Category: English

At the orchestra’s open auditions, I was the unintended center of gravity. The air in the room felt thick, heavy with the redirected stares of my colleagues. Some offered the sharp sting of pity; others, a voyeuristic curiosity that felt like needles under my skin. They all knew the score. I was Bennett, the man who had stood by Adrienne Montgomery for seven years, the “almost-fiancé” waiting for a wedding invite that never seemed to get printed. For seven years, I’d been her shadow. I’d walked beside her through the lean years of obscurity to the sun-drenched heights of her current fame. But even for me, there was a sanctuary I was never allowed to enter: her father’s Steinway. It was a relic, a piece of her soul left behind by the man who taught her to play, kept under a metaphorical glass case. Until today. Toby, a soft-featured boy barely out of conservatory and the newest hire, pointed to the piano beside Adrienne. “I heard only your husband is allowed to touch that,” he said, his voice trailing off with a playful, dangerous tilt. “Is there any room for an exception?” Adrienne didn’t even pause. She didn’t look at me. She didn’t blink. “Yes,” she said. One word. One syllable that effectively erased seven years of devotion. In that moment, the symphony of our life together hit a dissonant, final chord. I knew then: it was time to close the book. 1 After the auditions, the orchestra manager caught me in the hallway. “Bennett, about that four-hands piece you were supposed to perform with Adrienne… you can take it off your schedule.” I looked at him, already knowing the answer. “And?” “Adrienne wants the new kid, Toby, to play it with her instead.” Even though I’d felt the blow coming, the actual impact left a bitter taste in my mouth, like copper. I didn’t argue. I simply nodded. That night, I retreated to the guest room and dialed a number I hadn’t touched in years. “Mandy?” I said when the line connected. “You once told me you wanted to get married at the Musikverein in Vienna, and you wanted me there. Does that offer still stand?” There was a long silence on the other end, muffled by the sound of someone waking up. Her voice was thick with sleep, a soft rasp. “Am I dreaming?” “You can say no,” I began, my heart hammering against my ribs. I didn’t get to finish. I heard a loud thud—the sound of someone literally falling out of bed—followed by a frantic, breathless scramble. “It stands! Bennett, it stands today, tomorrow, and every day after. Yes. God, yes.” I let out a breath, a small, tired smile flickering across my face. The day’s wreckage felt a little less heavy. When Adrienne finally came home, I was in the middle of packing. She didn’t notice the suitcase at first. She was busy tugging at her silk tie, her movements sharp and distracted. “Make me some ginger tea,” she tossed over her shoulder. “The welcome party for the new hires got a little rowdy. The boys kept buying me rounds. I’m seeing double.” I looked at her. I looked at the faint, unmistakable bloom of a hickey near the collar of her shirt. I didn’t move. “Adrienne,” I said, my voice steady. “We’re done. I’m leaving.” She froze. Only then did her eyes drop to the suitcase by my feet. She rubbed her temples, her dark eyes—usually so captivating—now clouded with irritation. “Is this about the piano?” she snapped. “Bennett, don’t be so small-minded. He’s a talent. I’m doing what’s best for the orchestra’s future.” A talent. The boy had botched a dozen transitions during his audition. She turned toward the master bath, her tone dismissive. “Go fix the tea. Stop overthinking things. You’re being dramatic.” “Adrienne.” My voice was a wall she couldn’t walk through. “I told you years ago. My life plan was to be married by thirty. I turn thirty this week.” She stopped. The thin veneer of her patience finally shattered. “Bennett, do you have any idea how cheap this makes you look? Begging for a ring, over and over? It’s exhausting. You’re making yourself look pathetic.” She stepped closer, her words like scalpels. “I’ve told you: the orchestra is in a growth phase. I don’t have the energy to waste on something as trivial as a wedding right now.” Trivial. For seven years, I had built that orchestra from a dream into a powerhouse. Every tour, every donor gala, every glowing review—I had traded my own health for those things. I had the blood-red marks on my medical charts to prove it. And in return, she called me “cheap.” Her energy was apparently very expensive—far too expensive for me. But she had plenty of it for the new boy. Plenty of energy to make sure his seat cushion was soft enough, to ask if he was having fun at the party, to laugh at his jokes. But for the man who had carried her for nearly a decade? I was just a waste of time. I sighed, meeting her gaze with a clarity I hadn’t felt in years. “I’m tired, Adrienne. So, it’s a wedding or a breakup. You choose.” Adrienne’s eyes flashed with pure, cold venom. “Fine. Break up. Leave. See if I care.” As the sound of the shower started up, a wave of hollow grief washed over me. I’d always known I wasn’t her “first choice.” Adrienne was a sun that everyone wanted to orbit. I just had more endurance than the others. I had stayed when she had nothing, and because of that, she felt a moral obligation to keep me around. But love? Love is unmistakable. If I asked for a birthday cake, she’d buy one—but it was never the flavor I liked. If I was sick and asked for medicine, she’d get it—but only after I was already recovered, a sudden afterthought. I looked at the “Groom’s Guide to the Perfect Wedding” and “Three Months to Your Best Self” brochures I’d tucked away in the nightstand. I’d bought them with such hope, only to hide them whenever she gave me that look of profound disgust. I was done being an afterthought. 2 My phone buzzed repeatedly in my pocket. It was the orchestra’s group chat. Toby had posted a video of him and Adrienne performing at the after-party. They were playing on her father’s piano. Toby had even set a wine glass carelessly on the mahogany finish—something I would have been crucified for. In the video, their eyes locked, the air between them thick with a calculated, youthful flirtation. As the song ended, their faces brushed so close it looked like a kiss. Toby’s caption was a masterpiece of faux-humility: “Just a newbie trying to keep up. I can’t believe I’m getting more love than the veterans who’ve been here for seven years. So touched. Thanks for the favoritism, Adrienne! ” Adrienne, who was still in the shower, somehow found the time to reply instantly: “You’ve earned it. ” They went back and forth, Adrienne even using the kind of cutesy emojis she used to tell me were “beneath a serious professional.” I remembered three years ago, when I’d secured a major national award for the orchestra—a feat that was nearly impossible. I’d posted in the chat, half-joking, half-seeking a crumb of affection: “Chief, did I do good? Do I get a gold star?” That message had hung there, unanswered, for twenty-four hours. When I finally confronted her about it, she’d sneered. “Bennett, you’re a grown man. Acting like a needy teenager is embarrassing. I’m not going to humiliate myself by entertaining that.” I was twenty-nine then. And I had spent the next week apologizing, wondering if I really was the problem. But seeing her now, playing along with Toby… I realized she wasn’t an ice queen. She was just a woman who didn’t love me. I hauled my suitcase out the door that night and never looked back. The next few days were a blur of wrapping up my resignation and handing off my responsibilities. I stopped killing myself for the orchestra. I stopped making Adrienne’s life easy. She and Toby grew bolder, and I simply looked the other way. Until the morning my mother called, her voice trembling. “Bennett… your father found out about the breakup. He got so upset, he collapsed. He’s in the ICU.” My heart dropped. “Mom, did you use the insurance card?” “That’s the problem,” she sobbed. “Adrienne still has it. Remember? You gave it to her months ago when she promised to get him in to see that heart specialist. We can’t afford the deposit for the surgery without it.” Panic flared in my chest. I’d asked Adrienne about that specialist a dozen times, and she’d always waved me off, saying she was “working on it.” I called her. No answer. I called again. Straight to voicemail. I drove to the villa—the house I’d helped her pay for—and tried the door. The code had been changed. Desperate, I grabbed a stone, smashed a side window, and climbed inside. The interior stopped me cold. The minimalist, pristine aesthetic Adrienne insisted on—the one she used to tell me my “cheap taste” would ruin—was gone. The living room was littered with plastic action figures and designer hoodies. It looked like a college dorm. I remembered wanting to put a single, artistic lamp in our bedroom once. Adrienne had looked at it like it was radioactive. “Bennett, don’t pollute my space with your low-rent sensibilities.” Apparently, Toby’s mess was “art.” I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I began tearing through the drawers, looking for my father’s medical ID. Suddenly, a heavy boot slammed into my side. I was thrown to the floor, my breath hitching in a painful gasp. Two police officers swarmed me, pinning my arms behind my back. “Someone reported a break-in,” one of them barked. “Don’t move.” In the interrogation room, the lead officer glared at me. “You claim you’re her boyfriend, but there isn’t a single item of yours in that house. No clothes, no photos, nothing.” “I moved out three days ago,” I croaked. “You say you’re the manager of the orchestra, but the owner—Ms. Montgomery—says the manager is a man named Toby. Bennett, why can’t you tell us a single truth?” I was shaking. I looked at my phone on the table. My mother’s name kept flashing. Missed call. Missed call. Every second I sat there, my father was slipping away. “Fine,” I whispered, the fight leaving me. “I’ll confess to the trespass. Just let me go to the hospital. My father is dying.” The officer scoffed. “Oh, now it’s a dying father? You think we’re idiots? Ms. Montgomery and her boyfriend specifically requested we hold you until they can finish an inventory of the ‘stolen’ items.” I was held for forty-eight hours. On the third day, Adrienne finally showed up. 3 She wasn’t alone. Toby was trailing behind her like a pampered lapdog, followed by a handful of my former colleagues from the orchestra. Toby stepped forward, his face a mask of fake concern. “Oh, Bennett. I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea it was you in the house. I just saw someone through the security feed and panicked.” He leaned in, his voice loud enough for the others to hear. “I’m the new Director of Operations now, and I wanted to take the team on a celebratory retreat. I didn’t mean for you to spend two nights in a cell. My bad, man. Truly.” Adrienne grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “Don’t apologize, Toby. He broke in. We’re over, and he’s trespassing. It’s his own fault.” I looked at her, my eyes burning. “Adrienne. My father’s insurance card. Where is it? He needs the surgery.” Adrienne blinked, clearly caught off guard. She began rummaging through her designer bag, her movements frantic but hollow. It was obvious she hadn’t thought about my father once in the last six months. She couldn’t find it. Of course she couldn’t. Just then, my phone chimed with a text from my mother. I didn’t even have to open it. I felt the soul-crushing weight of the news before I read the words. Bennett, he’s gone. My hands fell limp at my sides. I looked at Adrienne, who was still digging through her purse. “Stop,” I said. My voice was a hollow shell. “Don’t bother. I don’t need it anymore.” Adrienne looked up, her expression flickering with something like guilt, but I was already turning away. I started for the door, my legs feeling like lead. “Wait!” Toby called out. “I’m sorry you were stuck in here, but you did break in. We have to make sure you didn’t take anything. Security protocol, you know?” Before I could react, Toby grabbed my messenger bag and flipped it over. The contents spilled across the precinct floor. Among my notebooks and keys were dozens of high-end wedding invitations—the ones Mandy had sent over for me to look at. Toby gasped, covering his mouth. “Oh… Bennett. You were still planning a wedding with Adrienne? The medical card thing… was that just a drama you staged to get her attention?” I didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. “Are you satisfied?” I asked, looking at the pile on the floor. “Is any of that yours?” Toby had what he wanted—a way to humiliate me in front of Adrienne. He stepped back. I gathered my things and walked out. I was halfway to the parking lot when Adrienne caught up to me, grabbing my arm. “Where are you staying?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “None of your business. Go back to Toby. You two deserve each other.” She let out a sharp, cold laugh. “You’re jealous. I knew it.” “Believe whatever helps you sleep at night.” “Bennett, enough!” she snapped, her patience evaporating again. “You’ve made your point. You’ve sulked for three days. It’s time to stop this. Just wait a few more years for the wedding, okay? Why do you have to push me like this?” I shook her hand off. I felt a strange sense of peace—the kind that only comes after everything has already been destroyed. “I am getting married, Adrienne. But the bride isn’t you. And I will never, ever push you again. Do you understand?” Adrienne’s face turned ashen, then she smirked. “Bennett, you’re thirty. Let’s stop with the childish games. Look at you—you’re a mess. Who else would have you?” “That’s not your concern.” I turned to leave, but she softened her voice again, a tactic she used whenever she realized she was losing control. “Look, Saturday is your birthday. You’ve always wanted to meet my mother properly. I’m hosting a dinner at the Montgomery estate. We’ll celebrate you there. Does that make it better?” I stared at her. For years, I was the only one who remembered her birthday. She had never once acknowledged mine. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be there.” 4 I didn’t go to that dinner because I wanted a birthday cake from Adrienne Montgomery. I went because the guest list was a Who’s Who of the industry. With my father gone and my career at the orchestra over, I needed to build a bridge to my future. I needed a new life. But when I arrived at the estate, I realized I’d been played. The evening wasn’t a birthday party for me. It was the night Adrienne was introducing Toby to her mother. It turned out Adrienne wasn’t “not ready” for a husband. She just didn’t want me to be the one. I turned to leave, but the family butler intercepted me. “Ah, you must be the help Miss Montgomery hired for the evening. You’re late. The gala is starting.” He looked at my suit—a nice one, but not a tuxedo. “And what are you wearing? You look like you think you’re a guest of honor.” Before I could argue, the music swelled. Adrienne and her mother entered the ballroom with Toby on Adrienne’s arm. I was shoved into a corner by the staff. Adrienne took the microphone on the small stage. “Tonight, I am proud to introduce my most brilliant protege and partner: Toby.” I watched the crowd—men and women who controlled the fate of every musician in the country—applaud. My chest ached. I remembered a few years back, when I’d made the finals of a national concerto competition. My parents had been so proud, waiting to see me on TV. But the day before the finals, I was bumped for a donor’s son. I’d asked Adrienne to use her influence to fight for me. She’d told me: “Bennett, the world isn’t fair. Normal people don’t get ‘shortcuts’ just because they know me. You need to learn to adapt, not rely on me for handouts.” And yet, here she was, throwing a literal gala to give Toby a shortcut. “And now,” Adrienne announced, her voice radiating pride, “Toby will perform an original composition of his own.” Toby flashed a charming smile at the crowd and took his seat at the piano. The first few bars echoed through the hall. My heart stopped. I knew that melody. It wasn’t Toby’s. It was the song my father and I had written together when I was seven years old. Back then, we were poor. We couldn’t afford a piano, so my father had drawn the keys on the kitchen table with a marker, teaching me the notes one by one. One evening, as he watched the sunset from his sickbed, he hummed a tune. “This is for you, Bennett,” he had whispered. “Our song. ‘The Sunset Promise.’” When I finally got to music school, the first thing I did was transcribe it. It was my most sacred possession. And now, it was Toby’s “original composition.” There was only one way he could have it. Adrienne had given it to him. I looked at her. She caught my eye and immediately looked away. My phone buzzed. “Don’t cause a scene,” her text read. “Toby is performing with me at the Musikverein next week. People are questioning his depth. I did this for the good of the orchestra.” The song ended. The room erupted in applause. Adrienne’s mother stood up, beaming. “Toby is a rare talent. Adrienne is lucky to have such a partner. In fact, the Montgomery family would be lucky to have such a son-in-law.” Adrienne laughed, offering no correction. “Wait,” I said. My voice was raspy, but in the sudden silence of the room, it carried like a gunshot. “That song… that isn’t his. My father and I wrote that twenty-three years ago.” The room went cold. Adrienne’s brow furrowed. Toby’s face paled for a fraction of a second before he settled into a look of wounded innocence. “Bennett,” Toby said, his voice trembling perfectly. “I know you wanted to marry Adrienne, but you can’t just make up lies because you’re jealous of my work.” Adrienne’s mother stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “So you’re the man who’s been hounding my daughter for seven years? No wonder she never brought you home. You have no class.” Adrienne didn’t defend me. She just looked exhausted. “Bennett, stop. This desperate attempt to trap me into a marriage is suffocating. Just go.” The guests began to whisper. “That’s him? The one who follows her around like a lost dog?” “He’s delusional. She’s clearly with the new guy.” Toby smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes. “Bennett, if I stole your song, surely you have the original files on your phone? Show everyone. If you have proof, I’ll apologize.” I froze. I knew what was on my phone. A few months ago, in a moment of pathetic longing, I had photoshopped a picture of myself and Adrienne in wedding attire. I’d never shown it to anyone, but I hadn’t deleted it yet. Adrienne’s mother signaled the security guards to take my phone. I struggled, trying to keep it, but I was shoved to the ground. Toby snatched the device. “If you won’t show us, I will.” He hooked my phone up to the ballroom’s large projector screen. “Let’s see the ‘evidence’ of your genius, Bennett.” He swiped through my gallery. He found the “Wedding” folder. The crowd began to titter, anticipating my humiliation. “Oh my god,” someone laughed. “He actually photoshopped himself into a tuxedo next to a bride. This is beyond sad.” The mockery was deafening. I sat on the floor, humiliated, defeated. Adrienne looked like she was about to call for security to throw me out. But then, a voice rose from the back of the room. A voice that was sharp, clear, and carried the weight of a billion dollars. “Wait a minute. That bride in the photo… that isn’t Adrienne Montgomery.”

