Category: English

I am the dedicated stan photographer for the celebrity actress, Rosalind Jones. But more than that, I am her husband of four years, a secret hidden from the world. Her life was a whirlwind of scandals, but I knew it was all part of a carefully crafted persona, an expensive image her company had built for her. I never let it bother me. Until the day her first love, Caden, returned to the country. It was our fourth wedding anniversary, and for the first time, she stood me up. As I left our meeting spot, I tossed the diamond necklace I had bought for her into a trash can. I pulled out my phone and booked the next available flight. With my camera in hand, I flew away. At first, Rosalind thought I was just throwing a tantrum, angry that she’d missed our date. I sighed and forwarded her the photos a friend in the paparazzi had just sent me. In the picture, she and Caden were locked in a passionate kiss. In our home. A few minutes later, my phone began to vibrate uncontrollably. I let out another long sigh. And sent one last message: “Let’s get a divorce.” 1 A fine mist was falling from the sky, the cold droplets trickling down my neck and making me shiver. I stood in the middle of the open-air plaza, not bothering to seek shelter from the rain. I was only worried she wouldn’t be able to find me. Half an hour ago, Rosalind had called to say something urgent had come up and she’d be late. Every year, no matter how busy we were, we spent our anniversary together. But now, as the minutes ticked by, there was still no sign of her. I couldn’t resist pulling out my phone. “Did you see the news? Rosalind has a new scandal with some hot young thing! She’s my idol, seriously. Never gets involved with anyone over twenty-five,” a girl nearby gushed to her friend, her face a mask of admiration and envy. I looked up from my phone and smiled grimly. In the entertainment world, Rosalind was known as the Unsinkable Rose, a flower that thrived in the ruins. She was audacious and beautiful, possessed of a reckless courage. She was always at the center of some new gossip, and it seemed every billionaire, top-tier idol, and rising star had at one point or another fallen for her charms. Her dating advice had become gospel for countless women. “Finding a man is like sending out résumés. If one doesn’t work out, move on to the next. Be bold, don’t be afraid. One of them is bound to stick.” “Be brave and express your love. Make the first move. If he doesn’t say no, keep going. If he seems uncomfortable, apologize immediately and then make one last, outrageous request: ‘Can I have a hug before I go?’” I thought back on it. The girl was right. None of Rosalind’s rumored flings had ever been over twenty-five. I fell silent. I just turned twenty-six this year. I searched for the latest scandal the girl had mentioned. A photo from the airport immediately popped up, showing two people locking eyes across a crowded terminal. One was Rosalind, stunning in a trench coat and red lipstick. The other was a young man in his early twenties, dressed in a black windbreaker and sneakers. The young fans around them were snapping pictures, ecstatic about the fresh gossip. But they didn’t know what I knew. Rosalind had never looked at any of her rumored lovers with such a tender, surprised gaze. I knew this man. Rosalind had told me he was like a younger brother to her. But he had once sent me a message, claiming to be her first love. What their relationship truly was didn’t matter anymore. The look in her eyes said it all. I glanced at the time the article was published. So, her “urgent business” was picking Caden up from the airport. Then I noticed something else. Pinned to the collar of Caden’s jacket was a small, pink peach-shaped brooch. I froze. No wonder she had switched things up this morning, spritzing on a peach-scented perfume. It wasn’t a mistake made in a rush. She had completely forgotten that I was allergic to peaches. 2 I ripped off my damp mask and threw it into the nearby trash can, along with the gift box. Suddenly, I could breathe again. The world felt fresher. Just as I was about to leave, a small, fluffy dog nudged against my leg. I looked down. It was an adorable little thing, its round eyes staring up at me. It seemed to sense my mood, its gaze a mixture of comfort and affection. I knelt and stroked its curly fur, a genuine smile finally breaking through my gloom. This little dog didn’t understand my pain, but it offered a pure, uncomplicated comfort. It was more than I could say for the woman who was supposed to be my wife. “Grape Cooper?” It was named after my favorite fruit. Interesting. I let go of the name tag on its collar, my smile widening. “Grape! Oh, I’m so sorry!” A young woman wearing sunglasses, a mask, and a hat—dressed like she was about to rob a bank—bowed apologetically. She scooped up the dog and fled as if she were a thief. I stood there for a moment, stunned. My hand was still holding what she had pressed into it. I opened my palm. It was allergy medication. I stared after her retreating figure, a strange feeling blooming in my chest. I pulled out my phone, opened a travel app, and, without even looking at the destination, booked the next available flight. I have no family, no real friends. For all these years, Rosalind has been my only tie to this world. Now, even that was gone. I was finally, completely free. Before boarding the plane, I let Rosalind’s calls go to voicemail, one after another. I listened to each ring, a silent farewell to the past six years of my life. When the last call ended, I blocked her number and deleted all her contact information. 3 It was only after she had dropped Caden off at his hotel that Rosalind remembered Julian. Today was their wedding anniversary. They were supposed to celebrate together. But Caden had called her unexpectedly, telling her he was on his way back to the country. He had been a rising star a few years ago, but at a crossroads in his career, he had chosen to go abroad to study. His years overseas had not been kind to him. Netizens mocked him for turning his back on his home country, jeering: Guess the foreign dream didn’t work out, huh? Rosalind had been worried about him. She decided to go to the airport to meet him. With her star power, she figured, no one would dare say anything nasty to his face. With everything going on, her anniversary plans with Julian had completely slipped her mind. She pulled out her phone, which she’d been too busy to check earlier. There wasn’t a single missed call from him. She glanced at the puddles on the street. She knew she was in the wrong, so she decided to be the bigger person and call him. The call went straight to voicemail. Rosalind frowned for a moment, then her expression cleared. “Miss Jones, where to now?” the driver asked. “Times Square.” No matter how late she was, as long as she showed up, Julian would never stay mad. That was the lesson of the past six years. Julian loved her, adored her. The weather was bad, and it was late, but it didn’t matter. Rosalind checked her reflection in a small mirror, fluffing her hair with a confident smile. If he was angry, she’d hug him. If that didn’t work, she’d kiss him. Julian always forgave her. She bought a cup of hot ginger tea on the way. The weather was unusually cold today, and she shivered as soon as she stepped out of the car. A flicker of concern for Julian sparked within her. She set the tea aside and checked the time. She hadn’t realized it was almost eleven o’clock. She’d thought it was seven or eight at the latest. A sudden, uneasy feeling settled in her stomach. She told the driver to hurry. Her calls to Julian still went unanswered. She frowned. He was really taking it too far this time. So she stood him up. Did he have to make her worry like this, deliberately avoiding her calls? When they arrived, the normally bustling Times Square was deserted and quiet. Rosalind jumped out of the car, her eyes scanning the empty plaza. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Her face darkened instantly. Julian hadn’t waited for her. In six years, that had never happened before. A sanitation worker walked over to a nearby trash can and began rummaging through it. Suddenly, the woman let out an excited cry. Rosalind looked over and saw her holding up a delicate diamond necklace. It was very familiar. It was the anniversary gift she had seen when she snooped through Julian’s phone a few weeks ago. He had actually thrown it away. A cold, mirthless smile touched Rosalind’s lips. She decided then and there that this time, it wouldn’t be her coaxing and coddling him. This time, he would be the one begging her for forgiveness. 4 On the plane, I opened my camera out of boredom. It was still filled with the photos I had taken of Rosalind at her shoot this morning. Flicking through them one by one, I had to admit, she had a face that could captivate any man. With that face, she had conquered the entertainment industry. And with her carefully crafted “man-eater” persona, she had tapped into the rebellious desires of countless young women, turning them into her most fervent fans. In this business, a female fanbase was everything. Rosalind’s value skyrocketed. I suddenly remembered when she had first entered the industry. She had a gambling-addicted father who, after racking up massive debts, had killed himself, unable to face the pressure. But his death didn’t erase his debts. Rosalind, his only remaining family, became the target of his creditors. When a woman has nothing but her beauty, that beauty becomes a dangerous poison. The creditors, the directors, they all saw her as prey. I never doubted that Rosalind would eventually become a huge star. But whether she would get there through clean means or by wading through murky waters, I didn’t know. She was my girlfriend. I had to protect her. So, I used all my talent to shoot a special series of photos for her. That stunning portfolio went viral online, and soon, clients were lining up to hire her as a model. Naturally, with her unique ability to attract fans with a single glance, she was signed by the country’s top entertainment agency. She became an actress. Later, she had told me, in that sweet, coquettish way of hers, that she loved herself most through the lens of my camera. So, I turned down all the lucrative job offers that came my way and became her exclusive photographer. Looking now at the photos I had taken—in freezing winters and scorching summers, pushed to the edge of rowdy crowds just to get the perfect shot—I felt like a fool. 5 As I deleted the last photo of her from my camera, the plane began its descent. The signal returned, and several new messages popped up on my phone. I was surprised. I had blocked Rosalind. Who else would be messaging me? I opened the messages. “This is Caden. Rosalind said you might have left because of me, so she asked me to explain.” “Rosalind and I are just like brother and sister.” “She was just worried something might happen to me when I got back today, that’s why she was late for your date.” “She went to find you as soon as she remembered, but you were already gone. She’s really angry. You should come back and calm her down.” “She’s at my place, throwing a fit and smashing things.” “Julian, you’re being really immature. If it were me, I would never let her get this upset.”

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On the day of the birthing, I watched through half-closed lids as my cousin, Pom, swapped my egg with hers. I feigned sleep, letting it happen. I let her take my child to be broken. And I continued to nourish her egg with my own heart’s blood, day after day, night after night. In the end, her egg hatched a Celestial Phoenix, a prodigy of immense power, cherished by my husband and me. Mine hatched a common sparrow, dull grey and devoid of magic, its tongue clipped short by Pom’s own hand, its body defiled. When the day of the selection for the new Phoenix Ascendant arrived, my cousin fell to her knees in tears, claiming the children were switched at birth. A slow smile touched my lips. “I’ve been waiting for this day, too.” I was in the courtyard, guiding Niamh through her morning practice, when Pom arrived with her retinue. “Dearest cousin,” she chirped, her voice dripping with false concern. “You work the poor girl so hard. She’s only a child.” She rushed to Niamh’s side, dabbing sweat from her brow, fussing over whether she was thirsty, or hungry, or tired. I offered a noncommittal smile. It had been this way for a century, ever since she’d stolen my child. She seized every opportunity to be near her true daughter, masquerading as a doting aunt, whispering that I was too stern, too demanding, that I didn’t know how to raise a fledgling. My gaze drifted to the girl trailing behind her. My own daughter. Her clothes were rags. She flinched from my gaze, her body a roadmap of blue and purple bruises. There wasn’t a spark of magic in her. I am a Phoenix. My husband is a Phoenix. Yet my daughter was a flightless, grey sparrow. She tried to smile at me, revealing a dark, empty mouth. Her tongue had been severed, leaving her to speak in a wet, slurring whisper. “Greetings to my lady aunt.” Ash. That’s the name Pom had given my daughter. Ash. Pom paused, seeing my lack of reaction. A flicker of secret, cruel delight danced in her eyes before she turned back to Niamh, her hands clutching her daughter’s. “Is your training going well, my sweet Niamh? My family has a Heart-Lotus that can help you withstand the coming trials. I’ll have it sent to you tomorrow.” Her voice was a coo. “Don’t you ever be a stranger to your auntie. In my heart, you are my own dear daughter.” Niamh, her chin high with a practiced, gentle pride, answered, “Thank you, Aunt Pom. I will strive to be worthy of our name. I have already ascended to the rank of a Celestial Phoenix.” At this, Pom’s face bloomed with triumph. Of course, it did. I had fed Niamh with my own life force for a decade while she was still in the egg. Since she’d hatched, she’d been nurtured with the rarest of artifacts and elixirs. Her innate talent was undeniable, a rising star among our kind. Perhaps buoyed by the thought that she was the true mother of such a prodigy, Pom puffed out her chest, then turned. With a vicious tug, she dragged my daughter forward by her hair. “Look at your cousin Niamh,” she spat. “Now look at yourself. If I’d known you’d turn out like this, I would have smashed your egg and been done with it.” My daughter, Ash, whimpered, her voice a choked gasp of “It hurts.” The sound only made Pom pull harder. “Don’t you dare shrink from me.” She yanked until a clump of dark hair came away in her fist, the roots glistening with blood. She held it out for me to see, dangling it in the air between us. “Let this be a lesson, cousin,” Pom said, her eyes boring into mine. “This is how you handle vermin.” Niamh frowned slightly at the display. Pom immediately noticed, rushing to soothe her. “Don’t worry, my sweet. The little wretch deserves it. You two are nothing alike.” She shot another venomous glare at Ash. My daughter scrambled to her feet, quickly wiping the blood from her scalp and bowing her head. “Lady Niamh,” she mumbled, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” That was her first instinct. Apologize to Niamh. She had learned long ago that her own suffering would only end when Niamh was no longer upset. The apology earned her a savage kick to the stomach. “Who gave you permission to call her ‘Lady Niamh’?” Pom snarled. “You are not worthy. You will call her ‘Your Grace.’” That evening, when I asked where Ash was, Pom was peeling grapes for Niamh, her head bowed in concentration. “My greatest mercy was not strangling her at birth,” she said without looking up. Her gaze flickered to me, heavy with meaning. “A common sparrow has no right to live among the Phoenix. As her mother, I live in constant shame. I should have offered my own life to atone for the disgrace.” I pretended not to understand the barb, letting her savor her petty victory. At the banquet that night, Pom was a whirlwind of devotion around Niamh, arranging her cushions and serving her the choicest morsels. Niamh loved the shimmering river-sprites, but their bones were notoriously fine. Pom forwent her own meal to painstakingly debone the fish for her. Meanwhile, my own daughter was chained to the leg of the table. She licked her lips, her eyes fixed on the platters, and whispered, “Mother… may I have a piece of bread?” Pom’s face contorted in rage. She shot up and struck Ash across the face, twice, the sound cracking through the hall. Then she scraped the leftovers from everyone’s plates into a wooden trough and shoved Ash’s head into the slop. “Eat!” she shrieked. “Go on, eat! Have you never seen food before?” My daughter’s face was smeared with filth, tears and snot streaking through the grime. Her eyes, wide and desperate, found mine, pleading for help. I took a slow, deliberate sip of the golden Emberwine. Exquisite. The scene had turned Niamh pale. Noticing her daughter’s discomfort, Pom immediately yanked Ash up by her chain. “You’ve upset your cousin, you little beast. You’ll pay for this.” Ash’s face was a mask of numb resignation. She knew what awaited her at home. New torments, new instruments of pain. The next day, Pom arrived as promised with the Heart-Lotus. My daughter was not with her. As if terrified I might miss the point, she stared directly into my eyes as she spoke. “Last night, I had three brutes ‘discipline’ that unruly thing for her lack of manners.” Her lips curled into a smirk. “She’s just a mongrel bird. It doesn’t matter. What matters is our Niamh.” She leaned in closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Isn’t that right, cousin?” I nodded. Beside me, my husband, Kaelan, shot me a look of deep disapproval. He had always been a man of rigid, tiresome morality. My assent seemed to thrill Pom. The thought of us—mother and daughter, both twisted around her finger—was her sweetest nectar. She presented the Heart-Lotus to Niamh like a holy relic. “Niamh, my love, this is the greatest treasure of my lineage. Consume it, and the trials will be as nothing to you.” Niamh hesitated, her eyes flicking to me. The gift was extravagantly precious. Pom, panicked that Niamh might offer the treasure to us, her parents, grabbed her hand. “This is for your own good. Don’t you mind anyone else. Anyone who would deny you this has a heart as black as pitch.” With that, she urged Niamh to shift into her Phoenix form to begin the ritual of absorption. Pom’s gaze was feverish as she admired the magnificent creature, but then her eyes narrowed. She had spotted a single, missing feather from the tip of Niamh’s tail. Her finger shot out, pointing at my face, her voice sharp with accusation. “How could you be so careless? A feather is missing, and you didn’t even notice! What kind of mother are you?” I raised an eyebrow. “Your own daughter is nearly plucked bald by your hand, and you’re having a meltdown because Niamh shed a single feather? Perhaps you should save your hysterics for your own child.” She trembled with fury at my dismissive tone, but she was powerless. Then, a new, venomous thought seemed to occur to her. A cruel smile spread across her face as she activated a communication crystal. “Scar the little wretch’s face,” she commanded the voice on the other end. “Niamh has been injured. The worthless creature’s bad luck must have tainted her.” A moment later, a thin, piercing scream echoed from the crystal. Ash’s fledgling voice, crying out in agony. “Help me… I’m sorry, please, save me…” Pom listened, her expression one of pure ecstasy, as if hearing a celestial symphony. Niamh, as always, remained silent on such matters, and I remained impassive. After severing the connection, Pom’s mood was visibly improved. My daughter’s screams were her favorite medicine. “Niamh is destined to be the Phoenix Ascendant, cousin,” she said sweetly. “You really should be more careful.” Niamh gave her aunt a reproving look. “Aunt Pom, the feather fell out by accident. It will not affect my power. There is no need for such alarm.” Tears of frustration welled in Pom’s eyes. “How can it not matter! You must cherish your body! Cousin, Kaelan, quickly! You must give Niamh more of your heart’s blood to restore her!” I narrowed my eyes, and she shifted uncomfortably under my gaze, forcing a dry laugh. “I am only concerned for Niamh’s well-being.” She quickly ushered Niamh into the house. “Come, my dear. Let your auntie help you absorb the