside like a loyal little guard. Dad read the script line by line. Every word was a needle pressing into his chest. By the time it was over, I noticed the black ink on the page had smeared from his tears. The moment the camera cut, Lucy threw her arms around Damian. “You’re too good, Damian. You shouldn’t let people like him bully you.” Damian looked up at Mom, his eyes pooling with tears. “Dora, I feel so guilty making Leo do this publicly…” Mom squeezed his hand. “He owed you this.” She threw the black card onto the bedside table, not even looking at Dad. “Take it and get out. You’re an eyesore here.” Dad grabbed the card and ran straight to the billing department. He cleared the outstanding balance just as Grandpa’s vitals were beginning to slip. As the doors to the operating room closed behind Grandpa, Dad finally let out a shuddering breath, leaning against the sterile wall. But barely ten minutes later, the doors swung open, and Grandpa was wheeled back out. Dad panicked, grabbing a nurse. “What’s happening? I paid! Why aren’t you operating?” The nurse looked down, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m so sorry, sir. The administration just ordered Dr. Evans to transfer to the VIP wing immediately to consult on another patient. There’s nothing we can do.” Her words felt like a physical blow to Dad’s chest. “What patient could possibly be more urgent than my father?” “It’s… Mr. Damian. Mrs. Dora demanded Dr. Evans personally handle his care.” Dad’s face went completely pale. “Dr. Evans is the leading specialist in hepatobiliary oncology. My father has terminal liver cancer; no one else can perform this resection. Damian has a superficial wrist wound! Why does he need Dr. Evans?” The nurse lowered her head, voice hushed. “Mrs. Dora just funded a new pediatric wing for the hospital. The board won’t cross her.” Dad’s eyes brimmed with tears, but he forced them back. He marched out to the quiet corridor and called Mom. Her voice came through, sharp and annoyed. “What now, Leo?” “Dora, please. My dad’s surgery can’t wait. Please let Dr. Evans come back—” Mom didn’t even let him finish. “Damian is in a fragile state, Leo. I brought Dr. Evans in to evaluate his psychological distress. Your father’s surgery can be handled by any other surgeon.” Dad’s voice was shaking violently. “Dr. Evans is his primary oncologist! He knows my dad’s chart inside and out! I’m begging you, Dora. Just let him finish the surgery, and I will do whatever you want after. Anything.” Then, Damian’s voice drifted through the receiver in the background. “Dora, it’s so sad that Leo uses his own father’s health to get your attention. There are hundreds of doctors in this hospital, yet he insists on the one specialist you called for me. It’s so transparent.” Mom’s tone turned completely frigid. “Damian is right. I can’t believe you’d stoop this low, Leo. You’re pathetic.” “I’m not lying to you!” Dad cried out. “Please, Dora—” But she was already done listening. “Enough! How many lies do you expect me to swallow? Damian told me you’ve used your father’s illness as an excuse dozens of times before. I guess he was right. You haven’t changed at all.” The line went dead. Dad stood frozen, the phone slipping from his hand as if all the life had been drained from his body. I tugged at the hem of his jacket. “Dad? Grandpa is going to be okay, right?” “Tony, wait here. I’m going to get Dr. Evans.” Dad wiped his face quickly, kneeling down to look at me before turning to run toward the VIP wing. I saw Mom and Lucy take the elevator in the adjacent building, then I ran after Dad. When I rounded the corner, I saw him. Two security guards were blocking him from entering the VIP suite. “Please, just let me see Dora!” Dad pleaded. “Mrs. Dora’s orders,” one guard said flatly. “No one enters without her authorization.” But then, the suite door swung open. It was Damian who stepped out. He looked perfectly fine—not at all like someone in need of emergency psychological intervention by a top oncologist. Dad stared at him. “Tell Dr. Evans to go back. My father is dying.” Damian smiled, pulling Dad gently past the threshold, out of sight of the guards. “But my mind is so troubled, Leo. I need Dr. Evans to sit and talk with me.” “Since tomorrow is the final day of our thirty-day divorce cooling-off period, I might as well tell you the truth,” Damian whispered, his eyes dancing with malice. “Three years ago? The kidnapping, the leak, all of it—I set it up. I had to build a wall between you and Dora. She loved you too much, you see. She didn’t leave any room for me.” Dad’s face shattered. “You’re a monster.” “I just wanted what was mine,” Damian sneered. “And you wouldn’t let go.” Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Damian leaned closer, his voice dropping to a venomous purr. “Oh, and by the way, your father hasn’t actually received his regular treatments for the last two weeks. He’s not going to make it. A broken family, a dead father… consider this my little gift to you.” With a raw, animalistic cry, Dad grabbed Damian by the hair and slammed his head hard against the drywall.

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I’d started to notice a pattern: every single time my long-distance, text-only boyfriend and I got into a fight, our high-strung CEO would force the entire department to work overtime. It was uncanny. So, sitting at my desk, I finally typed out a message to him: “Every time we fight, I end up stuck at work. I think we need to break up. You’re bad luck.” Less than a minute after hitting send, disaster struck. Panic-stricken, I furiously tapped out another text: “I’m not even kidding, you really are a curse! The boss just announced he’s cutting our salaries! Let’s block each other. Goodbye.” A moment later, the CEO’s personal assistant, Simon, stepped out of the corner office. His eyes swept across the room, meticulously scanning our desks, before finally coming to a halt right in front of Clara. “Take this pen,” Simon said, his voice flat but carrying a strange weight, “and follow me to the office.” The silver fountain pen in Clara’s hand was mine. I’d lent it to her just yesterday. And it was a gift from my text-boyfriend. 1 Three minutes ago, I had officially cut ties with my virtual boyfriend. Immediately after, Simon had rushed out of the boss’s office, looking thoroughly rattled. He’d ordered us all to stand up, clear our desks, and searched for… something. Then, he took Clara and the pen away. We held our breath as Clara was led away, only letting out a collective sigh once the heavy glass doors clicked shut behind them. Instantly, the office erupted into quiet whispers. “What did Clara do?” “She’s going to get absolutely shredded.” “Someone get the tissues ready. It’s going to be a bloodbath.” The dread was entirely justified. The Harley family owned a massive, sprawling empire, and Zachary Harley had originally been the high-flying CEO of the parent company. But after our branch’s performance took a nosedive, they sent him down here to personally whip us into shape. Tall, impossibly handsome, highly educated, and possessing the kind of tailored physique that belonged on a runway—that was our first impression of him. For about twenty-four hours, Zachary was the collective fantasy of every woman in the office. But by day two, he shattered those illusions with a brutal iron fist. No being late. No office romances. No personal phone use during work hours. And the absolute kicker: our annual revenue target was arbitrarily doubled to a billion dollars. For context, we had barely scraped five hundred million the year before. He was ruthless, treating performance metrics like a matter of life and death, moving through the office like a flawlessly programmed, unfeeling machine. People went into his office with forced smiles and came out in tears. If you did well, he expected better; if you fell short, he tore you to shreds without a second thought. He was our resident Grim Reaper. Under the crushing weight of this daily anxiety, I had turned to a coping mechanism: a secret online relationship. It had started as a complete accident. My cousin had gotten a new number, and when I went to add him on WhatsApp, I mistyped a digit. Surprisingly, the stranger on the other end accepted my request anyway. Assuming it was my cousin, I immediately fired off a barrage of random texts. The only response I got was a single question mark. Pissed off, I snapped back: “What is your problem? Want a fight? Keep it up and see what happens.” The stranger replied with another silent: “?” A prickle of unease set in. I tapped on his profile picture and scrolled down. It was completely blank—no status updates, no photos, nothing like my cousin, who posted every single detail of his mundane life. My stomach sank. Oh, God. Cringing, I typed: “I am so incredibly sorry. Wrong number. Can I buy you a coffee to make up for it?” I sent him a quick Venmo of five dollars. He immediately sent back fifty. Intriguing. I decided I liked him already. After a few more exchanges, I realized there was something uniquely captivating about him. Despite never having met, we fit together with an ease that felt almost predestined. We didn’t share names, photos, or occupations. We were looking for a connection of the mind, a sanctuary from our real lives. Eventually, we drifted into a relationship. Even without physical presence, it was understood that we belonged to each other. He was sweet, mostly, though he had a sensitive streak. He’d get broodingly quiet if I took too long to reply, or if I forgot to text him goodnight. If I teased him too sharply, he’d go cold. And every single time he went cold, Zachary Harley would suddenly order us to work late. It was the most bizarre, agonizing coincidence. Once or twice, I could shrug it off. But every single time? My sanity couldn’t handle the double whammy of a moody boyfriend and a tyrannical boss. So, I broke things off. And the immediate, terrifying fallout? A company-wide salary cut. Dear Lord. If keeping a secret boyfriend meant destroying my livelihood and everyone else’s, it was a curse. We were clearly cosmically incompatible. And now, poor Clara had been dragged into Zachary’s office all because of that pen. My ex-boyfriend had insisted I keep it with me at work, treating it like some sort of talisman. I’d lent it to Clara yesterday because her own had run dry. Dating that man was a hazard to myself and everyone around me. A short while later, the heavy door swung open. Clara emerged—not crying, not trembling, but with a soft, triumphant smile gracing her lips. Simon walked a half-step behind her. Usually, Simon was a carbon copy of Zachary: starch-shirted, unapproachable, and utterly humorless. But right now, he was hovering behind Clara like a well-trained puppy. Clearing his throat, Simon announced to the room, “The pay cuts have been rescinded. No overtime tonight, and Mr. Harley is treating the entire department to dinner.” Before we could process the sudden miracle, he added, “Also, Clara has been promoted to Assistant Project Lead.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air, before delivering the coup de grâce: “And Clara is officially Mr. Harley’s girlfriend.” The silence in the room was absolute. Clara had only been with the company for six months, while I had poured five years of sweat and tears into my desk just to earn that exact same title. But who was going to complain? When a man as powerful and cold as Zachary Harley decided to show blatant favoritism to his woman, there was no room for logic. It was less about jealousy and more about awe. Within seconds, the spell broke. My coworkers abandoned their keyboards and swarmed Clara, showering her with sugary praise. “Clara, oh my gosh, are you really dating Mr. Harley?” “How did you do it? How did you tame the beast?” “Seriously, you saved our lives today. We owe you big time!” Clara stood at the center of the storm, playing the part of the demure, blushing maiden perfectly. I had no desire to join the parade. Stepping away, I quietly checked my phone. Nothing. No texts, no desperate pleas. My virtual relationship was officially dead. I headed toward the breakroom to get a coffee, but before I could make my escape, Clara parted her sea of admirers and walked straight up to me. “Gwen,” she said, her voice dripping with sweet courtesy. “Yes?” I asked, keeping my tone polite. She smoothed her dark red lipstick, looking momentarily hesitant. “I wanted to ask you… that silver pen you lent me yesterday. Was it a gift from your boyfriend?” “Yeah,” I replied simply. “My online boyfriend.” Clara leaned in a fraction closer, her eyes scanning mine. “Do you know what he looks like? Or his real name?” “No. That’s kind of the point of the whole anonymous dating thing.” I gave her a curious look. “Did the pen cause some sort of problem in there?” “Oh, no. Mr. Harley didn’t mind at all,” she said quickly, her smile returning. “Actually, I really love the way it writes. Would you be willing to sell it to me?” I didn’t care about the pen anymore, nor did I want to know what it had cost him, though the weight of the metal suggested it wasn’t cheap. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, shrugging. “If you like it, keep it.” Keeping it would only remind me of a dead relationship. “But… your boyfriend gave it to you,” she pressed, tilting her head. “We broke up.” “Why?” I leaned in and whispered, “Bad feng shui. The universe basically told me he was a hazard to my health.” Clara looked deeply pensive. “I see… Would you mind telling me a bit more about him? What was he like?” Seeing my raised eyebrow, she quickly softened her expression. “I know it’s a weird question. It’s just… I haven’t had much relationship experience, and sometimes with Mr. Harley, I find it so hard to read him. I’m trying to understand how men think.” I took a sip of my coffee and offered a polite, distant smile. “You’re gorgeous, Clara. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble figuring him out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should get back to work.” The restaurant Zachary booked was the most expensive steakhouse in the city. It was a classic power move, really—buying our goodwill to ensure his new girlfriend had a smooth ride at the company. Clara sat closely by his side, practically dripping in newly acquired diamonds that caught the candlelight. Zachary watched her with a softened intensity that felt entirely out of character. Who would have thought our resident monster was actually a hopeless romantic under all that starch? As luck would have it, the moment dinner ended, the heavens opened up in a torrential downpour. My colleagues paired up under shared umbrellas and dispersed into the wet night. Having forgotten my own, I stood stranded under the restaurant’s awning, watching the sheets of rain. “Let me give you a ride.” I looked up to find Simon standing beside me, offering a rare, gentle smile as he tilted his umbrella to cover me. “Mr. Harley and Clara left together. My car is parked just over there.” “Oh, thank you so much,” I said, genuinely relieved. Once we were on the road, Simon glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “How long have you been with the firm, Gwen?” “Five years.” “Are you seeing anyone?” “Just broke up, actually.” I found the sudden curiosity strange. Simon wasn’t exactly known for his warm conversational skills. “Clara was just promoted to Assistant Lead,” Simon said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Since she’s still relatively new, I was hoping you could help guide her through the ropes of this next project.” Ah. There it was. “Of course,” I replied, a little dryly. “She’s the boss’s girlfriend. I know how the game works.” “Actually, Gwen, that’s not what I meant at all.” Simon met my gaze in the mirror. “Rachel is going on maternity leave soon. When she does, her position as Project Lead will be vacant. Personally, I’m hoping you’ll be the one to fill it.” A subtle hint, but a welcome one. Given my track record, I deserved that spot. “Thank you, Simon. I’ll make sure to put my best foot forward.” For the new campaign, Clara and I were co-leads, each handling half of the workload. She took the preliminary market research and strategy, while I handled the execution and financial projections. Once compiled, the final report had to be personally presented to Zachary. Clara insisted on handling the presentation herself. Normally, presenting to Zachary was the corporate equivalent of walking the plank; we used to pass the duty around like a hot potato. But since she was the golden girl now, I was more than happy to let her take the spotlight. When she finally emerged from his office, however, her face was completely drained of color. She walked back toward our cubicles with heavy, dragging steps. A bad feeling settled in my stomach. Did being the boss’s girlfriend not shield her from his wrath? “Clara, are you okay?” I asked, rising from my chair. “Gwen, I need a massive favor. Please, you have to help me,” she pleaded, her eyes welling with tears as if she were the victim of some grand tragedy. “What’s going on?” “I made a really stupid mistake on the first half of the report. I didn’t realize we had to use this year’s projected metrics; I just used last