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The highlight of our engagement gala—the exchange of the family heirlooms—was supposed to be my moment. I was supposed to receive the Ashford signet ring, a platinum piece that had represented the head of the family for three generations. Instead, Marina Ashford walked right past me. She stepped toward the shadows of the corner where her junior assistant, Cody West, stood waiting. With a smile I hadn’t seen in months, she slid the ring onto a chain around his neck. A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom. Hundreds of sympathetic, mocking eyes suddenly felt like needles pressing into my skin. Marina reached out, playfully pinching the assistant’s cheek. Her explanation to the room was breezy, almost flippant. “Look at him. Poor Cody couldn’t even afford a decent suit for tonight, let alone a gift. I thought we’d just skip the formalities for now.” She smoothed the lapel of his jacket. “Besides, Cody’s been having trouble sleeping lately. This ring is supposed to have ‘grounding energy,’ right? It’ll do him more good than it will you.” Then she turned to me, her eyes hardening with an impatient, charitable coldness. “We’re literally getting engaged tonight, Des. Don’t give me that look. Try not to be so damn entitled.” Cody leaned into her, the sweetness of his smirk sharp enough to draw blood. Everyone in our circle knew the Ashford rings came in a pair. Now, standing there under the Swarovski chandeliers with nothing but a bare throat and a suit I’d tailored for a woman who didn’t respect me, I felt like I’d been slapped in the face in front of the entire East Coast elite. Suddenly, I started to laugh. It was a dry, hollow sound. I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out the thick envelope I’d been carrying—the stock transfer documents I’d spent months preparing. I flicked my lighter and held the flame to the corner of the paper. “You’re right, Marina,” I said as the fire began to eat through the legal headers. “I shouldn’t be greedy.” “If the ring belongs to him, then this ‘fiancé’ title belongs to him, too. Consider it a gift.” … 1. The ballroom fell into a suffocating silence, broken only by the hungry crackle of the burning documents. Marina’s brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing her face. “Desmond, it’s a piece of jewelry. Do you really have to be this petty?” “Stop acting out,” she continued, her voice dripping with the condescension of a queen pardoning a peasant. “Finish the ceremony, and I’ll pretend this little tantrum never happened. I’ll forgive you.” Looking at her—at that high-and-mighty gaze, that look of someone who thought she was the sun I orbited—I felt a wave of pure, unfiltered revulsion. I wrenched my hand away when she tried to grab my arm. “Is the CEO of Ashford Media having trouble with basic English?” I asked. “Let me be clearer: The engagement is off. We’re done. Don’t call me.” The air in the room turned brittle. Cody, ever the “peace-maker,” stepped forward with a practiced, plastic smile. “Des, man, Marina was just worried about my health. Don’t take it out on her.” He stepped close and forced something into my palm. “Here,” he whispered, loud enough for the front row to hear. “As a consolation prize. I had a replica made just for you.” He leaned in closer, his voice a venomous hiss. “But I’m not like you, Des. I don’t just live off a woman’s bank account. High-end platinum was a bit out of my budget, so I used a Heineken bottle for the ‘gem.’ Matches your vibe, don’t you think?” For the engagement, I had gone out of my way to find a bespoke charcoal suit to match Marina’s gown. The joke was on me; Cody was wearing the exact same suit. Only Marina and I had been there for the fitting. She hadn’t just told him what I was wearing; she’d bought him the same damn outfit. There they stood: wearing matching couture, draped in the Ashford family legacy, looking for all the world like the real couple of the evening. I was just the unwanted extra in my own life story. I lunged forward, grabbing the cord around Cody’s neck and yanking him toward me. He stumbled, his eyes wide. “I’ve never been fond of hand-me-downs,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “If you want my trash, Cody, you’re welcome to it. But if you’re going to provoke me, you’d better be ready for the consequences.” “Maybe I should use this ‘replica’ of yours to see how deep your skin actually is?” The shards of green glass at the end of the fake pendant were jagged, poorly sanded. A cheap, spiteful little thing. Cody turned pale, immediately turning his tear-filled eyes toward Marina. “Marina, look at him… he’s scaring me…” A sharp pain shot through my wrist as Marina grabbed me, forcing me to let go. She shoved me back, shielding Cody behind her like a mother hen protecting a chick. “Cody didn’t say anything wrong!” she snapped. “Who do you think you are, putting your hands on him? I cancelled the exchange to save your dignity, Desmond!” “The Ashford ring is worth seven figures. You’re a literal nobody—a parasite who hasn’t worked a day in four years. What could you possibly have brought to the table that was of equal value? Learn your place!” She gestured to the blackened ash on the floor. “And don’t think I don’t know what those papers were. Another ‘wish list’ for your dowry? Another yacht? Another condo in the city? You burned them because even you realized how pathetic your greed looked, didn’t you?” Even though I had already checked out of this relationship, hearing those words felt like a physical weight in my chest. It was hard to breathe. 2. Marina never wanted me to work. She hated the idea of me “cluttering my schedule” with a career, and she hated the taste of restaurant food. So, I became the man behind the woman. I kept the house, managed her life, and cooked every meal. I thought I was building a sanctuary for us. I didn’t realize that in her eyes, four years of devotion had merely branded me a gold-digger. She had no idea that those “petty papers” weren’t a gift list. They were a deed of gift for a ten percent stake in the Montgomery Group—a holding worth hundreds of millions. I looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time in years. “Marina, you knew what that ring meant. It wasn’t just jewelry. It was a statement about who stands beside you as an equal. You gave it to your assistant. What am I to you?” Marina scoffed, her lip curling. “Cody is an asset. He’s my right hand at the office. He deserves recognition. You? You’re a house husband I’ve kept in silk shirts. The fact that I even agreed to marry you was a charity case.” She took a sip of her champagne. “Quit while you’re ahead, Desmond. Go back to the house, calm down, and finish the party. If you really want a ring so bad, I’ll buy you some vintage piece at an auction next month. But if you keep acting like a child, I will walk away from you for good.” She didn’t get it. She never would. It wasn’t about the object; it was about the soul behind it. But in her world, souls were just things you traded for leverage. “Fine,” I said, my voice calm, almost eerie. “I’d like nothing more.” I turned to walk out, but three of her security guards moved with practiced synchronization, blocking the exit like a wall of muscle. Marina drained her glass, her posture relaxed and mocking. “Desmond, if you’re so hell-bent on a breakup, you should probably return what belongs to me first.” She looked me up and down with ice-cold eyes. “That suit. I bought it. So, take it off.” I froze. I had come straight to the gala in this suit. I had nothing else with me. Marina knew that. Looking at her familiar face, I felt a sudden, sharp pang of laughter. How had I been so blind? How had I fallen for someone so hollow? A few guests looked uncomfortable. A family friend tried to interject. “Marina, come on. He’s a young man. Don’t humiliate him like this in front of everyone.” Marina crossed her legs, unmoved. “I gave him too much respect in the past. That’s why he’s so spoiled now. He needs to learn how to be obedient.” “Desmond, you don’t have to do it. Just apologize. Say you were wrong, promise to stop bullying Cody, and we can go on with the night.” Cody leaned his head on her shoulder, smirking. “Come on, Des. Marina’s giving you an out. Don’t be stubborn. We won’t laugh too hard when you take back everything you said. We’re used to seeing ‘climbers’ like you lose their footing.” Marina gave Cody’s waist a squeeze, clearly pleased with his performance. The weight of the room’s gaze was like a physical heat, scorching my skin. This was her goal: to break me. To remind me that I was a toy she could play with or discard at will. 3. She wanted me to understand that I was nothing without her. She could give me a face, or she could grind it into the dirt. While the crowd waited for me to crumble and beg, I did the opposite. With a face like stone, I unbuttoned the jacket and shrugged it off. Then the vest. Then the shirt. I threw the expensive fabric into the nearest trash bin without a word. I ignored the flash of shock in Marina’s eyes as I walked out of the hotel in nothing but my undershirt and slacks, never looking back. Outside, the New York sky had opened up. A cold, biting rain was falling. I tried to hail a cab, only to realize my phone was dead—I’d spent the whole day coordinating her event and hadn’t had a chance to charge it. All my ID, my keys, my life was back at the estate. I had no choice but to walk. The thin cotton of my shirt was soaked through within minutes, clinging to my skin. I must have looked like a wreck, earning stares from the few people out on the streets. It was near midnight by the time I reached the gates of the Ashford estate. The neighborhood was silent, eerie. I noticed three men in hoodies following me. They’d been behind me for several blocks, matching my pace, drifting closer every time I looked back. My skin crawled. I sprinted to the front door, heart hammering against my ribs, and punched in the security code. Access Denied. She had changed the locks. The three men stopped under a tree just a few yards away, their silhouettes dark against the streetlights. They were laughing—a low, predatory sound. They were watching me like a trapped animal, waiting for the right moment to strike. Panic flared in my chest. I hammered on the door, ringing the bell over and over. No one answered. Suddenly, a second-story window slid open. Marina appeared, her hair damp, wearing a silk robe. She didn’t look worried; she looked bored. She picked up a suitcase and tossed it out the window. It hit the wet pavement with a heavy thud, bursting open and spilling my clothes into the puddles. The light from the room behind her caught the dark bruises—hickeys—on her neck. “You wanted to be independent, Desmond? Then take your trash and get off my property.” “I’ve frozen your cards. I doubt the change in your Venmo is enough to cover a week at a motel.” I didn’t care about her insults. I looked at the tree where the men were standing. “Marina, listen to me. There are men following me. They’re right there. Please, just let me in for five minutes to call a ride.” Marina hesitated, glancing toward the shadows. “What? Des, if this is another lie—” A pair of pale hands reached out from behind her, pulling her back. Cody appeared in the window, wearing my favorite pajamas. He gave me a mocking wave. “Des, man, this is a gated community. Security doesn’t let ‘thugs’ in without a pass. You’re really going to lie to her after embarrassing her tonight? That’s low, even for a gold-digger.” He looked at Marina. “Marina, if you keep letting him play you, people are going to think you’re weak. He needs to learn his lesson.” Marina’s face hardened into a mask of disgust. “You’re pathetic, Desmond. You want to play the victim? Fine. Stay out there in the rain. Maybe it’ll wash the delusions out of your head.” “I want a public apology on your socials by tomorrow morning. If you don’t beg for my forgiveness, don’t ever show your face again. Without me, you’re nothing. You’re used goods, Des. Nobody else is going to want you.” She slammed the window shut. Through the sheer curtains, I saw their silhouettes merge, swaying in a slow, cruel dance. The world went cold. The three men stepped out from the shadows, grinning. “Hey, kid. That bag looks like it’s got some nice stuff in it. Why don’t you let us take care of that for you?” “Don’t worry,” one laughed, pulling a knife. “We’re just ‘borrowing’ it. We don’t do refunds.” They lunged, covering my mouth and dragging me toward the dark corner of the driveway. I fought, kicking wildly, until the sound of a car door slamming echoed through the night. It wasn’t Marina. It was a middle-aged couple from the house across the street. They’d just pulled in and seen the struggle. The thugs, seeing witnesses, dropped my bag and bolted into the night. The husband helped me up, offering me a place to stay, but I couldn’t bear to be a burden. He gave me a dry sweatshirt and a pair of old track pants, then drove me to a nearby hotel. Marina had been thorough. She’d kept the car she “gave” me and the watches she’d bought. But she didn’t realize that I never needed her things. I had my own. I borrowed a charger from the front desk. Tomorrow, I was going home. But as my Uber pulled away the next morning, the driver took a sharp, unexpected turn onto the highway. A massive man sitting in the passenger seat turned around, staring at me with a cold, professional intensity. I reached for my phone, but the driver spoke first. “Mr. Sterling, today is Mr. West’s birthday. Ms. Ashford is throwing a garden party at her estate.” “And you,” he said, pointing a finger at me, “are the surprise guest.” The man in the passenger seat cracked his knuckles. “Ms. Ashford said if you’re a good boy and make Mr. West happy, she might reconsider the engagement.” He pointed to the window. “We’re on the I-95. If you try to jump, you’ll be red mist before you hit the asphalt. Keep your hands where I can see them. You’re just a charity case, kid. Don’t start thinking you’re the master of the house.” I realized then that Marina wasn’t just done with me. She wanted to own me. I sat back, silently putting my phone away. The Ashford estate was transformed. It was even more lavish than the gala—a sea of white roses and expensive champagne. Marina stood in the center of the lawn, her arm around Cody’s waist, laughing with the city’s power brokers. They both wore their matching rings. To anyone else, it looked like a wedding. When she saw me, she walked over, her eyes scanning me like I was a piece of meat. “I heard you were trying to catch a flight. Where to? Back to whatever hole you crawled out of?” My voice was flat. “Home. Is that a problem?” She smirked, a flicker of triumph in her eyes. “So you finally realized that without me, you’re just a nobody from the Midwest who’ll end up working in a diner. I’m not heartless, Des. If you put this on and act as Cody’s ‘pet’ for the day, I’ll forget about last night. We can even get married next week.” She held up a wooden board, the size of a laptop. Carved into it were four words: CODY WEST’S DOG. I stared at her, disbelief warring with a rising tide of fury. “You want me to be his dog? In your dreams, Marina. He isn’t fit to shine my shoes.” Marina’s expression turned to ice. “It’s Cody’s birthday. This is what he wants. I promised him he could have whatever he asked for today.” “Besides, you almost hurt him last night. You owe him.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small resin pendant. My heart stopped. Inside that resin were several strands of hair. My mother’s hair. She had died in a fire years ago. There was no grave, no body. Those strands of hair, which I’d collected from her hairbrush after the accident, were the only physical piece of her I had left. Marina held the pendant over a nearby charcoal grill. “You’re big on ‘meaning,’ aren’t you? If you don’t do this, I’ll drop this in the coals. You’ll have nothing left of her.” I gritted my teeth so hard I thought they might shatter. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll do it.” The crowd cheered and laughed as I slipped the board over my neck. Phones came out, recording the humiliation. Marina beamed. “Good boy. Remember, whatever Cody wants, you do. If he’s happy at the end of the night, you get your locket back. And your future.” I looked up, my face a mask of nothingness. “Can I use the restroom?” Marina nodded but took my phone first. She signaled two guards to follow me. She thought she had me trapped. But she didn’t know that I had stopped running. Inside the stall, I pressed a hidden button on the side of my watch. After a second of static, a woman’s voice—sharp and playful—filled the air. “Big brother? I thought you were coming back to Chicago today. I brought a whole fleet to the airport to pick you up. Where are you?” I took a deep breath. “I’m being held. She betrayed me. She’s trying to turn me into a pet for her latest fling.” “The Montgomery code: A debt is always paid, and a grudge is never forgotten. You know what to do.” The line went silent for a heartbeat. When Cassandra spoke again, the playfulness was gone. It was replaced by a cold, murderous edge. “Give me the GPS. I’m coming. I’m going to bury that bitch.” 4. Marina’s guards led me back to the center of the lawn. “Cody,” Marina said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Desmond is your personal pet for the day. He’s all yours.” “Oh, Marina! You really are the best!” Cody chirped. He leaned in and kissed her cheek before turning to me. He laughed at the sign around my neck. “I guess you didn’t like the glass ring because you preferred this look instead. Suits your soul, Des.” “But I’ve never seen a dog stand while his master is talking. Let’s teach you some manners.” Marina gave a small nod to the guards. Before I could react, they kicked the back of my knees. I hit the grass with a heavy thud. The crowd roared with laughter. I tried to stand, but a heavy hand slammed onto my shoulder, pinning me down. Cody sauntered over and slapped my face—not hard, but humiliatingly, like he was checking the quality of leather. “There we go. Good dog. Are you hungry? Master made you something special.” He signaled a waiter, who brought over a trash bin from the buffet. Inside were half-eaten chicken wings and the sour-smelling vomit of a guest who’d had too much to drink. Cody leaned down, whispering in my ear. “You called me trash last night, Des. Now, you’re the one eating it.” I looked past him, straight at Marina. “Is this what you want?” She hesitated for a fraction of a second, her lips parting. But then Cody pouted. “Marina, I’m just trying to help him learn his place. If he doesn’t learn now, he’ll just keep threatening you with breakups every time he gets jealous. You said you’d help me get even. Was that a lie?” “If it was, I’ll just leave now. I’ll give back the ring and quit. I don’t want to be in the way of your ‘true love.’” Marina’s eyes softened as she pulled him into a hug. She looked at me with cold command. “Desmond, you made a deal. Do you want the locket or not? Cody is doing this for your own good. Every successful woman has a man on the side—it’s just how the world works. If you want to be my husband, you have to learn to be ‘flexible.’ This is your test.” “Don’t ruin his birthday. Eat, and I promise I won’t hold it against you later. Tomorrow, everything changes.” My fists clenched. I stared at this woman I had once loved with everything I had. The Montgomery family had a legend about our signet rings. They said the rings would protect you in good times, and in bad times, they were the capital you used to rebuild an empire. For generations, no matter how hard things got, no Montgomery ever sold their ring. Marina had been so ambitious, so desperate to build her media empire without selling her family’s legacy. I had loved that about her. I didn’t want to hurt her pride, so I hid who I was. I used my family’s shadow funds to secretly invest in her. I steered multi-million dollar contracts her way through “anonymous” consultants. For four years, I built her throne. And before she even reached the top, she had already learned how to spit on the man who put her there. I was done being kind. I didn’t eat. Instead, I lunged forward and bit Cody’s wrist as hard as I could. He screamed, a high-pitched, girlish sound, trying to shake me off. By the time the guards pulled me away, the bite mark was deep and bleeding. “Marina! He’s trying to kill me! He’s just jealous you gave me the ring! Do something!” Marina was livid. She stepped forward and kicked me hard in the stomach. I doubled over, the air leaving my lungs in a painful wheeze. “You are a lost cause, Desmond!” she hissed. “Fine. If you can’t be a husband, I’ll marry Cody. He’s ten times the man you are.” “You like biting? Dogs that bite don’t need teeth. Guards! Pull them out. Every single one.” “No anesthesia. Let him feel it. Maybe then he’ll remember his place when he’s my secret little side-piece.” The guards grabbed my hair, forcing my head back. My scalp screamed in pain. Cody stood over me, mouthing the words: You lost. A guard forced my jaw open, the cold steel of pliers clicking against my front tooth. But before he could pull, the sky began to throb. A thunderous roar drowned out the party music. Ten black helicopters appeared over the tree line, hovering low, their downdraft whipping the white roses into a frenzy. Ropes dropped. A hundred men in black-and-gold tactical gear rappelled down with terrifying precision. They moved like a single machine, surrounding the party. In the center of the formation stood a woman in a tailored suit, her face a mask of icy fury. Cody stared, his mouth hanging open. “Marina… is this a surprise for me? A stripper troupe? This is so cool!” I felt the corner of my mouth twitch into a smile. I hoped they’d still be laughing when I finished with them.