Heart-Lotus. Then you will be unstoppable. And on the day you become the Ascendant, I have a great secret to share with you.” As the Heart-Lotus began to merge with Niamh’s essence, I quietly closed the door for them, a chilling coldness settling deep within my eyes. Yes, I thought. Some secrets were long overdue for a reckoning. The closer we came to the great selection ceremony, the more frequent Pom’s visits became. But I never saw my daughter again. Kaelan asked after her once, and Pom replied with a saccharine, venomous tone. “Why, brother-in-law, do you miss the little stray? Shall I send her to you? She could warm your bed as a concubine.” Kaelan, silenced and disgusted, could only sigh in frustration. Finally, the day of the ceremony arrived. Beings from every corner of the realm gathered. Niamh, radiant in a gown of iridescent feathers, descended from the sky like a living rainbow. My daughter was dragged behind her, a chain hooked through her collarbones, led like a dog. A long, dark trail of blood marked her path. Just as the proclamation of the new Ascendant was about to be made, Pom fell to her knees, holding aloft a glowing Stone of Lineage, her face a mask of anguish. “A mistake!” she wailed. “It was all a terrible mistake! Cousin, Ash’s blood… it does not resonate with the stone! It proves she is not my child!” She choked on a sob. “Under duress, the old healer confessed! She switched the eggs at birth, too terrified of your wrath to admit her crime!” “Cousin!” she cried, clutching at the hem of my gown. “I am returning your daughter to you! Niamh… Niamh is mine!” Her performance was spectacular, a portrait of heartbroken motherhood. But the assembled elders were not convinced. “Niamh is a Celestial Phoenix. She is without a doubt the child of Lord Kaelan and Lady Yennis,” one declared. “You are a common nightingale. How could you possibly birth a Phoenix?” “Niamh has been raised in grace and power to become the Ascendant,” another added. “This… Ash… we hear she has been utterly defiled. How can there be an exchange?” “Everyone knows Niamh is the apple of Lady Yennis’s eye.” But a few dissenting whispers rose from the crowd. “You know… the wretch does resemble Lady Yennis more…” Ash lifted her scarred face, her eyes meeting mine for a fleeting second before she dropped her head again. My husband, Kaelan, looked back and forth between the two girls, his expression a storm of confusion. I raised a hand, calling for silence. A faint smile played on my lips. “If that is the case,” I said, my voice clear and calm, “then let us switch them back. Niamh is, indeed, your daughter.” Pom’s sobs caught in her throat. She had an entire arsenal of pleas and arguments she hadn’t even needed to use. Kaelan rushed to my side. “Yennis, how can you make such a decision alone? Think of all the love, the power we have poured into Niamh! I will not allow you to be so reckless!” The flicker of hope in Ash’s eyes died, turning to grey despair. Tears silently tracked paths through the grime on her face and fell to the dusty ground. But my voice was firm as I addressed the assembly. “It is true. Everything my cousin says is true. Ash is my child, and Kaelan’s.” I paused, letting the weight of my next words settle over the stunned silence. “After all, I was the one who watched her switch the eggs.” Ash’s eyes shot up, blazing with a renewed, desperate light. She took a tiny, shuffling step toward me, her mouth opening, the word Mother forming on her ruined tongue. Kaelan broke out in a cold sweat. “Yennis, we prayed to the ancestors for a hundred days to be blessed with our precious daughter. How could you possibly have watched her be stolen and done nothing?” He spun, his eyes wild and furious, scanning the crowd. “Who did this to you? Who is controlling you?” I pushed his hand away. “There is a simple way to settle this,” I said softly. “Bring the Stone of Lineage.” Ash eagerly held out her scarred arm, her eyes fixed on me. Kaelan winced at the sight of her wounds. A new cut was made, deep and red. Before the eyes of all, Ash’s blood merged perfectly with mine and Kaelan’s on the stone’s surface. The truth crashed down upon him. Kaelan stared at Ash’s mangled form, and a raw, guttural cry tore from his throat. His eyes turned blood-red with fury. He drew his sword and, in a flash of silver, ran it through my shoulder. “Yennis, why?” he roared, his voice cracking with agony. “Our daughter was tortured, right before your eyes, and you just watched? What is your heart made of? Stone?” I clutched my bleeding shoulder, saying nothing. When Ash heard that I had known all along, she finally broke. A terrible, ragged sobbing shook her thin frame. She dragged her broken body across the ground, crawling to my feet. Her voice was like sandpaper. “Mother… why?” she rasped. “Why didn’t you claim me? Was I not good enough? I can be better, Mother, I can change. Please… don’t throw me away.” Silence was my only answer. Her tears stopped. Her grief curdled into a century of pure, undiluted rage. With a snarl, she sank her teeth into my leg, biting down with all her might, as if she could drain all her pain and betrayal into me. Blood seeped through my gown, but no one moved to help me. They stared at me as if I were a monster, a creature of unnatural cold. A mother who would allow her own child to be tortured for a hundred years deserved no sympathy. Fine. If no one would help me, I would solve this myself. I looked down at the creature latched onto my leg, my expression turning from impassive ice to a cruel, chilling smile. I grabbed her by the hair and hauled her up from the ground. My hand closed around the fragile column of her throat.

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I got into a fight with my husband and checked into a hotel. I didn’t expect to wake up the next morning and be infamous. A video had gone viral overnight. In it, my face is flushed, my eyes glazed, as I dance wildly with eight different men in a hotel room. Samson, my husband, was incandescent with rage. He slapped me so hard my head snapped to the side. “So this is what you meant by ‘cooling off’?” he spat, his voice dripping with disgust. “You’re filthy.” I couldn’t explain the marks on my body. Humiliated and furious, I called the police. They told me the video wasn’t a deepfake. They said they found my DNA, mixed with that of the men from the video, in the trash can. I had no defense. In the eyes of the world, I was a whore. My parents, both respected lifelong teachers, couldn’t endure the onslaught of online harassment and public shame. They took their own lives. And me? I was beaten to death by the furious wives of the men from the video. Even as I died, I couldn’t understand it. I was alone in that hotel room. Nothing happened. How did I wake up to a world where it had? When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day I checked into the hotel. 1 “Mia, honey, don’t be angry anymore. I’ve told you a hundred times, I have no idea who she is. The first time she messaged, I thought it was you testing me. I haven’t replied to her since.” Hearing Samson’s familiar words, I realized I’d been reborn. In my past life, I’d found texts on his phone from an unsaved number, messages that just said “Thinking of you,” sent day after day. It led to the biggest fight of our lives. I didn’t buy his excuse that he’d blocked her, but she just kept using new numbers, so he’d given up. It was the first real crisis of trust in our three-year marriage. That night, I’d packed a bag and stormed out, telling him I needed to go to a hotel to think. The next day, the video that destroyed my life went viral. Seeing me standing there now with my suitcase, silent, Samson finally sighed in defeat. “Where do you want to go? I’ll drive you.” His weary resignation sent a chill down my spine. He’d said the exact same thing in my last life when I’d threatened divorce and said I was leaving. Back then, I’d wanted to go to my parents’ house, but he’d talked me out of it, saying it would worry them. That’s why I’d made the last-minute decision to go to a hotel. How could such an impromptu choice have led to such a horrific outcome? I hesitated, then looked at Samson. “I’m going to my parents’ place,” I said. “Just tell them you’re away on a business trip for a while. They won’t suspect a thing.” Samson nodded, taking the suitcase from my hand. “Okay. To be honest, I wouldn’t feel right with you staying anywhere else.” I watched him closely, but his reaction seemed genuine. He drove me to my parents’ house without another word of protest. The more normal he acted, the more confused I became. After he left, I watched my mother in the kitchen, bustling about as she prepared my favorite meal. My eyes burned with tears. They had spent their entire lives as revered public school teachers, only to end them by choice, unable to bear the public scorn and self-blame after my scandal broke. As their only daughter, the shame I brought upon them… How much pain, how much despair must they have felt? My father found me staring into space. “Did you and Samson have a fight?” he asked gently. “You need to work on that temper of yours, Mia. You can’t keep bullying him. He’s a good man, he puts up with a lot from you.” In my parents’ eyes, Samson was the perfect son-in-law. Good to me, and good to them. I swallowed the bitterness in my throat and forced a smile. “Not at all. He’s just away for work, so I thought I’d come home and spend some quality time with you two.” Last time, one night in a hotel destroyed my family. This time, I was staying right here. Nothing could possibly go wrong. 2 Even though I was home, I barely slept. The events of my past life replayed in my mind on a relentless loop. I got up at dawn, before my parents were awake, and went for a run to clear my head. When I got back, I had breakfast and went back to my room to try and get some sleep. I was shaken awake from a hazy doze by Samson’s furious voice. “Mia Wallace! So this is what you meant by ‘cooling off’? Eight men in one night? You’re fucking disgusting!” Hearing those exact words a second time, my eyes flew open. “Wh-what are you talking about?” The words came out in a tremor I couldn’t control. All of Samson’s usual gentleness was gone. He slapped me, hard, across the face. “You dare ask me what I’m talking about? See for yourself! The video is all over the internet. I can’t even show my face in public!” It was just like before. A single video, and he condemned me without giving me a chance to speak, nailing me to a cross of public shame. He threw my phone at me. I saw the same video as last time, and my body went rigid, my hands and feet turning to ice. The comments from strangers dragged me back into the nightmare. “Wonder whose daughter she is? Or whose wife? If she were mine, I’d strangle her.” “What a slut. And those guys aren’t picky. Even a toilet would puke her back out.” “That tongue looks pretty talented. I wouldn’t even let her lick my toilet clean, it’d get the porcelain dirty.” “I heard her parents are teachers. Can’t believe they raised a tramp like this. Who’d let them teach their kids now?” Someone had doxxed me. My home address, my personal information, even the schools where my parents worked. My phone began to blow up with a flood of harassing messages. “Hey, what’s your rate?” “You always seemed so stuck-up. Never knew you were such a freak in private. Wanna hook up?” “Wanna be my ‘lunch break buddy’? Stairwell, copy room… your choice.” “I’ve got ten bucks. And ten friends…” … A wave of nausea washed over me as I read the filth. How could this have happened? I was home all night. I never left. I wanted to get my parents to vouch for me, but they must have gone out grocery shopping. They weren’t home. No matter how much I explained, Samson wouldn’t believe me. With a trembling hand, I called 911 again. The police took us to the hotel to investigate. The result was identical to my past life. The security footage was crystal clear. It showed me checking in alone in the middle of the night. About an hour later, a series of men began arriving at my room. I was the one who opened the door for each of them. With every man, I was either a whirlwind of passion, throwing my arms around their necks, or I was posing seductively in the doorway. There was no sign of coercion. This continued until five in the morning, when the footage showed me checking out, looking exhausted. “The security footage and the video online show no signs of tampering or editing.” Hearing the officer’s words, Samson gripped the edge of a table, his knuckles turning white. He finally lost control, his eyes bloodshot as he roared at me. “Mia, it’s all right there on camera! What could you possibly have to say for yourself? How could you be so cheap? You didn’t just cheat on me, you buried me in a septic tank!” I bowed my head, fighting for control, forcing myself to calm down. I couldn’t panic. Panicking would only lead to more mistakes. Then I saw a small red bump on my hand from a mosquito bite, and I gasped. 3 “Look!” I cried out. “There are no marks on my body! If that was really me in the video, with that many men, it’s impossible for there to be nothing!” I rolled up my sleeves and pant legs, exposing as much of my skin as I could to prove my innocence. In my last life, after I checked into the hotel, my body had been covered in the tell-tale marks of a rough night—scratches, bruises, love bites. They had even found my DNA inside used condoms in the trash. Back then, even I couldn’t be sure of my own innocence; I’d thought maybe I’d been drugged or controlled somehow. This time, I hadn’t gone to the hotel. Even with the video evidence, my body was clean. It was the only proof I had. Samson saw my unmarked skin, and his brow furrowed for a moment. But everyone else just looked at me with smug, knowing smirks. I thought they didn’t believe me and was about to demand a female officer perform a full-body examination when a sneer came from the crowd. “Did the star of the show party too hard and forget? In the video, you specifically told the men not to leave any marks, or you’d sue them.” “Yeah, that was probably your plan to claim innocence all along, right? Too bad someone posted the whole thing online. Hilarious.” “Playing the victim after being the whore. Classic. We can clearly see the tattoo on her ankle and the mole on her arm in the video. They’re exactly the same as the ones she’s showing us now. Guess she didn’t take a good look at her own masterpiece, huh?” Their words were like a bomb going off in my head. I hadn’t looked closely at the video this time; I was just in shock that it existed at all. Why was it different from last time? In the previous life, the “me” in the video had been wild, covered in marks. I looked at Samson in confusion. He just turned his face away in disgust. Even if the video could be faked, the DNA couldn’t. No matter who was trying to frame me, I wasn’t at the hotel last night. There was no way my DNA would be in that trash can. But the officer’s next words plunged me into despair. “Ms. Wallace, our forensics team has already collected and tested the items left in the room. We have confirmed the presence of your DNA mixed with that of several different men.” He paused, his voice grim. “Furthermore, we’ve traced the original upload of the video. It was sent from your phone.” Samson’s breath hitched, and he let out a choked, furious laugh. Every eye in the room was on me. Greed, judgment, shock, ridicule… In that moment, I was right back in my first life, drowning in that same helpless despair. Before I could even process it, a hand shot out and slapped me so hard I fell to the floor. “You’re the bitch who seduced my husband and made this disgusting video? I’m going to kill you today!” The woman lunged at me again, but a police officer grabbed her. “What are you doing? You’re the police! She’s the one who committed this depraved act! You should be arresting her!” she shrieked. “And you,” she spat at me, “don’t get too comfortable. The other wives are on their way. You like playing with men in bed so much? Today, we’ll make sure you can’t get out of it.” 4 I tried desperately to explain. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t do it!” “I was at my parents’ house all night! I never left! My parents can prove it!” But people only believe what they want to believe. My frantic denials just sounded like desperate lies. They even started calling my parents accomplices, accessories to my depravity. A crowd was gathering, drawn by the commotion and the online gossip. “I know her,” a woman chimed in. “I saw her coming home early this morning. She was walking funny, her legs were all shaky on the stairs. I thought to myself, ‘Wow, kids these days are really out of shape.’ Turns out she was just worn out from… other activities.” “Her parents are teachers, can you believe it? Like father, like daughter, I guess. A rotten apple doesn’t fall far from a rotten tree.” I looked up at the speaker. It was Mrs. Davison, one of my mother’s colleagues. They’d always been rivals for a promotion. Of course, she’d be here to kick me while I was down. “No, that’s not it! My legs were sore because I went for a run this morning! I…” “Bullshit, you little whore!” another woman shouted. “First you say you were sleeping at home, now you say you were out for a run. You can’t even keep your lies straight.” “Disgusting. To party that hard and then have the nerve to call the police. I bet she’s got diseases.” “You like showing off, huh? Well today, we’ll let you show everyone what a cheap piece of trash you are, for free.” A group of women surged forward, grabbing at my clothes, hitting and scratching me. The police barely managed to regain control. An officer looked at me, his face cold. “Whatever your motives were, you are now severely disturbing the public order. I suggest you apologize to these families and try to de-escalate the situation.” I finally understood. In the face of what they saw as absolute proof, any attempt to defend myself would only make me look guiltier. But I hadn’t done it. If I apologized now, I’d be sealing my own fate, throwing myself into the abyss. I smoothed my messy hair and spoke with a newfound resolve. “The person in that video is not me. I will not apologize.” “Officer, this has escalated from online harassment to physical assault. If you close this case by assuming I orchestrated all of this, the person who is actually trying to destroy my life will get away with it.” My voice grew stronger. “Have you considered the consequences for me if I apologize? It would be a confession. I would rather die than suffer such an unjust accusation.” The officer studied me for a few seconds, his expression hardening. “We have verified the video and security footage. They are authentic. The DNA results are from an accredited lab. They are not fake.” He leaned in. “If the person in that video isn’t you, then who is it?” That was the question I was asking myself. Who would orchestrate such an elaborate plot just to ruin me? I didn’t understand it in my last life, and I was just as lost now. Flashes of ideas went through my mind, but I couldn’t grasp anything concrete. Seeing my silence, the crowd erupted again. “The evidence is irrefutable and she’s still trying to lie!” “If she’ll do eight men today, she’ll do eighty tomorrow! A hundred! How many families will she destroy?” “Yeah, they should test her for every disease in the book! She’s probably trying to get revenge on society!” “Her poor husband. Marrying such a filthy, unstable woman. He’ll be the town joke for the rest of his life.” The police, unable to control the mob and faced with my refusal to confess, made a decision. An officer took my arm. “You’re coming with us.” This was how it happened before. I was taken away, detained for fifteen days for disturbing the public order and distributing indecent material. By the time I got out, my parents were already dead in their home, their bodies undiscovered for days. Before I could even arrange their funerals, I was found by the enraged families—who had since learned I was “diseased”—and beaten to death. Was I destined to repeat the same fate? I refused to accept it. If I couldn’t find the person who did this to me, what was the point of being reborn? As they led me towards the police car, I replayed the events of both lives in my head. Just as my foot was about to step into the vehicle, a spark ignited in the darkness of my mind. I spun around, my eyes scanning the crowd, and yelled. “I know who’s in the video!”

