Category: English

I woke up in the ICU, every shallow breath feeling like a countdown to a final judgment that had already been passed. Through the haze of sedatives and the rhythmic, clinical throb of the monitors, I heard Brady’s voice. It was low, strained, and anchored by the sharp, calculating tone of his mother, Evelyn. “If you really want to marry that girl—if you want to bring a nobody into this family—then end it with Margot now,” Evelyn hissed. “Stop playing this long, exhausting game.” “She’s dead, Mother.” Brady was silent for a long beat. When he spoke again, his voice broke, a masterpiece of manufactured grief. “I couldn’t just walk away. Five years ago, the Steward family bailed us out. Her grandfather literally handed me the keys to their empire as her dowry. I couldn’t break the engagement.” He paused, a jagged sigh escaping him. “But it was always Isla. I promised her she would be the only Mrs. Whitlock. I just had to wait for Margot to… disappear.” As the fog in my brain cleared, a news report flashed on the wall-mounted TV. I saw my own face—a cold, black-and-white memorial photo. I wanted to scream, but my lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass. It wasn’t an accident. None of it was. Brady Whitlock and I had been the “it” couple of the city for five years. We had planned our engagement party twenty-four times. And twenty-four times, disaster struck the day before the event. The first time I tried on my gown, I was pricked by dozens of needles hidden in the lining, leaving me bloody and infection-ridden. The second time we scouted the venue, a massive crystal chandelier plummeted, nearly crushing my skull. The third time, the catering headquarters burned to the ground, taking every detail of our preparation with it. People whispered that I was “bad luck.” That I was a curse on the Whitlock family. They urged me to let him go. But I loved him. I stayed. Until the twenty-fourth time. On my way to pick up the rings, I was abducted. They didn’t want a ransom. They just wanted me gone. In the end, I got nothing but a shallow grave. But if the universe is giving me a second chance, I’m not going to be the victim this time. If Brady can’t make a choice, I’ll make it for him. 1. The scent of bleach and hospital-grade soap was thick enough to taste. The steady beep… beep… beep… of the heart monitor was the only thing anchoring me to reality. I snapped my eyes open. The ceiling was a sterile, blinding white. This wasn’t the rusted, freezing warehouse where the kidnappers had left me to bleed out. I twitched my fingers, and a lightning bolt of pain shot from my temple down my spine. “Margot! Oh, thank God, you’re awake!” That voice. Familiar, polished, and utterly hollow. Brady leaned into my field of vision, his handsome face a mask of exhaustion. His eyes were bloodshot, his stubble perfectly groomed to suggest a man who hadn’t slept in days. Looking at him made my stomach turn. This was the man I grew up with. My “childhood sweetheart.” The man who, in my past life, wept over my death while whispering his love for another woman in the same breath. “Brady…” My throat felt like it was coated in sand. “I’m here, baby. You’re safe.” He grabbed my hand, his palm warm and steady. A year ago, this touch would have made me feel invincible. Now, I knew these were the same hands that would eventually push me into the abyss to embrace someone else. Behind him, his mother, Evelyn, crowded into the space. She dapped at her eyes with a silk handkerchief, though her mascara remained flawlessly intact. “Margot, darling, you gave us such a scare. That chandelier… what a freak accident! To think it just fell like that. It’s a miracle you’re alive.” The chandelier. My pupils contracted. I remembered now. This wasn’t the day I died. I had been sent back further. This was the second accident. In my previous life, this concussion kept me in the hospital for two weeks. I had exactly two months left before the kidnapping. Two months to crawl out of the grave they were digging for me. “My head… it hurts so much,” I whispered, closing my eyes to hide the cold fire burning in them. Brady immediately hit the call button, barking orders at the nurses with the frantic devotion of a man who couldn’t bear to lose his prize. Evelyn started her usual routine, her voice a soft, poisonous lullaby. “Margot, honey, I hate to say this, but is it possible you and Brady are just… ill-fated? This is the second time. Maybe we should put the engagement on hold? For your safety?” There it was. The exact script from the first time. Every “accident” was followed by these suggestions—calculated moves to make me feel like the problem, to make me feel like a burden until I was isolated enough to kill. In my last life, I would have sobbed, clutching Brady’s hand, begging them not to give up on me. But now? I just wanted to see them burn. I opened my eyes, letting the tears spill over. I looked directly at Brady, my voice trembling but sharp. “Brady, even your mother thinks I’m a curse. Do you feel that way too? Are you… are you trying to find a reason to leave me?” Brady froze. He wasn’t used to me being direct. He was used to me being a soft, pliable extension of the Steward fortune. Evelyn’s face tightened. “Margot, don’t be dramatic. I’m just worried about you—” “I’m asking him, Evelyn,” I cut her off, my gaze locked on his. The air in the room turned brittle. Brady’s eyes flickered with a momentary panic before he smoothed it over with a look of profound heartbreak. He leaned down, brushing a tear from my cheek with his thumb. His voice was like honey. “Don’t say that. Ever. I’d die for you, Margot. You’re my life. We’ve just had a run of bad luck. As soon as you’re out of here, we’re setting the date again. Okay?” It was an Oscar-worthy performance. I nodded, leaning my head against his chest, listening to the steady lie of his heartbeat. Fine, Brady, I thought, my eyes turning to ice. You said it. Let’s see whose luck runs out first this time. 2. I stayed in the hospital for three days. Brady and Evelyn were there every morning. Brady played the part of the devoted fiancé to perfection. He peeled grapes, sliced apples into perfect wedges, and read me poetry in a low, soothing hum. Evelyn brought homemade soups, claiming they were full of healing nutrients. In my old life, I would have been moved to tears by their kindness. Now, I just watched the theater of it all. It was almost funny how much effort they put into the lie. On the fourth day, the guest I was waiting for finally arrived. She wore a white sundress, her long hair cascading over her shoulders like silk. She looked like a portrait of innocence as she walked in carrying a thermal flask. When she saw Brady, her eyes lit up for a fraction of a second before she caught herself. She looked at me with a shy, timid expression. “Brady? Evelyn? Oh… am I interrupting?” This was Isla Fontaine. According to Evelyn, she was a “distant cousin” from upstate who was staying with them while she finished her degree. In my past life, I loved her like a sister. I bought her designer bags, let her borrow my jewelry, and told her all my secrets. I didn’t realize until I was a ghost that she wasn’t a cousin at all. She was the love of Brady’s life. The secret he was keeping while he spent my grandfather’s money. Brady’s expression softened the moment he saw her, but he quickly masked it. “Isla. What are you doing here? I told you to stay home and study.” Isla looked at me, her lower lip trembling slightly. “I heard Margot was awake. I wanted to bring her some fish soup. I made it myself.” She set the flask on the nightstand, her doe-like eyes brimming with “concern.” “Margot, I’m so sorry. If my stomach hadn’t been acting up that day, I would have been at the venue with you. Maybe… maybe I could have pushed you out of the way.” She started to cry. A delicate, beautiful white lily of a girl. In my previous life, I would have consoled her. I would have told her it wasn’t her fault. But now, I just wanted to see if I could make her wilt. “Isla,” I said, my voice quiet but cutting through her sob. “That stomach ache… was it something you ate?” Isla’s crying stopped abruptly. Brady and Evelyn both shifted, their body language suddenly guarded. I acted like I hadn’t noticed. “It’s just so strange. You were the one who invited me to scout the venue that day. Then, right as we were leaving, you were doubled over in pain. Now that I think about it, thank God you stayed behind. Otherwise, you would have been the one under that chandelier.” I paused, looking her dead in the eye. “You should see a doctor. It almost feels like someone poisoned your breakfast just to keep you away from that spot.” The sound of Evelyn’s paring knife hitting the floor was deafening. Isla turned as white as her dress. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Brady recovered first. He lunged for the knife, his brow furrowed. “Margot, don’t be ridiculous. She has a sensitive stomach. It was just a virus.” “Really?” I blinked, looking innocent. “But Isla always had an iron stomach when we went out for street food in the city. To have a ‘virus’ exactly at the hour of my accident? What a coincidence.” I let the word coincidence hang in the air like a guillotine. The silence was suffocating. I watched the blood drain from their faces, savoring the frantic look in their eyes. I knew why she hadn’t been there. I had seen it as a spirit, drifting through their house after my death. I’d seen Evelyn in the kitchen, stirring a heavy dose of laxatives into Isla’s milk, whispering, “Don’t worry, honey. This will keep you home for a few hours. I can’t risk you being near Margot when the cable snaps.” They had planned to kill me back then, too. And Isla had been in on it from the start. 3. The atmosphere never quite recovered after that. Isla fled the room in tears, escorted by a protective Evelyn. Brady stayed behind, his face a mask of simmering tension. He sat by the bed for a long time before he finally spoke. “Margot, what’s going on with you?” “What do you mean?” “You’re being… aggressive. Did someone say something to you?” I looked at the suspicion in his eyes and felt a thrill of cold joy. So, the golden boy is getting nervous? I let my eyes fill with tears, my voice cracking. “What’s going on? Brady, I almost died. I’m terrified. I was just worried about Isla—worried that someone is targeting the people I love. Why are you snapping at me?” I began to sob, the kind of hysterical, breathless crying that usually made him uncomfortable. “Does she matter more to you than I do? Is that it?” Brady’s wall crumbled instantly. Guilt and annoyance warred on his face before he folded, pulling me into a hug. “I’m sorry, Margot. I’m so sorry. I’m just stressed. You’re right, you’ve been through hell. Don’t overthink it. I just don’t want you getting paranoid.” I buried my face in his shirt, feeling the expensive fabric against my cheek. I smiled, a jagged, invisible thing. For the next few days, I was the perfect patient. I stopped mentioning Isla. I ate their soup. I played the role of the devoted, fragile heiress. I watched them relax, watched them start to believe that my “outburst” was just a side effect of the concussion. They thought they were back in control. They had no idea I was just waiting for the right moment to take back what was mine. A week later, I was discharged. My grandfather’s driver came to pick us up. As we cruised through the city, I leaned my head on Brady’s shoulder and said, almost casually, “Brady, how is the Waterfront Project coming along? The one Steward Global is co-funding with your firm?” The Waterfront Project was the biggest deal in the city. It was the “meat” my grandfather had thrown to the Whitlocks to keep them afloat. Brady was the lead director. In my last life, that project had been a black hole of delays. After I died, I found out Brady had siphoned off nearly thirty million dollars from it—money used to pay off his family’s gambling debts and to buy Isla a jewelry boutique. Brady went stiff beside me. “It’s fine. Smooth sailing. Don’t worry your pretty head about business.” “Is it?” I sat up and pulled a folder from my bag. “I had my personal assistant pull a progress report while I was in the hospital. Some of the line items for ‘Consulting Fees’ looked a little… inflated. I thought you could explain them to me?” Brady took the folder, his face turning an ashen gray as he saw the red-circled figures. Sweat broke out on his forehead. “Margot, this… this is just standard industry movement. You wouldn’t understand the nuances.” He tried to close the folder with a forced smile. “Really? Because it looks like those ‘nuances’ are being wired into a shell company called ‘Isla-Rose Jewels.’” I tilted my head, looking at him with wide, curious eyes. “What a strange name. It’s almost like your ‘cousin’ Isla, isn’t it? And the registered owner… her last name is Fontaine. Is that another coincidence, Brady?” The temperature in the car dropped to zero. The driver, a man who had worked for my grandfather for twenty years, caught my eye in the rearview mirror. He didn’t say a word, but I saw his grip tighten on the steering wheel. Brady’s face went from white to purple. He never expected me to look at a balance sheet. He never expected the girl who used to spend her days at Bergdorf’s to start hunting him through his bank accounts. 4. “Margot, let me explain.” Brady’s voice was a jagged whisper. He grabbed my hand, his grip so tight it bruised. “That’s a friend’s company. We’re using them for interior sourcing. The money is just… moving through. It’s coming back.” What a pathetic lie. I pulled my hand away and rubbed my wrist. “Oh, I see.” “I was almost worried you were taking my grandfather’s money to set up a life for your mistress.” The words hit the air like a bomb. Brady’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “What… what did you just say?” The car swerved slightly as the driver reacted. I just laughed—a bright, hollow sound. “I’m joking, Brady! Look at your face. You’re so serious.” “Isla is so sweet, I know you think of her as a sister. And you love me far too much to ever lie to me, right?” I stared into his soul, waiting for him to blink. He couldn’t. He looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was a monster he had accidentally let into his house. When we arrived at the Steward estate, my grandfather was waiting. He saw the bandage on my head and pulled me into a hug, his voice thick with emotion. I played the doting granddaughter, making sure not to mention the conversation in the car—yet. Brady followed us in like a kicked dog. At dinner, he was overly attentive, piling food onto my plate, trying to win back the “old” Margot. I let him. I ate every bite. But as coffee was served, I looked at my grandfather. “Grandpa, I want to start working at the firm. Specifically, I want to oversee the Waterfront Project.” The dining room went silent. My grandfather looked stunned. “Margot, you’ve never shown interest in the business.” “Well, things change when you almost have a chandelier fall on your head,” I said lightly. “I realized I can’t hide behind you and Dad forever. I want to learn how to protect what our family has built.” My reasoning was flawless. My grandfather’s eyes sparkled with pride. “But your health…” “I’ll be in the office, not on-site. And besides, I’ll have Brady to guide me. He’s the expert, right?” I turned to Brady and gave him a saccharine smile. “You’ll show me everything, won’t you, Brady? Every single cent of that project?” Brady looked like he wanted to vomit. He couldn’t say no. Not in front of my grandfather. Not when I was being so “inspirational.” He forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Of course, Margot. Whatever you want.” The trap was set. Starting the next day, I didn’t go to the office. I told Brady to bring the files to the estate so I could “study in peace.” In reality, I was building a paper trail that would lead to his prison cell. Brady was forced to come over every afternoon, and like clockwork, Isla would find an excuse to tag along. She’d bring pastries, wear her prettiest dresses, and try to reclaim her territory by leaning over Brady while he “explained” things to me. One afternoon, she brought a box of macarons. “Margot, you look so tired from all this reading. Have a treat.” She set the box down, her hip brushing Brady’s shoulder. I looked at the macarons, then at her. “Isla, you’ve been doing a lot of baking lately. Brady must love that.” Isla blushed. “He does.” “Interesting.” I flipped a page in a ledger. “Do you know how much it costs to start a custom jewelry boutique like ‘Isla-Rose’? The startup capital alone is astronomical.” Isla’s smile vanished. “I did some math,” I continued, my voice cold and steady. “Between the lease in SoHo, the renovations, and the initial diamond inventory… you’re looking at ten million dollars, minimum.” I looked up, catching both of them in my crosshairs. “Isla, you’re a student. Where did you get ten million dollars?” “Or,” I leaned forward, “is it not your money at all?” The air left the room. Brady stood up abruptly, snatching the ledger from my hand. “Margot! Enough! What the hell is wrong with you?” He used my full name, his anger finally overriding his mask. Isla began to shake, tears streaming down her face as she clutched Brady’s sleeve. “Brady, I… I don’t know what she’s talking about…” I leaned back in my chair. “You don’t know about the company in your name? Or you don’t know the money was stolen from Steward Global?” “Brady,” I said, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “The fire at the catering company was such a tragedy. We lost all our plans. But I think it’s time we restart. Let’s pick a new date for the engagement.” “The 18th of next month. It’s perfect.” In my last life, the 18th was the day I was murdered. Brady turned a shade of white I didn’t think was biologically possible. He looked at me with pure, unadulterated terror. “What? You don’t want to?” I challenged him. “No… no,” he stammered. “Of course. Whatever you want.” “Good,” I said, standing up. “Oh, and the rings. I want to pick them up personally. Isla, why don’t you come with me? A girl’s day out.” I smiled at the girl who was about to faint. “You wouldn’t say no to your favorite cousin, would you?”