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The system glitched at the worst possible moment—right as I was fleeing in disgrace, chased out by the return of the “rightful” Santiago heiress. In a jagged tear of space and time, I was spat out six years into the future. But there was a catch: my body had shrunk, reverted to the small, soft frame of a six-year-old child. When I finally looked up, blinking through the haze, I collided with a pair of eyes that held nothing but frozen steel. It was Benson Wilder. He looked down at me, his gaze calculating and sharp. “Where did you come from, kid?” he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. Out of sheer, terrified instinct, I stammered my old name. “I’m Cassidy Santiago…” The words hadn’t even fully left my lips when neon-red lines of text began to scroll across my vision—the digital feedback of the system, a spectral commentary only I could see. [Oh my god! Is that the villainess? Why is she a toddler?] [She actually dared to show her face again? After what she did?] [Poor Benson. Back then, he treated her like she was his entire world. He worked himself to the bone for her while she treated him like a dog.] [And then she just vanished. He spent six years looking for her, probably wanting to grind her bones to dust.] [The name ‘Cassidy Santiago’ is a death sentence in this town now. Is she suicidal?!] A paralyzing chill crawled up my spine. Benson’s eyes had shifted. The cold indifference was gone, replaced by a sudden, murderous intensity. Survival instinct kicked in. Before he could react, I added a trembling postscript: “…I-I’m your daughter! Yours and Cassidy’s!” 1. The cigarette dangling from Benson’s lips hit the pavement with a quiet thud. A full minute of suffocating silence followed. Time seemed to liquefy, then freeze. It took him a while to find his voice again. “What?” He looked at me as if I’d just told the most absurd, cosmic joke in history. His gaze dropped from its heights, no longer just cold, but tangled with a dark, complex confusion. “What did you just say?” It wasn’t just Benson who was stunned. The digital comments were losing their minds. [Classic Cassidy. Even as a kid, she’s a manipulative masterpiece.] [You’ve gotta have a black belt in sociopathy to come up with that on the fly.] [I see. This must be the ‘Detective Conan’ defense strategy.] [Just accept it, Benson. Being her ‘daddy’ isn’t much different from being her ‘dog’ like you used to be.] I looked up at him properly then. Six years had transformed the Benson Wilder I knew. Gone was the lean, hungry boy; in his place stood a man with a raw, predatory edge. He was six-foot-one of broad shoulders and lean muscle. He looked like he’d just stepped out of the shower—drips of water traveled from the tips of his hair, tracing the line of his jaw before disappearing into the collar of his black T-shirt. His tan skin had a damp, healthy sheen. He pushed his dark, messy fringe back with a careless hand, revealing brows as sharp as blades. Benson’s looks were never in question. If they had been, I probably wouldn’t have stayed with him as long as I did back in the day. Under different circumstances, this would have been a beautiful scene of a man in his prime. If only his eyes didn’t look like they wanted to commit a felony. But what choice did I have? I’d begged the system to transport me away to escape Benson’s wrath, only to be dropped right on his doorstep six years later. Outside, a torrential downpour was turning the night into a blurred, black mess. I was a six-year-old girl. I had no money, no ID, and no coat. As the saying goes: the safest place is the most dangerous one. Welcome to the lion’s den. I tilted my head back and said with practiced earnestness, “I said… I’m Cassidy’s daughter. She told me my father’s name was Benson Wilder. That’s you, right?” During those years with Benson, I’d developed many skills. My greatest was the ability to lie with a straight face and an innocent heart. Benson fell silent again. His gaze swept over me, his eyes darkening. He opened his mouth, his voice sounding oddly hoarse. “You…” He probably wanted to ask my name. Or how I found him. But in the end, a thousand questions condensed into a single, low command. “Get inside. The rain’s picking up.” He turned on his heel, his long strides taking him into the foyer. He glanced back at me once, then grabbed a thick wool throw from the sofa and tossed it over my head. His voice softened, though it still had that jagged edge. “You’re covered in goosebumps. Wrap yourself up.” 2. Benson and I sat facing each other. Because I was so small, he had to lean forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, to meet my eyes. “So… you’re saying you’re my daughter. With Cassidy Santiago.” He let my name linger on his tongue for a second, a bitter taste. Then he looked at me again. “What’s your name?” The suspicion hadn’t left his eyes. I paused, my hand tightening around the glass of water he’d given me. Right. A name. I needed something that wouldn’t trigger his alarms. I remembered a rainy afternoon years ago. We were curled up on a lumpy sofa. He was massaging my legs, feeding me strawberries, his expression a mix of adoration and exasperation. “If you ever have a little monster exactly like you to torment me, I’ll be completely helpless,” he’d muttered. I had yawned, teasing him. “Oh? You already have names picked out?” Benson hadn’t hesitated. It was as if he’d been reciting them in his head for months. “Sophie,” he’d said, his ears turning a bright, embarrassed red. “Sophie Santiago. Or Sophie Wilder. Either works.” I hadn’t taken him seriously then. I thought it was just a daydream. But now? Now it was a lifeline. “Sophie,” I whispered. “But people call me Soph.” Benson’s entire demeanor fractured. It was as if he’d been struck by a physical blow. He went rigid, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp hiss. He leaned back into the sofa, looking like a man whose ghost had just left his body. He reached for a cigarette, then stopped, glancing at me before shoving the pack back into his pocket. When he looked at me again, his voice had changed. It was dry, raspy. “How old are you?” I bit my lip, looking down at my small, chubby fingers. “Six.” I wasn’t avoiding his gaze because I was shy. I was avoiding it because I was afraid he’d see the grown woman hiding behind my eyes. Benson didn’t notice. He was lost in his own mental math. “Six years,” he murmured to himself. “When did… I don’t remember… Was I that drunk?” He ran a hand through his hair, staring at me as if trying to see through my skin. “Dammit. You have her eyes. Her nose. Even that mouth. Why don’t you look a damn bit like me?” Realizing he shouldn’t be swearing in front of a child, he went quiet for a moment. He stood up and headed for the kitchen, his tone awkward but intentionally gentle. “Do you want milk? Fruit? And… don’t repeat that word I just said.” Wait. Was he actually buying this? I was stunned. I gripped the edge of the sofa, looking toward the kitchen. “You… you aren’t worried I’m lying?” Benson didn’t look up as he warmed the milk, his movements practiced as he pulled cereal from the cupboard. “You look exactly like her. I’m not an idiot.” I fell silent. The digital comments followed suit. [He sees the face of his ghost, and he’s done for. He’s a goner.] [Benson, for the love of God, get a DNA test!] [She’s playing him like a violin, and he’s just leaning into the music.] [Poor guy. He went from being her dog to being her ‘daughter’s’ servant. Some things never change.] Benson brought over a mug of warm oatmeal milk. “I don’t have juice. Drink this.” There was a long pause before he asked the question I’d been dreading. He tried to sound casual, but his voice betrayed him. “Where is she? Where’s your mother?” 3. Here it was. The moment of truth. The comments were more nervous than I was. [The million-dollar question. If she messes this up, it’s game over.] [Benson is holding his breath. Look at his knuckles.] [One wrong word and she’s out in the rain.] I felt my eyelid twitch. Benson stood there, waiting with surprising patience to take my empty mug. I handed the glass back and lowered my eyes. “She’s gone.” It was the answer Benson expected. He let out a sharp, cynical bark of a laugh. “Of course. Typical Cassidy.” He took the mug back to the kitchen. I could hear the rush of the faucet, a sound that masked the tremor in his voice. “Where to this time? Japan? London? I figured she’d fled the country the second she realized the walls were closing in. That’s why I couldn’t find her for six years. But she didn’t take you? Just dumped you on my doorstep because she knew her ‘baby daddy’ was rich now?” I looked down at the coffee table. It was covered in a delicate, hand-crocheted lace cloth—something Benson and I had found at a flea market years ago. I scanned the room. This was a two-bedroom apartment. Benson had kept it impeccably clean, and to my shock, it looked exactly the same as the day I left. Even my favorite ceramic vase was still on the windowsill. By now, Benson should have been back with the Wilder family, living as their crown prince. Why was he still keeping this little apartment? Why keep the ghost of a woman he supposedly hated? My nose began to sting. Maybe I was catching a cold from the rain. I rubbed my face with the back of my hand and spoke quietly. “She didn’t go on a trip, Benson. She’s gone. To a place far away.” I wasn’t lying. I added in a whisper, “She might never come back.” The sound of shattering glass echoed from the kitchen. Benson spun around, his face drained of color. “Never come back? What the hell does that mean?” He walked toward me, his steps slow and heavy. He knelt on the floor in front of me, his hand coming up to gently cup the back of my head, forcing me to look at him. His eyes were rimmed with red. “And then?” His voice was a series of broken notes. “Are you saying… she’s dead? She just left, and then she just died? Just like that? Leaving me with another one of her messes?” He searched my face, his expression agonizing. “Are you the only thing she left behind? The only thing I have left of her?” 4. Hey, stop wishing me dead! I’m right here! I wanted to scream. But I couldn’t. If I told the truth, I’d be dead for real. I kept my head down and gave a tiny, miserable nod. The comments exploded. [Holy shit. One sentence and his hate-meter just dropped to zero.] [This is the ultimate ‘villainess’ move. Pure purification by death-hoax.] [Benson’s internal monologue: Great, she left me a kid but didn’t leave herself.] I ignored them. I looked at Benson and asked softly, “I don’t have anywhere else to go. I don’t know anyone else. Can I stay with you?” Benson looked down, his thoughts unreadable. Finally, he stood up and headed for his office. His voice was thick. “Where else would you live if not with your father? Go watch cartoons for a bit while I get the room ready. I’ll sleep in the office. You take the bedroom.” He paused at the door. “It’s late. Kids shouldn’t stay up. We’ll talk tomorrow.” An hour later, I was tucked under the covers, pulled tight against my chin. The rain outside had settled into a rhythmic patter. The sheets were fresh, smelling of sunlight and lavender detergent. He’d changed everything, leaving no trace of himself. I thought back to when I first met Benson. He was eighteen. It was raining then, too. He was hunched in an alleyway, clutching his stomach in pain, soaked to the bone. That was when the comments first appeared in my life. [Here we go! 18-year-old Benson! Six months until he hits the jackpot!] [Waiting for the heroine to show up!] [Wait, who is this rando? Cassidy Santiago? She’s hijacking the plot!] [This isn’t the story I signed up for!] From those comments, I’d pieced together the “original” story. Benson was the protagonist, a “tragic-yet-beautiful” hero. The heroine was supposed to be a girl named Isabel. Benson had grown up in the shadow of his parents’ screaming matches in a damp, moldy house. Isabel was a blurry shadow from his childhood—a girl who had lived next door to his grandfather one summer. She’d given him a bowl of noodles and some iodine when his father had beaten him nearly to death. The comments said Isabel was his “Saint”—the one who would later save him. In six months, the wealthy Wilder family would find him and realize he was their long-lost heir. I had stood there in the rain, holding my umbrella, my hand trembling. Money. So much money. This boy was a ticking time bomb of wealth. And right then, he didn’t even know his “Saint’s” real name. I looked down at the shivering boy. Fate was a funny thing. I knew the “heroine” Isabel. She was my cousin, currently studying in London. She wasn’t due back for a year. That was more than enough time for me. “Hey? Are you okay?” I’d asked, leaning over and shifting my umbrella to cover him. I made sure my smile was perfectly calibrated—kind, concerned, and just a little bit magical. “There’s a clinic nearby. Let me help you?” Benson had looked up at me, his eyes cold and defensive. “I’m fine.” He looked like a stray cat—cornered, wet, and trying to hiss his way out of a trap. I’d feigned a moment of realization, frowning slightly. “Wait… I think I know you.” I leaned in closer. “Did you live next door to my grandfather? Mr. Santiago?” The comments were right; Benson was a loyal dog at heart. His eyes had widened, his entire body going still. “Mr. Santiago was your grandfather? You… you were there?” I’d helped him up, leaning the umbrella further over him, letting myself get wet. “Yeah,” I’d said casually. “I stayed there a few summers.” I was a siren, singing a song he desperately wanted to hear. “We’ve met before. Don’t you remember?” … The rain had stopped, but sleep wouldn’t come. I stared at the ceiling. Same bed. Same room. For me, it had been a blink of an eye. For Benson, it had been over two thousand days. I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow. In his eyes, I was just a woman who used him and then discarded him like trash. Whatever happens, happens tomorrow. From the office next door, I heard a strange sound. It was the sound of someone trying, and failing, to stifle their sobs. I closed my eyes, feeling a sudden heat behind my lids. Fine, Benson, I thought. You’re probably just so happy to hear I’m dead that you’re crying tears of joy.

