Category: English

My boss secretly gave me a project that earned me $500,000. My wife said, “Just give me 80,000; any more will be too much.” I couldn’t argue with her, so I did as she said. My boss took the money but never gave me another project. Later, the money ran out, my mother couldn’t afford medical treatment, and my wife left me. I stood on the rooftop, looking down… Then I opened my eyes and was back that night. Reborn, the first thing I did was take 400,000 and knock on my boss’s door… 1. The money was sitting right there, staring back at me. Half a million dollars. Cold, hard cash. I pulled the stacks out of the heavy black duffel bag and lined them up on the dining table, one by one. They were crisp, the ink still smelling fresh, the bank bands still tight around the middle. Rachel’s eyes went wide. She reached out, her fingers trembling as she stroked the bills like they were made of fine silk. She traced the edges, whispering under her breath, “Half a million… It’s really half a million.” “It was a side project Jim Garrity handed me,” I said, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. “An off-the-books subcontract.” She snapped her head up, her eyes gleaming with a predatory light. “So, this is all ours?” “Technically…” I paused, feeling the familiar weight of her expectations pressing down on my chest. “Technically, I need to give Jim his cut.” “His cut?” Her voice sharpened instantly. “How much?” “Four… four hundred thousand. It’s the first one, Rachel.” I felt the sweat prickling at my hairline. I knew the rules of the game, even if she didn’t. “That’s how this works. He gave me the lead, he handled the internal politics. Without him, I’m nothing.” “You’re out of your mind!” She slammed her hand onto the table, making the stacks of cash jump. “Four hundred thousand? For what? You did the work, Mark! You’re telling me Jim Garrity gets nearly the whole pot just for opening his mouth? Have you lost your damn mind?” I knew this was coming. I had lived this argument a thousand times in my head, and once before in reality. “Rachel, listen to me—” I tried to explain how the corporate world really turned. I wanted to tell her that this wasn’t just a payment; it was an investment in a future. It was the price of admission to the inner circle. But she wasn’t listening. She never did. “Mark, I am telling you right now, you are not giving that man a cent more than necessary!” She stood up, hands on her hips, her face flushed. “Do you have any idea what this money could do for us? Toby’s private prep school is twenty grand a year. His club soccer, the elite coaching, the math tutors—that’s another fifteen. Your mother’s medical bills, her insulin, the private nursing—that’s two thousand a month. The mortgage, the car payments… do you ever actually look at the spreadsheet? You bring home ten grand a month and it vanishes before the second week is over!” I knew. God, I knew every cent. But I knew something else, too. Something far more terrifying. “Rachel, just let me finish—” “No!” Her eyes welled up, her voice cracking into that practiced sob that used to break my heart. “I’ve been with you for eight years, Mark. Eight years! We lived in that cramped studio for three years just to save for this down payment. I haven’t bought a dress over fifty dollars in three years. We finally get a break, a real chance to breathe, and you want to just hand it away? Do you even care about us?” She started to cry. It started as a soft whimper, then escalated into a full-blown sob as she collapsed onto the sofa. “I’m so cursed… I married a man who doesn’t know how to take care of his family… giving our life away to some rich executive…” I stood by the table, looking at the money, then at the woman I had once loved more than life itself. I felt a profound, soul-deep exhaustion. It wasn’t the kind of tired that sleep could fix; it was the kind that had settled into my marrow over years of compromise. When we married eight years ago, she wasn’t like this. She worked the cosmetic counter at the mall, making peanuts, but she was happy. She used to say we’d make it together. Then she got pregnant, the morning sickness was brutal, and I told her to stay home. I told her I’d take care of everything. And slowly, the woman I knew disappeared. Maybe it was the pressure of the suburban dream, or the social media feeds filled with friends in the Hamptons and new Range Rovers. Somewhere along the line, she changed. And so did I. I became the man who walked on eggshells, the man who traded his backbone for a quiet house. “Fine,” I heard myself say. “How much do we give him?” The sobbing stopped instantly. She looked up, her eyes still wet but sharp with calculation. “Fifty thousand. Max.” “That’s an insult, Rachel. He’ll see right through it.” “Eighty, then.” She grit her teeth. “Not a penny more. You tell him it’s a ‘token of appreciation.’ If he has any heart at all, he’ll understand that we have a family to feed.” I wanted to scream. Why would Jim Garrity care about my family? He gave me the project so I could make him rich, not so I could pay for Toby’s soccer camp. But the words died in my throat. I knew the script. If I insisted on the four hundred thousand, she’d scream, she’d take Toby to her mother’s, she’d call my mother and tell her I was throwing away our future. I’d hold out for three days, then I’d fold. It had been eight years of folding. “Fine,” I said. “Eighty thousand it is.” It was the worst mistake of my life. 2. I went to the bank and withdrew the eighty thousand in a thick manila envelope. It felt heavy in my hand, but it was the weight of a coffin lid. I picked a Tuesday night, circling the block of Jim’s gated community three times before I had the nerve to pull into his driveway. My palms were slick against the steering wheel. I was terrified of being seen, but more terrified of what was about to happen. Standing at his front door, I heard voices inside. I heard Jim laughing—a warm, genuine sound I never heard in the boardroom. The other voice belonged to Pete Hoffman, a guy from my department, just a couple of years older than me. He’d been promoted to Director last year. “Jim, about that project… I can’t thank you enough.” “Forget it, Pete. You’re one of us. Just keep up the good work.” The door opened. Pete stepped out, freezing when he saw me. He gave me a knowing, almost pitying smirk and a nod. On the hallway table behind him sat a manila envelope. It was three times as thick as mine. My heart plummeted. “Mark, come on in,” Jim said, his voice dropping into a neutral, professional tone the moment he saw me. I didn’t sit. I couldn’t. I placed my envelope on his mahogany desk. My hand shook. “Jim, I just… I wanted to say thank you for the opportunity. This is a small token of my gratitude.” He looked at the envelope, then up at me. I will never forget that look. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even disappointment. It was total, chilling indifference. “Mark,” he said. “What is this?” “Just… an appreciation for the lead.” He chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. He picked up the envelope and tossed it onto the floor by his feet, next to the trash can. Then he patted my shoulder. “Sure. I get it. Get back to work, Mark.” That was it. I stood there, waiting for a cue that never came. He turned back to his laptop, dismissing me as if I were a delivery boy who’d forgotten the napkins. “I’ll… I’ll head out then, Jim.” “Mm-hmm.” I walked out. The night air was cold, and the silence of the suburbs felt like a funeral shroud. I could hear my heart thumping—a slow, rhythmic tolling of a bell. The days that followed were a slow-motion car crash. The projects didn’t stop, but the good ones did. I was back to the grind—the internal stuff, the audited stuff, the projects where every bonus was capped and every hour was logged. Pete Hoffman, meanwhile, was in Jim’s office every other day. Rumor had it Pete just cleared a seven-figure commission on an offshore deal. I didn’t ask. I didn’t dare. I became a ghost in my own office. A “solid” employee who was going nowhere. The half-million dollars lasted exactly two years. Rachel’s spending was a fever. Toby’s soccer went from local clubs to regional travel teams with private coaches. The tutors multiplied. Rachel’s “self-care” expanded to a luxury gym membership, designer handbags, the latest iPhone every six months, and a Botox habit she thought I didn’t notice. “He’s an investment!” she’d snap whenever I questioned the bills. “You want him to grow up to be a loser like you? If you’re worried about money, go earn more!” I tried. But the doors were closed. Jim wouldn’t look at me, and in that world, if the king doesn’t look at you, no one does. Then came my mother. The day her kidney failure spiked, I’d just gotten my paycheck. Twelve thousand dollars. With the twenty in our savings, I was still short for the specialized surgery. I called Rachel. “We don’t have it,” she said, her voice flat. “I just paid the tuition for the spring semester. I’ve got maybe three thousand in the checking account.” “Can we borrow it? Put it on the cards?” “Borrow? From who? Mark, your mother is eighty. I am not going into debt for a woman who won’t even be here in five years when Toby needs college money.” I hung up. I scrambled. I begged friends, took out a predatory personal loan, and scraped together the fifty thousand. But the delay cost us. The surgery happened three days too late. My mother survived, but she never really came back. She became a shadow, requiring 24-hour care we couldn’t afford. Then, the mortgage. By the third month of arrears, the foreclosure notice was taped to the door. I sat in the living room with the yellow paper in my hand. Rachel sat across from me. Toby was in his room, probably playing a video game we couldn’t afford. “We have to sell,” I said. “And go where? An apartment?” She sneered. “I spent three years in a rat hole for this house. I am not going back.” “Then what’s the plan, Rachel? There is no money.” She didn’t answer. The next day, I came home to an empty house. Her clothes were gone. Toby’s room was stripped. There was a note on the kitchen island: Don’t look for us. You can’t afford a family. Just like that. I stood in the silence of a house that was no longer mine. I owed over a million on the mortgage and loans. My mother was in a state-run facility. My job was on the line—layoffs were coming, and as a “marginal” performer, I was top of the list. I called Rachel. Phone disconnected. I tried to message her. Blocked. I walked out of the house, hailed a cab, and went to the tallest building in the city. Twenty-eight floors up. I stood on the roof, the wind whipping my cheap suit jacket. Below, the cars looked like toys, the people like ants. I thought, If I jump, it’s over in four seconds. No more debt. No more failure. Memories flashed like a slide show. Me at twenty-two, eating ramen in a basement, believing I’d be a CEO by thirty. Rachel laughing at the makeup counter. The way Toby smelled like baby powder when I first held him. And then, the quiet moments. The way I’d let myself be carved away, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but a shell that paid bills. I thought of Jim’s look. The way he tossed eighty thousand dollars onto the floor like it was trash. The wind picked up. I took a step toward the ledge. One more step and the noise would stop. Then, my phone buzzed. I looked at the screen. It was the nursing home. My mother. If she knew I was standing here, she’d break. She had worked two jobs to put me through school. She’d saved every penny for my wedding. She hadn’t had a vacation in forty years, and now she was dying alone because I was too weak to stand up to my wife. And Toby. He was eight. What kind of man would he become if his father’s final act was a leap into the dark? I stepped back from the ledge. It wasn’t a moment of triumph. It was a moment of agonizing realization. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. It was a tether, pulling me back from the brink. I went to the hospital. My mother was awake, her voice a papery thin whisper. “You look tired, Mark. Are you eating?” “I’m fine, Mom. Just a long day at the office.” “Don’t work too hard,” she said. “Life is short.” I wanted to howl, but I just nodded. The rest was a blur of misery. The bank took the house. The company let me go. My mother passed away a month later in a room shared with three other people. I moved into a studio apartment, spending my days throwing resumes into the void. I saw Rachel one last time, months later. She was in a photo on a mutual friend’s Facebook. She was standing next to a guy who owned a chain of car washes—a guy with a Rolex and an ego to match. The caption said: Rachel is finally living her best life. That night, I lay on my thin mattress, staring at the ceiling. I asked the universe: If I could go back, what would I change? Would I have given Jim the four hundred thousand? Would I have fought her? Would I have left her then? But there are no do-overs. There is only the dark. 3. That night, I dreamt of the rooftop. I felt the wind. I took the step. But instead of falling, I felt a strange, violent sensation of being pulled upward, through the clouds, through the stars, through the very fabric of time. I woke up gasping. The sun was blinding. My phone was buzzing on the nightstand. I grabbed it, my heart hammering against my ribs. June 15, 2024. 7:23 AM. June 15th? I scrambled through my phone. Messages, bank balances, call logs. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the device. Is this a stroke? Am I dying? I scrolled up. A message from Jim Garrity: “Mark, you free for dinner tonight? Let’s talk about that side hustle.” The dinner. The night he offered me the project. The night everything began. June 15th. It was today. I hadn’t given the money away yet. I hadn’t even received it yet. I threw off the covers and bolted out of bed. Rachel was in the kitchen, her voice floating down the hall. “You’re up? Breakfast is on the table—” I didn’t answer. I flew out the door. The bank opened at nine. I was the first one in line. “How can I help you, sir?” the teller asked. “I need to make a withdrawal,” I said, my voice steady for the first time in a decade. “Four hundred thousand dollars.” The cash was heavy. Four thick, beautiful bricks of hundreds. I walked out into the morning heat. The sun was fierce, but I didn’t blink. I stood on the sidewalk and took a breath that felt like it reached the very bottom of my lungs. This time, the script was changing.

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Death wasn’t the end. It was just a massive demotion to the literal bottom of the food chain. After I died, I came back as a cockroach. To keep myself fed, I took to the internet. I crawled across the glowing screen of a discarded smartphone and posted an ad on a local community board: [Private Investigator. Discreet surveillance and tracking services. Rate: Ten packs of cookies.] It didn’t take long for my first client to bite. A girl reached out, desperate for some dirt on her boyfriend. I typed back with manic energy, my antennae twitching: [Don’t you worry, honey. My tracking skills are top-tier. I never lose a scent.] She seemed hesitant: [He’s out late a lot, networking and drinking. It might be a big job. Maybe you should bring some backup?] I didn’t miss a beat. [Way ahead of you. I’ll have my sisters on the move.] [Oh? How many sisters are we talking about?] [One hundred and thirty thousand.] 1 The apartment was a graveyard of dust and broken dreams. I’d been scurrying up and down the walls for two weeks, and I hadn’t found a single crumb. Barnaby—a scrawny roach I’d dubbed my “older brother”—was currently slumped over in an empty Ritz cracker box. “Give it up, Cassie,” he wheezed, his legs trembling with exhaustion. “Nobody lives here. No people means no food. We’re all gonna starve.” He let out a pathetic little click. “God, I’m only two weeks old. I’m too young to go out like this.” I rolled my eyes—or the roach equivalent of it. Some people die and come back as majestic golden retrievers or pampered house cats. But me? I got stuck as a pest. A starving pest, at that. I looked up at the ceiling, cursing whatever cosmic joke had landed me here. If I was going to be an animal, couldn’t I at least have been something bigger? Maybe then I wouldn’t have lost that fight with the spider in the corner last night. It had been an embarrassing defeat. The weirdest part was that I couldn’t remember how I died. I just knew I lived in this cramped, one-bedroom studio. It was a ghost of a home. No furniture, just a phone plugged into a wall charger that somehow still had power. In this void, the phone’s battery stayed at a constant hundred percent, a glowing lifeline in the dark. I might have forgotten my death, but the “hustle” was hardwired into my soul. The other roaches in the building called me “The Grind.” I skittered across the screen, my tiny legs tapping out a pattern to unlock the phone. The light felt like a spotlight in the gloom. I opened a social media app—one of those neighborhood watch types—and smoothed out my antennae. My grain-of-sand-sized brain sparked with an idea. If I couldn’t find food, I’d earn it. A true worker bee—or roach—doesn’t quit just because she’s dead. I spent the next ten minutes stabbing at the glass with my antennae, craftily wording my post: [Private Investigator. Discreet surveillance and tracking services. Rate: Ten packs of cookies.] Thirty minutes later, the phone chimed. Ding. My first contract. 2 I was so excited my legs did a little frantic dance. My antennae blurred as I tapped out a response. [User_Belinda: Hi. I’ve only been seeing this guy for two months, but I feel like he’s hiding something big. Can you look into him?] [The_Exoskeleton_Eye: You got it. I’m on it. My tracking is world-class.] [User_Belinda: The thing is… he’s always out at bars, very social, lots of friends. You should probably bring a few people to help.] [The_Exoskeleton_Eye: Don’t sweat it. I’ll bring the whole family.] [User_Belinda: Really? How many of you are there?] [The_Exoskeleton_Eye: We’ll start with 130,000. If we need more, I’ll call the cousins.] The other side went silent for a long time. Finally, a message popped up: [User_Belinda: That many people… I can’t afford a huge bill. I don’t have much money…] [The_Exoskeleton_Eye: It’s cheap. Just ten packs of cookies. Oreos or Fudge Stripes preferred. Strawberry filling is a plus.] [User_Belinda: That’s it? Seriously? Thank you so much! Who am I speaking with?] [The_Exoskeleton_Eye: My name is Roach.] [User_Belinda: ??] [The_Exoskeleton_Eye: Sorry, typo. My name is Rose.] I closed the app. Barnaby had crawled out of his box, his spirits lifted by the prospect of a meal. “Let’s move,” he said, suddenly full of energy. “If we finish the job tonight, we eat tomorrow. And I’m a picky eater—I want the fresh stuff. No more dumpster diving for this guy.” A chorus of clicks rose from the shadows. The army was ready. Belinda sent over a photo of the target and an address. When the image loaded, my heart—well, my tiny thoracic pump—skipped a beat. The man in the photo looked hauntingly familiar. I couldn’t place him, but looking at his face made my skin crawl. I shook the feeling off. “There’s a hole in the window screen,” I signaled to the swarm. “One by one, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, we go big.” 3 The man, Tyler, was currently shouting over music at a dive bar with his buddies. The table was a graveyard of empty beer bottles and greasy wings. I squinted at him from the shadows of a ceiling vent, comparing his face to the photo Belinda had sent. No doubt about it. This was him. The room smelled like stale hops and bad decisions. In the sweltering summer heat, a group of guys with their shirts half-unbuttoned were slapping Tyler on the back. “Man, Tyler’s a legend,” one of them slurred. “A few sweet words and he’s got this girl ready to walk down the aisle. How much is the ring setting you back?” Tyler took a long swig of beer, his face gleaming with a greasy sort of pride. “Ring? Please. I’m calling her tomorrow to ‘apologize’ for being busy, then I’m taking her back to my place. Once she’s pregnant, she’s stuck. She’ll marry me for free.” He leaned in, his voice dropping but still loud enough for a thousand tiny ears to hear. “Not only do I save on the wedding, but her parents are loaded. She’ll be the one paying off my gambling debts. That’s a million-dollar plan right there.” Someone laughed nervously. “What if she says no?” “We’re dating, aren’t we? She’s mine. If she won’t play nice, I’ll make her. It’s my right as her boyfriend. Even if she complained online, my boys would have my back.” A fresh round of cheers went up. Nobody noticed the balcony. Barnaby was currently leading a team of heavy-duty roaches, dragging a small digital voice recorder I’d scavenged from the apartment. They were huffing and puffing as they hauled it over the threshold. “To the left… watch the edge… careful! Rose said this thing is worth its weight in crumbs!” The recorder was fully charged. I scurried over and stomped on the ‘record’ button with all my weight. Barnaby looked at me with pure awe. “Rose, I knew you were different the moment I met you. How do you know all this human tech stuff?” I pinched his mouth shut with an antenna. “Shut up and keep watch. This is our first real gig. We can’t mess it up.” I kicked the recorder into a dark corner under the radiator. A tiny red light flickered—it was working. Tyler, clearly drunker now, was on a roll. “Once the kid is born, I’m gonna set some ground rules. You gotta break ’em early, you know? That’s the secret to a quiet life…” The recording went on until the early hours of the morning. Once the men had passed out in a heap of snoring and sweat, Barnaby climbed onto the table, sniffed a cold fry with disgust, and turned to me. “This food is trash. I’m holding out for the cookies.” The others nodded in agreement, their multifaceted eyes fixed on me with hope. We hauled the recorder back out. “Don’t worry,” I promised them. “After this, we feast.” That night, back at the studio, I logged into the phone and sent every second of that recording to Belinda. 