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I’m in a relationship with the boy who made my life a living hell. Three years ago, I begged Edmund Carter to leave me alone. He ground his heel into my hand and called me garbage. Three years later, he was on his knees, crying and pleading for me to stay. I gave him the same look he gave me then, and said the same word back to him. 01 Pinned against the wall by the school’s most vicious bully, I sent a final text to the boy I’d fallen for online. A moment later, the bully’s phone chimed. Edmund Carter pulled out his phone, and the cold fury in his eyes melted away, replaced by an impossible tenderness. [Be good, Emily. I’m busy. Wait for me.] The second he sent the message, my phone vibrated silently in my pocket. It was the custom notification I’d set for him. For my Edmund. My head snapped up, my mind reeling. There he was, standing under the halo of a streetlight, the perfect line of his jaw and his sharp, handsome features identical to the boy I knew as Edmund. But the way he held a cigarette between his lips, the dark, violent aura clinging to him—that was a world away from the bright, smiling boy in the photos he sent me. For a dizzying second, I couldn’t tell who he was: my sweet, gentle online boyfriend, Edmund, or Tiffany’s monster of a boyfriend, Edmund Carter. “Edmund, that’s the bitch who ruined my bag!” Tiffany shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at me, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “She’s just jealous because she’s poor and can’t afford nice things. Fucking trash.” “I didn’t…” I hadn’t touched her bag. A few days ago, Tiffany had slapped me for no reason. When she’d swung again, I dodged. She stumbled and fell, scuffing her brand new, thirty-thousand-dollar handbag. She’d screamed at me to pay for it. When I told her I couldn’t, she’d sneered and said I should just wait, that her boyfriend, Edmund Carter, would take care of me. I knew who Edmund Carter was. Everyone did. He was from a wealthy, powerful family. The whispers said he had ties to the criminal underworld, that he was a ruthless, cold-blooded fighter who wasn’t afraid of anything. They called him a demon. I just never imagined that my sweet, kind “Edmund” and the demon of Westwood High were the same person. He straightened up, walking toward me one slow step at a time. The warm yellow light of the streetlamp washed over him, but his eyes were chips of ice. His tall frame cast a suffocating shadow over me. I curled my fingers into fists as he spoke, his voice cold and dismissive. “Two choices. Pay up, or get on your knees and apologize.” The detached contempt in his voice was so alien, so unlike the tender, loving boy from my phone. My stomach twisted. In a moment of sheer, suicidal insanity, I looked him in the eye. “Do you believe me if I say I didn’t do it?” Edmund stared at me for a long moment, then let out a short, derisive laugh. “You really don’t know what’s good for you.” He turned away, his voice laced with annoyance. “Teach her a lesson.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. My ears went numb. His lackeys forced me to my knees. They slapped me, hard, again and again. They tore at my clothes, kicked me in the stomach. The pain was so intense I couldn’t even scream. Through it all, Edmund just leaned against the wall, a detached observer, his eyes glued to his phone screen with a soft, gentle smile, as if he were waiting for a message from someone he loved. I curled into a ball, enduring the relentless kicks and punches, tears streaming uncontrollably down my face. The consequences of being beaten by several grown boys were severe. It took me forever to even get up. Two of my teeth were knocked loose, and the blood I spat out stained the collar of my shirt crimson. I lay there on the pavement like a dead fish for three hours before I could summon the strength to crawl home. I couldn’t tell my parents. They were simple, hardworking people from a small town, and even with both of them working tirelessly, we were barely scraping by in this city. That was the root of it, wasn’t it? I was being bullied because I was from the countryside. “Hick.” “Poor, pathetic trash.” “We could sell you and still not make enough to cover it.” Their words were daggers in my heart. It was then that I learned that being poor meant you didn’t get to have dignity. You just got ground into the mud. “Hiss—” I patched myself up in secret. God, it hurt. My phone kept buzzing with that special notification. Message after message from my sweet Edmund. [Emily baby, you home yet?] [You should be home by now, why aren’t you texting me back?~] [Did I do something to make you mad?] The same affectionate, gentle tone, but now it sent a wave of nausea through me. I typed out replies, again and again, deleting them each time. Finally, I just sent one thing. [You were just at the library tonight?] He paused for a second, then replied quickly. 02 [Yep, studied hard today!] As if to prove it, he sent a photo of himself in the library. In the picture, the boy wore a crisp white shirt, his eyes crinkling with a sunny smile. He stood by a bookshelf, looking studious and handsome, the very picture of a perfect gentleman. It was all a beautiful, disgusting lie. I was grateful I’d never sent him a photo of myself. Grateful he hadn’t recognized me. It was the only reason I had the chance to see the real him. I couldn’t afford to miss class and fall behind, so I didn’t dare stay home. After the first period, Tiffany dragged me into the girls’ bathroom. She and her friends cornered me by the sinks. “Emily, I can’t believe you still have the nerve to show your face. Tsk, tsk. I guess they didn’t hit you hard enough last night.” “Haha, maybe she’s just thick-skinned. She’s so ugly and gross, if she wasn’t shameless she would’ve killed herself by now!” “No wonder her name is Emily. Sounds like ‘lowly.’ Lowly and tough as a pig!” Her friends chimed in with a chorus of insults as one of them scooped up a bucket of filthy toilet water and dumped it over my head. The stench and the cold, wet feeling of it soaking through my clothes made me want to vomit. “Tsk, tsk, Emily. You really are as ugly and filthy as a pig,” Tiffany sneered. She grabbed my hair, slapped me twice across the face, then washed her hands as if she’d touched something dirty before sauntering out. I slid down the tiled wall and collapsed onto the floor, burying my face in my knees, fighting to hold back the tears. Tiffany locked me in there for the entire morning. I wasn’t let out until the lunch bell rang. I thought that would be the end of it for the day. But she wasn’t finished. For the rest of the week, my desk was constantly vandalized, my homework would mysteriously disappear. After a few times, the teachers stopped believing me. Tiffany was a ghost haunting my every step, taking pleasure in my humiliation. That evening, I stayed late at the library, hoping to avoid her on my way home. It was no use. She was waiting for me at the entrance with her crew. She knocked my thermos out of my hands. It clattered to the ground, and the coffee I’d brought to help me stay awake splashed all over my legs. My new white pants were instantly stained. I glared at her, furious. As I opened my mouth to speak, I caught Edmund Carter’s warning gaze from where he stood beside her, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his expression full of contempt. “Tsk. Got a problem, Emily?” Tiffany shoved me, and I fell backward. I landed right in the puddle of spilled coffee and dirt. The earthy, bitter smell was sickening. Her friends erupted in laughter, mocking me, saying I looked like a pig wallowing in slop. They even tried to force my face down into the puddle, to make me drink it. My cheek was inches from the grimy floor when the librarian came to lock up. “What are you all doing!” Tiffany and her cronies finally let me go, turning to the librarian with fake, cheerful smiles. “We’re just playing truth or dare with Emily!” “Yeah, Emily lost, so she has to drink the coffee on the floor!” “No, that’s not true,” I pleaded, shaking my head and looking desperately at the librarian. “Ma’am, they’re forcing me.” The librarian frowned, about to speak, but Tiffany quickly cut in with a sycophantic grin. “Ma’am, don’t listen to her. She’s just trying to get out of the dare!” “Yeah, Emily, don’t be a sore loser! You lost, fair and square. Why are you tattling to the teacher?” Tiffany twisted the truth, painting me as the bad guy. Her friends all chimed in. “Yeah, Emily, you’re being so petty.” “It’s just a game. You don’t have to tell on us just because you don’t want to do the dare!” There were too many of them, and their stories all matched. Predictably, the librarian believed them. She gave me a disapproving look, then turned to Tiffany. “Alright, that’s enough. You’re in school to learn, not to play these silly games.” And with that, the librarian left, clearly wanting nothing to do with it. Tiffany looked down at me, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “See, Emily? They’re all on my side. No one will ever believe you.” “Tattling to the teachers is useless. I have a hundred ways to get out of trouble. You, on the other hand, won’t be so lucky.” 03 My heart felt like a dead weight in my chest. I barely even heard what they said after that. I sat there on the cold library steps for a long time, so long that all the campus lights went out. It wasn’t until a security guard on patrol kept calling my name that I realized I’d been staring into space for hours, sitting in a puddle of cold coffee. I walked home in a daze. My mother was in the kitchen, slamming dishes around in the sink. “You’re old enough to know better than to get your clothes so filthy. I don’t have money to buy you new ones.” “Instead of focusing on your real studies, you had to go and pick this ridiculous art hobby. Do you know how much extra that costs us? You’re a curse. Why can’t you be more like your cousin back home? She’s hardworking and sensible.” I was so used to my mother’s complaints that I was usually numb to them. But tonight, I felt the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry. I ignored her and locked myself in my room. My phone was blowing up. It was Edmund. [Emily, are you out of your evening class yet?] [Answer me!] [Baby, did I do something wrong? You’ve been so cold these last two days.] [Don’t ignore me. You’ll break my heart.] He’d be heartbroken? Yes. He would be. Even though our relationship was purely online, I knew how much he needed me. He wanted to talk to me 24/7. He was a person starved for affection, crippled by insecurity. His toxic family life had shrouded his childhood in darkness. After his mother died, he’d become a deeply negative and gloomy person. I had appeared in his life right at that moment, pulling him through that dark time. After that, he became like a puppy showing its belly, offering me his entire heart on a platter. He used to say: [Baby, you are the only light in my life.] [Baby, I’m trying to become a better person for you. I’m studying hard, eating properly, turning into the kind of gentle, charming boy you like…] [Baby, I love you more than anything. Please stay with me forever…] I thought about his words, then I pictured his face as he helped Tiffany torture me. My fingertips trembled. [Edmund, if someone bullied you, what would you do?] I asked him. [I’d get revenge, of course. I’d make their life a living hell.] [Why are you asking, Emily? Did someone bully you? Who was it? I’ll take care of them for you!] [It’s nothing.] There’s no need. Edmund, I already have a plan to make the person who bullied me suffer. 04 During art class, Tiffany “accidentally” knocked over my paint tray as she walked by, smearing paint across my finished canvas. “Emily, does someone as poor and pathetic as you really deserve to study art? It’s so expensive. Can your family even afford it?” She smirked and sashayed away. I silently cleaned up the mess. Half my paints were gone, and my brushes and other tools were ruined. I salvaged what I could and took the dirty brushes to the washroom to clean them. I felt a pair of eyes on me. I turned around. It was Edmund Carter. He was leaning against the wall, a cigarette between his teeth, his eyes full of the same mocking contempt. He was looking at me like I was a clown. I gripped the paintbrush tightly in my hand. He made no move to leave. When I tried to exit the washroom, he blocked my path, pinning me against the wall. “Go apologize to Tiffany tomorrow.” His tone was absolute, his eyes a clear threat. “But I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t break her bag.” I summoned the courage to meet his gaze. The next second, the burning tip of his cigarette was pressed against my arm. “Cut the crap!” “It’s a thirty-thousand-dollar bag. All you have to do is say you’re sorry. Don’t be an idiot.” “My patience is wearing thin. If you don’t apologize, you know what will happen.” Edmund left. I clutched my burned arm, hot tears finally falling. That night at home, my mother started in on me again, trying to convince me to quit art, telling me a family like ours couldn’t afford my dreams. Eventually, my dad told her to stop. Before I went to bed, he came to my room. He told me to just focus on my studies, that the family would find a way to support my art. I looked at my dad’s hair, already graying though he wasn’t old, and at his prosthetic eye. My heart ached. A neighborhood bully had blinded him in one eye when he was a kid. Now, on rainy days or when he was overtired, the socket would ache relentlessly. But he still bore the weight of our family without complaint. “Dad, I’ll get a part-time job. I promise, I can earn my own money soon.” My dad just shook his head, a proud, sad smile on his face, telling me not to worry. Then he asked, “You haven’t been yourself the last few days. Did something happen at school?” I shook my head. “If anyone is bullying you,” he said, his voice firm, “you have to tell us.” I nodded, telling him not to worry. They had been through enough. They didn’t need to carry my burdens, too. For years, I had grown up wild and resilient on my own. I always found a way. Tiffany thought I was some weak little mouse she could crush. Just because I was poor, did that mean I had to swallow every humiliation in silence? The moment Tiffany demanded thirty thousand dollars from me, I had already secured the security footage of her falling and damaging her own bag. After all, a poor person’s greatest fear is being framed. I had documented the injuries from the alley and the bathroom. I had also managed to get a copy of the security footage from the library entrance. I’d barely responded to Edmund’s messages these past few days, and he was starting to spiral, flooding my phone with notifications. 99+ unread messages. I clicked on them, reading one by one. [What are you so busy with, Emily, that you don’t have time for me?] [Emily, did I do something wrong?] [I’m sorry, baby. Whatever I did, please just tell me. I’ll change. Just don’t ignore me.] [Emily, are you… leaving me?] By the last message, I knew he was panicking. So, Edmund, you really can feel hurt. Don’t worry. The real pain hasn’t even started yet. 05 Before I could finish reading, my phone started ringing. It was him. I didn’t answer, just texted back. [I’m not leaving you.] [Really?] He clearly didn’t believe me. He had no security, no trust. [Then please don’t ignore me anymore, Emily. It hurts my heart.] My fingers trembled. For a second, I hesitated, then I replied: [Okay.] His tone immediately brightened. [You’re the best, Emily. Emily, I want to see you. Soon. Can I come find you?] We had agreed to meet after our college entrance exams, but now he was clearly getting impatient. Maybe he could feel it. That I was slipping away from him. [Emily?] [You said you’d always be with me. You won’t break your promise, right?] I could hear the fear in his voice, the desperate need for reassurance. A pang of something sour twisted in my gut. I had been so determined to make him suffer, but for a split second, I wavered. I asked him: [Edmund, you said you were trying to become a better person for me, right?] [Yes, Emily. I’m trying.] He answered without a moment’s hesitation. As if the person who tormented and abused others wasn’t him at all. He truly had two faces. [Then you have to be a just and kind person. At the very least, you can’t do bad things,] I replied. I’m giving you a chance, Edmund Carter. You’d better keep your word. … Tiffany’s crusade against me wasn’t over. To force my apology, she took the fight public. She posted her version of the broken bag story on the school’s gossip blog. Overnight, she transformed from aggressor to victim. She played the part perfectly, claiming all she ever wanted was a simple apology. She painted herself as the righteous one, accusing me of being a poor, jealous girl who coveted things she couldn’t have. She said my vanity was a burden on my family, that I was ungrateful and inconsiderate of my parents’ struggles. Her “righteous” act won her a wave of sympathy. The comments section was flooded with vitriol directed at me. “If you’re poor, just stay in your lane!” “If you can’t have it, destroy it! That Emily girl is pure evil!” “Yeah, get that bitch out of our school!” “I heard Tiffany’s boyfriend, Edmund Carter, beat her up a few days ago.” “Good. I’d take a beating to get out of paying thirty grand!” “Emily must apologize!” On the post with the most comments demanding my head, I uploaded the video. The one showing Tiffany tripping on her own, scuffing her own bag, and then blaming me. The cascade of angry comments stopped instantly. I had planned to release the video today anyway. Tiffany’s post just gave me the perfect stage to humiliate her. With that done, I went to school with a calm heart.

