Category: English

My boyfriend’s birthday—my first time staying over at his place. In the middle of the night, while he was sound asleep, I got up for a drink and accidentally bumped his computer. The screen lit up, showing an Instagram post visible only to friends. The bold title read: [The Billionaire’s True Love Game] Eight months ago, this billionaire had started publicly documenting his operation to hunt down a Cinderella. The post had plenty of followers. I scrolled to the latest comments. “What’s up with Ethan lately? No updates? Isn’t the new target supposed to be dumb and clueless—difficulty level zero?” I refreshed. A new reply appeared: “Ethan already said he’s taking this girl’s virginity tonight. He’s busy with that right now!” I looked at the blogger’s profile picture—unmistakably Ethan’s profile. That side view I could never mistake. A bone-deep chill washed over me. What I thought was true love was just a con. He’d pretended to be a poor, hardworking, innocent boy—just bait tossed out by a wealthy playboy in his game. I forced down my explosive emotions and posted from my Instagram burner account to ask strangers for advice. Half an hour later, I’d made my decision. I grabbed some chicken blood from the fridge and climbed back into bed.

I didn’t sleep well. When I woke up, my eyelids felt heavy. Ethan sat at the small table typing on his laptop, his white dress shirt glowing faintly in the morning light. Campus heartthrob looks—truly captivating. Hearing me stir, he brought over a glass of warm milk. He affectionately pinched my cheek, his voice doting and magnetic: “Baby, drink your milk.” Then he pulled out a paper jewelry box and opened it. Inside was a tarnished silver ring that looked dirty and old. He knelt on one knee, held the ring up in front of me, and said: “Baby, this is the silver ring my mom took off her own finger and gave to me. It was also a gift from my grandmother to her.” “It’s not expensive, but to my family, it means everything.” “We’ve only been dating for five months, but from the moment we met eight months ago, I fell deeply in love with you.” “Please don’t refuse me, okay?” I silently sneered to myself. Wasn’t this the exact suggestion from the comment section when he posted pictures last month? A cheap alloy ring bought online for a dollar, free shipping during promotions. And they’d written so confidently: Game props don’t deserve expensive investments. Their disgusting game involved deliberately pretending to be poor, deceiving girls who struggled to make ends meet, scamming them for money and sex. And they justified it shamelessly: This is the only way to find girls who aren’t materialistic. Ha! Screw their “good girls!” I stayed silent, lowering my eyes. Ethan maintained his kneeling posture, his expression gradually tensing. He was worried I’d reject this piece of trash. I hid my left hand under the covers and viciously pinched my thigh. Tears immediately sprang to my eyes. Then, overcome with joy, I extended my right hand and slipped my ring finger into the silver band. I quickly pulled it back, as if afraid he’d change his mind. “It’s too precious. Are you sure you want to give this to me now?” Ethan blinked, caught off guard. He set down the paper box, using that movement to compose his expression. He gave me a sincere smile: “Of course. I’m sorry, baby. This is all I can give you right now.” What award-winning acting. I wiped away my tears and clasped my hands tightly together. “Ethan, don’t you dare look down on yourself!” I pressed the ring against my chest and solemnly declared: “I swear, it’s more important to me than my own heart.” His expression froze slightly, the mockery hidden in his eyes quietly dissipating. I shyly pulled him close, wrapping my arms around his waist and burying my face in his white shirt. I mentally reviewed all the netizen comments from last night. Ethan stroked my hair and murmured: “I’m sorry. Last night… I couldn’t hold back.” Fighting the urge to jump up and slap him, I gently pushed him away and turned to pull at the bedsheets. Against the large expanse of sky blue, a spot of oxidized rusty red stood out prominently. From where Ethan stood looking down, he could definitely see it. I quickly bundled the sheet into a ball. When I turned around, his face indeed showed poorly concealed smugness. “Last night was worth commemorating. Baby, don’t bother cooking. I’ll treat you to pizza.” I stuffed the sheet into the secondhand washing machine, poured in detergent, and replied casually: “Forget it. Takeout is expensive and dirty. I’ll cook instead. We need to save money if we’re going to buy a house someday.” Ethan looked deeply moved and tender. “You’re right, baby, but today’s an exception.” Without waiting for my answer, he placed the order. Then he walked over and held me tight. “Don’t worry. I’ll definitely make you happy. I’m going to work and earn money now. You eat first, okay?” The door closed. As I listened to the washing machine rumbling, memories flooded back.