4 Belinda cried all night. I could tell by the frantic, tear-stained energy of her messages the next morning. [User_Belinda: Rose, thank you. Thank you for showing me who he really is. I broke up with him an hour ago. I’ve got your cookies. Where do I drop them?] [The_Exoskeleton_Eye: Riverside Apartments, Unit 405. Leave them by the door. And please—tear the plastic packaging open for me.] Human packaging was the bane of my existence. My mandibles weren’t meant for industrial-grade cellophane. Around noon, I heard footsteps in the hall. A young woman appeared, looking pale and red-eyed. She knocked softly on the door of 405. Barnaby scrambled back into his Ritz box, terrified. The knocking continued for a minute, but of course, no one answered. Then, I heard the beautiful, crinkling sound of plastic being torn open. The footsteps faded away. The swarm erupted in cheers. We surged toward the door, hauling the cookies into the room like ants carrying a prize kill. Barnaby was the first to take a bite of a strawberry Oreo. His antennae stiffened like they’d been hit by an electric current. “Oh my god,” he whispered. “This is it. This is the promised land.” I took a bite too. It was heaven. But as I sat there, full and content, a dark cloud settled over me. I was a human once. How did I end up like this? And more importantly, how do I get back? I spent the afternoon brooding over it. Then, as the sun began to set, the phone buzzed. I crawled over and unlocked it. It was a message from Belinda, but the tone was… different. Cold. Aggressive. [User_Belinda: You little bitch. You’re the one who talked her into dumping me, aren’t you? I hate ‘best friends’ like you, always whispering in her ear. Too bad for you I knew her password. I saw everything. I know where you live now. See you tonight.] Barnaby, who couldn’t read, crawled up beside me, burping happily. “Hey Rose, we got another order? I’m feeling like mango next time.” “It’s not an order,” I said, my heart sinking. “It’s a hit.” “What? Is it the cat from next door? The rat from the basement?” “No,” I said, looking at the door. “It’s a human.” A second later, the door was nearly kicked off its hinges. 5 BANG. The sound echoed through the empty room, making my antennae vibrate with fear. Even the spider in the corner, who hadn’t moved all day, started cursing. “What is that noise? He’s shaking my web apart! If he keeps it up, I’m going to build a nest in his ear tonight!” Barnaby let out another burp. “Wait, a human? Why are we scared of humans? They’re the ones who scream when they see us.” From the cracks in the floorboards and the shadows of the cabinets, thousands of tiny heads popped out, sensing the vibration. Tyler’s voice boomed from the hallway. “Open up! I know you’re in there, you meddling brat!” The door groaned under another kick. “Fine! You want to play it like that? I’ve got tools!” The high-pitched whine of a power drill filled the air. Tyler was drilling out the lock. The noise was deafening. The spider fell off the wall. Barnaby covered his ears with his legs. “Rose! What do we do?” A hundred thousand pairs of eyes turned toward me. I felt a surge of adrenaline. “Listen up! When that door opens, don’t hide. When I give the signal, we fly. Aim for the face.” The swarm clicked in unison. I stretched my own wings. I was a southern-bred American roach—big, sturdy, and built for flight. Not like those tiny northern gnats. The lock gave way. The door swung open. Tyler stood in the doorway, framed by the hall light like a monster in a horror movie. I screamed—in roach code—”NOW!” Tyler reached for the light switch. “Get out here, you—” 6 It was a tidal wave. A living, breathing carpet of brown and black. Thousands of roaches took flight at once, their wings buzzing like a fleet of miniature drones. They slammed into Tyler’s face, his neck, his open mouth. His arrogance evaporated instantly, replaced by a strangled, wet gasp. He tried to scream, but it felt like he was choking on damp cotton. Barnaby, ever the brave idiot, was the first to land right on the tip of Tyler’s nose. They locked eyes. Behind Barnaby, Tyler saw the blurred, swirling mass of ten thousand more. Tyler broke. A piercing, jagged scream ripped through the night as he scrambled backward, tripped over his own feet, and tumbled down the stairs. I heard a sickening crack as he hit the landing. Barnaby straightened his antennae proudly. “Like I said. They’re way more scared of us.” Behind him, the swarm mimicked the gesture. Down in the stairwell, Tyler was dragging a broken leg, trying to wedge himself into a corner. He was sobbing, slapping frantically at his clothes. “Get off! GET OFF ME!” Every time he swatted one away, three more took its place. He even stepped on a few, but that just released a fresh wave of smaller nymphs. Finally, Tyler managed to limp out of the building, howling into the night. The phone on the table buzzed. It was Belinda. [User_Belinda: Rose, Tyler logged into my account! Is he coming after you? Are you okay?] [The_Exoskeleton_Eye: He already came. He left with a broken leg.] [User_Belinda: ? Wow. Rose, you’re incredible.] [The_Exoskeleton_Eye: Just doing my job. Let me know if you need more surveillance. I’m cheap, and you don’t have to worry about my health insurance.] The cookies Belinda left would last us a month. But just as I was getting ready to post a new ad, Belinda messaged me again. She sounded terrified.

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I was the high-priced “closer” Peterson headhunted to be his Executive Assistant. My retainer was thirty thousand a month, and within thirty days of stepping into the office, I’d already locked down a ten-million-dollar contract. Peterson treated me like a lucky charm, a golden goose he wanted to keep on a pedestal. What he didn’t expect was his “trophy wife,” Tiffany, to see me as a target. It started with a single photo from a strategy meeting. Just because I was standing next to Peterson, she posted it to her socials that same day. “This assistant is nothing but a little home-wrecker. Look at her, trying so hard to show off her curves in those tight clothes. She’s probably spent her whole career sleeping her way to the top. Who knows how many men have used her before my husband took pity on her?” Slut-shaming? That was a line I wasn’t going to let her cross. 1 “Jade, you’re trending. And not in the good way.” When my colleague, Monica, Slack-ed me the link, I didn’t think much of it. “The truth is its own defense. I don’t have time for rumors,” I replied, my fingers flying across the keyboard. Everyone in this industry knew the deal. I, Jade Lin, was a force of nature. Whichever CEO I worked for, their stock price went up. Peterson had poached me specifically because he valued my grit and my track record. I was here to make money, not to engage in high school drama. But Monica looked at me with genuine pity. “You might want to actually look at it, Jade. It’s… it’s nasty.” I finally turned my head and glanced at the screen. I froze. [BEWARE! This CEO’s assistant is a professional mistress. She clings to the boss like a leech, always flaunting her body!] [I heard she’s been with five different CEOs before this. They all end up obsessed with her. She’s a piece of trash who uses her bedroom skills to get a paycheck!] [Wives, watch your husbands. Never hire a fox like this, or your family is over!] I didn’t even need to look at the profile picture to know who it was. The stylized, filtered “soft girl” aesthetic belonged to Tiffany, Peterson’s pampered wife. I took a slow, deep breath. The photo had been maliciously cropped. It showed only the split second where I had leaned in toward Peterson. In context, it was a press conference. I was handing him the media brief, standing close enough to whisper a correction about a journalist’s name. It was professional etiquette. She had turned it into a tabloid scandal. “This is too much,” Monica whispered. Suddenly, another coworker, Mike, called out from across the floor. “Jade! You better get out here. The boss’s wife is on a warpath again.” “She’s claiming she had an allergic reaction to the lunch you ordered for her. She’s screaming for your head.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. Again. Counting the online smear campaign, this was the eighth time Tiffany had come for me this month. From the day I started, she’d hated my guts. At first, it was subtle. She’d drop by the office daily with “organic smoothies” or “homemade cookies” for her husband. She played the doting wife, but her eyes were like searchlights, scanning me for flaws. She’d started countless fights with Peterson over me. I’d heard them through the office walls. “Why are you paying her that much? Are you two sleeping together?” “Why couldn’t you hire a man? Do you really need a woman to take your notes?” “Working late again? Or are you just having an office date?” Peterson usually ended it with a headache. “This is a workplace, Tiffany. If you can’t be professional, go home.” But that only fueled her fire. She began whispering to her friends about my wardrobe. “Look at how tight her skirt is. She wants everyone to see her body. Disgusting.” When I stayed late to fix a pitch deck, she’d sneer, “What a ‘hard worker.’ She’s probably waiting until everyone leaves so she can take that skirt off in his office. I should put a hidden camera in there…” I’d treated it all as white noise. I was here to get paid, not to compete for a man I didn’t even want. As long as the checks cleared, she could imagine whatever soap opera she wanted. But the noise was getting too loud. If I kept taking the “high road,” I’d eventually find myself at the bottom of a cliff. I finished the paragraph I was writing and stood up to handle the “lunch crisis.” The moment I stepped out of my office door, a bucket of ice-cold water hit me square in the face. 2 It was early spring, and the office AC was blasting. The cold sent a violent shiver through my entire body. My white silk blouse was instantly translucent, clinging to me in a way that was utterly humiliating. I looked up. Tiffany was standing there, arms crossed, a smirk of pure triumph on her face. “You must be Jade,” she said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “With a face like that, it’s obvious what your real job is. Being a ‘secretary’ is just a cover for being a professional homewrecker. Why don’t you just tattoo ‘mistress’ on your forehead and save us all the trouble?” I wiped the water from my eyes. My blood was boiling, but before I could move, Monica grabbed my arm. “Jade, don’t. Don’t give her what she wants,” Monica whispered urgently. “She’s the ‘Trophy Wife’ type. She thinks every woman is a threat to her meal ticket. Plus, rumor has it she was the ‘other woman’ before she married Peterson. Women like that see ghosts everywhere.” I took a breath, forcing the rage down into a cold, hard knot. Getting into a screaming match in front of the entire staff would only make me look as unhinged as she was. I straightened my back, my voice steady and clinical. “Tiffany, I suggest you choose your next words very carefully.” “This isn’t your living room. This is a corporate environment. In the state of New York, what you’re doing is called harassment and defamation. There are legal consequences for both.” Tiffany’s eyes widened. She lunged forward, her hand swinging for my face. “You think you can talk back to me?” “You’re just a glorified servant. You think you’re important? In the old days, you’d be the help! If my husband didn’t pay your bills, you’d be starving on the street!” I let out a short, sharp laugh. She was so blinded by her own privilege that she didn’t see the room shifting. Every employee in the open-plan office was watching. And they weren’t looking at her with respect; they were looking at her with disgust. “Mrs. Miller,” I said, using her husband’s surname to remind her where her power actually came from. “You seem to forget that everyone in this room ‘lives off’ your husband’s company. Are you saying we’re all your servants?” Tiffany’s face paled as she realized she’d insulted the entire workforce. Before she could pivot, the murmurs started. “What century is she living in? Servants?” “We’re all here to do a job, and she thinks we’re beneath her?” “If this is how the boss’s wife thinks of us, maybe it’s time to update my LinkedIn.” The collective cold shoulder hit her like a physical weight. Tiffany turned her rage back on me, pointing a trembling finger. “Jade, you bitch! You did that on purpose! You set me up!” She raised her hand again, determined to land the blow this time. The hand came whistling toward my cheek. I didn’t flinch. I reached out, my fingers locking around her wrist with the precision of a vice. I’d spent three years in Krav Maga classes for “stress relief.” She couldn’t move an inch. I leaned in, my voice a low, terrifying silk. “Three things, Tiffany.” “First: I earn my salary. Peterson pays me for my brain and my results, not out of charity. It’s a transaction, and he’s getting the better end of the deal.” “Second: This is a workplace. We are equals here. The ‘servant’ mindset died a long time ago. Keep up.” “Third: If you touch me again, I won’t just block you. I’ll call the police.” Tiffany’s face went from white to a mottled purple. “You… you have such a silver tongue, don’t you? No wonder Peterson won’t fire you no matter how many times I ask.” She looked me up and down, her lip curling. “I wonder if you use that mouth for other things when the door is locked. Does he like the way you talk when you’re on your knees?” I released her wrist with a look of pure disdain. She stumbled back, losing her balance on her five-inch heels, nearly hitting the floor. “You pushed me?!” she shrieked. She turned to the onlookers. “What are you all doing? Grab her! She just assaulted me! She’s trying to stage a coup! Do something!” The office remained dead silent. People went back to their monitors. A few people literally turned their chairs away. Tiffany’s humiliation was complete. She was shaking, her voice rising to a frantic pitch. “You’re all going to regret this! Every single one of you! I’m telling my husband, and you’re all fired! You hear me? Fired!” “What is all this noise?” A deep, authoritative voice cut through the chaos. 3 Peterson. He was standing at the entrance of the floor, his charcoal suit impeccable, his brow furrowed in a deep, sharp V. He looked exhausted. “I could hear the screaming from the elevator. What is going on… Tiffany? What are you doing here again?” I opened my mouth to give a professional debrief, but Tiffany beat me to it. She transformed instantly. The predator became the prey. She threw herself into Peterson’s arms, sobbing as if she’d been stabbed. “Peterson! Oh, thank God you’re here!” “They’re all bullying me! Your employees… they’re ganging up on me!” “And Jade… she poisoned my lunch! She knew I was allergic. She wants to disfigure me so she can take my place!” She looked at me over his shoulder, a flash of pure malice in her teary eyes. Peterson looked stunned. He held her, but his eyes were on me. “Jade? What happened?” I stood there, soaked to the bone, shivering but steady. “Peterson,” I said, skipping the ‘sir’ for the first time. I flicked a bead of water off my hand. “The catering was handled through the usual channels. I sent the menu to Tiffany myself for approval yesterday. She signed off on it.” I took a step forward. “However, she just came in here and dumped a bucket of water on me in front of the entire staff. She insulted the employees, calling them ‘servants’ and ‘slaves.’ She tried to strike me twice. There are thirty witnesses and four high-definition security cameras that caught every second of it.” With every word I spoke, Tiffany’s “sobs” got quieter. Peterson wasn’t an idiot. You don’t build a multi-million-dollar empire by being blind to the people around you. He knew exactly who his wife was. He looked down at her, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous register. “You poured water on my Lead Assistant? You called my staff ‘servants’?” Tiffany shrank back, her voice a tiny whine. “Peterson, I didn’t mean it… she provoked me! She’s manipulative! She’s wearing that tight skirt to seduce you, she’s probably not even wearing underwear—” “Enough!” Peterson’s voice echoed off the glass walls. “This is a place of business, not a playground. How many times do I have to tell you? If you want to act like a child, stay at home.” I watched, a cold observer to the wreckage of their marriage. The other employees weren’t even trying to hide their smirks anymore. Tiffany looked at him like he’d slapped her. “Peterson… you’re yelling at me? For her? You’re choosing a secretary over your wife?” “You clearly don’t love me anymore!” She turned and fled toward the elevators, her heels clicking a frantic, rhythmic retreat. Peterson sighed, a long, weary sound, and rubbed his temples. The “trophy wife” act works on men like him for a while, but eventually, the maintenance cost becomes higher than the value of the asset. He looked at me, his eyes full of apology. “Jade, I am so sorry. Go to the executive lounge. There’s a shower and some spare clothes in the gym locker. Get cleaned up. We’ll talk in an hour.” He pulled out his phone, presumably to call and placate her. “No need for a talk, Peterson,” I said calmly. 4 Peterson froze, his thumb hovering over the screen. He looked up, confused. “What do you mean?” I met his gaze, my eyes clear and unflinching. “I’m not here for an apology or a shoulder to cry on. I’m here to resolve a liability.” I pulled out my phone and pulled up the social media post. I handed it to him. “Take a look.” “This is a post your wife made yesterday. She used a cropped photo of us to start a smear campaign. She called me a ‘slut’ and a ‘home-wrecker’ to over fifty thousand followers. She has fundamentally damaged my professional reputation.” “My peers are seeing this. My future employers are seeing this. I’m being harassed in my DMs.” Peterson took the phone. As he scrolled, the vein in his temple began to throb. He slammed the phone down on the desk. “Driver!” he shouted toward the hallway. “Get the car. Bring Tiffany back here. Now.” Ten minutes later, Tiffany was “escorted” back into the office. She walked in with her chin up, thinking Peterson was going to apologize. When she saw his face, her bravado vanished. “Peterson? What’s wrong?” “You have the nerve to ask?” He shoved the phone toward her. “Look at this, Tiffany. Look at it!” “Every day, you’re either embarrassing me or playing these petty games. Jade is the most talented person in this building. How could you be so cruel? How could you be so… stupid?” Tiffany saw the post and panicked. “It wasn’t me! A friend sent it… I just told her to keep an eye out—” “A friend?” I cut in, my voice like a blade. “Hanging me out to dry on the internet, calling me ‘trash’—that’s a ‘warning’?” “That’s cyberbullying. It’s character assassination. It’s libel.” I turned to Peterson. “I have been a model employee. I’ve brought in three major accounts, closed ten million in revenue, and cut your overhead by two million. I have never once crossed a professional line with you. I don’t want you, Peterson.” I looked at Tiffany, whose face was now a ghostly white. “And you need to understand something. Not every woman wants your husband.” “To you, he’s a prize. To me, he’s a paycheck. I’m worth thirty thousand a month because I’m good at what I do. I have the skills to buy whatever I want. I don’t need to steal a man to get a seat at the table.” The room was silent. My colleagues were looking at me with newfound awe. Even Peterson looked startled—and deeply impressed. He nodded slowly, then turned to Tiffany, his voice cold. “Tiffany. Apologize. Now.” Tiffany gasped. “To her? She’s a secretary! I’m your wife! I will never apologize to her!” Peterson took a slow breath. He was done. “I’ll say it one more time. She is a key asset to this company. When you insult her, you insult my business. You insult me.” “Apologize to Jade.” Tiffany saw the finality in his eyes. She started to cry, but it wasn’t the “pretty” cry from earlier. It was ugly and desperate. “I won’t! I’m right! You’re just blinded by her!” Peterson didn’t argue. He walked into the printing room. When he came back, he held a single sheet of paper. He slid it across the desk to her. “Apologize, or sign the divorce papers.” Tiffany’s world stopped. She looked at the header of the document, her mouth falling open. “You… you’re serious?