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I was on my ninety-ninth specialist when the final verdict came down: I was barren. Lifelong. Hearing this, my husband, Joshua, didn’t hesitate. He stormed out, leaving me in the sterile quiet of the doctor’s office. I chased him to his high-rise office, the one with the panoramic city view, but stopped short of the door. From inside, I could hear the rhythmic sounds of… intimate conversation. “Mila,” Joshua’s voice was a low murmur, “have my baby. Be my wife.” My hand, raised to knock, fell limp at my side. Back at our house, I started taking down the wedding photos. Tucked behind one of the frames, I found it: Joshua’s old journal, untouched for years. My heart, a tight knot of rage and sorrow, found an outlet. I snatched a pen and scrawled eight furious words across the page: Joshua Sterling, we are over! And then, something impossible happened. New words appeared on the page, materializing out of nowhere. “Who are you? Why are you writing in my journal?” My anger momentarily eclipsed my fear. I wrote back: I’m Vivienne. And I’m writing this because you don’t love her. 1 The words flickered into existence on the page, one by one. “You’re Vivienne?” “Impossible. Who are you, really?” “How can you be in my journal?” Three rapid-fire questions. My bravado evaporated. I shrieked and threw the journal across the room as if it were on fire. It took me a full two minutes to compose myself before I crept over and picked it back up. Staring at the ghostly script, I shakily wrote my own question. “This is your journal? Who are you?” “I’m Joshua Sterling.” The five words appeared, neat and self-assured. My hand trembled. The Joshua on the other end of this journal… was he eighteen years old? Before I could process it, more words appeared, hurried and anxious. “You haven’t answered my question. Who are you?” I quickly scribbled my reply. “I’m Vivienne. I’m thirty-one.” “The man you will become is going to betray me. So, the boy you are now… stay away from me.” The journal went silent. Ten seconds later, new words appeared, carved into the paper as if by a knife. “IMPOSSIBLE!” Through the journal, I could almost see him—the eighteen-year-old Joshua, his face a mask of defiant anger, making a vow his future self would shatter. Back then, his love was so pure, so absolute. He could never have imagined the cruel, heartless man he would become. I was about to write back when the front door swung open. A gust of wind swept through the house, flipping the pages of the journal. I snapped it shut just as the thirty-one-year-old Joshua stormed in, immediately starting to tear the place apart. It used to be that whenever he came home, he’d wrap his arms around me from behind, nuzzling my hair like a cat. I’d squirm and push him away, laughing, and he’d just pull me closer, whispering sweet nothings that made me blush. Now, his eyes didn’t even linger on me for half a second. After ten minutes of fruitless searching, he finally turned to me, his face a mask of irritation. “Have you seen the family heirloom?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Mila’s having a boy. The heirloom always goes to the firstborn son.” A sharp pain lanced through my chest. On our wedding day, in front of all our guests, he had placed that heirloom—a jade pendant—in my hands for safekeeping. His younger brother had been furious. “Joshua, that’s meant to be passed down through generations! Everyone knows Vivienne can’t have children. What right does she have to hold onto our family’s legacy?” It had been thirteen years since the accident that had damaged my body, leaving me unable to conceive. No one ever dared to mention it in front of Joshua. But on our wedding day, his own brother had thrown it in my face. The atmosphere had turned instantly suffocating. All eyes were on me. Joshua had squeezed my hand, then slapped his brother across the face. “Even if Viv can’t have children,” he’d declared to the stunned room, “she is the only one worthy of keeping it.” In that moment, I knew I had married the right man. For five years, I had cherished that pendant. And now, he was about to break that sacred vow himself. I opened the drawer in front of me and took out the jade, intricately carved with characters for “peace” and “safety.” Joshua snatched it from my hand, a broad, happy smile spreading across his face. “Finally. If Mila wears this, she and the baby will be safe and sound.” Only then did he bother to look at me, the coldness in his eyes undisguised. “The heirloom is meant to be passed down. Mila is carrying my child now. It belongs to her.” He turned to leave. “I have to go see Mila. I’ll come back and celebrate our anniversary with you when I’m done.” At the door, he paused, tossing a final, pitying glance over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Even after Mila has the baby, your position as Mrs. Sterling is secure.” A slap and then a sweet. It was his signature move these last few years. I watched him leave, a bitter smile on my face. He called me his wife, yet he was having a child with another woman. I opened the journal again. A new line of text had appeared. “Because I was waiting for your reply, I missed my chance. I couldn’t get the spot behind her.” I grabbed my high school yearbook. My jaw dropped. In the graduation photo, Joshua’s position had actually changed. My breath hitched. My fingers trembled. The Joshua on the other side of this journal… could he actually change the future? Before I could recover, another line appeared. “If you’re really Vivienne, then tell me, where am I standing in the graduation picture?” I quickly replied, “You’re standing behind Mila.” The journal went silent again. After a minute of waiting, I picked up the pen and pressed down hard, carving the words into the page. “Joshua Sterling, please, get out of my life.” “Why? If you’re really Viv, don’t you know that I love you?” He had pressed so hard on the last question mark that he’d torn the paper. “Love? Because of your ‘love,’ the day after that photo was taken, Mila sent a group of thugs after me. They stabbed me in the stomach, damaged my uterus, and left me barren!!” “And the thirty-year-old you? He got her pregnant.” With every word I wrote, the memories came flooding back, sharper and more painful than ever. I had tried so hard to forget, but for years, that nightmare had woken me in a cold sweat, night after night. Thirteen years ago, Mila had begged Joshua to stand behind her for the photo. He’d refused. He stood firmly behind me, whispering that one day, we’d be standing together for our wedding photos, too. His sweet, clumsy confession had made my ears burn. The next day, a furious Mila had cornered me in an alley with a dozen thugs. When Joshua found me, I was lying in a pool of my own blood. He’d started screaming, a raw, terrified sound. He’d scooped me up, his eyes wild, and ran like a madman to the hospital, begging the doctors to save me. But it was too late. My womb was irreparably damaged. I would never have children. Joshua had held me and wept, swearing a solemn oath to love and protect me for the rest of our lives, to never let me be hurt again. I never, ever imagined that he would one day cheat on me with the very person who had caused me that pain. That he would have a child with her. “Joshua, promise me. If you love me, you’ll leave me alone.” “As far away as possible. Please?” “I’m begging you.” No reply came. I curled up on the floor, clutching the journal, and drifted into a restless sleep. In my dream, I saw a seventeen-year-old Joshua, running frantically through a dark alley, his face etched with panic. I woke with a start, chilled to the bone. It was the middle of the night. The thirty-year-old Joshua still hadn’t come home. Not a call, not even a text. But Mila’s social media was a different story. A new post every ten minutes. Thirty of them in total. The first was a picture of Joshua placing the heirloom around her neck. The second, him gently blowing on a spoonful of soup before feeding it to her. The third, his head resting on her swollen belly, a look of pure bliss on his face as he listened for the baby’s kicks. … Each post was flooded with likes and congratulatory comments. “Congrats, Joshua! Fatherhood looks good on you!” “Told you he wouldn’t stay with that barren hen, Vivienne.” “Vivienne was never good enough for him. Mila and Joshua are the perfect couple, a match made in heaven.” Joshua had liked every single post. Maybe, deep down, he agreed with them. I closed the app, my head feeling heavy and my body weak. I drifted back to sleep on the sofa. In my dream, Joshua finally reached the end of the alley. He saw me, pinned to the ground by a group of thugs. He saw Mila, a knife in her hand, plunging it toward my stomach. “VIV!” The next second, Joshua’s eyes went bloodshot. He charged, a primal scream tearing from his throat. He went for the leader, smashing a loose brick against his head again and again. The other thugs swarmed him, stabbing him dozens of times. But Joshua didn’t stop. He held onto the blood-soaked brick, using his last ounce of strength to crack the leader’s skull open. Then he turned to the others, his face a grotesque mask of fury. “COME ON, IF YOU’RE NOT AFRAID TO DIE!” he roared. His sheer, terrifying ferocity sent them scattering. They fled, disappearing into the darkness of the alley. Only then did Joshua’s strength finally give out. He collapsed in front of me. Our eyes met. His were filled with a fierce pride. A small, triumphant smile played on his lips. “Viv,” he gasped, “I told you I’d protect you. I did it.” “Joshua! I don’t need your protection!” “Leave me alone!” I screamed his name and jolted awake, tears streaming down my face. I sat on the sofa, gasping for air, my body trembling from a fear and cold that felt bone-deep. I looked down at the journal in my lap, my mind a confused jumble. Was it a dream? Or a memory? I lifted my shirt. My body went rigid. I frantically ran my hand over my stomach. The scar, the one that had been my constant companion for thirteen years, was gone. A fresh wave of tears blurred my vision. I opened the journal again. There was a new line of text, the handwriting shaky and weak. “Viv, I saved you.” Once my emotions subsided, I wrote back, my own hand steady and cold. “It’s what you should have done.” If it weren’t for his love. If it weren’t for the love he was destined to betray. Mila never would have come after me. I never would have lost the most important part of being a woman. And the thirty-year-old him never would have had a child with my tormentor, wounding me all over again. The letters appeared again, shaky and labored. “Viv, is there anything else I can do for you?” After the seventeen-year-old Joshua had written the final question mark, I replied. “I’ve already told you. Get out of my life.” “Disappear from my sight completely. Don’t use the love you feel now as a weapon to hurt me in the future.” When everyone else had mocked me for my infertility, it was Joshua who had held my hand, who had stood in front of me and shielded me from the world. His love had made me fearless. But when he let go of my hand and joined the ranks of my tormentors, I had shattered. The pain he inflicted was a hundred, a thousand times worse than the physical wound. The heart he had so carefully mended, he had then crushed with his own two hands. A scratching sound came from the journal, each letter gouged into the page, almost tearing through. “That’s impossible!” “Viv, did you know? After class every day, you always stand by the third pillar outside the classroom to listen to music. I deliberately take a five-minute detour just to see you. Just one glance, and I feel so happy.” “Once, during gym class, I heard you had a fever. I was so worried I ran out of school to buy you medicine, just so you wouldn’t have to suffer for a second longer…” “And…” I cut him off. “I know. I know all of this.” “There was the time I got my period, and you, blushing, bought pads for me.” “And the time the school bully was picking on me. You heard about it and went after him the same day. Neither of you were seen for a week. He ended up with a broken leg and transferred schools. You ended up in the hospital with a head injury.” The journal paused for ten seconds before replying. “You know? How do you know all that?” “If you know all that, then why would you say I’d betray you?” There was a line he didn’t write, but I knew he was thinking it. I love you so much. How could I ever betray you? I could picture his seventeen-year-old face, full of confusion and disbelief. “I know because the future you told me. He told me everything, one story at a time. And he told me he regretted it all.” Joshua had told me he should have listened to everyone, that marrying a barren woman was the biggest mistake of his life, a source of five years of shame. He’d said he should have let the bully have his way with me, that saving me so early had only made me ungrateful and arrogant. He paraded his “heroic deeds” around like trophies, using them to justify his every whim in our marriage, right up to having a child with his mistress. A tear fell onto the journal, blurring the ink. I panicked, afraid I’d ruin it, and tried to wipe it away. But I was too rough. The page tore in two. In my horror, the world around me dissolved. I was no longer in my living room. I was in a hospital room. And in front of me was a seventeen-year-old boy, a thick bandage wrapped around his abdomen. His face was pale, his brow furrowed in pain. It was Joshua. One hand was pressed against the blood-soaked gauze, the other was painstakingly writing in the journal, his lips moving as he formed the words. “Viv, don’t worry. I’ll protect you. I’ll never hurt you…” He was so earnest, so determined, as if this were the most important mission of his life. He had just finished writing when he seemed to sense something. His hand stilled. He looked up, and his eyes met mine. “Viv?” In that instant, I saw them again—the eyes I thought I’d lost forever, as clear and bright as a spring morning. His dry lips parted, but before he could speak, a shrill ringing pierced the air. And just like that, I was back in my messy house, the house the thirty-year-old Joshua had ransacked. The phone was still ringing, a sharp, insistent sound. It was him. The thirty-year-old Joshua. His voice was cold, commanding. “Get down to the coffee shop below my office. Now. Mila and I need to talk to you.” At the same time, new lines appeared in the journal. “Please, believe me. I would never do that.” “I love you. So much that you can have my life if you want it.” The naive promises of a young boy, convinced his love was a rose that would never wilt. I clenched the pen in my hand, my eyes downcast. Fine. If you won’t believe me, I’ll let your future self tell you in person.