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After I barely survived a horrific car crash, my husband brought his pregnant mistress to my hospital room to demand a divorce. That was what broke me. Stripped of every ounce of hope, I dragged my battered body up to the hospital roof. The wind whipped my hospital gown around my bruised legs. I just wanted it all to end. But right as I stepped up to the concrete ledge, ready to let gravity take me, a voice screamed from deep within my own abdomen. It was frantic. Familiar. It was Gemma. She yelled at me, her voice echoing right into my brain, furious that I would even consider throwing my life away. She told me she hadn’t died in that crushed metal of our car just so I could jump off a building. At first, I thought my grief had finally fractured my mind. The auditory hallucinations of a shattered woman. The thought that I would never see my best friend again twisted the knife in my chest, and the sorrow threatened to pull me over the edge. I shifted my weight forward. Then, that familiar, sharp voice rang out again. It wasn’t a hallucination. Gemma had been reborn, carrying all her memories, straight into the tiny, unborn life growing inside me. She told me things she couldn’t possibly know unless she had lived a life I hadn’t. She told me that in her previous timeline, Marvin, my cheating bastard of a husband, abandoned us for his mistress, leaving us with nothing. And then, he struck it rich. Seventy million dollars, won on a lottery ticket. Gemma remembered the exact numbers. She told me to get down from the ledge, buy that ticket, and focus on bringing her safely into the world. But she didn’t stop there. She told me Marvin had been embezzling from his own company. He’d hidden solid gold bars and stacks of hundred-dollar bills in the soil of the massive, imported planters on our balcony. She told me to clean him out before I signed any papers. Hearing that, the cold wind on the roof suddenly didn’t feel so chilling. The urge to die evaporated, replaced by a white-hot, diamond-hard resolve to live. I was going to survive. And I was going to ruin him. … I practically ran out of the hospital against medical advice, arriving back at our sprawling suburban house pale and out of breath. The housekeeper took one look at my bruised face and made herself scarce. I went straight to the master bedroom and locked the glass balcony doors behind me. I slipped on a pair of gardening gloves, grabbed a heavy metal trowel, and looked down at the slight bump of my stomach. “Gem, which one?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “That bastard is going to be home any minute. If I dig up the wrong one, we’re screwed.” From inside me, her voice bubbled up—crisp, sassy, and wonderfully alive. Maddie, swear to God, you have to trust me! The gold is buried under the two giant Fiddle-leaf figs in the far corner! Stop overthinking. Start digging. I drew in a sharp breath. I gripped the trowel. My hands were shaking. Not from fear. From pure, unadulterated adrenaline. Marvin had frozen my credit cards weeks ago to force my hand in the divorce. After the crash, he hadn’t spent a single night by my bedside, and he’d fought the hospital billing department over my emergency surgery. Now, he was openly parading his new girl through our life, trying to throw me out on the street with absolutely nothing. Did he really think Madeline Hayes was a doormat he could just wipe his expensive Italian shoes on? He was dead wrong. I knelt beside the massive, thriving Fiddle-leaf fig. I drove the trowel violently into the expensive potting soil. The stitches in my side pulled and burned. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead, but I didn’t care. Because an inch down, the metal of my trowel scraped against something dense and unyielding. Gemma wasn’t lying. I dug frantically, tearing up the roots. One. Two. Three… Ten bars in total. Small, heavy ingots, probably a hundred grams each. That was easily eighty thousand dollars right there. Jackpot. I moved to the largest planter, stabbing the soil until I hit metal. A lockbox. I pried it open to find tightly banded stacks of crisp US dollars. “How much is this?” I breathed. Roughly half a million, Gemma’s voice echoed. He skimmed it from his company’s offshore accounts. He was planning to take his little influencer girlfriend to Europe. Maddie, in the other timeline, you never even knew it existed. After he threw us out, you bounced between cheap motels with a newborn. You worked yourself to death. I had to grow up starving. Meanwhile, those two sociopaths lived like royalty on this cash and the seventy million from the lottery. My chest tightened, a suffocating heat rising in my throat. Marvin. You absolute monster. I gave him my best years, from college dorms to our wedding day. I worked three jobs to support him when his startup was bleeding money. When he broke his leg skiing, I bathed him. When I nearly died in a car crash, he brought his mistress to my hospital bed and hid half a million dollars in dirt so I would starve. Carefully, I transferred the heavy gold bars and the stacks of cash into a large leather backpack I’d pulled from the closet. “The box is empty,” I whispered, looking at the mess of spilled soil and exposed roots. “What about the holes? He’s going to know the second he steps out here.” If he caught me now, divorce would be the least of my worries. I probably wouldn’t make it out of this house alive. Mads, are you kidding me? Gemma scoffed in my mind. Take the soil from the Monstera plant next to it. Fill the holes, pack it down, arrange the decorative moss over it, and water it so the dirt settles. He’s so obsessed with his new girl right now, he’s not inspecting his houseplants! By the time he figures it out, we’ll be ghosts. Right. Panic was making me stupid. I moved fast, burying the empty lockbox at the very bottom of my backpack, moving the soil, smoothing it out, and wiping the rim of the ceramic pots with a damp towel. When I was done, I leaned against the brick wall of the balcony, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Standing on the edge of the hospital roof hadn’t terrified me this much. But stealing my own life back? It was the most intoxicating, terrifying thrill I had ever felt. Just then, I heard the heavy thud of the front door downstairs. Then came Marvin’s irritated voice, followed immediately by a sickly-sweet, high-pitched whine. “Marvin, babe, where did she go? She’s all banged up. You don’t think she actually jumped, do you?” It was Marvin and his shiny new toy, Brittany. My spine stiffened. My hand instinctively dropped to cradle my stomach. Breathe, Mads, Gemma commanded. Play the victim. Look like a woman who has completely given up. Make him think he’s won. Lower his guard. I quickly shoved the heavy backpack deep into the balcony storage bench and zipped it shut. I ran a hand through my hair, purposely tangling it. I rubbed at my pale face, letting my shoulders slump under the weight of an invisible defeat. Dragging my bruised leg, I limped slowly into the living room. Marvin looked up. There wasn’t a flicker of relief in his eyes when he saw I was alive. Only disgust. “Oh, you’re back,” he sneered, loosening his silk tie. “I honestly thought you might have actually had the guts to jump.” He picked up a manila folder from the glass coffee table and tossed it onto the floor at my feet. “Maddie, don’t make this harder than it has to be. Sign the papers. You leave with what you came with: nothing. Keep the kid, get rid of it, I don’t care. I’ll cover the hospital bills, but after this, we’re done.” Get rid of it? I stared at my stomach. Inside was not just my child, but the soul of the woman who died trying to save me. Even an animal protects its young, but Marvin… he was something entirely soulless. The hatred in my chest felt like swallowing glass, but I knew I had to swallow it down. Now was not the time. I slowly lifted my head, making sure my eyes looked entirely hollow. I channeled every ounce of grief I had felt on that roof. “Marvin,” I whispered, my voice breaking perfectly. “Seven years of marriage. Are you really going to leave me with nothing?” Marvin scoffed. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it right there in the living room, not even glancing at my pregnant belly. “We’re adults, Maddie. Don’t make a scene. Seven years? So what? We haven’t loved each other in years. Brittany is young, she’s vibrant, and she’s giving me a son. I need to do right by them.” He blew out a plume of smoke. “Who knows what you’re having. If it’s a girl, I’d just be losing money.” Oh, hell no. I am your worst nightmare, buddy! the little tenant in my womb raged. Mads, ignore him! Brittany isn’t even carrying his kid! It’s her personal trainer’s! In the other timeline, Marvin didn’t find out until the baby was born and looked nothing like him. They destroyed half the house fighting over it! A hysterical, bubbling laugh almost escaped my throat. I had to quickly drop my head, burying my face in my hands, letting my shoulders shake. To Marvin, it looked like I was sobbing uncontrollably. “Fine…” I choked out. I looked up, letting a single tear track down my cheek. “I’ll sign.” Marvin perked up, his eyes narrowing. “You want a payout? Because I’m telling you right now, the company is entirely illiquid. You’re not getting a dime.” “I don’t want your money.” I cut him off, my voice dead and flat. “I just want to pack my clothes. My skincare. I don’t want anything else from this house. I just want… to be completely done with you.” Marvin exhaled a long breath, a smug, contemptuous smile spreading across his face. “Smart girl. Go pack. I want you out by tonight. We’ll finalize everything at the courthouse tomorrow morning. Don’t keep us waiting.” I didn’t waste another breath on them. I turned and limped into the bedroom. I took the heavy backpack from the balcony, shoved it into the bottom of an old Samsonite suitcase, and piled my sweaters and expensive face creams on top of it. When I rolled the suitcase out into the living room, Marvin and Brittany were making out on the expensive leather sofa. Marvin pulled away, stood up, and reached for my suitcase. “Hold on. Let me make sure you aren’t walking out with the silverware.” My heart vaulted into my throat. Every muscle in my body tensed, preparing to bash his head in with a lamp and run. But Marvin unzipped the top, saw a pile of folded wool sweaters and half-empty moisturizer bottles, and curled his lip in disdain. “This is it? You’re taking this garbage? Don’t come crying to me later saying I didn’t let you pack.” I gave him a pitiful, broken smile. “No. Everything else here feels dirty now.” Marvin’s face darkened. “Get the hell out.” I dragged that impossibly heavy suitcase out the heavy oak door I had once thought would protect me forever. The second I hit the sidewalk, I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address for the Four Seasons downtown. Mads! You are a literal Oscar winner! Gemma cheered in my head. They are sitting on that couch thinking they won the lottery. Wait until he checks the dirt and realizes his golden egg is gone! His face is going to melt off! But listen, we have to move fast. Tomorrow, after the judge signs off, we go straight to the gas station. Seventy million dollars. We cannot miss that draw! I leaned back against the leather seat of the cab, watching the suburban streets blur past the window. My ribs ached, my head pounded, but the suffocating weight that had been crushing my chest for months was gone. Marvin thought he was taking out the trash. He had no idea he had just handed me the keys to the kingdom. That night, in a plush suite overlooking the city skyline, I ordered a ridiculous amount of room service—everything I used to deny myself to save money for Marvin’s business. As I ate, I listened to Gemma recount the nightmare of the previous timeline. After I jumped off the hospital roof in that life, Marvin hadn’t shed a single tear. Instead, he hired a PR firm to spin my death, claiming the grief of losing my best friend in the crash had driven me to severe depression. He played the tragic, devoted widower. His company’s stock skyrocketed. Brittany had taken my life insurance payout and bought herself limited-edition Birkin bags. They hadn’t even given me a proper funeral; they’d had me cremated and dumped the ashes somewhere off the highway. And Maddie… Gemma’s voice dropped, losing its usual snark. Before I died in the other timeline, I found out the car crash wasn’t an accident. Marvin tampered with the brakes. The silver fork in my hand snapped in half under my grip. “Gemma,” I whispered, resting my hand over my stomach. “I promise you. In this life, I will never let you down. I will never let you suffer. Everything Marvin and Brittany owe us, I will extract it from them, a thousand times over.” Damn right you will, Gemma replied fiercely. Tomorrow at the courthouse, they’re going to try to humiliate you. Just swallow it. The second we have that seventy million, we own them. Oh, and by the way… Brittany’s wearing a fake Chanel jacket tomorrow. If you bump into her, it literally leaves a dye stain. Just a heads up. I let out a wet, startling laugh. Death had apparently made my best friend even more savage. The next morning, the courthouse steps were bathed in sunlight. Marvin looked like a man who had just conquered the world, his hair slicked back, wearing a bespoke suit. Clinging to his arm was Brittany, her pregnant belly pushed out as far as it could go against a tight, beige designer-knockoff dress. When she saw me arriving alone, she immediately put a hand over her mouth in mock sympathy. “Oh, Maddie. You came all by yourself? No one to hold your hand? That is just so sad.” Marvin patted her waist, giving me a patronizing look. “Leave her alone, Brit. We don’t want her having another breakdown and finding a bridge to jump off.” He checked his Rolex. “Do you have your ID? Let’s get this over with, I have a board meeting.” I didn’t say a word. I just walked past them through the metal detectors. Signatures. Stamps. The cold finality of the judge’s gavel. The moment the divorce decree was handed over, Marvin let out a massive breath, as if shedding a physical weight. He looked down at Brittany. “You’re officially the new Mrs. Hayes.” Brittany giggled, going up on her tiptoes to kiss him, making sure I was watching. “Take care of yourself, Maddie,” she cooed. “If things get really desperate, give us a call. Marvin might be able to find you a job answering phones or something.” Marvin pulled his wallet out, extracted three crisp hundred-dollar bills, and casually dropped them onto the marble floor at my feet. “Here. For an Uber. Consider it severance pay. I don’t want anyone saying Marvin Hayes doesn’t take care of his exes.” The bills fluttered to the ground. People in the lobby turned to stare. Marvin and Brittany smirked, waiting for me to kneel and pick up his scraps. I looked down. Slowly, I bent over. Their smiles widened. I ignored the money, calmly retied my shoelace, and stood back up. Then, I planted the heel of my boot directly onto the bills and ground them into the dirty marble floor. “Keep it for your medical bills, Marvin,” I said softly, meeting his eyes. “You look a little pale. I’d watch my back if I were you.” Marvin’s face flushed red. “You ungrateful bitch!” Brittany shrieked, “Are you threatening him? You psycho!” I just smiled, turned on my heel, and walked out into the sunlight. Sitting in the back of my rideshare, my palms were sweating. “Gemma, what if he checks the planters today and realizes I took it?” Let him find out, she hummed. You signed the division of assets. It clearly states ‘personal effects belong to their respective parties.’ You packed your ‘personal effects.’ Can he prove the gold was his? It was embezzled, Maddie. It’s dirty money. Is he going to call the cops and report that someone stole the half-million dollars he hid from the IRS? I slapped my thigh. She was right. He couldn’t say a damn thing. He had to choke on it. Now, the most important task. I had the driver pull over at a rundown gas station on the edge of town. I walked up to the bulletproof glass. “Five Quick Picks for the Powerball, please.” NO! Maddie! Stop! Not a Quick Pick! Gemma screamed in my head. I know the numbers! Write them down! 03, 09, 17, 22, 30. Powerball 11. I blinked, quickly correcting myself. “Sorry, no. I have my own numbers.” When the clerk slid that thin strip of paper under the glass, it felt heavier than all the gold in my backpack. Seventy million dollars. “Gemma, are you absolutely sure?” I murmured as I walked back to the car. I would bet my soul on it, she said. In the other life, a construction worker bought those exact numbers and lost the ticket on the street. Marvin found it. That’s how he built his empire. We are not letting him have it this time. I was just opening the car door, a smile finally breaking across my face, when a hand violently snatched the ticket from my fingers. I spun around. It was Marvin.

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My roommate, Madison, had only been out the door for five minutes. Her tablet, forgotten on the coffee table, suddenly chimed and the screen flared to life. It was a reflex, really—a quick glance to see if it was something urgent. But what I saw froze the blood in my veins. It was a group chat titled “The Free Ride.” The messages were flying in, a flurry of digital celebration. One notification stood out, written in all caps: “CHEERS TO THIS MONTH’S JACKPOT!” Right after that, a series of Venmo payment notifications popped up on the screen, one after another. Curiosity—the poisonous kind—gnawed at me. I reached out and tapped the chat. The member list was a knife to the gut. It wasn’t just Madison. It was our landlord, Mr. Henderson, and our two other roommates, Kayla and Tinsley. “Seriously, Madison, you’re a genius,” one message read. “If you hadn’t suggested we overcharge Evelyn on the rent, we’d all be broke right now. I can’t believe she actually buys the ‘inflation’ excuse!” “Tell me about it,” another chimed in. “Having her as a live-in maid is the best part. We’ve saved a fortune on cleaning services and DoorDash since she does everything for ‘the house.’ Free labor and free money!” The chat was a riot of laughing emojis and digital high-fives. They were all in there, singing praises to the girl who was footing their bills. Everyone was being thanked. Everyone except me. 1 My fingers were shaking so hard I almost dropped the tablet. I scrolled up. I needed to see how deep this went. Group Creator: Madison. Date Created: January 12, 2023. The day after I’d received my dream job offer. The day I had shared my joy with her, thinking she was my best friend. She hadn’t been celebrating for me; she’d been marking a target. And she’d known the landlord long before we moved in. “Hey, Mr. Henderson,” one early message from Madison read. “I found a live one. She’s my college roommate. Tons of savings, zero street smarts. All she does is work and study. She won’t suspect a thing.” “Nice work, Maddy,” the landlord replied almost instantly. “Let’s do it the usual way then. I’ll draft the ‘special’ lease for her.” The early messages were logistical—moving dates, furniture needs. But by January 28th, Kayla and Tinsley were added to the fold. They were Madison’s old friends from back home. “Welcome to Project Easy Street, girls!” Madison had posted, followed by a shower of confetti emojis. “Wait, is this for real? We actually get to live for free?” Kayla asked, clearly skeptical. “Pretty much! Our human ATM already paid the security deposit. I told her it was double what it actually is.” “Maddy, you are a legend!” “I love this group name. It’s perfect.” “I feel like we’re already family,” Tinsley added, her message dripping with fake sentiment. Mr. Henderson popped in then: “We’re going to get along just fine, ladies.” I stared at the words until they blurred. My stomach did a violent somersault. I pulled out my own phone and began recording, my hands trembling as I scrolled through the history, capturing every toxic word. In the beginning, Kayla and Tinsley were cautious. Most of the talk was about the split. Madison: “Since I set this up, I’m taking the master suite. No arguments.” Kayla: “Tinsley and I will share the bigger guest room on the east side.” Tinsley: “So, how’s the math actually working?” Madison: “Okay, look. This place is fully renovated. Market rate is about $3,500. But I told Evelyn the rent is $6,000. That means we each ‘owe’ $1,500. But since the actual rent is way lower, we just have to cover the remaining $500 among the three of us.” She continued: “Since I’m the lead, I’ll pay $200, and you two split the other $300. Then, for utilities, WiFi, and the HOA fees, I’m going to bill her triple. Whatever is left over after the real bills are paid, we split it 40/40/20. Forty for Henderson, forty for me, and twenty for you two.” “Basically, we’re living here for next to nothing,” Madison concluded. “And if we play our cards right, we might actually turn a profit.” Tinsley’s reply was instant: “I’m in. Kayla?” Kayla: “Hell yes. This neighborhood, this apartment? Say no more.” The real rent was $3,500. I was paying $2,500 a month on my own for the smallest, draftiest room in the back. The sheer audacity of it made the air in the room feel thin. Click. The sound of the front door unlocking. I shoved my phone into my pocket and exited the tablet’s messaging app. Madison walked in, dropping a shopping bag on the counter. She picked up her tablet without a second thought, resuming the show she’d been binging. “Hey, Evelyn!” she called out toward the kitchen, her voice sweet as saccharine. “Is dinner almost ready? I’m starving!” “Almost,” I managed to choke out. I turned back to the stove, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I forced myself to move, to plate the food, to play the role I’d been cast in. The “human ATM” was still open for business. For now. 2 “Oh my god, this braised short rib smells incredible,” Kayla said, inhaling deeply as she sat down. “Evelyn, you’re seriously a lifesaver,” Tinsley added, her smile as bright and hollow as a Christmas ornament. I watched them—their practiced smiles, their easy camaraderie—and felt a wave of nausea. “I left the onions out of your portion, Madison,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “I know you hate them.” “You always remember,” Madison chirped, her eyes locked on her phone. “You’re the best, seriously.” “Let’s eat before it gets cold,” I said, picking up my fork. I couldn’t bring myself to take a bite. “Oh, by the way, Evelyn,” Madison said between mouthfuls. “Mr. Henderson reached out. He said he wants the next year’s rent upfront by March 1st.” I paused, my fork hovering over my plate. “Upfront? We’ve been doing six-month blocks. Why the change?” Madison sighed, the picture of sympathetic frustration. “He says the market is crazy right now. Apparently, there are three other groups willing to pay way more than us if they can sign a two-year lease today. He told me he’s only keeping us because of our ‘history,’ but he needs the security of a full year’s payment to keep the price locked in.” I looked down at my plate, the logic of the group chat screaming in my head. Keep it together. Don’t let them know you know. “I… I only have enough saved for six months,” I lied, keeping my head down. “I’ll have to move some things around. Scrape it together.” “I knew you’d understand,” Madison said, though there was a flicker of tension in her voice. “I was so worried we’d lose the place. I’m broke this month—I’m literally eating through my savings just to stay afloat. The thought of a whole year’s rent is giving me a panic attack.” “It’s brutal,” Kayla chimed in. “Everything is so expensive lately. I feel like I’m drowning.” I listened to them complain about their “poverty,” while the memory of those Venmo notifications burned in my mind. I was paying for their lives, and they were still trying to squeeze more out of me. The meal tasted like ash. They finished every scrap, laughing and chatting while I sat there like a ghost at my own table. When the last plate was cleared, Madison slumped back on the sofa. “Ugh, I’m so full I can’t move. Evelyn, would you mind taking care of the dishes? I really need to finish this episode before I pass out.” Kayla and Tinsley were already halfway to their rooms, murmuring their thanks as they vanished. I stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the wreckage of a dinner I’d paid for and cooked. The water in the sink was cold. It didn’t compare to the chill in my heart. Once I was sure they were all tucked away in their rooms, I locked my bedroom door and leaned against it, letting out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for a lifetime. I put on my headphones and opened the video I’d recorded. 