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “416060”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When Corey Pierce came back to our marriage after his affair, I gave him three chances. Three chances to cut the girl out of his life completely. He weaponized every single one of them. He used those chances to take her out for quiet dinners, to build custom furniture for her apartment, to spend entire nights by her side when she felt “anxious.” After the third time, he came home, threw away every physical trace of her, and took my cold hands in his. “Trust me, Caroline,” he had sworn, his eyes dark and earnest. “I will never betray you again.” I believed him. Right up until the moment my car collided with a young woman’s at a rainy intersection. Through the cracked windshield, I watched the girl frantically dial her phone, tears streaming down her face. A moment later, a voice crackled through her car’s Bluetooth speakers. It wasn’t Corey. It was his best friend. “Look, man, I’m telling you not to go,” the friend’s voice echoed into the damp air. “You’ve used up your three strikes. Caroline is definitely going to file for divorce this time.” And then, I heard my husband. His voice was casual. Fearless. “Caroline grew up in the foster system. She’s spent her whole life with nobody to love her, nobody to care if she lives or dies. She’s more terrified of divorce than I am.” A beat of silence. “Just cover for me. I know what I’m doing. This is the last time.” I lay there in the wreckage, my blood pooling against the crushed metal, my entire body turning to ice. The weeping girl standing in the rain wasn’t a stranger. She was the mistress he had promised to abandon, the fragile little secret he was still so desperately protecting. Twenty minutes later, Corey Pierce—the man who had sworn his soul to our family—burst through the emergency room doors like a hurricane, searching for her. … 1 Separated only by a thin hospital curtain, I listened to Corey’s voice. It was thick with a frantic, aching reprimand. “Why didn’t you call me the second it happened? Is my number just for show, Brielle?” I heard the rustle of sheets as Brielle likely forced herself to sit up. When she spoke, her voice was sickeningly sweet, laced with manufactured timidity. “You told me your wife only gave you three chances. I didn’t dare…” “What the hell does that matter?” Corey’s voice rose, vibrating with raw emotion. “If you need me, you call me. If something terrible happened to you, what am I supposed to do?” I lay quietly in the adjacent bay, staring up at the harsh fluorescent lights until my vision blurred into a sea of white. When the crash happened, my mind had been sharp, adrenaline pumping through my veins. My first instinct, my only instinct, had been to call my husband. Twenty-six times. The phone had rung twenty-six times. He hadn’t answered a single one. Brielle had called once, and he had answered on the first ring. Because Corey knew the truth: I was a girl with no family, no safety net, and nowhere else to go. He knew I would sit in the dark and wait for his return call, no matter how long it took. A doctor slipped past the curtain to check my bandages. The screech of the metal rings on the track was loud. As the fabric pulled back, Corey turned. The venomous rage he had been harboring for the “reckless driver” who hit his precious Brielle vanished from his face the second he saw me. He froze. But the shock only lasted a second before his defense mechanisms kicked in. “You investigated her?” he spat, the words dropping like stones between us. “You tracked Brielle down and hit her on purpose?” The breath was knocked completely out of my lungs. Not once did his eyes scan my battered body to see if I was hurt. His first, immediate instinct was to interrogate me. To protect her. Ever since I had uncovered the affair, Corey had guarded Brielle’s identity like a state secret. She comes from a difficult background, he had told me once. If you expose her to our social circle, it will ruin her. Yet, my background—the fact that I was an abandoned ward of the state—was something he had casually broadcasted to every elite country club and boardroom in the city. He did it to remind everyone, and perhaps himself, exactly how dependent I was on him. I swallowed the sharp, metallic taste of bitterness in the back of my throat. A hollow, broken laugh escaped my lips. “That makes four,” I whispered, my voice raspy. “You broke your promise.” Months ago, when I first handed him the divorce papers, he had climbed to the rooftop terrace of our penthouse. If you leave me, I’ll jump! he had screamed over the wind, his eyes wild. I can’t survive in this world without you, Caroline! I told you, you are the only woman I will ever love! My heart, stupid and starved for affection, had caved. I gave him three chances to untangle his life from hers. He scrubbed away the texts, the hotel receipts, the lingering scents of her perfume. I had been so hopelessly naive, thinking I had won the war for my marriage. But today, reality had backhanded me across the face. “Is there really a difference between three times and four?” Corey hissed, dropping his voice to a lethal whisper so the girl behind the curtain wouldn’t hear. “She was in a car crash, Caroline. Are you really so cold-blooded that you’d expect me to leave her here to die?” What could I even say to that? Could I tell him that I was in that crash, too? That while his mistress had suffered a scraped knee, I had just received ten stitches in my torn shoulder? “Corey?” Brielle’s soft voice drifted from the other bed. “What did the other driver say? Do we need to pay her off?” My husband’s entire posture softened instantly. He stepped back toward her, his voice melting into a soothing hum. “Don’t worry about her. She’s fine. Just focus on resting.” Lying in my hospital bed, hearing myself reduced to ‘that person,’ I actually smiled. No matter how fiercely my stitched skin burned, it was nothing compared to the agony shredding my heart. Corey’s only act of mercy toward me that afternoon was waiting until he thought I was asleep to quickly sign the stack of hospital billing forms the nurse had left on my bedside table. If he had actually cared—if he had bothered to read a single line of the paperwork he was blindly autographing—he would have noticed the document slipped perfectly in the middle. A divorce settlement. Already signed by me. 2 By nightfall, the wound on my shoulder had grown angry and infected. My temperature skyrocketed to a hundred and three. Shivering violently, I dragged myself out of bed and navigated the sterile corridors alone to find a doctor and pay the pharmacy fees. As I leaned against the nurse’s station, I heard the whispers behind my back. “That girl in Bay 4 just had a few scratches, but her boyfriend bought out a whole VIP suite for her. Meanwhile, this poor woman looks like she’s dying and she’s completely alone.” I offered a self-deprecating smile to the linoleum floor and turned around. Only to find Corey storming toward me. Before I could even register his presence, his hand cracked hard across my cheek. The sound echoed down the quiet hallway. “You have crossed a line, Caroline!” he seethed, grabbing my uninjured arm. “Who told you to use my black card at the front desk? Do you want Brielle to see the name on the account? Do you want her to find out who you are?” My fever-ravaged body swayed, the edges of my vision blackening. The burning imprint of his hand on my face made the tears pooling in my eyes spill over. Seeing me break, Corey’s manic energy shifted. The anger deflated, replaced by a sick, suffocating kind of tenderness. He pulled me into his chest, wrapping his arms around my trembling shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just—nobody loves you more than I do, Caroline. You have to know that,” he murmured into my hair, playing the role of the devoted savior once again. “I’ve made it perfectly clear to her. I am going to end it. I just need a little more time. I’ve bent over backwards to keep this family together, what more do you want from me?” Years ago, when Corey Pierce dropped to one knee and offered a diamond to the foster kid everyone else had overlooked, I thought I was the luckiest girl on earth. The old-money wives in our circle had gasped, whispering behind their manicured hands: What kind of karma did that nobody rack up in a past life to land a man as devoted as Corey? I had drowned in that illusion. I let it consume me. Right up until Brielle threw a temper tantrum. To appease her, Corey casually leaked a traumatic video of me being bullied in high school to the country club group chats, ensuring I was ostracized by the very women I tried to befriend. Once, because Brielle called him complaining of a panic attack, he abandoned me on the side of a deserted highway in the dead of winter. I had to walk six miles in the snow, terrified and freezing. And then, it escalated. He allowed Brielle to call my phone at three in the morning, letting me listen to the breathless, wet sounds of them in bed together. The stress, the sheer suffocating heartbreak of it, caused me to miscarry the baby I had just discovered I was carrying. His response? He blamed my “jealousy” and “narrow-mindedness” for making my body too weak to hold onto his child. My cheek was ice-cold against his designer jacket. Sweat beaded on my forehead as the pain radiated through my bones. Corey pulled back and pressed his car keys into my palm. “You being here is making Brielle anxious. She can’t rest. Check yourself out and go home.” My skin was on fire. The hallway was spinning. But I managed a single, hollow nod. “Okay.” A flicker of something—guilt, maybe, or just confusion at my lack of a fight—crossed his face. Right then, my phone buzzed. It was a nurse from the assisted living facility where Mrs. Gable lived. Mrs. Gable. The woman who had run St. Jude’s Children’s Home. The only mother I had ever known. She had collapsed. Heart failure. Panic obliterating my fever, I stumbled toward the elevators and forced my way up to the cardiac wing. When I burst through the doors, Mrs. Gable was turning a terrifying shade of blue, gasping desperately for air as doctors swarmed her bed. “What happened?” I screamed, grabbing a nurse. “A young woman came in here looking for her,” the nurse said rapidly, prepping a syringe. “They got into a massive argument. The girl was screaming at her, saying some really vicious things, and the patient went into cardiac arrest!” My pupils dilated. The world snapped into terrifying focus. For a girl who had nothing, Mrs. Gable was my anchor to humanity. I spun around and bolted out of the ICU, my legs carrying me blindly down the hall until I found them. Brielle was pressed against Corey’s chest, crying her fake, delicate tears. “That awful old woman called me a homewrecker!” Brielle sobbed, burying her face in his shirt. “I just tried to explain myself, and she threw herself onto the floor to frame me, I swear!” “You’re lying!” I screamed, lunging forward. Brielle peeked out from Corey’s embrace, shooting me a triumphant smirk before revealing some pathetic, faint red marks on her wrists. Her wails grew louder. But I had seen Mrs. Gable. I had seen the deep, bloody crescent-moon gouges on the old woman’s arms. Defensive wounds. Seeing the smug satisfaction dancing in Brielle’s eyes, something inside me snapped. I closed the distance and slapped the mistress across the face with everything I had. A fraction of a second later, a hand struck my face with twice the force, sending me crashing to the floor. 3 The coppery taste of blood instantly flooded my mouth. Corey stood over me, his hand still raised, trembling slightly. A flash of regret vanished from his eyes as quickly as it appeared. “What gives you the right to hit her?” he roared. “Your so-called ‘mother’ verbally assaulted her first! Is this the kind of trashy behavior you learned in that orphanage?” I blinked away the tears, staring up at the man I had married. I couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Society had always judged me. They looked at foster kids as feral, uneducated strays. But Corey used to be the man who would smash a scotch glass against a wall to shut up anyone who dared to mock my upbringing. Now, he was the one wielding the knife. Seeing my shattered expression, a muscle feathered in Corey’s jaw. But Brielle whined, sinking deeper into his arms, shivering like a wet stray. “Corey… if you hadn’t come, they would have ganged up and killed me…” Corey’s eyes hardened, picturing her imaginary suffering, and he looked down at me with pure disgust. “Tomorrow night is the foundation gala. You will publicly apologize to Brielle. Don’t think I don’t know how this works—if you don’t clear her name, that old woman will run to the press and ruin Brielle’s reputation.” I shook my head, my hands gripping the cold tile. “I won’t—” “If you don’t apologize,” Corey interrupted, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly calm, “I will pull all my funding from St. Jude’s. And the black card you use to pay for Mrs. Gable’s private medical care? Consider it frozen.” He crouched down, forcing me to meet his cold gaze. “Think about it, Caroline. On a waitress’s salary, how long do you think it’ll take you to buy her a matching heart on the transplant list? Hmm?” I thought of Mrs. Gable, hooked up to the machines, her body frail and failing. I closed my eyes. And I surrendered. The next evening, beneath the glittering chandeliers of the charity gala, Corey shoved a piece of paper into my hands. An apology script. Brielle drifted over, looking angelic in a white silk gown. As she passed me, she dug her manicured nails viciously into my bruised arm. Her smile was flawless. “Mrs. Pierce. An apology doesn’t mean anything without a little sincerity, does it?” Before I could react, the pointed toe of her stiletto slammed into the back of my knee. My leg buckled, and I crashed to the marble floor in a humiliating heap. Kneeling there like a puppet with its strings cut, I read the words Corey had written for me into the microphone. “It was Mrs. Gable who initiated the conflict. I apologize on her behalf to Miss Brielle, and I will be compensating her for her distress…” The murmurs from the elite crowd rippled through the ballroom like poison. Takes the trash out of the system, but can’t take the system out of the trash. Did you see her just hit the floor? No dignity. God knows why Corey keeps her around. That Brielle girl comes from a much better pedigree. Give it a month, there will be a new Mrs. Pierce. The contempt in their eyes burned like hot coals on my skin. Brielle looked down at me from her pedestal, drinking in her victory. I forced myself up, my fever still raging. I stumbled, the room spinning. Corey instinctively took a half-step forward, his hand twitching. “Are you sick? You look terrible.” I slapped his hand away. He stiffened, immediately clearing his throat and straightening his cuffs. “Don’t misunderstand. I just don’t want you throwing up and ruining the event.” Brielle stepped in, pretending to help steady me. She leaned close, the scent of her cloying perfume invading my space. “Take care of yourself, Mrs. Pierce,” she whispered, her breath hot against my ear. “Oh, by the way… I heard the hospital’s heart donor suddenly backed out today. Decided they didn’t want to give their organs to your precious director after all. Looks like she’ll be waiting another ten years.” She paused, feigning a pout. “Oh, wait. She probably doesn’t have ten years left, does she?” The vicious, mocking gleam in her eyes pushed me over the edge of sanity. I lunged forward, my hands locking around her throat. “You don’t get to play god with her life!” I screamed, the sound tearing my vocal cords. A second later, Corey ripped me off her, using so much force I went flying backward. “Are you out of your mind, Caroline?!” he bellowed. “I made you apologize to teach you a lesson, not so you could attack her again!” I tumbled down the three carpeted steps of the stage, every bone in my body screaming in agony as I hit the floor. Hidden behind Corey’s broad shoulders, Brielle’s lips curled into a wicked, gleeful smile. I was scrambling to my feet, ready to charge at her like a feral animal, when my phone vibrated violently against my ribs. It was the hospital. “Mrs. Pierce?” the nurse’s voice was frantic. “It’s Mrs. Gable. She’s… she’s gone. Someone took her from her room!” 4 My heart plummeted into my stomach. I looked up, locking eyes with Brielle. Her triumphant smile had widened into something demonic. Ignoring the horrified gasps of the wealthy onlookers, I staggered toward her, my eyes bloodshot and wild. “She is the only family I have in this world. Don’t you dare touch her!” I choked out, my whole body shaking so violently I could barely stand. The ballroom erupted into chaos. Corey, his pride deeply wounded by my public spectacle, grabbed my shoulders and shoved me back with brutal force. “Enough, Caroline! Are you done making a fool of yourself?!” My heels caught the edge of the carpet. I fell backward, crashing straight into the towering pyramid of champagne flutes. Glass shattered like bombs going off. A thousand razor-sharp shards rained down on me, slicing through my dress and biting deep into my skin. Corey froze, a flicker of genuine panic flashing across his face as he took a step toward the wreckage. But Brielle was faster. She hurried over, kneeling by the glass, playing the concerned saint. “You’re smarter than you look, sister,” she whispered, so quietly only I could hear. “You figured out I took the old bat. But why don’t you try to guess exactly how I’m going to torture her?” A sickening wave of terror washed over me. By the time my brain caught up, my bloodied hands had already shot out, grabbing her by the neck of her gown. “I will kill you if you hurt her!” A massive force yanked me into the air and threw me back down into the glass. Corey’s hand cracked across my face again. “I have been more than patient with you, Caroline! What has Brielle ever actually done to you? Look at yourself! You’re acting like a psychotic bitch!” In the reflection of his dark eyes, I saw what he saw: a bloody, unhinged, hysterical woman ruining his perfect night. But all I could see was Mrs. Gable, dying somewhere alone in the dark. My hand blindly grabbed a jagged shard of a champagne bottle. With a feral scream, I lunged at Brielle. “Ah! Corey, save me!” I brought the glass down, but Corey threw himself in front of her. The jagged edge sliced through his tailored suit, biting deep into his shoulder blade. He didn’t even flinch. He just turned to his security detail, his eyes completely dead. “My wife has lost her mind,” he ordered coldly. “Make her get on her knees and beg for forgiveness. A hundred times. Let her bleed until she wakes up from this delusion.” Two massive bodyguards forced me down into the glittering sea of broken glass. My bare knees hit the shards. The pain was blinding. But as I was forced to bow my head, I saw Brielle casually wave her glowing phone screen in my direction. It was a live video feed. St. Jude’s Children’s Home—the only place I had ever felt safe—was engulfed in thick, black smoke. Through the tinny speakers of her phone, I heard Mrs. Gable’s weak, rattling coughs begging for help. The bottom fell out of my world. “Let me go!” I thrashed wildly against the bodyguards. “Corey, please! Let me out of here!” I fought like a cornered animal, but Corey stepped forward, his heavy hands clamping down on my shoulders, locking me into the glass. “You’re not leaving this room until you’ve apologized a hundred times.” I stopped fighting him. I didn’t have the time. I threw myself forward, ignoring the glass shredding my legs, and began to forcefully bow, over and over, the blood smearing across the marble floor, blinding my vision. I looked up, my eyes sweeping over the horrified crowd, committing every single one of their faces to memory. Corey saw the utterly dead, hollow look in my eyes and froze. His grip loosened, a sudden, inexplicable terror gripping his chest. He reached out to pull me up. I slapped his bloody hand away. With superhuman adrenaline, I ripped myself free from the guards, turned my back on him, and sprinted out of the ballroom. Corey stood frozen among the shattered glass, his heart plummeting like a stone as he watched me disappear into the night. By the time I reached the outskirts of the city, Hope House was an inferno. The flames were licking the roof of the old attic. I didn’t think. I sprinted straight into the fire, coughing through the suffocating smoke until I found her. I frantically tore at the ropes binding Mrs. Gable to the wooden beam. She slumped into my arms. She looked up at my soot-stained face, offered me one last, gentle smile, and then her chest stopped moving. I sat there in the burning room, holding her lifeless body. In that moment, the last piece of my soul quietly died. A second later, the roof groaned. A deafening explosion ripped through the air, and everything went completely black. … As the largest donor to the charity foundation, Corey Pierce arrived at the orphanage flanked by a swarm of journalists, ready to do damage control. But the moment he pushed open his car door, the towering wall of flames reflecting in his eyes caused him to freeze dead in his tracks.