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The day they held me down and forced the bitter draught down my throat, a pool of blood spread beneath me on the cold stone floor. My voice had been stolen by a poison, and all I could do was make desperate, clicking sounds with my tongue, trying to tell Lord Damian it was his child I was losing. But his handsome face was a mask of ice, his voice a lash. “Pregnant before marriage. Trysting with another man. Do you know your sin, Lyra?” He had forgotten. At the midwinter feast, it was he who drank the spiced wine, he who cornered me, he who forced himself upon me. He had whispered my name in my ear, Lya. I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. He gently wiped them away, even as he brought the bowl of poison to my lips. “Be rid of this bastard child, and I will find a good match for you.” I bit down hard on the heel of his hand. He merely frowned, soothing me as if I were a frightened animal. “The process is a little painful. You must endure it.” A woman in a gown the color of blood clung to his sleeve. His expression softened instantly. He called her name. Belle. “It’s foul in here,” he murmured to her. “You shouldn’t have come.” A new wave of blood, hot and bitter, rose in my throat, and I choked. Belle… Lya… The name he’d whispered that night… it was never meant for me. 1 A deep, tearing pain radiated from my womb. The blood beneath me was a shocking, vivid scarlet. Damian’s usually placid face finally showed a flicker of panic. I lay in bed for three days, a ghost in my own body. Beyond the partition screen, I heard his mother, the Duchess, speaking to him. “Damian, Lyra is a good girl. She’s of an age to be married. What are your thoughts on the matter?” Her words were a weight, pressing down on me. I peered through the silk screen, my eyes fixed on his silhouette. “My cousin is indeed a fine woman,” he said. The Duchess’s teacup rattled in its saucer. Her tone was carefully casual. “Are you saying you wish to marry her, Damian? Or…” His dark lashes lifted. His voice was a final, damning judgment. “No. She can only ever be my cousin.” A sigh of relief escaped the Duchess. She smiled, saying she would find a good family for me, and that it was time to set a date for his own wedding to Lady Isabelle, the daughter of a neighboring Duke. Damian’s expression remained unreadable. As he left, he said only, “As you wish, Mother.” The Duchess’s voice, now stripped of its warmth, drifted through the screen, mocking my silent hopes. “You heard him, didn’t you?” My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms. My empty womb felt as if it were being wrung out by a coarse rope, the pain so intense it stole my breath. I was a distant relation of the Ashworths, the ruling family of this duchy. After my parents died, I sought refuge here. The Duchess had intended to turn me away. “Mother,” a young Damian had said, “the estate is vast. We can spare a plate for our cousin. Let her stay. She can be a companion for me.” With that one word, “cousin,” he had given me a home. We were inseparable, two children against the world. He gave me the warmest room in the east wing, taught me my letters, and guided my hand as I learned to paint. Anything the other young ladies of the house had, he ensured I had as well. And the things they didn’t have, he would find just for me. “Our Lyra,” he used to say, “deserves the best of everything in this world.” I had once joked, “Then if I ever marry, cousin, you must prepare a grand dowry for me.” Damian, who so rarely showed emotion, had suddenly gone cold. “If that day ever comes,” he had said, his voice tight, “I will be the one to give you away.” But at the feast, drunk on spiced wine, he had backed me against the cold stone of the garden wall, his breath hot against my skin. “Lya,” he’d rasped, “don’t be afraid… Lya, I desire you.” I thought he meant it. I thought he cared for me. But now, all he said was, “Pregnant before marriage. Trysting with another man. Do you know your sin?” The Duchess stood over me. “If you are clever, I will not only give you the antidote for your voice, but I will find you a respectable husband and see you married with all due ceremony.” “But you will take this secret to your grave.” After that night with Damian, I had fled in terror. When I discovered I was carrying his child, I had tried to find him, to confess everything. But his mother’s maids intercepted me. They forced a draught down my throat that stole my voice and sent me into darkness. When I woke, Damian was there, his eyes black pools of fury. “Cousin, what is the meaning of this?” The physician knelt, trembling. “My lord… the young lady… she is with child.” Damian’s face became a mask of cold fury. He seized my wrist, his grip like iron. “Tell me,” he demanded, his voice a low growl. “Who is the bastard’s father?” I could only shake my head, my throat raw from silent screams, trying to tell him it was him. I cried until my eyes were swollen shut, but not a single word could escape. He threw my hand away from him, a strange, cold sneer on his lips. “Is he worth this? You’d protect him even at the cost of your own honor?” I wept, shaking my head frantically. He gently wiped my tears, even as he brought the bowl of poison to my lips. “Be rid of this bastard child, and I will find a good match for you.” I bit down hard on the heel of his hand. He merely frowned, soothing me. “The process is a little painful. You must endure it.” A woman in a scarlet gown appeared, clinging to his sleeve. Damian, who was notoriously fastidious and hated to be touched, allowed her proximity without a word. “Belle,” he said, his voice softening with concern. “It’s foul in here. You shouldn’t have come.” Something inside my head fractured. The Duchess’s words when she’d poisoned me echoed in my mind: Belle… Lya… You foolish child. Did you really believe the ramblings of a drunken man? If he hadn’t mistaken you for Belle, do you truly think he would have touched you? Belle… Lya. So it was true. I clutched my chest and coughed up a mouthful of blood. That night of stolen passion was nothing more than a fever dream. The Duchess had said they were a perfect match—noble blood, equal standing. A union blessed by fate. And I? I was nothing. The chasm between us was as wide as the sky. How could I ever be worthy of carrying his child? Using his hand, she had destroyed our baby and my last hope. Now, she held out a small vial—the antidote. “Will you marry him, or not?” I took the vial. After a long, silent moment, my voice returned, a raw, broken whisper. “I will.” 2 For days, Damian tried to see me, but I refused him, citing my poor health. Isabelle came instead, bearing gifts of expensive broths and tonics. She made a great show of adjusting her sleeve, revealing a delicate silver filigree bracelet on her wrist. “It was a gift from Damian,” she said, a shy blush on her cheeks. “I told him I’m not fond of bracelets, but he insisted. He said it’s a family heirloom, passed down to the brides of House Ashworth for generations.” “He also said it looks beautiful on me. Don’t you think so, Cousin Lyra?” I had seen that bracelet once, years ago. I’d found it in a small, carved box in Damian’s study. He had snatched it from my hands, his face tense, before promising he would give it to me as a wedding gift. And now, he had given it to her. If it was never meant for me, why make the promise at all? A bitter smile touched my lips. “It’s beautiful.” To think that he, a man of so few words, could speak such praise. He must love her dearly. Isabelle suddenly insisted on taking it off for me to try. I refused. In the clumsy push and pull between us, there was a sharp crack. The bracelet lay on the floor in pieces. Her eyes welled with tears, her expression one of a startled, wounded fawn. I was speechless. How had it broken so easily? “I’m so sorry, I…” “It’s alright, it’s alright…” she whispered, scrambling to pick up the shattered silver. That’s when Damian arrived. He helped Isabelle to her feet, his brow furrowed. “Be careful, you’ll cut your hands.” She leaned into his embrace, her shoulders trembling, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. Damian’s gaze fell from the broken bracelet to me. His voice was glacial. “Aren’t you going to explain?” I met his dark, unreadable eyes, searching for something, anything. But there was nothing there for me. The dead, placid thing that was my heart gave a painful throb. My throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. “Damian, I…” Isabelle spoke first. “Damian, it was my fault. Cousin Lyra said she liked my bracelet, so I wanted to let her try it on. I didn’t expect it to fall.” His expression softened immediately. “It’s not your fault. The silver must have been too fragile. If it’s broken, it’s broken. It doesn’t matter.” Then he turned to me, his face a mask of stone once more. “Lyra. Apologize to Isabelle.” The ache in my womb returned, a phantom pain. When I was a child, a servant knocked over a brazier and a single spark singed the hem of my dress. Damian had chased the boy with a riding crop for a mile, dragging him back to apologize to me. The next day, he had a bolt of the finest silk sent to my rooms for a new gown. Now, the way he looked at me was the same way he had looked at that terrified servant boy. Tears burned behind my eyes. I lowered my gaze. “Lady Isabelle, I am sorry.” Isabelle shot Damian a look of feigned annoyance. “How can you be so harsh with her?” “She made a mistake,” Damian said, his voice devoid of pity. “She will make amends.” He reached out and, with a swift movement, unpinned the Starfall Brooch from my cloak. He fastened it onto Isabelle’s gown. “This suits you better.” My hair, freed from the clasp, tumbled down my back. I watched them, the perfect couple, and my heart felt as if it were being pierced by a thousand needles. That brooch… he had won it as the champion’s prize at the Autumn Hunt. The crowd had cheered, telling him to give it to the lady he favored. Amidst the noise, he had pinned it on me, his voice clear. “I have no favored lady. Or if I do, it is only Lyra.” Everyone knew he cherished me. And now, he had given it away with his own hands. Isabelle touched the brooch, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. “Thank you, Cousin Lyra.” “You are welcome,” I managed to say. “Damian,” she pleaded, “my chambers feel so bare. I wish to purchase some new things. Could you ask Cousin Lyra to accompany me?” Damian scoffed. “Her? Her taste has always been… common. You’d be better off taking a maid.” Ice flooded my veins. In his eyes, was I now worth less than a servant? The old me would have argued, would have berated him. But that Lyra was gone. I looked at him, my voice trembling with a sorrow he would never understand. “My lord cousin is right. My taste is poor. I wouldn’t be of any help.” I don’t know what nerve I struck, but his hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. “If your taste weren’t so poor,” he sneered, “would you have thrown yourself away on some stable boy?” My back hit the wall with a sickening thud, the impact forcing tears from my eyes. His face was inches from mine, his voice a cold whisper. “Why are you crying? This is the path you chose.” “Damian,” Isabelle called from behind him. He released me instantly. I could scream in pain and he wouldn’t flinch, but a single word from her, and his anger vanished. He was truly different with her. He turned to Isabelle, his voice warm again. “If she will not go with you, I will give you her chambers.” “However…” he paused. A flicker of anticipation lit Isabelle’s eyes. My own heart tightened. “She has just… lost a child. Her room is tainted with the smell of blood. Be careful not to be soiled by the filth.” A dense, suffocating pain filled my chest. My empty womb ached as if it were being flayed. He didn’t care about my pain, my grief. He only cared that she might be sullied by my presence. Isabelle let out a musical laugh, her eyes darting to me with pure malice. “I see.” Her laughter was a blade, mocking my foolishness, mocking the unclean thing that had dared to desire the noble Lord of House Ashworth. As they left, Damian threw one last warning over his shoulder. “Try not to cause any more trouble.” A single withered petal drifted from the window and landed in my palm. Cause any more trouble, I mouthed to myself. And then, I began to laugh. Very well, cousin. I will give you exactly what you wish for. 3 In the past, whenever we argued, Damian would be the one to make peace. A plate of rosewater tarts was brought to my room. The servant said they were from him. But I had never liked rosewater tarts. My maid, Clara, tried to comfort me. “My lady, Lord Damian must be so worried about you that he’s muddled. He simply forgot your preference. Don’t be angry.” Her eyes shone with hope. “He still cares for you, my lady!” My heart stirred. I was about to take a bite when Isabelle’s maid rushed in and slapped the tart from my hand. “That’s for Lady Isabelle, from Lord Damian! How dare you eat it?!” A cold wind seemed to blow through the crack in my heart. So, it wasn’t for me after all. Clara’s face flushed with shame. “My lady, I didn’t know…” I shook my head. “It’s fine. It was never meant for me.” Isabelle waved a dismissive hand. “It’s no matter. Damian has been sending a river of gifts to my rooms these past few days. If you like rosewater tarts so much, cousin, you only had to ask.” Clara, incensed, shoved the entire plate back into Isabelle’s arms. “Here, take them!” Isabelle stood frozen, tears welling in her eyes. Damian, arriving at that very moment, rushed to her side, dabbing at her tears with his own handkerchief. “Don’t cry.” When he looked at me, his eyes were full of cold fury. “When did you become so envious? I send Isabelle a plate of tarts, and you must snatch them away?” “I didn’t…” I tried to explain that the servant had brought them to me, that it was a mistake. But he wouldn’t listen. “I don’t need your excuses. I see the truth with my own eyes.” He took the plate and contemptuously emptied its contents into the fish pond. “Anything she has touched…” he said, his voice dripping with disgust. “Is tainted.” He turned back to Isabelle, his voice softening. “If you still wish for tarts, I will have the kitchens send more.” He was the perfect, gentle lord. Isabelle leaned close to my ear, her lips curved in a triumphant smile. “What does it matter that you were once his favorite? In his eyes, you are nothing now.” Damian had my allowance cut. The servants, seeing which way the wind blew, stopped tending to my needs. Autumn arrived, and I wasn’t even given fabric for a new cloak. In years past, Damian would have taken me to the city tailor himself. Now, he spent his days with Isabelle. She brought me a bolt of hideous, moss-colored wool. “I was going to use this to line my boots,” she said with a sweet, cutting smile. “But then I heard you had no funds for new clothes, so I brought it straight to you.” I felt no anger. “Thank you, Lady Isabelle.” “Oh!” she cried out, “accidentally” knocking over a candlestick. Hot wax spattered across the back of my hand. A searing pain shot up my arm. Damian, who had appeared from nowhere, rushed to Isabelle, carefully examining her hands, turning them over and over. “Are you hurt anywhere? Does it hurt?” My own hand was blistering, the pain so sharp tears sprang to my eyes. But no one asked if I was in pain. Isabelle shot me a triumphant look, then began to cry, complaining that her hand was burned and that only Damian’s kiss could make it better. Their intimate display made me feel like an intruder in my own room. From beginning to end, Damian never once noticed my injury. Instead, he rounded on me. “She brings you a gift out of kindness, and you deliberately knock a candle over to harm her?” “You are incorrigible.” “I should never have let you stay in this house.” He had forgotten. He had forgotten holding my hands in his, all those years ago, and saying, “Keeping you here, Lyra, was the best decision I have ever made.” And: “Our Lyra deserves the best of everything in this world.” I closed my eyes, a wave of nausea and sorrow washing over me. A single, hot tear escaped and traced a path down my cheek. 4 The Duchess informed me that a blacksmith, a commoner, had agreed to marry me. He didn’t mind, she said, that I had… lost a child. The wedding would be after the Autumn Hunt. “As you wish, my lady.” My life belonged to this house. I would marry whomever they chose. Every year, Damian took me to the Hunt. This year, another woman stood at his side. He was, as always, the champion. He won the grand prize and began to walk toward the crowd. Toward me. My palms grew damp with sweat. But then, just before he reached me, he turned. He presented the prize, a magnificent hunting falcon, to Isabelle. “For you.”