year’s closed data. When Mr. Harley started losing his temper, I got so scared… I told him that part was yours.” I stared at her, utterly speechless. “You did what?” Clara grabbed my forearm, squeezing it tightly. “He wants to see you in his office right now. Please, Gwen, just take the fall for this one time. I’ll buy you dinner, I promise!” My cubicle neighbor, Zoe, nudged my foot under the desk, shooting me a warning look. But seeing Clara’s frantic state, and knowing the power dynamic, I let out a tired sigh and nodded. “Fine.” “Oh, thank you so much, Gwen!” Her tears vanished instantly. She spun on her heel, her perfectly curled hair bouncing as she practically skipped away. Zoe gave me a look of pure sympathy. “She’s the boss’s girl,” she whispered. “We can’t win. Good luck, Gwen. Fight hard.” Bracing myself for the worst, I marched toward the lion’s den. Zachary’s office was decorated in stark, oppressive shades of charcoal and slate, designed to make visitors feel small. He sat behind his massive desk, radiating a cold, lethal aura. He didn’t even bother to look up when the door clicked shut. “Took you long enough. Are you physically incapable of walking at a normal pace?” “Just pretend he’s yelling at Clara,” I chanted silently to myself. “It’s fine.” “How long have you been with this company?” Zachary asked, his voice sharp with irritation. “Fi… five years,” I stammered, hating how small I sounded. “Five years? And you present this utter garbage?” He picked up the heavy binder and tossed it. It skittered across the polished floor, stopping right at my feet. I bent down to retrieve it, and as I stood up, my eyes met his. His gaze was icy, razor-sharp, and entirely unyielding. “Five years of experience, and you make a rookie mistake like this? Do you honestly believe you’re still an asset to this department?” Terrified and utterly overwhelmed, my brain short-circuited. “Yes, sir. You’re right. I’m an idiot.” Simon slipped into the office carrying a stack of folders. He took one look at my pale face and frowned slightly. “The second half of this report is acceptable,” Zachary continued, relentless in his criticism. “But the beginning is a complete disaster. If you don’t want to do your job, Gwen, let me know.” “Actually, sir, Gwen is one of our most reliable seniors. This seems unlike her,” Simon interjected gently, trying to throw me a lifeline. “Wasn’t this a joint project with Clara?” Zachary glared at his assistant as if Simon had suddenly grown a second head. My eyes drifted to the desk, landing on the fountain pen gripped in Zachary’s hand. A jolt went through me. It was incredibly familiar—nearly identical to the vintage pen I’d bought for my text-boyfriend. I’d spent hours hunting it down in an antique shop, and the owner had sworn it was a one-of-a-kind piece. Before my rational mind could stop me, the words slipped out: “Does that pen write well?” Zachary’s expression hardened even further. “Mind your own business, Gwen.” He snapped the file closed. “You’re working overtime tonight. Don’t even think about leaving until this is fixed.” When Zachary gave an order, there was no negotiating. Clara was nowhere to be found for the rest of the afternoon. With no other choice, I sat down and began rebuilding her half of the project from scratch—scraping databases, cross-referencing figures, and pulling new charts. By the time the rest of the office packed up and left, I was still buried under a mountain of papers. I ordered a lukewarm black coffee, too exhausted to even think about dinner. The open-plan office was pitch black, save for the solitary glow of my monitor. I rubbed a few drops of peppermint essential oil onto my temples, hoping the sharp scent would stave off the pounding headache. Once the revision was complete, I carried the binder back to Zachary’s office. He hadn’t left either, still buried under his own mountain of executive paperwork. As I approached his desk, he suddenly stopped writing and looked up, his nose wrinkling. “What is that smell?” “Peppermint oil,” I mumbled, rubbing my neck. “I was getting a headache.” “I don’t like it,” he said, his brow furrowing. “It has a…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “A medicinal, apothecary smell,” I supplied automatically. The phrase slipped out before I could stop it. My text-boyfriend had used those exact words once when I told him about my favorite oil. Zachary froze, his hand suspended in mid-air. He stared at me, a sudden, intense confusion flashing in his dark eyes. He rubbed his temples, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. “Where did you hear that phrase?” he demanded, his voice dropping an octave. “I…” Before I could answer, the door burst open. “Babe! You must be exhausted, I brought you—” Clara froze when she saw me standing there. She was weighed down with glossy shopping bags from Saks and Chanel. So that was where her “urgent client meeting” had taken her. “Oh. Gwen. You’re still here,” she said, her voice dropping the high-pitched baby tone. “No thanks to you,” I thought. Zachary skimmed the revised pages of my report, his expression unreadable. “This is acceptable. It’s late. Go home.” I turned to leave, but as the door swung shut behind me, I caught the low murmur of Clara’s voice: “What were you two talking about just now?” I was too tired to notice the sharp, calculating look she threw at my back. The next day at lunch, Zoe slid into the booth across from me, looking like a spy on a covert mission. She glanced left and right before leaning over the table. “Gwen, there’s a rumor spreading. People are saying you stayed late last night specifically to try and make a move on Mr. Harley.” I choked on my salad, coughing into a napkin. “What? Who said that?” “It’s all over the group chats. I know it’s garbage, obviously, but still…” Only Clara and I had been there last night. Why would she spin a lie like that? Shaking it off, I tried to focus on my work. Later that afternoon, I walked up to the executive suite to turn in the final contract specs. The heavy wooden door to Zachary’s office wasn’t fully closed, and Clara’s voice drifted out into the hallway. “Babe, you’ve heard the rumors,” she was saying, her voice a soft, dramatic purr. “Honestly, I think letting Gwen go might be the best way to protect her reputation. And yours.” “She’s been with the firm for five years, Clara,” Zachary replied, sounding exhausted. “I can’t just fire her without cause.” “But her work has been so sloppy lately! Most of the project we just turned in was actually done by me. If she leaves, it clears up the gossip and we don’t have to worry about her bringing down the team’s metrics.” I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I walked back to my desk and quietly began packing my personal things into a cardboard box. Ten minutes later, an email from HR landed in my inbox: “Termination of Contract.” “Gwen, can you take a look at these client files?” our department director asked, dropping a folder on my desk, entirely unaware of what had just happened. I smiled politely and took the folder. I wanted to finish my final day with my head held high, even if leaving the place I’d dedicated five years of my life to left a bitter taste in my mouth. By the time I finished wrapping up the files, it was nearly eight in the evening. I carried my box of belongings out of the building and headed toward the subway. My apartment was in a quieter, slightly older neighborhood, and due to ongoing road construction, my usual shortcut was blocked. I had to take a detour, turning my ten-minute walk into a dark, thirty-minute trek. The streetlamps were sparse, casting long, shivering shadows on the pavement. A prickle of dread crawled up my spine. Footsteps. I glanced back. A dark silhouette quickly melted into the shadow of an alleyway. My heart hammered against my ribs, my knees turning to jelly. Trembling, I pulled out my phone and went to my contacts. At the very top of my list was the phone number my text-boyfriend had given me. “If you’re ever in trouble,” he’d written months ago, “call this. I don’t care what time it is. I’ll find you.” With no other options, I pressed dial.

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Right before we boarded at the gate, Derrick gave my first-class ticket to his childhood friend, Sylvia, who had just gone through a bad breakup. He leaned down to adjust my wool scarf, his touch gentle but his words carrying a quiet, familiar cruelty. “Sylvia’s heart condition is flaring up from the stress,” he said. “Ten hours in economy would absolutely drain her. Be the bigger person, Irene.” I looked down at the coach boarding pass in my hand, and a sudden, dry laugh slipped out of me. Five years. For five years, every time he demanded I step aside, it was always because she needed it more. On my twenty-fifth birthday, he left my dinner party early to carry a feverish Sylvia to his car, telling me over his shoulder that I’d always have next year. He took the concert tickets I had queued three hours in the freezing rain to get and handed them to her because she “needed a reason to smile.” I booked a glass-roofed cabin in Alaska three months in advance, and he let her have the master bedroom because she was afraid of the dark. And on the day of my diagnosis, he took her crying phone call right at the clinic doors, turning on his heel and walking away without looking back. He didn’t know that the doctor had already told me I wouldn’t have a next year. This trip to Alaska wasn’t just a vacation. It was the final funeral I had planned for myself. By the time the gate agent called for group boarding, Derrick had already guided Sylvia into the first-class lounge. My chest tightened with a dull, suffocating ache. Derrick glanced back, noticing I hadn’t moved, his brow knitting together in familiar irritation. “Irene, don’t just stand there blocking the lane. Go check your bag.” I held out my hand. “Give me my passport holder.” 1 He paused for a beat, pulled it from his pocket, and handed it to me along with the luggage tags. “Handle the check-in yourself,” he said, checked his watch. “I need to stay with Sylvia. She’s looking really pale.” Through the glass wall of the lounge, I could see Sylvia sitting on a plush leather sofa, draped in Derrick’s favorite cashmere coat. “Derrick, let Irene have her seat back,” she murmured as he walked back to her, her voice carrying just enough weight to be heard. “I’ll be fine in coach. Really.” Derrick leaned down, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “Don’t push yourself. Your heart can’t take the pressure changes. Irene is healthy—she’s tough. She’ll be fine.” I clenched the boarding pass until the paper crumpled in my fist. Healthy. Tough. For five years, that was his shield. Because I was the strong one, the one who didn’t cry, I was the one who could be pushed aside. I swallowed two of my prescription painkillers, washed them down with lukewarm bottled water, and dialed Derrick’s number. The line connected, but it was Sylvia’s soft voice that came through. Before I could speak, Derrick’s voice echoed in the background: “Irene, stop throwing a tantrum with your health.” Then, the line went dead. I stared at the medical release waiver the airline staff had requested me to sign due to my condition. I didn’t try calling back. When I finally walked out of the airport clinic, the gate agent informed me that economy was overbooked due to a system error. They suggested I take a travel voucher and rebook on the next flight, six hours later. I nodded slowly. “That’s fine.” “Do you need us to notify the rest of your party, Ms. Marshall?” the agent asked, looking at my joint booking. “No,” I said. “No need.” My phone buzzed in my palm. It was a text from Derrick. [I used my name to check us into the cabin. When you get there, go to the front desk to register your ID.] [I let Sylvia take the master bedroom. Leave your spare keycard at the desk for her too, so she can get in and out easily.] I read the messages and clicked the screen off. This Alaskan cabin was something I had researched, planned, and paid for on my own. When Derrick found the booking, he had insisted that we go together to celebrate our fifth anniversary. But the moment Sylvia’s relationship fell apart, he claimed she would do something drastic if left alone in Seattle, and dragged her along. In the end, even my final destination had been handed over to her. I opened the travel app, accessed our shared itinerary, and quietly removed Derrick and Sylvia from the loop. From now on, only my name was tied to the reservations. Sylvia’s Instagram updated almost instantly. It was a photo of the first-class cabin window, Derrick’s jacket draped over her knees. The caption read: Thankfully, there are still people who understand my fragility. I closed the app, set my profile to private, and blocked her updates. My oncologist’s nurse called just as I was walking toward the new boarding gate. “Irene, do you have your pain management routine and the copies of your medical records with you? This is a long trip, and you cannot afford to push your limits.” “I have them,” I said softly. “Once you land in Fairbanks, please register with the local clinic immediately. And don’t forget to keep your signed palliative care directive in your bag.” “I won’t.” As I ended the call, I saw Derrick walking out of the VIP boarding tunnel. He must have realized I wasn’t on their flight. He looked around the terminal, his jaw set in a hard line. A second later, a text popped up. [Don’t bring your attitude all the way to Alaska, Irene. It’s exhausting.] The final boarding announcement echoed through the terminal. I switched my phone to silent, handed my ticket to the agent, and walked down the jet bridge. Derrick tried calling twice while I was walking down the aisle. The screen lit up against my palm until the flight attendants requested all devices be set to airplane mode. I turned the phone face down and let the quiet engine hum take over. By the time I landed in the frozen expanse of Fairbanks, it was six hours later than their arrival. Derrick hadn’t sent a single text asking if I had landed safely. There was only a pin drop of the cabin’s location. [Go to the desk when you get here.] I dragged my suitcase through the snow to the wooden lodge. The front desk host checked my reservation, pausing as he looked at the screen. “Ms. Marshall, the master suite is already occupied by the guests who arrived earlier.” “I know,” I said. But when I pushed open the heavy timber door of the cabin, my hand froze on the brass handle. Sylvia was sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed in the master suite, clutching the custom-embroidered linen pillow I had ordered months ago. Derrick was standing by the stone fireplace, adjusting the thermostat. He looked up as the door clicked. “You’re finally here,” he said, his voice entirely devoid of apology. “Sylvia’s anxiety flares up in the dark, so I told her she could take the master.” Sylvia stood up immediately, her eyes wide and watery. “Irene, I’m so sorry. I’m just so jumpy lately. If you’re angry, I can pack up and sleep on the floor.” Derrick’s hand went to her shoulder, holding her gently in place. “Don’t start. The doctor said you can’t get cold. It triggers your arrhythmia.” Then he looked at me. “Irene, the loft or the living room pull-out is fine. You slept on a cot when we went camping in the Cascades, didn’t you?” That camping trip. He had changed our hotel reservation at the last minute to save money for Sylvia’s birthday gift, leaving me to spend the night shivering in the back of an SUV with a low-grade fever. Later, he told his friends I was “wonderful” because I was “so low-maintenance.” I didn’t answer him. I only asked, “Where are my things?” Derrick pointed to the utility closet in the hallway. “I put them in there. Sylvia’s still raw from the breakup. Seeing all your couple stuff around was making her emotional.” I opened the narrow closet door. My white silk dress—the one I had bought specifically to wear under the Northern Lights—was shoved at the bottom of a plastic bin. My empty silver photo frame was wedged beneath a stack of extra blankets. The dress was supposed to be my final memory. The frame was meant for the last photo of myself. Derrick stepped up behind me and slid the closet door shut, not even glancing at the silk fabric peeking out. “I booked this cabin for three months,” I said, my voice flat. Derrick pulled at the collar of his sweater, looking annoyed. “I can Venmo you your half of the deposit, Irene. Don’t make this trip ugly over a room.