Eight months ago, I was running a street stall on Central Street. Ethan worked at the boutique shop next door. That night, a woman with a nose ring and tattoos all over her body walked past my stall and kicked over my most expensive crystal ball. It shattered completely. I immediately stopped her and demanded compensation. The woman shoved me hard, climbed on top of me, and started hitting and cursing me. Ethan, from the boutique a few meters away, stepped forward and pulled her off me. The woman pointed at his nose and cursed him out, then stormed into the shop threatening to cause trouble. The shop owner wanted to keep the peace and told Ethan to apologize. I grabbed him and refused to let him. In the end, Ethan and I packed up my little stall and left together. We were both ordinary people who’d come from far away to make a living. No special skills, no connections—just warming each other through hardship. Half a month later, he handed me discounted red roses. Blushing, I kissed the corner of his mouth. That’s how our relationship began. Ethan was wonderful—handsome and gentle. Worried about my safety, he accompanied me to my stall whenever possible. When I caught a cold and felt chilly, he held me through the night. Last month, he proactively suggested I move in with him. Living together would save more money than living separately. Once we’d saved enough, we could get married. I was overjoyed and nodded eagerly. I looked forward to our future. But “the future” was just a joke. Now, I opened his profile page. Sure enough, there was a new post. “Easy as pie. She’s even dumber than I thought.” In the comments, his buddies posted a string of emoji. “That’s our Ethan!” “Ethan’s the best! Destroy her!” I smiled mockingly. Ethan put serious effort into pretending to be poor. He worked overtime every day, but in reality, his private blog posts showed yachts, mansions, and seafood feasts. Naturally, I couldn’t fall behind. I turned around and increased my workload, getting up early and staying out late, running all over the south and north sides of the city. Every night in the latter half of the night, I’d return to this cheapest basement apartment with my voice hoarse. But I never complained. I took care of him a hundred times more attentively. I’d rather eat rock-hard bread myself than skip making him chicken soup. Watching me grow increasingly pale, the mockery in Ethan’s eyes gradually disappeared. Instead, he occasionally seemed lost in thought. One morning, I knelt on the floor polishing his leather shoes. He seemed to choke up. After a long pause, he said: “Baby, they’re not worn out. I can still wear them.” I carefully wiped them, saying: “Clothes make the man. You can’t wear shoes with peeling polish—people will laugh at you.” “I don’t have money to buy you new ones right now, so I’ll just touch up the polish for you. Look! All done! Come try them on!” Ethan hesitated for a long time before walking over and stepping into them. His smile looked very unnatural. This weekend, Ethan said he had time off and took me to the night market. He bought me a grilled sausage, half-jokingly apologizing that this was all he could afford. I ate it with a blissful expression, as if it were a delicacy. Just then, the woman with the nose ring walked toward us from across the way. She was fawning all over a bald man’s arm. What rotten luck. The bald man had a face full of flab. He listened to the woman whisper in his ear, then sneered at us: “So you two are the ones who offended my woman?” This nouveau riche posture—in the past, Ethan wouldn’t have been worthy of pouring him water. Ethan’s fists clenched tight. If he threw that punch, the so-called game would end early. My eyes swept the area. I grabbed nearby pasta and hurled it at them. The bald man and nose-ring woman both shrieked, utterly embarrassed, then cursed and charged at us. I shielded Ethan behind me, waving the bamboo stick from my sausage while shouting tremblingly: “You bastard! Don’t think having money means you can bully people!” The bald man’s eyes widened as he tried to kick me. “Bitch, who are you trying to scare?” But he didn’t succeed. Ethan stepped forward quickly, kicked his foot away with one leg, then kicked him to the ground. His hand gripped the bald man’s throat, his expression murderous. “You want to die?” The bald man’s face turned completely red. A few seconds later, Ethan released him. The bald man didn’t even bother with nose-ring woman and fled directly. Ethan grabbed my hand and threw away the bamboo stick. “Do you know you could go to jail if you hurt someone? Just because of me… you fool.” His words were tender, but his eyes held scrutiny. I squeezed out tears and smiled at him. “You’re my man. I protect my boyfriend. Do I need a reason?” “Ethan, I’d do anything for you.” For an instant, something seemed to crack in his eyes. Ethan, who played with people’s hearts, claimed not to believe in genuine feelings—but what he wanted most was exactly that: genuine feelings.

That day when we got home, Ethan proactively put his arm around me for a selfie and posted this couple photo to social media for the first time. I understood—my progress bar had advanced another notch. Late that night, I opened his private profile page in the bathroom. Sure enough, there was a new blog post. He’d written about today’s events. The comments were full of mockery: “This chick’s got some fire in her.” “Ethan, are you catching feelings?” “Tsk tsk tsk, is Ethan going serious? You’ll lose the game if you do.” Ethan hadn’t replied to a single comment. The next night at midnight, he came home reeking of alcohol, looking at me with both despair and pain. “I’m sorry. Baby, let’s break up.” He pulled out a diagnostic report. “I’ve been feeling unwell these past few days—dizzy, headaches. I went to the hospital today for a checkup. Turns out I have a brain tumor.” “Surgery would cost at least two hundred thousand dollars. Where would I get that kind of money?” Did he steal this from a soap opera? I resisted rolling my eyes. Ethan half-reclined on the sofa, tears streaming down his face. “Lily, I can’t ruin your entire life.” I clasped my hands together, my nails digging into my palms, my lips biting until they bled. Between my part-time jobs and street stall, I’d only managed to save fifty thousand dollars so far. Two hundred thousand could crush me. Ethan cried while sneaking glances at me. He was waiting to see how I’d agree to break up, dump this terminally ill boyfriend, and restart my life. But I said nothing and turned to leave. The door clicked shut. His mouth opened—he hadn’t expected me to leave without a single word. After turning two streets, I opened his profile page. Ethan’s tone was agitated. “She ran off over two hundred thousand. Really poor, cheap, and worthless.” The comment section echoed in agreement: “Normal. For poor people, two hundred thousand is worth more than life itself.” “Ethan, you’ve played with this one for most of a year. Getting bored? Let’s find someone new!” Ethan didn’t reply, but he didn’t leave either. He stayed in the basement apartment, continuing to smoke and drink. Staring fixedly at the door.