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Ten years had vanished like smoke. It wasn’t until I found the diary hidden in the back of Damian’s desk that I finally saw the truth: the ink-stained, jagged obsession of a man I had spent my first life ignoring. Damian Cross. He was my ex-husband’s most hated rival, a brooding shadow in the corporate world of San Francisco, a man I’d never given a second thought to—until I died. With that diary clutched to my chest, the universe fractured. I woke up ten years in the past, during the darkest, most desperate summer of Damian’s life. Back then, he wasn’t the titan of tech. He was a feral creature, curled up in the grime of a rain-slicked alleyway behind a dive bar. When he looked up at me, his eyes were shards of ice, cold and defensive, like a beast waiting for the final blow. I didn’t flinch. Instead, I leaned in, a playful, dangerous smile tugging at my lips. I hooked a finger under his chin and whispered, “Give me a smile, Damian. Otherwise, I’ll keep kissing you until you beg for mercy.” The mask of frozen indifference he wore didn’t just crack. It shattered. In my previous life, my three-year marriage to Pierce Montgomery had been nothing but a grotesque farce. He had used me as a ladder, a golden ticket into my father’s fortune, while every ounce of his tenderness was reserved for a woman named Lacey. I remembered the day it ended. Lacey had shown up at my door, her hand resting on a pregnant belly, sliding an ultrasound photo across the marble counter with a tearful, faux-apology. “Margot, I’m so sorry. I’m carrying Pierce’s baby. Don’t blame him—it’s all my fault.” And Pierce? He had stepped in behind her, shielding her, his voice like a whip. “Lacey is fragile, Margot. She can’t handle stress. Don’t be petty.” The rage had been so intense it felt physical. My vision had blurred, my chest tightened, and I’d collapsed. I took my last breath in the back of an ambulance, the siren a lonely eulogy for a life wasted on a man who never loved me. 1 Damian went rigid. My reflection was caught in the widening circles of his pupils. For a heartbeat, the ice in his expression thawed into pure shock. Then, a voice I hated down to my marrow cut through the humid night air. “Margot? What the hell are you doing here? In a literal dumpster fire of a place like this?” It was Pierce. And, of course, Lacey was clinging to his arm like a delicate vine. “Margot?” Lacey chirped, her voice thin and performatively timid as she tugged on Pierce’s sleeve. “Is that really you? Oh, I almost didn’t recognize you… and is this… your friend?” She shrank back into Pierce’s chest, the picture of a frightened bird. “Margot, honey, I didn’t mean anything by it… but why are you hanging out with people like this? I haven’t seen you in so long, I almost mistook you for a homeless woman.” A few loitering thugs nearby burst into laughter. “Hey Montgomery, is this your ex’s new type? Picking up strays from the gutter?” “She’s dressed like a million bucks, but she’s playing in the trash.” Pierce’s face darkened instantly. He wasn’t worried about me; he was humiliated that I was tarnishing his social standing by proximity. “Margot, haven’t you had enough of this tantrum?” He reached out to grab my arm, his voice a low growl. “Get up. We’re going. Stop acting like a lunatic.” I ignored him. I took a half-step closer to Damian. He was coiled like a spring, his gaze sharp enough to draw blood. I reached out, my fingertips grazing his cheek, brushing away a smudge of dirt. “Don’t be afraid,” I whispered, loud enough only for him to hear. Then, I turned around. My smile remained, but the warmth was gone. “Acting like a lunatic? Pierce, which eye are you using to see that?” I tilted my head, gesturing over my shoulder toward Damian. “Meet my boyfriend, Damian Cross.” Pierce looked like he’d just swallowed a fly. Lacey’s jaw dropped so far I thought it might hit the pavement. “Margot… you’re joking, right? Him?” She pointed a manicured finger at Damian. “He looks like he hasn’t eaten in a week. Are you really so desperate to spite Pierce that you’re picking up literal garbage?” She turned to Pierce, the tears welling up on command. “Pierce, look at her! She’s humiliating herself just to hurt us! Does she hate me that much?” That was all the fuel Pierce needed. He stepped forward, his hand snapping toward my wrist. “Margot! If you hadn’t been such a cold, demanding wife, I never would have looked at Lacey! And now you’re using a beggar to get back at me? Have you no dignity?” Before his hand could touch me, another hand—strong, scarred, and immovable—clamped onto his wrist. It was Damian. He had stood up, towering half a head over Pierce. Even in his tattered clothes, he radiated a raw, predatory energy that made the air feel heavy. He stared Pierce down, his voice like gravel. “Get lost.” Pierce blinked, stunned. Then he let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “You think you’re someone? You think you can put your hands on me? I’ll make sure you never work a day in this city again.” I popped my head out from behind Damian’s shoulder, laughing. “Oh, Pierce. Threatening my boyfriend right in front of me?” I stepped up and wound my arm through Damian’s, pressing myself against his side. “I’m telling you right now, I’ve decided I like this ‘beggar’ quite a lot. As for you…” I locked eyes with Pierce. “As of this second, you’re dumped. Take your little wilted flower and get out of my sight.” I didn’t wait for a response. I pulled Damian along with me. Pierce’s roar followed us down the street. “Margot! You’ll regret this!” I didn’t look back. In my palm, the rough, calloused hand I was holding went from stiff and trembling to a crushing, desperate grip. He wasn’t letting go. 2 I pulled Damian into the nearest boutique hotel. The receptionist gave us a wary look as she handed over the key card, but one look at my designer bag and my icy stare silenced any questions. Damian kept his head down the entire time. Once we were inside the room, I pressed his shoulders until he sat on the edge of the bed. “Stay here. I’m going to go get you some food and a change of clothes.” His throat moved as he swallowed. His voice was sandpaper-dry. “Why?” “Why what?” “Why help me? Why tell them I’m your boyfriend?” Every word sounded like a struggle. I crouched down so I was at eye level with him. “Maybe I just like what I see.” I ran a thumb along his jawline. “You’ve got a face I could get used to.” His brow furrowed. “You know Pierce Montgomery.” “He’s my newly minted ex-boyfriend,” I said with a shrug. “You saw the show. He’s a parasite.” “So you’re using me to make him jealous?” “Partially.” I tapped a finger against the center of his chest, right over his heart. “But mostly, I’m here because of you. Got it?” His heart was thudding against my fingertip, a frantic, wild rhythm. His ears turned a deep crimson, and he jerked his gaze away to the wall. He was so… innocent. In my past life, Damian Cross was a man the entire business world feared—a silent executioner in the boardroom. But right now, he was a blank page. He was nothing like the dark, possessive, borderline-mad man who had filled those diary pages with longing. My mind drifted back to the marriage that killed me. Three years of giving Pierce everything—my father’s connections, my trust, my soul. I thought it was love. I was wrong. The day he made his first billion, he brought Lacey home. He told me, “Margot, I love Lacey. I only married you for the Wilder family name and the capital.” I had died of a broken heart and a literal brain hemorrhage in that ambulance. As a spirit, I had watched my own funeral. Pierce didn’t show up. Lacey did, wearing a red silk dress and a triumphant smirk. But there was one man in the far corner of the cemetery, weeping in the rain. It was Damian. Later, I had followed his soul and found the diary he’d kept for years. She wore a white dress and smiled at someone else today. I bought that dress for her anonymously. Why did she wear it for him? That smile was supposed to be mine. She’s getting married today. I want to burst in and take her. I want to tie her wrists with my necktie and lock her away in a place where only I exist. She’s dead. My world is over. “Hey.” Damian’s voice snapped me back to the present. I realized I was crying. The tears were silent, hot against my cheeks. He reached out to wipe them away, then hesitated, his fingers curling back into a fist. “Don’t cry,” he said, his voice awkward as he tugged at the hem of his shirt. I let out a watery laugh. “It’s just some dust in my eye.” “There isn’t any dust in here,” he pointed out bluntly. “I say there is!” His mouth twitched, and his eyes softened. I tossed a plush hotel bathrobe into his lap. “Go take a shower.” I walked to the door, but paused to look back. He was still sitting there, frozen, looking like a discarded, beautiful stray dog. “Damian,” I said softly. “From now on, as long as I’m eating, you’ll never go hungry again.” I shut the door before he could see my eyes well up again. The moment I stepped out of the hotel, a black sedan swerved into my path. The window rolled down to reveal Pierce’s livid face. “Get in the car, Margot.” 3 I crossed my arms and looked down at Pierce through the window. “Mr. Montgomery? I’m on a tight schedule. I don’t have time for your alpha-male roleplay.” Pierce’s face turned a shade of bruised purple. Beside him, Lacey grabbed his sleeve, her voice trembling with crocodile tears. “Margot, please… Pierce is just worried about you.” She glanced toward the hotel. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been so honest. I didn’t mean to drive you into the arms of… a person like that.” Pierce slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “Margot! You’re seriously checking into a hotel with a random loser? We were supposed to finalize our engagement party next month!” “I’ll let you come home now,” he continued, his tone shifting to a patronizing calm. “I can pretend today never happened. As for that guy, I’ll cut him a check to disappear. He’s probably just a junkie looking for a payday anyway.” I laughed until I thought I might choke. “Pierce, do you really think the sun rises and sets on you? Who told you I was doing any of this for your benefit?” I leaned down, my face inches from the window. “I’ll say it one more time: I’m done with you. You and Lacey combined aren’t worth a single hair on Damian’s head.” “You—!” Pierce’s veins were bulging in his neck. Lacey looked ghostly pale. “But Pierce loves you so much…” “Love?” I scoffed. “He loves my father’s portfolio. If that’s the ‘blessing’ you want, Lacey, you can have it. Good luck with the crumbs.” I turned on my heel and walked away. “Margot! Get back here!” Pierce screamed. Lacey was still putting on a show behind him. “Pierce, don’t be mad at her! It’s all my fault! Hit me if you have to, just don’t blame Margot…” She deserved an Oscar for that “Green Tea” performance. I didn’t look back. I went straight to the luxury department store nearby and bought a full wardrobe for Damian—from silk boxers to a bespoke wool overcoat. I also picked up a hot, high-end meal. When I got back to the room, Damian had just stepped out of the shower. The bathrobe was loosely tied, droplets of water clinging to his collarbones. When he saw me, he looked away so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. “Eat,” I said, setting the bags on the bed. His fingers brushed mine as he took the bags, and he flinched as if he’d been burned. When he finally changed and stepped out, the transformation was staggering. The clothes merely highlighted the raw, powerful frame that had been hidden under rags. “You look incredible,” I said, and I meant it. His ears turned that adorable red again. “Eat,” I repeated. I handed him the utensils, intentionally letting our fingers linger. He sat down and began to eat. He ate quickly, but with a strange sort of ingrained discipline. Watching him—seeing how hungry he actually was—made my heart ache. I placed a piece of steak on his plate. “Eat more. You’re too thin.” He paused, looked at the food, and then ate it in silence. As I was clearing the containers, he spoke up. “Pierce came to see you, didn’t he?” “How did you know?” “I heard him from the window.” I sat down beside him. “And what do you think about that?” He was silent for a long time. Then he turned to look me straight in the eyes. “He doesn’t deserve you.” “Oh?” I teased. “Then who does?” “Someone who puts you at the center of their universe.” I leaned in closer. “Is that an application?” His entire face flushed. He jerked his head away. “I… I didn’t say that!” I was about to tease him further when my phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. When I answered, a cold, distorted voice came through: “Ms. Wilder? We have your boyfriend’s grandmother. If you ever want to see her again, you’ll follow our instructions.” 4 My heart skipped. I looked at Damian. “Who is this?” I kept my voice low. The man on the other end chuckled. “Our boss wants to see you. South Side, the abandoned shipyard. Come alone. If you call the cops or bring help…” He paused. “The old lady won’t see tomorrow’s sunrise.” A chill washed over me. This was Pierce’s move. It had to be. He knew Damian was my weak spot, and he knew that grandmother was the only family Damian had left. Through the phone, I heard a faint, long blast of a foghorn. It was deep and mournful. A memory from my past life clicked into place. Pierce had once taken me to a private, shady celebration near the San Francisco docks—a warehouse he’d converted into a “private lounge” for his less-than-legal dealings. He’d boasted back then that the area was perfect for “taking out the trash.” That foghorn. It was the South Harbor, Pier 3. “Fine,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m coming.” The moment I hung up, Damian’s hand clamped onto mine. His grip was ice cold. “Who was that? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “Just a business thing. An emergency,” I lied, forcing a smile as I patted his shoulder. “Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.” “I’m going with you.” He stood up, his expression more stubborn than I’d ever seen it. “No.” I stood on my tiptoes and pressed a quick, firm kiss to his lips. “You’re my secret treasure. I need you safe.” While he was still stunned by the kiss, I slipped out the door. “Wait for me.” I didn’t call the police immediately. I knew a cornered rat like Pierce might kill the hostage if he saw a siren. But I wasn’t going in unprotected. I got into my car and called my father’s head of security, Brooks. “Brooks, I need a favor. South Harbor, Warehouse 3. Pierce Montgomery has kidnapped an elderly woman. Bring our best men. Surround the place silently. Do not move until I give the word. Priority one is the hostage’s safety.” “Understood, Miss Wilder,” Brooks’s voice was like iron. With that settled, I started the car—but I didn’t drive to the harbor. I knew Pierce. He was a coward who liked to watch from a distance. He wouldn’t be at a dusty warehouse. He’d be at the apartment I’d let him stay in, waiting for his “victory” to be reported. I was going for blood. I drove to the penthouse in the city. My parents had given it to me as a graduation gift, but Pierce had “borrowed” it for work. It had become his nest for Lacey. I turned the key. The door swung open. The place was a wreck. Women’s lingerie and men’s shirts were strewn from the foyer to the bedroom. The air smelled of cheap perfume and sweat. Lacey was sprawled on the bed, scrolling through her phone. She screamed when she saw me, clutching the duvet to her chest. “Margot! How did you get in here?” “Where’s Pierce?” I tossed the property deed onto the bed. “Look closely, Lacey. Whose name is on this title?” She started wailing. “You’re bullying me! I’m telling Pierce! You hit me!” I didn’t bother arguing. I went to the walk-in closet and started recording a video. The walls were lined with Birkin bags and couture gowns—not a single one of which she could afford on her own. “Lacey, does it feel good? Living in my house, spending my money, sleeping with my husband-to-be?” I pointed the camera at her panicked face. She lunged for the phone. “Pierce bought these because he loves me!” I stepped aside, and she tumbled onto the floor. Just then, the front door was kicked open. Pierce charged in with two hired goons. Seeing Lacey on the floor, his eyes turned murderous. “Margot! You dared to touch her!” He swung a hand toward my face. I didn’t flinch. Because a much stronger hand reached out from behind me and caught Pierce’s wrist in a grip that sounded like snapping wood. Damian. I don’t know how he followed me, but he was there, radiating a darkness so thick it felt like the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees. “You want to die?” Damian asked, his voice a low, terrifying vibration. “How did you find me?” I asked, breathless. “I didn’t trust you to go alone,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving Pierce. “Are you hurt?” I shook my head. Pierce recovered from his shock and started laughing like a maniac. “Perfect! I was wondering how to make sure you witnessed the finale!” He pulled out his phone and hit play on a video. It showed Damian’s grandmother tied to a chair, gagged and sobbing. “Damian Cross, you’re a tough guy, right?” Pierce’s smile was demonic. “Kneel. Give me three head-butts to the floor and tell me you’re a dog. Or I’ll watch the livestream as they take her fingers off, one by one.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “422553”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I had been married to Tracy for exactly three years. It happened on a Tuesday night. I was reaching for a glass of water when I saw words floating above her head. They were white, semi-transparent, and scrolled slowly from left to right like a live feed of subtitles on a streaming site. The text read: Why is he still awake? God, he’s so annoying. I froze. Tracy was propped up against the headboard, her eyes fixed on a stack of legal documents. Her expression was the same as it always was—composed, professional, and utterly cold. Her lips hadn’t moved. She hadn’t breathed a word. But I felt it. I knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that I was seeing her inner monologue. I rubbed my eyes, hard. When I looked back, the words were gone. Taking a shaky breath, I leaned in and gently rested my hand on her shoulder. “Hey, babe,” I whispered, testing the silence. “Do you think we could grab dinner together tomorrow? Just the two of us?” Instantly, a new line flared into existence above her perfectly groomed hair: Clinging to me every single day. Doesn’t he ever get tired of it? But the voice that came out of her mouth was smooth and indifferent. “We’ll see.” My hand slid off her shoulder, falling limp at my side. 01 My name is Adrian. I have been Tracy Montgomery’s husband for three years and four months. That was the first time the subtitles appeared. It was also the first time I realized that “we’ll see” didn’t mean “let’s check the schedule.” It meant: Stop bothering me. I didn’t try to touch her again that night. I stayed on my side of the king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling. Tracy flipped a page of her brief, and another line drifted by. [Finally, some peace and quiet.] Those four words hurt worse than if she’d screamed them. I pulled the duvet up to my chin, feeling my heart constrict as if a sharp fingernail were slowly digging into the muscle. The next morning, I got up at 6:00 AM, just like I always did. I prepared a gourmet breakfast: soft-poached eggs over avocado toast with a side of smoked salmon and her favorite micro-batch coffee. Tracy came downstairs, looking sharp in her charcoal power suit. She sat down and began to eat. Above her head, the text scrolled by: [Avocado toast again. Can’t he find something new to do?] She didn’t say a word out loud. I pushed a small bowl of fruit toward her. “Tracy, I picked up the berries fresh this morning. They’re much sweeter than the last batch.” “Mhm,” she grunted. The text: [Like I care.] I looked at the breakfast I’d spent forty-five minutes perfecting and suddenly lost my appetite. For three years, I had been the perfect “house husband.” I got up at dawn every single day. I curated menus, I tracked her favorite roasts, I made sure her life was seamless. One thousand mornings of devotion. And for one thousand mornings, she hadn’t cared. Not once. At 10:00 AM, my father-in-law arrived. Richard Montgomery walked into the house wearing a cashmere overcoat, carrying two boxes of high-end supplements. “Where’s Tracy?” “At the office, sir.” I took the boxes from him and moved toward the kitchen to make tea. Richard sat on the sofa, and a line of text hovered over his head. [Calling me ‘sir’ like he actually belongs here. Pathetic.] My footsteps faltered. Richard scanned the room with a critical eye. “Adrian, the water in those lilies needs changing. It looks stagnant.” “Of course, Richard. I’ll do it right away.” [All he does is hover around Tracy. Look at him—no career, no ambition. If it hadn’t been for his father saving my life in that crash years ago, my daughter would never have looked twice at a man like him.] A long, dense paragraph of text scrolled across his brow. I stood at the kitchen sink, the cold water running over my fingers until they went numb. So, that was it. This marriage was a debt repayment. Years ago, my father had been the first person on the scene of a horrific car accident. He’d pulled Richard from the wreckage and stayed with him until the paramedics arrived. I had always