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “No need.” He blinked, taken aback by my lack of argument. I grabbed my suitcase and turned back toward the front door. Derrick followed me into the snow-dusted hallway. “Where are you going?” “To get another room.” “Irene, stop wasting money. Your limit on the joint card isn’t that high.” “I’m using my own account.” The front desk host booked me into a small, basic single cabin at the far end of the property. When the transaction cleared on my personal card, Derrick’s face hardened. I quietly slipped the card back into my wallet. In the past, I had always run every expense through our shared account so he could track our budget. Now, there was no budget left to share. As I finished checking in, Sylvia emerged from the main lodge, clutching her phone. “Derrick, the tour guide said the ice lake looks beautiful tomorrow. I really want to take some photos to mark a fresh start.” Derrick immediately turned to me. “Irene, lend Sylvia your Leica.” I shifted my camera bag slightly behind my hip. “No.” Derrick’s face darkened. “She just wants to take a few photos to help her move on. Do you have to be this cold?” I tightened my grip on the canvas strap. That camera was the only thing I had left to complete my final project. I wanted to capture the green lights dancing across the sky, to capture myself standing in the snow one last time before the pain made it impossible to stand at all. Sylvia reached out, lightly tugging at his sleeve. “It’s fine, Derrick. Let’s not force her if she doesn’t want to.” But my refusal only made Derrick more defensive. “I’ve spoiled you too much, Irene. You’ve lost all sense of empathy.” I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I turned and walked down the wooden deck to my single room. That night, I sat at the small pine desk, filling out the legal forms for my palliative care directive. My phone rang. It was Derrick. I pressed accept. “Where are you?” his voice was sharp with panic. “Sylvia’s chest is tight. Come back and help me find her rescue inhaler and meds. I can’t find where you packed them.” I held the medical document in my hand, staring at the blank line next to Emergency Contact. For years, that line had always belonged to him. “Irene, don’t make me come look for you,” he snapped. I left the contact line blank. Instead, I saved the 24-hour hotline for the Fairbanks Palliative Care Center into my phone and set them as my primary emergency contact. When I walked back to the main cabin to drop off the rescue meds, the heavy oak door was slightly ajar. Derrick’s voice drifted out into the cold air. “Don’t worry about it. Irene won’t stay mad. She’s just stubborn. She always barks but never bites.” Sylvia’s voice was softer, hesitant. “But she looked so pale today, Derrick. What if she’s really mad?” “She does this every time she doesn’t get her way. She’ll be back to normal by tomorrow.” I stood on the porch, my hand resting on the cold metal handle. I pushed the door open. Derrick looked up from the sofa, pointing toward the kitchen. “You’re back. Go pour Sylvia some warm water. She’s still shaking.” “I don’t feel well,” I said. He scoffed, his brow furrowing. “Irene, stop using your health as an excuse the second you don’t get your way.” Sylvia sat huddled under a blanket, her hand pressed to her chest. “It’s okay, Derrick. I can get it.” “Stay put,” Derrick told her. Then he turned his gaze back to me, cold and demanding. “She has a chronic heart condition. Stress triggers her attacks. Can you please show some decency?” I didn’t move. I walked past him to the utility closet, reaching for my own small bag of medication. My fingers were so numb and stiff that the plastic bottle slipped, spilling small white tablets across the hardwood floor. Because Sylvia was closer, she bent down to help gather them. Her hand froze as she picked up the bottle. The prescription label read: Oncology Services – For Severe Chronic Pain Management. She stared at it, then quickly turned her back, pulling out her phone to search the drug name. When she looked back up, her face had gone entirely white. She looked at the master bedroom, then at Derrick, her lips parting but no sound coming out. I reached out my hand. “Give it back.” Sylvia’s voice was barely a whisper. “Irene… is this…” Derrick walked over, seeing her bent over the floor. “Irene, are you seriously letting a sick person clean up after you?” Sylvia clutched the bottle tight, her chest rising and falling. But when she met my cold, empty stare, she slowly handed the pills back to me. “I’m fine,” she murmured to Derrick. I swept the rest of the pills into my bag. “Don’t worry. I won’t be asking either of you for help again.” Derrick let out a harsh, dry laugh. “Right. The breakup threat. You really need to find a new routine, Irene. That threat stopped working a long time ago.” He had seen the thick medical folders on my home desk back in Seattle. But he had never bothered to open them. I looked up at him. “Derrick, I’m not threatening you.” “Then what are you doing?” he demanded, stepping closer. For years, I would have cried. I would have explained how much my bones ached, how the chemotherapy had failed, how much I needed him to just hold me. But tonight, I only felt a vast, peaceful emptiness. “Just taking my medicine,” I said. His expression hardened, but he didn’t say another word. Back in my single room, I logged into our joint bank account and systematically transferred my personal savings out. I itemized every single transaction in the memo line: My share of rent. My plane ticket. My cabin deposit. My camera gear. Just as I finished, a soft knock sounded on my door. I opened it to find Sylvia standing in the freezing wind, her coat clutched tightly around her neck. She looked past me into the small, bare room, her eyes landing on the medical documents on the desk. “Irene… are you dying?” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. I didn’t answer. She took a shaky step forward. “Why haven’t you told him? If he knew—” “I tried,” I said, my voice flat. I tried on the afternoon of my biopsy, but he was driving her to an appointment. I tried the day of my prognosis, but she had called him crying about her ex, and he had left me in the clinic parking lot. When I finally left the papers on our desk, he told me he was too tired to deal with my “drama.” Eventually, I just stopped trying. Sylvia opened her mouth to speak, but Derrick’s voice cut through the dark from the main path. “Sylvia? What are you doing out here in the cold?” Sylvia flinched, her fingers clenching her sleeves. Derrick strode over, pulling her gently behind him. He glared at me. “Irene, what did you say to her now? Do you have to ruin every single night of this trip?” I looked at his hand wrapped protectively around her wrist. I didn’t bother to correct him. Sylvia looked up at him, her voice trembling. “No, Derrick, it’s not like that. I just…” She looked at me, saw the absolute lack of hope in my eyes, and swallowed her words. “I’m just cold. Let’s go back.” Derrick’s shoulders relaxed slightly. He looked at me, his tone still sharp. “The Northern Lights photography tour is booked for tomorrow morning. Don’t ruin it for everyone.” “What about my private session reservation?” I asked. “We’ll figure that out tomorrow.” The next morning, I walked to the lodge registration desk. The host looked up from his computer, his expression sympathetic. “Ms. Marshall, the private photography slot under your reservation has been transferred to Sylvia.” I stood at the desk, the cold air from the doorway washing over me. I had booked that specific slot three months ago, planning to wear my white silk dress and capture one final portrait of myself before the disease took my body. Derrick walked into the lobby, his hands in his pockets. “I changed the name.” “Why?” “Sylvia needs something beautiful to look back on from this trip,” he said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “She needs a fresh start, Irene. It’s just a photo shoot. Stop making everything a federal case.” To him, every dream I had ever nurtured could be brushed aside to make room for her comfort. Sylvia stood a few paces behind him, looking down at her boots. “Derrick, maybe we shouldn’t. I don’t need the pictures that badly.” “Don’t do that,” Derrick said, his voice softening as he turned to her. “You always put others first.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t feel the heat of anger anymore, only the cold certainty of an ending. I went back to my room, packed my suitcase, and walked back to the front desk to check out. Derrick, who had been waiting in the lobby, blocked my path. “Now where are you going?” “Away.” “To another resort?” He let out a bitter laugh. “Fine. Go. But I’m not chasing you this time, Irene. I mean it.” I placed my keycard on the counter. The host looked at me, hesitant. “Ms. Marshall, are you sure you want to cancel the rest of your three-month stay?” “I’m sure.” Sylvia came running out of the main cabin, her hands trembling as she held out my bag of rescue medication. “Irene, please. How much time do you actually have?” I took the medicine from her. “Don’t tell him.” Her eyes welled with tears. “Why? He deserves to know.” “Because,” I said, looking at the shuttle van pulling up to the curb, “I don’t want my last memory of him to be him telling me I’m just acting out for attention.” Sylvia lowered her head, silent. As I climbed into the van, I could see Derrick through the window of the lodge, holding up two different winter jackets, helping Sylvia decide which one would look better in her photos. Before the van reached the main highway, I pulled out my phone and sent him one last text. [Derrick, let’s end this. We’re done.] Then, I blocked his number. By evening, Derrick finally realized I wasn’t coming back. He couldn’t reach my phone, and our shared travel itinerary was completely blank. He stormed into the front desk of the lodge. “Where did Irene Marshall go?” The host checked the system, looking up with a quiet, solemn expression. “Mr. Miller, when Ms. Marshall checked out, she dropped this transport slip. Since you were listed as her secondary contact on the initial booking, I assumed you knew.” Derrick snatched the paper from his hand. There were only two lines printed on the receipt: Passenger: Irene Marshall. Return flight canceled. Destination: Fairbanks Palliative Care & Hospice Retreat.

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At my sister’s wedding, my mother was guided onto the stage to give her speech. As she spoke, the MC deftly steered the conversation. He asked her how she, as a single mother who had raised two girls on her own, managed to handle their romantic lives. My mother’s face was flushed with wine, her lips curling into a smug, unconscious smile. “When Donna was in the middle of her Columbia University applications, this absolute piece of trash—the son of an ex-con—was hounding her. The boy actually climbed over the school’s security fence in the dead of night just to see her, and broke his leg in the process!” “To cut their little romance short once and for all, the next time they met, I called the police and reported that he was attempting to assault my daughter.” “The boy was expelled, and Donna got her acceptance letter from Columbia. I heard he eventually rode the tech boom, started a software company, and made quite a name for himself. He’s even getting married this year. A happy ending for everyone, wouldn’t you say?” The MC offered a polite, strained smile. “With that kind of tough love, your daughter must be incredibly grateful to you now.” My mother shook her head, tears spilling over her lashes and hitting the microphone with a soft, hollow thud. “The day she got her acceptance letter, she walked out onto the balcony and jumped right in front of my eyes.” “You tell me. Did I raise an ungrateful snake, or what?” … 1 “Mom! Today is my wedding! And you promised we would never talk about Donna again!” My sister, Luna, clutching her white gown, snatched the microphone away in sheer embarrassment. I drifted near the high ceiling of the banquet hall, looking down at my mother. Since my death, she had refused to hold a funeral, nor would she allow any of our relatives to speak my name. There was no memorial portrait, no shrine. Not a single photograph of me remained in the house. My death was treated as a pillar of shame in her life. Untouchable. Unspeakable. If Luna hadn’t married a prestigious university professor today to give her something to brag about, my mother would probably still find the mere sound of my name curse-worthy. After the reception ended, my mother ran into Wyatt Callahan in the lobby. She hadn’t seen him in six years. The old high school classmates surrounding him recognized her instantly. Their voices dripped with immediate, venomous sarcasm. “Oh, look. It’s Donna Beckett’s mother.” “I heard Donna was supposed to be getting married today too. I guess these days, you have to be completely shameless to survive.” “We should steer clear of them. Who knows? She might call the cops on us next.” I watched Wyatt silently. The boyish warmth had long faded from his face, replaced by a cold, hardened indifference. But at the mention of my name, the disgust and raw hatred in his eyes flared, completely unshielded. Six years ago, my mother’s 911 call didn’t just ruin his chances at college. It had caused his father, who spent days desperately begging people for help to clear his son’s name, to lose control of his car and die in a horrific crash that summer. And my false police statement had sealed Wyatt’s fate, cementing the assault charge and ensuring the rest of his youth was spent under a cloud of cold stares and whispered humiliations. He hated me. He loathed me. I understood why. Only my mother reacted like a cornered animal, screaming at the top of her lungs. “I was not wrong! Everything I did was for her own good!” “If you hadn’t kept clawing at my Donna, her relationship with me would never have turned so bitter!” “In the end, she chose to jump rather than go to Columbia! Did you whisper something to her? Did you poison her mind?!” Wyatt paused, his lighter frozen mid-air as he went to light a cigarette. “Six years later, and you two are still putting on this miserable theatrical act?” His face was partially obscured by a plume of grey smoke. His knuckles went white as he gripped the cigarette. “Speaking of that phone call, it actually reminded me of something. She asked me what she had to do to earn my forgiveness.” “I told her, ‘Jump. A life for a life. Maybe then I’ll forgive you.’” “What? Didn’t have the courage? Decided life was too short to waste, so you went ahead and enjoyed yourself instead?” “You and your daughter… you’re both so sickeningly hypocritical.” Wyatt turned on his heel, leaving with his group of friends. My mother’s face drained of color, and she stumbled, falling hard onto the polished marble floor, her sleeves pulling back slightly to expose the jagged, raised scars on her forearms. Six years ago, when I had desperately tried to go to the police station to testify for Wyatt, my mother had grabbed a kitchen knife, her eyes wild and bloodshot, and sliced into her own skin over and over. “He’s only going to be detained for a few days! If you just finish your exams, we can write a letter of leniency to the district attorney and he’ll walk free!” “Donna, do you want me to bleed out right in front of you before you finally listen to me?!” I will never forget the blinding heat of the sun that day, reflecting off the blood-slicked kitchen floor. The relatives who rushed over after hearing the commotion surrounded me, screaming that I was an ungrateful monster, a selfish brat. Their spiteful words felt like a physical weight, drowning me. I didn’t go to the police station. I couldn’t bear to look at Wyatt. I just studied. I memorized vocabulary and solved calculus equations until my eyes bled, rarely sleeping more than two hours a night. My mother wanted me to get into Columbia, so I forced myself to do it. I thought once I succeeded, Wyatt would be set free. But before I could even wait for his release, I received the news of his father’s death. My mother, as if struck by a sudden realization, scrambled to her feet and chased after Wyatt. She threw herself recklessly in front of his moving sedan. A sharp, agonizing screech of brakes echoed through the parking lot. The bumper clipped her, sending her tumbling onto the asphalt, her knees scraping open and bleeding. But she didn’t seem to feel the pain. She dragged herself up, throwing her body against the passenger window, her voice cracked and choked with tears. “That phone call… did she really say nothing else to you?” The day the acceptance letter arrived, my mother had wanted to call every single person in our contacts. I had looked at her thick, mummy-like bandages, and suddenly, everything felt entirely, profoundly pointless. Without leaving a single word, I had stepped over the window frame and let go. Wyatt rolled his window down halfway, looking at her with a lazy, mocking gaze. “What did you want her to say?” My mother’s throat tightened. It took her a long moment to force the words out. “Did you… did you know she had clinical depression?” After my death, my mother had torn my room apart, turning every drawer inside out. She found that the last call I ever made was to Wyatt. She also unearthed the prescription bottles of antidepressants hidden deep beneath my mattress. She acted as though if she could just find some external trigger, my death would have absolutely nothing to do with her. In the heavy silence of the parking lot, Wyatt let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You two really are something else.” “Using clinical depression as a sob story, baiting me into scaling a security fence in the middle of the night just to check on her.” “And like a fucking idiot, I actually fell for it!” My mother gasped, choked