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On my tenth birthday, just because I had spent a single five-dollar bill, my father dragged me down the pavement by my wrist, forcing me to beg on my knees. “Beg the cashier to give our money back!” Tears instantly spilled over my lashes, but he didn’t give me a chance to struggle. That was how I was forced to crawl on my bruised knees from the corner gas station where I’d bought a cheap cupcake, all the way down the block to the dollar store where I’d bought a plastic pen. I had to return everything, piece by piece, just to get that crumpled five-dollar bill back. A crowd had gathered. They pointed and whispered. The heat of humiliation rushed to my face, turning my cheeks a violent crimson before draining away, leaving me sickly pale. When we finally got back to our cramped, drafty basement apartment, Dad pulled out his phone, his face an emotionless mask, and opened his banking app. He shoved the screen in my face. “Read it. How much is in there?” I gritted my teeth, my voice trembling. “Eight… eight dollars and forty-two cents.” That was when his temper finally shattered. He threw the phone onto the ratty sofa and looked at me with a grief so profound it made my chest ache. “Do you have any idea how long it takes your mother and me to save five dollars? Sammy, you have disappointed me more than words can say!” He pointed a shaking finger at me. “We are poor. We have nothing! Burn that into your memory!” I sobbed, choking on my own tears, promising over and over that I understood, that I would never spend another dime as long as I lived. The next day, I threw up blood in the school bathroom. The school nurse asked if I wanted her to call an ambulance. I clutched the blood-soaked paper towels in my trembling fists and swallowed hard, shaking my head. “No. We can’t,” I rasped. “My family doesn’t have any money.” … 1 The nurse frowned, her hand freezing over the medical cabinet. “You can’t just ignore this, Sammy. If I’m not mistaken, this is the fifth time you’ve vomited blood this month.” I sat on the edge of the examination bed, the crinkling paper loud in the quiet room. My face was whiter than my faded, oversized school uniform. It took me a long time to force the words past the lump in my throat. “Is it… is it really bad?” I twisted my thin fingers together in my lap. “Would it cost a lot of money to fix?” She thought for a moment, her expression softening. “It shouldn’t. The school has a basic insurance policy for students. If we just send you to the urgent care clinic down the street for some tests, the most you’d pay is a co-pay.” A flicker of hope lit up my eyes, but then she kept talking. “It’s just fifty dollars.” The light inside me snuffed out instantly. I licked my cracked lips, tasting copper. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. Fifty dollars… Where would my family get that kind of money? We couldn’t even afford a five-dollar birthday cupcake. I couldn’t afford to be sick. Seeing my silence, the nurse sighed. “Let me go to the back room and get you some over-the-counter pain medication. It’s twelve dollars.” She turned and disappeared into the supply closet. I pressed my lips together. I shoved my hand into my empty pocket, feeling nothing but lint. Then, clutching my violently cramping stomach, I ran. Let it hurt. It didn’t matter. I just had to grit my teeth and bear it. Twelve dollars was an impossible fortune for my parents. But the moment I burst out of the clinic doors, I collided with my homeroom teacher, Mr. Evans—the one who had carried me to the nurse in the first place. “Still hurting, kiddo? What did the nurse say? Do you want me to call your folks to take you to a real hospital?” The rapid-fire concern made my chest tight. I couldn’t even look him in the eye. “I’m fine, Mr. Evans. Please, don’t call my parents. They work so hard, they’re so busy. Please.” I forced the brightest, most convincing smile I could muster. Under the hem of my jacket, I pinched my own thigh so hard that the sheer spike of pain forced some color back into my cheeks. He studied me for a long, heavy moment. “Alright. You’re looking a bit better. Head back to class if you’re up for it.” I exhaled a shaky breath of relief and hurried back to my desk. Halfway through third period, I coughed up a few more mouthfuls of blood. I quietly spat them into tissues, folded them tight, and shoved them deep into the darkest corner of my desk cubby. But God, my stomach hurt so much… When the lunch bell rang, the other kids pulled out colorful thermoses and neatly packed bento boxes filled with warm food their parents had made. I opened my faded plastic container, and the snickering began immediately. “Stale bread again? Sammy, is that really all your parents feed you?” I lowered my eyes, letting my eyelashes hide my burning shame. I didn’t say a word. But one of the boys wasn’t satisfied. He reached out, roughly yanking the collar of my worn-out shirt, his lip curling in disgust. “His family is just white trash. Look at his clothes—he’s swimming in them, and there’s a hole in the back! Sammy the beggar!” The boys huddled around his desk erupted into cruel laughter. I snatched my collar out of his grip, my eyes red and stinging. “My mom and dad love me! Don’t you dare talk about them!” They were just winding up to shove me when Mr. Evans walked into the room, freezing them in their tracks. He took one look at the dry, unbuttered heel of bread in my container and let out a long, heavy sigh. Without a word, he walked over, opened his own lunch, and scooped half of his warm chicken casserole into my box. “Eat up, Sammy. Tell your folks to pack you some real protein tomorrow.” Tears breached my defenses, spilling down my cheeks. But plain bread is the best we have, I wanted to say. Mom and Dad don’t even let themselves eat this much. When I was younger and didn’t know any better, I used to cry and complain about eating stale bread. I remembered the day Dad, with bloodshot eyes, dragged me into their cramped bedroom. He had pulled a moldy crust of a baguette from a drawer and threw it at my feet. “You think we eat well while you suffer?” he had yelled. “Sammy, do you have any idea what your mother and I sacrifice just to keep you alive?” I had stared at the fuzzy, green-spotted bread on the floor in pure shock. “Dad…” Mom had stood in the corner, wiping away quiet tears. “Sammy, don’t compare yourself to those rich kids. We are giving you the absolute best of what we can afford.” I had dropped to my knees, picked up the moldy bread, and slapped my own arm in punishment, sobbing out an apology. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry, Dad. Sammy won’t be a brat anymore. From now on, I’ll only eat half of my bread. You can have the rest. Now, sitting in the classroom, I looked at the rich, warm food Mr. Evans had given me. When no one was looking, I carefully snapped the lid shut over the casserole. Mom and Dad worked so incredibly hard. I was going to take it home for them. Smiling to myself, I tucked the container into my backpack. Then, I picked up my half-eaten, dry slice of bread. A fresh cough bubbled up, and the blood painted the white crust red. I ignored it. Fighting through the agonizing spasms in my gut, I chewed the bloody bread and swallowed it, piece by piece. 2 When I got back to our basement apartment after school, I carefully took out the Tupperware of warm food. “Look, Dad! I saved this just for you!” I beamed. “You’ve been working so hard today.” Dad collected scrap metal for a living. He was up before dawn every single day, pushing a rusty cart through the alleys. I knew his bones ached. He froze, staring at the food in my hands, hesitating to take it. “Dad?” I quickly grabbed a chipped mug and poured him some tap water, figuring he was just exhausted from the grind. He finally snapped out of his daze. “Thank you, Sammy. You’re such a good boy.” As if rewarding me, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a single piece of hard butterscotch candy in a shiny wrapper. “I saved up my spare change all week to buy you this.” He patted my shoulder. “You have to stay thrifty, kiddo. Don’t let our sacrifices go to waste. Study hard, get a good job, and one day you can buy us a big house.” I took the candy and unwrapped it. It was so sweet. I nodded fiercely. “I will, Dad. I promise I won’t let you down.” He turned away, looking satisfied. But the moment his back was turned, a vicious cramp seized my stomach, and a whimpering gasp slipped through my lips before I could stop it. He paused halfway to the kitchen. “What was that?” I bit down on my tongue until I tasted copper. “Nothing, Dad! You heard wrong.” He mumbled an “okay” and walked away. I let out a shaky breath, using the wall to support my weight as I dragged myself toward the cramped laundry nook where my mattress lay on the concrete floor. There were spiderwebs in the corners. I was terrified of spiders, but I just pulled the thin blanket tightly over my head so I wouldn’t have to see them. The next morning, I didn’t wake up on my own. I was violently yanked off the mattress by Mom. Before my eyes could even focus, her screaming assault hit my ears. “Sammy!” She looked at me with an expression of sheer disgust. “Your father and I might be dirt poor, but we have our dignity! And you? You steal from your classmates?!” I froze, the sleep instantly banished from my brain. Dad was standing behind her, shaking his head with bitter disappointment. “How did we raise a thief?” “No! I didn’t!” I scrambled back, waving my hands frantically. But Mom aggressively flipped the pocket of my uniform jacket inside out. A crisp hundred-dollar bill fluttered to the ground. “I found this hidden in your jacket! Don’t you dare lie to my face!” My eyes widened so far they hurt. Panic clawed up my throat. “I didn’t steal it…” A hundred dollars? I had never even seen a hundred-dollar bill up close. How would I ever have the guts to steal one? “I don’t know how it got in there!” I sobbed, crawling toward them. “Please, you have to believe me!” Dad just shook his head, looking utterly defeated. “It was in your pocket. We have to take it back to the school and pay restitution to whoever you took it from.” He let out a long, ragged breath. “Starting tonight, I’m not sleeping. I’ll take on a third graveyard shift at the recycling plant.” I looked at him with sheer heartbreak as he delivered the final blow. “This is the price of your mistakes, Sammy. Remember what your mother and I have to endure because of you.” They didn’t listen to another word of my desperate apologies. They just turned around and walked out the door. “Cough! Cough…” A massive wave of blood violently spewed from my mouth, splattering across my thin blanket. Terrified they would hear, I clamped both hands over my mouth, forcing myself to swallow the rest of the thick, coppery liquid back down. I sat on the cold concrete, crying until my ribs ached. I couldn’t understand how the money got into my pocket. All I knew was that because of me, my parents were going to suffer even more. No. I curled my trembling hands into fists. I have to make my own money. I have to pay for my own doctor, and I have to help them. I can’t be a burden anymore! With a sudden burst of desperate energy, I scrambled up. I skipped school and wandered toward the commercial district to look for a job. But every time I walked into a diner or a hardware store and begged to sweep floors, the managers just scowled and shooed me out. “You’re a kid, for Christ’s sake! Get out of here before I call child services. You’re scaring the customers!” Clutching my stomach, which felt like it was being twisted by rusted knives, I was chased from block to block. No one wanted me. “I didn’t know making money was this hard…” When my legs finally gave out, I collapsed against the brick wall of an alleyway. I hugged my knees, weeping, my heart aching for how hard Mom and Dad had to work every single day. Why does it hurt so much?! I thought, pounding my fist weakly against my own chest. Why did I have to get sick? Why did that stupid hundred dollars have to be in my pocket?! “Hey there, sweetie.” A middle-aged woman with kind eyes suddenly crouched down in front of me. “Are you looking to make some cash?” My dull eyes sparked to life. “Can you give me a job, ma’am?” She smiled warmly. “Of course I can. Come with me.” I pushed myself up off the ground, gripping her hand like a lifeline. As long as I could help Mom and Dad, I didn’t care how hard the work was! But… the pain in my stomach was reaching a crescendo. The woman led me to an idling gray van and pulled me inside. The moment the doors slammed shut, my body convulsed, and I violently retched a mouthful of pitch-black blood all over the rubber floor mats. “Jesus Christ, this kid looks like he’s seconds from dying!” a man in the driver’s seat barked. “The buyers aren’t gonna pay for a terminal liability!” The kind woman’s face instantly hardened into a sneer. I desperately tried to wipe my mouth on my sleeve. “I’m not sick! I swear!” She just glared at me. Without a word, she shoved the sliding door open and violently kicked me out of the moving van, leaving me tumbling into the dirt on the side of a deserted suburban highway. I lay in the gravel, stunned. I tried to crawl after the fading taillights, but my arms gave out. Another violent cough wracked my frail body, painting the pavement red. I collapsed, my cheek pressed against the cold asphalt. “Don’t go…” I reached a trembling, blood-stained hand toward the empty road. “I need to make money… for my Mom and Dad…” My eyelids were so heavy. They felt like they were made of lead. I just want to sleep. Just a quick nap, and then I’ll find another job. “Just five minutes, Sammy,” I whispered to the empty air. And then, I closed my eyes for good. 3 When I woke up, the sun had set. Oddly enough, my body didn’t hurt anymore. The twisting knives in my stomach were entirely gone. I didn’t think too much about it. I just stood up and started running in the direction of home. But I didn’t know where I was, so I just aimlessly followed the shoulder of the road. “Mr. Carmichael, the Michelin chef you flew in has everything prepped at the restaurant. Shall we head over?” “Yes, let’s go.” I heard the deep, commanding voice and spun around instinctively. “Dad?” But as soon as the word left my mouth, I shook my head. No, the man stepping into the sleek black Maybach parked near the curb was wearing a tailored Italian suit. He looked like a billionaire. He just happened to sound exactly like my dad. I rubbed my eyes and started walking again. But then the world blinked, pitching into a dizzying black void, and when my vision cleared, I was somehow sitting in the back seat of that very Maybach, right next to the wealthy stranger. I stared, my mind short-circuiting. The man in the suit… his face was an exact replica of my father’s. Up front, the chauffeur glanced in the rearview mirror and sighed. “Sir, forgive me for overstepping, but how much longer is this charade going to last? When are you going to bring young Samuel home?” Young Samuel? Was he talking about me? I didn’t understand. I just sat there, invisible, staring blankly at the back of the driver’s head. “After he graduates high school, maybe,” the wealthy man sighed, adjusting his silk tie. “Our educational method is working perfectly. Look at how resilient and frugal Sammy has become. He’s ten times the man Tyler is.” Tyler? Who is Tyler? A few minutes later, the Maybach pulled up to the valet of a stunning, palatial restaurant with crystal chandeliers—the kind of place I would have been too scared to even walk past. “Darling.” I followed the man’s gaze and felt my breath hitch. My pupils dilated in sheer shock. It was Mom. She was wearing an elegant evening gown, her hair perfectly styled. So… these impossibly rich people really were my parents? But how? How was that even possible? We couldn’t even afford fifty dollars for a doctor! Just then, a teenage boy wearing a designer blazer ran up and threw his arms around Dad. They were escorted into a massive, private VIP dining room. A dozen waiters in immaculate uniforms hovered nearby, carrying silver trays. Plates of food that looked like art were set down on the white linen table. I stared, my mouth hanging open. There was so much meat. Steaks that sizzled on hot stones, roasted duck, and massive red things with giant claws that I’d only ever seen in library books. Dad pointed a fork at the teenager. “Eat up. Your little brother would kill for a meal like this. Count your blessings, Tyler. I’ve finalized your transfer to that private academy in Switzerland. You fly out in three days.” Brother? I whipped my head around to stare at the teenager. I had a brother? Since when did I have an older brother? Tyler rolled his eyes, shoving a massive piece of buttery lobster tail into his mouth. “Seriously, how long are you two going to keep playing dress-up? I’m just glad I’m not Sammy. It’s practically child abuse.” He washed the food down with a sip of sparkling water. “We literally own half the real estate in the city. Carmichael Industries is worth billions. Yet you make him live in a rat-infested basement and eat garbage. I don’t get it.” Dad scowled, setting his knife down sharply. “It is to forge his character! Growing up in absolute poverty is the only way to build an unbreakable will. Not like you, who whines when the Wi-Fi drops. Look at how responsible Sammy is.” Mom, dripping in diamonds that caught the chandelier light and blinded me, nodded in agreement, delicately slicing her wagyu beef. “He’s obedient, yes, but his psychological fortitude is still too weak. I mean, look at yesterday. He found a hundred-dollar bill in his pocket. If he had any real grit, he would have dragged us to the school to confront his classmates and demand an investigation. Then he would’ve realized I was testing him.” She took a slow, satisfied bite of her steak. “Instead, he just panicked and cried. How can I trust him to take over a multibillion-dollar empire one day if he crumbles over a hundred bucks? No. Your father and I need to keep him in the slums to break him down and build him back up properly.” My gaze locked onto her face. The room started spinning. A deafening ringing filled my ears, drowning out the clinking of crystal glasses. Fake… Our poverty was fake. My family was filthy rich. That hundred dollars… they planted it to frame me. “No… no, that’s not true… it can’t be true!” I lunged at my father, trying to grab his lapels to scream in his face, but my hands just phased right through his chest like smoke. “What’s happening?” I stumbled backward, falling onto the plush carpet. And then, as I stared at my translucent, glowing hands, the realization crashed down on me, crushing my soul. I began to wail. “I’m dead… I’m really dead.” 4 For as long as they sat there eating, I sat on the floor, screaming and crying. I screamed until my phantom throat felt raw. I demanded to know why they lied to me! Why did we have all the money in the world, yet they let me be tortured and humiliated over pennies?! But they didn’t hear a single word of my agony. I listened to the waiters describe the dishes. Truffle risotto, beluga caviar, venison medallions. Words I didn’t even know how to spell, let alone taste. After they finished their coffee, Dad wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and looked at Mom. “Let’s just sleep at the main estate tonight. My back is killing me from that basement cot. Sammy thinks we’re pulling a double shift at the recycling plant anyway.” Mom nodded elegantly. “Perfect. We can use our ‘exhaustion’ tomorrow morning to teach him another lesson about sacrifice.” The three of them walked out, laughing and joking, and climbed into the Maybach. I sat in the very back, watching their happy, smiling faces through a waterfall of tears. The car drove for an hour before pulling through the wrought-iron gates of an estate so vast it looked like a castle. I floated out of the car, staring numbly as they walked through the grand mahogany doors. It was massive. It was beautiful. There were no gray concrete floors. No spiderwebs. No roaches scurrying under the fridge. The marble floors here were cleaner than my bedsheets back in the basement. I drifted through the foyer and stopped dead. Hanging above the grand staircase was a massive oil painting. It was a family portrait. And there I was—a baby in my mother’s arms. So this was where I belonged. This was my real home. A fleet of housekeepers rushed forward to take their coats, hand them warm towels, and offer them slippers. One maid prepared a hot footbath for my dad, while an esthetician applied a gold-leaf face mask to my mom’s skin. I let out a broken, bitter laugh. My vision blurred. So this was how they lived, completely out of my sight. All while I was curled up under a thin sheet, praying the spiders wouldn’t crawl on my face, paralyzed by anxiety every single night. I was such an idiot. I dragged my dying, cancer-ridden body through the streets, begging for work just so I could ease their burden. If I had actually managed to earn a few dollars, they probably would have just stepped on the dirty bills with their five-thousand-dollar Italian leather shoes. I was so desperate to save half a portion of cafeteria casserole for them. The food they were eating tonight… I couldn’t even imagine it in my wildest dreams. I followed them up to the master bedroom. The massive king-sized bed looked like a cloud. The marble shower was bigger than our entire slum apartment. I see. On those nights when I sat on my floor mattress, crying tears of guilt because I thought they were out breaking their backs for me… On those nights when my stomach acid burned holes inside me, and I couldn’t sleep because we couldn’t afford a twelve-dollar bottle of pills… They were here. Enjoying paradise. I sat in the corner of their lavish bedroom and silently cried until the sun came up. The next morning, they got back into the Maybach, but had the chauffeur park three blocks away from the slum neighborhood. “Stop here. We can’t risk him seeing the car,” Dad ordered. He stripped off his bespoke suit, changing into stained, oversized work clothes, instantly transforming back into a beaten-down, working-class man. Mom messed up her perfect blowout and tied a faded, stained apron around her waist. They unlocked the basement door and stepped inside. “Sammy?” Dad called out, tossing a plastic bag with a cold, generic-brand muffin onto the rickety table. “Dad’s off his shift. Brought you breakfast.” Silence. He frowned. Mom nudged him. “Look at the time, David. He already left for school.” “Ah, right.” Dad walked over to the counter, opened the Tupperware container of the chicken casserole I had proudly saved for him, and looked at it with sheer disgust. Without a second thought, he scraped it directly into the garbage disposal and turned on the faucet. Just then, Mom’s phone rang. It was Mr. Evans. She put it on speakerphone. “Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael? First period is already over. I was just wondering why Sammy hasn’t shown up to class today?” Both of them froze. “He’s not at school?!” Sensing the rising panic, Mr. Evans’s voice grew tight. “Sammy has thrown up blood in class several times recently. You don’t think he collapsed on his way to school, do you?” Mom and Dad locked eyes, the color draining from their faces. They bolted for the door, but the moment Dad yanked it open, he froze in his tracks. Standing on the cracked concrete porch were two police officers. The lead officer looked at them with a grim expression. “We found a body on the side of Highway 9 this morning.” He held up a glossy photograph, his eyes locked onto my parents. “Is this your son?”