believed the Montgomerys welcomed me into their family out of genuine gratitude. Now I knew the “kindness” was just a cage made of “obligations.” I changed the water in the vase and set it back on the coffee table. Richard glanced at me. [At least he’s useful for chores. That’s about the extent of his value.] I sat across from him and poured his Earl Grey, the same polite smile on my face that I’d worn for three years. Only now, I knew the smile was a mask. And I knew exactly how thin it was. That afternoon, Tracy’s assistant called. “Adrian, Ms. Montgomery asked me to let you know she has a late client dinner. Don’t wait up for her.” “I understand,” I said. I hung up and sat alone at the dining table. I’d already prepared her favorite—lemon-herb roasted chicken and garlic broccolini. I took a bite of the chicken. It tasted like ash. 02 By the third day, the “bullet chats” were becoming sharper, more vivid. It was as if someone had installed a transparent screen in front of my eyes. Anyone within five yards of me revealed their darkest, pettiest thoughts. The cashier at the grocery store: [Another one of these stay-at-home trophy husbands. Must be nice to spend all day spending someone else’s money.] The security guard at our complex: [This guy is always grocery shopping while his wife is out running an empire. Wonder how long until she trades him in?] Even the security guard saw it. It took everyone else five minutes to realize what I had spent three years ignoring. On Saturday, Tracy was actually home. She was in the study, buried in emails. I brought her a fresh cup of coffee. “Tracy? Your dark roast. Just the way you like it.” She took the cup without looking up. The text: [Again? Can’t he go five minutes without interrupting me?] I smiled, stepped back, and quietly closed the door. In that moment, I felt something inside me click shut as well. At 2:00 PM, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find a man standing there. He wore a perfectly tailored white linen shirt, his hair styled into that effortless “I just woke up in the Hamptons” look. In his hand was a signature Tiffany-blue gift bag. Thomas Thorne. Tracy’s college sweetheart. The Creative Director at Montgomery Holdings. And, according to everyone who knew them, Tracy’s “one that got away.” “Adrian! Long time no see, man.” He flashed a brilliant, white smile. But the text above his head told a different story. [Three years later and you’re still squatting in this house? Give it up already.] I kept my voice level. “Thomas. Come on in.” He walked in as if he owned the place, his eyes surveying the decor. [Nice place. Pity it’s occupied by someone so… mid.] “I brought a little something for Tracy,” he said, handing me the bag. “A silk scarf I picked up while I was in Milan. I saw it and immediately thought of her.” The text: [Let’s see if you can even afford the tax on this.] I took the bag. “Thanks, Thomas. Her birthday isn’t until next month, though. You’re quite early.” He gave a playful shrug. “We’ve known each other for twelve years, Adrian. I don’t need a calendar to remember what she likes.” The text: [You’ve only known her for five. You’re a blink of an eye in her life.] Tracy heard the commotion and came out of the study. When she saw Thomas, her face remained neutral, but the text appeared instantly. [He’s here. That shirt looks incredible on him.] She had never once commented on what I wore. Whenever I asked her, Does this look okay? her answer was always a distracted It’s fine. The three of us sat in the living room. Thomas and Tracy started talking shop—new projects, market trends, high-level strategy. Tracy was actually engaging, speaking more in ten minutes than she had to me in a week. Thomas’s subtitles were scrolling at lightning speed. [See this, Adrian? She actually has things to talk about with me. What do you have? Recipes?] [Once I land the ‘Whale Fall’ contract, you’ll be completely irrelevant.] Whale Fall. That name hit me like a physical jolt. “Whale Fall” was the hottest name in the contemporary art world. Over the last two years, this anonymous illustrator’s work had exploded globally. Their prints sold out in seconds; their collaborations were the gold standard of the industry. Montgomery Holdings had been desperate to land an exclusive licensing deal with Whale Fall for months, but the artist was a ghost. They only communicated through a high-profile agent. Thomas was the lead on the project. What Thomas didn’t know—what no one knew—was that the artist behind Whale Fall was me. I took a sip of my tea, my hand trembling just slightly. It wasn’t fear. It was a strange, cold fire rising in my chest. Three years ago, when I married Tracy, I had put down my brushes. She had told me, “We have more than enough money. You don’t need to work. Just take care of us.” I thought it was a gesture of love. Protecting me. The bullet chats told me the truth: She just thought my work was beneath her. My agent, Paige, had kept my secret faithfully. We used the pseudonym “Whale Fall,” and she handled the business. In three years, the price of my original canvases had jumped from a few thousand to half a million dollars. The licensing fees in my private account totaled over twenty million. Tracy didn’t know. Thomas didn’t know. Nobody knew that the “house husband” they mocked was the very genius they were currently begging for a meeting. When Thomas finally left, he gave me a condescending pat on the shoulder. The text: [Enjoy the last of your days here, Adrian.] I waved him off. “Safe travels, Thomas.” I closed the door and leaned my back against the foyer wall. I closed my eyes. I’m done, I thought. Three years of playing the devoted, clinging husband. It ends today. 03 The change began the very next morning. The alarm went off at 6:15 AM. I didn’t get up. I rolled over, hit snooze, and went back to sleep. When Tracy went downstairs at 7:00 AM, the dining table was empty. No eggs. No artisanal toast. No perfectly brewed coffee. She stood there for a few seconds, the text above her head appearing: [No breakfast today? Well, saves me the calories, I guess.] She grabbed her keys and left. She didn’t even ask if I was okay. I watched her car pull out of the driveway from the upstairs window. Usually, I would have run to the door to say “Have a good day!” or “Drive safe!” Today, I stayed in bed. At noon, I didn’t text her. Usually, I sent at least five messages throughout the day. Did you eat lunch? How’s the meeting going? Thinking of you. Her replies were always: K. Fine. Busy. I opened my phone and texted Paige instead. “Hey. Schedule a meeting with Lawrence at the Vanguard Gallery. I want to talk about a solo show.” Three seconds later, Paige replied with twenty exclamation points. “ADRIAN! Finally!! Lawrence has been begging for this for a year! I’m on it!” I smiled. A real smile. Not the one I used for Tracy. That afternoon, I went downtown. I didn’t go grocery shopping. I went to a real estate office. “I’m looking for a loft in the West End,” I told the agent. “One bedroom, lots of natural light. Something private.” The agent was eager. “What’s your budget, sir?” “Let’s keep it under five thousand a month for now.” “I have three perfect spots to show you.” When I walked out of the office, the March sun felt warm on my face. The wind was still a bit chilly, but for the first time in three years, I felt like I could breathe. When Tracy got home that evening, it was 7:30 PM—earlier than usual. She walked into the kitchen. The stove was cold. There were no delicious aromas. “Adrian?” I walked out of the bedroom, holding a book. “Yeah?” She looked at the empty table. The text: [No dinner? What is this, a tantrum?] “You didn’t cook?” she asked aloud. “No. I had a long day. I’m pretty tired,” I said, my voice flat. “There’s some frozen pasta in the freezer if you’re hungry.” Tracy stared at me. The text: [Fine. One lazy day. Whatever.] She went into the kitchen. I heard the tap run, the clatter of a pot hitting the stove. For the first time in our marriage, she was boiling her own water. I turned a page in my book. I didn’t feel guilty. I didn’t feel bad. I just felt… light. 04 A week passed. I stopped the 6:00 AM wake-up calls. I stopped the mid-day texts. I stopped meeting her at the door to take her bag and pour her wine. The change was massive, but Tracy’s reaction was almost nonexistent. For the first three days, her subtitles read: [Quiet for once. Nice.] [Finally, he’s stopped clinging to me. It’s a relief.] [He probably read some article about ‘giving your wife space.’ Whatever.] She was actually relieved to be rid of me. I looked at those words and felt a sharp, bitter laugh bubble up in my throat. Fine, I thought. Let’s see how much you enjoy the quiet. Wednesday evening, Richard Montgomery showed up again. This time, he wasn’t alone. He brought Thomas. “Adrian, Thomas said he’s been craving your signature steak, so I told him we’d drop by!” Richard announced, walking in. The text: [Thomas and Tracy belong together. If I didn’t owe his father, this seat would already be Thomas’s.] Thomas walked in, acting like he lived there. The text: [I’m going to show Tracy today exactly why I’m the better man.] In the past, I would have scrambled. I would have rushed to the kitchen, apologized for the mess, and whipped up a five-course meal while smiling through their insults. Not today. “Sorry, Richard,” I said, staying on the couch. “The fridge is pretty empty. We should probably just order out.” Richard froze. The text: [What? Every time I come over, there’s a feast. What is this kid doing?] “Order out?” Richard frowned. “We’re in a home with a professional kitchen. Ordering out is for people who can’t manage their households.” I shrugged. “I can pull up DoorDash. What are you in the mood for?” “DoorDash?” Richard’s face went purple. The text: [Is he losing his mind? What kind of house-husband is he?] Thomas stepped in smoothly. “Don’t be upset, Richard. Why don’t I cook? I picked up a great recipe for scallops in butter sauce recently. I’d love for you to try it.” He headed for the kitchen. Richard’s scowl turned into a beaming smile. “Thomas, you’re a gem. Truly.” The text: [Look at Thomas. Then look at Adrian. Night and day.] I sat on the sofa, watching Thomas rummage through my kitchen for spices. In the past, this would have gutted me. I would have hidden in the bedroom and cried. Now, I just watched his subtitles. [I’m using his favorite apron. I’m going to drink out of Tracy’s favorite glass while he watches.] When he served the food, he used the fine china I had spent months collecting. The text: [Beautiful plates. I’ll keep these when I move in.] Tracy arrived home then. Seeing Thomas in an apron in her kitchen made her pause. The text: [Thomas’s here?] Followed immediately by: [He actually looks good in that.] Then she looked at me. The text: [Adrian is just… sitting there? That’s not like him.] “Hey,” I said. Just ‘hey.’ No ‘babe,’ no smile, no getting up to take her coat. Tracy’s brow furrowed. The text: [What is wrong with him?] But she didn’t ask. She never asked. The four of us sat at the table. Thomas’s food looked good, I’ll give him that. Richard took a bite and practically moaned. “Thomas, this is better than any restaurant.” The text: [If Thomas were my son-in-law, I’d be the happiest man alive.] Thomas smiled modestly. “You’re too kind, Richard.” The text: [Keep praising me. Do it right in front of her.] I ate slowly, in silence. Usually, I would have tried to jump into the conversation, saying, “I’ll have to learn that recipe, Richard!” Today, I said nothing. Richard noticed. “Adrian, you’re awfully quiet.” “Just eating, Richard.” Richard huffed. The text: [Look at that attitude. If you’re so jealous, go cook something better.] After dinner, Thomas insisted on doing the dishes. I went to the living room to drink water. Richard followed me, lowering his voice. “Adrian, we need to talk about your attitude lately.” “My attitude?” “Don’t play coy. You’re cold, you’re quiet, you’re not even cooking. You married my daughter to take care of her, not to be a pampered prince.” The text: [Know your place. If it wasn’t for your father, you wouldn’t be fit to shine Tracy’s shoes.] I looked him in the eye. Usually, I’d look at the floor and whisper, “I’m sorry, I’ll do better.” Today, I just nodded. “I hear you, Richard.” The tone was the same as always. But I knew the meaning was different. Before, “I hear you” meant “I’ll obey.” Now, it meant: I’m done arguing with a ghost. 05 Day ten. The shift was finally too big for Tracy to ignore. It started with an Instagram post. In the past, my feed was a shrine to her. Dinner Tracy made! So lucky! (I made it). Flowers from my wife! So romantic! (I bought them for myself and staged the photo). So grateful for us. (A photo of us where she was looking at her phone and I was beaming). Pathetic? Yes. On day ten, I posted something new. A painting. A watercolor I’d done in secret—a whale breaching from a dark sea, its back covered in blooming flowers. The caption was just two words: Whale Fall.

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Lately, my four-year-old daughter, Daisy, has been bolting upright in bed in the dead of night. Heart racing, I’d pull her into my lap, whispering into her hair, asking if she’d had a nightmare or if her tummy ached. She’d only offer a fleeting, skittish glance before looking away, her voice a tiny, jagged splinter of its usual self. She’d tell me it was nothing, then beg me to stop asking. She said she wasn’t allowed to tell. A cold knot formed in my stomach. What could a four-year-old possibly keep from her own mother? Daisy’s eyes, usually so bright and innocent, were shadowed with a heavy, cryptic dread as she stared at the empty space behind my shoulder. Then, she leaned in, her breath hot and frantic against my ear, her voice dropping to a ghost of a whisper. “I really can’t say, Mommy. If I do, we’ll all die.” 1 In the suffocating darkness of the room, the hair on my arms stood on end. I shook it off a second later. She was four. She’d probably heard some twisted urban legend from a kid at preschool—some playground creepypasta that had taken root in her imagination. A flash of irritation flared in my chest, mostly at whatever brat had scared her. I pulled her close, tucking the duvet around her chin. “Enough with the talk about dying, baby. There are no such things as ghosts. Now, go to sleep.” As I closed my eyes, a faint, rhythmic pulse of light flickered behind my eyelids—the streetlamp outside, maybe? “It’s not a ghost, Mommy…” Daisy muttered, so low I almost missed it. I squeezed her tighter, my voice thick with sleep. “Then we’re fine. We have the best security system on the block. Nothing can get in. Just sleep.” The next morning, the sun felt like a lie. After dropping Daisy off at her classroom, I pulled her teacher, Ms. Crane, aside. I kept my voice low but sharp. “I remember you mentioning a little boy in class who likes to tell scary stories? A bit of a troublemaker?” I asked, my hands buried deep in my coat pockets. “Could you keep him away from Daisy? She’s been having horrific night terrors. Kids this age can’t process that kind of stuff.” Ms. Crane flinched. She leaned in, her expression shifting into something uncomfortably somber. “Beth, I… I thought you knew. That boy, Jamie… he passed away last semester. He fell from the roof of his apartment building. It was a tragic accident. We told the children he just moved away. We didn’t want to traumatize them.” The air left my lungs. Jamie had been dead for months. “Then what about the curriculum?” I pressed, my brow furrowing. “Any Grimm’s fairy tales? Anything dark?” “Absolutely not,” Ms. Crane insisted, her voice earnest. “We’re extremely careful about the media they consume. We focus on growth and positivity here.” I didn’t entirely believe her, so I stayed. I spent the whole day “volunteering” in the back of the classroom, watching. The lessons were sunshine and rainbows. The kids laughed; the teachers were energetic. There was no shadow over that room. I went home thinking—hoping—that tonight would be different. I was wrong. At 2:40 AM, the mattress shifted. Daisy was up again, her small body rigid, her gaze locked onto the far corner of the room. I looked at the dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days, like she was holding a vigil. I was exhausted, stressed about work, and reaching my breaking point. “Daisy, please,” I groaned, my voice cracking. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” She swallowed hard, her little throat bobbing. “Mommy, I told you. I can’t tell you.” I’ve always tried to be the “gentle parenting” type—the mom who validates every feeling—but I snapped. “I have to work tomorrow! I need you to just be a kid and sleep. Whatever is in that corner, if it’s a ghost, tell it to come kill me instead, okay? Just let it be over!” I grabbed her shoulders to turn her away from the wall, to force her to look at me. Daisy let out a blood-curdling scream. “No! Mommy, no! I have to watch it! If I don’t, we’ll die!” She fought me with a strength that terrified me. I could barely hold her down. Just as I managed to pin her back under the covers, a sudden, unnatural chill swept through the room. A draft, icy and sharp, whistled past my neck. I whirled around to the window. It was locked tight. In that split second of distraction, Daisy scrambled back up, her eyes wide and fixed once more on the corner. I lost it. I stomped over to the empty corner, jumping up and down, waving my arms like a madwoman in front of her terrified eyes. “See? Look! There is nothing here!” The bedroom door creaked open. A pale, withered face peered in. It was my mother, Evelyn. She’d moved in with us after her dementia worsened, and she rarely left her bed these days. “Mom?” I breathed, my heart hammering. “What are you doing up?” Her clouded eyes drifted toward me. But they didn’t stop at my face. They slid past me, focusing on the empty air at my back. The confusion on her face curdled into a mask of pure, primal horror. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Behind you…” 2 I spun around. There was nothing but the eggshell-white paint of the wall and my own shadow, elongated and distorted by the nightlight. When I turned back, my mother was collapsing. Her eyes rolled back into her head, showing only the whites. The next few hours were a blur of sirens and sterile hospital fluorescent lights. The ER doctor said it was a severe vasovagal response triggered by “intense emotional stress.” She needed to be kept for observation. I took a leave of absence from work. I had to figure this out. I called Ms. Crane again, my voice trembling. “That boy—Jamie. Are you absolutely certain the kids don’t know how he died?” “Positive,” she said, her voice firm. “We were airtight. We even threw him a ‘goodbye’ party before the news broke. The kids think he’s at a new school in the city.” I hung up, and the silence in my house felt heavy, like wet wool. It was 6:40 PM. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long, bleeding shadows across the hardwood floors. I checked the kitchen, the living room. Empty. I walked to the master bedroom and slowly pressed down on the handle. The room was dim. Daisy was sitting on her play mat, a half-unboxed doll in her lap. She was frozen. Her small, pale face was turned toward the corner, her eyes bloodshot, her eyelids fluttering as if she were fighting the basic human instinct to blink. And then I looked at the bed. My mother, who I’d brought home just hours ago, was doing the exact same thing. Her wrinkled skin was twitching, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches, but she was digging her fingernails into her palms, forcing herself to stare at that same empty patch of wall. A sob escaped me as I rushed to them. These were the two people I loved most in the world—a five-year-old girl and a woman losing her mind to age. What could possibly be powerful enough to command this kind of terrified devotion? “Mom, please,” I cried, clutching her hand. “Daisy won’t say it, so you have to. What is it? Is it making you look?” My mother didn’t move her eyes. After a long, agonizing silence, she leaned her head slightly toward me, her voice a dry rattle. “Can’t say.” She gripped my hand with a strength that bruised my skin. “Truly, Beth… I can’t say. If I do, we’ll die.” Looking at the deep lines of fear etched into her face, I felt a surge of white-hot rage toward whatever was doing this. But I was helpless. I stayed with them, a silent sentry in a room full of invisible monsters. Eventually, they both succumbed to exhaustion and fell into a fitful sleep. I paced the hallway, my mind racing. Daisy had only done this at night, but now the “requirement” had shifted to the evening. The rules were changing. If I didn’t fight back, what would happen when staring wasn’t enough anymore? I went back to the corner. I poked the drywall, searched for hidden projectors, even checked for carbon monoxide leaks. Nothing. My phone buzzed, the vibration making me jump. It was Ms. Crane. Her voice was tight, layered with an anxiety she couldn’t hide. “Beth? You kept asking about Jamie. Is… is Daisy okay?” I caught the tremor in her tone. “What happened at school today, Ms. Crane?” She cleared her throat. “Yesterday, after you kept Daisy home… during nap time, another little boy, Parker, bolted upright. He started staring at the corner, whispering to himself. When I tried to intervene, he told me he couldn’t tell me what he was looking at. He said he’d die if he spoke.” She paused, a shaky breath catching in her throat. “Is that what’s happening to Daisy?”