by his venom. For the first time in her life, I saw her try to defend me. “Actually… that text message saying she wanted to end her life, I was the one who sent it from her phone. Donna didn’t know anything about it.” “Before she died, she desperately wanted to see you to explain everything! I locked her in her room…” Wyatt cut her off, his voice dripping with impatience. “Are we done here?” “Did she ask you to make up these pathetic lies so she could sleep better at night? Or does she think we’re going to have some high school reunion romance?” “Tell her this: women like her make me sick. Even as a side-piece, she’d be too dirty.” My mother opened her mouth, wanting to clarify that the daughter getting married today was Luna, not me. But Wyatt had already rolled up the window. “What time is the live interview?” he asked his assistant in the front seat. “8:00 PM, sir. We have about an hour.” Outside the window, the neon lights of the city blurred into a stream of gold and red. Wyatt’s eyes drifted down to the interview outline on his lap. “Mr. Callahan, did you have a girl in your youth who made your heart race, someone you wanted to marry?” Wyatt’s face darkened as he threw the outline onto the dashboard. “Remove all questions about high school or first loves.” He treated my memory like a contagious disease. I tilted my ghostly head and let out a soft, hollow laugh. Six years ago, on the day Wyatt was released from the detention center due to insufficient evidence, I had run away from home to see him. I brought my ID and two bus tickets. He walked out of the precinct with his leg still encased in a heavy plaster cast. I told him I wanted to run away with him. “Anywhere, Wyatt. Let’s just leave this town and never look back.” Wyatt stood a few paces away, his laughter cutting through me like winter wind. “So your mother can call the police again?” “What charge are you two going to slap on me this time? Kidnapping? Rape?” I fell silent. All I could do was press a small slip of paper with an address into his palm. “I’ll wait for you here,” I whispered. “If you change your mind, come find me.” That was my one desperate, pathetic attempt at saving myself. Wyatt’s eyes were frozen over, looking at me like an enemy. “Donna, falling for you was the biggest mistake of my life.” “But I regret it now. Can you just stay the hell away from me?” Right in front of my eyes, he tore the paper into tiny, fluttering pieces. I had no choice but to go to the bus station alone. Yet, the moment I approached the ticket gate, my mother, flanked by three police officers, blocked my path. On the ride back, my mother held her phone up, showing me the text message she had received from Wyatt. Her voice was shrill, deliberately loud enough for the entire bus to hear. “Donna, stop being so pathetic! He never wanted to run away with you. You’re the only one making a fool of herself!” “Do you have any shame? Abandoning your family, your mother, for some boy?” “Do you know how hard I worked to raise you? If I knew you’d turn out like this, I would have aborted you!” I kept my head down, fat, silent tears dripping onto my lap. I couldn’t hear her screams. I just kept playing Wyatt’s last voice message over and over, pressing the speaker close to my ear. “3:20 PM. Union Station.” “Keep a tight leash on your daughter. I hope I never have to see her face again as long as I live!” Wyatt, you got your wish. From that day on, we never saw each other again. At 7:50 PM, Wyatt walked into the television studio, followed by the production crew. A minute later, my mother walked in. The pre-recorded segment had been hastily changed to a live broadcast. Wyatt stood up immediately, intending to walk out, but my mother stopped him. “I brought some of Donna’s old things. They’re connected to you. Don’t you want to see them?” Wyatt wanted to say he didn’t care. But his legs felt as though they were filled with wet cement. He couldn’t take a single step. My mother handed a notebook and a worn paperback novel to the host. The book was the one Wyatt had given me six years ago. “This is my daughter’s diary,” my mother explained. “To keep me from reading it, she wrote everything in code. That novel is the key.” I looked at Wyatt. He was the one who had taught me that code. Under the host’s careful prompts, my secret teenage heart was dissected on live television. Our first meeting at his father’s struggling fruit stand. The time I was cornered by older boys in an alley, and Wyatt had charged in, taking a blow that required five stitches in his abdomen. The quiet walks home from school. We had never done anything inappropriate. Sometimes we didn’t even speak five words to each other during the entire mile-long walk. It was a simple, quiet story. So ordinary that the live stream only had about a dozen viewers at first. Wyatt’s jaw tightened. He cut her off with a cold sneer. “So, is this show about discussing your daughter’s high school crush?” My mother paused, ignoring his sarcasm. She handed a flash drive to the technical crew. On the massive screen behind them, a directory with twenty gigabytes of data opened. Every folder contained video files of me—studying, reading, sleeping in my bedroom. Three camera angles. Complete surveillance. Wyatt’s breath caught in his throat. I had told him about those cameras once, in a whisper, but he had thought I was exaggerating. My mother picked up her microphone, her voice flat. “When she was preparing for her exams, it was the most critical year of her life.” “I didn’t just install cameras in her bedroom; I put a GPS tracker on her phone.” “Every day, who she spoke to, where she walked, what she did—it was all under my eye.” As the footage played, the viewership of the live stream began to climb rapidly. Within ten minutes, over a hundred thousand people had joined the stream. My mother glanced at the chat, which was a blur of outrage and condemnation. A woman who had spent her entire life protecting her reputation now acted as if she couldn’t feel the heat of the fire. She looked at Wyatt, whose face had gone completely rigid. “If you don’t believe me, you can have these files analyzed. They’re real.” “After I dragged her back from the bus station, I confiscated her ID, her money, her cards.” “Wyatt, Donna never lied to you. I was the one who thought you’d ruin her future. I was the one who felt she was slipping out of my control, so I did those things.” “You shouldn’t hate her. It isn’t fair to her.” Wyatt sat motionless in his chair, his eyes dark and hollow. “Fair?” “I spent fifteen days in juvenile detention. I missed my exams. My father died in a car crash trying to raise bail for me. Who talked to me about fairness then?” “You say she was innocent? But she stood in front of the reporters and said I assaulted her!” By the end, Wyatt was shaking, his voice laced with venom. “Why don’t you have Donna come out here and say it to my face?” “She got into Columbia, married a professor, her life must be wonderful. What is this pathetic show for?” The live chat flooded with similar sentiments: “Exactly! Let the girl come out and speak!” “She probably had a hard time too, maybe she was forced.” “Are you kidding? The victim here is the guy! His father died because of her!” My mother swayed slightly as she stood up. She looked as if she had aged a decade in a matter of seconds. “She can’t come.” “She died six years ago.” Hearing this, Wyatt’s face didn’t register surprise. He stood up, his eyes briefly passing over the faded diary. “Donna.” My chest pulled tight. Even knowing he couldn’t see me, my spirit trembled at the sound of his voice. “If you’re really dead, then good.” I froze. His words were like a frozen blade, tearing through my phantom heart. My mother walked right through me, reaching out to grab Wyatt’s arm. “I’m holding her funeral tomorrow. Can you please come see her one last time?” The only answer was his silent, retreating figure. I wanted to tell her: Wyatt hates me. Why would he ever come? But to my surprise, he did. The next day, he stood in my old bedroom. The splintered wood where the lock had been broken, the boarded-up windows, the heavy blackout curtains. It was a suffocating, claustrophobic box that the security cameras had never quite captured. I stood in the hallway, refusing to cross the threshold. Even after six years of being dead, that room remained my personal hell. Wyatt looked away, his voice dripping with disgust. “You call this a funeral?” “If you’re going to put on a show, at least do it right. Do you want me to order a coffin and some wreaths?!” My mother looked at him quietly. She placed my old, cracked phone on the desk in front of him. “You’ve hated her all these years because of her statement.” “She tried to explain it to you later, but you wouldn’t listen.” “Do you have any idea how you helped kill her?” On the shattered screen, two call logs were displayed. One was to 911. The other was the last call I made to Wyatt on the day I died. The calls were less than sixty seconds apart. The heavy, locked gates of memory were violently torn open. The day the acceptance letter arrived, my mother was thrilled. She made an exception and allowed me to go outside for three hours. It was the first time I had been allowed out of the house in a month. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I had only heard that Wyatt was planning to leave the city, and I wanted to see him one last time. But as soon as I reached his apartment building, I was dragged into a dark, trash-strewn alley. My clothes were torn. I tried to scream, but a heavy hand was pressed hard against my mouth. Until, from the alley entrance, I heard Wyatt’s voice talking to a classmate. “I think I just saw Donna walking this way. Was she coming to say goodbye?” His voice had been so clear, so sharp. “Didn’t see her, and I don’t want to. From this day on, she could die and it wouldn’t have anything to do with me.” The moment their footsteps faded, those dirty hands dug deeper into my skin. I don’t know how long it lasted before they finally left. My body was covered in bruises; I couldn’t even crawl. After dialing 911, the silence of the alley felt terrifying. With trembling fingers, I dialed Wyatt’s number. During that twenty-second call, I couldn’t find any words. I didn’t know what to say. Wyatt must have realized it was me, and he hung up. My mother paused, closing her eyes before she spoke again. “Back then, she wanted to go to the police to clear your name. I used my own life to threaten and manipulate her.” “What happened to your father… I never wanted that. If you want to hate someone, hate me.” “But the one who dealt the final blow to Donna was you! Every piece of misery in her life started the day she met you!” Wyatt stood frozen. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Then, my mother pulls open the large closet door nearby. A massive, chest-style freezer was revealed. Mother looked at my preserved body with a strange, ecstatic expression, pulling the horrified Wyatt toward it. “Donna, look. Didn’t you always want to see him?” “I brought him to you.” “Go on, tell him whatever you want.”

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Every time Wesley brought one of his girls home, he would conveniently bring a college boy back for me. “I need a thrill, and you need company,” he would say, his tone perfectly casual. “We both get what we want, Caroline. Nobody gets to play the victim here.” But this last time, he played his hand too far. He brought another twenty-something kid to the house and sat me down, using that perfectly measured, reasonable voice he saved for board meetings. “Birth control failed. Sophie’s pregnant. She’s refusing to keep the baby unless I legitimize it and give the kid my last name. We’re going to file for a temporary divorce.” He paused, looking at me as if he were simply suggesting a change of dinner plans. “Until we remarry, you can spend some quality time with him. I won’t stand in your way.” Behind closed doors, his friends would ask him, “Wes, you climbed the ninety-nine jagged stone steps of St. Jude’s on your bare knees to beg God for her life. You fought to make her your wife. Are you really this generous now?” “Yeah, man,” another would chime in. “You didn’t even warn this college kid to keep his hands off your wife?” Wesley would just take a slow drag of his cigarette, his expression unreadable. “I don’t have a cuckold fetish,” he’d say. “You guys know how Caroline is. She’s got a rigid moral compass. She treats infidelity like a physical contamination. She won’t let them touch her.” “Brilliant, Wes. You bring the guy into her house, but if she’s too proud to use him, that’s her problem. You come out looking like the good guy. Masterclass.” They all assumed I would do exactly what I had done every time before: write a check, shove it into the boy’s chest, and kick him out. Instead, I looked up, met Wesley’s eyes, and smiled. “Sure,” I said softly. “Sounds good to me.” … 1 Wesley froze, the cigarette stalling halfway to his mouth. A heavy silence dropped over the living room. Brad’s wife was the first to recover her voice. “Caroline… what did you just say?” I placed my phone face-down on the coffee table. My gaze drifted slowly from Wesley’s tightened jaw to the young man standing near the entryway. “I said sure.” I looked the boy up and down, taking him in. “He’s definitely easy on the eyes.” Someone sucked in a sharp breath. “Did she just agree?!” “Wait, she’s not throwing him out this time?” “Wes, did you hear that?” Wesley’s expression didn’t shatter. That faint, arrogant smirk remained stitched to the corner of his mouth. Beside him, Sophie shifted nervously, her fingers digging into Wesley’s arm. “Wes, your wife finally understands. You should be happy.” Wesley didn’t answer her. He crushed his cigarette into the glass ashtray, walked over to the young man, and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Take good care of her.” With that, he wrapped his arm around Sophie and headed upstairs. I pulled my gaze away and looked at the boy. He was still standing in the exact same spot, the tips of his ears flushed a deep, frantic red. “Do you live on campus, or are you staying here?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Either… either is fine.” “Then you’ll stay.” I turned on my heel and walked toward the hallway. Behind me, the rustle of panicked whispers broke out: “Is she serious right now?” “Last time this happened, she nearly took our heads off!” “Relax, trust Wes. When has she ever not thrown a checkbook at them with her nose in the air? She acts like touching another man would rot her skin off.” “Yeah, remember that frat guy last month? She didn’t even pay him. Just called security to drag him out.” “She’s just putting on a show because the new girl is pregnant. She’s trying to get under Wes’s skin.” I kept walking. Their words felt like tiny needles pressing into my spine. They didn’t hurt, but the sensation was dense and suffocating. They were right. I used to be insufferable. Too aloof, too proud. I foolishly believed that having a “rigid moral compass” would somehow protect me. Every time Wesley paraded a young man in front of me, I would frost over, sign a check, and banish them from my sight. I thought that meant I was winning. I thought, at the very least, it meant my hands were clean. And what did that get me? Sophie’s belly was growing. What had my precious “morals” protected? A signed divorce agreement? A vast, empty bed? The mocking stares of the high-society vultures sitting in my living room? I reached the second-floor bedroom and pushed the door open. “We’re here,” I said, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe. I watched the boy standing awkwardly in the hallway. Evan. Six-foot-two. Valedictorian. Best speaker at the national mock trial, guaranteed admission to Columbia Law, full-ride academic scholarships every single year. Wesley had really spared no expense this time. He wasn’t just some random gym bro picked up from a downtown club. “Selling yourself for tuition money?” I asked. He nodded. No hesitation. No desperate excuses. The old me would have scoffed right then, tossed out a freezing, ‘How much? Take it and get out,’ and dismissed him like trash. God, how mighty I used to feel. Standing on my moral high ground, wielding my purity like a sword. Treating every man Wesley sent me as if they were infected. And yet, the “infected” men left, and Wesley never came back to my bed anyway. Between the two of us, whose soul was actually rotting? “If you need anything, tell the housekeeper,” I said, stepping into the room. He followed me inside. “Caroline… my name is Evan.” “I know.” I didn’t turn around. “Wesley gave me your resume.” I walked out onto the balcony. I didn’t invite him to follow, and he didn’t intrude. Below, the guests were finally dispersing into the night, their expensive cars pulling out of my driveway. I had lost count of how many times I had been their evening’s entertainment. When I stepped back into the bedroom, my eyes snagged on the divorce papers sitting on the nightstand. For three years, I had made a home in the blind spot of our marriage, looking past every late night, every rumor, every cheap perfume. A single, shattering incident years ago had fractured us, tearing