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My husband is a Novel Traveler. He doesn’t belong to this world. He was sent here by a “System” with a singular mission: to win the heart of the story’s secondary lead, Lydia. But the moment he arrived, he fell for me instead. I was the “Main Character” of this reality, and every time he felt a spark of love for me, the System punished him with a high-voltage electric shock. He had been shocked nine hundred and ninety-nine times for loving me. Then, I was kidnapped by a paramilitary insurgent group. I was electrocuted, held in a flooded cellar, and had iron spikes driven through my limbs. In the depths of my despair, I remembered a trick Arthur had taught me—a way to mentally bridge into his System interface. I connected. But instead of a rescue plan, I heard Arthur’s voice, cold and detached, talking to the System. “Host, how could you personally strike a deal with those terrorists?” the System’s mechanical voice crackled. “You’re letting them break her. She’s your wife.” “This trauma was written into Lydia’s arc,” Arthur replied, his voice like ice. “To save Lydia from this fate, I had no choice but to let June take her place.” “June is the protagonist. she has ‘plot armor.’ No matter how much they break her, she won’t die. Once this scenario is over, I’ll have enough points to stay in this world forever. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to her.” My heart didn’t just break; it shattered. As the men in the shadows moved toward me again, I stopped fighting. I let go. … “Damn, this one’s a prize,” one of them spat. At his signal, the cramped, humid room filled with shadows. I was pinned to a makeshift cot, long iron spikes driven through my hands and feet. The slightest twitch sent white-hot agony through my nervous system, let alone the brutal movements of the men. The bed groaned rhythmically. The stench of sweat, unwashed bodies, and cheap tobacco filled my lungs. Through the haze of pain and the sound of heavy breathing, I heard Arthur’s voice in my head again. “How many?” The System’s voice was trembling. “The eighth one just finished. Arthur, something is wrong. June’s vitals are dropping. Tell them to stop.” “No!” Arthur’s bark echoed in my mind. “In the original script, Lydia was assaulted ten times. If June is taking her place, the count has to be exact. Not one less.” The words felt like a plunge into a frozen lake. Two months ago, a lethal virus had broken out in this region—a strain so aggressive that victims rarely lasted seventy-two hours. As an infectious disease specialist, I had volunteered for the medical relief mission. Arthur had insisted on coming along, claiming he couldn’t bear the thought of me in danger. I actually believed he was protecting me. Now I realized he had been architecting this nightmare for two months. Another man entered. I felt nothing but a hollow, vibrating numbness. Suddenly, a sharp, cramping pain bloomed in my lower abdomen. It was different from the external wounds—a deep, visceral tearing. The man on top of me stopped abruptly, swearing in a local dialect. “What the hell is this?” Another man leaned over, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s a child. She’s miscarrying.” The room went silent. The weight lifted off me as the man scrambled back. Even these monsters, it seemed, had a limit when faced with the sight of a dying womb. My mind went blank. Tears, hot and silent, finally began to track through the dirt on my face. As a doctor, I knew. I had known for weeks. We had been married for three years. Every night, he wanted me. When I was too exhausted, he would wrap his arms around my waist and whisper that back in his “original world,” he was an orphan. His only dream was a family. Now that he had me, his only remaining wish was a child. I had spent months conditioning my body, taking vitamins, tracking cycles. Three months ago, I finally conceived. I hadn’t found the right moment to tell him before the insurgents raided our camp. “Host, that’s nine. No one else will touch her,” the System’s voice broke the silence in my mind. I realized the connection was still live. “Why not?” Arthur demanded, his voice impatient. The System’s mechanical tone held a note of genuine horror. “Because during the ninth encounter, June… she lost the baby.” “Don’t tell me the details! I can’t handle it!” Arthur roared, his voice thick with a performative kind of rage. “I’m telling you her condition is critical,” the System replied. Arthur went silent. For a heartbeat, I thought he might finally break character. I thought he might come for me. Then, he spoke, and the words sliced through whatever was left of my soul. “If the men won’t finish it, find a dog.” The System let out a sharp, digital gasp. “Host, this is too much. June has done nothing wrong. Why should she suffer Lydia’s destiny?” “You think she’s the only one suffering? My heart is dying with every second!” Arthur’s voice cracked with a twisted sense of martyrdom. “But what choice do I have? If Lydia doesn’t survive her ‘canon’ events, the story collapses and I’m pulled out of this world. One last time. Just one more trauma, then have them inject the viral sample. Then I can ‘rescue’ her and be the hero.” His voice faded like a dying wind. The door creaked open. When I saw the massive, half-starved hound they dragged in, I closed my eyes. Everything went exactly according to Arthur’s plan. When the weight finally left me, the room fell into a terrifying silence. I forced myself to look down. There, on the blood-slicked concrete, was a tiny, translucent shape. My baby. I dragged my broken limbs across the floor, the spikes grinding against the stone, until I could pull that tiny piece of myself into my arms. Grief didn’t just wash over me; it drowned me. Then, a shadow fell over the threshold. A man entered holding a syringe. He didn’t look at me as he slid the needle into my vein. The liquid was ice-cold. I’d spent three months studying this pathogen. I knew exactly what it was: the raw, concentrated viral strain, likely harvested from a fresh corpse. At this concentration, without the synthesized antidote, I would be dead within twenty-four hours. The irony was that I had already developed the antidote. I just hadn’t published the findings yet. I thought the insurgents had taken me for my research. Now I knew the truth. This was all for Lydia. Arthur had once told me he was sent to “save” her. After we married, he was always “helping” her, trying to nudge her fate. I used to pick fights about it. He would always look at me with those puppy-dog eyes and say, “June, she means nothing to me. I’m only doing this for our future.” Our future. The door was kicked open with a thunderous crash. Seconds later, I was pulled into a tight, trembling embrace. The scent of Arthur’s expensive cologne—sandalwood and citrus—hit me. It used to be the smell of safety. Now, it made my skin crawl. “June! Oh god, June, I’m here. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you went through this.” I let him hold me. I stared over his shoulder with dead eyes, my heart a blackened husk of rage. I forced my voice to sound thin and fragile. “Arthur… you have the System. Why did it take so long?” He stiffened. “The interface… it glitched. It’s all my fault. But don’t worry, honey. I don’t care about what happened here. I don’t think you’re ‘dirty.’ I’ll heal you. We’re going to a hospital right now.” He draped his designer suit jacket over my broken, bloodied body. As he lifted me, he hissed to his armed guards, “Leave no one alive.” I was rushed to the field hospital. My colleagues, seeing me in that state, were horrified. Even the most battle-hardened trauma surgeons gasped when they saw the spikes. They pulled twenty-four iron nails out of my body. After the surgery, I was moved to a private ward. I’ve always had a high tolerance for anesthesia; I was awake, but I kept my eyes squeezed shut. I couldn’t bear to look at him. I listened as the nurses whispered to him about my injuries. Arthur played the part of the grieving, devoted husband perfectly. He stroked my cheek, whispering, “June, I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.” In another life, I would have wept with gratitude. Now, I just felt a surge of bile in my throat. A few hours later, the door clicked open. A voice I loathed drifted in. “Arthur. I’m here.” Lydia. “Inject the sedative now,” Arthur said, his voice dropping the grieving-husband act. “The jet is ready. You can be back in the States in two hours.” Lydia stepped closer. I heard the rustle of her silk blouse. “Arthur, come with me. Please.” “I have to stay and look after June for a bit,” he replied. “But I’m scared,” she pouted, her voice honey-sweet and manipulative. “It’s so dangerous here.” Arthur paused. “Fine. I’ll come.” He had always told me he felt nothing for her. Yet he never said no. He never used a harsh tone with her. I used to tell myself he was just “playing the game” for the System. I was done lying to myself. Arthur stepped out to finalize the flight manifest. Lydia walked over to my bed. She didn’t offer comfort. Instead, she pressed a manicured finger into my surgical incision. “Stop faking,” she hissed. I opened my eyes and looked at her. She sneered. “Look at you, June. Ten men? I heard the stories. How do you even have the nerve to still be breathing?” I forced a cold smile. “Even so, Arthur isn’t divorcing me to marry you, is he?” Her face contorted. “So what? He’s already disgusted by you. Do you know why he sent me in here?” She leaned down, her breath smelling of peppermint. “He knows you don’t respond to standard anesthesia. He told me to inject you with a heavy-duty sedative so you’ll sleep through the next few hours. While you’re out, he’s going to announce that my team discovered the cure for the virus. Your cure.” “What?” My heart hammered against my ribs. That antidote was the result of twenty people working twenty-hour shifts for months. It was our legacy. For many of my junior doctors, it was their only ticket out of poverty and into prestigious fellowships. “How dare you,” I wheezed, trying to sit up. Lydia didn’t bother arguing. She pulled a syringe from her bag and jammed it into my IV line. “June, from today on, everything that was yours belongs to me. Including Arthur.” The drug Lydia gave me didn’t work the way she wanted. Within an hour, I was jolted awake by a searing fever. The room was empty. Arthur and Lydia were gone. A colleague, Becca, was checking my vitals. She looked like she’d been crying. “Where is he?” I asked. “Arthur went to the airport,” Becca said, biting her lip. “Dr. Valentine… the test results came back. You’ve been infected with the concentrated strain.” I nodded slowly. “I know. I thought… I thought Arthur gave me the antidote when we arrived.” Becca’s face went pale. “There is no antidote left in the hospital, June. As soon as the ‘official’ announcement was made, all the stock was packed up and moved to the capital for the press junket. We don’t have a single vial here.” The world tilted. Without the serum, I was a dead woman walking. “There’s a flight to the capital in an hour,” Becca said urgently. She and two orderlies helped me into a wheelchair and rushed me to the airport. But when we got there, the commercial airline refused to board me. “Too high risk,” the gate agent said. “We can’t have a Bio-Level 4 patient on a commercial craft.” Desperate, Becca spotted Arthur’s private jet on the tarmac. He used it to fly in supplies—and to visit me. She ran toward him as he stood by the boarding stairs. She explained everything. She begged him to take me to the capital—a twenty-minute flight—to get the medicine. Arthur didn’t even look at the ambulance idling nearby. He checked his watch. “I’m taking Lydia home. I don’t have time for this.” Becca was stunned. “But June is dying! She’s your wife!” Arthur frowned, looking annoyed. “Stop the drama, Rebecca. I saw Lydia give her the injection myself.” He looked past the crowd, catching my eye for a fleeting second. “June, I know you’re jealous. But this isn’t the time for a stunt. I’ll come back for you after I drop Lydia off. Just wait for me.” He turned and walked up the stairs, Lydia trailing behind him. My heart felt like it was being physically crushed. I knew he was “misunderstanding” on purpose. He wanted me out of the way for the press conference. But I was actually dying. “Arthur!” I screamed, the effort tearing at my throat. He paused at the door of the plane. “Please,” I sobbed. “Just take me to the city. I want to live. I don’t want to die.” For a second, his mask slipped. A flicker of genuine pain crossed his eyes. He took a step back down the stairs. Then Lydia let out a sharp cry and collapsed onto the cabin floor. Arthur’s instincts—or the System’s programming—kicked in. He dove toward her, scooping her up. The last thing he said before the cabin door hissed shut was: “You’ll be fine, June. I’ll be back.” The engines roared. The jet climbed into the sky, taking my last hope with it. I watched the silver speck vanish into the clouds. A strange calm washed over me. The pressure in my chest became unbearable. I opened my mouth to breathe, but only blood came out. “Blood! She’s hemorrhaging!” Becca screamed. They tried to resuscitate me right there on the terminal floor. But we all knew it was over. With my last ounce of strength, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, blood-stained handkerchief containing the remains of my child, and a digital recorder. I pressed them into Becca’s hands. “Give these… to Arthur,” I whispered. In that final moment, a voice echoed in the void—not Arthur’s, but the System’s. [Notice: Primary Female Lead has been terminated. Recalibrating… New Female Lead: Lydia Mercer.]