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My husband, Ethan Pierce, wants me to sign an infidelity agreement. Article Three of the agreement: twelve opportunities to cheat per year, unused chances can be converted to cash. I smiled and signed it. From then on, I purchased various contraceptives and sex toys for him. I took excellent care of my husband and his lovers. Those lovers humiliated me: “That old hag is so pathetic. Does she really think she can keep Ethan’s heart by acting like a dog?” I still didn’t cry, didn’t make a scene, and didn’t file for divorce. Instead, every year, I collected a payout of thirty-six million dollars. Every second, I waited for that bastard husband to die. After all, Ethan Pierce had no idea. His HIV test had already come back positive long ago. The sixty-eighth time. When the nauseating moans from the master bedroom finally stopped, I swallowed the PEP pill in my mouth and put on protective gloves before daring to push the door open. Bit by bit, I cleaned up the disheveled, obscene mess of the room. The next second, the frosted bathroom door was yanked open. Ethan Pierce walked out bare-chested, supporting a young woman who could barely stand. “Ouch, I told you it was my first time. Did you have to be so rough?” It was Sophie West, the new intern at the company — fresh, beautiful, like a rose with thorns. The two of them flirted and laughed, but when they saw me, the warmth in Ethan’s eyes plummeted. “Fast work.” He pulled out a black card and casually tossed it onto the messy sheets stained with spots of blood. “Get the most expensive bedding set. Keep whatever’s left and buy yourself some handbags.” His voice sounded like he was dismissing a beggar. I numbly walked over, bent down, and picked up the card. I didn’t cry. I didn’t make a scene. Because Ethan Pierce had no idea. Six months ago, I’d found the medical report of his previous lover. Positive. And not only had I quietly concealed it, I’d also prayed to every god I could think of — and received confirmation that Ethan Pierce had tested positive too. Childhood sweethearts. A power couple. Seven years of marriage. I never imagined that one day, I’d be hoping for Ethan Pierce to die. Seven years ago, when Ethan used half of the Lynn family assets as startup capital and became the leading business tycoon in Crestwood, he knelt before me and said I was the only true love of his life. When he knew I was overseas on a business trip missing home-style cooking, he’d fly over ten hours just to cook me a table full of dishes himself. But after my family went bankrupt and Ethan handed me an agreement allowing him to “cheat twelve times a year,” I went from being the pampered elite wife he held in the palm of his hand to the maid who cleaned up after his hookups. If love could be performed, then I’d perform until he lost everything… After all, with one month left until his onset period, I was only one step away from completely destroying Ethan Pierce. “You clean up. I need to take this call.” The ringtone interrupted my thoughts. Ethan kissed Sophie for a few seconds, answered the phone, then turned and headed to the study. In the enormous bedroom, only Sophie and I remained. I watched Sophie — who had just kissed Ethan and been infected again — sit brazenly at my vanity without the slightest hesitation, picking up my bottles and jars and smearing them recklessly on her neck. I smiled. “If you like them, I’ll give them all to you later.” Through the mirror, Sophie looked at me with contempt, a provocative smile curling at the corner of her mouth. “Smart of you to know your place. So what if you’re childhood sweethearts? You’re still just a washed-up old woman.” “Ethan said that because I gave him my first time, I’m his only true love. And without me, he’d rather die.” “So, Lydia Lynn, do you really think a marriage certificate can hold onto Ethan?” True love… I laughed. Didn’t she know? She was already Ethan Pierce’s sixty-eighth true love. Looking at Sophie’s young, ignorant face, remembering how she’d just bragged about her first time, out of what little pity I had left, I looked at her with a hoarse voice. “Ethan Pierce has too many women around him. He’s not clean. If you’re smart, you should leave him as soon as possible.” But that sentence seemed to step on her tail. Sophie shot up, her pretty face instantly twisting. She raised her hand and slapped me. The crisp sound echoed in the empty bedroom. My cheek burned with pain, and the metallic taste of blood exploded in my mouth. “Leave? You bitch! You’re just jealous of me! You just can’t stand seeing Ethan treat me well!” She screamed, her eyes reddening, then turned and ran toward the study, crying and shouting as she ran: “Ethan! Your wife is bullying me! She said I’m dirty! She’s forcing me to leave you!” The study door burst open. Ethan Pierce strode out, his face showing the impatience and fury of being disturbed. Without asking any questions, seeing Sophie crying like a pear blossom in the rain, then seeing me covering my face, he delivered another slap, viciously striking my other cheek. “Lydia Lynn, no matter how jealous you are, you’d better fulfill the agreement! I give you money, you do your job as the maid!” I fell to the ground, my ears ringing. Through blurred vision, I watched Sophie coyly throw herself into Ethan Pierce’s arms, wrapping her arms around his neck, her face full of smug satisfaction. “Ethan, don’t be angry. Let’s do it again, okay? I really want to give you a baby.” “Okay, whatever you want.” Ethan Pierce lowered his head and kissed Sophie’s forehead. Before entering the room, he glanced at me like I was trash and coldly ordered: “When we’re done, wash those sheets clean.” “Okay.” I nodded silently, watching their backs disappear. Since Sophie wouldn’t listen to my warning, getting infected was no one’s fault but her own. That evening, after professional disinfection personnel finished sanitizing the villa, I had just changed into my pajamas when the villa’s door lock suddenly turned. Ethan Pierce had come back. He carried a strong scent of perfume and alcohol, his steps unsteady. I instinctively tried to dodge, but he suddenly grabbed me from behind, his scorching breath spraying on the back of my ear, his voice hoarse and suggestive. “Seeing me with others, you must be missing me too, right? Tonight, I’ll pamper you, okay?” With that, his kiss came crashing down.