our hearts in opposite directions. He had his resentments, and I had mine. But debts, no matter how old, always come due. At first, I told him I didn’t care what he did, as long as he didn’t bring them to our house. Then I told him I didn’t care who he brought, as long as he didn’t get them pregnant. I surrendered an inch, and he took a mile. Now, since we were both utterly exhausted by the rotting carcass of this marriage… there was no point in hesitating. I picked up the pen and signed my name. Evan stepped out of the en-suite bathroom just then, his hair damp, a towel slung low on his hips. The moment he saw me, the tips of his ears burned that same violent red. “Caroline… I just finished.” I stood up. Wesley really had a talent for picking them. This one blushed so easily. Usually, when I threw money at them, there was an ugly flash of resentment in their eyes. One had even screamed at me: “You two are psychotic! One of you buys us, the other throws us out! What the hell are we to you? Props?” I had looked at him with dead eyes and said, “Take the money and shut your mouth.” Looking back, he was entirely right. We were both psychotic. One obsessed with humiliating his wife, the other obsessed with maintaining an illusion of purity. My phone lit up. A text from Wesley. [Go to sleep early.] I stared at those four words and let out a dry, hollow laugh. He never texted me things like that anymore. But he did tonight. Was it because I had let Evan stay? Because he finally realized that the untouchable Caroline might actually let someone touch her? I didn’t reply. Outside, the streetlights clicked off. The massive estate fell dead silent. Sophie had moved in. Evan had moved in. This beautiful, multi-million dollar house was finally functioning exactly as what it was: a landfill. Stuffed with garbage and broken people. Myself included. I switched off the lamp, a bitter smile catching on my lips in the dark. He thought I was still the old Caroline. He thought I wouldn’t dare. He thought my pride would keep me starved forever. He was wrong. … The next morning, an unfamiliar, heavy ache settled deep in my lower back. When I came downstairs, Evan was in the kitchen, awkwardly helping the housekeeper chop vegetables. The moment he saw me, the spatula nearly slipped from his grip. I offered a small smile. Where had all that quiet, intense confidence from last night gone? I had barely taken my seat at the dining table when Wesley came down the stairs. “Up early?” he asked, pulling out the chair opposite mine. His lips curved into an illegible smirk. “How was last night?” Before I could answer, the front door burst open. Vince charged in, loud and practically vibrating. “Wes! Who won the pool? I bet twenty grand he didn’t make it past noon!” “I bet she kicked him out at midnight. Three-to-one odds, Wes is holding the pot—” The voices snapped off. They saw me sitting there. The chaotic excitement on their faces curdled into immediate, suffocating panic. “Caroline… morning!” Wesley picked up his coffee and took a slow sip. Utterly relaxed. As if his friends weren’t treating his crumbling marriage like a Vegas sportsbook, but rather celebrating a trophy he’d won. “Sit down,” I said smoothly. “Breakfast is ready.” I stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “Evan, you need to get to class.” Evan blinked, startled, then hurriedly untied his apron and left out the back door. The heavy mahogany door clicked shut. Silence held the living room hostage for two agonizing seconds. Vince leaned in, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. “See? Told you! She’s sending him away!” Brad chuckled, the tension breaking. “What did you expect? You think Wes doesn’t know exactly how her mind works?” “You’ve got her perfectly trained, Wes,” Vince said, awe bleeding into his tone. “That’s exactly the kind of wife you want. Guards the house, guards herself.” Wesley sat at the head of the table, his plate empty. He listened to them, the corner of his mouth lifting. He looked deeply, thoroughly satisfied. I let out a long breath, stepping out of the kitchen archway. I spoke at the exact same second Wesley did. “Come with me to my father’s house for dinner tonight—” he started. “I’ll see you at the lawyer’s office at two o’clock—” I said. The room went graveyard still. I placed the signed divorce agreement squarely in the center of the table. “Let’s get this done first.” Wesley went rigid. His eyes locked onto my signature on the bottom line. He didn’t move. I knew exactly what was running through his head. In the past, this was the part where my eyes would well with tears, where I would rip the paper to shreds and scream, ‘How dare you throw us away like this?!’ He thrived on that desperate pull. He slowly dragged his eyes up to meet mine. He slipped back into his lazy, arrogant drawl. “What’s the rush? I told you, we wait until Sophie is out of her first trimester.” “I’m not waiting,” I said. “Two o’clock. Are you going to be there?” A muscle jumped beneath his eye. “Caroline.” He slid the papers back toward me. “Are you out of your mind?” “Or what?” I tilted my head. “Are you afraid you’ll wake up tomorrow, change your mind, and tear these up yourself?” The air in the room thickened into concrete. Suddenly, Sophie appeared at the top of the stairs, her hand resting delicately on her stomach. “Caroline, please don’t be so aggressive,” she said, her voice trembling just enough. “I just… I just don’t want my baby to be born a bastard. The divorce… we can wait until my pregnancy is stable!” Her eyes pooled with tears. She looked more devastated about the end of my marriage than I was. Wesley glanced at her. That pathetic, fragile display, paired with her pleading ‘don’t be aggressive’, acted like a needle straight into his inflated ego. Since when did Wesley Kincaid let anyone back him into a corner? “You think I won’t sign it, Caroline?” he scoffed, grabbing the silver pen off the table. Vince panicked. “Wes, wait—” “Shut up,” Wesley snapped, not looking up. He signed his name with aggressive, slashing strokes and slammed the pen down. That trademark, cocky smile returned to his face. “I am a man of my word. Everyone here is a witness.” He stood up, leaning across the table until his face was inches from mine. His tone dropped, dripping with a possessive, toxic intimacy. “You’re the woman I dragged back from death’s door, Caroline. You think any of the trash out there can compare to you?” He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “This baby… you’ll raise it. Only you have the right to raise a Kincaid heir. Understood?” I let out a soft, breathy laugh. So this was how he loved me. This was his twisted version of devotion. I didn’t say a single word. I simply turned, grabbed the suitcase I had packed hours ago, and walked out the front door. Behind me, Sophie’s soft, whiny voice floated through the foyer. “Wes… is she… is she really not coming back?” Wesley had an unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth. His original plan was a legal divorce but a shared roof. I was supposed to retain residency in the house. Walking out had not been on his script. But to him, it didn’t change the ending. “You little manipulator,” he said, glancing at Sophie. “She’s gone. You’re probably thrilled.” “I am not!” Sophie pouted. “You’re so mean… I was raised better than to destroy another woman’s marriage…” She looked down, caressing her flat stomach. “It’s all just for the baby.” She played the part of the helpless flower battered by the wind flawlessly. It immediately extinguished whatever irritation was brewing in Wesley. “Alright, alright. Don’t cry. I’m just messing with you.” Sophie was smarter than all the girls before her. She didn’t write me unhinged paragraphs on Instagram. She never called me at 2 AM to whisper, ‘He’s sleeping next to me.’ She just played the innocent bystander swept up in a tragedy. All I had to do was raise my voice, and Wesley was convinced I was torturing her. I had met younger, prettier, sharper women during his reign of terror. But they were always too eager. Too desperate for him to choose, too desperate for me to leave. Only Sophie had the patience to move in, pregnant, quietly calling me “Caroline” with more sweetness than my own family. She achieved what a dozen other women couldn’t. … At 1:50 PM, I was sitting on a hard wooden bench inside the family law attorney’s office. I dialed Wesley’s number for the ninth time. This time, he picked up. “Where are you?” I asked. His voice was entirely too casual. “I’m with Sophie at the OB-GYN. They’re backed up. Just wait around, I’ll head over when we’re done.” “I told you. The appointment is at two.” “The paperwork isn’t going to evaporate, Caroline,” he sighed, the exact tone one uses on a toddler throwing a tantrum in a grocery store. “We’ll do it after her ultrasound. I’m hanging up.” Wait. Always waiting. I looked around the sterile waiting room. Couples sat miles apart on the same couches. Some had eyes rimmed red from crying; others looked hollowed out. I used to cry like that. I used to scream until my throat bled. And then, moved by some twisted sense of mercy, he would ‘reward’ me by not filing the papers. But today, I didn’t want his mercy. The receptionist called the next name. I opened my phone, found my attorney’s contact, and typed a quick message: [David, I want to move forward with a contested, at-fault divorce. I’ll email you the documentation this afternoon.] That evening, after dodging three calls from Wesley’s father, Richard Kincaid, I finally drove to the Kincaid estate. The whole drive there, my stomach was in knots. How was I supposed to explain this to the old man? Tell him his golden boy knocked up a twenty-something? Tell him he manipulated me into signing divorce papers? Or tell him I was taking his son to court to burn his empire down? Family politics are always uglier than legal battles. When I arrived in the grand dining room, I was alone. Richard Kincaid paused, his heavy brow furrowing. “Where is Wesley?” “He’s busy,” I said quietly. “Busy?” Richard slammed his silverware onto the mahogany table. “What could possibly be more important than his own wife?” I kept my mouth shut. Richard and my father had built their fortunes side-by-side. They had bled for each other in the early days. Richard had always championed our marriage, but Wesley’s mother despised me. She thought my background was too pedestrian, and after I fell seriously ill in my twenties, she decided I was a bad omen for the family bloodline. It was Wesley who refused to let me go. When I was in the ICU, fighting for my life, he flew to the mountains and climbed the ninety-nine jagged stone steps of the old St. Jude’s Monastery on his bare knees. By the time he reached the chapel, his legs were shredded and bleeding. He had knelt at the altar and said, “I will walk away from her forever if you just let her live. Just let her be okay.” When I woke up and heard what he did, I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. In our relationship, he had always been the one charging into the fire, while my insecurities kept me shrinking back. After that day, I grabbed his hand and promised him: “I won’t hide anymore. If you have the courage to ask, I have the courage to marry you.” Miraculously, I recovered. I walked into the Kincaid estate with my head held high. Richard Kincaid was so thrilled he transferred a third of his personal stock options into my name as a wedding gift. He said it was to guarantee my protection against his own family. Back then, I thought my mother-in-law was the biggest hurdle I would ever face. I know better now. Outside forces can never destroy a marriage. Only the rot from the inside can. I was just trying to figure out how to break the news when the dining room doors swung open. Wesley walked in, his arm securely wrapped around Sophie. He froze the second he saw me. Richard’s face darkened into thunder. “You insolent bastard. Who the hell did you drag into my house?” Wesley effortlessly guided Sophie to a chair, his tone dripping with nonchalance. “Dad, it’s just dinner. Relax.” He shot a cold look in my direction. “Caroline, go home.” Then, as if he felt a sudden need to justify himself, he leaned down and whispered loudly enough for me to hear: “I only brought her because I assumed you wouldn’t show up. Let her have tonight, okay?” I let out a dry, scratching laugh. Let her have tonight. He was holding court for his mistress. Elevating her to the point of bringing her to a family dinner before the ink on our divorce papers was even dry. I used to think Sophie was just another toy. A passing phase until the novelty wore off. I was wrong. Wesley’s mother descended the grand staircase. Her cold, surgical gaze swept over my face before landing on Sophie. “So this is the pregnant stray?” she sneered. “Our family just attracts the most low-class, pathetic creatures, doesn’t it?” One sentence, perfectly engineered to degrade us both. Years ago, Wesley would have stepped in front of me, shielded me with his body, and snarled at his mother, “Caroline is the woman I chose.” Tonight, his brow furrowed as he pulled Sophie tightly into his chest. “Mom. You don’t get to speak about my woman that way.” His tone was harder, more vicious than it had ever been when he was protecting me. Sophie buried her face in his jacket, her shoulders trembling as if the whole world were conspiring to crush her. Unlike me. Even when I was being emotionally gutted, I sat there with a spine made of steel, looking like I could hold up the sky if it fell. I stood up, suddenly entirely bored of the theatrics. “I’m leaving.” Richard tried to stop me, but I didn’t look back. Wesley didn’t even glance up from stroking Sophie’s hair. As I walked out of the massive iron gates of the estate, the memory of those ninety-nine bloodstained steps flashed in my mind. I will walk away from her forever if you just let her live. Just let her be okay. Well, Wesley. You got your wish. … The divorce proceeded much faster than I anticipated. Wesley likely assumed that once Sophie popped the kid out, we would just march down to City Hall and quietly remarry. Business as usual. The day we met to sign the final, binding mediation agreement, he was forty minutes late. When he finally strolled in, he picked up the pen and signed his name with a smooth, practiced flick of the wrist. Then he leaned in close to me, dropping his voice into that rare, intoxicating register he used when he wanted to coax me into something. “You always wanted a real wedding, didn’t you?” he murmured. “When we remarry, I’ll plan it myself. That island in Greece you loved, the designer veil, everything you ever wanted. I’ll give it to you.” I looked up, meeting his eyes evenly. “Wesley. Don’t bother.” He blinked, taken aback for a fraction of a second, before his arrogant smile returned. “I know you think it’s silly since we’ve been married for years, but I owe you a real wedding. I’m going to make it right.” I shook my head slowly. “Next week, you’ll—” Before I could finish the sentence, his phone erupted. Wesley answered it, his posture instantly snapping to attention. “What do you mean her stomach hurts? I’m on my way!” He took two sprinting steps toward the door before suddenly stopping. He spun around, pointing a finger at me. “I know that once the court finalizes these papers next week, our marriage is technically dissolved. But that’s just a piece of paper, Caroline. The court gets the decree, but you belong to me. Understand? Those are two entirely different things.” He patted my shoulder and bolted down the hallway. I stood in the doorway of the mediator’s office, speaking to the empty air as I finished my sentence. “…Next week, you’ll be getting more than just divorce papers.” When the court decree arrived by certified mail at the estate a week later, my father summoned me home with the fury of a firing squad. “I don’t care what sick game you’re playing,” the old man bellowed through the phone. “You get Caroline back to this house immediately. I have something to say. And when I’m done, if you still want a divorce, I won’t stand in your way.” I rubbed my temples, a spike of annoyance flaring. I didn’t know what my father was planning, but I knew deep down how unhinged this entire divorce was. My phone had been dead silent for a week. No texts from Caroline. No calls to check up on me. I had told everyone I was giving her space, but the silence was hollowing me out from the inside. I had never gone an entire week without speaking to my wife. My father’s demand was the perfect excuse. The perfect golden ladder for me to climb down from my ego and go find her. “Fine, fine,” I muttered, pulling my phone from my pocket and swiping to her name. “God, you’re exhausting. I’ll call her right now.” I complained out loud, but my thumb hit the dial button faster than it had in months. I cleared my throat, mentally rehearsing the opening line. Caroline, the old man is demanding you come to the house. No, too weak. Are you done throwing this tantrum? It’s not a real divorce, you don’t need to ghost me for a week. The line clicked open. But it wasn’t Caroline. “Hello! The bride is just touching up her makeup. Are you a friend of the bride or groom?” a bright, cheerful female voice chirped.