3 The chat history was a jagged blade, twisting deeper with every scroll. I moved back to last winter, right before the holidays. We’d agreed to a massive deep-clean of the apartment. That morning, Madison had been doubled over on the sofa, clutching her stomach. “Evelyn, I’m so sorry. My cramps are so bad I can’t even stand up.” I’d spent an hour making her herbal tea and soup, telling her to just rest. Then Kayla called, saying her boyfriend’s car broke down and she had to go get him. Finally, Tinsley texted saying an “emergency project” came up at work and she’d be at the office until midnight. I spent ten hours scrubbing the floors, the baseboards, and the windows of that massive apartment alone. And then, I found the messages from that day. Madison had posted a photo of me from behind, kneeling on the floor with a scrub brush. “Look at our little Cinderella go,” she’d written. “She’s so eager to please. It’s almost sad.” “God, she really is a born martyr,” Kayla replied instantly. “Check out these shoes I just found at the mall. Cute, right?” “Love them!” Tinsley chimed in. “I’m at the bar around the corner. Send me your location, I’ll meet you there after I ‘finish my project’ lol.” “It’s so nice having someone to do the dirty work,” Madison added with a smug emoji. I gripped my phone, my nails digging into my palms. I remembered that night—I’d been so exhausted I’d skipped dinner and gone straight to bed, feeling guilty that they were all having such a “hard day.” I kept scrolling. Last December. I’d been hit with a 103-degree fever. I was shaking, unable to get out of bed. I’d texted Madison, asking if she could pick up some ibuprofen from the pharmacy downstairs. “I’m so sorry, babe! I’m swamped at work. Maybe call an Uber Eats for it?” I’d ended up taking a cab to the ER myself, sitting in the waiting room for four hours while my head throbbed. Not a single one of them checked on me. At 1:00 PM that day, Kayla had posted a screenshot in the group chat. It was a receipt for a $200 sushi feast. “Rent money just cleared,” she wrote. “Treating ourselves! This spicy tuna is life-changing.” While I was shivering under a hospital blanket, they were feasting on my overpayments. Then came October 18th. My birthday. I’d left work early, excited to celebrate with them. I’d spent $300 on groceries and wine, cooking a four-course meal. I’d sent a photo of the table to our real group chat. Madison didn’t reply for an hour. “Oh, Evelyn! I’m stuck at the office. Don’t wait up.” “Same here,” Kayla followed. “Boss is being a literal demon.” “I’m stuck in a client meeting across town,” Tinsley added. I’d sat at that table alone, watching the candles burn down and the food grow cold. Meanwhile, in “The Free Ride,” Madison had posted a selfie of the three of them at a high-end steakhouse. “Cheers to another free meal!” she’d captioned it. “The idiot is probably still sitting there waiting for us,” Kayla joked. “Her cooking is so mid anyway,” Tinsley added. “I’d rather eat cardboard.” The words burned like a slow-moving fire. Every “thank you,” every “you’re so sweet,” every “we’re so lucky to have you”—it was all a performance. I wasn’t their friend. I was their mark. 4 I forced myself to stop crying. Crying was a luxury I couldn’t afford right now. I spent the next week like a ghost, moving through the apartment with a silent, clinical precision. I backed up the videos, screenshotted every line of the chat, and started a spreadsheet. I sat at my desk late into the night, cross-referencing my bank statements with their “invoices.” The more I calculated, the colder I became. Outside my window, the city lights were warm and inviting, but my small, west-facing room felt like a tomb. They weren’t going to get another cent. Not a single drop. My phone buzzed. A text from Madison. “Hey Eve, you up? I’m starving and craving those dumplings from the night market. Could you grab some? ” I didn’t reply. I stared at the screen until it went black. A few minutes later, I heard her knocking on my door. I held my breath, sitting perfectly still in the dark. Eventually, I heard the front door close. She’d gone out. I slipped out of my room and checked the tablet she’d left on the sofa. “The ATM is malfunctioning,” Madison had messaged the group. “She’s ignoring me. I’m actually going to have to walk down there myself.” “Maybe she’s finally catching on?” Kayla asked. “Doubt it. She’s probably just exhausted from doing all our laundry,” Madison replied. “Anyway, we need to talk. Rent for 2027 is due next Sunday. I want to make sure she pays the full year, and then I’m going to start making things ‘uncomfortable’ for her.” “Why?” Tinsley asked. “My boyfriend wants to move in. He said if we get her out, he’ll cover her portion of the rent—the real portion. We keep the profit from her year-long payment, he moves in, and we finally get rid of the dead weight.” The group erupted in digital applause. “Maddy, you’re a shark. I love it,” Kayla wrote. “Finally, some eye candy in the house,” Tinsley added. So that was the plan. Steal a full year of rent from me, then bully me into moving out so the boyfriend could move in. I recorded it all. But something felt off. The math didn’t fully add up. Why would Mr. Henderson, a property owner, risk legal trouble just for a small cut of the utility overcharges? It didn’t make sense. The risk-to-reward ratio was too low. I went back to my computer and started researching. I looked up every listing in our building, every similar unit in the neighborhood. I messaged a local realtor, posing as a prospective tenant. “A renovated 3-bedroom in that building? You’re looking at about $4,000,” he told me. “Maybe $3,500 if it’s unrenovated or a lower floor.” Our apartment was barely “renovated.” The furniture was cheap, the appliances were old. If they were making a profit, the actual rent had to be even lower than $3,500. I sat there, staring at the screen. Why was the landlord playing along? Was there something else he was getting out of this? 5 The next morning, the banging on my door started early. “Evelyn! What are you doing in there?” Madison shouted. “It’s almost nine. We’re starving! Where’s breakfast?” I sat on the edge of my bed, the sound of her voice grating like sandpaper. “Evelyn? Are you okay? You’re usually up by now.” Her tone shifted into that fake, honeyed concern, but the pounding on the door only got harder. I walked over and yanked the door open. Madison’s hand was frozen mid-air. “What is wrong with you? Are you playing dead?” she snapped, her mask slipping for a split second. “I have a stomach bug,” I said, my voice flat. “If you’re hungry, use an app.” “What’s with the attitude?” Madison blinked, startled by the lack of apology. I didn’t answer. I shut the door in her face. “What a bitch,” I heard her mutter outside. “Seriously, she acts like cooking an egg is a chore.” “I know, right?” Kayla’s voice joined in. “She’s really getting a big head lately.” I went to the kitchen a few minutes later, after I heard them retreating. I saw the bowl of beans I’d put out to soak the night before—I’d planned on making a big batch of soup for everyone. I picked up the bowl and dumped the whole thing into the trash. Nothing. They were getting nothing else from me. I spent the next three days finalizing the data. They had inflated the rent by 80%. They had tripled the utility bills and HOA fees. They had charged me for “repairs” that never happened—leaking faucets, AC tune-ups, plumbing issues. They had even been billing me for their own skincare, tampons, and wine, disguised as “shared household expenses.” I stared at the final number at the bottom of my spreadsheet. $31,450. In two years, they had stolen over thirty thousand dollars from me. That was a down payment on a house in my hometown. That was a new car. That was my future. “I’m so broke, Evelyn… I’m literally eating dirt this month.” “That designer bag is so expensive, I’ll never be able to afford it…” I remembered Madison saying those things while she was using my money to buy the very things she claimed she couldn’t afford. A wave of literal physical sickness washed over me. I ran to the bathroom and gagged over the toilet, but nothing came up. I splashed cold water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked haggard. Pale. There were dark circles under my eyes from two years of overtime and stress, all to support a lifestyle for three people who despised me. I dried my face. I picked up my phone and called Jordan, an old friend from college who was now a high-powered litigator at a firm downtown. “Jordan? It’s Evelyn.” “Evelyn! Wow, it’s been a while. How are you?” “I’m in trouble,” I said, my voice finally cracking. “I need a lawyer. A good one.”

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The door to my examination room swung open just as I was looking down, organizing the morning’s patient charts. A man walked in, his arm wrapped possessively around a young woman’s waist. His voice was a low, melting murmur, the kind reserved for intimate, quiet spaces. “I know, sweetheart. Blame me. I just couldn’t keep my hands off you. I promise I’ll be more careful next time.” At the sound of that voice, the pen in my hand froze. I looked up. It was Jonathan. My husband. The man who was supposed to be halfway across the country at an academic symposium in Chicago. He saw me in the exact same fraction of a second I saw him. The tender smile wiped from his face, replaced by a sudden, violent paleness. His pupils dilated in sheer panic. The girl leaning against his side didn’t notice a thing. She just pouted, her hands resting on her heavily pregnant belly. “Tell him, Dr. Foster,” she whined, her voice syrupy and petulant. “Tell him he needs to be careful in the third trimester. He never listens to me. Scold him for me, won’t you?” I stared at her swollen abdomen. My mind automatically pulled up her file. Isabella Rossi. This was her ninth visit in three months for high-risk pregnancy monitoring. A tidal wave of nausea and grief threatened to drown me, but I forced it down, locking it behind a ribbed cage of professional detachment. A cold, razor-thin smile touched my lips. “Jonathan,” I said softly. My voice was as calm as if I were discussing the weather. “Is this your wife?” He flinched as if I’d struck him. His lips parted, but no sound came out. I took a slow step from behind the desk, my eyes locking onto his, refusing to let him look away. “Then what does that make me?” … 1 The blood completely drained from Jonathan’s face. He instinctively broke eye contact, his jaw working as he struggled to form a single word. Smack. The sharp crack of a palm against my cheek echoed in the sterile clinic room. My head snapped to the side. Isabella glared at me, her pretty face contorted into something ugly and mean. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Dr. Foster?” she hissed. “Aren’t you a little too old to be playing the homewrecker? Trying to seduce my husband?” My cheek burned. The physical sting was nothing compared to the ice flooding my veins. I leveled a dead-eyed stare at her and raised my hand to return the favor. “Let’s get one thing straight,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “Who exactly is seducing whose husband here?” Before my hand could connect with her face, Jonathan grabbed my wrist in a vice grip. He yanked my arm down, glaring at me with a warning so intense it made my stomach turn. “That’s enough, Mag. She’s pregnant. Don’t cross the line.” He stepped between us, shielding her. “She’s young. She doesn’t know any better. You’re a grown woman—are you really going to stoop to fighting with her?” The raw impatience in his eyes was a serrated blade, twisting right into my chest. Seven years. We had been together for seven years. We got married right out of grad school. The first six months were a dream; I got pregnant almost immediately. Then came the vacation three years ago. Jonathan, my mother, and I. The drunk driver who blew through the red light. In the fraction of a second before impact, my mother threw herself across the backseat, shoving me down. She took the brunt of the crushed steel. She survived, but was left paralyzed from the neck down. I lost the baby. The internal trauma was so severe that the doctors told me it would be a medical miracle if I ever carried a child to term again. When Jonathan found out, he collapsed to his knees beside my mother’s ICU bed. I can still hear the wet, choking sound of his crying. “Mom, if it weren’t for you, I’d be dead in that wreck,” he had sworn, his hands gripping her lifeless fingers. “I will take care of Marina for the rest of my life. Even if we never have kids, I will protect her. I swear to God.” For three years, he held me through the night terrors. He whispered into my hair that we were enough, just the two of us. But on the nights he thought I was asleep, I would find him sitting in the dark nursery, clutching the tiny, unworn onesies we had bought, staring at the wall. I knew then that the ghost of our unborn child was a splinter festering in his heart. Because of that, I put my body through hell. I couldn’t tell you how many hormone injections I’d given myself, how many rounds of IVF we had tried, chasing a miracle. And now, standing in this sterile room, I realized that while I was bleeding myself dry for him, he was out building a family with someone else. The sour taste of bile and heartbreak rose in the back of my throat. My eyes burned as I stared at him. “Is it because she can give you a baby?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Is that why you’re with her?” He couldn’t hold my gaze. He looked at the linoleum floor. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until he finally let out a single, barely audible word. “…Yes.” In a single heartbeat, my mother’s paralysis, my dead baby, my three years of agonizing, silent endurance—it was all reduced to a punchline. A pathetic joke. Smack. I wrenched my hand free and slapped him across the face with everything I had. “Fine,” I said, a bitter, broken laugh escaping my lips. “I want a divorce. You two deserve each other.” Panic flickered in his eyes. He reached out, trying to catch my hand. “Marina, wait—” “You bitch! Don’t you touch my husband!” Isabella lunged at me, her manicured nails aimed at my face. I took a quick step back on pure reflex. Before she even grazed my scrubs, she suddenly shrieked, clutching her heavy stomach, and collapsed onto the clinic floor. “It hurts…” she gasped, her face going stark white. “I… the baby is coming…” A dark stain of crimson began to pool on the pristine white tiles beneath her. My medical training overrode my shock. I instantly dropped to my knees to assess her, but she shoved me away with surprising force. “Get off me!” she screamed. “If you hadn’t pushed me, I wouldn’t be bleeding!” She clawed at Jonathan’s pant leg. “Jon… I’m so scared… save our baby… If anything happens to my son, I swear to God, I’ll make sure she never practices medicine again!” 2 Isabella went into premature labor. It was a boy. A few hours later, gripping the freshly printed divorce papers I needed Jonathan to sign, I walked down the maternity ward hallway. Before I even reached the door of her private suite, I heard the chatter. The room was packed. Looking through the glass, I saw a dozen of Jonathan’s university grad students crowding the space, carrying balloons and expensive floral arrangements. “Bella, Professor Mercer is practically obsessed with you! I can’t believe he pulled out of the tenure track review just to take a six-month paternity leave to be with you!” “Professor, you and Bella have been together for three years now. It’s about time we had a baby in the department!” “Bella graduates next spring, right? Once the wedding happens, we’re going to have to start calling you Mrs. Mercer!” Jonathan was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, holding Isabella close. The smile on his face was one of profound, unadulterated peace. “Yeah, it’s time we finally had a real wedding,” he said softly, kissing her temple. “I’ve made my Bella wait far too long.” They laughed. A picture-perfect, joyous family. I stood in the hallway, my feet cemented to the floor. The chill of the air conditioning seemed to seep directly into my bones. When I was pregnant, he told me he was trying to secure funding for his lab. He was too busy. My mother was the one who drove me to every single ultrasound. But for Isabella, he dropped his tenure review and took six months off without a second thought. They’ve been together for three years. My baby died three years ago. So, after the car crash—after my mother traded her mobility for his life, after I buried my child—while he was kneeling beside a hospital bed swearing to be my protector, he was already hunting for a younger, more fertile replacement. And I, like an absolute fool, had let doctors harvest my eggs over and over, bruising my stomach with needles, desperate to give him the family he had already started somewhere else. Tears of pure rage blurred my vision. A violent tremor took over my body. I pushed the heavy wooden door open, letting it bang against the wall. The laughter died instantly. Every head in the room snapped toward me. Isabella shrieked. She grabbed the heavy glass water pitcher from her bedside table and hurled it directly at me. “You psycho!” she screamed. “You caused my early labor, and now you stalk me here? Are you that desperate to steal my husband?” The pitcher shattered against the doorframe, shards of heavy glass exploding outward. A piece sliced deep into my calf. Hot blood immediately soaked into my scrubs. Jonathan didn’t even glance at my bleeding leg. He just tightened his arms around Isabella, stroking her hair. When he finally looked at me, his eyes were flat. Dead. “Get out,” he said, his voice freezing cold. “Isabella is my wife. I don’t even know who you are. If you keep harassing my family, I’m calling security and having you arrested.” A laugh clawed its way up my throat—a harsh, jagged sound. I pulled our marriage certificate from my bag and whipped it directly at his chest. “You don’t know who I am?” I demanded. “Then what the hell is this?” The room plunged into a suffocating silence. Jonathan stood up, his face an unreadable mask. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t try to defend himself. One of the grad students cautiously picked up the booklet from the floor. He opened it, frowned, and then let out a scoffing laugh. “Lady, are you serious?” he sneered, holding it up for the others to see. “This piece of paper doesn’t even have the county clerk’s embossed seal. It’s an obvious fake!” “Yeah,” a girl chimed in, glaring at me. “When Professor Mercer married Bella, we were all there! We went to City Hall with them.” “We literally took pictures of the judge signing their license!” They pulled out their phones, aggressively shoving screens in my face. There it was. Jonathan and Isabella, smiling under the fluorescent lights of the municipal building, holding a legally binding marriage license. The raised county seal on their document felt like a physical blow to my ribs. My vision swam. A sickening realization crawled over my skin. The quick “courthouse wedding” Jonathan and I had right after graduation. The paperwork he promised to mail in because I was starting my brutal residency hours. He never filed it. My marriage—the foundation of my entire adult life, the reason my mother was currently staring at the ceiling of a long-term care facility—had been a lie from the very first day. Tears spilled over my lashes, mixing with a hatred so venomous it tasted like copper. I stared dead into Jonathan’s eyes. “Jonathan,” I whispered, my voice shaking with fury. “How do you sleep at night? How do you face the memory of my dead baby? How do you face my mother?” For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped. His face went ashen, and a flash of raw, unfiltered guilt passed through his eyes. But before he could speak, a sharp wail pierced the tension. Isabella had picked up the newborn. She let out a bloodcurdling scream. “What is this?!” The students panicked, rushing to the bed. On the infant’s tiny, fragile arm was a stark, dark purple bruise. Isabella sobbed hysterically, her whole body shaking as she pointed a trembling finger right at me. “You monster!” she wept, clutching the baby to her chest. “If you hate me, come after me! How could you hurt an innocent newborn?!” 3 The sheer absurdity of the accusation left me momentarily speechless. “Are you insane?” I snapped. “I haven’t been within ten feet of that baby! Don’t you dare try to pin your own—” Smack. The blow came so fast I didn’t even see it. My head snapped back, a high-pitched ringing exploding in my left ear. Jonathan stood over me, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with a terrifying malice. “Since he was born, you and Bella are the only two people who have been alone in the delivery suite with him,” he snarled. “Are you really trying to suggest a mother would bruise her own flesh and blood?” He leaned in closer, his voice a lethal hiss. “You’re just jealous she gave me a son. This is your sick revenge.” He pointed toward the bed. “Apologize to Bella. Right now. Or I promise you, you won’t have a medical license by the end of the day.” The side of my face throbbed. I looked at the man I thought I had known for seven years, and I saw a total stranger. “I will never apologize for something I didn’t do,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “If you’re so sure, go pull the security footage from the hallway and the suite.” He didn’t even blink. He simply turned his back on me, scooped up his son, and walked out to find a pediatrician. Ten minutes later, standing alone in the hospital’s security office, the guard gave me an apologetic wince. “Sorry, Dr. Foster. The camera covering Suite 4 is down for maintenance. Has been since yesterday.” I stood frozen in the dim glow of the monitors. The buzzing in my head finally quieted, leaving behind a cold, crystalline clarity. It was a setup. She had orchestrated the entire thing. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was the Chief of Medicine. “Marina,” he started, his voice heavy with exhausted resignation. “We just got a formal complaint from a patient accusing you of assaulting a newborn. There’s no physical evidence tying you to it, but she has a dozen witnesses claiming you’ve been stalking and harassing her.” I closed my eyes. “Chief—” “It’s already all over Twitter and TikTok, Marina. The PR nightmare is escalating by the minute. The board had an emergency meeting. To protect the hospital’s reputation…” He sighed. “We need your resignation. Today.” Witnesses. The grad students. I remembered the ice in Jonathan’s eyes. I stood in the hallway, shaking from head to toe. He knew better than anyone what this job meant to me. Over the last three years, I had turned down fellowships in Boston and London, passing up incredible career opportunities just so I could stay at this specific hospital—because it was a ten-minute drive from his university. And now, to protect his new life, he was burning mine to the ground. I pulled my phone back out, my fingers numb, and scrolled to a contact I had ignored for years. I hit dial. “I just resigned,” I said the second the line connected. “Is that position in your department still open?” The voice on the other end erupted in immediate, undisguised relief. “Of course it is! I’ve been holding it for you, Marina. Just say the word. Actually, I’m in town right now, I can come pick you up—” Before the sentence finished, the phone was violently ripped from my hand. Jonathan stood there, his grip bruising my wrist, his jaw tight with anger. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded. “You’re trying to leave me?” His tone suddenly shifted, dropping into that manipulative, soft cadence he used to use when I was crying over negative pregnancy tests. “Look, I know I handled the Bella situation badly. I should have told you.” He stepped closer, trying to pull me into his chest. “But you went too far today, Marina. That’s my son. How could you hurt a baby?” I jerked my arm free with so much force my shoulder popped. I looked at him like he was a piece of trash stuck to my shoe. “Where I go is none of your business, Mr. Mercer. We aren’t legally married, remember? We’re strangers.” The words hit him. A flash of genuine pain crossed his features, and he softened his voice even more. “Marina, please. Do we have to make this so ugly?” he pleaded. “Bella was just a surrogate to me. You’re the woman I love. You’ve always been the one.” He reached for me again. “I’ll buy her a house in the suburbs. I’ll make sure she never comes near you again. You get to be the mother. Just… don’t leave me, okay?” The sheer audacity of his delusion left me breathless. But before I could even formulate a response, the sound of frantic footsteps echoed down the linoleum corridor. Three of his students came sprinting around the corner, looking terrified. “Professor Mercer! It’s bad!” one of them gasped. “Someone leaked everything on the university forum! They posted that Bella is the side piece and you manipulated your marriage documents… The Dean’s office just called her. They’re expelling her!” “She completely lost it, Professor! She took the baby and she’s threatening to jump off the parking garage!” I froze. Before my brain could even process the information, Jonathan lunged. He shoved me backward with a vicious, unthinking force. My back slammed against the concrete wall, and the back of my skull cracked sickeningly against the edge of a fire extinguisher cabinet. Pain exploded behind my eyes in a blinding flash of white. I crumpled to the floor. “Mag, how can you be so fucking evil?” Jonathan roared, standing over me. “Are you going to destroy both of us just to satisfy your own jealousy?!” Warm blood began to pool at the nape of my neck. My vision tunneled, the edges bleeding into black. The last thing I heard was the sound of his dress shoes sprinting away, and his voice echoing down the hall. “If anything happens to Bella or my son, I swear to God, I will kill you myself!” 4 The wound on the back of my head was bleeding freely, matting my hair. I pressed my hand to my skull, using the wall to drag myself upright. I stumbled blindly toward the exit. As I pushed through the doors to the adjacent parking structure, I heard the shrieks. Isabella was standing on the concrete ledge of the third floor, holding the infant, half her body leaning out into the open air. A crowd had already formed below, phones out, recording. “She ruined my life! I don’t want to live anymore!” Isabella screamed, making sure her voice carried to the onlookers. “The whole internet is calling me a whore! They’re calling my son a bastard! What’s the point of even being alive?!” She took a precarious step forward. Jonathan burst onto the scene, his face chalk-white. He threw himself onto the concrete, grabbing her leg. “Don’t do it!” he begged, his voice breaking. “Bella, please! Just step down. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Just name it!” A flicker of pure, calculating malice flashed through Isabella’s tear-stained eyes. “Then I want her to tell the world the truth,” she demanded, pointing down at the crowd. “I want her to look into the cameras and admit that she is the mistress!” Jonathan didn’t hesitate for a single second. “Done! I’ll make her do it! Just step away from the ledge!” He scrambled up and whipped his head around, spotting me leaning heavily against the stairwell door. He didn’t care about the blood soaking my collar. He marched over, grabbed me by the upper arm, and dragged me toward his parked SUV. I fought him. I kicked and twisted, but my head was swimming, and I had no strength left. He shoved me into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “I told you that you were always going to be my wife!” he screamed, slamming his hands against the steering wheel. “Why couldn’t you just let it go?! Are you trying to force her into a coffin before you’re satisfied?!” He peeled out of the garage. “I’m calling a press conference right now at the hospital entrance. You are going to stand in front of those reporters and you are going to say that you made it all up. You are going to admit you’re the mistress.” He turned to look at me, his eyes dead and ruthless. “Or I call the nursing home and cancel the payments for your mother’s memory care unit. Today.” I stopped breathing. I stared at him, the man sitting in the driver’s seat, entirely unrecognizable from the boy I had loved. The memory of him kneeling beside my mother’s broken body, weeping, swearing on his life to protect us, overlaid with the monster sitting next to me now. He was willing to sentence the woman who had sacrificed her spine to save his life to state-run neglect, all to protect his lie. Hatred—pure, unadulterated, toxic hatred—snapped the last thread of my sanity. I threw myself across the console, grabbing him by the collar, clawing at his neck. “How could you do that to her?!” I screamed, my voice tearing my throat. “She saved your fucking life!” He didn’t flinch. He just held up his phone. He had already dialed the nursing home’s billing department. He looked at me, his finger hovering over the speaker button, an unspoken ultimatum hanging in the tense air. Do it, or she’s out on the street. A violent shiver ripped through my spine. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The fight drained out of me, leaving only a hollow, cavernous void. I closed my eyes. The tears finally spilled over, hot and humiliating. “Fine,” I whispered into the silence of the car. “I’ll do it.” The moment the SUV parked near the hospital’s main plaza, a swarm of local reporters and internet livestreamers descended on us like locusts. “Dr. Foster! Are the rumors about Professor Mercer’s infidelity true?” “Is Isabella Rossi the homewrecker who ruined your marriage?” The camera flashes were physically painful against my concussed brain. The blood on my neck felt sticky and cold. I stood in front of the microphones. I dug my fingernails so deeply into my palms that they broke the skin. I forced a hollow, agonizing smile. “Jonathan Mercer and I… have no legal relationship,” I said into the barrage of microphones. “Isabella Rossi is not a mistress.” The crowd quieted, hanging on my every word. “The rumors online… I made them up. I was jealous. I fabricated the entire story.” For two seconds, there was dead silence. Then, the mob erupted. “You psychotic bitch! How could you be so selfish?!” “You physically assaulted a pregnant woman and a newborn baby? You tried to destroy an innocent family? You shouldn’t even be allowed near a hospital!” “Revoke her medical license!” “Get out of here, you freak!” The shouting turned violent. Someone threw a half-empty iced coffee. Then came the crumpled food wrappers and trash. I raised my arms to shield my face, but there was nowhere to run. I was trapped against the side of the SUV. Thwack. A heavy stone, hurled from the back of the crowd, struck me dead in the forehead. The impact knocked me off balance. Blood immediately blinded my left eye. Through the blur of red and the screaming mob, I looked up. Standing on the periphery of the crowd, safely tucked under Jonathan’s arm, was Isabella. She was looking right at me. The smug, triumphant sneer on her face was unmistakable. Suddenly, a sharp, agonizing cramp ripped through my abdomen. Someone in the crush of the mob shoved me hard, and I hit the pavement knees-first. Another foot clipped my stomach as the crowd surged. I collapsed onto the asphalt. A terrifying heat bloomed between my legs. Blood—so much blood—began to pool on the gray concrete beneath me, soaking through my pants. The pain was a living thing, tearing me apart from the inside. I curled into a fetal position, my face pale as death, clutching my stomach. “Help me…” I gasped, looking up at Jonathan’s shoes. “Please… I’m pregnant…” Jonathan looked down at me from his towering height. His eyes were filled with nothing but profound disgust and disappointment. “Stop putting on a show, Mag,” he spat. “We both know you’re barren.” He turned his back on me, wrapped his arm carefully around Isabella’s waist, and walked away. I watched his retreating back as the edges of my vision rapidly collapsed into blackness. The pain was dragging me under. Right as I was about to slip into unconsciousness, a deep, authoritative voice cut through the chaos of the screaming mob. “Who the hell gave you permission to touch her?!” A second later, strong arms scooped me off the pavement, pulling me into a warm, solid chest. That evening, Jonathan was sitting in the living room of his new suburban house, gently rocking the baby while Isabella dozed on the couch. A courier knocked on the door and handed him a thick manila envelope. Still holding the baby in one arm, he broke the seal and pulled out the paperwork. He froze. All the color drained from his face in a violent rush.

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The day before our wedding, I was mindlessly scrolling through Instagram when I hit a post that stopped my heart. It was Toby, my fiancée’s “childhood best friend.” He was leaning against a brand-new, charcoal-gray SUV, grinning like he’d won the lottery. The caption read: “Mentioned I needed a new ride, and my girl came through! So lucky to have her in my corner for life. #DayOne #Blessed” A cold shiver raced from my heels to the back of my neck. My fingers shook as I opened my banking app, navigating to the joint high-yield savings account we’d set up for our house down payment. The screen blurred for a second. The balance, which should have been just north of eighty thousand dollars, was gone. In its place was a pathetic $14.32. The air left my lungs. This was the tenth time. Ten times Lauren had “loaned” our future to Toby. Every single time we got close to a closing date or a wedding milestone, the account was drained, and our life together was pushed back. The last time it happened, I’d looked her in the eye and asked, “Do you actually want to marry me, or are we just playing house until you run out of my money?” She’d looked shaken then—resolute, even. She actually got the money back that time. Like a fool, I believed her. I thought she’d finally chosen me. 1 Now I realized that in this twisted triangle, I was the only one playing for keeps. I was the one being phased out. A wave of pure, cold humiliation washed over me. I didn’t hesitate. I opened our chat and typed: [The wedding is off. We’re done.] The phone rang almost before the message marked as “read.” I picked up, but it wasn’t Lauren’s voice. It was Toby, his tone sharp and mocking. “Ben, are you seriously having a mid-life crisis right now? You’re canceling a wedding because she helped me out with a car? God, you’re so petty. It’s embarrassing, man. You’re like a high-maintenance trophy husband without the trophy.” In the background, I heard the familiar chorus of their “squad”—the group of friends Lauren had known since kindergarten. “Seriously, if Lauren were with Toby, she wouldn’t have to deal with this drama,” a girl’s voice giggled. “Toby’s a real man. He doesn’t keep a ledger on his friends,” another added. These people had spent years treating me like an intruder. Toby was the worst of them. He’d told our mutual acquaintances that I was a “clinger,” someone who only wanted Lauren for her family’s connections, while he secretly posted “vague-grams” implying I was some kind of fraudster. I’d spent months losing sleep over the harassment from strangers on social media who believed his lies. And Lauren? She just told me I was being “sensitive” and that “that’s just how Toby is.” She never told them that of that $80,000, she’d contributed exactly three grand. I didn’t argue. I didn’t defend my manhood or my bank account. I just felt… empty. “I hope you both get exactly what you deserve,” I said quietly. I hung up before they could respond and started pulling my suitcases out of the closet. I expected Lauren to stay out late celebrating with them, but she was home in twenty minutes. She walked in carrying a takeout bag from a Thai place down the street, acting as if nothing had happened. “Hey, babe. You’re probably hungry,” she said, offering a tight, performative smile. “I got your favorite—the spicy peanut noodles.” I stared at the bag. My throat felt like it was closing up just looking at it. “I’m deathly allergic to peanuts, Lauren. I’ve carried an EpiPen since the third grade because of them.” I’d told her a thousand times. But Toby loved those noodles. She’d bought them to appease both of us, forgetting that what fueled Toby would literally kill me. I didn’t take the bag. I just started to laugh. It was a hollow, jagged sound. Lauren’s expression shifted from feigned innocence to irritation. She headed for the kitchen. “Fine, don’t eat. But stop the drama, Ben. It was just a loan.” “I’m calling the movers tomorrow. The engagement is over.” The sound of a ceramic plate shattering hit the floor. Lauren stood in the kitchen, surrounded by shards. “You’re throwing away three years over a house fund?” she demanded, her voice rising. In the past, I would have fought back. I would have asked why Toby’s needs always came before our stability. I would have asked why she let her friends treat me like dirt. I would have asked why she couldn’t remember the one thing that could stop my heart. But the desire to explain myself had died. Our golden retriever, Cooper, skittered into the room, his tail tucked. I leaned down to grab his collar so he wouldn’t step on the broken plate. Lauren thought I was lunging for her—or maybe she was just desperate to stop me from leaving—and she grabbed my arm. I wrenched away instinctively. I lost my balance, my forearm slamming down onto the kitchen island where a jagged piece of the shattered plate was resting. Pain flared, hot and sharp. Blood began to soak through my shirt sleeve immediately. Lauren’s face went ghost-white. She grabbed a towel and hustled me out the door to her mother’s clinic. Her mother, a stern woman who’d never hidden her preference for Toby, didn’t even look me in the eye as she cleaned the wound. She handled the tweezers with a clinical coldness that felt like an extension of her daughter’s neglect. “Honestly, Ben,” she sighed, wrapping the bandage tight—too tight. “It’s late. Lauren is exhausted from wedding planning, and you’re home picking fights over nothing? Marriage is about the big picture. You can’t be this thin-skinned. You need to be a man, not a nag.” When I didn’t respond, her annoyance sharpened. “Toby always had such a level head. If Lauren had ended up with someone like him…” “Mom, stop!” Lauren interrupted, finally catching the look on my face. Everyone knew the score. At the last family dinner, Lauren’s mother had spent the entire evening praising Toby’s “entrepreneurial spirit.” She’d even given him a vintage Rolex that had belonged to Lauren’s grandfather—a piece she’d promised to me as a wedding gift. When I’d asked about it later, the gaslighting was immediate. “It’s just a watch, Ben. Don’t be so insecure. They’re like siblings. Are you really that small-minded?” I’d sat there, face burning, while they shared a look of shared pity for my “fragile ego.” They didn’t realize that I didn’t care about the watch. My own father had a collection of horology that made that Rolex look like a toy. It was the principle. It was the betrayal. My parents were right: you don’t just marry a person; you marry their values. And Lauren’s values were bankrupt. We spent the night in the observation room. Lauren tried to sit next to me, but I moved my chair. She stared at me for a long time before slumping onto the bench across the room. The next morning, we took an Uber home. The moment we walked through the door, a loud POP exploded in my face. Confetti rained down, stinging my eyes and sticking to my sweaty skin. Toby’s sisters, Lexi and Paige, were standing there with confetti cannons, grinning. “Welcome home, Ben! We’re here to stage an intervention—and maybe cook you some breakfast so you’ll stop being such a grump!” I ignored them. My gaze went straight to Toby. He was sitting on my leather sofa, casually holding my briefcase. It was a bespoke Italian leather piece my father had given me for my thirtieth birthday—worth about four thousand dollars. Toby had it slung over his shoulder like a gym bag, and I could see a fresh, deep scuff mark on the corner. This was his move. He’d come over, go into my home office, and treat my belongings like communal property. “Toby,” Lauren said, her voice strained. “Why do you have Ben’s bag?” Toby shrugged, shifting the weight. “Just seeing how it felt. It’s a nice bag, Ben. But you’ve got like five of these, right? Spread the wealth.” “It’s four thousand dollars,” I said. My voice was flat. Dead. The room went silent. Lexi and Paige stopped laughing, their expressions curdling into that familiar look of disgust. “What?” Toby asked. “That bag cost four thousand dollars. You either Venmo me the replacement cost right now, or you put it back exactly where you found it.” Lauren stepped between us, her hand on my chest. “Ben, please. It’s just a bag. Don’t make this a thing…” Toby’s face fell into a rehearsed pout. He tossed the bag onto the hardwood floor instead of the sofa. “God, you’re such a prick. Everything is about money with you.” Lexi moved to comfort him, throwing me a dirty look. “Seriously, Ben. He didn’t mean anything by it. You’re so obsessive.” Paige went to pick up the bag, but her heel caught the strap. The bag slid, slamming its metal clasp into the sharp edge of the marble coffee table. A deep, jagged gouge tore through the leather. “Oops,” Paige smirked. “Guess it wasn’t that high-quality anyway. Probably a knockoff.” Toby nodded. “Yeah, Ben. Don’t let people scam you into buying overpriced junk. You should be smarter with your cash.” I looked at Lauren. She knew the history of that bag. She knew it was a gift from my father. But she just stood there, gripping my arm. “Ben, just let it go. It’s just stuff. Let’s just have a nice breakfast.” In that moment, I realized I wasn’t a person to her. I was a resource. My things, my feelings, my boundaries—they were all obstacles to her “peace.” I walked into my office, grabbed the original receipt and the certificate of authenticity from the safe, and threw them on the coffee table. Toby’s face paled as he saw the price tag. But within seconds, the entitlement returned. “Even if it’s real, why are you being such a bitch about it? I’ve known Lauren since we were in diapers. You’re going to end a friendship over a piece of cowhide?” He used my money, ruined my things, and I was the one who lacked character. I pulled out my phone to call the police to file a report for property damage. Lauren lunged, grabbing my phone and throwing it against the wall. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass. “BEN! ENOUGH!” she screamed. “You are driving everyone away! It’s a bag! You’re literally psychotic!” Her voice was so loud the neighbors probably heard. She grabbed Toby’s hand. “Toby, let’s go. He’s having some kind of breakdown. We’ll go to your place.” Lexi and Paige followed them out, muttering about “small-man syndrome” as they passed me. The neighbors were peeking through their doors as the hallway cleared. I looked at them and forced a smile. “Hey, guys. If any of you need a new TV, a Dyson, or a Peloton, let me know. I’m selling everything at half price. Cash only. Today.” My parents had furnished this place for us. Nearly fifty thousand dollars in high-end appliances and tech. If I wasn’t going to live here, I wasn’t going to let Toby use them. The apartment became a bazaar. Within two hours, the place was gutted. My neighbors walked away with deals of a lifetime, and I walked away with a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. I sat on the floor of the empty living room and breathed. For the first time in three years, the air felt clean. By Sunday, Lauren still hadn’t called. She was likely waiting for me to crawl back and apologize for my “outburst.” I spent the weekend finalizing my resignation at the firm. I had a job offer back in my hometown, and I was taking it. Sunday night, my phone—now with a barely functioning screen—buzzed. I was at the gym, hitting the heavy bag, trying to sweat out the last of the resentment. I missed the call. When I called back, Lauren was livid. “Where have you been? Why aren’t you answering?” I was still panting, wiping sweat from my forehead. Before I could speak, a woman I frequently sparred with at the gym walked over and handed me a Gatorade. “Hey, Ben. Take a breather. Don’t forget to stretch those hamstrings.” “Thanks, Sarah,” I said into the phone’s mic. Silence on the other end. Then, a hiss. “Where are you? Who is that? Is that why you haven’t called me? You already found a replacement?” The sheer hypocrisy was exhausting. I didn’t even want to explain. “Ben, we are getting married in a month! You are being so incredibly pathetic—” I took a sip of the drink and laughed. I was at a boxing gym, and she was accusing me of being “shameless,” while Toby was probably currently sleeping on the bed my parents paid for. “I moved the money back into the account,” she said, her voice suddenly dropping into a manipulative, soft tone. “Ben, stop the act. Let’s just fix the wedding plans, okay?” She still thought this was about the money. Before I could answer, I heard Lexi’s voice in the background, loud and performative. “Ben, seriously, Lauren hasn’t slept! She’s been crying over your texts all night. She even had too much to drink yesterday and kept saying how much she—” “Lexi, shut up!” Lauren barked. I felt nothing. No pity. No spark of old love. I remembered when Toby got into a fight at a bar six months ago. Lauren had practically thrown herself in front of a punch to protect him, then turned around and screamed at me for not “stepping up.” I’d ended up paying the other guy’s medical bills just to keep Toby out of jail. Toby had just smirked at me from behind Lauren’s shoulder. I had always been the outsider in my own relationship. “Ben? Are you there? Look, I’m sorry I overreacted about the phone…” I hung up and blocked her. That night, I met my buddy Jason at a quiet bar. For three years, I’d avoided places like this because Lauren “didn’t like the vibe.” Jason poured me a drink and sighed. “Moving back home, huh? I’m gonna miss you, man.” I started to reply when a sharp voice sliced through the air. “Wow. Lauren is at home worried sick, and you’re here throwing back cocktails?” Toby was standing there with Lexi and Paige. He was wearing Lauren’s oversized hoodie. Jason stood up, his face darkening. “Let’s go, Ben. Not worth it.” Toby stepped in front of us, a cruel, secret smile playing on his lips. He pulled a small, velvet-lined box from his pocket. “Look, since you guys were supposed to get hitched next week, I figured I’d give you an early wedding present. A little piece of history.” He opened the box. Inside was a scrap of white fabric, stained with a dark, dried rust color. I stared at it, my face expressionless. “What is that?” He leaned in, his voice a triumphant whisper. “You really don’t recognize it? This is from the night Lauren and I first… well, you know. We were young, we were reckless. I kept it as a souvenir. Thought you should know who really owns her heart, ‘husband.’”