In that instant, my stomach churned. I was not only disgusted by his touch, but terrified of infection. “My period… just started.” I firmly held back his chest. Ethan’s movements froze. I took the opportunity to turn aside, my voice extremely low: “Don’t touch me.” The man released his grip, stepped back, and the lust on his face was quickly replaced by disgust. “Playing high and mighty? Your period isn’t today.” He tugged at his shirt collar, his gaze sweeping over me from top to bottom, as if examining an expired product. “You won’t let me touch you, right? There are countless women outside waiting in line for me. Lydia Lynn, you’ll regret this someday.” He sneered, grabbed his car keys, and slammed the door without looking back. As the engine roared, I made one phone call, and a complete disinfection and cleaning crew rushed in. Smelling the gradually spreading scent of disinfectant, I clutched the folded blank equity transfer agreement in my pocket. Tomorrow, as long as he signed this document, his three most core holding companies would be transferred, without his knowledge, to the shell companies I’d set up in advance. This was the entire meaning of my endurance through sixty-eight times. The next morning, at Pierce Group headquarters. As the CFO, I had just exited the elevator when I saw the CEO’s office door standing open. Sophie West was wearing a barely-there camisole dress, half-sitting on Ethan Pierce’s desk, legs crossed, bossing around the head of administration. “This month’s team-building budget is too low. Ethan said to let me choose the restaurant. The one I picked averages three hundred eighty dollars per person. Go change it.” The admin manager looked troubled, glancing at me as if seeking help. Sophie noticed me too, and smiled. That kind of smile, like a cat catching a mouse. She hopped down from the desk, waving a stack of receipts as she walked up to me. “Ms. Lynn, help me sign off on this reimbursement, will you? Last month’s personal expenses — Ethan said to expense them through the company.” I took it and scanned it… eighty-six thousand dollars. Luxury goods receipts, medical aesthetics treatments, an invoice for a couples’ hot spring hotel. “Exceeds approval authority. Against regulations. Can’t sign it.” I handed the documents back. Sophie’s smile froze for a second, then she turned and ran into the inner office. Less than ten seconds later, Ethan Pierce stormed out with a livid face. Three executives who’d just finished a meeting were still standing in the hallway. In front of everyone, he threw the stack of reimbursement forms viciously in my face. Papers scattered across the floor, one slicing past my eye, bringing a faint sting. “Lydia Lynn, is your brain rusted?” “Sophie is my woman. Over a little money, you’re pulling the legitimate wife act?” The hallway was so quiet you could hear the air conditioning hum. The three executives kept their heads down; no one dared look at me. Seven years ago, I had injected all of the Lynn family assets into this company. This building, this floor of offices, even the land beneath our feet — all of it was bought with my dowry. And now, in front of the executive team I’d built with my own hands, he was making me reimburse expenses for his mistress. I bent down and picked up the receipts one by one. “Fine. I’ll sign.” After all, once you’re dead, I can take it all back. After everyone dispersed, Sophie slowly sauntered over to my side. She deliberately circled behind me, leaning close to my ear, her voice as light as a honey-coated needle. “Ms. Lynn, last night when you wouldn’t let Mr. Pierce touch you, he came to me again.” She stroked her lower abdomen, her eyes full of smugness. “Mr. Pierce is really something. What if I get pregnant… shouldn’t the position of Mrs. Pierce be handed over?” Pregnant? Perfect. Looking at her young, arrogant face, endless excitement surged in my heart. I didn’t speak, only showed a submissive, almost humble bitter smile. “Ms. West is right. Mr. Pierce… really does love you most.” With that, I pulled out the blank agreement from my bag, along with the reimbursement forms that had just been thrown in my face, and respectfully handed them to Sophie. “Ms. West, please also have Mr. Pierce sign these financial reports.” Sophie paused, then quickly took them, her face filled with satisfaction. “Should’ve been this sensible from the start. I’ll be the boss’s wife of this company sooner or later anyway.” Perhaps my submissiveness pleased Sophie greatly. Before long, Ethan Pierce, with one arm around Sophie, tossed the stack of documents mixed with the contract onto the desk in front of me. On top were three characters… Ethan Pierce. Written with flourishing strokes. Signed right on the agreement worth thirty-four percent equity. Got it. “Oh, by the way…” Ethan Pierce finally looked up, as if remembering something, and said casually: “The company scheduled annual executive physicals tomorrow. Family members included. I registered Sophie too.” He turned to look at Sophie, gently pinching her chin with affection: “Maybe you’re already pregnant, babe. Might as well get checked.”