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My mother is a parenting expert. Growing up, she told me my father was dead, taken by a car crash before I could even walk. “Megan,” she’d whisper, clutching my shoulders too tightly, “you’re all I have left. You have to make me proud.” And I believed her. For eighteen years, I believed every word. She was ruthless. Nothing I did ever measured up. I used to think she was just pushing me to succeed. I used to think she just didn’t know how to show love. I used to think being a single mother was hard, and that it was my job to carry her burden. So I kept quiet. I buried my suffocating thoughts, locking them away in a manuscript. I never expected it to go viral. Then, the nightmare started. My novel was flagged for plagiarism. A cease-and-desist letter arrived from the media studio of the nation’s most celebrated child psychologist, Dr. Diane Michell, accusing me of theft. The internet tore me to pieces. I watched her televised interviews. I stared at her glossy headshot. It was my mother. I wasn’t her daughter. I was her variable. She raised me under a regime of systematic criticism, while my sister was raised on a diet of unyielding praise. Eighteen years. Two different scripts. One best-selling case study. Fine. Let’s see who actually stole from whom. 1 I sat in my dorm room, the blue light of my laptop screen reflecting in my eyes as I typed the final paragraph of my latest chapter. A red notification bubble popped up in the corner of my browser. “Wren, your novel, ‘The Unreachable Stars,’ has been flagged for multiple copyright violations and has been temporarily suspended. Please contact your editor immediately.” I stared at the words, my fingers frozen over the mechanical keyboard. Plagiarism? Whom could I have possibly copied? My phone buzzed. It was my editor, Jodi. “Megan,” Jodi said, her voice dropping to a tense whisper, “do you have any idea who Diane Michell is?” I blinked. “Diane Michell? No. Who’s that?” “She’s the Dr. Diane Michell,” Jodi said, her voice dropping even lower. “The child psychologist who was just on the morning talk shows. Her parenting books have sold hundreds of thousands of copies. She just released a memoir called Two Paths.” “It’s a non-fiction case study,” Jodi continued. “It details the real-life childhood of her eldest daughter. Megan, the experiences your protagonist goes through in your novel—they are almost identical to the memoirs of her daughter.” “The internet is calling for your head. If we don’t clear this up, the platform will permanently delete your account to protect themselves. You’ll lose all your royalties.” I gripped the phone, my knuckles turning white. “I didn’t plagiarize anyone,” I said, my voice steady but cold. “That is my life.” “Your life?” “Every single thing written in that book happened to me.” The line went silent for a few seconds. I opened my laptop and went to the trending page. There it was, sitting at number three: #WrenPlagiarizesDianeMichell I clicked the tag. The top post was an official statement from Diane Michell’s public relations firm: “The web novel ‘The Unreachable Stars’ has blatantly plagiarized the lived experiences of Dr. Michell’s eldest daughter, Megan, as documented in our upcoming book, ‘Two Paths.’ This includes, but is not limited to, highly specific incidents such as ‘being forced to stand in a corner for two hours over spilled milk,’ ‘being reprimanded for placing third in a school-wide exam,’ and ‘having a handmade Mother’s Day card rejected for poor handwriting.’ We have gathered evidence and will pursue full legal recourse.” The comments were a bloodbath. “Plagiarizing scum!” “Stealing someone’s childhood trauma for a quick buck. Disgusting.” “I feel so bad for her daughter. Imagine having your painful memories repackaged into a cheap online soap opera.” I scrolled down and found a clip of Diane’s latest interview. On screen, a woman in her early fifties sat in a plush leather armchair. She had a sharp, stylish gray bob, wore silver wire-rimmed glasses, and carried an air of serene, professional warmth. Behind her was a floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelf. The host leaned forward. “Dr. Michell, your new book Two Paths documents how you raised your two daughters under entirely different psychological frameworks over eighteen years. What made you decide to conduct this… trial?” Diane smiled, a polished, practiced curve of her lips. “I wouldn’t call it a trial. It was simply an academic and maternal adaptation to my children’s distinct temperaments. My eldest daughter was naturally reserved and sensitive; she required adversity training to build resilience, so I held her to rigorous standards. My youngest daughter was outgoing and expressive; she needed positive reinforcement to foster her self-esteem, so her father raised her with unconditional praise.” “So, one was disciplined and the other was praised?” the host asked. “Not disciplined—challenged,” Diane corrected gently. “Many parents misunderstand adversity training. They think it’s just about being harsh. True adversity training means letting the child struggle, letting them find their own way up when they fall, rather than rushing to pick them up.” I stared at the screen, my hands growing numb. Diane Michell. My mother. The eldest daughter she held up as a “triumphant case study of adversity training” was me. I shut the laptop and leaned back, feeling an empty, hollow ache open up in my chest. My father wasn’t dead. He was alive and well. He was living in another city, tucking another daughter into bed every night, telling her how perfect she was. When my mother held me and told me, “You’re all I have,” she was lying. She had him. She had her. She just didn’t have room for me. And what about me? What about the nights I stood by the open window of our twelfth-floor apartment, staring down at the pavement, wondering if the fall would finally quiet her voice in my head? What about the crushing weight of feeling like my existence was a mistake, an endless disappointment? What about the desperation of trying to reach a finish line that she kept moving further away? I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Jodi. “Diane Michell is my mother. The eldest daughter in her book is me.” Jodi replied within seconds. “Are you out of your mind?” “I’m entirely sane.” I didn’t make a public statement right away. Instead, I spent the entire night digging through every article, television appearance, and podcast interview my mother had ever done. She had appeared on dozens of parenting panels, repeating the same thesis. She called it the “Dual-Track Study.” She wanted to prove that nurture trumped nature, that parenting methodology was the ultimate architect of human potential. Two children from the same genetic pool, raised under opposing psychological doctrines, destined for entirely different lives. When a journalist asked about the final results, she had laughed softly. “The study is ongoing. But early indications show that the child raised under positive reinforcement is more confident, vibrant, and highly creative. The child raised under adversity training… well, her academic achievements are exemplary, but her personality is somewhat guarded. We are still observing.” She said the word “guarded” with a light, dismissive shrug, as if she were describing a laboratory mouse that hadn’t quite cleared the maze in the expected time. Then I looked up my sister. Her public handle was Daisy, but her legal name was Daisy Gallagher. She had lived with our father since she was a toddler. Her life was the mirror image of mine. When Daisy got a C, our father told her she was a creative free spirit. When Daisy broke a vase, he told her it was just glass and that her safety was all that mattered. When she participated in a school play and forgot her lines, he filmed the entire performance and posted it with the caption: My little star shines brightest. She grew up bathed in unconditional warmth, her confidence untouched by doubt. Her social media was filled with professionally shot photos and inspirational quotes. In one picture, she stood on a sun-drenched stage in a white dress, the comment section flooded with praise: This is what a girl raised on pure love looks like. I closed the tab and leaned my head against the wall, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. It wasn’t jealousy. It was the sudden, blinding clarity of understanding. I had spent my entire life wondering why my mother could never offer me a single word of praise. It wasn’t because I wasn’t good enough. It was because she couldn’t praise me. She built her career, her books, and her seminars on the absolute necessity of “adversity training.” If she acknowledged my success or showed me tenderness, her entire psychological theory would collapse. She knew I was suffering. She just didn’t care. To her, I was never a child who needed to be loved. I was a baseline data point. I was a chapter sub-heading in her next bestseller. I was the “guarded” subject she analyzed behind silver-rimmed glasses. But I was done playing my part. Why should I stay quiet? Why did I have to follow her script? Why did I have to carry the scars of her experiment while she sold my pain to the highest bidder, only to turn around and call me a thief? The next morning, an email sat in my inbox. “Dear Wren: We would like to formally invite you to attend Dr. Diane Michell’s press conference and book launch for ‘Two Paths.’ At the event, we will address the narrative similarities between your online novel and Dr. Michell’s memoir in an open forum. Saturday, 3:00 PM. The Oakridge Art Center.” The phrasing was impeccably polite. An “open forum” in name; a public execution in reality. She wanted to brand me as a plagiarist in front of the national media, using my humiliation to fuel the marketing campaign for her new release. I stared at the invitation, feeling a cold, quiet anger settle over me. She didn’t know who I was. She thought I was just some random online novelist who happened to write a story that hit too close to home. A convenient target she could crush to prove her point. If she knew I was her daughter, would she stop? I thought about it, and the answer came instantly—no. She would simply pivot. She would tell the media, “This is the rebellion of a troubled child. Despite all my sacrifices, she seeks to destroy my work. You see? Adversity breeds resentment in ungrateful temperaments.” I smiled. No matter what I did, I was always going to be the villain in her story. Jodi called me immediately. “Are you really going?” her voice trembled. “What are you going to say? You can’t just stand up in front of the press and scream that she’s your mother. Do you even have proof?” “Yes,” I said. “I do.” The Oakridge Art Center was packed. A massive promotional banner hung over the entrance, showing the silhouettes of two young girls—one looking down toward the shadows, the other looking up toward the light. Beneath the image read: Different Paths, Different Heights. I wore an oversized, faded gray sweatshirt and carried my worn canvas backpack. At the registration desk, I signed in under my pen name: Wren. The assistant glanced at my signature, her eyes flickering with a cold, judgmental sneer. The gallery was filled to capacity with journalists, parenting bloggers, and industry professionals. Diane sat on the elevated stage, and next to her sat Daisy. Daisy wore a delicate cream silk dress, her blonde hair styled in soft waves. She possessed the radiant, unblemished confidence of someone who had never been told she wasn’t enough. In front of her sat a large bouquet of white roses with a card that read: Joy in the Light—The Triumph of Positive Reinforcement. She looked beautiful. She looked like a girl who had never known a single shadow. Because she didn’t know that her light had been paid for with my darkness. The moderator warmed up the crowd before handing the microphone to Diane. “Before we discuss the core philosophies of Two Paths,” Diane said, her voice carrying beautifully through the speakers, “we must address a matter of intellectual property that has gained traction online. An online writer has taken the private, painful upbringing of my eldest daughter and turned it into a sensationalized web novel. We have invited this writer here today because we believe in transparency, and we believe she owes my family an explanation.” The spotlight swung to the very back row. I stood up. Every face in the room turned toward me. As I walked down the center aisle, my worn backpack slipped from my shoulder. I caught it, but the sudden movement caused the zipper to give way. A thick stack of yellowed, handwritten pages spilled across the polished concrete floor. Someone bent down to help me, but I shook my head, kneeling to gather them one by one. Those pages were my journals from the ages of ten to seventeen. On stage, Daisy tilted her head, watching me with a look of mild pity. I stepped onto the stage. Diane stared at my face. Her brow furrowed slightly. She recognized me, yet she didn’t. I had lost weight, my hair was cut short and jagged, and I no longer carried myself with the quiet, trembling posture of the girl she had left behind. “I am Megan,” I said into the microphone, my voice echoing off the high ceilings. “The daughter whose spirit you broke for eighteen years. And I am Wren, the author of The Unreachable Stars.”

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The girl who stole my life swapped places with me, determined to make my husband and my son her own. Yet, after five long years, she gained nothing but a body covered in scars. When her mission failed, her system offered her a choice of how she wanted to leave this world. She chose the ultimate sacrifice—taking a bullet for them, dying right before their eyes. But they barely spared a glance at her cold body. The moment the universe spun me back into their reality, they turned and threw their arms around me, holding me as if I were their only lifeline. “You’re back…” Their voices trembled, choked with unshed tears. I held them just as tightly. For five agonizing years of forced separation, my dreams had been haunted by nothing but them. Then, a few days ago, I accidentally scraped my cheek, leaving a thin, jagged scar. To hide it, I got a small, delicate tattoo over the mark. But when my husband and son saw it, the warmth in their eyes vanished instantly. Gordon’s grip clamped around my throat, squeezing the air from my lungs. “Why did you get a tattoo?!” he roared, his eyes bloodshot. “You only looked fifty percent like her to begin with! Now even that fifty percent is gone! How am I supposed to pretend you’re her?!” Looking into his crazed, desperate eyes, a bitter laugh bubbled up in my chest. Put her back, I whispered to my own system. What they didn’t know was that while the interloper had failed her mission with them, my mission in the other world had been a flawless success. … Just as the darkness started closing in on my vision, Gordon let go. I collapsed onto the hardwood floor, gasping for air, clutching my bruised neck. His eyes were rimmed with red, staring down at me, but he wasn’t seeing me. He was looking at a ghost. “You don’t look like her anymore,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He turned and walked into the bedroom. Jamie, my son, stood by the doorway. He looked down at me, his eyes filled with a deep, crushing disappointment. The bedroom door clicked shut. Through the slight gap in the frame, I could see them. Father and son, huddled together, staring at a photograph. Jamie clung to his father’s chest, sobbing softly. “Daddy, is she really gone? Is there nothing left of her?” Gordon’s throat bobbed. His voice was a strangled, suppressed rasp. “No, buddy. She’s still here.” “But Mommy doesn’t look like her anymore… not at all…” My hand, which had been reaching for the door handle, slowly dropped to my side. A sudden, hysterical laugh slipped through my lips. But I am the real one, I wanted to scream. I am your wife. I am your mother. I was supposed to have a happy life. It was Lydia, the interloper, who had run from a toxic, abusive home in her own world. She had heard of my perfect marriage, my sweet, obedient son, and she had stolen my place without a second thought. She was the thief who took everything from me. So why was she the one being mourned? I turned away and slumped onto the sofa. If I had known, I thought, staring blankly at the wall, I would have never come back. The bedroom door flew open. Gordon marched out and grabbed my wrist in a vice grip. “Come on.” “What are you doing?” “That thing on your face,” he growled, glaring at the tiny tattoo. “We’re getting it removed.” “Gordon, let go of me! You’re hurting me!” The man who used to cradle me and call me his absolute world was gone. He was deaf to my cries. Before I knew it, I was dragged back into the tattoo parlor. The tattoo artist looked at Gordon and Jamie, shaking his head apologetically. “This ink is layered over deep scar tissue. Laser removal won’t work. Even if we try, the original scar will be warped and ruined.” For a second, a flash of pure panic crossed Gordon’s face. “Then cut it out.” The words hung in the sterile air. Both the artist and I froze. “Excuse me?” the artist asked, blinking in disbelief. “Cut that piece of skin out,” Gordon said, his voice deadly flat. “Do a skin graft. You clinics have the technology for that, don’t you?” The artist stammered, looking between us. “I mean… we can refer you to a cosmetic surgeon, yes, but… is that really necessary?” Gordon turned toward the exit, holding Jamie’s hand. He paused at the door, casting a cold glance back at me. “It is necessary. Even if it’s only a fifty percent resemblance. It’s worth it.” I passed out from the sheer pain. My body has always had a high tolerance to local anesthetics, rendering them useless. When I finally woke up, the skin on my cheek was tight, raw, and completely clear of both the scar and the ink. The tears I had cried before blacking out were still dry and sticky on my temples. Someone was holding my hand tightly. Gordon leaned over, pulling me into a suffocating embrace. His voice was muffled against my shoulder. “I’m sorry…” I rested my chin on his shoulder, my voice hollow. “When you say you’re sorry, are you apologizing to me? Or to the fantasy living in your head?” The arms wrapping around me stiffened. Slowly, he let go. His fingers gently traced my newly grafted cheek. A self-deprecating, bitter smile played on his lips. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “She is never coming back.” I couldn’t tell if he was trying to reassure me or convince himself. With a heavy sigh, he stood up. “Get some rest,” he muttered, closing the bedroom door behind him. Jamie was standing right behind him. Before he stepped out, he looked back at me. “Mommy, you look so much prettier like this.” I didn’t ask him why. Was it because the scar was gone? Or because I finally looked like his beloved Lydia again? I didn’t want to hear the answer. I was terrified of the truth. I closed my eyes, summoning the silent interface of my system. Have you found a way to send me back? Yes, host. It is the same exit mechanism the previous interloper used. If your physical body dies in this world, your soul will be pulled back to the world you just left. So simple. I turned my head toward the open window. Six floors up. More than enough. I crawled out, sitting on the narrow ledge, letting the cold wind whip against my face. In that other world, there were two people waiting for me. Two people who loved me for me. I closed my eyes and let myself fall. “Isla!” A hand shot out of the darkness and clamped onto my wrist with brutal strength. I opened my eyes in shock. Gordon’s face was distorted, the veins on his forehead bulging with fury. With a violent heave, he dragged me back inside. Before I could even catch my breath, a sharp slap stung my face. “Are you out of your mind?! Who gave you permission to jump?!” I fell to the floor, cupping my burning cheek. The next second, his fingers dug painfully into my jaw, forcing my face up. He sneered, his breath hot against my skin. “Do you honestly think your life belongs to you? You are the only vessel left of her in this world! How dare you try to destroy it!” I stared at him, my world crumbling. “Gordon…” My voice shook, barely a whisper. He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Or is this some pathetic attempt to copy her? Are you trying to die so we’ll be plagued with guilt, so we’ll hate her memory and love you instead?” I couldn’t believe these words were coming from the man who had once sworn to love me forever. He shoved my chin away. “It won’t work, Isla. No one in this world will ever replace her. No one will ever be like her. So you are going to live. You are going to stay alive.” He looked down at me, his eyes cold as ice. “You will live for her.” I clenched my jaw, pushing myself up. A slow, mocking smile spread across my face. “What if I told you that if I die, she comes back?” Gordon’s breath hitched. Beside him, Jamie’s eyes widened in sheer shock. The room fell into a suffocating silence. Then, Gordon spoke. “If that’s the truth… I’d prefer you die right now.” My nails dug so deep into my palms that they nearly drew blood. “However,” Gordon continued, his eyes narrowing, “I can’t rule out the possibility that you’re lying just to punish us—to rob us of the only physical piece of her we have left.” “I am not lying!” “Don’t flatter yourself, Isla.” He grabbed my jaw again, tilting my face toward the dim light, studying my features. “Even if there is a one-in-a-million chance you’re telling the truth, I won’t risk it. You might only look fifty percent like her… but it’s still her face.” “Gordon!” I hissed, swinging my arm to slap him. He caught my wrist effortlessly. Wrapping his other arm around my waist, he pinned me against him, looking down at me. “All you need to do right now is sleep.” He threw me onto the bed, pulling the duvet over my body. Before he walked out, he called the house security. Within hours, the windows were barred, the doors reinforced. Every exit was sealed. I was a prisoner in my own home. I stopped eating. I refused even a single drop of water. For two days, the maids begged and pleaded, but I didn’t budge. Death is the only way out, I kept telling myself. Once I die, I can go back to that other world. It might have been simulated, but the love there was real. I closed my eyes, only to hear the heavy click of the door opening. It was Jamie. He glanced at the untouched tray of food on the nightstand, then walked over, resting his chin on the edge of the mattress. His dark, expressive eyes—so much like his father’s—blinked at me. “Mommy, are you trying to do what Mommy Lydia did? Do you think if you die, we’ll magically fall in love with you?” I froze. He giggled, showing his sharp little canine teeth. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up if I were you. We didn’t love Mommy Lydia because she died for us. We loved her long before that. You’re so silly, Mommy. Your logic is terrible.” He pushed the tray a little closer to me. “I can’t accept anyone else as my mother anymore.” Jamie stared at me with a chilling coldness. “So you should just give up.” He turned on his heel and strolled out of the room. I stared at the cold food, letting out a soft, mocking laugh. I didn’t touch a bite. Soon enough, the door was kicked open. Gordon burst in, hauling me out of bed by my shoulders. “Isla! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” I was completely drained of energy, but I managed a weak, sarcastic smirk. “I’m trying to die. Isn’t it obvious?” “You—!” “Gordon…” my voice was barely audible. “I suggest you let me go. Because if I starve to death in secret, you might not find my body until it’s too late. And a decaying corpse won’t look much like your precious Lydia, will it?” “Shut up!” he snarled, pinching my jaw tight. “I told you, this emotional blackmail won’t work! Bring the food in!” A maid rushed in with a bowl of soup. “I don’t care if you want to rot,” Gordon hissed, “but you are not taking her face to the grave with you!” “Gordon, let go of me—mmph!” He took a mouthful of the green soup and slammed his lips against mine, forcing the liquid down my throat. I had no strength to push him away, no power to break his hold. The fluid rushed down the wrong pipe, and I began to choke, coughing violently. Gordon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If you don’t want to be force-fed like an animal, eat it yourself.” I collapsed over the edge of the mattress, gasping for breath. “Isla?” Still, I didn’t answer. “Isla!” He grabbed my shoulder, forcing me to face him, but his voice suddenly cut off. He stared down at the bedsheets. Beneath my clutching hands, a dark, brilliant red was blooming across my pajamas. “You…” His breath hitched in panic. Realization struck him like a physical blow. He scooped me into his arms, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Call an ambulance! Someone call a damn ambulance!” “The pregnancy is threatened, but we can still save the baby,” the doctor announced, standing by my hospital bed. Gordon stood frozen, staring at me in utter disbelief. I pulled the hospital blanket tightly over my stomach, turning my face toward the wall. His voice was cracked and hollow. “When… when did this happen?” “She’s three months pregnant,” the doctor said, looking between us. “Did neither of you realize?” Three months. It happened the very night I was pulled back to this world. Gordon’s eyes welled with tears. “Sir?” the doctor asked, sensing the tension. “Are you alright?” “I’m fine…” Gordon whispered, shaking his head. Then, he looked away. “Terminate it. If Lydia… if she knew I had a child with another woman, it would break her heart.” The doctor stared at him, appalled. “But sir, the fetus is viable. We can save it.” “No. Perform the abortion. Just make sure there are no complications.” Without another word, Gordon turned and walked out of the room. The doctor turned to me, her eyes softening with pity. “It’s fine,” I said, forcing a pale smile. “I didn’t want it either.” “You… oh, dear.” The doctor sighed, heading out to prep the OR. I closed my eyes, sinking into the silence. The procedure was a blur of hazy consciousness; I woke up a few times under the light sedation, feeling the cold instruments and a deep, empty ache in my abdomen. But eventually, it was over. I was brought back to the house to recover. True to form, Gordon remained by my bedside. When he walked into the room, I was propped up against the pillows, staring out at the grey sky. “I’m sorry,” he said, resting his hand gently over mine. “But we already have Jamie.” “I know,” I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on the window. “Isla, you know as well as I do that we can’t control who we love. It’s just like how you and I fell in love once. But five years is a long time. Things change. You must understand that.” I kept silent. He squeezed my hand tighter. “You will still be my only wife. I’ll keep my vow to you. But I can’t betray her memory. If we had another child… I wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye in the next life.” With a sudden burst of energy, I yanked my hand back. The movement was so sharp it knocked a small plastic bottle off the nightstand. It rolled across the floor and stopped at Gordon’s feet. He picked it up. Even with his basic knowledge of medicine, the bold chemical name printed on the label was unmistakable. It was an abortifacient. “Isla…” He turned the bottle over, counting the empty blister packs. The dosage aligned perfectly with the days since I had first tried to escape. “This wasn’t a miscarriage.” I finally turned my head to look at him, a sharp, bitter laugh escaping my lips. “Did you really think I was just starving myself? I was taking those pills every single day.” “How could you?!” he roared, slamming the bottle down. He grabbed my shoulders and shoved me back against the window frame. I stared up at him, my smile widening. “Did you honestly think I would carry a child of yours? To be honest, Gordon, I regret ever giving birth to Jamie!” “You—” His chest heaved, his face pale with fury. “Why? Why are you doing this to me? Do you hate me that much? I’m the one who failed you! Punish me, not an innocent child!” “There’s no need, Gordon.” I wrapped my fingers around his wrists, slowly pulling myself closer to his face. “Did you know? While Lydia was trying to win you over in this world, I was given my own mission in another. She failed hers. But I succeeded in mine.” Gordon’s eyes widened. “What… what are you talking about?” “There are people waiting for me, Gordon. In that other world, I have a real family.” “Stop talking nonsense!” His voice shook, panic bleeding through his anger. But I only laughed, a beautiful, free sound. “Goodbye, Gordon. I hope you and your ghost have a wonderful life together.” With one final surge of strength, I shoved him back, tilted my weight, and let myself fall backward out of the window. “Isla!!” “Mommy!!” In that final, fleeting second of weightlessness, I saw a figure leap out of the window right after me, throwing himself into the empty air.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “500629”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Austin had been flying for eight years, working his way from co-pilot to captain, and I had been there for every single mile of it. During his busiest year, I quit my job just to make sure there was a hot meal waiting for him on the counter whenever his chaotic schedule allowed him to come home. I asked him once: “Could you take me up with you sometime? Just once, so I can see thirty thousand feet through your eyes?” He didn’t even pause his fork. “The cockpit is a workplace, Joy. Not an amusement park.” I said okay. And I never brought it up again. Until last night, when insomnia kept me tossing and turning, and I stumbled upon a hidden, passcode-protected folder in his photo library. There were over forty photos inside. Every single one of them was taken from the captain’s seat. Seas of clouds, burning orange sunsets, double rainbows cutting through storm clouds, and the Milky Way stretching across the endless ink of the night sky at thirty thousand feet. Every picture had been sent to the same person. The contact name was saved simply as a teddy bear emoji. The most recent photo was a sunset from three days ago, with the sun hanging like a gold coin off the tip of the wing. His caption read: “Tonight’s view was breathtaking. Next time you fly with me, take the jump seat on the right. It has the best angle.” The reply was a hugging emoji and four words: “Can’t wait for vacation.” I put the phone back exactly where I found it. I didn’t change the passcode, and I didn’t delete the folder. When morning came, I brewed my coffee as usual and drank it in silence. Then I opened my laptop, typed out my resignation letter, and booked a one-way ticket to Lake Tahoe. Eight years. I was finally done chasing his flight paths and scheduling my life around his arrivals. Done sitting in an empty house, wondering where in the sky he was. If his thirty thousand feet had no room for me, I would touch down, plant my own roots, and watch my own sunsets. 1 “What are you doing up so early?” Austin asked, pulling his roller bag out of the bedroom, a slight crease forming between his brows. I held my mug close, watching him pin the four-stripe captain epaulets to his crisp white shirt. “Couldn’t sleep. Decided to make coffee.” He walked over to the kitchen island, picked up the hot mug of milk I had poured, and took a slow sip. “Up late watching those useless shows again?” “No.” “Joy, your sleep schedule is getting completely out of hand.” He glanced at his watch, his tone carrying that familiar, slightly patronizing edge. “I’m flying to Frankfurt today. It’s a four-day trip.” “Okay.” He seemed a bit caught off guard by my quiet reaction. Usually, when he had a long-haul international flight, I would spend the day before packing his bag—organizing his antacids, melatonin, and neck pillow. I would remind him a dozen times to text me the second he touched down. Today, I did nothing. I just sat on the barstool, watching him. “Where’s my stomach medicine?” He rifled through the side pocket of his bag. “Second drawer of the TV console. Get it yourself.” He paused, turning to look at me. “What is wrong with you today? You can’t even walk a few feet to help?” “I’m just tired.” He sighed, walking over to the console to pull open the drawer and stuffing the medicine box into his pocket. “You stay home all day, Joy. I don’t know what you could possibly be tired of.” His phone lit up on the marble countertop. A text notification popped up. The sender’s name was a single teddy bear emoji. “Safe travels to Frankfurt, Captain! It’s freezing there today, don’t forget your heavy coat.” Austin snatched up the phone, the glow of the screen illuminating the slight curl of a smile on his lips. He typed a rapid one-handed reply, not even bothering to zip his luggage. “Work text?” I asked, staring at the little bear emoji. He locked the screen and slid the phone into his pocket. “Yeah. Isla. She’s on the same route today, working the cabin.” “I thought she was a purser on domestic routes.” “Scheduling shuffle. They needed an experienced lead to train the new hires on the long haul.” He answered smoothly, without a hint of hesitation. He didn’t even need to think about his cover story. I watched his broad, straight shoulders as he walked away, thinking of the forty-odd photos in that encrypted folder. Beautiful, sweeping vistas of the sky that he had never shown me, yet had shared so freely with Isla. “Austin.” “Yeah?” He was putting on his shoes at the entryway. “Do you know what next Wednesday is?” He didn’t pause. “Wednesday? I have simulator training. Why?” “Nothing.” Next Wednesday was our eighth anniversary. Eight years ago, on that exact day, he had received his first-officer contract. He had spun me around our cramped rental apartment, laughing like a kid. He promised me then that one day, he’d find the most beautiful clouds in the sky and bring them down for me. He forgot. “I’m heading out. I’ll text you when I land.” He opened the door. “Austin,” I called out again. His hand lingered on the brass knob, a flash of impatience crossing his face. “What now, Joy? The crew shuttle is waiting downstairs.” “Your suitcase zipper. It’s open.” He glanced down, casually pulling it shut. “Right. Thanks. You’re acting weird today.” The heavy door clicked shut behind him. The apartment fell back into a suffocating silence. I walked back to my laptop, hit “Send” on my resignation email, and pulled up my travel app to confirm the one-way ticket to Lake Tahoe departing in seven days. Seven days. More than enough time to erase eight years of my existence from this place. My phone buzzed. It was Zoe. “Did you send it?” she asked immediately. “Yeah. It’s done.” “Good. No turning back. When are you telling Austin?” “The day I leave.” Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds. “Joy… eight years of your life. You’re really just going to let it end like this? Quietly?” “I don’t want it anymore,” I said, staring at the cold mug of milk on the counter. “Zoe, have you ever seen the sunsets he takes photos of?” “What?” “They’re beautiful. The way the light catches the wing… it looks so gentle.” I flipped my phone face down on the marble. “Too bad they weren’t for me.” 2 That afternoon, I went down to the building’s leasing office and had my fingerprint removed from the smart-lock entry system. The building manager, a warm older woman named Mrs. Albright, watched me with a puzzled frown. “Why on earth are you removing your access, Joyce? That’s going to make coming and going so difficult.” “I won’t be needing it anymore,” I said with a faint smile. Back upstairs, I dragged two large cardboard boxes from the storage closet and began sorting through my life. The apartment was massive—a two-thousand-square-foot luxury condo overlooking the city skyline, bought entirely in cash by Austin. He had told me it was a reward for standing by him during his hardest years. I had believed this was our home. Now, I realized how little of myself was actually in it. In the walk-in closet, my clothes occupied barely two racks. The rest of the space was filled with his seasonal pilot uniforms, tailored suits, winter trench coats, and athletic gear. I packed only my everyday essentials into a single suitcase. The expensive evening gowns he had bought for me—stunning but completely outside my personal style—I left untouched, hanging neatly in their garment bags. On the nightstand sat a miniature metal plane model. It was a souvenir he had brought back from his very first international flight. I picked it up. Underneath lay a dusty polaroid. A photo of us from four years ago. He had just been promoted to captain, radiating confidence and pride. I pulled the photo out, let it slip into the trash can, and set the model back down exactly where it had been. By evening, my phone vibrated. A message from Austin. “Just checked into the hotel. Made it safely.” Normally, I would reply instantly, asking if he was exhausted, if his room was comfortable, if he needed to catch up on sleep. Today, I sent a single line. “Ok.” Thirty minutes later, another text arrived. “It’s freezing in Germany. Want me to pick up anything from the duty-free shop?” I was busy packing my skincare products from the bathroom vanity into a travel pouch. “No, I’m good.” “Don’t you usually bug me to get that luxury night serum?” I looked at my reflection in the mirror. “No, I don’t need it anymore.” He didn’t reply after that. Maybe he thought I was being difficult, or maybe he was simply too busy tending to someone else. I opened Instagram and searched for Isla’s profile. Her latest post had been uploaded ten minutes ago. A scenic night shot of the Rhine River. On the table in the foreground sat a glass of mulled wine, and resting casually near the rim was a man’s hand. There was a faint, jagged scar across the knuckle of his middle finger. Austin had gotten that scar slicing fruit years ago. I remember how panicked I had been, changing his bandages every single night for a week to make sure it didn’t scar worse. Isla’s caption read: “Frankfurt is freezing, but the mulled wine is warm. Flying is always better when someone is watching over you.” A few of their coworkers had already liked it. One commented: “Is Captain Austin footing the bill? You’re a lucky girl, Isla!” Isla replied with a blushing emoji. I quietly closed the app. The sharp, stabbing pain that used to pierce my chest was gone, replaced by a dull, cold numbness. For eight years, I had lived like a blind woman, feeding off the crumbs of promises he threw my way. He wasn’t incapable of being attentive. He wasn’t bad at romance. He had simply reserved all of his attentiveness and romance for someone else. A few days later, Austin’s flight landed. At seven in the evening, the front door swung open. He walked in holding a beautifully wrapped gift box. I sat on the couch, watching him kick off his shoes. “You didn’t make dinner?” He glanced toward the dark, empty kitchen. “I already ate.” His brow furrowed deeper. “I just flew fourteen hours, and there’s not even a hot meal waiting for me?” “You can order DoorDash.” He tossed the gift box heavily onto the coffee table. “Joy, what is your problem lately? What are you throwing a tantrum about?” “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” “Then why are you barely texting me? I asked you what you wanted from duty-free and you gave me nothing.” I looked at the elegant box. “Is that for me?” He stiffened slightly, his eyes darting away. “This… someone asked me to pick it up for them. I’ll take you to the mall tomorrow to buy whatever you want.” Someone. “Did Isla ask you to buy it?” I looked him straight in the eyes. His expression darkened instantly. “Have you been snooping through my phone?” “Her Instagram account is public.” He let out a sharp breath, his posture instantly shifting back to one of defensive irritation. “She did me a favor, so I picked up a gift to say thank you. What is the big deal? Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” “I didn’t say anything.” “You don’t have to say anything! Look at that cold, miserable face you’re making!” He ripped off his tie in frustration. “She’s a coworker. We see each other every single day at work. What’s wrong with showing a little professional courtesy?” “You’re very courteous,” I said, standing up. I had no energy to argue. “Joyce!” he yelled after me. “I’m exhausted. Can you please just grow up for once? Don’t make me come home to an attitude.” Grow up. I had been the mature, understanding partner for eight years. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and walked straight into the guest bedroom without looking back. “I’m sleeping in here tonight. Get some rest.” 3 Over the next two days, I systematically erased my presence. I gave the potted monstera plant in the living room to our neighbor downstairs. I scheduled a local junk removal service to take the balcony lounge chair I had spent weeks picking out. Austin didn’t notice a single missing item. He only seemed pleased by how quiet I had become. “See? Things are much better when you’re not picking fights,” he muttered on Friday morning, eating the frozen dumplings I had tossed into a pot of boiling water. “Today is Isla’s birthday. A few of the crew members are getting together for dinner tonight. I want you to come with me.” My hand paused as I wiped the counter. “Why would I go?” “You’re always complaining that I never introduce you to my colleagues. Well, here’s your chance. Everyone’s going to be there. You can get to know them.” His tone made it sound like an act of charity. In the past, I had practically begged him to let me meet his friends and coworkers. He had always brushed me off: “They’re all pilots and crew, Joy. You won’t understand what we’re talking about anyway. You’ll just be bored.” Now, he was inviting me. All because it was Isla’s birthday. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.” I wanted to see for myself exactly who Isla was to his colleagues. At eight that night, we arrived at the upscale sushi restaurant he had booked. When the sliding door to the private room opened, six or seven people were already seated. Isla sat at the head of the table. She was wearing a white French-style midi dress, and around her neck gleamed a familiar diamond necklace. The exact one from the gift box on our coffee table. “Austin! You made it! And you brought your partner!” Isla stood up, a bright, welcoming smile plastered on her face. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you, Joyce. Austin talks about you all the time.” She reached out warmly to take my hand. I stepped back, keeping my hands at my sides. “Happy birthday,” I said evenly. The room went tense for a split second. Austin pulled me down into the seat next to him, hissing under his breath, “Don’t you dare ruin this night with your attitude.” Throughout dinner, the conversation revolved entirely around aviation. Which routes had the worst turbulence, which air traffic controllers were the most short-tempered. I truly didn’t understand any of it, nor did I care to. “Seriously, though, Austin’s landings are like butter,” one of the co-pilots laughed, raising his sake glass. “Isla knows better than anyone. When Austin is flying, you don’t even have to worry about spilling a drop of coffee in the back.” Isla giggled, covering her mouth. “Oh, absolutely. Austin is famous for his touch. Last month we hit that massive thunderstorm over Tokyo, and my legs were literally shaking. Then I got a message from the cockpit saying, ‘I’ve got you. Don’t be scared.’ I felt safe instantly.” The table erupted into playful teasing. “Ooh, ‘I’ve got you, don’t be scared!’ How romantic!” Austin laughed along, making no effort to correct them. If anything, his eyes held a soft, indulgent warmth as he looked at her. I took a sip of my green tea. It had gone cold and bitter. The Tokyo thunderstorm. I remembered that flight. The weather had delayed his arrival by five hours. I had been frantic, unable to sleep, calling his phone dozens of times only to be met with voicemail. When he finally texted me back, it was five words: “Busy at work. Stop nagging.” So he had been busy comforting Isla in the cabin. “Joyce, don’t you worry about him when he’s away?” Isla suddenly redirected the spotlight onto me. “Austin’s stomach has been acting up. Yesterday he didn’t even eat breakfast before his simulator run. We were all so worried about him.” Her tone carried a thin veil of accusation, suggesting I was failing to care for him. The table fell quiet. Every eye turned to me. “He’s a grown man,” I said, setting my teacup down. “I’m sure he knows how to use an app to order food.” Isla gasped slightly, her eyes welling with tears. “I… I didn’t mean anything by it, Joyce. I was just looking out for him…” “Joy, that is enough!” Austin slammed his chopsticks onto the table, his face turning a dark, furious crimson. “We’re out having a good time, and you have to make a scene and embarrass everyone?” “Did I say something embarrassing?” I met his gaze calmly. “Isla was just trying to be nice, and you treat her like this? What is wrong with you?” “Captain,” I said, sliding out of the booth and picking up my purse. “Since you have such caring colleagues to look after your stomach, you won’t be needing me anymore.” “Joyce! Walk out that door and see what happens!” he roared. I opened the sliding door and stepped through without a single moment of hesitation. The cool corridor air hit my face, and I took a deep, clear breath. Eight years. I was finally done compromising my dignity just to save his face. When I got back to the apartment, I packed my remaining books into the boxes. Only Wednesday left. 4 Austin didn’t come home that night. He didn’t show up until noon the next day, bringing with him the faint, distinct scent of sandalwood perfume. Isla’s signature scent. He threw his car keys onto the entryway table and stared at me with cold fury. “Have you thrown your little tantrum yet?” I was using packing tape to seal one of the boxes, not even bothering to look up. “Are you playing deaf now?” He walked over, kicking the side of the box hard. “What is all this junk you’re packing anyway?” “Just cleaning out some things I don’t use.” He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Joyce, this silent treatment is pathetic. Do you honestly think if you act cold for a few days, I’m going to crawl back and beg for your forgiveness?” I stood up, wiping the dust from my hands. “I don’t expect you to do anything.” “Then what is this attitude? Isla cried for an hour last night because of what you said. You owe her an apology.” “I’m not apologizing.” “You are unbelievable!” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration and sat heavily on the couch. “I don’t have time for this. Next Wednesday, I’m flying the northern route to Reykjavik. If you admit you’re wrong, I’ll give you the companion pass I was going to give Isla. I’ll take you to see the Northern Lights.” I froze. The Northern Lights. Six years ago, when I was diagnosed with a thyroid nodule—benign, but terrifying to me at the time—he had held my hand in the hospital bed. He promised me, “Once you’re better, I’ll take you to see the auroras. You’ll fly on my route, and we’ll watch the most beautiful sky together.” He had delayed that promise for six years. Now, he was offering it to me like a piece of meat thrown to a misbehaving dog. And that companion pass was originally meant for Isla. “Not interested?” He frowned when I stayed silent. “Do you have any idea how hard those passes are to get? Isla begged me for months before I finally agreed. I only changed my mind because of our anniversary.” “Give the ticket to Isla,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “What did you say?” “I said, give it to her. I don’t want it.” Austin surged to his feet, his face twisted in rage. “Joyce, don’t push your luck. I’m throwing you a bone here. Reject it, and don’t you dare come crying to me later.” “I won’t.” With a curse, he grabbed a glass from the coffee table and shattered it against the floor. A sharp fragment sliced across my calf, leaving a thin trail of blood. He didn’t even glance down. He just turned on his heel and slammed the front door on his way out. I looked at the small bead of blood on my leg, wiped it away with a tissue, and kept packing. It didn’t hurt. Not anymore. Finally, Wednesday arrived. Our eighth anniversary. And the day my resignation took effect, the day I would leave this city forever. Dragging my single suitcase, I took a cab to the airport. My flight to Tahoe was scheduled for three in the afternoon. After printing my boarding pass, I sat in the departure lounge, watching the planes taxi across the tarmac. The Reykjavik flight was scheduled to depart at two. Austin should be in the left seat by now, running his pre-flight checks. I pulled out my phone, wanting to take one last look at his flight status—a final punctuation mark on these eight years. When I opened the airline app and checked the crew manifest for his flight, his name wasn’t there. The captain’s slot was filled by someone else. I blinked. Had he taken sick leave at the last minute? Just then, something caught my eye near the first-class lounge entrance. A man in a casual trench coat was pushing a pastel-pink suitcase. Beside him walked a woman in a matching coat, her arm wrapped tightly around his, her head resting on his shoulder. Austin and Isla. I stood frozen, watching them disappear into the lounge. A conversation between two gate agents nearby drifted over to me. “Hey, wasn’t that Captain Austin who just went in? I thought he was scheduled for the Reykjavik run today.” “No, he took personal leave. Word is he wanted to take Isla to Finland.” “Oh, wow. Isla was bragging about it in the group chat yesterday. She said Captain Austin literally dropped his dream route just to buy commercial first-class tickets to take her on a proper vacation.” “Must be nice. He really treats her like a queen.” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. So he hadn’t offered me Isla’s companion pass. He had skipped his duty entirely, spending his own money to plan a romantic getaway just for the two of them. And he had tried to use a cheap, deceitful lie to make me feel grateful. The intercom chimed, announcing the boarding call for my flight. I looked toward the first-class lounge one last time. Then, I turned around and handed my boarding pass to the gate agent. The cabin doors closed. Taxi, acceleration, takeoff. Thirty thousand feet in the air, the plane soared through the clouds. While Austin was sitting in first class on another plane, chasing a new muse, I looked out the window at the vast, endless sky. Eight years. I was finally free.

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It was the fifth year of my marriage to a beautiful, ruthlessly guarded heiress when the news crossed the Pacific: the rigid, untouchable woman who had raised me was dead. When my executive assistant’s overseas call finally came through, it was five in the morning in Los Angeles. “Sir, Virginia is gone. The Carlisle family is in total chaos. You’re the only one who can come back and take control…” Virginia Carlisle. It had been a long time since I allowed myself to hear that name. I froze, the phone pressed hard against my ear. Back when I was just the foster son of a dynasty, navigating the turbulent waters of my youth, I only ever did two things that crossed the line. The first was the night Virginia drank too much, and I used the blur of the alcohol to cross a boundary that should have remained sacred, spending one reckless, absurd night tangled in her sheets. The second was boarding a plane to marry another woman before she ever woke up, keeping my departure a total secret. From that day forward, I severed an eighteen-year bond with the woman who had been my entire world since the orphanage. A clean, brutal cut. I never imagined that my return to my homeland five years later would be to collect the body of the woman who had haunted my every waking thought. Yet, on the day of the funeral, a little girl in a black velvet dress broke free from the grip of the surrounding relatives and threw herself directly into my legs. Instinct took over. I bent down and scooped her up into my arms. She scrubbed at her tear-stained, slightly scraped face, her small chest heaving with violent sobs. “Daddy, you finally came home!” “They’re all bad people. They just want Mommy’s money, and they won’t stop picking on me!” Looking down at this little girl—whose face was a near-perfect mirror of Virginia’s—I was instantly violently pulled back to the very first time I met her mother. … 1 For as long as I could remember, I had no one. No mother, no father. I kept myself alive by running petty grifts and picking the pockets of oblivious tourists down by the pier. That was my life until I was seven. I slipped my fingers around the cold metal of a Rolex on a wealthy woman’s wrist, only to be caught dead to rights. The woman, draped in a custom-tailored designer dress, didn’t strike me. She didn’t scream for the police. Instead, she crouched down to my eye level and, like a magician, produced a piece of candy, pressing it into my dirty palm. Her smile was devastatingly gentle. “Rowan, I’m so sorry. I’m late.” “My name is Virginia Carlisle. I was an old friend of your parents.” “From now on, I’m going to be your legal guardian. You can call me Aunt Virginia. I’m going to take care of you for the rest of your life.” And she kept her word. She went to my parent-teacher conferences. She shielded me from drunken brawlers in the streets. She taught me which fork to use at a gala, and how to hold my posture at a grand piano. She took a feral, street-corner stray covered in thorns and painstakingly molded him into a refined, respectable man. But I was too greedy. Being her ward, her “nephew” in name, wasn’t enough. I wanted to monopolize her. I wanted every ounce of Virginia Carlisle’s goodness to belong solely to me. My original plan had been to wait until her birthday to confess the truth about that absurd, boundary-shattering night we shared when she was drunk. I had it all mapped out. If she rejected me, I was prepared to act like that wild seven-year-old again—throwing a massive, destructive tantrum until she finally caved and nodded yes. But before I could utter a single word, she stood up at the family’s annual banquet and publicly announced her engagement to Donovan Croft, the golden boy of a rival tech empire. The entire table went dead silent. Every member of the Carlisle family stared at me, terrified I was going to flip the dining table and tear the room apart. But this time, I simply reached into my pocket and slid a velvet box across the linen. The box snapped open to reveal a pair of flawless, natural blue diamonds, catching the chandelier light in a dazzling, icy display. My foster mother, Helena—the woman who had officially signed my adoption papers on Virginia’s behalf—froze, hesitating. “Rowan, these diamonds are worth millions. Weren’t you planning to have these set into a wedding ring…?” I kept the smile on my face broad, immaculate, and entirely polite. “I originally bought them for Aunt Virginia anyway. They make a perfect engagement gift for my new uncle.” The moment the words left my mouth, a flicker of uneasy dissonance crossed Virginia’s eyes. Her tone dropped into something that was half-warning, half-reprimand. “Rowan. When you were younger, you threw your fits and I indulged you.” “But if you cause trouble now, I will not let it slide.” Beneath the table, my fingernails dug into my palms until they nearly broke the skin. I tipped my chin up, keeping the smile locked in place. “You’re absolutely right. I promise I won’t let your kindness go to waste.” Virginia frowned. She could sense something was off, but before she could press, her phone lit up. It was Donovan. He was waiting outside to take her to see a fireworks display. She grabbed her coat, but paused at the doorway, looking back at me with a strange hesitation. “Rowan, do you want to come with us…?” I blinked, then shook my head, forcing a light, breezy tone. “You go ahead. Have a great time with Donovan.” Virginia stared at me for two heavy seconds. Then, she walked out without another word. The second the heavy oak door clicked shut, the smile fell off my face like dead weight. Helena looked at me, her eyes softening with a sudden, sharp pity. “Rowan, it’s okay to cry if it hurts.” Instead of crying, I suddenly dropped to my knees on the hardwood floor, bowing my head respectfully to the woman who had mothered me. Helena gasped, rushing forward to pull me up. “What on earth are you doing, child?” My expression was dead serious. “The Carlisles have housed me, fed me, and raised me for twenty years. I know what I owe this family, and I have no right to ask for more.” “I know the board has been desperate to secure a partnership with the Laurent family overseas, but you haven’t had an in. I’m willing to marry their eldest daughter.” Helena went pale. She gripped my forearms tight. “Rowan, you want to marry Daphne Laurent?!” “Do you have any idea who she is?” “The rumors say she’s a ruthless, paranoid eccentric. You’d be throwing yourself directly into the fire!” I didn’t pull away. I just softened my voice to calm her. “Mom, those are just rumors. And honestly, don’t people think I’m a bit unhinged too?” “Unhinged enough to ignore morality, act like a tyrant, and try to chase away any man who comes near Virginia.” “The Laurents keep a notoriously low profile. A marriage alliance is the only way we get a seat at their table.” “You and Dad have indulged me my whole life. Let me do something for the family for once.” I laid out the strategic benefits of the marriage, my voice growing steadier, my eyes harder with every word. Helena’s eyes rimmed with red. She looked at me for a long, agonizing moment before finally reaching out to smooth my hair. “Alright. If your mind is truly made up. The Laurent family will send someone to collect you. The wedding will take place in Los Angeles in two weeks.” Hearing the timeline, a bitter, hollow laugh echoed in my chest. What a coincidence. My wedding day was scheduled for the exact same day as Virginia’s engagement party. Helena suddenly seemed to remember something, her tone turning frantic. “But I haven’t even prepared a dowry for you… I need to have your father transfer some of his company shares to your name immediately—” I cut her off. “Mom, I don’t need anything.” “And please, keep this marriage a secret from Virginia for now.” “I don’t want her to think I’m doing this to force her hand, or to ruin her engagement to Donovan.” Helena couldn’t change my mind. She just let out a shattered sigh and pulled me tightly into her arms.

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