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I stayed in this simulation, this constructed reality, for three long years. I stayed for one reason: to take care of Martin Pierce, the man who had supposedly suffered irreversible brain damage while saving my life. The System’s punishments were a constant, quiet hum of agony in my veins, but I endured them in silence. For him. Until the afternoon he drove his SUV straight into me, sending my body flying across the asphalt. As I lay bleeding, he walked over, his fingers perfectly interlaced with Evie’s—the fragile, tragic girl who had always haunted his heart. Looking down at me with cold, lucid eyes, he casually explained that he had been faking his mental deficit the entire time. He had been waiting for this exact moment. Once I bled out, he and his precious Evie would inherit my status as the System’s “Host,” granting them the one thing money couldn’t buy: immortality. I looked up at them. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, but inside, I felt an eerie, hollow calm. System, I thought, projecting my voice into the void of my mind. I have two new candidates willing to take my place. Can I finally go home now? 1. “So, you were faking it. Every single day.” I lay in a spreading pool of my own blood, staring up at Martin in disbelief. He pulled Evie tighter against his side. The dark depths of his eyes held nothing but frost. “Obviously,” he said, his voice smooth, devoid of the childlike stutter I had spent three years soothing. “How else was I supposed to make you pity me enough to stay?” He offered a tight, patronizing smile. “Though I suppose I should thank you. If you hadn’t spilled the secret about the System, I never would have found a way to save Evie.” Evie shrank against his chest, her pale, delicate face a portrait of practiced fragility. She was Martin’s first love, the girl who got away. She had leukemia. She had been fighting a losing battle against it for years. Martin used to tell me, with that vacant, innocent look in his eyes: I don’t care that she’s sick. She’s in the past, Jo. I only want you. Only now did I realize the depth of his long con. He had been orchestrating this for three years, all to save her. Suddenly, a tearing, white-hot agony ripped through my chest. It had nothing to do with the shattered ribs from the car hitting me. It was the System. The punishment protocol. Because my assigned mission was to win Martin’s love. And if he didn’t love me, I paid the price in pain. “God, it hurts…” The whimper slipped past my bloody lips before I could stop it. I had endured this sensation—the feeling of my joints being pulled apart, my nerves catching fire—dozens of times over the years. But a person never truly gets used to torture. “Is it really that bad?” Martin looked down at me, mildly amused. “I thought you Hosts could just ask the System to turn off your pain receptors.” His casual cruelty was dizzying. It brought back a sudden, sharp memory of our golden days. The days when he looked at me like I hung the moon. I had been so stupidly in love, so convinced I had found my soulmate in this artificial reality, that I confessed the truth about the System to him. But I never told him about the punishments. I hadn’t wanted him to worry. The invisible fire inside me flared higher. I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ground together. “Stop talking,” I gasped out. Every word he spoke, every confirmation of his lack of love, dialed up the System’s torture. Evie suddenly stepped forward, crouching just out of reach of the blood, and put her hands on her knees. “Joanne, does it really hurt?” she asked, her voice dripping with saccharine concern. She looked up at Martin. “Martin, maybe we shouldn’t do this. I don’t need to live forever. It’s okay if I die.” “Absolutely not.” Martin shot it down instantly, his gaze softening entirely as he looked at her. “Evie, it’s different for her. She’s a Host. Even if she dies here, she just wakes up in her original world. But if you die, I lose you forever. Don’t waste your pity on her.” Where Martin couldn’t see, Evie’s lips curved into a smug, triumphant smirk. Leaning in closer to me, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Did you know I was the one who told him to keep saying he doesn’t love you? I figured out that’s what triggers your little punishments. He knows exactly what it does to you.” She stood back up, sighing dramatically. “He doesn’t love you, Joanne. He never did. He only loves me. I am the main character of his story, after all.” The moment the words left her mouth, Martin pulled her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. The look in his eyes was devastatingly tender. “I bought the estate in the Palisades,” he murmured to her. “The one you liked. It’ll be our home.” My breath hitched. I had told Martin once, late at night, that I grew up in the foster system back in my real world. I had no family, no roots. My only dream was to build a real home. He had bought that estate in the Palisades for me. I had spent the last year agonizing over the renovations, the paint colors, the kitchen tile, waiting for the day we could finally move in. And now, he was handing the keys to my executioner. I let my head fall back against the pavement, staring up at the smoggy sky. System, I thought. I found them. Two new Hosts, completely willing. Can I go now? Martin Pierce. You threw me away. So be it. I’m throwing you away, too. 2. [Acknowledged. Scanning for willing Host replacements… Match confirmed.] [Host, are you absolutely certain you wish to transfer your binding to these two individuals?] Listening to the sterile, echoing voice of the System in my mind, I dragged my eyes back to Martin and Evie. They were making out against the backdrop of the city skyline, entirely unbothered by my dying body on the ground. For a split second, an old memory superimposed itself over the horrific present. I saw the Martin from two years ago, the one who smiled at me with pure, unjaded devotion. Thank you for staying with me, Jo. I love you. He used to warm up milk for me when I couldn’t sleep. He used to wash my stained sheets when my period cramps were too bad to move. No one had ever loved me in the details before. I really thought he was my safe harbor. I was so profoundly wrong. I’m certain, I answered the System. The thought tasted like ash. [Understood, Host. Initiating transfer protocol.] “Why isn’t the System showing up?” Evie whined, pulling back from Martin. Martin stroked her hair. “She’s probably negotiating with it right now. Just give it a second. She always spaces out when she talks to the thing.” [Greetings, Candidates.] The System’s voice suddenly materialized into the open air, a metallic resonance that they could hear, too. [As of today, you will become my new Hosts. Please state your chosen targets for the affection-binding protocol.] “I choose Evie Lawson,” Martin said instantly. “I choose Martin Pierce,” Evie echoed. They spoke in perfect unison, their hands clasped tight. A picture-perfect portrait of true love. My chest tightened. I remembered when Martin had looked at me with that same unwavering certainty, swearing, I will choose my Jo, every single time, no matter what. But times change. People change. [Acknowledged. However, the transfer calibration requires a 72-hour gestation period. You must wait three days.] The ambient hum vanished, and the System’s voice retreated back into the privacy of my mind. [You will be extracted in exactly three days, Host. I will accelerate your cellular repair so you may spend this time saying your goodbyes to your loved ones in this reality.] The moment the transmission ended, the agonizing fire in my veins shifted into a cool, tingling sensation. The broken ribs knitted together. The lacerations sealed. Martin let out a breath of awe. “Look, Evie. I told you she could just have the System heal her. The System is incredible. Once we have it, we’ll never have to worry about sickness or death again.” I slowly pushed myself off the blood-stained pavement, looking at him with utter exhaustion. He had no idea. He thought the System was a god of miracles. He didn’t know it was a warden. 3. I took an Uber straight to the hospital to see Grandpa Joe. In this entire constructed world, outside of Martin, Grandpa Joe was my only anchor. He was the only family I had. He had treated me with a kindness I had never known in my real life. He had emptied his meager savings account to help Martin and me buy our first car. He would always save the best cuts of meat from his dinners, wrapping them in foil just for me. As I walked down the sterile hospital corridor, I froze. Martin and Evie were walking toward me. They were holding hands, swinging them lightly between them. In Martin’s free hand was a glossy sonogram printout. “I can’t believe it, Evie. I’m going to be a father,” Martin was saying, his voice thick with emotion. The words were a physical blow, a machete to the chest. I had begged Martin for a baby. When I thought he was mentally recovering, I had gently broached the topic of starting a family. He had pulled away, his face twisting in distaste. I don’t want kids, Jo. They’re too loud. They’re a burden. I had brushed it off, thinking it was just his condition talking. Now, standing in the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway, the truth was glaringly obvious. He didn’t hate the idea of children. He just hated the idea of having one with me. He had been sleeping with Evie while I was playing house, playing nurse, playing the devoted wife. [Host, I am permanently disabling your punishment receptors. You will no longer suffer physical repercussions tied to your target’s emotional state.] As the System spoke, an immense, suffocating weight lifted from my shoulders. It was as if I had been carrying a boulder for three years and someone had finally cut the straps. I was free. The emotional shackles were gone. I watched Martin and Evie walk past me without a second glance. And to my surprise, I realized I felt fine. 4. When I walked into his room, Grandpa Joe’s eyes lit up. He immediately reached for a plastic container on his bedside table. “Joanie,” he rasped, offering it to me with trembling hands. “The nurse gave me these dumplings. I saved them for you. Eat up.” The dam broke. Hot, stinging tears spilled down my cheeks. If I left this world in three days, what would happen to him? Who would pay his exorbitant medical bills? Who would sit with him? I had to secure his future before I vanished. I wiped my face, kissed his forehead, and practically ran out of the hospital, heading straight for the house I had shared with Martin. Every dime I had earned over the last three years—my flower shop revenue, my investments—was sitting in a joint account controlled by Martin. When I arrived at the townhouse, Maria, the housekeeper, was hauling garbage bags onto the porch. She jumped when she saw me. “Miss Joanne… Mr. Pierce told me to pack up all your things. He said… he said you wouldn’t be living here anymore.” I looked past her. Through the open bags, I could see my clothes violently shoved inside. I saw the shattered pieces of the plaster figurine Martin and I had painted together on our first anniversary. He was erasing me. With brutal efficiency. I didn’t care about the clothes, but I needed my debit card. I stepped up to the digital keypad on the front door and punched in my code. BEEP. Error. Maria looked down at her shoes. “He had me change the code this morning, Miss.” My heart gave a dull, hollow thud. I steadied my breathing. “What’s the new code, Maria?” She hesitated, terrified of being caught in the crossfire. “Maria, please,” I kept my voice even. “My wallet is inside. I just need to get it.” She swallowed hard. “08122018.” August 12, 2018. The day Martin and Evie first started dating. I took two steps back, a dark, cynical laugh bubbling up in my throat. Just yesterday, he had held me in bed, kissing the back of my neck, whispering that he loved me. Just this morning, he had asked me to get out of the car on a deserted stretch of road, telling me to cover my eyes because he had a “surprise” for me. I had stood there, heart pounding with anticipation, only to be hit by a two-ton vehicle. He wanted me dead so badly. He was so desperate to steal my power. But Martin Pierce had absolutely no idea the kind of hell he was inheriting. 5. I punched in the code and pushed the door open. Martin had Evie pressed up against the marble kitchen island. His hands were gripping her waist, his face buried in her neck, murmuring about how he was going to worship her forever. My purse slipped from my fingers, hitting the hardwood with a loud thwack. Even knowing I was leaving, even having let him go, seeing the man I had bathed and fed and loved for three years dry-humping someone else in our kitchen was a punch to the gut. “What the hell are you doing here?” Martin snapped, pulling back. His eyes narrowed with immediate hostility. “You aren’t welcome here.” His icy glare violently transported me back to a night three years ago. I had defied a direct order from the System to save him from a bad business deal. The punishment was the sensation of having my femur snapped in half. I had laid on the floor, biting a towel to keep from screaming, wishing for death. But I survived it, because I thought we were building a forever together. I was such a fool. “I came for my money,” I said, my voice dead flat. “The money I earned from the shop is in the joint account. I need it to pay for my grandfather’s surgery.” Martin didn’t even flinch. He just tightened his grip on Evie’s waist, dragging his thumb lazily over her hipbone, deliberately ignoring me as if I were a telemarketer on the phone. Bile rose in the back of my throat. I swallowed it down. Three days. Just three days. “Fine. I’ll get the card myself.” I started toward the master bedroom, but Evie’s voice stopped me. “Joanne, wait. Isn’t your grandpa doing better? Why would you need that much cash?” She blinked, all wide-eyed innocence. “Are you trying to embezzle Martin’s money so you can take it back to your real world?” Martin’s head snapped toward me, his jaw clenching. “Is that it? You’re just a parasite?” he sneered. “Let me make this crystal clear: even the money you brought in belongs to this world. You aren’t taking a single red cent with you.” The sheer audacity of it left me momentarily speechless. The gentle, devoted Martin was entirely dead. This man was a stranger. “Martin, I told you, it’s for my grandfather’s hospital bills. I’m not taking anything with me.” “I don’t give a damn. Get out of my house!” I balled my hands into fists. There was no reasoning with him. He had completely bought into whatever narrative Evie spun for him. 6. I turned on my heel to leave, but Evie suddenly lunged forward, grabbing my forearm. “Joanne, don’t leave mad! If you really need cash, I can loan you some of my allowance.” Before I could pull away, she suddenly let go, throwing herself backward. She crashed to the floor, intentionally cracking the side of her head against the edge of the glass coffee table. “Ah! Oh my god, it hurts!” she shrieked. “Evie!” Martin didn’t even think. He crossed the room in two strides and shoved me with all his strength. I stumbled backward, slamming into the tea station. The heavy, boiling-hot electric kettle tipped over, raining scalding water down my shoulder and chest. I screamed, dropping to my knees as the heat blistered my skin. “What is wrong with you, Joanne?!” Martin roared, kneeling beside Evie to check her head. “If you’re pissed at me, take it out on me! Don’t you dare touch her!” His voice was a violent physical assault. Could he really not see the steam rising from my soaked shirt? Did he not care that my skin was peeling? I didn’t have the energy to fight him anymore. I just needed to take care of Grandpa Joe and go home. “Martin,” I breathed heavily, clutching my arm. “Just give me the five hundred thousand. Half a million. That’s my share. Give it to me, and I walk out that door and you never see me again. If you don’t, I swear to God I will make Evie’s life a living hell.” “You bitch.” He stood up, his eyes black with rage. He lunged at me, his hand clamping around my throat. He pinned me to the cabinetry, his grip tightening, systematically cutting off my oxygen. “Why do you have to be so damn toxic? Why couldn’t you just let us have a clean break?” he hissed in my face. “I… wanted a… clean break,” I choked out, clawing at his wrist. “I just… want my money.” He stared at me with pure disgust, then let go, throwing me to the floor like trash. “Fine. You want the money? I’ll give it to you.” He adjusted his cuffs, breathing hard. “On one condition.” “What?” I coughed, rubbing my bruised throat. “Get on your knees and apologize to Evie.” I froze. I looked up at him, searching for even a flicker of the man who used to rub my feet after a long day at the flower shop. There was nothing. “Okay.” I forced myself up. I dragged my battered body over to where Evie was sitting on the sofa, clutching an ice pack. I dropped to my knees. “I’m sorry,” I said, bowing my head. Suddenly, Martin’s hand was on the back of my neck. He shoved my face downward, slamming my forehead into the hardwood floor. I bit down on my tongue so hard I tasted copper. “You made her hit her head,” Martin said coldly above me. “Now we’re even.” “Okay,” I whispered to the floorboards. “Can I have my card now?” He reached into his wallet, pulled out the black debit card, and dropped it onto the toe of his leather shoe. “Crawl over here and take it.” “Okay.” I heard him shift, genuinely surprised by my total submission. I used to be so proud. I used to demand respect. But what did pride matter now? I was a ghost in this world. I just needed to buy my grandfather some time. I dragged myself forward. As my fingers brushed the card on his shoe, he suddenly stomped down, pinning my hand beneath his heel. He ground his jaw. “It’s pathetic how low you’ll sink for a paycheck, Jo.” A hot tear finally broke free, tracking through the dust on my cheek. He didn’t care about me. He never did. I pulled the card free and scrambled to my feet. Just as I did, my phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from the hospital: Grandpa Joe coding. In resuscitation. Panic seized me. I bolted for the door, but Martin caught me by the back of my shirt, violently yanking me back. “Think you can just take the money and run? Nothing in this life is free, Jo.” He practically spat the words. “You’re staying right here. You’re going to be our maid for the next few days.” “Let me go!” I thrashed wildly against his grip, but he was too strong. “Martin, my grandfather is dying! Let me go to the hospital!” “You’re pathetic,” Martin laughed darkly. “The second you get the cash, suddenly your grandpa is dying. You’d use an old man’s life just to pull a scam.” “I’m not lying!” I screamed, tears blinding me. Suddenly, the cold, metallic voice echoed in my skull. [Host, the transfer matrix has initialized early. The 72-hour window is no longer required. Would you like to execute the transfer now?]