Physical examination. Full panel. My mind buzzed instantly. If Ethan Pierce had blood drawn tomorrow, the positive results would come back within forty-eight hours at the earliest. Given his personality, his first reaction wouldn’t be fear — it would be rage. A full investigation. Investigate the source of infection, investigate everyone around him, investigate finances, investigate the company… Then the last equity swap funds I hadn’t finished transferring would be frozen overnight. Sixty-eight times of endurance, five years of planning — all reduced to zero. I couldn’t let him get blood drawn tomorrow. Absolutely not. At six o’clock the next morning, I stood in the kitchen, a packet of brown powder in my palm. prune juice concentrate — colorless, tasteless. Mixed into warm milk, it would only cause several hours of severe diarrhea. Completely untraceable. I placed the milk on Ethan Pierce’s designated black coaster. Seven years. I knew his habits better than he knew them himself. At exactly seven o’clock, Ethan Pierce came downstairs in his crisp suit and sat down punctually. But just as his hand touched the cup… “Ethan!” Sophie came running in fuzzy slippers, plopping herself into Ethan Pierce’s lap, coquettishly snatching the glass of milk. “I want some too. I’m the lady of this house — everything should go to me first.” She deliberately glanced at me, then tilted her head back and drained the entire glass in one go. My hand holding the fruit plate froze in mid-air. Sure enough, by the time they left, Sophie’s face had turned pale. And just as the car got onto the elevated highway, she suddenly clutched her stomach, instantly breaking into a cold sweat. “Ethan… my stomach hurts so much…” Ethan Pierce’s expression changed immediately. He grabbed her and shouted at the driver: “Turn around! To the nearest hospital!” Sophie vomited three times. The last time, she was practically semi-conscious, collapsing in Ethan Pierce’s arms. When he carried her rushing into the emergency room, his eyes were red. And I was summoned by his furious phone call. “Lydia Lynn, you can’t even make a fucking breakfast right? Did you deliberately give her diarrhea!” The roar on the other end was so loud even the taxi driver glanced over. When I arrived at the VIP hospital room, I saw Ethan Pierce crouching by Sophie’s bedside, carefully tucking in her blanket, his gaze as tender as a different person. He heard footsteps and shot to his feet. A glass of cold water came crashing down. I was knocked to the ground in an instant. Ice-cold water ran down my hair, face, and neck, soaking the collar of my blouse. A cut opened on my forehead, blood seeping out. In front of three nurses and an attending physician, he pointed his finger almost at my forehead: “If it weren’t for your dead father’s sake, I would’ve kicked you out long ago!” My dead father. He had the nerve to mention my dad? He’d had the chance to save my father with just three million dollars, but didn’t my dad still jump to his death? I lowered my eyes. Water droplets slid from my lashes, like tears, but they weren’t. “If anything happens to Sophie…” Ethan Pierce gripped my jaw, the force nearly dislocating it: “I’ll make you pay with your life.” “I’m sorry… it was my fault. But the medical center… are we still going?” Wiping the water from my face, I asked timidly. “Go? Go where!” He waved his hand irritably. “We’ll go after Sophie recovers. Reschedule for next week!” Ethan Pierce turned away from me and sat back on the edge of the bed, intertwining his fingers to hold Sophie’s hand again. That image was so tender, it reminded me of three years ago. I’d hemorrhaged from a miscarriage in the ER, called him seventeen times, and every single call went unanswered. I found out later that he’d been celebrating girlfriend number thirty-four’s birthday that night. I was lost in thought when… Buzz. Ethan Pierce’s phone suddenly exploded with sound. He frowned and answered, but less than five seconds in, his face turned from iron-blue to deathly pale. “What did you say?!” On the other end, I heard it — the finance department’s voice trembling: “Mr. Pierce, there’s an abnormal flow of three hundred million dollars from the company accounts!” “The system shows the approver is… Mrs. Pierce.” The air in the hospital room instantly froze. Ethan Pierce slowly turned his head, those bloodshot eyes nailing themselves onto me.

“Lydia Lynn, give me an explanation.” Ethan Pierce’s Adam’s apple rolled. The room was so quiet you could hear the monitor beeping. I panicked. After all, panic was exactly the reaction I should have. Lowering my head, I clumsily pulled a document from my bag, hands trembling slightly as I handed it over. “This… I discovered it last week. I checked — someone hacked my authorization in the approval system. The funds flowed to… the account for that villa in Heron Bay.” Ethan Pierce’s pupils shrank violently. That was the residence of his sixty-seventh mistress, Yvonne Zoe, whom he’d dumped just a month ago. The breakup had been ugly. Yvonne had even threatened to expose him, but Ethan had silenced her with a lawyer’s letter. Ethan Pierce snatched the report, his eyes flying over every line of data. Then, gritting his teeth, he threw the report down. “That bitch!” After cursing, he didn’t look at me again. After all, in Ethan Pierce’s world, Lydia Lynn was just a dog. Would a dog bite? No. That night, I sat in the darkness of the study, the blue screen light reflecting on my face. When I pressed Enter for the last time, my finger was steady. Over the past thirty days, the old Lynn family guard had completed the final round of capital swaps. The core assets and underlying equity structure of Pierce Group had been hollowed out by me, thread by thread, over seven years. From the outside, Pierce Group still looked glamorous. But the bones were gone. I closed the laptop, walked to the window, and looked out at the city’s night view. A month later, at Pierce Group’s year-end gala. Under crystal chandeliers, Ethan Pierce appeared on the red carpet with Sophie on his arm, camera flashes crackling. I was seated at the most remote table in the corner, without even a nameplate, sitting with three drivers from supplier companies. Ethan Pierce stood on stage holding a wine glass, confidently describing his business empire. He looked much worse than a month ago. Sunken eyes, night sweats, and then swollen lymph nodes appearing on the side of his neck. Ethan Pierce thought it was just too much socializing and not enough rest. A few days ago, he’d gone for a checkup, gotten an IV drip at a private hospital, and taken a few fever reducers. This time I didn’t stop the checkup. I didn’t need to anymore. After all, what’s coming will come. At the gala’s climax, Ethan Pierce suddenly called my name. The entire ballroom went silent. He threw a document in front of me, his tone like ordering a servant to pour water: “Sign it. Just a formality. Sophie likes the garden at the old Lynn estate. I’ve already transferred the deed to her name. You don’t mind, do you?” I looked down and made out the line: Lynn Family estate Property Transfer Agreement. That was my father’s last possession before he jumped. That was the courtyard where my mother had grown magnolia flowers for twenty years. That was the only place I could still call home in these seven years of hellish existence. One mistake in a hundred calculations. My hands began to tremble. This time, they were really shaking. I finally looked up at him with reddened eyes: “Ethan Pierce, do you have to be this ruthless?” He looked down at me like an ant blocking his path. “Lydia Lynn, don’t be ungrateful. Without me, you wouldn’t even have the right to stand here. Sign it, and you’re still Mrs. Pierce.” “If you don’t sign…” He didn’t finish, but of course he didn’t need to. Sophie walked over with a wine glass and high heels, deliberately thrusting out her waist, smiling broadly: “Ms. Lynn, Mr. Pierce dotes on me now. If you still want to be Mrs. Pierce, be smart about it, won’t you?” I bit my lip, my hand holding the pen still trembling. Over three hundred pairs of eyes in the room watched me — some sympathetic, some indifferent, most just watching the show. And just as I was about to sign… Bang! The side door of the ballroom was violently pushed open. The private doctor I’d bribed, pale-faced and sweating, clutching an urgent report in trembling hands, stumbled in. His voice exploded across the entire hall, uncontrollably shaking: “Mr. Pierce! Something terrible has happened… Your physical examination report…”