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I was Hudson’s paid lookalike. His contracted distraction. While he used my body to kill time, I lay beneath him and thought of someone else. Right up until the day Hudson supposedly flew out of state to comfort his untouchable first love. I logged into my burner account and saw a message from a guy I only knew by his screen name, Nomad: [I want to see you.] I took a breath, steeled my nerves, and agreed to meet him. I was ready to finally sever my ties to the past. But when I pulled open my front door at the exact time we’d agreed upon… Standing on the other side of the threshold was Hudson—the man who was supposed to be halfway across the country. He arched an eyebrow at me, a dark, playful smirk playing on his lips. “What’s wrong?” he murmured. “Waiting for your internet crush, but got me instead?” 1 My relationship with Hudson was, at its core, painfully simple: he wanted my face, and I wanted his money. As for why my face specifically caught the attention of a New York tech billionaire? It’s the oldest cliché in the book. Hudson was haunted by the ghost of a girl he couldn’t have. Margot. Hollywood’s current A-list darling. And I happen to look a good seventy percent like her. I even used to be her body double on set. But Margot had a high school sweetheart she’d been dating for eight solid years; they were Hollywood’s golden couple, completely impenetrable. So, Hudson had to settle for the next best thing. He plucked me out of absolute obscurity. When he formally offered to make me his “kept woman,” his lawyer slid a non-disclosure and lifestyle agreement across the mahogany table that was thicker than my college thesis. But boiled down, it really only had three rules: One, don’t ask questions. Two, be available whenever he calls. Three, never cling. I followed them religiously. Not because I had some profound sense of professional integrity as a sugar baby, but mainly because my heart was already occupied. Nomad. A guy I met on an anonymous forum. At the time, Hudson had just hired me. My pride was in tatters, the brutal reality of the contract sitting heavy on my chest. I had bowed to the almighty dollar, and I felt suffocated by it. Late one night, scrolling mindlessly through Reddit, I stumbled upon a post Nomad had written about traveling to Iceland alone to see the Northern Lights. His prose was breathtakingly good. He wrote about isolation with a tenderness that made my chest ache. Like a ghost guiding my hand, I sent him a private message: [You write beautifully.] He replied almost instantly: [Thanks. That cat in your profile picture is pretty chunky.] I couldn’t help but brag: [He’s a rescue. I adopted him.] And just like that, we started talking. Hudson kept me for over two years, and I talked to Nomad for over two years. I sent Nomad texts about my 3:00 AM insomnia. I sent him pictures of the incredible greasy diner downstairs, and the oak tree outside my window that budded in the spring and went stark bald in the winter. He never sent a photo of himself. He only ever sent one sixty-second audio clip. When I pressed play, it was just the roaring, crackling sound of howling wind. “The wind in Iceland,” his voice murmured through the static. I played that goddamn audio clip thirty-seven times on a loop. 2 And then there was Hudson. How do I even explain Hudson? He was a bizarre anomaly in the world of wealthy benefactors. He wasn’t the ice-cold, domineering alpha billionaire you read about in airport paperbacks. During our late-night arrangements, while I was literally lying naked in his bed, he would suddenly ask: “What do you think of this pajama shirt? Does it make my shoulders look weird?” I’d say, “No.” He’d sigh. “You didn’t even look. You’re just saying no.” I searched for a polite excuse. “Hudson, you’re currently pinning me to the mattress. My field of vision is a little restricted.” He paused, considered this, and decided it was a valid point. He deliberately pulled me up by the waist, sitting me right in front of him so I could get a good look. I stared at him with excruciating patience for thirty seconds. “Okay, yeah. It does.” He went entirely silent out of sheer indignation. He ripped the pajama shirt off, exposing his ridiculously sculpted abs. I had no choice but to reach out and comfort his bruised ego. He caught my hand, pinned it, and ended up keeping me awake the entire night until my lower back throbbed. The next day, a substantial bonus hit my bank account. I understood the game. Overtime required overtime pay. When your boss occasionally short-circuits, you don’t complain; you just cash the check. He used my body to search for the shadow of someone else, and I lay beneath him dreaming of the wind in Iceland. He used me as a distraction. I used him as a magic lamp. Whenever my bank account ran low, I just gave him a rub. Fair trade. Everyone got what they needed. 3 I stepped out of the steaming shower, towel-drying my hair. Hudson was leaning against the tufted headboard, scrolling through his tablet. We used to live separately. I had my cramped Brooklyn studio; he had his sprawling Manhattan penthouse. Usually, whenever he saw a billboard with Margot’s face on it and felt a sudden pang of nostalgic longing, he’d call his trusty stand-in. Sometimes just a text. I’d take the subway to his place. Once, he called me at three in the morning. I assumed he was deep in the throes of a late-night emotional crisis, shedding tears into his silk sheets over his lost love. I rushed over. He wanted me to help him pick out new bedroom curtains. “Charcoal or slate grey?” It was 4:00 AM. I was standing in his massive bedroom, dead on my feet, staring at two identical squares of fabric. “Charcoal,” I mumbled. “Why?” “Hides the dirt.” He tilted his head, thinking it over. “Solid logic.” I turned around, eyes completely shut, navigating by pure muscle memory toward the front door, and nearly crashed right into his chest. Hudson caught me by the waist. He opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to say something. But I had already rested my cheek against his sternum, found a comfortable groove, and passed out instantly. That was the first time I ever slept at his apartment without engaging in any sort of physical transaction. The next morning, I was still buried under the duvet, dreaming of soaking in a geothermal lagoon in Iceland, when my landlord called. “Fallon, honey,” she said. “My son is getting married and he needs the apartment. I’ll refund your deposit, but you need to find a new place. Your boyfriend already packed up all your stuff and moved it out.” I just lay there, my brain stalling for a solid minute. “Brenda… didn’t you tell me last month that your son couldn’t even get a date to save his life?” “Oh, he found someone!” she chirped. “A Vegas wedding. Very sudden.” I opened my eyes. Hudson had just walked into the bedroom. He was carrying several cardboard boxes and a squirming cat. My entire worldly possessions. I had never allowed Hudson to visit my apartment. I preferred to keep our cold, transactional relationship strictly within the confines of his penthouse. I didn’t want to bring my work home with me. Well, now my work was my home. 4 I obediently crawled into the center of the massive bed. My cat, Smudge, who had been perfectly content lounging in Hudson’s lap, immediately jumped off the mattress to go shred the brand-new charcoal curtains. Hudson had never been to my apartment. So why my cat acted like Hudson was his long-lost father was entirely beyond me. As soon as I lay down, Hudson suddenly spoke. “Come here.” I turned to look at him. He patted the empty space beside him. “Closer.” I shimmied over. “Lower your head,” he instructed. I dropped my chin. The next second, the nozzle of a matte-black Dyson hairdryer was pointed directly at my face. “…” “Your hair is soaked,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’ll wake up with a migraine if you sleep on it like that.” I stared at him. He stared at me. I was mostly just wondering where the hell he had been hiding a full-sized hairdryer. He couldn’t have been holding a cat, reading corporate files on his iPad, and hiding a Dyson under the duvet all at once. He clicked it on, and a rush of warm air hit me. Hudson was surprisingly good at this. His long fingers combed smoothly through my wet strands, occasionally brushing my scalp. It tingled. I kept my eyes fixed on the buttons of his pajama shirt. One. Two. Three. “Hudson.” “Hmm?” “Have you dried someone else’s hair before?” His fingers paused in my hair for a fraction of a second. “No.” “Then how are you so good at it?” “I watched a tutorial.” Well then. I suppose being a body double had its perks—I was getting the premium, customized service the sugar daddy had been practicing for someone else. I generously gave him a five-star review: “Your technique is incredibly professional. Your future wife is going to love it.” Hudson didn’t say another word. 5 It wasn’t that I was actively trying to ruin the mood. It was just that the very first time Hudson brought me to one of his social circles, his best friend, Chase, had pulled me aside with genuine pity in his eyes. He told me about the untouchable first love. Chase told me that a framed still from Margot’s breakout indie film sat squarely on Hudson’s study desk. That was the moment I understood exactly why Hudson had chosen me out of the lineup. Logically, I should have figured it out sooner. But Hudson’s particular brand of attentiveness was dangerously deceptive. Even when it’s written in black and white that your relationship is a paid sham, you can still catch traces of a gentleness that exists outside the contract. It makes you foolishly believe you hold a special place in his world. In college, an injury destroyed my dancing career. A scout saw me crying in a diner and told me I had the face for Hollywood. A year later, a sleazy producer told me that if I slept with him, he’d make me a star. Young, arrogant, and foolishly proud, I threw my vodka soda directly into his greasy face. And just like that, I was blacklisted. No fame, no auditions. I scraped the bottom of the barrel until I finally landed a gig on a massive studio set—as Margot’s stunt and lighting double. Life really is just a poorly written script. I used to be a physical stand-in; now I was a professional emotional one. I wasn’t heartbroken. I was just thrilled to have a job with solid job security and zero competition. “You guys are best friends,” I heard myself say to Chase back then, my voice remarkably steady. “If he finds out you told me this, he’s going to be pissed.” Chase crushed his cigarette under his shoe, looking utterly righteous. “That’s exactly why I’m telling you while he’s at the bar.” He wanted me to know my place. Take the money, but guard my heart. I downed the rest of my champagne in one gulp. “Chase, you’re a good man.” By the time Hudson found us on the terrace, Chase was drunkenly sobbing into my shoulder. “Fallon, stop friend-zoning me, my heart can’t take it anymore, man… sob…” The next second, Hudson’s hand clamped onto my arm, yanking me out of Chase’s tearful embrace. He scooped me up effortlessly into his arms, his grip around my waist tight and possessive. “Done playing around?” His voice was absolute ice. “We’re going home.” I rested my chin on his shoulder. Looking past him, I saw Chase struggling to sit up, tears still streaking his flushed face. I gave him a little wave. Hudson’s footsteps stopped dead. His arm tightened around me like a vice. He lowered his head, his lips hovering mere millimeters from my ear. “Look at him one more time, and I guarantee you aren’t sleeping tonight.” I didn’t believe the threat. I had seen how much scotch he threw back at the bar. The internet said guys had performance issues when they drank that much. 6 I woke up the next morning drenched in sweat. Mainly because a human furnace was plastered to my back. Hudson’s heavy arm was slung across my waist, his breath ghosting over the nape of my neck, one of his legs thrown heavily over mine. Back when our interactions were strictly nocturnal and purely physical, I didn’t think much of it. But ever since I was forced to move in, Hudson had undergone a bizarre personality shift. He suddenly loved simply sharing a blanket, holding hands, and sleeping. It was putting immense pressure on me as a professional contractor. This was a workplace hazard I did not have the experience to navigate. I braced myself and tried to inch my body toward the edge of the mattress. His arm tightened. I shimmied again. He tightened his grip further. I took a deep breath, preparing to utilize my dancer’s flexibility to slide out from under him like a greased eel. “Don’t move.” His voice was thick and gravelly with sleep, his lips brushing directly against the sensitive skin of my neck. I froze. Because I was suddenly hyper-aware of something pressing against my lower back that I really shouldn’t be feeling this early in the morning. “Hudson.” “Mmm.” “You’re poking me.” He was quiet for two full seconds. Then, I felt him start to laugh. The deep, rumbling vibration of his chest against my spine sent a shiver down my arms. “I know.” “…” When I didn’t say anything, he gently bit my earlobe. “You little menace.” I tried to hold my tongue, but failed. “I’m not a menace. Please don’t give me a negative performance review for no reason.” A boss like this was terrible for an employee’s mental health. Thank God I compartmentalized. He propped himself up on one elbow to look down at me. His dark hair was a messy bedhead halo, his eyelids slightly puffy from sleep. He looked nothing like a ruthless tech mogul. He stared at me, his eyes silently accusing me of ruining a perfectly romantic moment. I stared right back, silently reminding him that we do not catch feelings on company time. Finally, I heard him take a sharp intake of breath. He threw the covers back and marched toward the master bathroom, bare-chested. The scratches I had left on his back last week were almost completely healed. I hadn’t exactly had the opportunity to add new ones recently. From the back, he looked a little sulky. Maybe even a little rejected. He stopped halfway across the rug and looked over his shoulder at me. “What do you want for lunch?” I blinked. “What?” “Lunch,” he enunciated. “To eat.” Lately, Hudson had been utterly obsessed with having me eat lunch with him. Sometimes he’d book a reservation at a Michelin-starred spot; other times I was required to carry a packed lunch to his corporate headquarters. Hudson was an incredible cook. He prepped and plated the gourmet bento boxes himself. I was literally just the delivery driver for my own lunch. As far as I was concerned, as long as the direct deposits kept clearing, I’d deliver whatever he wanted. I just couldn’t fathom why he didn’t just take the damn food with him when he left for work in the morning. Why force his sugar baby to parade through his corporate lobby just to drop it off? The only logical explanation was that the ultra-rich were completely unhinged. I batted my eyelashes at him. “Whatever you make, I’ll love it.” Hudson leaned down and kissed me. It was deep, slow, and devastatingly reverent. “Can you promise to love it forever?” 7 All I can say is, nothing in this world lasts forever. After Hudson left for the office, I sat at the kitchen island eating my breakfast. I suddenly remembered my burner account—the one I used to message Nomad—which I hadn’t checked in ages. Ever since I moved in with Hudson, my screen time had plummeted. For a busy billionaire CEO, Hudson had a terrifying amount of energy. He’d come home and drag me out to grocery shop, cook, watch indie films, listen to vinyls, drink wine, and play video games. My schedule was packed tighter than a diplomat’s. A teenager in the honeymoon phase of his first relationship wouldn’t be this clingy. As soon as I logged in, a message popped up. Nomad: [Been busy lately?] Timestamp: Two weeks ago. Me: [A little.] Nomad replied instantly: [Rest if you’re tired.] I had never told Nomad I was a paid mistress. I just vaguely referred to it as my “job.” It was a pathetic lie I told myself to preserve my dignity. Me: [Can’t rest. Gotta grind.] Nomad: [Didn’t you say your boss was actually a decent guy?] Me: [You can’t just look at the present.] Nomad: [What do you mean?] Me: [My performance reviews are fine for now, but you never know when the boss will get sick of me and decide to downsize my position.] My current job offered zero upward mobility, and the expiration date was always looming. For this particular role, Hudson always had a more qualified candidate in his heart. I had to be ready to pack my bags and vacate the premises at a moment’s notice. It took Nomad a long time to reply: [Why would you think that?] I typed out my ultimate corporate wisdom: [Always have an exit strategy.] My workplace paranoia was validated before noon. A massive headline detonated across Twitter and the gossip blogs. #A-ListDarlingMargotBetrayed #BoyfriendCaughtCheating #MargotSpottedCryingInLA #EightYearsDownTheDrain I hadn’t even finished reading the article when my phone buzzed. It was Hudson. “Fallon, baby. Are you at the office yet?” “Not yet.” “Something urgent came up at work. I have to fly out to Atlanta for a few days.” “Okay.” “Make sure you’re eating properly while I’m gone.” “I know.” “Wait for me to get back.” I didn’t say anything. He repeated it, his voice tight. “Wait for me.” “Okay,” I whispered. I hung up the phone and tipped my head back, looking up at the towering glass skyscraper in front of me. What floor was his corner office on again? I was just a tiny ant on the pavement. He couldn’t see me from up there. A cold drop of rain hit my cheek. The sky opened up. Clutching the insulated lunchbox, I turned and walked away in the downpour. 8 Late that night, I tossed and turned in the center of the massive king-sized bed. Hudson claimed it was a business emergency. But the timing of this sudden trip out of state? Even an idiot could put two and two together. I had seen the tracking updates on the gossip blogs that afternoon. Margot was currently filming a new movie down in Atlanta. Hudson was flying a thousand miles through a thunderstorm to rush to her side. Honestly? It was incredibly romantic. Even if the man was completely morally bankrupt—keeping one woman in his house while harboring another in his heart. But he had been unfailingly generous with his money, and surprisingly, with his emotional care. He treated a cheap stand-in with such meticulous, tender devotion that you could almost fool yourself into thinking it was real. That was why I had to constantly remind myself: do not fall for his gentleness. The prettier the illusion, the deadlier the trap. I had no right to judge Hudson. He wasn’t some villain threatening Margot’s career to force her into his bed, and he never tried to be the other man while she was happy. He simply waited in the wings, rushing in to offer his shoulder the moment her heart broke. It was just a transaction. I sincerely wished him the best. As for the final clause in my contract—never cling—I was prepared to exhibit flawless professional etiquette. I would quietly evaporate from his life. I wouldn’t cause a single ripple of drama on his journey to win back his true love. I stared at my chat history with Nomad. The last message had come through that morning. He said: [I want to see you.] I want to see you. I stared at those five words for a very long time. Long enough for the phone screen to dim, go black, and be tapped awake again. Over and over. I typed: [Okay.] Then I sent a second text: [Tomorrow. The Astor Residences. 3:00 PM.] It was Hudson’s address. He was supposed to be gone for a week. I figured I’d borrow the lobby. I didn’t actually want to meet Nomad at Hudson’s apartment, but since my old landlord had evicted me, I literally didn’t have anywhere else in the city to go. 9 When the doorbell chimed, I had just finished taping up my last moving box. Compared to the deliberately sparse belongings I had in my old studio, my possessions had multiplied like a virus since living with Hudson. My closets were overflowing with dresses, jewelry, and shoes—all things Hudson bought because he “thought I’d like them.” I wasn’t taking any of it. It would all end up exactly like me: discarded in the trash the moment he was done with it. Three o’clock exactly. Punctual guy. I took a deep, shaky breath, and pulled open the heavy oak door. Hudson stood in the hallway. He smelled like jet fuel, rain, and exhaustion. In one hand, he was holding a canvas grocery tote. A bundle of crisp celery and onions peeked out from the top. We stared at each other. My mind went entirely, violently blank. Internet crush. Meetup. My doorstep. Sugar daddy.