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My wife gave my $600,000 mattress to her intern, Will. Will immediately posted a picture on his social media, a blatant, gloating display. “Thanks to Carol for looking out for me! No more sleepless nights. I’m going to sleep so soundly.” The moment I saw it, I sent a message directly to my wife. “Explain to me why my mattress has mysteriously appeared in another man’s bed.” Carol called me instantly, her tone breezy and dismissive. “It’s just a mattress, Nolan. Do you really have to be so petty?” “If you like it that much, I’ll have someone buy you a new one. Is that so hard?” I fought down the rage simmering in my gut, my voice dropping to an icy calm. “You have ten minutes. I want my property back. Now.” Half an hour later, Sterling Corporation’s stock had plummeted by ten points. If she wouldn’t listen to reason, I’d have to use a language she understood. 1 Sterling Corp’s stock was in a freefall, but the first people to call me were my parents-in-law. “Nolan, dear, have you and Carol had a disagreement?” “We’re so sorry on her behalf. Please, have mercy on us. Let the Sterling family off the hook this once.” I felt no sympathy, but I maintained a polite tone. “This is between me and Carol. Have her call me to explain.” “Otherwise, I’m not stopping.” They knew my temper. They knew further pleading was useless. “Find that wretched girl if you have to dig up the entire city!” I heard my father-in-law roar before hanging up. She didn’t respond to my messages, and I didn’t bother contacting her again. If she refused to do what I asked, someone else would make her. Sure enough, not five minutes later, my phone began to vibrate. I ignored it. I let it buzz again and again, letting the caller’s anxiety build with each unanswered ring. Finally, I answered. A furious shriek assaulted my eardrum. “Nolan Thorne! Are you insane? It’s a mattress! Are you really going to do all this over a damn mattress?” “I told you I’d buy you a new one! Did you have to orchestrate this attack on my family’s company?” “If my parents change their minds about me being the successor, you’ll lose out too!” She was threatening me. I hadn’t realized the sweet, pliable woman I thought I married had fangs she was willing to bare for another man. But she seemed to have forgotten why the Sterling family had chosen her as their heir in the first place. I toyed with the jade stone in my hand, its cool surface soothing my irritation. “That mattress was a bespoke, one-of-a-kind creation. There is only one in the entire world.” “Furthermore, you gave away my private property without my consent. To a man. Do you think that’s appropriate?” “You have ten minutes. Get my mattress back here, professionally cleaned, and in perfect condition.” “Or Sterling Corporation will lose a lot more.” There was a long silence on the other end, then a single word, bitten out through clenched teeth. “Fine.” In the past, whenever she was upset, I would have rushed to comfort her, cooked her favorite meal, bought her a limited-edition handbag just to see her smile. Now, I couldn’t be bothered. Ours was a marriage of convenience, a business alliance. I never expected undying love, but I did expect a baseline of mutual respect. Since she couldn’t even manage that, I saw no reason to indulge her any longer. The mattress was returned shortly after, meticulously cleaned. I didn’t coddle her. I walked to her closet, took several of her most expensive handbags, threw them in the trash, and sent her a picture. “Consider this a lesson.” She didn’t reply. She didn’t come home that night. It was a silent protest. And I couldn’t have cared less. 2 Thorne Industries provides the capital; Sterling Corp provides the proposal. In the conference room, as Will prattled on, I saw several of our shareholders begin to frown. I couldn’t believe Carol would entrust such a critical project entirely to this intern, only for him to make a complete mess of it. Our investors had only agreed to partner with Sterling Corp on this venture as a favor to me, to Thorne Industries. If this proposal failed, it wasn’t just Sterling Corp that would look incompetent. It would be a reflection on me. I stopped the meeting immediately and demanded that Sterling Corp replace the project lead. Not long after, Carol stormed into my office with Will in tow. She was radiating a fury I had never seen before. “Nolan Thorne, you are a manipulative, treacherous snake! How dare you sabotage Will like this!” “Do you have any idea how disgusting you look, using your power for petty revenge?” She didn’t even bother to get the facts, just pointed a finger at my nose and started screaming. I was baffled. We had only been married a year. How could she have changed so dramatically? Or was her past sweetness all just an act? Several of my secretaries rushed in, trying to block her and Will. “Please, ma’am, you can’t shout in here!” Carol, enraged, raised her hand to strike one of them, but a security guard intercepted her arm. “How dare you touch me! Do you have any idea who I am?” she shrieked. “I am the wife of the heir to Thorne Industries! Your future boss!” The guard glanced at me. I gave a subtle nod, and he released her. I had no intention of lowering myself to her level. I simply asked, my voice dangerously quiet, “You remember you’re my wife? From the way you’re acting, I thought you were a business rival.” “I suggest you ascertain whether Will is actually competent enough to lead this project before you come in here making accusations.” “Let’s talk about who’s mixing business with pleasure, shall we?” She was stunned into silence. A look of belated regret flickered across her face as she calmed down. I turned to Will. “Tell me your perspective on the Southern New City development project.” Will stammered, unable to produce a single coherent word. I then asked one of my secretaries the same question. As my secretary delivered a clear, concise, and insightful analysis, Carol’s face went from white to red, then to a mottled purple. It was quite a spectacle. Carol tried to save face. “Will is leading a project for the first time. He’s just nervous. He’s not usually like this. He’s very capable.” “Why don’t you give him another chance, for my sake?” I almost laughed. “If you insist on using him, then this partnership is suspended. Effective immediately.” The color drained from Carol’s face. She knew how important this deal was. The Sterling stock had already taken a massive hit because of her. If she lost the Thorne partnership on top of that, her position as heir would be untenable. As she hesitated, Will put on a pained expression, his voice thick with unshed tears. “Carol, it’s all my fault. I’m always being targeted. I’ve dragged you into this.” “I’ll just quit. It’s better that way. I won’t let you be put in a difficult position. Don’t worry about me.” Any lingering resentment Carol felt towards him evaporated, replaced by a wave of protective sympathy. I had no more time to waste on their melodrama. I had them escorted out. As she was leaving, Carol shot me a look of pure hatred, as if I were the one who had ruined everything. A sharp pain pierced my chest. For another man, she was truly ready to become my enemy. 3 Because of Will, I refused to cooperate with Sterling Corp. Left with no choice, Carol had to remove him as the project lead. But to make it up to him, she decided to buy him a gift. After browsing for some time, they ended up in the Vacheron Constantin boutique. Will stood transfixed before a custom, one-of-a-kind timepiece, his eyes gleaming with greed. “Carol, this watch is magnificent!” “The man who wears this must be incredibly distinguished. It’s probably not for me, though. Let’s forget it.” He said to forget it, but his feet were planted to the floor. “If you like it, it’s yours,” Carol said, puffing him up. “You are brilliant. You don’t need to be envious of anyone.” The sales associate glanced over, looking apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry, but that timepiece belongs to Mr. Thorne. It’s here for final adjustments. Perhaps you’d like to see something else.” “Nolan Thorne?” Will blurted out. “That would be me.” I hadn’t expected to run into them here. I had just come to pick up my watch. When Will saw me, he looked startled, and a flash of malice crossed his eyes before he quickly rearranged his face into a mask of pathetic humility. “Carol, how could a small fry like me ever compare to a man as distinguished as Mr. Thorne?” “No matter how hard I work, I’ll always be at the bottom, while Mr. Thorne was born in Rome.” “I’m not worthy of that watch. Let’s just go.”

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When I took my fiancé, Marcin, to pick out our marital home, we ran into the most two-faced real estate agent I’d ever met. First, she fawned over him, gushing about how young and successful he must be to drive a Rolls-Royce. Then, she implied I was a fraud, a wannabe socialite with a knockoff handbag who could sweet-talk her way into a free house. When she found out we were buying a home together, she announced to the entire showroom, loud enough for everyone to hear, “You know, I thought that sugar daddy who bought you two condos last time was perfectly nice.” Then she added, with a sickeningly sweet smile, “Oh, but I seem to recall you have more than one, Miss Sterling. Do they all know about each other?” I just laughed. My “sugar daddies” are just my godfathers, and my socialite status is very, very real. The real twist? My fiancé is just a scholarship kid my family sponsored. … After Marcin finally met my grandfather, our engagement was officially set. We left dinner in the Rolls-Royce my grandpa had gifted us, heading to a new luxury development nearby to choose our first home together. As soon as we arrived, I slipped off to the restroom. In my haste, I bumped into a sales agent coming out. “Watch where you’re going!” she snapped. I glanced at her name tag: Brooke, Senior Sales Executive. She saw me looking and scoffed, her voice a low, mocking whisper. “Some people carry one fake bag and think they’re real society.” She looked me up and down. “Not spending a dime, just here for photo ops and to use the restroom. Pathetic.” I took a deep breath, about to retort, but she just shoved past me and strutted away. When I came out, however, the arrogant Brooke was gone. In her place was a fawning, flirtatious woman practically draped over Marcin, her body language a masterclass in feigned delicacy. She was giving him the grand tour, pressing her chest against his arm at every opportunity. I took one look at Marcin and understood. My grandfather had just returned from abroad, and this was Marcin’s first time meeting him. He had dressed to impress: a bespoke suit, a luxury watch. For someone like Brooke, sizing up a customer’s wallet was second nature. In a neighborhood where a single commission could set her up for years, it was all part of the game. The moment Marcin saw me, he instinctively recoiled from Brooke, putting a respectable distance between them. “Scarlett, there you are,” he said, his voice warm and welcoming. Brooke turned, and her smile faltered. “Oh, Miss… Sterling. I didn’t realize you were with Mr. Hayes.” She quickly pasted on an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry. I saw your handbag and thought it was a replica. I just assumed you were here to use the facilities.” Her voice dripped with false sincerity. “We get a lot of wannabes with knockoffs trying to get pictures for their social media. I hope you’re not offended.” A replica? Marcin had given me this bag. And whether I was a “wannabe” or not, he knew the truth better than anyone. Marcin, looking mortified, quickly changed the subject. “Scarlett, I like this location. It’s close to your family’s estate. Should we take a look?” Still fuming from our earlier encounter, I had no desire to deal with Brooke. I walked past her to Marcin’s side. “I’ve heard enough sales pitches. Let’s just see the model unit.” Marcin wrapped an arm around my shoulder, playfully tapping my nose. “Alright, you’re the boss.” While we waited for the elevator, Brooke’s shimmering, eyeshadow-laden eyes were glued to Marcin. “Mr. Hayes, you’re so accomplished for your age! You must be the CEO of a major company.” Marcin offered a polite, noncommittal smile. “Not exactly a CEO.” Taking his smile as an invitation, Brooke simpered, “You’re too modest, Mr. Hayes. Anyone who can afford a Rolls-Royce at your age must be exceptional.” The elevator doors opened. Brooke shot me a disdainful glance, then subtly tugged her collar down, revealing a generous amount of cleavage. She squeezed between us, pressing herself against Marcin as she followed him in. As she pushed past, her stiletto heel ground into the top of my foot. The pain was sharp and sudden. “What the hell are you doing?” I cried out. Brooke turned, her face a mask of innocence. “Miss Sterling, I’m so sorry! I was just trying to press the button for you.” Her voice trembled. “Please don’t report me. I’m just a sales agent. I’m not like you—you can just bat your eyelashes and get a house. You can yell at me all you want later…” Seeing the red mark on my foot, Marcin knelt down, his expression full of concern. He gently rubbed the spot. “Scarlett, it’s okay. She didn’t mean it.” He looked up at me. “I’ll carry you later.” My chest tightened with anger, but I reminded myself we were here to buy our home. I forced myself to calm down. My grandfather had finally approved of our marriage; I was supposed to be happy. I gave a stiff nod and let it go. But as soon as we entered the model unit, my foot throbbed. I needed to sit down. As I moved toward the sofa, Brooke blocked my path. “Miss Sterling! One moment!” She hurried into the bedroom and returned with several towels, which she carefully spread across the sofa. “This is luxury furniture, Miss Sterling. We have to be careful, don’t we?” She added, with a saccharine smile, “Don’t misunderstand. I do this for all my clients. It’s policy.” She paused, her tone shifting. “Though, usually, ladies from wealthy families are more… considerate. I guess your etiquette lessons didn’t quite stick.” That was it. I shot to my feet. “What is that supposed to mean?” Marcin glanced over, frowning. Brooke’s face instantly changed. She beamed at me. “Miss Sterling! You misunderstood! I’m just so envious that you found such a wonderful fiancé! It’s not easy to marry into a family like this. I’m truly jealous.” Marcin came over and knelt by my feet, patting my hand. “After this, I’ll take you for ice cream, okay?” he murmured. “Don’t be angry. You’re not as pretty when you’re angry.” Brooke, clutching her towels, looked at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Miss Sterling, did I say something wrong? If I did, I sincerely apologize… I really didn’t mean to…” I looked at Marcin, biting my lip to keep from screaming. It was just one sales agent. “Forget it,” I muttered. Marcin gave me a fond nod and helped me up to continue the tour. The penthouse was a duplex, nearly 5,000 square feet of opulent design. Even the tableware displayed on the dining table was a designer set worth thousands. I was admiring the details when Brooke bumped into me from behind, sending me stumbling into the table. With a loud crash, the glass plates and goblets shattered on the floor. A shard sliced my leg. I spun around, ready to unleash my fury, but Brooke was already crying. “Miss Sterling… why were you so careless… I…” Marcin rushed over at the sound. I pointed at Brooke. “You pushed me,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. Brooke looked up at Marcin, her eyes brimming with tears. “Mr. Hayes, I swear I didn’t… I can’t even afford to replace one of those plates. Why would I dare push her?” I pointed to the security camera on the ceiling and grabbed her wrist. “You think you can just deny it? Let’s go. Let’s watch the footage.” Brooke shook her head frantically, trying to pull away. “Ow… Miss Sterling, you’re hurting me… Maybe you were standing behind me, and I didn’t see you. You shouldn’t have been standing there!” She bent down to pick up the broken glass, tears streaming down her face. Her ridiculously short skirt made her look both seductive and pathetic. I kicked at the shards in frustration. “What kind of people do they hire here?” Seeing my genuine anger, Marcin wrapped his arms around me. “Scarlett, it’s okay. I believe you.” He held me tight. “It’s just some broken glass. We can afford it. Besides,” he added, changing the subject, “I’ve looked around, and I really like this duplex. It’s perfect for our first home.” At the words “first home,” Brooke, still on the floor, flinched. Her eyes were red, her voice choked with emotion. “But, Miss Sterling… I thought… that sugar daddy who bought you two other condos seemed to treat you so well…” She sniffled. “Oh, dear. I remember now. Miss Sterling, you have more than one, don’t you? Do they know about each other?” The way she said “sugar daddy” was loaded with insinuation. Marcin and I both stared at her. She feigned a sudden realization that she’d misspoken. “Miss Sterling… I didn’t mean… I just remembered that I’ve seen you here before…” Marcin turned to me, completely bewildered. “Scarlett, what ‘sugar daddy’?” Before I could answer, Brooke jumped in. “Mr. Hayes, don’t misunderstand…” She hesitated, for dramatic effect. “Last month, I saw Miss Sterling here with an older man. I’m pretty sure I heard her call him ‘daddy’… And then I overheard her on the phone, calling someone else ‘daddy’ too…” She gave me a nervous little smile. “But, I could have misheard.” I drew out a long, slow “Mmm-hmm,” a smirk playing on my lips. “You didn’t mishear. I did buy two units in this building. Is there a problem?” I paused. “And as for the ‘daddy’ you mentioned…” It took Marcin a few moments to process. When he did, he rounded on Brooke. “How dare you spread such rumors? Scarlett would never be that kind of person.” Brooke shook her head vigorously. “But we have security cameras and facial recognition all over the building, Mr. Hayes. You can check the footage if you don’t believe me…” I was done with her. I grabbed my bag and started for the door. “The agent who helped me last time was named Claire. She was far more professional. I’ll ask for her.” At the threat of losing the commission, Brooke panicked. “Miss Sterling! No! I was wrong!” Marcin hurried after me. “Scarlett, I believe you. We’ll get a different agent.” Back in the main sales gallery, a woman rushed towards me. “Miss Sterling! I didn’t expect to see you again so soon!” Marcin looked from Claire to me. I met his gaze. “Marcin, it’s true. I bought two condos here a while ago.” My father had made his fortune in real estate. Even though he lived abroad now, he loved to buy property everywhere. Marcin knew this. He didn’t question it, just patted my shoulder reassuringly. “I never doubted you. But this time, we’re buying our home.” Claire beamed. “Oh, you’re buying a home with your fiancé! Congratulations, Miss Sterling!” Just then, Brooke ran up, pushing Claire aside. “Claire, you know the rules about client poaching!” she shrieked. “I was helping Mr. Hayes first! You can’t steal my client!” Her outburst drew a crowd. The sales manager hurried over. Claire looked baffled. “Mr. Hayes and Miss Sterling are buying a home together. Naturally, both their names will be on the deed. But Miss Sterling is my client. It’s been less than 45 days since her last purchase. According to the rules, she’s still my client!” The manager quickly grasped the situation. “That’s correct. By the rules, this commission belongs to Claire.” Brooke glared at me. “Then why didn’t you say so earlier, Miss Sterling?!” I put on my most innocent expression. “First, if you recognized me, how could you not know? Second, you were the one clinging to my fiancé from the moment he walked in. We never asked for you. Third, I’m the customer. How am I supposed to know your internal rules?” Brooke’s face went pale. She grabbed Marcin’s arm, pleading. “Mr. Hayes, it’s my fault I offended Miss Sterling. But… maybe you could just put the house in your name? I mean… you’re not married yet…” I scoffed. My parents were paying the down payment. As if Marcin would dare agree to that. He took a deep breath and shook her off. “Whatever my fiancée wants.”