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On the anniversary of my father’s death, Mom and I went to pay our respects. Mom suddenly wanted to place something inside Dad’s urn. But when the staff member brought out the urn, Mom and I froze instantly. Because the photo on the urn in front of us wasn’t my dad at all—it was some stranger. I demanded an explanation from the staff member, my voice shaking. “What’s going on? Why is there someone else’s ashes in my father’s plot?” Mom clutched her chest beside me, her heart condition nearly flaring up from the shock. “We’ve been paying our respects to the wrong ashes for twelve years? Then where are my husband’s ashes?” The staff member had never encountered this situation before. He quickly checked the system, then looked at us with confusion. “Are you sure you came to the right cemetery? I just checked—we don’t have any deceased person with the surname Thompson in our records.” “Impossible!” My tone was firm. “When my father died, I personally placed his urn in this plot. I couldn’t have made a mistake!” Mom chimed in to support me. “That’s right. We still have the purchase contract for this plot at home. How could your cemetery not have any records of a Thompson?” Seeing how certain we were, the staff member logged into the system again to check. But the result was the same as before. No records of anyone named Thompson. At that moment, the manager rushed over after hearing about the commotion. He bowed repeatedly to Mom and me in apology. “I’m so sorry, this is all a misunderstanding. Last year we expanded the cemetery, and to avoid disturbing the deceased, we temporarily moved all the urns to the funeral home. The staff must have been careless and mixed up the ashes. We’ll fix this immediately. Please, come wait in our office.” “Mixed up?” My eyes widened, anger creeping into my voice. “Why didn’t you notify the families before moving the ashes during your expansion? If Mom hadn’t wanted to see Dad today, would we have ever found out?” “This is entirely our mistake, entirely our mistake!” The manager wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. “I completely understand your feelings, but right now the priority is finding your father’s ashes. Please just wait a moment.” I wanted to argue with him further, but Mom, still clutching her chest, stopped me. “Forget it, Evelyn. Take me somewhere to sit down and let them find your father’s ashes first. We can’t miss the time to leave flowers for him.” Looking at Mom’s haggard face, I could only swallow my anger for now. “Fine. Find my father’s ashes first. After we’ve paid our respects, we’ll discuss how to handle this.” With that, I led Mom to their office. The manager nodded vigorously behind us. “Yes, Ms. Thompson, don’t worry. We’ll notify you the moment we find them.” In the office, I poured Mom a glass of water to help calm her down. Ever since Dad’s company went bankrupt twelve years ago and he jumped to his death, Mom had developed a heart condition. Over these years, she’d had to care for Grandpa and Grandma while supporting me through high school, with no time to see a doctor. On top of that, she’d been paying off the debts Dad left behind from the bankruptcy. Life had been incredibly hard. Fortunately, I’d succeeded in starting my own business. Not only had I paid off all of Dad’s debts, but I’d also saved quite a bit of money. I’d originally planned to take Mom to get proper treatment for her heart after paying our respects to Dad. I never expected something like this to happen. Thinking of this, I asked Mom. “Mom, what were you planning to put in Dad’s urn?”

Mom’s expression softened a bit as she pulled a bead from her bag. ” A couple days ago I went to the chapel and got this blessed rosary bead for your father. The priest said if I put it in the urn, it would help him have a better time in heaven ” Mom’s superstition made me want to laugh and cry at the same time, and my tense mood relaxed slightly. Just then, a staff member came to get us. “Ms. Thompson, we’ve found your father’s ashes.” Mom and I exchanged glances and immediately got up to return to the plot. The manager handed me Dad’s urn with an apologetic expression. “Ms. Thompson, you were right—it was mixed up. It was mistakenly placed in the plot next to yours. Now that we’ve found it, please confirm it’s correct and we’ll put it back right away.” I took the urn and glanced at it. The photo on top was indeed my father. Seeing Dad’s portrait again, I couldn’t help but tear up. Mom quietly wiped away tears beside me. “If everything’s correct, I’ll put it back now. The urn shouldn’t be exposed to sunlight—it’s bad luck.” I quickly handed the urn back to the manager. “It’s fine. Go ahead and put it back.” “Wait.” Mom suddenly spoke up, pulling the bead from her bag. “Let me put this inside first.” Before the manager could respond, Mom opened the lid of the urn, preparing to place the bead inside. But the moment she opened the lid, her expression darkened. “You’re saying these are my husband’s ashes?” “Yes, isn’t that Mr. Thompson’s photo on the urn?” Mom put the bead back in her bag and stepped backward. “These aren’t my husband’s ashes at all! When he was cremated, I placed our wedding rings in his urn. There’s nothing like that in here! Where did you hide my husband’s ashes?” I stepped forward and looked into the urn. There were indeed no rings inside! “Where are my father’s ashes? What kind of cemetery is this? Did you lose my father’s ashes and just randomly grab someone else’s to cover it up?” The manager’s face had already gone pale when he heard Mom’s words. Now he stammered, unable to get a word out. Other people who’d come to visit their loved ones noticed the commotion and gathered around us. “Your cemetery can’t even protect the deceased’s ashes properly? How can we trust leaving our loved ones here?” “What if something happened to our relatives’ ashes too? I demand to inspect mine!” “Exactly! You need to give us an explanation. Paying respects to a complete stranger—that’s disgusting!” Seeing him remain silent, I’d had enough. I pulled out my phone. “Since you can’t give me a reasonable explanation, you can explain it to the police instead!” I was about to call the police. Seeing me reach for my phone, the manager finally broke his silence and pressed down on my hand. “Don’t call the police. Let’s talk this through.” “Talk it through?” I glared at him. “My father’s ashes are still missing and you won’t explain what happened. What is there to talk about?” Mom joined in loudly. “Exactly! You’re running a shady cemetery! My husband has been buried here for twelve years—who knows when you switched him out for someone else! We have to call the police!” The crowd’s emotions were equally heated. “That’s right! Call the police! You have to call the police!” Under the enormous pressure, the manager finally cracked. He raised his hand and shouted. “Your loved ones’ ashes are all fine!” Then he turned to look at me, forcing out a sentence with difficulty. “Your father’s ashes aren’t missing because we lost them. Someone else claimed them!”