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My sister went home with her boyfriend every single night, yet she never once worried about birth control. When I finally asked her why, her answer made my blood run cold. She was using “the back door”—a desperate, reckless loophole to preserve her technical virginity. I tried to warn her. I told her that the body wasn’t designed for that kind of constant trauma, that she was courting infection and permanent damage. I told her that in this day and age, a man who truly loved her wouldn’t care about a piece of tissue or a “pure” status. In my first life, she actually listened. She stopped. But later, after she and that boyfriend broke up, our mother orchestrated a match with a billionaire’s heir. On their wedding night, because there was no “bloom on the sheets,” the groom turned on her instantly. By the next morning, the scandal was the talk of every high-society gala in the city. Ruined and humiliated, my sister didn’t blame the man or our mother’s archaic obsession. She blamed me. She pinned me down, her face twisted with a primal, jagged hatred, and forced my head into a pot of screaming, boiling water. “It’s your fault,” she hissed as the steam scorched my lungs. “If I were still ‘pure,’ I’d be the queen of this city. No one would be laughing at me!” Then, the world went black. When I opened my eyes, I was back on that humid afternoon, sitting on the velvet sofa, listening to her brag about her secret for the very first time. … “Jade, seriously, stop worrying. I’m not going to get pregnant. Every time I’m with Kyle, we… well, we stay off the main road, if you know what I mean.” Bridget shifted on the cushion, a playful, cat-like smirk on her lips. Looking at her face, I felt a phantom surge of agony, the memory of boiling water scalding my throat. It took every ounce of my willpower to keep my hands from shaking. I took a slow breath and forced a smile. “Wow,” I whispered. “That’s… actually really clever of you.” Bridget leaned in, eager to play the mentor. “I’m telling you, Jade, a man can get just as much pleasure that way. You can’t keep listening to Mom’s ‘Victorian Era’ lectures. It’s the twenty-first century. Chasing the high is all that matters.” She paused, her eyes scanning my plain sweater with pity. “Maybe that’s why you can’t keep a boyfriend. You’re too repressed.” I just smiled. The only reason Bridget was acting so smug was that Kyle, her current flame, was my ex. We had been together for two years. He broke up with me because I refused to sleep with him before I felt ready. Three days after the breakup, he and Bridget went public on Instagram. It wasn’t until I went to Kyle’s apartment to pack the last of my things that I realized they had been hooking up long before we ended. The neighbors told me they could hear Bridget’s theatrics from two floors away. At the time, my first instinct wasn’t even anger—it was fear. I was terrified of what would happen if Mom found out. Our father died young, leaving Diane—our mother—to raise us alone. She was a “Social Consultant” for the ultra-wealthy, a high-end matchmaker who navigated the complex waters of old-money families. Dealing with that echelon of society had hardened her. She knew exactly what those men looked for in a wife. To them, “purity” wasn’t a moral virtue; it was a luxury brand. “Marriage is your second chance at birth,” Mom used to say, her voice like cold steel. “These men might talk about being progressive, but in their hearts, they want a woman who hasn’t been touched. Don’t you dare lower your market value, or don’t bother calling me Mother.” In my previous life, I had spent days agonized over whether to tell Mom about Bridget’s behavior. But when I’d confronted Bridget, she’d laughed and told me she was still a “virgin” because of her little workaround. Back then, I had been a fool. I was worried about her health. As someone with a nursing degree, I knew the risks. I knew the muscles back there weren’t meant for that kind of repetitive, violent strain. I knew about the potential for incontinence, the tearing, the permanent scarring. I had given her a lecture on anatomy. I had told her, “Someone who loves you won’t ask you to hurt yourself. If you want to explore your sexuality, do it the right way. If a man cares about a hymen, he’s not worth it—and even if it mattered that much, there are surgeries for that.” Bridget’s eyes had lit up at the mention of surgery. She had changed her habits immediately. But then came the billionaire’s son. Even with the surgery, the “evidence” wasn’t there on the wedding night. And when the marriage imploded, she decided it was my advice that had ruined her life. This time, I looked at her and felt nothing but a cold, hollow space where my sisterly love used to be. “But doesn’t that… hurt?” I asked, feigning concern. “I’ve heard it can cause real damage. Infections, tearing…” Bridget rolled her eyes, golden highlights catching the light. “Not if you’re careful. Besides, Jade, I think I’m just built differently. Kyle says I’m like a siren. I even get… ‘wet’ back there.” I knew Kyle was lying to her. That area doesn’t have secretory glands. If there was fluid, it meant one thing: inflammation. Or worse. The realization gave me a dark, flicking sense of satisfaction. “Is that why Kyle is so obsessed with you?” I asked, looking down as if I were envious. Meanwhile, under the coffee table, I opened a burner account on an adult boutique site. I found Kyle’s profile—he was a frequent browser of “specialty” toys. I sent him a direct message from the shop’s account: [Hey handsome, looking for some new gear? Disguised shipping, top-tier quality.] Bridget noticed my “sadness” and her ego puffed up. She had always loved stealing things from me—clothes, attention, boyfriends. “Of course it is. But don’t get any ideas, Jade. You’re not the type. Kyle has tasted the best now; he’d never go back to someone as vanilla as you. You should probably just move on.” I lowered my head, playing the part of the defeated sister perfectly. My phone buzzed. Kyle had replied. He was interested in some of the more… aggressive, oversized equipment. I recommended a few “heavy-duty” items, processed his payment, and placed the order for local same-day delivery. A moment later, Bridget’s phone chimed. She looked at the screen and her face went scarlet. She stood up abruptly, grabbing her Prada bag. “Anyway, I have to go. Kyle’s waiting. And remember—not a word to Mom.” Bridget didn’t come home that night. When she crawled back the next morning, she walked with a pronounced, gingerly limp. Over the next week, Kyle became my best customer on the burner account. He ordered increasingly “experimental” toys. And every day, Bridget’s posture became more distorted, her face paler. I knew she couldn’t take much more of this. I just didn’t realize how quickly the breaking point would come. On a rainy Saturday, Bridget grabbed my arm, her voice a trembling whisper. “Jade… I think I’m torn. I’m bleeding.” I kept my voice flat, clinical. “Where?” “You know where.” She looked around frantically, then locked the bedroom door. She dropped her leggings, and I had to suppress a gag. It was a mess of bruising and raw tissue. “Should I go to the hospital?” she sobbed. “Every time I sneeze, I… I can’t hold it in. Things just… leak.” The revulsion was almost physical now. “The hospital?” I frowned. “Do you want Mom to find out? You know she has friends in every clinic in the city. If she hears her ‘perfect daughter’ has been doing this, she’ll disown you before the lab results are in.” Mom had been getting suspicious lately because of Bridget’s frequent absences. “Then what do I do?” Bridget cried. I shrugged. “It doesn’t look that bad. Just go to a pharmacy, get some over-the-counter cream and some heavy-duty pads. Just keep it quiet.” She was too embarrassed to even go to a clinic. She ended up ordering random ointments online, slathering herself in chemicals that probably only made the inflammation worse. Once the initial pain subsided, she went right back to Kyle. But the damage was done. The muscles were shot. And then, she started to smell. A faint, unmistakable scent of rot and waste that she tried to drown in expensive Chanel perfume. Finally, the day arrived. Mom burst through the door, her face glowing with the kind of predatory joy she only felt when a massive commission was in sight. “Bridget! Get dressed. We’re going to dinner with the Steven-Vane family. Their son, Pierce, is home from London. He’s a billionaire twice over in his own right, Ivy League, and perfectly disciplined.” Mom patted Bridget’s cheek, oblivious to the way her daughter winced. “He has only one requirement for a wife: she must be ‘untarnished.’ Bridget, your golden ticket is finally here.” I expected Bridget to jump at it. In my last life, she had. But this time, she turned pale. “Mom… I can’t.” Mom and I both froze. “What do you mean ‘no’?” Mom’s voice dropped an octave, dangerous and low. “Marriage is a business, Bridget. You’ve complained your whole life that I didn’t give you enough. Well, here is the world on a silver platter.” Bridget folded her arms over her stomach. “I have a boyfriend. I love Kyle.” “Break up with him,” Mom snapped. “Wait… you didn’t, did you? You didn’t let that low-life touch you?” Bridget’s face went white. “No! Of course not, Mom. I’m just… I’m not ready to get married. Why don’t you send Jade? Let her go to the dinner.” Mom turned to me, her gaze sweeping over me with pure, unadulterated disdain. “Jade? Do you think she’s even in his league? She’d be a charity case.” The words stung like a needle to the heart. It wasn’t new, but the casual cruelty of it never stopped hurting. Mom treated me like a prisoner of war; she treated Bridget like a prize thoroughbred. If I didn’t finish my homework, she’d shred my books. If Bridget didn’t finish hers, she got a gentle reminder. If I broke a dish, I was forced to kneel on the cold kitchen tiles for hours. If Bridget broke one, it was just an accident. I used to wonder if I was even her biological child. I’d even done a DNA test in secret once I turned eighteen. The results were clear: I was hers. In my previous life, as I lay dying from the boiling water, Mom hadn’t even looked at my mangled face. She had only reached out to check if Bridget’s hands were burnt. I’d used my last breath to ask why she hated me so much. She’d looked at me with boredom. “I don’t hate you. You’re just sensitive and small-minded. Bridget never complains about my ‘favoritism.’ Maybe the problem is you.” But I knew the real reason. Bridget was beautiful. Beauty was a resource, a currency. Mom had bet everything on Bridget’s face, and she wasn’t about to let her investment go to waste. Despite her fury, Mom didn’t force the issue that night. She couldn’t risk Bridget showing up to a dinner looking miserable. But she didn’t want the opportunity to slip away. So, she dragged me to see Pierce instead. “Don’t you dare mention your past dating life,” Mom hissed in the car. “You’re already starting at a disadvantage with those looks. If you act like a slut, he’ll smell it on you.” Sometimes I wondered if Mom was blind. Bridget was the one sneaking out every night, and I was the one who never missed a curfew, yet she still saw me as the “loose” one. Surprisingly, Pierce didn’t seem to care about my “average” looks. I’d had a bad impression of him in my last life because of the way he’d treated Bridget after the wedding night. But meeting him now, away from the drama, I realized he was actually… decent. Polished, well-traveled, and intelligent. His obsession with “purity” was purely a result of his family’s archaic expectations. He held himself to the same standard—he was a virgin himself, a rarity in his world. We actually clicked. We went on several dates. He was a gentleman. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if my rebirth wasn’t just about revenge. Maybe it was about a second chance at happiness. Maybe being with Pierce was the life I was supposed to have. But then, the hammer dropped. The moment Pierce asked to make things official and move toward an engagement, Bridget dumped Kyle. She saw Pierce’s photo on my phone. She saw the designer bags he’d bought me. And she decided she wanted him. One night, after a long “private talk” with Mom, the decision was made. The next morning, Mom sat me down. “You need to break up with Pierce. Bridget is going to be with him now.” It felt like a physical blow. “Are you serious? Is she actually pathological? She stole Kyle, and now that Pierce is actually a good man, she wants him too? Is she addicted to being the ‘other woman’ in my life?” Slap. The force of Mom’s hand sent my head spinning. “Bridget is your sister! How dare you speak of her like that? This match was always meant for her. You were just a placeholder. You’re the one who tried to steal what belonged to her.” My cheek burned, but the fire in my chest was hotter. That slap killed the last lingering shred of love I had for my mother. “Fine,” I spat, my voice trembling with rage. “If she wants him, she can try. But Pierce isn’t Kyle. He’s not a dog who follows whoever has the best treats.” I grabbed my bag and ran out of the house. I spent the day wandering the city, my mind a blur of past and present trauma. I told myself Pierce would stay loyal. He wasn’t like the others. But a few hours later, my phone rang. It was Pierce. “Jade,” he said, his voice sounding clipped, professional. “We need to end this.” The pain was so sharp I couldn’t breathe. “Why? Is it because of Bridget?” There was a long silence. Then, he spoke with the chilling pragmatism of his class. “Jade, you’re a smart woman. You know how this works. In my world, a wife is a reflection of her husband. Bridget is… well, she’s a masterpiece. If all other factors are equal, I’m going to choose the superior aesthetic.” “I’m sorry. I’ll send a settlement for your time. But please, don’t make this difficult. Let’s remain ‘friends.’” Friends. I hung up and smashed my phone against the pavement. I leaned against a brick wall and sobbed until my throat was raw. When I finally pulled myself together, I took out my backup tablet to start deleting the photos of us. I scrolled through the cloud, my eyes blurry. Then, I stopped. I saw a folder I hadn’t noticed before. Within minutes, my despair vanished, replaced by a cold, jagged smile. If they wanted to play this game, I’d make sure they felt every single move.

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The world ended in a fever of teeth and shadows. We called it the Collapse, the day the cities turned into graveyards and the living became the prey. My husband, Ryder, became a god among men. He awakened the “Overdrive” ability—a surge of raw, destructive power that turned him into a whirlwind of violence. But the cost was high: the power worked by tearing the user’s body apart at a cellular level, a self-destruct sequence in exchange for victory. I was his secret. I awakened a Dual-S class ability: The Anchor. I was immortal, and more importantly, I could siphon pain. As long as I was within fifty yards, I could pull every broken bone, every ruptured vessel, and every jagged bite from his body into my own. To keep him a hero, I stayed in his shadow. While he stood at the front, a golden warrior untouched by the carnage, I stood behind him, my skin splitting open, my lungs filling with blood he should have been coughing up. He didn’t know. Or perhaps, after a while, he chose to forget. He began to believe his own myth—that he was the Chosen One, invincible by divine right. And he began to loathe me, his “sickly” wife who was always pale, always trembling, always a reminder of weakness in a world that demanded strength. Then came the girl with the “Purifying Song.” A college student named Melody. To impress his new muse, he shoved me aside. “Get away from me, Nancy,” he’d snarled, his eyes full of disgust. “Your rot is starting to rub off on me.” But the moment he broke our connection, reality hit him like a freight train. A common zombie—a creature he usually decapitated by the dozens—grazed his arm with a stray claw. He let out a scream so primal, so pathetic, it sounded like a dying animal. For the first time in three years, Ryder realized that being bitten actually hurts. … The gates of the Haven Colony swung open to a roar of cheers. Ryder strode in, the severed head of an Alpha gripped in his hand, his chin held high. Not a single speck of dust marred his tactical gear. He looked like an action figure come to life. I was at the very back of the crowd, leaning against a rusted corrugated wall. I pressed a hand over my mouth, but the dark, copper-tasting blood leaked through my fingers anyway. My insides felt like they’d been put through a meat grinder. That was the price of Ryder’s “Stage Three Overdrive.” His muscles should have turned to jelly; his femurs should have snapped under the pressure of his own speed. But he was fine. Because I was his Anchor. I had swallowed his agony whole. “Ryder is unstoppable! Another zero-injury run!” “He’s literally made of steel!” Ryder basked in the adoration, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. When his eyes finally landed on me, they turned cold. He marched over, his brow furrowed in a deep, permanent scowl. “Still coughing up lungs in the corner? God, you’re depressing to look at.” I swallowed the metallic tang in my throat and forced a weak smile. “Ryder, you’re back. Are you… do you feel okay?” “Why wouldn’t I?” He let out a sharp, mocking laugh, looking down at me as if I were something he’d stepped in. “I’m the Chosen One, Nancy. I don’t get ‘tired.’ Maybe if you’d actually awakened a real power instead of just being a professional shut-in, you’d understand.” I looked down at the back of my hand. It was translucent, spider-webbed with blue veins. Even with my immortality, it hurt. Every time he went into Overdrive, it felt like I was being flayed alive, inch by agonizing inch. “Ryder, honey, don’t let her ruin the mood.” A sweet, melodic voice cut through the tension. Melody stepped forward, wearing a pristine white sundress that seemed impossible in this filth. She was the colony’s new darling. Her power was a “Purifying Song” that supposedly calmed the nerves and eased fatigue. Ryder’s expression softened instantly. He wrapped a heavy arm around Melody’s waist, pulling her close. “Hey, babe. Are you holding up okay?” Melody gave a modest little shake of her head, casting a pointed, triumphant look my way. “I’m fine. I’d sing for you all day if it kept you energized. Not like some people… but I guess poor health can’t be helped.” Ryder snorted. “She’s not sick, she’s lazy. Born with weak blood, I guess.” He turned back to Melody, ignoring me entirely. “Don’t waste your breath on her. There’s a victory feast tonight. You’re sitting right next to me.” As they walked away, the whispers started among the bystanders. “That’s his wife? She looks like a ghost.” “Pathetic. A god like Ryder tied down to a sickly anchor like that. He deserves better.” I slid down the wall, my legs giving out. The internal hemorrhaging was still settling. I fished a tattered bottle of oxycodone from my pocket—the only thing that kept me standing—and swallowed a pill dry. Bitter. It tasted like my life. It’s okay, I told myself. Five years ago, when the first fires broke out, a man in a scorched firefighter’s uniform had charged into a collapsing high-rise to pull me out. He had saved my life. I owed him everything. Even if he had changed, even if the power had corrupted his soul, I couldn’t forget the man who carried me through the smoke. As long as he was safe, I told myself it was enough. The next day, the Colony Council issued an S-Rank mission: clear the central grain silos. It was a suicide mission—a hive of thousands. Ryder insisted Melody come along as his “support.” I knew better. If Ryder hit his limit in that hive, the backlash would be exponential. Without me, he wouldn’t just be injured; he would liquefy. I quietly climbed into the back of the transport truck, hiding in the shadows of the gear crates. When Ryder spotted me, his face darkened. “What are you doing here? Looking for a place to die?” “I… I was worried,” I whispered. “Just don’t get in the way.” He didn’t kick me out, but he made sure Melody was comfortable, tucking a soft cushion behind her back and whispering jokes into her ear. The truck jolted over the ruined highway, each bump sent a shockwave through my healing ribs. Melody leaned into Ryder, hummed a soft, tuneless melody. “Does my song make you feel stronger, Ryder?” He closed his eyes, a blissful smile on his face. “Yeah, babe. It’s like magic. I feel zero tension. Not a single ache.” I pulled my knees to my chest and smiled bitterly. Of course he felt great. Because the bone-crushing pressure of his “passive” state was currently radiating through my spine. I was sweating through my shirt, but I didn’t make a sound. At the silos, the nightmare began. Ryder let out a war cry, his body erupting in a golden aura as he surged into Stage Two Overdrive. He was a human scythe, tearing through the undead with terrifying grace. Melody stood atop the armored vehicle, singing into a megaphone. “Go Ryder! You’re the best!” I crouched behind a pile of rubble nearby, biting down hard on a piece of leather. Crr-ack. As Ryder landed a devastating blow on a massive “Tank” zombie, a sharp snap echoed in my own right arm. My vision went black for a second. That was the kinetic kickback. It should have shattered his humerus. Instead, it was mine that broke. I writhed in the dirt, my nails clawing at the soil to keep from screaming. The battle lasted thirty minutes. When it was over, Ryder stood atop a mountain of corpses, howling at the sky like a conqueror. “I am a god!” The team cheered, swarming him with praise. Melody ran to him, handing him a bottle of water. “Ryder, that was incredible! You didn’t even get a scratch!” Ryder laughed, pulling her into a sweaty kiss. “It was your song, Melody. Kept me feeling fresh as a daisy!” Nobody looked at the corner of the ruins. Nobody saw me clutching my limp right arm, my face the color of ash, my hair matted with cold sweat. I struggled to my feet, wanting to check if he had any internal micro-fractures I needed to pull. As I stumbled forward, a soldier bumped into me, nearly knocking me over. “Whoa, watch it, Nancy. You look like a zombie yourself. Creepy.” Ryder looked over, his jaw tightening. “Nancy, seriously? Can you stop being an eyesore for five minutes? Everyone’s celebrating, and you’re over there looking like death warmed over.” I held my broken arm, the pain making it hard to breathe. “Ryder… my arm…” “What about it? Scratched it on a rock while you were hiding?” He sneered. “You’re a real piece of work. Stop faking for attention and get in the truck. We’re leaving.” He turned back to Melody, his voice turning like honey. “Melody, you must be exhausted. I’ll have the cook make you something special tonight.” I watched his back, my heart feeling like it had been dipped in liquid nitrogen. All my pain was just “faking” to him. All my sacrifice was worth less than a few off-key notes from a girl in a white dress. Back at the base, my arm was swollen to twice its size. I set the bone myself, letting my immortality knit the tissue back together. I could heal, but I couldn’t stop the feeling of the nerves screaming. That night, the rations were distributed. It was a good haul, so everyone got a piece of real meat and a bowl of hot rice. I dragged my battered body to the line. When I reached the front, the woman serving the food looked at me and tilted the ladle, giving me half a bowl of watery starch. “Where’s the protein?” I asked quietly. She rolled her eyes. “Captain Ryder said you don’t work, so you don’t eat the heavy stuff. Waste of resources. Your portion went to Miss Melody’s golden retriever.” I froze. A dog? I had broken my arm for him. I had endured thirty minutes of torture for him. And I was worth less than a pet. I took my watery soup and turned to leave. “Oh, hey Nancy.” Melody was walking by, leading a well-fed golden retriever on a leash. The dog was chewing on a thick marrow bone. Melody gave a dainty little giggle. “Oops. Ryder said I needed to keep my strength up for the singing, and well, my fur-baby needs his vitamins too. You aren’t mad at a puppy, are you?” I looked at her pretty, vacant face, and felt a surge of nausea. “Get lost,” I said, my voice dead. Melody’s face crumpled. Her eyes welled up instantly. “I know you don’t like me, Nancy, but I’m just trying to help Ryder…” “What’s going on here?” Ryder appeared, stepping between us and glaring at me. “Nancy, what is your problem now?” “Ryder… I think she’s mad about the food. She was being so mean…” Melody sobbed. Ryder reached out and slapped the bowl out of my hand. The scalding soup splashed across my chest, turning my skin an angry red. “Nancy! Knock it off! You live here for free on my dime! I tolerate you out of the goodness of my heart, and you have the nerve to bully Melody?” I looked down at the spilled soup on the dirt. The last spark of something in my chest finally went out. “On your dime?” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Ryder, do you honestly believe you’re invincible?” Ryder laughed, a loud, arrogant sound. “The proof is in the body count, babe. I’ve never been hurt. Not once. That’s talent. That’s being the best. Something a parasite like you wouldn’t understand.” He pointed a finger at my face. “If it wasn’t for our history, I’d have tossed you over the wall months ago. Don’t push me.” Our history. That was his favorite phrase. I took a deep breath, pushing down the bile. “Fine, Ryder. You win.” I turned and walked back to my damp, moldy tent in the back of the camp. That night, a fever took me. The side effects of the siphon were peaking—my body went from freezing to burning, my bones feeling like they were being gnawed by ants. Ryder didn’t come back. I heard he spent the night in Melody’s tent, listening to her “song.” I curled up under a thin, moth-eaten blanket, clutching a charred, blackened dog tag in my hand. I’d found it in the ruins of that high-rise five years ago. I remembered that day so clearly—the man in the firefighter’s gear who carried me out. I had loved him for five years, protected him for five years. Even as he grew cruel and cold. In the moonlight, I noticed the soot on the tag had flaked off a bit more. I took a piece of sandpaper I’d found and began to polish it, wanting to see his name clearly, to remind myself why I stayed. The name that emerged made my heart stop. It wasn’t Ryder. It was Wyatt. Wyatt, Ryder’s twin brother. The firefighter hero who had actually died before the Collapse even began. The world tilted. Memory is a fickle thing, but the truth hit me like a physical blow. The smoke had been so thick that day. I only remembered the silhouette, the strength of the arms. When Ryder showed up later and claimed it was him, I was so desperate for a savior I didn’t question it. And Ryder? He had just stepped into a dead man’s shoes. He had stolen his brother’s glory. He had stolen my gratitude, my love, and my life. I had been a fool. I had been destroying myself for a thief and a liar. The tears stopped. All that was left was a cold, obsidian hatred. The next morning, the alarms screamed. A horde—a real one—was at the gates. Ryder was in top form, his gear polished, Melody clinging to his arm like an accessory. I walked up to him, my expression a mask of stone. “Ryder. One question.” He huffed, adjusting his gloves. “Make it fast. I have a world to save.” I opened my palm, revealing the dog tag. “Who really pulled me out of the fire?” Ryder froze. His eyes locked onto the tag, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. But he recovered quickly, his face twisting into a sneer. “So you found out. It was Wyatt. So what?” He snatched the tag from my hand and tossed it into a nearby sewer grate. “He’s dead. Dead weight has no value. I’m the one who kept you fed. I’m the one who gave you a home. You owe me.” “So it was always a lie,” I said, my voice trembling. “A lie that kept you alive. Look at you—you’re a walking corpse. If you weren’t my wife, nobody would even look at you.” He patted my cheek condescendingly. “Be smart, Nancy. I’m the King of this Colony. Stay quiet, and you get to keep eating. Bring up the past again, and I’ll show you just how ‘invincible’ I can be.” He turned and headed for the wall. Melody followed, whispering as she passed me, “Hear that, Nancy? Know your place.” I stood there, watching the man I had protected for three years. The shackles on my soul finally shattered. Gratitude? Debt? To hell with that. If you aren’t him, why am I the one bleeding? Below the wall, the zombies were a sea of rotting flesh. Ryder stood at the edge, soaking in the cheers of the soldiers. “Open the gates!” he roared. “I’m going to paint the town red!” I stepped forward, stopping a few feet behind him. He glanced back. “Still here? Get lost! You’re bad luck!” He gave me a hard shove—so hard I fell onto the gravel. My palms scraped open, blood oozing into the dirt. Melody smirked. “Seriously, Nancy, stay back. Your negative energy is going to mess with his flow.” Ryder looked at me with pure loathing. “Hear her? Go. You make me sick.” I stood up, brushing the dust from my pants. My eyes were calmer than they had ever been. “Fine. I’m going.” “Good luck, Ryder,” I whispered under my breath. And then, in my mind, I flicked a switch. Sever connection. The invisible tether that had bound us for three years—the cord through which I drank his poison—snapped. Ryder didn’t notice. He let out a confident huff, leaped off the wall, and charged into the fray. “Overdrive!” The golden light exploded from him. He threw a punch at a lone, wandering zombie. A weakling. Usually, he would have pulverized it with a flick of his wrist. But this time, as his fist connected with the creature’s skull, the zombie’s claw swung out in a desperate, reflexive arc. It caught Ryder across the forearm. Srrr-ip. A bright red line appeared on his perfect, bronze skin. Ryder stopped dead. He stared at his arm in total disbelief. Real, hot blood was welling up. And then, the pain—the white-hot, agonizing reality of a nerve ending being severed—hit him like a lightning bolt. “AGHHHHHHH!” A scream of pure, unadulterated terror ripped through the battlefield. Ryder clutched his arm, his eyes wide with horror. What was happening? Why did it hurt? Why was he bleeding? He was supposed to be made of steel. On the wall, Melody was still singing into her megaphone: “Go Ryder! You’re the best—” But Ryder couldn’t hear her.

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To pull Emmett out of the trenches, I let myself be destroyed. The retaliation left me permanently paralyzed and drowning in a sea of severe clinical depression. But his favorite student—his little protégé—didn’t see a survivor. Instead, she stood at the front of his psychology lecture hall and used my broken body as a cautionary tale. “Professor Miller told me that his wife is pathologically insecure,” she told the room, her voice bright with a misplaced sense of authority. “He said she spends her days looking for ways to die, just to get a rise out of him.” I sat in the shadows at the back of the hall, my hands tightening on the cold metal of my armrests. “Eventually, she ‘succeeded’ in making herself a vegetable. A mental patient,” she continued, a pitying smile playing on her lips. “She’s become the only stain on his otherwise brilliant life. We have to learn self-regulation, class. We have to make sure we never end up a ghost like her.” I looked down at the wheelchair beneath me. I was a licensed therapist once. I had been on track for a lifetime achievement award before I threw my career away to save Emmett’s life. How had that turned into being a “ghost” who “made herself” this way? “My legs… is that really what Professor Miller told you?” I spoke up, my voice thin but steady. I watched Emmett on the stage. His face went ashen, his composure shattering as he locked eyes with me. “Emmett,” I said softly, the silence in the hall becoming deafening. “You really shouldn’t lie to your students like that. It’s bad for their education.” I didn’t wait for an answer. I gripped the wheels, spun myself around, and left. … Wheelchairs are insultingly slow. I hadn’t even made it halfway across the campus quad before Emmett caught up to me. It infuriated me. He was sprinting, his lungs burning, moving with the same frantic speed he’d used years ago when he was running from the neighborhood junkies who used to beat him for sport. Panic was etched into every line of his handsome face. When he spoke, his voice cracked, jumping an octave. “Mere, it’s not what you think! Please!” I’m two years older than him. He’s called me “Mere” since we were teenagers. For twelve years, that name had been my sanctuary. His eyes were rimmed with red, looking exactly like they did that night a decade ago under a flickering streetlamp. He had been a broken boy then, clutching the hem of my coat, begging me not to forget him when I went off to college. He’d begged me not to find someone better. That night, I’d pulled him into my arms and whispered, “Emmett, just study hard. I’ll be waiting for you. I’m not going anywhere.” Back then, our love felt like a resin—thick, golden, and capable of preserving us forever. But now, looking at him, I felt nothing but a hollow chill. “Okay,” I said. He flinched. He expected a scream, a breakdown, a scene. He wasn’t used to me being this composed. Ever since the accident, my life had been a cycle of jagged edges—throwing plates, screaming at the walls, or staring at the ceiling with a razor blade hidden under my pillow. “Mere,” he whispered, his eyes darting to the faint, silver scars peeking out from under my sleeve. He looked terrified that I was about to spiral right there on the sidewalk. “I never said those things. Piper… she’s young. she exaggerated for the sake of her presentation. This lecture was a huge deal for her career. I’m sure you can understand that. Please don’t be angry.” I stared at him. She had stood in front of hundreds of people and called me a “stain.” A “mental patient.” A “vegetable.” And he wanted me to understand her? My blood and bone had been the foundation his name was built on. And now, he was peeling me away like old wallpaper. “I get it,” I said, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. It held no warmth. I knew Piper. Emmett talked about her constantly. He praised her “spirit,” her “kindness,” calling her a little sun breaking through the clouds. But he always made sure to add one specific line: “She reminds me so much of how you used to be.” I looked at his refined, academic face—the face of a man who hadn’t had to fight for anything in a long time. “You like girls like her, Emmett. I understand. After all, I used to be that girl.” He looked like I’d jammed a needle into his skin. He shook his head violently. “No! It’s not like that! It’s not that kind of ‘like’!” He dropped to his knees in the middle of the path, grabbing my hands, anchoring my wheelchair so I couldn’t move. “Mere, how can you even think that? Are you okay? Are you having an episode?” The concern in his eyes felt real. For years, that look had been my lifeline. But it was also my cage. I looked deep into his pupils, searching for the boy I once knew. “I’m actually fine, Professor Miller,” I said. “In fact, I think my depression just vanished.” He froze. He didn’t like the formal title. It created a distance he couldn’t bridge. “I was sick because I was terrified of being a burden to you,” I explained, my voice as calm as a stagnant pond. “I was scared that I wasn’t worthy of your love anymore. Scared that you didn’t love me, but were just performing the role of the ‘loyal husband’ out of some soul-crushing sense of guilt.” I took a breath, watching the confusion turn into dread on his face. “I was sensitive. I was insecure. I tested you. I showed you my ugliest parts just to see how much patience you had left. I was trying to see if there was any ‘us’ left, or if it was just ‘debt.’” I paused. “But seeing you today… hearing how you speak about me when I’m not in the room… I feel completely light. I’m settled.” I tried to push the wheels again, but he wouldn’t let go. He was white-knuckling the frame. I hated my legs in that moment. I hated that my dignity was bolted to a chair that he could choose to stop at any time. Emmett started to sob—not the frantic crying of a man caught in a lie, but a gutteral, hysterical breakdown. “How can you think so poorly of me? I had no idea she would say that! I owe you everything, Meredith. I would never forget what you did for me! You aren’t a stain. You’re my life!” Owe. There it was. For years, it hadn’t been about love. It had been about a balance sheet. He was a successful professor, and I was the “mental patient” who bought his success with her body. His loyalty wasn’t a choice; it was a repayment plan. I didn’t answer. Behind him, I saw Piper walking toward us. She was wearing a crisp white blouse and a pleated skirt, her hair pulled into a perfect, bouncy ponytail. she had that glow—that unblemished, righteous energy of someone who hasn’t been broken by the world yet. She looked exactly like I did at twenty-two. I remembered that summer before senior year of high school. I saw Emmett for the first time. He was clutching a few crumpled bills, running from three guys who wanted to beat the life out of him. His lip was bleeding, his eyes full of the desperate, cornered rage of a trapped animal. The wind he kicked up as he ran past me smelled like cheap soap and adrenaline. In that split second, I felt a tether snap into place. I wanted to protect him. I chased them down with a brick in my hand and forced them to let him go. At first, Emmett hated me for it. He was all thorns and sharp edges, convinced that my “good girl” sympathy was a joke. He was a boy raised by a violent, alcoholic father; he didn’t know how to be loved. But I stayed. I saw the softness under the armor. I told him he was brilliant. I told him he could get out. I became the only light in his dark room. He used to call me his “North Star.” He told me he was a sunflower, and he would spend his life turning toward me. “Mrs. Miller.” Piper’s voice snapped me back to the present. She stood there, her gaze unwavering, radiating a terrifying kind of “justice.” “You heard what I said today,” she said, her voice clear. “Professor Miller doesn’t love you anymore. Please stop using your ‘illness’ to trap him. Just let him go. Don’t you think he’s suffered enough?” She stared at me, waiting for the “crazy woman” to have a meltdown. Emmett scrambled up from the ground, looking like he wanted to vanish. He tried to grab Piper’s arm, tried to pull her away, his movements clumsy and panicked. “Piper! Shut up! Go back to the hall!” But she didn’t budge. She took a step closer to me, her voice rising as if she were delivering a manifesto. “You know how kind he is. He’s a healer. But you’re destroying him! No therapist in the world can handle the way you torture him every day. Do you have any idea how miserable he is? How much he has to pretend just to keep you from killing yourself?” I thought I was numb. I thought I had moved past the pain. But hearing her say I was his misery… it felt like a dull knife being driven into my sternum. I couldn’t breathe. But my pride wouldn’t let me show it. I kept that faint, chilling smile on my face. “What else has the Professor told you?” I asked. My voice sounded curious, almost bored. Piper opened her mouth to twist the knife deeper, but Emmett yanked her back. He stood between us, his back to me, hissing at her. “Piper, stop it! How dare you say those things to her?” “Why won’t you just say it, Emmett?” she yelled back, her eyes filling with tears of frustration. “You’re in pain! Why do you keep punishing yourself? Why are you pretending? I’m trying to save you from this hole!” A hole. That’s what I was. A pit he couldn’t climb out of. Isn’t it funny? We both studied psychology. We both wanted to be saviors. I saved him from his father’s shadow, and now she wanted to “save” him from me. Emmett was shaking. He turned to me, his face a mask of rigid tension. “Mere, let’s just go home. We’ll talk there.” He went to push the chair, but Piper fired one last, lethal shot. “Meredith! You’re a cripple! You can’t even give him the basics of a real marriage! Do you think he’s coming to my apartment every night just to talk about ‘research’? Use your brain! Can’t you see how much he loathes you?” The world tilted. So, they were already together. It wasn’t just an emotional flirtation. It was physical. It made sense. Of course, it made sense. I started to tremble. It wasn’t a sob; it was a systemic failure. I kept asking myself: Did I ever really know him? The Emmett I knew was a boy who cried into the phone, begging me not to leave him. The Emmett I knew was the man who proposed to me the day he got his tenure. I had been his entire youth. But maybe I only knew the version of Emmett that needed me. Now that he was whole, the Emmett who loved me didn’t exist anymore. “Take me home,” I whispered. My voice was dry, like dead leaves. I couldn’t be out here anymore. Piper’s words and the pitying stares of passing students were suffocating me. Emmett didn’t say a word. He didn’t defend himself. He didn’t deny the affair. He pushed me toward the parking lot, moving agonizingly slow. He lifted me into the car with practiced, clinical gentleness—adjusting my seat, clicking my seatbelt. He drove us to our beautiful, suburban home, carried me inside, and set me down on the sofa. He was so tender. Every movement suggested I was a piece of fine porcelain he was afraid to break. That tenderness used to be my entire world. I remembered the night he called me in college. His father had found his acceptance letter to the PhD program and burned it. His father told him to get a job at the mill. Emmett had cried, “Mere, I can’t be a doctor. I’m never going to make it to your city. But I’ll work. I’ll work until my hands bleed to give you a good life. Please just don’t be ashamed of me.” I couldn’t let that happen. He was too bright to be extinguished. I skipped my finals, caught a midnight bus to that rotting little town, and found him in a basement that smelled like stale beer and failure. He had a fresh bruise on his cheek. I went into a white-hot rage. I stood up to his father, screaming every foul word I knew. Then, I handed Emmett a heavy iron poker from the fireplace. “Emmett, hit him. He’s been hurting you for twenty years. Get it out. Then we’re leaving.” Emmett’s fear evaporated, replaced by a cold, blinding light. He didn’t kill the man, but he broke the cycle. We ran out of that house into the night, laughing until we couldn’t breathe. My parents helped him finish school. He became the youngest department head in the state. He told me, “I finally have enough to deserve you.” We cried at our wedding. Then, the “Stain” happened. Emmett became famous. His father found him, crawling out of the woodwork to blackmail him, threatening to expose “scandals” from Emmett’s past. Emmett spiraled. His childhood trauma came back like a flood. So, I did what I always did. I tried to save him. I went to meet his father alone to settle it. The man was drunk. He was driving. He didn’t just hit me; he dragged me. The father went to prison. Emmett was finally free of him forever. The cost was my legs. My bright, limitless future ended on that asphalt. I looked at Emmett now, kneeling before me in our silent living room. He looked devastated, but he wouldn’t speak. I didn’t ask if what Piper said was true. His silence was the loudest confession I’d ever heard. It was more honest than any of his “I owe yous.” The last flickering candle of hope in my heart finally sputtered out. “Emmett,” I said, cutting through the suffocating quiet. “I’m letting you go.”

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