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I was born with a glitch. My brain processed the world slower than other kids, and I had a rare condition that made me a stranger to physical pain. Because of this, I became the family’s designated shock absorber. For sixteen years, I was the human shield for my brother’s mistakes. Every time Ben messed up, I was the one who took the blow. I remember when Ben got caught cheating on a history test. When the school called, my mother spent the entire afternoon lashing me with a leather belt. Even as the skin on my back split and burned, I kept a vacant smile on my face. It didn’t hurt, so I didn’t cry. Then there was the time Ben stole money from her purse for snacks. She grabbed me by the hair and slammed my head against the drywall. My scalp tore; blood slicked down my neck. I didn’t make a sound. Every time Ben saw me battered and bruised because of him, he would collapse into my arms, sobbing, promising he’d be better, promising he’d never get into trouble again. My mother always watched these scenes with a grim sort of satisfaction. She truly believed this was the most effective way to parent—to teach the “good” child through the suffering of the “broken” one. Everything changed during the last round of midterms. Ben’s ranking dropped by exactly one spot. My mother called him over, her face a mask of cold fury. Then, out of pure habit, she swung her hand at me. That single slap sent me reeling. The back of my head clipped the sharp, brass corner of the sideboard. I hit the floor, and a dark, warm pool began to spread across the hardwood. Through the hazy veil of my vision, I saw her grab Ben. He was screaming, his heart breaking, but she just nodded, satisfied. “That’s enough,” she told him. “Stop crying. She’s had her punishment. Let’s go out and get something nice to eat. It’ll settle your nerves.” I watched their retreating figures, my eyelids growing heavy. For the first time in my life, I thought I felt something. A dull, throbbing thrum. I told myself I had to get better quickly. Because the next time Ben messed up, he was going to need me. … 1 When I opened my eyes again, I was hovering near the ceiling. Below me, a cold, stiff version of myself lay on the floor. A dark, dried crust had formed beneath the back of my head. I knew then. I was dead. The strange thing was, even as a ghost, I still couldn’t feel any pain. I floated toward the front door just as my mother was leading Ben back inside. Ben’s face was a ruin of tears and snot, his eyes darting back and forth. My mother gave his arm an impatient tug. “Stop looking over there. She’s fine. It was one slap, for God’s sake. Come on, let’s go get that dessert.” The door clicked shut. I followed them out. She took him to the boutique bakery downtown, the one with the expensive window displays I’d always peered at. The place was packed. She found a corner table and pushed the menu toward him. “Order whatever you want. It’s on me.” Ben stared at the table, his eyes vacant. My mother sighed, her voice softening into a tone she never used at home. “Benny, I know you’re upset. But you have to understand me. Your father ran off with that woman and took every cent we had. Do you have any idea how hard it is for a woman alone?” Ben remained silent. “You’re all I have to show for my life,” she continued. “You’re the man of the house. If you don’t succeed, who’s going to give me a reason to hold my head up? Look at your sister—can she be counted on for anything? If you make something of yourself, you’ll get your fair share of your father’s estate one day. I lost his heart; I refuse to lose the money, too.” She paused, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t blame me for being tough. You two are twins. You’re the same blood. I do this so you’ll remember the cost of failure. It’s the only way you’ll stay hungry for success.” Ben gripped the edge of the menu so hard his knuckles turned white. Watching from the air, a lump formed in my non-existent throat. All these years, since the divorce, she had been our everything—mother, father, provider. I was a burden, a slow-witted girl with a medical anomaly. I had cost her so much. I didn’t hate her for hitting me. In a twisted way, I was glad I could be useful. If I couldn’t make her proud with grades, at least I could be the whetstone that sharpened Ben’s ambition. The waitress brought two drinks. My mother took them, then glanced at the glass display case. “Give me a slice of that strawberry shortcake to go,” she called out. She fumbled through her wallet, checking her change, looking relieved when she had enough. She muttered to herself, “I might have gone a bit too far this time. I’ll give her the cake, apologize, and it’ll be fine.” Ben snapped his head up, his eyes bloodshot. He opened his mouth as if to scream, but no sound came out. I watched her carefully tuck the cake box into a paper bag. Strawberry. My favorite. She remembered. A pang of longing hit me. I wished I could still swallow, just to taste the ghost of that sugar. When we got back to the house, my bedroom door was still closed. My mother stood in the hallway, clearing her throat. Her voice took on that performative, “sweet” quality. “Daisy? You still pouting? I bought you that strawberry cake you like. Come on out.” 2 Seconds ticked by. Silence. She waited, her patience thinning. “Look, tomorrow is your and Ben’s birthday. I know I was a little rough yesterday, but you know how I get. I’m leaving the cake by the door. Come out and eat it when you’re done acting like a martyr.” Nothing. The house felt unnervingly still. She sighed, set the box on the floorboards, and disappeared into the kitchen. Ben stayed in the hallway. He stared at the closed door for a long time. I floated right next to him, wanting to tell him, I’m right here, Ben. I’m okay. But he couldn’t see me. He couldn’t hear me. That night was a slow torture. I spent it hovering over that strawberry cake, watching the cream start to sink. The next morning, the front door burst open. It was my father. He was carrying two wrapped gifts, a forced smile on his face. “Daisy! Ben! Happy birthday, kids!” My mother walked out of the kitchen, her face instantly hardening. “What are you doing here?” “It’s my kids’ birthday. I’m allowed to be here.” He set the boxes on the coffee table and looked around. “Where’s Daisy?” She pointed vaguely at my door. “In there. Throwing a tantrum.” My father frowned. “What happened this time?” She didn’t answer, turning back to the stove. My father’s eyes wandered to the coffee table, landing on Ben’s latest report card. His expression shifted from annoyance to cold realization. “Did you hit her again?” My mother stuck her head out, a sneer on her lips. “None of your business.” His voice was low, vibrating with a dangerous heat. “I asked if you hit her.” “So what if I did? I’m raising them. You checked out years ago.” “Ben screwed up, so you took it out on Daisy? Again?” The fire was lit. She stormed out of the kitchen, hands on her hips. “You don’t get to judge me! You’re the one who called her a ‘liability’ during the mediation. You didn’t want the slow kid, remember? Now you’re playing Father of the Year?” “I was trying to—” “I know exactly what you were doing,” she spat. “You’re just terrified I’ll actually raise Ben to be successful enough to claim his inheritance over your other brat.” My father’s face went scarlet. “That is bullshit!” They descended into a screaming match, a familiar soundtrack to my childhood. Ben shrunk into the corner, clutching the gift my father had brought, staring at his feet. I hovered between them, trying to bridge the gap, but I was air. I was nothing. As I drifted, my eyes caught a sliver of movement at the bottom of my bedroom door. A thin, dark-red stain had begun to seep out from under the wood, soaking into the hallway carpet. Ben saw it too. He froze. His face went from pale to ghostly white. “Enough!” My father slammed his hand onto the table, rattling the coasters. “I’m taking Daisy with me. Right now. You aren’t fit to be a mother.” He turned and reached for my door handle. 3 My heart—the ghost version of it—leapt. I tried to block him. If they saw me like that, it would break them. I didn’t want them to know. But my mother grabbed his arm. “Don’t you dare!” “Watch me!” They scrambled, a mess of limbs and shouting. My father was stronger; he shoved her back and gripped the handle. Suddenly, Ben lunged forward, throwing his body against the door. His voice was cracked, trembling. “Stop it! Just stop!” Both parents froze. Ben’s shoulders were shaking violently, but he kept his voice steady through sheer will. “She’s probably just sleeping. Let her sleep.” My mother frowned. “In the middle of the day?” Ben wouldn’t look at her. He just stood there like a sentry. My father looked at my mother, then at Ben. Finally, he let go of the handle, his expression icy. “Fine. I won’t fight you today. But if anything is wrong with her, Margo, I will ruin you.” He slammed the door on his way out. My mother spat a curse, her anger still simmering. She walked over and pounded on my door. “Daisy! Get out here! Stop playing dead! You won’t eat your cake, you won’t open the door—what the hell do you want from me?” Silence. “Fine! Stay in there forever for all I care!” She huffed, turning to Ben. “And you? Go do your homework. Now!” Ben walked slowly to his room. Before he closed his door, he gave my room one last, haunted look. The house went quiet. My mother sat on the sofa, scrolling through her phone, probably venting to someone on Facebook. I drifted through the ceiling, trying to scream, trying to cry. But ghost tears don’t fall; they just dissolve into the ether. I wished I were alive. I missed feeling nothing. Now, I felt everything but the touch of the world. The next afternoon, Ben came home from school. He looked ill. He pulled a graded quiz from his backpack. My mother heard the zipper and emerged from the kitchen. She took the paper, and her face fell. “Another drop? Ben, what is wrong with you?” Ben didn’t say a word. He looked like he was made of paper. She slammed the quiz onto the table and marched toward my door. “Daisy, out. Now. Same old story—your brother failed again.” Silence. “Daisy!” Still nothing. I was frantic, circling the door, trying to manifest enough energy to turn the lock, to do anything. If she opened the door, she’d see the horror. But if she didn’t, who would take Ben’s punishment? Her temper finally snapped. “You think you’re special now? You think you can just ignore me? You think a closed door protects you from a licking? I’ll show you!” She backed up, bracing herself to kick the door in. 4 “Enough, Mom.” Ben’s voice was eerily calm. “Daisy’s done enough for me. This time, take it out on me.” My mother blinked, stunned. This wasn’t the script. Ben was the compliant one. Ben was the prize. Then, she let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Oh, playing the hero now? You think I’m the villain? You think I’m biased?” Ben didn’t move. His silence was the final spark. Her face twisted. She went to the laundry room and grabbed the heavy plastic drying rack pole. “Fine. If you want to know what it’s really like, I’ll show you!” The first blow landed across his shoulders. Then another. And another. Ben gritted his teeth, refusing to make a sound. Blood began to seep through his school shirt, spotting the floor. I screamed. I lunged at her, trying to grab the pole, but my hands passed through it like smoke. Ben just stood there, taking it. After a dozen strikes, she threw the pole down, panting. “There. You happy now?” Ben didn’t answer. He was vibrating with pain, but he remained upright. I was sobbing, hovering inches from his face, begging him to hear me. She grabbed her purse and slammed the front door as she left the house. Ben stood in the silence for a long time. Then, he slowly knelt, picked up the pole, and put it back in the laundry room. I thought he was going for the first-aid kit. Instead, he went to the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding a paring knife. He walked to my door. He hesitated for a long beat, his hand on the knob, then he pushed it open. The smell hit the hallway immediately. A heavy, sweet, metallic rot. I looked at my body in the corner. It was beginning to change, the skin darkening, the air around it thick. Ben flinched, but he stepped inside anyway. The room was dim, the curtains drawn. Only the small desk lamp cast a weak glow. He looked at me—the real me—lying on the floor. He sat down beside my corpse. “Daisy,” he whispered. I couldn’t answer. His shoulders began to heave. “I’m so sorry.” “I knew. I knew you were taking the hits for me. I wanted to help, but I was so scared. It hurts so much when she hits.” “Every time you got hurt, I told myself I’d be better. But I couldn’t get the perfect score. I couldn’t be the person she wanted…” “Am I a failure, Daisy?” I shook my head violently. No, Ben. You’re just a boy. You’re just a kid. He couldn’t hear me. “When she hit you yesterday… I saw you go down. I thought you were just mad at us. Until I saw the blood under the door.” “I killed you. So I’m coming to pay the debt.” He smiled, a heartbreaking, shattered expression. I tried to grab the knife, but my fingers were mist. He looked at the framed photo on my nightstand—the two of us at the county fair three years ago. “Wait for me, Daisy.” The knife dragged across his wrist. The red was sudden and bright, blooming across his white sleeves. He winced, a small frown of discomfort, and then he leaned his head against my cold shoulder. “It hurts,” he whispered. “Daisy… I never knew it hurt this much for you.” I knelt beside him, trying to hold him, trying to tell him that for me, it hadn’t hurt at all. I tried to plug the wound with my ghostly hands, but the blood just flowed through me. I watched until his breathing became a shallow flutter. Then, silence. Hours later, the front door opened. My mother came in carrying shopping bags and a fresh cake box. She kicked off her shoes, sounding almost hesitant as she called out into the dark house. “Daisy? Ben? Come on, let’s have a real birthday. I bought treats.” No one answered. She frowned, setting the bags on the counter. “Daisy? Do you hear me?” When the silence persisted, her irritation returned. She walked to the hallway and pushed the door open. It wasn’t locked. It swung wide. The light from the hallway spilled in, hitting the floor. Her face turned to stone.