As his words fell, the surroundings instantly went quiet. The onlookers who’d been making a fuss all turned to stare at me in unison. I froze, instinctively asking. “What do you mean? What do you mean someone else claimed them? Besides us, who else would my father give his ashes to?” Mom became agitated too. “What’s going on? How could you hand over my husband’s ashes to just anyone?” After revealing this truth, the manager explained what had really happened back then. Apparently, before my father’s company went bankrupt and before he jumped to his death, he’d left behind a suicide note. In the note, he’d left all his remaining assets to a woman named Madison. He’d specifically instructed the manager to give his ashes to that woman as well, and to make absolutely sure we never found out. So at the time, the manager found an unclaimed body and pretended those were Dad’s cremated ashes. For twelve years, we’d been paying our respects to a complete stranger’s ashes. Dad’s real ashes had been taken out shortly after we placed them in the plot, and handed over to that woman. During last year’s cemetery expansion, a staff member noticed the photo on the urn was wrong and switched it back. And because of that, we discovered today the truth that had been hidden for twelve years. “I only got paid twenty thousand dollars for this. That amount of money isn’t worth going to jail for! I’ve told you the truth now—please don’t keep threatening to call the police.” After hearing the manager’s explanation, I clenched my fists and asked through gritted teeth. “So where are my father’s ashes now?” The manager gave me an address. “Last time I mailed her your father’s suicide note, I used this address. You can try looking there.” On the way to that address, Mom sat in the passenger seat with an unusually calm expression. “Evelyn, why do you think your father left his ashes to that woman?” I already had an unpleasant suspicion forming, but I tried to comfort Mom gently. “Mom, don’t overthink it. Maybe Dad had some reason he couldn’t explain. We’ll know when we get there.” Mom didn’t respond to me. She just stared out the window in silence. I drove quietly too, flooring the gas pedal, wanting to reach our destination as quickly as possible. When we arrived at the address, we found ourselves in front of a lakeside villa. It looked quite expensive. I walked to Mom’s side, supporting her slightly trembling hand. After exchanging a glance with her, I rang the doorbell. The person who opened the door was a young woman. The moment she saw Mom, she froze. Then, coming to her senses, she turned to close the door. I quickly blocked the door with my hand and stepped forward, forcing the woman back into the house. Seeing my aggressive stance, the woman spoke guiltily. “Who are you? Why are you barging into my house? I’ll call the police if you keep this up.” “You must be Madison, right?” I cut straight to the point. “You claimed my father’s ashes? Where are they now?” The woman’s eyes instantly filled with panic, but she kept deflecting. “What ashes? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve got the wrong person.” “Whether we have the wrong person or not, you know best.” Mom suddenly spoke up from behind me. “I’ve seen you before. You were a new intern at Thompson Industries. Your name is Madison Clarke, isn’t it?” Seeing that Mom had recognized her, Madison stopped pretending and admitted her identity directly. “Yes, I’m Madison Clarke. Your husband’s ashes are with me, but this was his own dying wish. He wanted to leave his ashes with me. You have no right to take them.” “We have no right?” Mom let out a bitter laugh. “I’m his wife. This is his only daughter. How do we not have the right to claim his ashes?” “But I’m the one he loved!”