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “422544”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The apology from the customer service representative left me breaking out in a cold sweat. As it turned out, the man I had living in my house wasn’t a “Romantic-Class” incubus at all. He was a “Domestic-Class” model—designed strictly for housekeeping, cooking, and organization. He wasn’t even programmed to provide those kinds of services. The representative’s voice had been frantic, repeatedly warning me that forcing a Domestic model into intimacy wasn’t just a violation of the user agreement; it could trigger a “systemic collapse” or a “frenzy mechanism.” Basically, I was lucky he hadn’t killed me in my sleep. Terrified, I immediately hauled Hudson’s bedding out of my master suite and into the guest room, desperate to rectify my mistake before something catastrophic happened. But my sudden change in behavior seemed to trigger something else in him. It wasn’t long before there was a rhythmic, heavy knock on my bedroom door. His voice came through the wood, carrying a repressed, gravelly edge that made my skin prickle. He asked if I no longer required his… company. Thinking back to how I’d spent the last few months practically throwing myself at him, begging for affection, I felt like a colossal, suicidal idiot. 1. “That’s… that’s right,” I stammered, my eyes darting around the room as a wave of heat climbed up my neck. I struggled to find a plausible lie. “I just… I haven’t been sleeping well. I think I need my own space for a while.” Hudson stared at me for a long beat. His features were striking—a sharp, cinematic jawline and eyes that seemed to hold a permanent, brooding storm. He frowned slightly, his brow furrowing, but he didn’t argue. He simply turned and walked toward the guest room. Watching him go so easily brought a wave of relief, but beneath it, a sharp, unexpected pang of rejection. The truth was, I’d always felt a certain resistance from Hudson. He never initiated touch. He’d shot down my more “adventurous” suggestions time and time again. The only reason he’d been sleeping in my bed at all was because I’d been a shameless brat, threatening to replace him with a newer model if he didn’t. He’d moved in with a dark expression, looking like he was marching toward a firing squad. Even then, he kept his distance. He’d spend the night curled on the very edge of the mattress, his back to me like a stone wall. I’d spent months telling myself I’d just lucked into a “slow-burn” personality type—that I just needed to win him over with patience and charm. How wrong I was. He wasn’t “slow-burn.” He was a domestic professional with a strict “no-touch” policy, and he clearly found my advances exhausting. My face burned with shame. For months, I’d been the sexual predator in a rom-com that wasn’t actually a romance. Just then, my phone buzzed with another message from the agency. [Customer Service]: We are so incredibly sorry for the mix-up, Maddie! Please, please don’t leave us a one-star review. o(╥﹏╥)o [Customer Service]: Can we offer you a full refund for the Domestic model? “No need,” I typed back, feeling a strange sense of loss. “Even if he can’t be a… partner, he’s incredible at everything else.” It was true. Hudson was a domestic god. He knew exactly how to bake artisanal sourdough that stayed fluffy for days; he kept my linens smelling like lavender and expensive sunshine; he even knew the precise temperature to wash my hair so the ends wouldn’t split. I was already addicted to the life he provided. [Customer Service]: Understood! In that case, as a gesture of goodwill, we’re shipping you a Romantic-Class incubus free of charge! •̆₃•̑ My heart did a traitorous little skip. I’d wanted a companion from the start. That was the whole point of this expensive endeavor. If Hudson couldn’t provide that connection, surely there was no harm in finding it elsewhere? I quickly messaged back: “OK.” The bitterness in my chest eased, replaced by a flicker of anticipation. 2. The next morning, I instinctively reached out to the other side of the bed, my hand hitting cold, empty sheets. It took my brain a few seconds to reboot. When it did, a hollow ache settled in my stomach. I’d grown so used to the heavy, silent weight of Hudson’s presence nearby. Without it, the room felt cavernous. I forced myself up, showered, and headed to the kitchen. Hudson was already there, hovering over the stove. He was wearing the pale pink apron I’d bought him as a joke—the strings tied loosely around his lean waist. He looked devastatingly handsome, his profile clean and sharp against the morning light. I spat out my toothpaste foam and cursed the manufacturers in my head. Why would you make a housekeeping unit look like a literal dark fantasy? It was a waste of perfectly good aesthetics. I sat at the breakfast nook, waiting for my eggs. To my shock, Hudson didn’t put the plate on the table. Instead, he walked over, hooked an arm under my knees, and lifted me effortlessly into his lap. “Wait—what are you doing?” I gasped, my hands flying up to his chest to create some distance. Hudson’s grip on my waist tightened. He caught my wrist, forcing me to look up into his eyes. They were dark, unreadable, and intensely focused. “Aren’t I supposed to feed you?” he asked, his voice low. In the past, frustrated by his coldness, I’d assigned him “intimacy chores” to force a bond. One of those chores was feeding me breakfast while I sat on his lap. He’d hated it at first. His body would be stiff as a board, his jaw clenched. But I’d been a tyrant—I’d told him if he didn’t feed me, I wouldn’t eat. Eventually, he’d succumbed. It had become part of our routine. But now? Now that I knew I was basically harassing a service worker? I couldn’t do it. I scrambled out of his lap, nearly tripping over my own feet. “No, no. That’s fine. I can eat by myself from now on.” Hudson watched me for several seconds, his gaze unwavering. Then, he turned his head away, his voice flattening. “Right. I suppose it’s time you learned some independence.” I winced. He’d clearly been waiting for the day he didn’t have to deal with my clinginess. I’d been so blind. After breakfast, Hudson moved with his usual efficiency, clearing my plate and grabbing the keys to the Vespa. He held out my helmet, ready to drop me off at the office. I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling the awkwardness thicken. This was another thing I’d forced on him. I loved riding behind him, using the excuse of “safety” to wrap my arms around his waist and feel his abs through his shirt. A ten-minute commute usually took twenty because I’d find ways to distract him. I used to live for those twenty minutes. Now, I couldn’t bear the thought of making him uncomfortable for a second longer. I snatched the helmet from his hand. “Actually… you don’t need to drive me anymore. I’ll just take an Uber. Or walk. I need the steps.” Hudson froze. His hand stayed extended in the air for a beat too long. Before he could say anything, I ducked my head and bolted out the door. I was giving him his freedom. No more forced touching, no more awkward intimacy. He had to be thrilled, right? 3. I’d only been at my desk for half an hour when my phone chimed with a shipping notification. [Customer Service]: Your Romantic-Class companion is on his way! Check out his profile below and make sure to have his essentials ready. ლ(°◕‵ƹ′◕ლ) I clicked the file. Name: Benji. Height: 5’10”. Weight: 170 lbs. Owner: Maddie Thorne. He was significantly smaller than Hudson. Hudson was a wall of muscle; Benji sounded… manageable. I realized Hudson’s clothes wouldn’t fit him at all. He’d look like a kid playing dress-up in his father’s closet. I added “Shopping” to my to-do list. After work, I hit the mall with a few girls from the office. We got distracted by happy hour and window shopping, and by the time I pulled into my driveway, I realized I had five missed calls. All from Hudson. That was weird. A Domestic model shouldn’t be tracking my location, right? He’d never done that before. The front door swung open before I could even reach for my keys. Hudson stood there, his shadow stretching across the porch. His eyes swept over me, dark and scrutinizing. “Maddie. Where were you? Why didn’t you answer your phone?” “I was shopping,” I said, frowning as I stepped past him. “Since when do I have a curfew?” He didn’t look happy, but his expression softened slightly when he saw the bags in my hands. He caught a glimpse of a plaid button-down sticking out of one of them. A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He knelt to help me step out of my heels, then gathered the shopping bags to take them to the bedroom. A moment later, he walked back out, looking… awkward. He’d tried on the plaid shirt. It was two sizes too small. The fabric was strained to the breaking point across his chest, the buttons clinging for dear life. It made him look rugged, slightly indecent, and entirely too masculine. “It’s a bit snug,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “But I can wear it open.” Oh god. This was a disaster. I used to buy him clothes all the time—mostly sheer fabrics or things with far too many straps. He’d always refused to wear them, sticking to his two sets of “normal” clothes. Seeing him try so hard to please me with this shirt made my heart ache. I cleared my throat, trying to fix the misunderstanding. “It’s too small because… well, don’t wear it. I’ll get you something else.” “No,” Hudson said, and there was a strange warmth in his tone. “I like this one.” “But it wasn’t for you,” I whispered. The air in the room seemed to vanish. Hudson’s eyes went dark, his entire posture turning predatory. He stepped closer, looming over me. “Then who,” he asked, his voice a low vibration in the air, “were you planning on giving it to?” 4. I felt a surge of guilt, like I’d been caught cheating on a husband I didn’t even have. But then, the unfairness of it hit me. Why was I the one feeling guilty? I was just a girl who wanted a little affection. I’d spent months being rejected by Hudson, only to find out I’d been bordering on a criminal offense. He’d led me on! He kept saying “maybe another time” or “not tonight” instead of just telling me he wasn’t programmed for it. “That’s really none of your business,” I said, my voice cold. “Just stick to your chores and stop asking questions.” Hudson flinched. The look of shock on his face was almost painful to witness. “…Fine. I understand.” He stripped the shirt off with efficient, jerky movements, folded it perfectly, and placed it back in my hands. I breathed a sigh of relief, but my mood was ruined. In the past, I was the one chasing him, the one apologizing. Now that I was being firm, he’d probably retreat into being a cold, emotionless robot. Which was for the best. We couldn’t have “vibes.” It was dangerous. However, that night, Hudson knocked on my door again. He was holding a spare duvet, and on his head… he was wearing a pair of clip-on wolf ears I’d bought him months ago. Below that? He slowly hooked a finger into his waistband, pulling it down just enough to reveal a delicate silver hip-chain—one I’d left on his dresser as a hint a long time ago. As he moved, a tiny bell at the end of the chain let out a soft, crystalline chime. My soul nearly left my body. Hudson’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked away, his face flushing a deep, bruised red. “This… this was definitely for me, wasn’t it?” I was seconds away from losing all resolve. But then I remembered what the rep said. Domestic models don’t understand the meaning of these things. To him, this was just another “task” he thought I wanted. He was wearing wolf ears and a hip-chain out of a sense of duty, not desire. The thought made me feel pathetic. I waved him away, exhausted. “Just go back to your room, Hudson. Like I said yesterday—I don’t need you in here anymore.” The wolf ears drooped. His expression didn’t change, but his voice sounded hollow. “…Fine.” “Great.” He turned to leave, but I called out to him at the last second. He looked back, his sharp profile softening, a spark of hope in his eyes. “Make a couple of extra dishes for lunch tomorrow,” I said. Hudson’s gaze turned sharp. “Are you expecting company?” “Yeah,” I mumbled, avoiding his eyes. He didn’t need to know that Benji was arriving tomorrow. 5. Still, Hudson was the type of guy who got possessive over a plaid shirt. I was genuinely worried about how he’d react to another incubus in the house. I hopped back onto the customer service chat. “If I have two of them in the house, will they fight?” [Customer Service]: Generally, no! They have different functions, so there’s no overlap. I wasn’t convinced. “In what scenario would they fight?” [Customer Service]: Well, if you had a High-Level model, they tend to have strong territorial instincts. They can get jealous, envious, or even… fall in love with their owners. ~* That settled it. I looked at Hudson’s behavior—there was no way he was in love. He looked relieved every time I stopped touching him. [Customer Service]: We recommend giving the new model extra attention at first to help him settle in. We’re sure you’ll all be one big happy family! I took the advice to heart. The next day was Saturday. I stayed home and watched Hudson irritably write out a menu. After breakfast, he insisted on taking me grocery shopping. The Vespa ride was different this time. I sat as far back as possible, gripping the metal rail instead of his waist. I made sure there was a respectable six inches of daylight between us. “Hold onto me,” Hudson’s voice drifted back, crisp and low. “The road gets bumpy ahead.” “I’m fine,” I said. I’d traveled this road a thousand times; it was smooth as glass. Naturally, the second I said that, Hudson hit a massive pothole. My chest slammed into his back, my nose burying into the firm muscle of his spine. It hurt so bad I thought I’d cry. I gave in and gripped the fabric of his jacket, but I still refused to wrap my arms around him properly. Hudson didn’t say another word for the rest of the trip, but the air around him felt dark, suffocating. He drove faster than usual, leaning into the turns with an aggression that felt like a silent tantrum. God, was he really that annoyed just because I touched him by accident? The supermarket was packed with a weekend sale. Hudson carried all the heavy bags in one hand, using his other arm to create a protective barrier around me so people wouldn’t bump into us. He was attentive, but I hated being there with him. Every time we went, the cashier would make some comment about what a “stunning couple” we were. I used to soak those comments up, preening because Hudson never bothered to deny them. But now, knowing he didn’t feel the same, I just felt like a fraud. Worse, I felt like I was low-key harrassing him by letting people think we were together. So, when the cashier smiled and said, “You two look so sweet together,” I blurted it out. “He’s not my boyfriend!” The cashier blinked, startled. Hudson went dead still. A long, tense silence followed. Then, Hudson spoke through gritted teeth. “Right. I’m not.” I nodded vigorously. See? He’s been dying to clarify that. I’d been delusional. I’d been reading “love” into his “professionalism.” Hudson walked fast on the way home, his long legs eating up the distance until I was trailing yards behind him. I didn’t ask him to wait. I didn’t ask him to carry my purse. When we reached the house, the front door was slightly ajar. Hudson’s brow furrowed. He knew he’d locked it. He stepped in front of me, shielding me as he kicked the door open. Then, his entire body stiffened. There was a stranger in our living room. He was wearing the plaid shirt I’d bought yesterday, and when he saw me, he flashed a pair of adorable dimples. “Master! Thank you for the shirt. I love it!”

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My stepbrother, Stephen, and I somehow managed to get ourselves sucked into an NC-17 romance novel. In the real world, Stephen was the kind of man whose shirts were always buttoned to the collar, whose academic records were flawless, and whose investment instincts were terrifyingly sharp. Ever since we were kids, he looked at me the way one might look at an empty chair. The novel’s synopsis, however, was explicit and unhinged: A personal assistant suffering from severe touch starvation relentlessly seeks unspeakable pleasures from his boss, day and night. When we first woke up in this bizarre reality, I had actually joked that he was about to get lucky. But with a face like carved stone, he informed me that I was the “lucky” boss. I stared at him, bewildered. “Then what’s your role?” His voice was ice. “Your personal assistant. And apparently, a very personal one.” At the time, I thought, how bad could it really be? Until the day I came back from a date and found him curled up in my bed. His clothes were a crumpled mess, and he was clutching my worn pajama shirt to his chest, utterly wrecked by the agonizing withdrawal of his fictional disease. He lifted his head. His voice was a raw, low rasp, breaking as he begged, “Naomi… please. Just… touch me.” 1 “Naomi Stanford, if you touch me one more time, I swear to God.” Those were the last words Stephen said to me before we fell into the book. I had slipped on the staircase at home, pitching forward and grabbing blindly. My fingers caught the sleeve of his dress shirt, popping two buttons in the process. Stephen stared down at his exposed wrist, the revulsion on his face so thick you could choke on it. I sheepishly let go. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled a sanitized wet wipe from his pocket and methodically scrubbed the exact spot my skin had grazed. My mother hovered nearby, trying to smooth the tension. “Stephen, Naomi didn’t mean to.” He fastened his spare cufflink, his tone as indifferent as an automated weather report. “It’s fine. I just don’t like being touched.” Doesn’t like being touched. Right. He didn’t like being touched by me. Just last month, at his stepfather’s corporate gala, a female partner had a few too many drinks and slumped heavily against his shoulder. Stephen hadn’t even blinked. I had lived in the Pierce household for six years, and Stephen’s attitude toward me could be summed up in a single phrase: willful blindness. No, it was worse than that. Willful blindness implies he didn’t see me. He saw me, and then he deliberately looked away. So, when I woke up sitting behind a massive, unfamiliar mahogany desk, wearing a sharply tailored pencil skirt with a gold nameplate reading Naomi Stanford, CEO staring back at me—my first reaction wasn’t panic. It was the door swinging open. Stephen stood in the doorway. He wore a slate-gray shirt, the top two buttons undone, a cup of coffee in his hand. His entire aura was fundamentally different from the man I knew at home. His striking features were exactly the same. The coldness was the same. But beneath it all, there was an indescribable… fragility. He set the coffee on my desk, his voice a low hum. “Ms. Stanford, the files for your nine o’clock meeting are organized.” Ms. Stanford. He called me Ms. Stanford. I stared at him for five long seconds, confirming that the face belonged to my stepbrother. Then, my gaze dropped to a book splayed open on my desk. The cover read: The Boss’s Ruin. The pages fluttered open to the table of contents on their own accord, the chapter titles glowing with an unnatural light. Chapter 1: The Assistant’s Secret. Chapter 3: A Younger Man’s Obsession. Chapter 5: The Hacker’s Gift. Chapter 7: The Rival’s Bargain. I flipped further. The deeper I went, the more absurd it got. My face burned hot. “Done reading?” Stephen’s voice drifted from above. I slammed the book shut. He looked down at me, his expression wearing its usual impenetrable armor, but the corners of his mouth were pulled tight. “There are four romantic targets in this universe,” he said flatly. “And they are all coming for you.” I swallowed hard. “…And?” Stephen snatched the book from my hands, flipped to the character glossary, and pointed a long, elegant finger at a specific paragraph. “Personal Assistant: Stephen Pierce. Afflicted with extreme touch starvation. Harbors a pathological physical dependency on his boss, Naomi Stanford. If deprived of her scent or physical contact for more than twenty-four hours, he will spiral into severe withdrawal: high fever, violent tremors, and delirium.” He finished reading, then dropped the book onto the desk with a heavy thud. “Did you hear that, Naomi?” Oh, I heard it. My stepbrother—the clinically precise germaphobe who used wet wipes to erase my touch—was written into this world as a man who would literally die without my physical affection. I held it in for three seconds. Then, I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. Stephen’s face went absolutely black. 2 My amusement didn’t last long. A translucent, holographic panel suddenly materialized, hovering in the air between us. [Welcome to the world of The Boss’s Ruin. Please complete the main storyline within the allotted time, or remain permanently trapped in this dimension. Main Quest: Complete all intimate storylines with the Personal Assistant. Current Progress: 0%.] I stared at that 0%, my throat suddenly dry. Stephen saw it too. His interface was clearly synced with mine. He stood across from me, his face blank, but his knuckles were bone-white where they gripped the coffee cup. “Is there another way around this?” I asked the ceiling. A cold line of text materialized: [Negative.] “What happens if we refuse?” [The Personal Assistant will suffer catastrophic organ failure due to Touch Starvation withdrawal within 48 hours. Character death will result in the immediate and permanent deletion of the bound host.] My head snapped up to look at Stephen. He set the coffee cup down. His voice was terrifyingly calm for a man discussing his own impending death. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m finding this out at the exact same time you are.” “How do you feel right now?” “I feel nothing.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked out. Just as the door clicked shut, I noticed his hand resting against the doorframe. It was shaking. I sank back into my leather chair, pulled the book toward me, and started reading from page one. In the original novel, Naomi Stanford was a ruthless corporate prodigy who tripled her father’s company’s profits, but suffered from profound emotional obliviousness. Four dangerously attractive men orbited her, and she was blind to all of them. The personal assistant was the first to appear, and his emotional arc carried the heaviest weight. The book detailed how his symptoms flared up on his very first day. Whenever the boss accidentally brushed his hand, he had to lock himself in the breakroom for twenty minutes just to breathe. Not out of disgust. But because he craved it so fiercely, he was terrified he would lose control. I closed the book and pressed the heels of my hands into my temples. If this were any other man, I would be eating up the angst. But placing this trope on Stephen Pierce? All I could see in my mind’s eye was him aggressively scrubbing his wrist with a sanitized wipe. At exactly 2:00 PM, Stephen appeared at my door. He had changed into a crisp white shirt, buttoned to the very top—a carbon copy of his real-world uniform. “A client is arriving at three. These are their corporate background checks.” He placed the file on the desk and immediately turned to leave. “Wait.” He froze. I hesitated for a beat. “Are you… feeling it yet?” Stephen didn’t look back. “That’s none of your concern.” “The System said forty-eight hours—” “I said, it is none of your concern.” He walked out. I watched him go. His gait was off. Usually, Stephen walked like he owned the floorboards, every step measured and precise. Now, his right shoulder slumped slightly, as if he were carrying an invisible, crushing weight. At 5:00 PM, I went to the breakroom for water and ran straight into Target Number Two. He looked to be in his early twenties, wearing an intern badge and a grin so bright it could blind you. “Ms. Stanford, let me get that for you!” He reached for my glass, his fingertips very deliberately grazing the back of my hand. I glanced at his badge: Dylan, Marketing Intern. The holographic panel chimed softly: [Target 2: Dylan. Archetype: The fiercely devoted, relentlessly obsessed younger man. Status: Activated.] I snatched my glass back. “I’ve got it. Thanks.” Dylan tilted his head, his golden-retriever smile unwavering. “You know, Ms. Stanford, you look incredibly beautiful in that dress today.” I grabbed my water, fled back to my office, slammed the door, and took three deep breaths. This book was going to kill me. 3 By 8:00 PM, I was still at the office. It wasn’t that I loved working late. It was because the System informed me that Stephen and I shared the same upscale penthouse apartment in this universe. Two bedrooms, one shared living space. I stalled until the cleaning staff essentially kicked me out. The penthouse was just a few floors above the corporate offices, accessible via a private elevator. When I swiped my keycard and stepped inside, the living room was pitch black. I ran a hand along the wall, found the switch, and flicked it on. That was when I saw him. Stephen was sitting on the sofa in an unnatural, rigid posture—arms crossed tightly over his chest, his entire body curled inward. Sweat beaded heavily on his forehead, catching the overhead light. A glass of water sat on the coffee table. Untouched. “Stephen?” No answer. I took two steps closer and realized he was trembling. It wasn’t a subtle shiver. His entire frame was vibrating, his teeth chattering audibly in the quiet room. “Stephen!” I dropped to my knees in front of him and reached out to check his forehead. He violently jerked his head away. “Don’t. Touch. Me.” His voice was a shredded, ragged whisper, yet the hostility was still there. “You’re burning up.” “I know.” “The System said you would—” “I know,” he cut me off, finally raising his head. His face was flushed a dangerous crimson, his lips cracked and dry, but his eyes were still glacial. “Naomi, I don’t need your pity. Go to your room.” I stood slowly, stared at him for three seconds, then turned and walked into my bedroom. I shut the door and leaned against the heavy wood. The countdown timer on the holographic panel pulsed in the corner of my vision: 39 Hours, 16 Minutes. I opened the closet. It was filled to the brim with designer clothes