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When I opened my eyes again, I realized I had been pulled back—shoved, really—into the sweltering humidity of the summer that changed everything. The day Laura was supposed to tell me she loved me. In my previous life, a diagnosis of ALS at forty had scribbled a hurried, cruel period at the end of my story. As I lay dying, Laura had clung to me, her voice breaking into a thousand jagged pieces. She told me that in the next life, she would find a way to protect Parker. She wouldn’t let him slip away again. We had spent decades tethered together by our shared guilt over Parker, supporting each other through the long, gray years, yet never quite escaping the shadow he left behind. That summer after high school graduation, I had accepted Laura’s confession. Back then, we were naive enough to think it was the beginning of our “happily ever after.” We didn’t see the look on Parker’s face. When he found out, he quietly changed his college plans, choosing a school three thousand miles away, effectively severing the “Iron Triangle” we had formed since childhood. The night before he was supposed to leave, he got wasted at a dive bar. He was dragged into the alleyway behind the building. He died there, broken and humiliated under the weight of a senseless beating. That news became the rot at the center of our lives. My story began at five years old, when the wealthy Connors family plucked me from an orphanage to be a companion for their only son, Parker. I remember our first meeting vividly. Parker grabbed his best friend, Laura, and pulled her toward me. He had a piece of saltwater taffy in his hand; he snapped it in half and gave me the larger piece. From that day on, the three of us were the only world that mattered. 1. The neon lights of the karaoke private room flickered, and the air smelled like cheap beer and sweat. My classmates were screaming lyrics into the mic, the clink of bottles providing a rhythmic backdrop to the chaos. Laura and Parker weren’t there. Suddenly, the memory of Parker’s final moments in that damp alley flashed behind my eyes—the blood, the terror. My hands began to shake as I pulled out my phone. I texted Parker: “Hey, I’m beat. Heading home early. Don’t stay out too late, okay?” I grabbed my jacket, muttered a goodbye to the person nearest the door, and bolted. In the elevator, I leaned my forehead against the cool metal wall. Tears I couldn’t control began to track down my face. Not this time, I whispered to the empty air. I won’t let the cycle repeat. The Connors’ estate was a tomb of silence when I arrived. Parker’s parents were already asleep. I crept upstairs, my heart hammering against my ribs. I passed Parker’s room and saw the door was slightly ajar. On his desk sat a framed photo of the three of us in elementary school—grinning, toothless, and invincible. The grief hit me like a physical blow. In that other life, I had said “yes” to Laura. I had been so blinded by my own feelings that I didn’t see Parker’s forced smiles or the way his heart was shattering in real-time. He had fled to a frozen city across the country to get away from us. And then came the alley. When we finally found him, the scene was etched in nightmare. He was covered in blood, his clothes torn to rags. His body was a canvas of cigarette burns and hateful graffiti. But it was his eyes that haunted me most—the lingering traces of absolute terror, pain, and a hopelessness so deep it swallowed the sun. Laura and I stayed together after that, but we weren’t a couple. We were two survivors huddling together for warmth in a house haunted by a ghost. We stayed that way until my body started to fail me, until the ALS began to turn my muscles into stone. The night before I died, she held me, her tears scalding my neck. “Elliot,” she whispered, “if there’s a next life… I have to watch over Parker. I can’t let anything happen to him again.” My chest tightened until I could barely breathe. The tragedy of the past could not—would not—be the prologue of this life. I spent the night staring at the ceiling. The next day, I expected the fallout. In the previous timeline, Laura had planned an elaborate confession that I had just stood up. Knowing her temper, I expected her to storm over and demand an explanation. But my phone stayed silent. No texts, no calls. I checked the group chats. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the messages. “Laura’s been glued to Parker all day.” “Yeah, they’re practically joined at the hip. Didn’t she say she had big plans for yesterday?” “She’s acting super weird around him. Like, she won’t even let him out of her sight.” A cold realization began to dawn on me. I went downstairs to get some water and saw them in the living room. Parker was laughing, peeling a Clementine and popping segments into Laura’s mouth. Usually, she’d swat him away, but today she was still. Her eyes were fixed on him with an intensity that bordered on frantic. Every time he shifted an inch to the left, her gaze followed. Seeing him so vibrant, so alive, sent a jolt of electricity through me. I walked toward them, clutching my glass. “Parker.” He looked up, his smile bright enough to hurt. “Elliot! Come here, man. These oranges Laura bought are incredible.” I started to sit down, but a hand clamped onto my arm with bruising force. Laura pulled me toward the hallway corner, shoving me back against the wall. She stared at me, her eyes rimmed with red, her voice a lethal whisper. “Elliot. Stay away from Parker.” I froze, the air leaving my lungs. “And stay away from me,” she added, her voice trembling with a mix of regret, self-loathing, and something I couldn’t quite name. “It’s better for all three of us this way.” I looked into her eyes, and in that moment, the pieces clicked together with the force of an explosion. Laura. She was back, too. 2. After that, I became the target of Laura’s constant surveillance. If I came within ten feet of Parker, she materialized out of thin air, a human shield between us. If I walked into the kitchen to grab a drink while they were in the living room, I could feel her entire body go rigid. Once, Parker was standing on a chair trying to reach a photo album on top of a high cabinet. I reached out to steady him, but before my hand even brushed his arm, Laura lunged forward, nearly knocking me over. “I’ve got it,” she snapped. Parker frowned at her. “What’s your deal? Why are you being so aggressive with Elliot?” She didn’t answer. she just took the album and handed it to him. Parker turned to me with an apologetic grin. “Ignore her. She’s been acting like she’s on a warpath lately.” He reached into his pocket and tossed me a pack of gum. “Laura bought it. Half is yours—always, right?” The pack was still warm from his palm. I squeezed it, my throat tight. When we were kids, it was always like this. He never had anything that wasn’t half mine. But I knew the rules now. I couldn’t be near them. I started withdrawing. I turned down every invitation. Ten invites, ten excuses. I was lazy, I had a headache, I had to study at the library. Eventually, Parker noticed. On a Saturday, he practically kidnapped me, dragging me to a boba shop while Laura followed behind us, her face a mask of cold fury. Parker dug into his shaved ice, his eyes searching mine with genuine worry. “Elliot, what is going on with you?” he asked. “The three of us haven’t hung out in weeks. Did you and Laura have a falling out?” I stirred the pearls in my tea, unable to meet his gaze. “No. It’s just… graduation anxiety. Waiting for the final scores, you know?” I tried to pivot, keeping my voice casual. “Have you thought about your college list? The state university here is top-tier. It’s close to home, and your parents would be happy to have you nearby.” The silence that followed was sharp. Laura, who had been staring out the window, turned her head. Her voice was ice. “Close to home isn’t always better. Sometimes, it’s better if people get as far away from each other as possible. For everyone’s sake.” The implication was a slap in the face. Parker looked stunned. He nudged her, his voice rising. “Laura! Knock it off! Why are you being such a jerk?” He turned back to me, his expression softening. “Don’t listen to her, El. She’s lost her mind.” Watching him defend me made my heart ache with a dull, throbbing pain. That night, I lay in bed, memories playing like a highlight reel behind my eyelids. Age six: two kids made fun of me for not having parents; Parker and Laura fought them until the kids ran home crying. Age twelve: I had a fever, and they snuck out past curfew to bring me soup. Age fifteen: on the roof of the garage, promising we’d be best friends until we were old and gray. The love was real. But the way Laura looked at me now—with suspicion and exhaustion—was also real. The night before the college application portal closed, Parker and I were sitting on the swings in the park. The setting sun stretched our shadows across the grass. After a long silence, I spoke up. “Parker, promise me something. No matter what happens, don’t go to bars by yourself. It’s not safe.” He blinked at me, laughing. “Since when did you become my nanny? I hate those loud places anyway.” “I’m serious,” I said. “If you’re ever feeling down, or if you’re upset… call me. Anytime. Okay?” He smiled, but before he could answer, a voice cut through the air like a knife. “Elliot. Harrison.” Laura was standing a few yards away, her face pale. She marched over and grabbed Parker’s arm, pulling him off the swing. “We’re leaving.” “Laura, what the hell? I’m talking to Elliot!” “There’s nothing to talk about.” She started dragging him away, but she threw one last look over her shoulder at me. It was a warning, pure and simple. “Stop trying to get inside his head, Elliot. Leave him alone.” Parker looked back at me as he was led away, his face a mix of confusion and apology. I stood there, watching them disappear into the twilight, until the cold settled into my bones. When it came time to submit my applications, I did it in front of them. I picked the local state university, just like them. Parker cheered, pulling me into a headlock. Laura watched me, her eyes dark and unreadable, but she didn’t say a word. What they didn’t know was that later that night, I opened my laptop again. I began looking at international programs. And I began searching for the earliest symptoms of ALS. 3. On Sunday, Mrs. Conner cooked a massive dinner and insisted Laura stay. At the table, she kept piling food onto Laura’s plate, beaming. “Laura, honey, eat up. You’ve been such a good influence on Parker lately. He’s been so happy.” She turned her warm gaze toward me. “In this house, Parker and Elliot are my two heartbeats.” Parker grinned. “Mom, you’re being cheesy.” Mr. Conner chuckled. “Laura’s a steady girl. We’re glad she’s looking out for you.” The atmosphere was perfect. Parker was rambling about his plans for freshman year, and Laura would nod occasionally. I ate in silence, the food tasting like ash. Mrs. Conner looked at Parker and Laura sitting side-by-side and sighed contentedly. “You know, I never noticed it before, but you two really do make a handsome couple. You look right together.” The table went still. Parker’s face turned bright red, and he stole a shy glance at Laura. She didn’t look up, but she didn’t disagree. Mrs. Conner handed me a bowl of soup. “And Elliot, I’m sure you’ll find a wonderful girl soon, too.” I took the bowl, my fingers icy. I forced a polite, shy smile. “Thanks, Mrs. Conner.” After dinner, I started clearing the dishes. As I turned on the faucet in the kitchen, I heard footsteps behind me. Laura was standing in the doorway. “Elliot,” she whispered. “Mr. and Mrs. Conner… they just want what’s best for Parker. They’ve done everything for you.” My heart sank. “I changed your application,” she said. “I used your login. You’re going to the University of Minnesota. It’s far. It’s better for you.” The water rushed over my hands. I gripped a plate so hard I thought it might snap. She was right. Being far away was better for me. But hearing it from her felt like a jagged blade in my chest. I turned off the water and looked at her. “Fine.” She blinked, caught off guard by my easy surrender. I dried my hands and walked past her. “Take care of him, Laura. I won’t get in your way again.” She opened her mouth, but no words came out. That night, my inbox chimed. It wasn’t about Minnesota. It was an acceptance letter from a prestigious university in London, along with an invitation to join a research pilot for early intervention in neurodegenerative diseases. I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I knocked on the Conners’ bedroom door. I showed them the offer. “Elliot, you want to go to England?” Mrs. Conner asked, surprised. I nodded. “I want to see the world. I want to try something on my own.” Mr. Conner was quiet for a moment. “Do Laura and Parker know?” I shook my head. “Could you… not tell them? Just for a bit? Parker will try to talk me out of it, and I don’t want to lose my nerve.” Mrs. Conner sighed and smoothed my hair. “Oh, honey. If you want to fly, then fly. We’ll keep your secret.” My eyes stung. I hugged them both, tighter than I ever had. “Thank you. For everything.” The next day, I booked my flight. The departure date was set for the day after Parker’s birthday. 4. Two days before the birthday, I went up to the roof to bring in some laundry. Down in the garden, Laura and Parker were sitting on the stone bench. Parker looked tired; his head was nodding. Slowly, his head came to rest on Laura’s shoulder. I saw her body stiffen for a fraction of a second. But she didn’t push him away. Instead, she reached up and gently stroked his hair. I turned away, my throat tight. Back in my room, my phone buzzed. A text from Parker: “Elliot! Laura is taking me to the pier tomorrow! Do you think she’s finally gonna…?” He followed it with a string of blushing emojis. I typed back: “She definitely likes you, man.” “For real??” he replied instantly. “For real.” That night, Parker snuck into my room and crashed on my bed like he used to when we were ten. “Elliot, to be honest, I always thought she liked you,” he confessed, staring at the ceiling. “I used to get so jealous, it hurt.” I looked at him from my desk. “But she’s been so mean to you lately,” he continued, frowning. “I don’t like it. I’ve told her to knock it off, but she won’t listen.” I smiled softly. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter how she treats me. As long as she’s good to you, that’s all that matters.” “How can you say that? You’re my best friend. She has no right to be a jerk to you.” I didn’t argue. I just gave him a quick hug. Parker, you have no idea. She’s being a jerk because she’s trying to save your life. Parker’s birthday party was a small affair at the house. Laura’s parents were there, too. Mrs. Conner held both their hands, her eyes misty. “Seeing you two like this… it’s all I’ve ever wanted. I can finally breathe easy.” I stood on the periphery of the crowd, watching Parker’s face flush deep red. Suddenly, he stood up. “Laura… I have something to say.” The room went silent. He took a shaky breath. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. I don’t want to go to college as just your friend. Will you be my girlfriend?” Laura looked at him. Seconds ticked by like hours. The light in Parker’s eyes began to flicker and dim as the silence stretched. Just as he was about to sit back down, defeated, Laura closed her eyes. Then, softly but clearly, she said, “Yes.” The room erupted. Mrs. Conner burst into happy tears. Laura’s parents were beaming. Parker immediately pulled Laura into a crushing hug. Her arms stayed at her sides for a moment before she slowly, tentatively, wrapped them around his waist. She tilted her head back and kissed his jaw. I stood in the shadows by the door, watching the perfect tableau of their happiness. In the warm candlelight, I remembered her dying words from the other life: “I have to watch over Parker.” You did it, Laura. This time, you won. I quietly slipped upstairs. I left my gift on Parker’s bed. It was a glass jar filled with hundreds of paper stars I’d spent a week folding. Inside every single star, I had written the same five words: Parker, I hope you’re happy. I grabbed my suitcase. The party was still roaring downstairs; no one noticed me leave. A taxi was waiting at the curb. Door shut. Airport. Gate. Boarding. My phone buzzed as the plane sat on the tarmac. Parker. “Elliot!!! Where are you? I’ve looked everywhere! Mom said you went out to get me a surprise?” “Get back here! Laura gave me a watch! I want to show you!” I typed: “I’m so happy for you, Parker. Truly.” Then, I powered down the phone. The plane began its taxi, then lifted into the night sky. The city lights below shrunk into a grid of diamonds, then faded into nothing. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. A montage of my life played out: Parker sharing his candy at five. The three of us eating popsicles on the roof at fifteen. The light in Laura’s eyes the first time she told me she loved me. The white walls of the hospital room, her hot tears on my skin as I turned to ice. “If there’s a next life…” And finally, tonight. The candles. Her saying “yes.” Parker’s radiant, whole smile. A single tear escaped and rolled down my cheek, unnoticed in the quiet cabin. Goodbye, Laura. Goodbye, Parker. I hope that in this life, the two people I love most get everything they ever wanted. Peace, joy, and a long life together. As for me, my battle was just beginning, thousands of miles away, in a body that was destined to betray me.

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When I finally drifted back into consciousness, the world felt cold. Evie, the girl I had spent my entire life protecting, was drowning in a sea of corporate betrayal and public scandal. Worse, her heart was failing—a ticking clock that threatened to end her story before it truly began. Then, a voice flickered in the back of my mind, cold and mechanical. “System online. Host, do you choose to save Evie Pierce?” I didn’t hesitate. I never did when it came to her. To save her life, I gave her my own heart. Or rather, I traded my healthy one for an experimental, mechanical replacement that left me a ghost of the man I used to be. While I was still recovering, I spent every waking hour—and every cent of my savings—building the empire she’d always dreamed of. I drank myself into stomach ulcers and internal bleeding at high-stakes galas just to secure the Series A funding that put her company on the map. But on the night her company went public on the NYSE, Evie didn’t stand by my side. Instead, she announced her engagement to Jasper Knight—the man who had shattered her heart years ago. When I confronted her, heart heavy with a betrayal I couldn’t breathe through, she just brushed me off. “It’s just a strategy, Adrian,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “I’m just playing him. I want him to feel exactly what I felt when he left.” But then my mechanical heart began to fail. I needed a second surgery, a desperate fix. And as I lay outside the operating room, I heard her hushed, frigid command to the surgeon: “Don’t prioritize him. Let him go. Once he’s gone, his kidneys will be a perfect match for Jasper.” 1. I stared at the peeling paint on the hospital ceiling, my breath so thin it barely fogged the oxygen mask. The room was old, crumbling at the edges, much like my own body. “Connection levels dropping below 30%. Mission failure imminent.” My dry, cracked lips twitched into a phantom of a smirk. Failure? No, this wasn’t a drop. This was a total collapse. I remembered two months ago. Her “affection meter”—or whatever the hell this voice in my head called it—had been at 98%. I had spent eight years of my life, minute by minute, sacrifice by sacrifice, building that number. I actually thought she loved me. I guess I was the only one buying into the lie. “Host is urged to re-engage. Failure results in permanent cessation of life.” The mechanical voice was as indifferent as the woman standing in the hallway. “How much longer does he have?” I heard Evie ask. Her voice was low, clinical. “At least a month, if we manage the symptoms,” the doctor replied. I closed my eyes, a bitter laugh rattling in my chest. She was already calculating my expiration date. She wasn’t looking for a miracle; she was looking for a timeline. “Fine,” Evie said. “Keep him stable. Don’t waste the premium meds on him. We need to save the resources.” I whispered into the void of my mind, “Can I end this? I don’t want to play anymore.” The voice paused, a rare glitch in its processing. “Option available. Do you wish to terminate the mission?” The suffocating weight that had been crushing my lungs for years finally lifted. I actually smiled. “End it,” I rasped. “Termination request accepted. Seven-day countdown to cessation begins now.” The moment the words echoed in my skull, a metallic sweetness flooded my throat. I coughed, a violent spray of crimson blooming across the pristine white duvet. The heart monitor beside me began to shriek, a high-pitched alarm that tore through the silence of the ward. Through the haze, the door burst open. Evie rushed in, her face a mask of panicked concern. Her breathing was ragged, her eyes wide. “Doctor! Get in here!” she screamed, playing the part of the grieving, devoted partner to perfection. I struggled to keep my eyes open, watching her. It was strange. Even now, at the very end, she still looked like the girl I’d loved since we were kids. But as the darkness pulled at the edges of my vision, I realized her panic wasn’t for me. It was for the donor she wasn’t finished with yet. I let go. The world went black. When I woke up again, Evie was nowhere to be found. Two nurses were quietly moving around the room. “The guy in the VIP wing is so lucky,” one whispered, her voice tinged with envy. “Just a bit of a stomach ache and his girlfriend is losing her mind.” “You don’t know who that is?” the other replied. “That’s Evie Pierce. The tech mogul. She’s been at his bedside for twenty-four hours, hand-feeding him soup. It’s like something out of a movie.” I licked my lips, the simple movement sent a jolt of pain through my throat. My mind drifted back. I remembered the nights I’d spent vomiting blood after business dinners I attended in her place. She’d stand by the bed, tossing a pack of over-the-counter pills onto the nightstand. “I ordered some meds on UberEats, Adrian. Just hang in there. This contract is too important for me to miss the meeting.” The memories were like glass shards in my brain. The questions I had spent years suppressed suddenly began to cut deep. It wasn’t that her love had faded. It was that it had never existed. I wasn’t from this world. I’d died in another life and ended up here, reborn into this story with no memory of my past until the “System” woke up. I’d fallen for Evie because she was the girl next door who had “saved” me from bullies when we were kids. I was just a foster kid living with a distant aunt, and she was the sun I orbited. When her parents died and her family’s company was gutted, she was the one dying in a hospital bed. That was when the System kicked in, telling me I could save her. I thought my devotion would be enough. I thought if I gave everything, I’d get a sliver of her heart in return. The door creaked open. Evie walked in carrying a thermos. “Adrian? You’re awake.” She set the thermos down and reached out, pressing her palm to my forehead. “You’ve still got a fever. Why aren’t you resting?” I looked at her. It was the same face, but she felt like a stranger. She took my hand, her eyes rimmed with red. “You were out for a day and a night. You scared me to death.” For a second, a tiny, pathetic part of me wanted to believe her. Maybe she wasn’t that heartless. “The doctors said there isn’t a compatible mechanical heart available for the swap yet,” she said softly, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. “You just have to wait a little longer.” I stared into her eyes. They were beautiful, filled with a mimicry of worry. But I knew the truth. A high-end replacement was a phone call away for someone with her net worth. She wasn’t waiting for a heart. She was waiting for me to die so she could harvest what was left of me for Jasper. Her phone buzzed. she glanced at it, and immediately started to stand up. “Can you stay?