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1 I was at a Christie’s auction with a friend when I saw him: Harrison Blackwood. My husband. The golden boy of New York’s elite, the man who supposedly adored me, bidding an obscene amount of money on a diamond necklace I’d been coveting for ages. The next day, that very necklace was sparkling around the neck of his impossibly pretty new intern. I didn’t cry. I didn’t throw a fit. I simply called a contact at Cartier and commissioned two hundred identical pieces, sending them directly to the freshman dorms at Columbia University. If he was going to be so generous, I’d help him seal the deal. Make him a campus legend. Then I had my lawyer draft our divorce papers and had them couriered to his office. That was the day every single girl in Columbia’s North Tower received a gift from the wife of the Apex Innovations CEO. Every girl, that is, except for Lila Jones. … The party was in full swing when Harrison made his entrance with Lila on his arm. The young, beautiful girl clung to him, her smile a dazzling, triumphant thing. The circle of people around me instantly dissolved, their faces a mixture of pity and awkwardness. I honestly hadn’t thought he’d have the nerve to parade her around in public. Our marriage was a union of dynasties, the Blackwoods and the Sinclairs, two of the most powerful families in the city. I thought, at the very least, he owed me a sliver of respect. I was wrong. “What’s with all the long faces?” I said, my voice gliding through the sudden silence as I moved to his side. “Don’t tell me you’re all captivated by Harrison’s new executive assistant.” I offered the excuse on a silver platter. The tension broke as people nodded, a wave of relieved understanding passing through the crowd. Harrison, acting as if nothing was amiss, stepped toward me. “Maddie,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble. Lila, not missing a beat, chirped, “It’s so nice to see you again, Madeline.” I fought the urge to gag and offered them both a serene smile. We’re all adults here. In this world, you learn to wear a mask, or you drown. You smile when you’re seething. You feign affection for those you despise. And you certainly don’t cause a scene with a man like Harrison Blackwood. It benefits no one. But when my eyes landed on the necklace—the one from the auction—a chilling cold seeped into my bones, extinguishing the last flicker of hope. Just ten minutes earlier, I’d watched from across the room as Harrison gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind Lila’s ear, his fingers lingering before he adjusted the strap of her dress that had slipped from her shoulder. Yesterday, when I saw him leaving the auction house, my heart had fluttered with a sweet, foolish anticipation. I was so sure it was for me. I spent the morning at the salon, getting the perfect hairstyle to complement it, and had my makeup artist craft a look of understated elegance. But the hours ticked by, and no little blue box appeared. I finally caved and called him, trying to sound casual as I fished for a hint about a gift. His answer was a simple “no.” But I heard her in the background. A saccharine, girlish voice. “Mr. Blackwood, do you think your wife will be upset?” “No,” he’d replied, his voice smooth as silk. “Maddie’s always been graceful and understanding. She won’t mind.” In that moment, the final illusion shattered. My grace, my understanding—he saw them as a permission slip. Harrison Blackwood, I realized, was far from the man I thought he was. But he was right about one thing. I was graceful. And I refused to lower myself by fighting with some cloying, manipulative girl. Lila shadowed him, her smile aimed at me, but her eyes blazed with a pride and defiance she could barely contain. A college kid, so transparent in her foolishness. She actually thought she meant something to him. I let a cold smile touch my lips. “That’s a lovely necklace,” I said slowly, my gaze fixed on her throat. “Was it a gift?” Lila wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly what I was asking. 2 A college intern on a stipend couldn’t afford a piece like that. Her eyes widened in feigned surprise before she darted a panicked, doe-eyed glance at Harrison. As expected, he stepped in to defend her. “Maddie, don’t misunderstand. Lila had a rough week at the office, some of the senior staff were giving her a hard time. As her boss, I just bought her a little something to cheer her up. That’s all it is.” I raised my champagne flute to him in a silent toast of “understanding,” then turned away and made a quick call to my assistant. A few moments later, Harrison’s phone buzzed, and he stepped aside to take the call. It was perfect timing. An acquaintance, one of the society wives with a tongue for gossip, drifted over. “Madeline, darling,” she began, her eyes flicking to Lila, “who is that… new friend of Harrison’s?” The question was dripping with insinuation. The whole room had seen how he hovered over the girl, a knight in a bespoke suit. I decided to forgo the pretense. “Oh, her?” I said, my voice clear and carrying. “Just the latest intern with a pipe dream of sleeping her way to the top, I suppose. The other woman, you could say.” The color drained from Lila’s face, leaving her looking pale and stricken. Her pretty eyes welled up with tears, a portrait of wounded innocence. A perfect little victim. No wonder Harrison was so taken with her. The society wife, not expecting such brutal honesty, mumbled an excuse and beat a hasty retreat. I crossed my arms, a smirk playing on my lips as I studied Lila. “Miss Jones, isn’t it? At your age, you really should be focusing on building a real career, not clinging to fantasies. It’s a long, lonely fall when men like him get bored. You risk losing a lot more than just your dignity.” She knew I was dressing her down in public. Her lips trembled, but no words came out. I laughed internally. They were so used to my composed, elegant facade that they’d mistaken me for a wilting flower, easily trampled. “Madeline, I…” “Don’t,” I cut her off with a raised hand. “My mother only had one child, so I have no sister. And this isn’t the Victorian era. The term ‘mistress’ isn’t exactly a title to aspire to.” The tears finally spilled, tracing clean paths down her cheeks. Just as I was about to twist the knife a little deeper, Harrison returned, his face a thundercloud. He stopped directly in front of me. “The necklaces. You ordered them?” My assistant was fast. I didn’t deny it. “I did.” “Why would you do that? You don’t even wear that style.” I leaned back against a marble column, my smile mocking him. “To help you out, of course. College is tough. Those poor girls are probably all stressed out from their internships. I thought I’d do you a favor and buy them all a little something to lift their spirits.” For the first time all night, a crack appeared in Harrison’s iron-clad composure. It was gone in an instant, but I saw it. He was a master of hiding his true feelings. He slid an arm around my waist, his touch a possessive brand, and pulled me close. He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. “It’s just a necklace, Maddie,” he murmured, his voice a low, seductive growl. “If you wanted one, I would have bought you a dozen. It’s not worth getting worked up over and frightening the new girl. I’d hate to see you upset.” It was the same deep, husky tone he used in the dark of our bedroom, his warm breath on my skin. But this wasn’t seduction. This was damage control. This was him trying to shield Lila from the consequences. I played along, my hand tracing a slow path up his back, pulling him even closer. I matched his hushed tone. “You know exactly what she’s trying to do, Harrison, and so do I. This was never about the necklace. I don’t care what you do on your own time, but don’t you dare forget that I am Mrs. Blackwood. If this becomes a public spectacle, it will burn us both.” My voice dropped to a whisper, sharp and venomous. “This is the first and last time.” From a distance, we must have looked like a couple sharing an intimate secret. The crowd around us, misreading the situation entirely, let out a few good-natured whoops and catcalls. I felt his body go rigid beneath my hand. With a final, patronizing pat on his back, I smiled, stepped away, and plucked a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray. 3 The gala wound down, the glittering guests melting away into the New York night. I thought I had made myself perfectly clear. I thought the disgust in my eyes was unmistakable. Apparently, I had vastly underestimated the thickness of some people’s skin. Because when we went to leave, Lila tried to get into our car. “Lila’s dorm is a long way from here,” Harrison said, his tone clipped. “She’ll have a hard time getting a cab this late. It’s on the way, we’ll just give her a lift.” A blatant lie. I called him on it without hesitation. “She lives in a dorm at Columbia, we’re going to our penthouse on the Upper East Side. Since when is Morningside Heights ‘on the way’?” Harrison’s brow furrowed. Lila looked at me, her eyes shimmering with fresh tears, as if I were the villain in this twisted little drama. Seeing I wouldn’t budge, Harrison switched tactics, playing the emotion card. “Maddie, you’ve always been so reasonable…” “And what if I don’t want to be?” I snapped, cutting him off. Lila, her lower lip trembling, stepped towards me. “Madeline, I shouldn’t have accepted the necklace. I’m sorry, what happened tonight was my fault. But I really can’t get a ride…” She held out a beautifully wrapped perfume box. A gift from him, no doubt. “I’ll trade you. It’s my favorite perfume.” I wrinkled my nose in disdain. “What scent is that? It smells of cloying desperation.” The repeated humiliations finally broke through her act. A furious blush crept up her neck, and she stood there, clutching the box, tears held captive in her eyes. Harrison, who had been playing the part of the patient gentleman all night, finally lost his composure. “Madeline,” he said, his voice dangerously low, “that’s enough.” I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Is it? Is this ‘enough’?” “Harrison, don’t forget whose party this was,” I continued, my voice turning to ice. “My father pulled the strings that made your little deal happen tonight. Without him, you’d be walking away with nothing.” Without waiting for his response, I pushed past the tearful Lila and slid into the back of the town car. He was a businessman, first and foremost. He knew how to weigh his options. He knew exactly what my words implied. He might be the golden boy, but I was a Sinclair. I was born with a silver spoon, yes, but it was sharpened to a knife’s edge. In our world, sentiment rarely outweighed profit. A moment later, he got in the car beside me. The drive was suffocatingly silent. I wouldn’t stoop to fighting over a man with a college girl, but my position in this city mattered. The headline “Harrison Blackwood Abandons Wife on Park Avenue for Intern” wasn’t one I was willing to tolerate. My fury, which had been simmering, began to boil when I noticed the front passenger seat. It had been adjusted. Moved forward, reclined slightly. I knew in an instant who had been sitting there. And then I saw it. Stuck to the dashboard, a small, pink sticky note with childish handwriting: “Angel’s Seat.” A white-hot rage surged through me. I wanted to kick him out of the moving car, then go back and slap that angelic look right off Lila’s face. Just as I was about to erupt, his phone rang. The sound of Lila’s pathetic sobbing filled the silent car. “Harrison… sob… I can’t get a cab… and I think someone is following me… I’m so scared, can you please… can you please come back for me?” Without a single moment of hesitation, Harrison slammed on the brakes, screeching the car to a halt at the side of the road. “Okay, don’t panic,” he said into the phone, his voice all reassuring calm. “Stay right where you are. Don’t move. I’m coming to get you.” My hand, which had been reaching to adjust my own seat, froze mid-air. I turned to him, my expression one of pure disbelief. Harrison’s face was a mask of grim concern. “Maddie, you take the car home. Lila could be in real danger. I have to go back.” I laughed. It was a raw, incredulous sound. “This is Midtown Manhattan, Harrison. We’re surrounded by thousands of people. There are three police precincts between here and Columbia. What ‘danger’ could she possibly be in?” My voice dripped with scorn. “What are you, her father? If she’s in danger, she should call 911, not you!” 4 He was speechless, cornered by my logic. He closed his eyes for a long moment, took a deep, shuddering breath, then opened them again. “Maddie, she’s just a girl. Can’t you have a little empathy?” He looked at me, a note of pleading in his voice. “Is this really all because of a necklace? Are you going to hold this against me forever?” “Are you blind, Harrison?” I shot back, my voice rising. “Can’t you see she’s provoking me? And you’re going to leave me, your wife, stranded on the side of the road for her?” The look in his eyes shifted, cycling rapidly from anger to coldness, and finally, settling on a profound disappointment. “Madeline,” he said, his voice flat. “When did you become so unreasonable? So… hysterical? This isn’t the woman I married.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I was being unreasonable? “Let me get this straight, Harrison. This is the first time you have ever raised your voice to me. And it’s for another woman.” He turned his head abruptly, staring out the window, a clear signal that the conversation was over. “Did you forget our agreement?” I pressed on, my voice low and dangerous. “The one we made before we signed the marriage certificate? Mutual respect. No affairs. No scandals. It wasn’t just for us; it was for the Sinclair and Blackwood empires. Are you really willing to burn all of that down for her?” The only sound in the car was his heavy, strained breathing. I knew he was wavering. In this round of our silent, ugly war, I had won. For now. That night, Harrison and I slept in separate rooms. His excuse was that I was being “too aggressive,” that he felt “suffocated” and needed space. He said we both needed to calm down. Fine. It gave me the space I needed to think. To re-evaluate our entire relationship. Lying in the king-sized bed alone, the day’s events played on a loop in my mind. The first time Harrison had ever publicly humiliated me for another woman. The Blackwoods and the Sinclairs had been allies for generations, but Harrison and I had barely known each other growing up. I’d heard stories, of course, whispers of the eldest Blackwood son—a brilliant, ruthless playboy coasting on his family name. But at our engagement party three years ago, I had been undeniably drawn to him. Beneath the handsome, confident exterior was a surprisingly sharp wit and an effortless charm. When our parents proposed the merger—our marriage—I agreed. With our backgrounds, our education, our shared ambition, we admired each other. The engagement was swift. I never considered love or affection; I was raised in a world of assets and liabilities, and the first lesson I ever learned was how to weigh them. Our marriage was the ultimate strategic alliance, merging our family companies and catapulting our careers into the stratosphere. I had always believed that for Harrison and me, we were simply the best possible choice for one another—a perfectly balanced equation. But somewhere along the way, I think he started to fall in love with me. The untouchable prince of New York’s elite would hold me in the dead of night, burying his face in my shoulder and murmuring nonsense like a little boy. On frigid winter nights, he’d tuck my icy feet into the warmth of his robe. When I had cramps, he’d bring me a hot water bottle and a cup of tea. He’d tilt the umbrella entirely over my head in the rain, not caring that his own shoulder was getting soaked. Not long ago, he’d whispered to me, “Maddie, you will always be my first choice.” But then Lila appeared, and everything changed. After years of navigating the cutthroat world of high society and corporate warfare, for the first time in my life, I felt a bone-deep exhaustion. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from Harrison. “Goodnight, Maddie.” It was followed by a cute animated sticker of a cat patting another cat’s head. 5 That was Harrison. Ever the master of appearances. Even in the midst of a cold war, he would perform the necessary rituals, go through the motions. The wine from dinner had left me with a dull headache. I went to the kitchen to make myself a glass of warm milk and saw it. My favorite ceramic mug had a hairline crack running down its side. I called the housekeeper. “Who used this mug?” I asked, my voice tight. She looked terrified. “No one, Mrs. Blackwood, I swear. You told us never to touch it, that you would wash it yourself. We never do.” She was right. I had given that order. The mug was a birthday gift from last year. Harrison had commissioned it from a famed German ceramicist I admired, taking a detour on a business trip just to pick it up. I treasured it. And now it was flawed. “Should I… should I see if it can be repaired?” the housekeeper asked timidly. “No,” I said, my voice flat. “It’s precisely because it was so precious that even the smallest crack is irreparable.” A few minutes later, my head of security sent a video file to my phone. The footage was from the kitchen security camera, timestamped yesterday afternoon. It showed Lila picking up my mug. She looked around, a malicious little smirk on her face, and then deliberately let it slip from her grasp, dropping it into the hard, stainless-steel sink. He had actually brought her into our home. The necklace had angered me, a beautiful thing wasted on someone so cheap. It was a matter of aesthetics. But this? Sneaking into my home, my sanctuary, and intentionally destroying something I cherished? This was a declaration of war. This was a direct, personal violation. A wave of pure, unadulterated fury washed over me, burning away every last scrap of restraint. With a sweep of my arm, I sent the beautiful, flawed mug crashing to the floor, where it shattered into a hundred pieces. And in that moment, so did my marriage.