perfectly tailored to my measurements. There was a drawer for sleepwear. Three sets of silk pajamas sat perfectly folded on the top shelf. I changed into one, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling. The apartment was dead silent. I couldn’t tell if he had passed out or finally fallen asleep. At 2:00 AM, a sound woke me. It was faint. A dull, heavy scraping, like something being dragged across the hardwood floor. I slipped out of bed, padded barefoot to the door, and opened it just a crack. The living room was still dark, but the motion-sensor light in the hallway had flickered on. Stephen was on his knees outside my door. One hand was planted flat against the floor holding his weight, the other was curled into a fist, knuckles resting lightly against the wood of my door. He looked like he was trying to knock, but couldn’t summon the strength. Over and over. His dress shirt was completely soaked through, clinging to his back so tightly I could count the vertebrae. I threw the door open. Without the wood to support him, he pitched forward. I caught him by the shoulders. He was radiating heat like a furnace. “Naomi…” His voice was barely a breath of air. “Your pajamas… the shirt you wore yesterday… can I… can I just borrow it…?” I froze. “The one I was wearing?” He didn’t answer, but his trembling fingers blindly reached out and curled into the hem of the silk shirt I currently had on. The movement was agonizingly slow, as if he were terrified I would strike him for it. “Get inside,” I said. 4 I hauled him up from the floor, slinging his heavy arm over my shoulder, and practically dragged him into my bedroom. Stephen was six-foot-two. With his dead weight fully pressing down on me, my knees buckled, and we almost went down together. Even delirious with fever, he tried to pull away. “I just… wanted the shirt… you don’t have to…” “You can’t even stand up. A piece of fabric isn’t going to save your life.” That shut him up. I maneuvered him to the edge of the mattress. The moment his legs hit the bed, he collapsed backward. By the time I rushed to the en-suite bathroom, soaked a hand towel in cold water, and came back, he had buried his face entirely into my pillow. He was curled into the fetal position, his arms wrapped around the pillow like a drowning man clinging to debris. His breathing was harsh and erratic, his broad shoulders shaking uncontrollably. I draped the cold towel over the back of his neck. He flinched violently. “Cold…” “Your fever is spiking. I have to bring your temperature down.” “Not… that kind of cold,” he mumbled into the pillow, his voice muffled. “It’s cold inside. In my bones.” The holographic panel sprang to life: [Touch Starvation Withdrawal: Mid-Stage. Symptoms: High external fever, internal chills, cognitive blurring. Recommended Treatment: Continuous skin-to-skin contact with the bound host. Minimum duration: 30 minutes.] Continuous skin-to-skin contact. I looked at the text. I looked at Stephen. Thirty minutes. I took a deep breath, climbed onto the mattress, and lay down beside him. I reached out and wrapped my hand firmly around his wrist. His reaction was a hundred times more violent than I expected. He shot backward as if my fingertips carried a live current, throwing the pillow aside. His fever-bright, bloodshot eyes locked onto mine. For a split second, there was total confusion in his gaze. Then, sheer disbelief. Finally, it warped into a look of absolute, unadulterated agony. “What are you doing?” he choked out. “Saving your life.” “I don’t need—” “Stephen Pierce, if you give me one more snarky comment, I swear to God I will let go. Test me.” His jaw snapped shut. I kept my grip on his wrist. His pulse was hammering against my palm, erratic and dangerously fast. But then, inch by inch, his own hand began to move. Almost involuntarily, his fingers curled inward. From the wrist, to the thumb, to the palm, until his large hand completely enveloped mine, interlocking our fingers. His grip was crushing. It felt like my bones were going to snap. “A little lighter,” I winced. He didn’t let go, but the crushing pressure eased slightly. Beneath my skin, I felt his temperature slowly begin to drop. The terrifying, unnatural heat faded into a normal, comforting warmth. The ragged edge of his breathing smoothed out. But he didn’t let go. Ten minutes passed. The color returned to his face, and the delirious fog cleared from his eyes. He stared down at our intertwined hands, his expression a chaotic mess of emotions I couldn’t decipher. “Is that enough?” I asked quietly. The System updated: [Touch Starvation temporarily alleviated. Next withdrawal countdown: 18 hours.] “It’s enough,” he said softly. He still didn’t let go. It took another five seconds before he suddenly yanked his hand back as if my skin had burned him, scrambling off the bed. “…Thank you.” He tossed the words over his shoulder and walked out without looking back. When the door clicked shut, I opened my hand and looked at my palm. There were four deep, red crescent moons dug into my skin from his fingernails. I stared at the marks, a sudden realization washing over me. In the real world, after Stephen touched me, he immediately scrubbed his hands with a wet wipe. In the book, after Stephen touched me, he dug his own nails into his palms until they bruised. It wasn’t disgust. He was holding himself back. 5 The next morning at the office, Stephen’s impenetrable armor was fully restored. His shirt was buttoned to the collar. His documents were impeccably aligned. When he poured my coffee, his hands were as steady as a surgeon’s. The only difference was the perimeter. The standard three-foot professional distance had expanded to six feet. When he handed me a folder, he slid it across the furthest edge of the desk, withdrawing his hand with lightning speed. I pretended not to notice. At 10:00 AM, a new System prompt pinged: [Main Quest Update: Target 2, Dylan, has triggered a critical plot event. Please proceed to the Marketing Department immediately.] I didn’t want to go. But the System provided a thirty-minute countdown timer. [Failure to attend will result in a 10% penalty to Main Quest Progress.] Cursing under my breath, I took the elevator down. The Marketing Department was on the twelfth floor. As soon as the doors parted, I saw Dylan waiting for me in the hallway. He wore a crisp white t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms. When he saw me, his face lit up. It was a completely different kind of smile than Stephen’s. Getting a fractional upward curve of the lips from Stephen felt like an act of God. When Dylan smiled, his whole body seemed to radiate warmth. “Ms. Stanford! You’re here.” “What’s the emergency?” “There’s an inconsistency in the Q3 projections. The Director asked if you could take a look.” I followed him into the glass-walled conference room. There were indeed files scattered across the table. But the room was completely empty. “Where is the Director?” “Stepped out for a call.” Dylan pulled out a chair for me. “Have a seat. I’ll walk you through it.” I sat. He leaned over me to flip through the pages, his shoulder practically brushing mine. “The metrics here don’t line up, see—” He tapped the spreadsheet with one hand. His other hand casually came to rest on the back of my chair. I looked at him. He was still smiling, but the look in his eyes had absolutely nothing to do with Q3 projections. “Dylan.” “Yeah?” “Your hand.” He glanced down at his hand gripping the back of my chair. He didn’t pull it away. Instead, he shifted his grip an inch closer, his fingertips grazing the fabric at my shoulder. “Ms. Stanford, I just wanted to be a little closer to you.” His voice dropped an octave, dripping with that reckless, unabashed intensity specific to men his age. “Ever since my very first day, when I saw you standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows taking a call, I just—” The conference room door swung open. Stephen stood in the doorway, holding a fresh cup of coffee. His icy gaze locked onto Dylan’s hand resting against my shoulder. Then, it slowly moved up to Dylan’s face. His expression was a locked vault. But the temperature in the room plummeted by ten degrees. “Ms. Stanford, you have a conference call at eleven.” He set the coffee down on the nearest edge of the table and turned on his heel. Dylan retracted his hand and let out a low whistle. “Your assistant has quite the temper, doesn’t he?” I picked up the coffee and took a sip. The temperature was perfect. One and a half sugars. Exactly how I took it in the real world. Stephen had never once asked me how I took my coffee. But it was perfect every single time. I set the cup down, stood up, and walked out of the conference room. Back in my office, Stephen was meticulously reorganizing a bookshelf. I closed the door behind me. He didn’t turn around. “Next time someone puts their hands on you, handle it yourself.” His voice was dead flat, like he was discussing printer toner. “Are you jealous?” A hardcover book slipped from his hands and crashed to the floor. Stephen bent down to retrieve it. For a fraction of a second, the tips of his ears flushed dark red, but his tone remained entirely devoid of inflection. “I am merely reminding you that every man in this universe is a threat. Including me.” He shoved the book into its slot and walked past me toward the door. I watched him leave, suddenly realizing that when he said including me, his voice had faltered. Just a little.

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Spring break was just around the corner, and since the research project I’d been leading had finally cleared its final hurdle, I decided to take a week off. My first priority was finalizing the memorial arrangements for my late mentor, Professor Diane Halloway, before heading back to my hometown for some much-needed rest. Diane had been everything to me. She was a woman who had given her entire life to science, never marrying, never having children of her own. When she passed away after a long illness, I stepped up and took full responsibility for her final arrangements. I wanted her to have the dignity in death that she had earned ten times over in life. But when I arrived at the cemetery, the headstone at the premium plot I’d purchased didn’t bear her name. Instead, I was staring at a name I didn’t recognize at all. Confused, I hurried to the administrative office. The woman behind the desk didn’t even look up; she just kept clicking her mouse with an aggressive, rhythmic snap, her face twisted in a mask of bored disdain. “I checked the system,” she said, her voice flat. “Diane Halloway is up on the North Ridge. Row four, plot four.” “North Ridge?” I frowned. “I purchased a private plot in the South Gardens. Plot 6-6.” She finally looked up, her eyes raking over me with a sneer. “Look, honey, the Ridge is for the budget-conscious. Some people share the cost of a plot to keep it cheap. We call it ‘communal resting.’ It’s for the people who lived small and died smaller.” She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “I don’t know who you’re trying to impress, but that South Garden plot? That belongs to the mother-in-law of Elliott Thorne—the CEO of Thorne Industries.” I felt the world tilt on its axis. My breath hitched, caught in a throat that had suddenly gone bone-dry. Elliott. That was my husband. 1 The news hit me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless. The clerk turned back to her computer, resuming a Netflix show she’d paused. “Is there anything else? If not, I have work to do.” I stood there, paralyzed, my voice trembling as I forced the words out. “I’m sorry… what exactly is a… ‘communal plot’?” She rolled her eyes, the epitome of suburban malice. “It’s for the poor folks who can’t afford a real stone. They chip in and pile in together. One stone, six names. Efficiency at its finest.” She looked me up and down, taking in my tailored coat and designer bag. “You look like you’ve got money. It’s pretty cold to let your family rot in a shared grave. They didn’t have much in life, I guess, and now they’re cramped in death.” I took a deep breath, clutching my purse so hard my knuckles turned white. “Check the records again. Please. I am certain that South Garden, Plot 6-6, was reserved for Professor Diane Halloway.” The woman sighed, pivoted her monitor toward me, and tapped the screen. “Can you read? It says right here: Owner: Martha Jenkins. Paid for by: Elliott Thorne.” And there it was. His name. The man I had shared a bed with for nearly a decade. I walked toward the North Ridge, the bouquet of white lilies in my arms crushed against my chest. My mind was a static-filled void. When I finally reached the row and saw the photo on the small, crowded headstone, the tears I’d been holding back finally broke. It was a tiny square of granite. Six photos were plastered onto it like a cheap collage. Diane—the woman who had briefed presidents and pioneered breakthroughs that saved lives—was squeezed into the bottom corner. Dust and dried mud clung to the porcelain of her elegant, familiar face. It was real. The man I loved had taken the woman I revered and stuffed her into a bargain-bin grave. A group of teenagers with neon-dyed hair were standing around the plot. They had left empty soda cans and beer bottles on the grass. They were laughing, talking to one of the other names on the stone. “Hey man, happy holidays,” one of them said, cracking a fresh can. “We’re still saving up. Couple more years and we’ll get you out of this sardine can, I swear. We’ll get you that big house you always wanted.” I looked at the photo they were talking to—a boy with blue hair, barely twenty. He was Diane’s neighbor in death. The red-haired kid noticed me and gave a small, awkward wave. I didn’t say a word. I just stepped forward, knelt in the dirt, and used my silk handkerchief to wipe the grime off Diane’s face. “Are you with the lady in the corner?” the red-haired kid asked, surprised. “First time anyone’s come for her. We thought she didn’t have anyone left.” My heart twisted. Because of my research, I rarely took time off, but I had always trusted Elliott to handle the local details. Every holiday, every anniversary, he would tell me he’d visited her. He’d tell me the flowers were beautiful, that the site was peaceful. “You know this is a shared plot?” I asked, my voice thick. “That your friend is buried with strangers?” They looked at each other, confused. “Yeah, obviously. A plot down in the valley costs more than a house. We’re broke, lady.” I dug my nails into my palms. “How much did this… ‘share’ cost?” “Five grand,” the kid said. I stopped breathing. The plot in the South Garden—the one with the view of the lake—had cost me eight hundred thousand dollars. I said a quiet goodbye to the boys and walked back toward the front of the cemetery, my soul feeling like it had been hollowed out. As I approached Plot 6-6, I saw a woman standing there. She was tall, slender, and dressed in a way that screamed ‘new money.’ I stepped up behind her, my shadow falling across the polished marble. “Martha Jenkins,” I read the name aloud. My voice was a cold edge. “What is she to Elliott?” 2 The woman spun around. Her makeup was flawless, her outfit a curated collection of high-end labels. She looked me over with a sharp, territorial glare. “Who are you? And why are you hovering over my mother’s grave?” I stared at the black-and-white photo of the stranger on the stone, then back at her. “South Garden, Plot 6-6. I bought this land. I paid for this stone.” She blinked, then let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “You’re delusional. I’ve seen people fight over inheritance, but I’ve never seen a crazy person try to steal a grave.” I fought back the rage, my chest heaving. “I bought this plot in March of last year for my mentor, Diane Halloway. I don’t know why your mother is under this grass, but I intend to find out.” “Find out?” She stepped closer, her perfume cloying and expensive. “Go ahead. Elliott Thorne bought this for my mother. Personally. The contracts, the payments, the deed—it’s all in his name. Do you even know who Elliott Thorne is?” I remained silent. She leaned in, her voice a predatory whisper. “He’s the CEO of Thorne Industries. He’s also my boyfriend. He spent nearly a million dollars on this spot without blinking. He did it for me. So, I’ll ask again: who the hell are you?” The last shred of hope I’d been clinging to dissolved. I looked her dead in the eye. “I was Diane’s student,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “And I’m Elliott’s—” “Oh, Diane!” she interrupted, snapping her fingers. “I remember now. Elliott mentioned some old lady who died. One of his wife’s coworkers or something? He said he did the ‘charitable thing’ and found her a spot in the back. That was you? The charity case?” She looked at my crumpled flowers and the dirt on my knees. “Makes sense. You look like you belong on the North Ridge. Don’t come down here trying to grift. It’s pathetic.” Her words were like acid, but it was the betrayal that truly burned. I grew up without parents; Diane was my north star, my family, my everything. When I married Elliott, he had taken my hand in front of Diane and promised to cherish me. He told her, “Don’t worry, Professor. I’ll take care of her forever.” He promised to treat Diane like his own mother. Everything he had said was a lie. “What’s the problem here?” The clerk from the office had walked over, her expression shifting from bored to sycophantic the moment she saw the other woman. “Miss Elwinn! So good to see you. Are you here for your mother?” Elwinn. Melanie Elwinn. Melanie gestured toward me with a manicured hand. “This woman is claiming she bought the plot. Can you believe the nerve? You might want to call security; I think she’s off her meds.” The clerk turned to me, her face hardening. “You again? I told you, your person is in the back. Row four. Move along before I have you escorted out for harassment.” I gestured to the headstone, my voice shaking with suppressed fury. “I have the wire transfer records. I have the receipts. I can prove—” “Nobody cares about your ‘records,’” the clerk snapped. “Mr. Thorne was here himself when Mrs. Jenkins was laid to rest. He handled everything. We all saw him. Who are you compared to a man like that?” A security guard drifted over, nodding in agreement. “I remember that day. Mr. Thorne was very specific. He wanted the best view, said the old lady hadn’t had much luxury in life and he wanted her to go out in style. He was a real gentleman. Very devoted.” Melanie smirked, tapping her chin. “Hear that? Now, run along back to the pauper’s hills. That’s where people like you belong.” I didn’t move. I just looked at her. “Melanie Elwinn,” I said softly. “You used to be his assistant, didn’t you?” Melanie froze, her smirk faltering. “How do you know that? Who are you?” “Why don’t you call your ‘boyfriend’?” I replied, my voice devoid of emotion. “Ask him exactly who I am.” 3 Melanie stared at me for a long beat, her suspicion warring with her arrogance. I knew her, of course. Back when I was pulling eighteen-hour shifts in the lab, forgetting to eat, Elliott used to drive out to bring me dinner. Later, as his company grew, he started sending his assistant to drop off the bags of takeout. That assistant had been Melanie. The clerk shifted uncomfortably, whispering, “Miss Elwinn, maybe you should call him? Just in case…” “I’m not calling him,” Melanie snapped, though the bravado was leaking out of her voice. “Elliott is in the middle of a merger. He doesn’t have time for this trash. I know everyone in his circle—investors, partners, friends. I’ve never seen this woman in my life.” She looked at my plain clothes again—the sensible shoes and the lack of flashy jewelry. “Look at her. Elliott doesn’t associate with people who look like they shop at a clearance rack.” I looked at her designer labels and then down at my own functional attire. It was true that among my peers, Elliott’s background had been the least impressive. My colleagues had subtly suggested I could do better, but I had fallen for his sincerity. He used to sit outside my lab for hours just to catch a glimpse of me. After we married, Diane had mentored him, opening doors and handing him high-level contacts so I wouldn’t have to worry about our finances. She gave him the world so he could build his empire. I looked at the name on the stone: Martha Jenkins. A woman I didn’t know, whose daughter had been sleeping with my husband for years. A woman whose ashes were occupying the ground I had bought for my mother-figure. Diane had died believing in us. Her last words to me were, “Joanna, you’re the best thing I ever taught. I’ve had a good life.” She trusted me. And I had failed her so completely that I couldn’t even protect her final resting place. I pinched the bridge of my nose, forcing the grief back into a cold, hard knot in my chest. I looked at Melanie. “Are you sure you’ve met everyone in his life?” She scoffed. “Positive.” “Then have you met the woman on his marriage license?” The air in the clearing seemed to vanish. The color drained from Melanie’s face. “What… what are you talking about? Elliott is my boyfriend. We’ve been together for three years…” Three years. Even though I knew the betrayal was deep, that number felt like a knife to the ribs. Three years of my life, my money, and my professional resources poured into a man who was building a second life with my own assistant. I remembered the nights he’d come home late, smelling of expensive bourbon, hugging me tight and whispering, “Joanna, I don’t deserve you.” I thought it was love. It was guilt. “He said he loved me,” I whispered to the empty air. He’d said it in front of Diane. He’d said it every night before we went to sleep. He’d promised to be there for every sunset. It was all a performance. The sound of a high-performance engine cut through the silence of the cemetery. Melanie’s head snapped toward the entrance. I followed her gaze. A black Bentley rolled to a stop at the edge of the South Garden. The door opened, and a familiar figure stepped out. I felt a bitter smile touch my lips. “Finally. He’s here. Why don’t you ask him yourself?” 4 Elliott stepped out of the car, looking every bit the powerful executive in his tailored suit and polished Oxfords. “Joanna? What are you doing here?” He hurried toward us, reaching out to take my hand, but I stepped back as if he were a leper. He turned to Melanie, his brow furrowing in frustration. “Melanie, what is this? I told you not to come today.” Melanie’s eyes immediately filled with tears—well-practiced, manipulative tears. “It’s the anniversary of her passing, Elliott! I wanted to see my mom! Why is this woman harrassing me?” Elliott froze. He looked at the headstone, then back at me, a flash of genuine panic crossing his face. “Joanna, listen. This is… it’s a misunderstanding. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back today?” I took another step back, my voice trembling with a cold, sharp fury. “If I’d told you, I wouldn’t have caught the show, would I? Elliott, I don’t even care about the affair anymore. That’s between you and your conscience. I want to know why the eight hundred thousand dollars I gave you for Diane’s burial bought a plot for her mother. I want to know why my mentor is shoved in a communal grave on the North Ridge while you told me everything was ‘taken care of’!” Elliott’s face hardened. The mask of the doting husband slipped, revealing something ugly and impatient. “It’s just a piece of dirt, Joanna. Don’t be dramatic.” He looked at me with an annoying condescension. “Diane wasn’t even your mother. She was just a teacher. She’s dead. What does it matter where she’s buried? She was always so ‘above it all’ anyway. Maybe she’ll enjoy the company of the common folk up there.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails drew blood. “What did you just say?” “I said, get over it,” he stepped closer, trying to loom over me. “Look at yourself, Joanna. Have you even been a wife to me these last few years? You live in that lab. You come home maybe three times a month. I’ve spent every holiday alone while you played with your test tubes. Your ‘projects’ were always more important than me, more important than anything!” He reached out and pulled Melanie into his side, a blatant act of defiance. “I’m the CEO of Thorne Industries. People respect me. And what do I have at home? A cold house and a wife who isn’t there. I found someone who actually sees me. I’m not apologizing for that.” “And Diane? She gave me those contracts because I was her student’s husband. It was her duty. I took the plot because it was practical. Why waste a prime spot on a dead academic when Melanie’s mother needed it?” I stared at him. “That plot was paid for with my money.” He laughed, a harsh, dismissive sound. “Your money? Joanna, your money is my money. We’re married. Your grants, your stipends, your bonuses—you handed them all to me. Who do you think managed your life while you were busy being a genius? Without me, you wouldn’t even know how to pay a light bill.” I felt like I’d been kicked in the heart. So that was it. That was what he really thought of me. “I want a divorce,” I said, my voice steady. “But before that, you are moving her. You are giving Diane her spot back.” He snorted. “How? By digging her up? Don’t be ridiculous. Martha has been there for a year. I’m not causing a scandal because you’re having a tantrum. Think about my reputation.” He softened his tone then, slipping back into that manipulative ‘loving’ voice. “Joanna, you’re just a researcher. You have a modest salary. Your mentor is gone; you have no one left to protect you. Don’t throw away being Mrs. Thorne over a grave. You’ll have nothing.” I looked into his eyes and realized I didn’t recognize the man I had married. The boy who had waited outside the lab with daisies was long dead, replaced by this hollow, greedy stranger. “You’re going to regret this, Elliott,” I said quietly. In the distance, the roar of multiple engines approached. A line of black government-issue SUVs began to file into the cemetery gates. The doors opened in unison, and a dozen men in dark suits stepped out. At the head of the group was an older man with a shock of silver hair. He stood by the lead car, his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on me. The color left Elliott’s face. He recognized the man. Everyone in the country did. He was the kind of man who only appeared on the evening news during major national events.