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Just for a bit. My chest… it hurts.” She froze. She didn’t even look up from her screen as she typed a reply. When she finally turned to me, the mask slipped. The impatience in her eyes was sharp enough to draw blood. “Adrian, don’t be difficult. If it hurts, call the nurse. I have things to take care of. I’ll be back when I’m done.” The pain in my chest flared, sharper than any mechanical failure. She didn’t notice. She was already halfway out the door. What were those eight years? What was any of it? Maybe it was just the lingering ghost of the man I used to be, but I couldn’t stop myself from calling out one last time. “Evie.” She stopped, her body already leaning toward the hallway. She looked back over her shoulder. “What?” “Do you love me?” She went still. A beat of silence stretched between us. Then, she spoke. “Of course I do.” In my head, the mechanical voice chimed in, colder than ice: “Warning. Connection level -10.” I gripped the bedsheets until my knuckles turned white. Even her lies were starting to cost her. 2. Midnight. Outside the window, fireworks erupted, casting flickering shadows across the sterile walls of my room. Evie’s Instagram updated. “He told me he was hurting, so I wanted to bring a little light into his world. 99 fireworks for the man who deserves the moon.” The photo showed Jasper sitting up in a VIP hospital bed, the sky behind him exploding in gold and violet. The shot was intimate. He was looking at the camera, a smirk playing on his lips. The comments from her inner circle—the people who had always looked down on me—were already rolling in. “Jasper is so lucky. Evie, you’re the best.” “Finally, the power couple is back together!” “Matches made in heaven. So happy for you two!” My hand shook as I scrolled. My finger slipped, accidentally hitting the ‘like’ button. I panicked, trying to undo it, but the post vanished instantly. A second later, a text from Evie popped up. “Adrian, why are you still up? That post was just PR to keep Jasper’s investors happy. Don’t overthink it. And don’t be jealous.” I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I didn’t know what to say. Then, another message arrived. Not from Evie. From Jasper. It was a screenshot of Evie’s private story—the one I was blocked from seeing. It was a montage of them. Candid photos, wine nights, them laughing in the back of a limo. Jasper: “Know your place, Adrian. Stop clinging to a woman who doesn’t belong to you.” Jasper: “She’s the one asking me to marry her now. Just thought you should know.” My vision blurred. A dull roar filled my ears. Whenever Evie talked about Jasper to me, it was always with “hatred.” They had been the “it” couple in college, engaged and everything. Then her family went bankrupt. Jasper hadn’t just left; he’d run. He found a wealthy heiress and dumped Evie with a two-hundred-dollar check and a slap to the face. “You’re a charity case now, Evie. Don’t call me again. You’re beneath me.” On the day of our engagement, Jasper had sent a cake. Evie had smashed it on the floor, her face twisted in disgust. And yet, here she was. Deleting posts the second I saw them, curating a private world for him while keeping me in a box. The “hatred” was just a cover for the fact that she could never let him go. I felt the last of my strength drain away. I went to my profile and changed my avatar—a photo of us together—to a blank white square. I looked at the date. Five days left. The fireworks were still going off outside. They sounded like gunshots. Being sick is a slow, heavy process, but the time seemed to bleed away. Evie didn’t come back. Jasper, however, made sure I was kept in the loop. Every two hours, he sent a new update of their “domestic bliss.” He sent a photo of their living room. A massive, blown-up portrait of their “wedding shoot” was already hanging on the wall. When we got engaged, I’d suggested taking photos. I’d spent weeks researching studios. Evie had just rolled her eyes. “I hate stuff like that, Adrian. It’s performative. It’s meaningless.” Apparently, it wasn’t meaningless when it was Jasper. With one day left on my clock, Evie finally showed up. She looked exhausted but moved with a cold, relentless authority. “Tomorrow,” she said, not looking at me. “You’re coming to my wedding.” I didn’t need the System to tell me there was no love left in her voice. Just a command. “I don’t want to go.” She bit her lip, that familiar flash of annoyance crossing her features. “Jasper wants you there. You have to come. You told me once you’d do anything for my happiness, didn’t you?” I looked at her, truly looking at her, wondering how I’d ever seen a soul in those eyes. She claimed this was all revenge, but I was the only one being punished. A violent coughing fit seized me. Blood flecked my chin. She didn’t move. She didn’t even flinch. She just glanced at her watch. “The doctor says you’re stable enough. Stop the drama, Adrian. I’ll have a car pick you up tomorrow.” She left, and the silence of the room felt like a tomb. “System. Can I choose the exact moment?” The voice was flat. “Yes.” “Good.” I closed my eyes, a strange sense of peace settling over me. The next day, I was escorted to the venue. The decorations were breathtaking—and hauntingly familiar. It was the exact design I had put together for our wedding, three years ago. Jasper appeared behind me, his voice dripping with smug triumph. “I found these plans in a box of your stuff when we were clearing out the villa. I thought they were decent, so I used them. You should be flattered.” I turned to look at him. He was wearing a suit that cost more than my first car. He leaned in, whispering so only I could hear. “See? The moment I came back, she came crawling. She doesn’t care about you, you pathetic lapdog.” I felt a surge of revulsion and stepped back. He took the opportunity to throw himself backward, collapsing onto the floor with an exaggerated cry. “Adrian! I know you hate me, but you can’t just push me!” My eyes widened. Before I could speak, Evie charged out from the wings, shoving me aside so hard I hit the wall. She knelt by Jasper, her voice frantic. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Then she turned to me. Her eyes were like shards of ice. “How dare you? Who gave you the right to touch my husband?” Jasper clutched his chest, shooting me a wink from behind her shoulder. I looked down at my shaking hands. “I didn’t push him.” “Jasper wouldn’t lie about that,” Evie said, her voice thick with disappointment. “I didn’t realize you were this pathetic. Sit down and stay quiet for the ceremony. Don’t make me regret bringing you.” She led him away. I was forced into the front row by her security team. I could feel the eyes of her friends on me—pity, mockery, amusement. The ceremony was a blur of expensive flowers and hollow vows. Then came the toasts. Jasper took the mic, looking every bit the victor. “I want to thank one person specifically,” he said, looking directly at me. “Adrian. Thank you for taking such good care of Evie while I was gone. You kept her warm for me. I’d love for you to come up here and share in our joy. Tell everyone how happy you are for us.” The guests cheered. Evie looked at me, her expression dead. “Get up there, Adrian. You heard him.” I stood up. My legs felt like lead. As I walked toward the stage, I spoke to the voice in my head. “System. Now. Let me go.” “Initiating self-destruct sequence. Countdown: 5… 4…” I reached the stage and took the microphone. I smiled. It was the first real smile I’d had in years. “3…” The room went silent. I couldn’t hear the crowd anymore. I could only hear Evie and Jasper whispering to each other a few feet away. “Look at him, Evie,” Jasper snickered. “He looks like a stray dog waiting for a scrap.” “He is,” she whispered back. “2…” “Do you still love him? Even a little?” Jasper asked. “No,” she said, her voice clear and cold. “I never did. He was a foster kid with a savior complex. I used him. That’s all.” “1…” I looked her in the eye. “Evie,” I said, my voice steady through the speakers. “I hope you get exactly what you deserve. And I hope we never meet again—not in this life, or any other.” “Mission failed. Host deceased.” A torrent of blood erupted from my mouth, splashing across her white designer gown. I saw the flash of pure, unadulterated horror in her eyes as my knees gave out. The world screamed, and then, finally, there was nothing.

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When I opened my eyes, the world was spinning. The sharp, metallic scent of rusted iron filled my lungs, and the wind whipped my hair across my face. I knew this place. I knew this cold, rooftop air. I was back. Back at the exact moment that had shattered my life. This time, I wasn’t going to be the victim. My phone was already out, the camera lens steady, aimed directly at the “star” of the show—the scholarship student who was currently rehearsing her finest performance. Just like in my previous life, she reached for my hand, her eyes brimming with calculated tears, trying to pull me toward the edge of the abyss. In that life, the man I was supposed to marry and my own flesh-and-blood brother had been her most loyal soldiers. To protect this “fragile” girl, they had me committed to a private psychiatric ward, where I was drugged and broken until my heart finally gave out. They were convinced I was the monster who had pushed her. They turned a deaf ear to every scream, every plea for the truth. It wasn’t until I took my last breath on that sterile hospital bed that the truth came out—the “fall” had been a meticulously staged frame-up. But the clock had reset. This time, I was the one holding the script. I wasn’t just going to survive; I was going to broadcast her downfall to the world. 1. “Lauren,” Sadie Walsh whispered, her back pressed against the safety railing. Her voice was like honeyed poison, her eyes glittering with the thrill of a trap about to spring. “Tell me… if I jump, do you think Bennett will finally call off the engagement?” The wind howled. This was the spot. The exact angle. In my memories, this was where she grabbed my wrist, using a pinhole camera hidden in her sleeve to capture the “evidence” of me pushing her before she let herself fall. The phantom pain of my death surged through me, a wave of nausea threatening to pull me under. I forced my feet to stay rooted to the concrete. I looked at her, and suddenly, I started to laugh. Sadie froze. “What’s so funny?” “You,” I said softly, the amusement not reaching my eyes. “You’re just so pathetic.” Before she could react, my hand moved like a whip. I didn’t push her. Instead, I lunged forward and snatched the secondary phone she had hidden behind her back. I swiped, unlocked it—I knew her passcode from the trial in my last life—and opened the university’s massive social forum app. I hit ‘Go Live.’ The title I typed was simple: NORTHCREST’S DARLING SADIE WALSH: A MASTERCLASS IN STAGING A SUICIDE. I shoved the camera inches from her face, capturing every ounce of the blood draining from her cheeks. “You wanted to know if Bennett would leave me?” I stepped closer, my voice projecting clearly for the thousands of students tuning in. “Let’s find out together.” I took another step. She instinctively recoiled, her lower back hitting the freezing iron railing. “I’m going to give you exactly what you want, Sadie. Let’s see how much your life is actually worth to them.” 2. The viewer count exploded. The comment section was a blurred mess of digital chaos. Wait, is that the rooftop? Is she actually going to jump? Is that Lauren Sinclair? What the hell is happening? Is she LIVESTREAMING this?! Sadie’s face turned a ghostly white. This wasn’t the script. She had planned a tragic scene of a poor, bullied scholarship student driven to the edge by a wicked heiress. She was supposed to be the martyr, the internet’s sweetheart. “Lauren! Turn it off! Give me the phone!” she shrieked, dropping the innocent act and lunging for the device. I stepped aside with practiced ease, the camera never losing focus on her contorted, panicked expression. “Why the rush? The show is just getting started,” I said. “Didn’t you want everyone to see how I ‘pushed’ you? I’m giving you a front-row seat.” The heavy metal door to the roof slammed open with a deafening bang. Bennett Crawford and my brother, Toby Sinclair, charged out like panicked animals. “Lauren! Stop this right now!” Bennett’s face was a mask of fury, his voice raw. He saw Sadie trembling against the rail and froze, his eyes darting to me with a look that was purely murderous. Toby looked just as horrified, his gaze heavy with disappointment. “Lauren, have you lost your mind? Get away from her! If you’re mad, take it out on me!” There it was. The same old story. Without a single question, I was already guilty. In my last life, it was this brand of “justice” that had dragged me to hell. The coldness in my chest met the fire of my current rage, leaving me feeling eerily calm. I slowly turned the camera toward them. The two men I had loved most—and now hated with every fiber of my being. “Take it out on you?” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Bennett, Toby—which one of you actually saw me touch her?” “Right now, your ‘sweet Sadie’ just threatened to jump to make sure you both hate me forever. I’m just being a supportive friend. I started a livestream so the whole school can witness her big moment.” The comments went nuclear. Holy shit, plot twist? She threatened to jump to frame her? Lauren looks terrifying right now… she might actually do it. Bennett’s face was ashen. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t care about the truth; he only cared about the “fear” on Sadie’s face—his precious, fragile little flower. “I am ordering you, Lauren: shut that phone off and apologize to her!” He lunged at me, his hand outstretched to grab the phone. In that split second, the memory of being strapped into a gurney, the leather restraints biting into my skin, flashed through my mind. In my last life, he had watched them do it. He had stood by while I screamed his name until my throat bled. And here he was, trying to use force again. I didn’t flinch. I shoved the camera directly into his snarling face. “Look at him, everyone!” I shouted. “This is my fiancé, Bennett Crawford. He’s about to hit his future wife because of another woman!” Bennett’s hand stopped mid-air, pinned by the invisible gaze of ten thousand viewers. The chat was a frenzy: He’s actually going to hit her! What a psycho! Lauren is a queen for this. Facing down three losers at once. Toby was vibrating with anxiety. “Lauren, please! You’re making such a scene! Don’t drag the family name through the mud like this!” I smiled at him, a cold, dead thing. “The family name? Toby, the moment you chose a stranger over your own sister, you did more damage to the Sinclair name than I ever could.” I turned back to Sadie, who looked like she was about to faint for real. “So, Sadie. Shall we continue? Or should we talk about the pinhole camera hidden in your left sleeve?” 3. The word “camera” hit the rooftop like a lightning strike. Sadie’s blood drained completely. She began to shake, a visible, violent tremor. Bennett and Toby stood paralyzed, the first seeds of doubt finally flickering in their eyes. The livestream peaked: A hidden camera? No way. She was going to record her own ‘accident’? That’s some Gone Girl shit. If that’s true, Sadie Walsh is a literal sociopath. The tide was turning. It was a physical sensation, like the wind shifting direction. Bennett looked at Sadie, his brow furrowed with a sickening realization. “Sadie… is that… did you?” “No! Bennett, don’t listen to her! She’s lying! She’s trying to ruin me!” Sadie wailed, her left hand reflexively tucking behind her back. The movement was more incriminating than any confession. “Lying?” I stepped into her space. “Then show us. Roll up your sleeve right now in front of everyone watching. Prove me wrong.” “That’s enough, Lauren!” Bennett barked. His face was dark. The truth was too bright for him; he was desperately trying to cling to the lie he had built his hero complex on. “Even if she made a mistake, you can’t do this! Give me the phone!” He moved toward me again, but I backed away, using the phone as a shield. “Don’t bother,” I said calmly. “The police are already on their way.” I glanced at my other phone, where a confirmation message glowed. “Since you don’t believe me, let’s let the law decide.” I looked at Sadie, whose eyes were now filled with nothing but raw, venomous hatred. “Oh, and one more thing. You’re using the university’s guest WiFi for your little ‘SOS’ stream, aren’t you?” I let a small, predatory smile touch my lips. “Too bad my family’s foundation just upgraded the campus network last month. As the daughter of the primary donor, how long do you think it’ll take me to get the data logs showing exactly which device was streaming what and when?” Sadie’s knees gave out. She slumped against the railing, gasping for air. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about… Lauren, I know you’ve always hated me, but you can’t frame me like this…” She was still trying. Even now. In the distance, the sharp, wailing cry of a police siren cut through the air. 4. The sirens shattered what was left of the standoff. A group of campus security and two police officers burst onto the roof, faces set in grim lines. “Lauren! Turn that off this instant!” the Dean shouted, looking more worried about the school’s PR than the girl on the ledge. Bennett saw an opening. He pointed at me, his voice booming with feigned authority. “Officer, it’s her! She’s the one! She’s harassing this girl, trying to drive her to jump, and she’s filming the whole thing!” I watched their pathetic performance with detached boredom until the lead officer turned his gaze to me. “Who called this in?” “I did,” I said, stepping forward. I ended the stream and pulled up the local recording. “Officer, I have the entire incident recorded from the moment I stepped onto the roof. It contains Ms. Walsh’s threats to frame me for her suicide, and the subsequent attempts by these two gentlemen to forcefully destroy the evidence.” I handed him the phone. “I’m also filing a formal complaint against Sadie Walsh for illegal surveillance and invasion of privacy. The device is currently strapped to her left wrist.” “You’re lying!” Sadie shrieked, lurching toward me. A female officer intercepted her. Suddenly, Sadie’s eyes rolled back, and she went limp, collapsing onto the concrete. “Sadie!” Bennett and Toby rushed to her side, their faces twisted with concern. Bennett glared at me. “Are you happy now, Lauren? You’ve literally pushed her to a breakdown!” I folded my arms. “Don’t worry. Faking a faint is the standard exit strategy for a narcissist. She’s fine.” The lead officer didn’t buy the act. He gestured to the female officer. “Check her left sleeve.” “No! She’s unconscious! You can’t just—” Bennett started to interject. The officer’s voice was like stone. “It’s procedure, sir. Step back.” The female officer rolled up Sadie’s sleeve. There, strapped to her pale wrist, was a small, black, pinhole lens blinking with a faint red light. The silence on that roof was absolute. Even though the livestream was over, the truth was out. Bennett’s grip on Sadie’s shoulders went slack. The rage and righteousness on his face crumbled into a hollow, empty mask of shock. Toby just stared, his mouth hanging open. He looked at the camera, then at me, then at the “victim” on the floor. He looked like he was about to be sick. And Sadie? The moment the camera was revealed, her eyelids flickered. The “unconscious” girl was gone. When she opened her eyes, there was no more sweetness. There was only the desperate, jagged glare of a cornered animal. I looked down at her and let a slow, satisfied smirk spread across my face. This is just the beginning.

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