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We were a family of villains, the kind that exists only to do evil, racking up a body count to make the heroes shine all the brighter. In the end, our pre-written fate was to be left for dead on the streets, objects of public scorn. My father was the corrupt Lord Treasurer, having siphoned off half the kingdom’s treasury. The King had been eyeing his head for a long time. My mother, a ruthless woman from a lesser noble house, had clawed her way into her marriage over a few dead bodies. My brother, the High General, was the capital’s most infamous rake, a bloodthirsty tyrant who held the city’s garrison in his iron fist. And then there was me. Freshly reincarnated into this world, a useless girl with no skills to speak of, except for the voice screaming inside my head: [Dad! Mom! Damian! If we don’t get our act together, the heroes are going to crush us! I’m doomed!] 1 The moment I arrived in this world, I knew. I had been reborn into a family of archetypal villains, the dark mirror to the story’s heroic protagonist. The first twenty years of my life were a whirlwind of silk and gold; the next twenty were slated to end in a variety of uniquely gruesome ways for each of us. I had just come of age when the royal decree arrived: a dual marriage proposal. My father, Lord Valerius, was a man of immense power, his hands on the economic pulse of the entire kingdom. The other bride-to-be was Lady Trista, daughter of the Lord Justiciar. A respectable family, they called them—a kinder way of saying they were broke. Though Trista’s station was modest, she was hailed as the most brilliant literary mind in the capital city of Aethelgard. Her reputation far outshone mine, which is how we both ended up in this mess. The King, in a show of feigned respect for my father, offered me the first choice: the Crown Prince or the Lord Marshal. My father leaned close, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Choose whoever you like, my darling girl.” But I fell silent, my mind racing. [The Prince and the Lord Marshal are both obsessed with Trista. If I marry the Prince, he’ll despise me but fear my father. Publicly, he’ll be courteous. Privately, in the palace, I’ll be treated worse than a servant. He’ll take Trista as his favored mistress anyway, and when the time is right, he’ll probably have me disposed of—walled up in some forgotten tower to make way for his true love.] [If I choose the Lord Marshal, I’ll be a lonely wife in a cold castle. He’ll immediately request a post on the furthest border of the kingdom. A few years later, he’ll return with a woman who looks suspiciously like Trista and demand I raise her son as my own. And all the while, he’ll be acting as Trista’s devoted, lovesick puppy, lavishing her with gifts bought with my family’s money.] [Either choice is a death sentence. I’m utterly screwed.] My eyes widened and I shot my father a desperate look, trying to signal my panic. “Father… Dad…” A tremor ran through him, his eyes instantly bloodshot. He straightened up, his voice strained but firm. “Your Majesty, forgive my impertinence, but my daughter is… unruly. This union is simply not possible.” The King’s pleasant facade cracked. “The Crown Prince and the Lord Marshal are the finest young men in this kingdom,” he said, his tone turning to ice. “If neither is good enough for your daughter, Lord Valerius, who exactly did you have in mind for her?” Panic made my father reckless. “My daughter is… slow. I had already arranged a betrothal for her, you see.” A cold, humorless laugh escaped the King’s lips. “Don’t play games with me. You were given a choice and you refused it. Very well. I shall choose for you. She will marry my son, the Crown Prince. She will be his Princess.” Defeated, my father could only prostrate himself in thanks before being dismissed. When it was Trista’s turn, she and the Prince exchanged secretive, longing glances. She, too, chose the Prince, though she would only be his official mistress, a Lady of the Court. Her father, the Lord Justiciar, was ecstatic. “A blessing from the heavens! My daughter must serve the Prince well in his household.” Only the Lord Marshal, Gideon, cast one last, mournful look at Trista before striding away, his shoulders slumped in defeat. 2 The news that I, Cassia Valerius, and Lady Trista were to be married to the Prince on the same day spread through Aethelgard like wildfire, fanning the flames of gossip. Not that any of the noble ladies ever wanted to associate with me; they all flocked around Trista like moths to a flame. She had the reputation, the grace. She could recite some mournful poem and earn a roomful of applause. As for me? My parents always said, “Why bother with lutes and watercolors? Those are skills for entertainers. Our daughter has no need for them.” So, just like my brother, I was branded one of the capital’s “gilded fools.” On the way home, the whispers were impossible to ignore. “Look, there’s Cassia Valerius, dripping with gold again. Does she intend to wear the entire treasury on her person? So vulgar.” “What does she know of elegance? She’s just a spoiled brat with a rich father. Look at her, trailing a half-dozen servants. You’d think she was a queen.” “Even the Queen isn’t that ostentatious. A shame, really. With that character, she might become a princess, but she’ll never be a queen.” “The Prince prefers women of substance. He would never fall for an empty-headed doll like her.” Every time I stepped outside, it was the same story. I knew my reputation was in the gutter, but I refused to be shamed for my fashion. And what of their beloved Trista? The woman was about to marry the Crown Prince and she still wandered around in a plain white linen dress and a simple silver pin. It was pathetic, yet the capital’s elite praised it as the height of sophisticated minimalism. Leaving the palace, I had muttered loud enough for her to hear, “Dressed in white like that. Is she attending a wedding or a funeral?” Her retort, delivered in that sickeningly sweet tone of hers, came swiftly. “I love this white gown as I love a pure soul. It is a constant reminder to remain true to oneself, untainted by the gaudy trends of the world.” This was going to be unbearable. The thought of sharing a roof with that master of passive-aggression made me lose my appetite. 3 That night, my parents and my brother, Damian, were all too worried to eat as well. Damian, ever the cavalier, slammed a fist on the table. “Seriously, Dad? You couldn’t just say she was already spoken for? Do you have any idea the filth they’re spewing about her out there?” Mother’s face was a mask of frustration. “If it were anyone else, we could just have them… disappear.” Before her marriage, she was infamous for eliminating several rivals within her own family to secure her position. Talk of murder never fazed her. Damian nodded eagerly. “A knife in the dark solves a lot of problems. Better dead than miserable under the Prince’s roof. I’m with Mom on this one.” He turned to me, his eyes filled with a rare spark of pity. “Poor Cassia. So young, and already being set up as the unloved wife.” He’d picked up that particular turn of phrase from me. He was using it perfectly now. My father looked like he was about to explode. “Have you both lost your minds?” he roared. “We’re talking about the Crown Prince and the Lord Marshal! Who, exactly, do you plan on assassinating? And he’d better not treat her like that. He wouldn’t dare!” Tears welled in my eyes. I couldn’t say it out loud, so I screamed it in my head. [Of course he’d dare! I’m not just the unloved wife, I’m the villainess! The evil counterpoint to his perfect Trista. I’m her stepping stone, the ultimate sacrificial pawn! No matter what I do, I’m destined to die!]. The mood at the table grew even heavier. I stared at the feast of roasted meats and exotic fruits before me, and for the first time in my life, it all tasted like ash. Damian slammed the dining room doors shut, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then let’s do it. Let’s start a rebellion. Father becomes King. Then let’s see who dares to bully Cassia.” My parents said nothing. Only I, the one who knew the script, sighed internally. [The wedding has to happen. Refusing is treason. The King is already looking for an excuse to destroy our family. This is just the beginning. Once I’m married, they’ll send Damian to the frontier, where he’ll be betrayed and take a dagger in the back. With me trapped and my brother dead, our family will be defenseless, lambs to the slaughter. We’re all going to die!]. My brother’s breath hitched. My mother’s eyes grew as cold and sharp as daggers. My father seemed to reach a decision, snapping a pair of ivory chopsticks in his hand. “Rebellion it is!” he declared, his voice a low growl. “Anyone who dares to harm my Cassia will not live to see another dawn.” We spent the rest of the night plotting. The plan was simple: I would marry into the Prince’s household and act as their eyes and ears on the inside. We would strike before they even knew what was happening. We would embrace our roles. Understand the villain. Become the villain. Surpass the villain. We would solve this problem the way villains do. “Cassia,” my father said, his eyes burning with intensity. “Once you are in that palace, do not play the part of the meek, forgiving wife. Be as wicked as you can be. We don’t have much time, so make every moment count.” “That’s right,” Damian chimed in. “If he gives you any trouble, just hit him. You might not be a warrior, but surely you can handle that pampered Prince, can’t you?” A room full of master villains, all looking at me as if I were a fragile little flower. A fire lit within me. “I’ll try,” I said, a grin spreading across my face. “I think I can manage.” Honestly, being a villain might be bad for one’s public image, but damn, it felt good. 4 On the day of the wedding, two grand carriages proceeded to the Prince’s residence. My dowry was an extravagant procession of one hundred and twenty-eight chests, overflowing with silks, jewels, and gold. My mother fussed at the sidelines, trying to cram even more into them. “Oh, the Prince’s palace is a den of vipers. My sweet girl has never known such hardship.” By contrast, Trista’s dowry was pitiful. A few pieces of jewelry, barely enough to fill thirty-two small chests. As our carriages rolled through the city, merchants and commoners alike chattered. “Now that’s a dowry fit for a princess. She must be impossibly rich.” “Compared to that, the other one’s dowry is just embarrassing. So shabby.” … We were helped from our carriages at the same time. Through the delicate silk of my fan, I saw Trista’s face twist with envy. Her expression softened only when we entered the palace and the Crown Prince, Alaric, immediately took her hand. “Don’t worry,” he murmured to her, loud enough for me to hear. “Now that you’re here, I won’t let anyone make you suffer.” They looked like a pair of blissful newlyweds. I was just the third wheel, an awkward, overdressed obstacle. Still, during the ceremony, protocol dictated that I take precedence. The Prince had to show me respect, at least in public. In private, of course, it was another story. That night, Prince Alaric didn’t even bother stopping by my chambers. He walked straight to the west wing, to the rooms prepared for his beloved Trista. My personal matron, Lyra, was wringing her hands. “Your Highness, this is an outrage! A breach of all decorum! If the Prince doesn’t spend his wedding night with you, what will the servants think tomorrow? That woman in the west wing will be walking all over you!” Matron Lyra had always been blunt and fiery back at our estate, which was precisely why Mother had sent her with me. She was here to make sure I wasn’t bullied. “She’s not some common wench I can drag out by the hair, Matron. Am I supposed to go catch them in the act? You worry too much, that’s why you’re getting wrinkles. Let’s all get some rest. We have a big day tomorrow. The Crown Prince spurning his bride on their wedding night? We have to make sure the entire city hears about it.” I pulled off my heavy veil and wiped away my makeup. Even from my chambers in the east wing, I could hear the celebrations in the west wing. The Prince had even set off fireworks for Trista. He had finally married the woman of his dreams. I was just the collateral damage in their great love story. The sky outside was lit up, and servants scurried back and forth to the west wing with pitchers of hot water. One didn’t need much imagination to guess what was happening. Meanwhile, I stretched out on the massive, empty bed and drifted off to sleep. What was the point of confronting him tonight? The Prince’s palace was crawling with his spies. Making a scene would just be another mark against the “evil villainess,” making him feel even more protective of the “wronged” Trista. It would gain me nothing but his anger. Since he wouldn’t give me face, I had no intention of giving him any either. This scandal needed to be public. The next morning, before the sun was up, I had my maids dress me and apply makeup that made my eyes look red-rimmed and swollen from a night of weeping. “Let’s go, let’s go,” I chirped. “Time to go tattle.” As the city awoke, I went straight to the Royal Palace. 5 I knelt outside the King’s audience hall, begging for an audience. At this point in the story, the King was still wary of my family’s power. Before I even saw him, I started to weep—a gut-wrenching, soul-shattering cry that echoed through the marble halls. I had also ordered my entire dowry to be brought with me, a glittering caravan of treasure that paraded through the city for all the nobles and commoners to see. It was a display of wealth that would make even the King jealous. When he heard I had arrived with my dowry in tow, he received me at once, not even waiting to properly arrange his robes. The moment he asked what was wrong, I looked up at him, the picture of misery. “I would rather give this entire dowry away to the poor of this city than suffer such humiliation in the Prince’s household.” Between my ragged sobs, I painted a picture of utter despair. The King’s head began to throb. “Summon the Prince at once!” he boomed. “To have the Princess come to me alone on her first day as a wife… This is disgraceful!” When Prince Alaric arrived, there were fresh red marks on his pale neck—a little trophy from Trista, no doubt meant to provoke me. In his haste, he hadn’t bothered to cover them. The King saw them and his face turned purple with rage. “You are the Crown Prince! Look at the state of you! You humiliate your wife on your very first day? What do you think the court will say? What will the people say?” The King laid into him, and Alaric could only stammer, “It’s not… I didn’t…” But I just kept crying. No matter what the King said, I cried, letting my sobs fill every pause. Finally, when I had exhausted myself, the King’s tirade ceased. “Princess,” he said, his voice softer. “Take your dowry and go home. Be a good wife to the Prince. You cannot speak of giving it all away. What would people think?” He eyed the chests of gold. “Besides… such wealth is better used to enrich the Prince’s own household.” He punished the Prince and shot a warning glance at Trista, who had followed him in, reminding her to remember her place. The matter was temporarily settled, and my dowry was ceremoniously escorted back to the Prince’s residence. The moment we were out of the King’s sight, Alaric violently ripped his hand from mine, his earlier meekness vanishing. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Cassia,” he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. “You did this deliberately to make Trista miserable. You embarrassed me in front of my father. Do you think that will make your life any easier?” He ranted for another minute before taking Trista’s hand and storming off, leaving me standing alone in the palace courtyard. My eyes were still red. Well, a villain’s got to do what a villain’s got to do, right? If I just swallowed every insult and never caused any trouble, what kind of villain would I be? Of all the things the Prince had threatened me with, one phrase stuck in my mind: embarrassed me. As I left, the King was heading to his morning council. I saw the kingdom’s nobles milling about, my father among them. I couldn’t shout, but I focused all my energy on a single, silent scream in my mind. [Father! The Prince wants a scandal! Give him one!] I hoped my father, having already received a report from the servant I’d sent last night, would be on the same wavelength. By midday, it was the talk of the town. First, it was that the Prince hadn’t even visited his new bride’s chambers. Then, the story evolved: on his wedding night, the Prince had been cavorting not just with his new mistress, but with a whole host of courtesans, nearly sleeping through his morning summons to the King. The Prince was publicly humiliated, and Trista’s reputation took a hit right along with his.

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