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When the judge’s gavel finally struck wood, my fingernails were biting so deeply into my palms I was surprised I didn’t draw blood. I sat there, clutching the ruling that declared I had lost the case. The judge ordered me to record and post a public apology video for ten consecutive days. The recipient of this apology was the man currently glowing with arrogant victory at the plaintiff’s table—my husband, Toby Crawford. It all started three months ago when I found out about his filthy, cliché affair. In a moment of sheer, blinding rage, I wrote an anonymous post about it on a local community forum. I didn’t expect the algorithm to pick it up, turning my heartbreak into a viral sensation. Toby was livid. He immediately hired the most ruthless, egregiously expensive legal team in Chicago and sued me for defamation and emotional distress. The internet commentators, who had been following the drama, held their breath for me. They told me to set up a GoFundMe, to hire a shark of a lawyer to fight back. Instead, I quietly turned around and walked into a free legal aid clinic. “You can’t even afford a decent attorney, and you still have the nerve to go to war with me?” Toby had cornered me in the courthouse corridor earlier that morning. The disdain in his voice was so thick you could choke on it. The other woman, clinging to his arm like a designer accessory, pouted her glossed lips. She looked at me with faux, sugary pity. “You should just admit you were wrong, Gemma. Toby has a good heart. If you beg a little, he might just leave you enough to survive.” I hadn’t given their little theatrical performance the time of day. I just walked straight into the courtroom. But now, with the verdict handed down, Toby was standing up, leisurely adjusting his custom French cuffs, looking at me as if he were already watching me drop to my knees. I slowly lifted my head. I looked right into his eyes and flashed him a bright, blinding smile. My voice was crystal clear. “Don’t you worry, Toby. For the next ten days, you have my word—every single apology video will be packed with absolute sincerity.” “After all,” I added softly, “there are a few things I’ve been meaning to really talk to you about.” 01 The moment I stepped out of the heavy courthouse doors, Toby and his mistress, Madison, blocked my path. The damp city wind whipped around us, but they stood there like they owned the pavement. “See that, Gemma?” Toby sneered, tossing his copy of the court order so it hit my chest and fluttered to the ground. “Your pathetic little stunts mean nothing to me. If you ever dare to spew garbage on the internet again, I’ll let my legal team ruin whatever is left of your miserable life.” Beside him, Madison gasped, covering her mouth in a perfectly choreographed display of sympathy. “Oh, Gemma,” she cooed, her eyes wide. “If you had just told us you were broke and couldn’t afford a real lawyer, I could have loaned you some money. It breaks my heart to see you embarrass yourself like this today.” I looked at the two of them—the man I had built a life with, and the girl who was currently wearing a necklace bought with my daughter’s college fund. I slowly bent down and picked up the paper from the concrete. When I straightened up, my voice was dead calm. “Loan me money, Madison? That’s actually perfect timing,” I said, smoothing out the paper. “Because until Toby and I are legally divorced, every single dollar he transferred to your accounts, every gift he bought you, is classified as joint marital property. I’ll be expecting you to return my half of it as soon as possible.” “You—!” Madison choked, her carefully cultivated sweet-girl persona cracking. Her face went from flushed pink to a sickly, pale green. A few bystanders lingering on the courthouse steps had caught the exchange. I could feel the weight of their stares shifting heavily onto Toby and Madison. “Wow, the cheating husband and the mistress bullying the wife? That’s vile,” a woman muttered loudly. “Have they no shame?” another whispered. Hearing the crowd turn, the smugness evaporated from Toby’s face. He stepped toward me, his jaw tight. He pointed a finger at my face, shouting to the onlookers, “Don’t listen to a word she says! She’s mentally unstable! She makes things up because she’s delusional!” The crowd exchanged hesitant glances, the seed of doubt planted. Seizing the moment, Madison snatched the court ruling from my hand and waved it like a white flag of vindication. “Look!” she cried out. “The judge just ruled that she was lying! The court is forcing her to apologize publicly!” Seeing the official seal on the document, the murmurs in the crowd shifted. The sympathetic looks they had given me curdled into disgust. “Who would have thought? She looks so normal, but she’s actually psycho,” someone scoffed. “You really can’t judge a book by its cover.” Toby puffed his chest out, his ego instantly inflating on the validation of strangers. “Gemma,” he warned, his voice dripping with malice. “You better follow this court order to the letter. Ten days of public apologies. Do not test me, or you will regret it.” Without waiting for my response, he grabbed Madison’s hand and pulled her away, his chin held high, walking down the steps like a conquering king. I didn’t care about the whispering crowd. I just stood there, looking at the empty space they left behind. I reached down and picked up the court ruling one more time. I looked at the black ink mandating a ten-day public apology. A slow, quiet smile crept onto my lips. You want a public apology, Toby? Careful what you wish for. 02 The very next day, I followed the judge’s orders. I set up my phone on a ring light in my living room, hit record, and posted my first public apology to every major social media platform. “Hello, Toby Crawford. I am your wife, Gemma. I am here to publicly apologize to you. I am sorry for exposing the fact that you have been having an affair with a married woman named Madison to the internet…” The video caught the algorithm like a house on fire. Within hours, it was trending locally, then nationally. The comment section was a war zone. People began picking apart my statement, complaining that it wasn’t specific enough. Which Toby? Which Madison? There are thousands of them! This apology feels like a passive-aggressive joke. Some helpful armchair lawyers even tagged me, warning that I needed to pin the video to the top of my profile for the full ten days, otherwise Toby’s lawyers could file a motion for contempt of court. I took their advice to heart. On day two, I pinned the video. But I also uploaded a new one. This time, I looked directly into the lens and clarified, with absolute enunciation, that I was apologizing to Toby Crawford, Managing Director of Vanguard Development in Chicago, and his direct subordinate, a married woman named Madison. The moment it went live, it dominated the trending pages. Less than an hour later, my phone vibrated furiously across the kitchen counter. Toby’s name flashed on the screen. “Gemma! You crazy bitch!” he roared the second I answered, his voice cracking with panic. “Who told you to post my company information? Take it down! Delete it right now!” Listening to his hyperventilating rage, I leaned back against the counter, tracing the marble with my index finger. A cold, hollow laugh escaped my throat. “Toby, I’m just following the law. The judge ordered a public apology. I’m making sure it’s public.” “You take it down,” he hissed. “Now.” “That’s impossible. And honestly, it’s only day two. Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be here every single day for the next eight days, apologizing just like the judge asked. I won’t miss a single one.” The silence on the line was heavy, suffocating. When he spoke again, his voice was a low, trembling snarl. “Gemma, you are going to destroy my reputation. You’ll ruin my career! How can you be this vicious?” Vicious. The word hung in the air, absurd and suffocating. He was the one who had spent years sleeping in my bed while stripping off my clothes and slipping into someone else’s. He was the one I caught secretly draining our joint savings accounts, funneling away the foundation of our family. And I was the vicious one? Exhaustion washed over me. I didn’t have the energy to play his twisted games anymore. “Call it what you want,” I said, my tone flat. “I’m hanging up. Oh, and remind Madison to wire me back every dime you spent on her during your little romance. Joint marital property, Toby. I have every legal right to claw it back.” I pulled the phone from my ear, ready to end the call, when his tone suddenly shifted. The aggression vanished, replaced by a soft, mournful sigh that made my stomach churn. “Gemma… please. We’re husband and wife. Why does it have to come to this?” His voice was a masterclass in manipulation. “We were college sweethearts. Do you remember how jealous everyone was of us on campus? We’ve been through so much together. Why do you have to be so ruthless?” I froze. My breath caught in my throat. We had met freshman year. He chased me for three years, wearing me down with late-night coffees, endless patience, and promises of a beautiful, simple life. When we graduated, I defied my parents—who thought he lacked ambition—and married him when he had absolutely nothing. We built our life from the ground up. The late nights, the stress, the eventual promotions. We had finally made it. We had our beautiful daughter, Mia. I had genuinely believed I was the luckiest woman in the world. Until three months ago, when a glowing notification on his locked screen shattered the glass house I was living in. When I didn’t respond, Toby took my silence as a victory. His voice dropped lower, thick with feigned heartache. “Gemma, even if you hate me, think about Mia. She’s just a little girl. You’re blasting our dirty laundry for the whole world to see. Have you even stopped to think about the psychological trauma you’re inflicting on her?” A wave of pure, unadulterated nausea hit me. I gripped the edge of the counter until my knuckles turned white. “Don’t you dare bring Mia into this,” I whispered, the ice in my voice cutting through the phone. “Did you think about her trauma when you were unbuttoning another woman’s blouse? Drop the caring father act, Toby. It makes me want to vomit.” “You—!” I could hear him gasping for air, choking on his own fury. It took him several seconds to compose himself. Realizing his guilt trip had failed, the mask slipped entirely. “Gemma, I am warning you. Delete the videos and post a retraction clearing my name immediately.” “Or what?” “Or you’ll find out exactly what I’m capable of.” The line went dead. I scoffed, tossing my phone onto the sofa. But as the afternoon wore on, his threat echoed in the quiet corners of the house. It left a dark, lingering stain on my peace of mind. That evening, after I picked Mia up from school, I made her favorite mac and cheese. I sat across from her at the dining table, watching the way her little feet kicked under the chair, the way she carefully picked the peas out of her bowl. A sharp ache seized my chest. My eyes blurred. “Mia,” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “Are you… are you mad at Mommy? For what I’m doing to Daddy?” Mia stopped eating. She looked at me with her big, solemn brown eyes. Then, she slid out of her chair, padded around the table, and wrapped her little arms around my neck. Her small thumb brushed against my cheek, wiping away tears I didn’t even realize were falling. “Don’t cry, Mommy,” she said softly. “I know Daddy hurt you first. I know he loves that other lady now.” She pressed her forehead against mine. “Don’t be scared. No matter what happens, I’m always going to hold your hand. I’m on your side.” My breath hitched into a sob, and I pulled her into my lap, burying my face in her soft hair. The purity of her love, her heartbreaking understanding of a situation she never should have had to witness, broke me open. But it also fused my spine with steel. If Mia was with me, I had nothing left to fear. The internet was already a powder keg. It was time to strike the match. I reached for my phone, opened my encrypted messages, and sent a single text to my contact. 03 When the reply came through, I let out a long exhale. The next morning, after dropping Mia safely at the elementary school gates, I went home and uploaded the third apology video. Fueled by the algorithm’s love for drama, the scandal of the Vanguard Development VP forcing his scorned wife to publicly apologize while keeping his married subordinate as a mistress had hit critical mass. The internet was out for blood. The comments under Vanguard’s corporate pages were devastating. My phone buzzed. A text from Toby. You’ve really crossed the line, Gemma. You’re going to regret this. My heart gave a violent, sickening lurch. An icy dread washed over me. Mia! My mind immediately flashed to my daughter sitting in her classroom. A brief moment of rationalization tried to soothe me—he’s her father, even a monster wouldn’t hurt his own child—but the suffocating tightness in my chest wouldn’t dissipate. I couldn’t sit still. I grabbed my keys, abandoned my half-finished coffee, and drove straight to her elementary school. When I rushed into the front office, the receptionist’s words made the ground drop out from beneath me. Mia was gone. Toby had picked her up an hour ago. I felt the blood drain from my face as I stared at her homeroom teacher. “I told you,” I said, my voice shaking with restrained hysteria. “I told you specifically that no one is allowed to take her except me.” The teacher looked sympathetic but defensive. “Mrs. Crawford, I’m so sorry, but Mr. Crawford is her biological father. He’s on the authorized list, and he has joint legal custody. We have no legal grounds to stop him from signing her out.” My fingernails dug into my palms, reopening the half-healed crescents from the courtroom. I forced myself to take a shallow, trembling breath. “I… I understand. I’m sorry for raising my voice.” The moment the teacher walked away, I stumbled out to the parking lot. My hands shook so violently I could barely unlock my phone. I dialed Toby’s number. He picked up on the second ring. “Where is she?” I demanded, my voice raw. “Where did you take my daughter?” Toby chuckled, a low, relaxed sound that made me want to scream. “She’s with me. As for where we are, you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about that.” “Toby,” I growled, “bring her back to school right now. If you don’t, I swear to God I will call the police.” “Oh, call them!” he mocked, utterly unfazed. “Go ahead, Gemma. Call 911. Tell them a loving father picked his daughter up from school early for a dentist appointment. Let me know how fast they rush over to arrest me for exercising my parental rights.” I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. “What do you want?” I rasped. “What do you want me to do to get her back?” “Simple,” he said smoothly. “Delete the apology videos. All of them. Then, record a new one. A retraction. You will tell the world that you were the one who had an affair, that I caught you, and that you made up these vicious lies about me and Madison because you were bitter and wanted to ruin me.” “You’re out of your mind,” I spat. “I will never do that.” The next sound I heard through the speaker wasn’t Toby. It was the sharp, terrified sound of Mia crying, followed instantly by Madison’s cold, irritated voice snapping, “Stop whining, you’re giving me a headache!” “Toby, she’s your daughter!” I screamed into the phone, tears finally spilling over. “She’s just a girl,” he said dismissively. “Besides, Madison is pregnant. We’re having a boy. Now, be a good girl and do what you’re told, Gemma. Because if you don’t, I will drag this custody battle out for years, and I’ll make sure you never see Mia again.” The line clicked dead. I stood paralyzed in the empty parking lot, a heavy, suffocating weight crushing my chest. Toby had lost whatever shred of humanity he had left. The thought of Mia trapped in a room with him and Madison made me feel physically ill. Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my hand. I answered it immediately. A deep, steady male voice came through the speaker. “The files you requested are secured and in your inbox. We are ready to execute the plan whenever you give the word.” I didn’t acknowledge the files. I just gripped the phone and whispered, “Toby took Mia. He took her from school. Please. Please find her. Bring her back to me.” There was a brief pause on the other end. “Don’t panic,” Colby said quietly. “I’ll get her. I promise.” With Colby’s promise holding me together, I drove home. When Toby texted me again, sending a picture of Mia looking terrified on a strange sofa as a reminder of his leverage, I set up my ring light. I went live. Because of the massive internet frenzy, my live stream pulled in tens of thousands of viewers within minutes. And just as I anticipated, Toby and Madison, feeling invincible with Mia as their hostage, confidently requested to join the stream as co-hosts. I accepted the request. The screen split. Toby and Madison sat side-by-side, exchanging a smug, victorious look that they didn’t bother hiding from the camera. “Go ahead, Gemma,” Toby said, playing the magnanimous victim for the audience. “Tell everyone the truth. Tell them how you got caught cheating, and how you tried to drag my name through the mud to cover up your own sins.” I opened my mouth to speak, but my eyes caught a movement on his side of the screen. Toby’s hand was subtly squeezing a plush bunny—Mia’s favorite toy, the one she carried in her backpack every single day. It was a silent, violent threat. My heart hammered against my ribs. Just as the silence stretched too thin, my computer chimed with an encrypted message notification. We have her. She’s safe. A rush of adrenaline hit my bloodstream, flushing out the terror. The heavy stone on my chest shattered into dust. I looked straight into the camera, at the viewer count climbing past a hundred thousand, and cleared my throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, my voice steady and resonant. “Toby is right. I did come here today to tell you the truth. But it is not a retraction.”

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