Madison raised her voice and shouted. “He stopped loving you, you old hag, a long time ago! He didn’t want you paying respects to his ashes at all!” As her words fell, the smile froze on Mom’s face. In that moment, something shattered in her eyes. Madison grew more confident as she continued. “You don’t even know, do you? We were together for a long time. He wanted to divorce you. If his parents hadn’t absolutely refused, I would be his wife right now, not you.” “Shut your mouth!” I cut her off sharply. “What you’re saying has no evidence! Who knows if you’re just making things up?” “You want evidence? Fine, I’ll show you!” Madison went to a drawer, pulled out an envelope, and slammed it down in front of me. “This is a suicide note your father wrote himself. See for yourself!” I was about to reach for it, but Mom stopped me. She extended her own hands—rough and worn from years of hard work—trembling as she picked up the envelope and slowly opened it. Inside was Dad’s familiar handwriting. The contents were simple, just a few short sentences, but they instantly brought tears to Mom’s eyes. Because everything written there expressed Dad’s feelings for Madison and their time together. At the end, he’d left all his remaining assets to Madison. Even this villa had been specifically set aside for her. As for Mom and me, he’d left us nothing. Nothing except a mountain of debt we could never fully repay. You have to understand—this villa alone was worth enough to pay off all of Dad’s debts. But he’d given it to Madison without hesitation, leaving Mom to work herself to the bone for over a decade, slowly paying back those debts bit by bit. In that instant, all the blood in my body rushed to my head. Right now, I wanted nothing more than to scatter my father’s ashes to the wind. Mom’s hands trembled as she finished reading the letter, tears finally breaking free and streaming down her face. Seeing this, Madison lifted her chin smugly. “Do you believe me now? Just leave. With this suicide note, there’s no way you can take your husband’s ashes.” I couldn’t control my emotions anymore either. After helping Mom sit down on the couch, I strode toward Madison. “Where are his ashes? Hand them over now!” “I’m not giving them to you—” *Slap!* I raised my hand and struck her hard across the face. Madison’s face whipped to the side. She stared at me in disbelief. “You hit me?” I flexed my wrist and threatened her coldly. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. If you don’t hand them over right now, I’ll beat you until your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. After all, that suicide note can’t prove one hundred percent that my father wrote it. I could easily say you stole my father’s ashes. I just lost control for a moment out of anger.” With that, I grabbed a fistful of her hair and, ignoring her screams of pain, yanked her toward me. “Talk! Where are my father’s ashes?” At that moment, a familiar voice suddenly came from the doorway behind me. “Evelyn Thompson, what do you think you’re doing? Let go of Madison right now!” In an instant, every hair on my body stood on end. Because that voice belonged to my father—my father who had been “dead” for twelve years. I stiffly turned my neck and looked back. Standing in the doorway was a man. It was my father. He was alive. He hadn’t died.

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For seven years after the Montgomery family finally found me, I was never allowed to step foot inside their home. And for seven years, the fake heiress never moved out. It was an archaic, eccentric tradition of the old-money Montgomerys: whenever a family member returned from a long journey—or a long absence—the head of the estate had to cast the antique silver dollars. Only if the silver eagles landed face-up, signaling a blessing, could the wanderer cross the threshold. My biological brother, Alistair, cast the coins for me ninety-nine times. Not once did they land on a blessing. On the hundredth time, peering through a crack in the heavy oak doors of his study, I saw it. Two silver eagles, gleaming under the lamplight. A perfect, joyous omen. Yet Alistair stared at the coins, a heavy silence stretching across the room, before he finally murmured, “It has to be a bad omen.” “Evie was raised in this house. She’s fragile. She’s never known hardship,” he whispered to the empty room. “If Josie comes home, and Evie has to move out… she won’t survive it.” In that crushing, quiet moment, the truth finally crystallized. It wasn’t the coins keeping me out. It was him. He just didn’t want me to come home. And you know what? That was fine. Because suddenly, I didn’t want to come home either. I packed my bags and bought a train ticket heading down South, back to the military base in Georgia. Down there was the man who had raised me, my adoptive brother. I’d heard he was sick. I just wanted to go see him. 1 The air in the study was thick with the scent of burning cedar, casting a dim, solemn haze over the room. I stood soundlessly outside the door, my eyes fixed on the two silver coins resting on the mahogany desk. Two heads. A blessing. Alistair Montgomery had tossed them five times. Five times, the result was exactly the same. But the cold detachment in his voice had already rewritten the fate the coins had decreed. A sudden draft swept through the grand hallway, stinging my eyes, making them ache with a sudden, sharp wetness. For a long, agonizing minute, Alistair’s face was a portrait of rigid hesitation. But ultimately, he reached out. His fingers hovered over one of the silver eagles before gently, deliberately, flipping it over. The blessing became a curse. The door remained shut. As he straightened up, he muttered under his breath, “She’ll never know. It’s been seven years… no one has ever noticed.” So this was it. The hundredth casting I had waited for with bated breath, my heart full of foolish, desperate hope. It was nothing but the hundredth lie designed to lock me out of the Montgomery estate. My mind was a chaotic, static hum. Until, from the courtyard behind me, Evangeline’s sickly-sweet voice pierced the air. “Josie! What are you doing in the hallway?” she gasped, her tone fluttering like a startled bird. “Alistair is casting the coins. You know you aren’t supposed to be here!” Her voice was pitched high, engineered to carry. Instantly, the heavy oak doors swung open. Alistair stood there. A deep frown marred his handsome features, and for a fleeting second, raw panic flickered in his dark eyes. “How long have you been standing there?” he asked. 2 I slipped my trembling hands into the pockets of my wool coat, letting my fingernails dig soundlessly into my palms until the pain grounded me. I met his gaze with a deadened calm. “Just got here,” I lied smoothly. “Dinner’s almost ready. I came to get you.” It was New Year’s Eve. The one day of the year the Montgomery family deigned to leave their grand estate and come to the modest apartment they rented for me, playing the part of a united family. For the past seven years, Alistair had fed me the same lines. He told me that even if the coins wouldn’t let me cross the threshold of the main house, I was still a Montgomery. I was still his only biological sister. And on New Year’s Eve, a family belongs together. Once upon a time, those words had moved me to tears. Hearing my answer, Alistair exhaled, the tension bleeding from his shoulders, though a trace of guilt lingered in his eyes. He reached out with the same hand that had just falsified my future, his broad palm stiffly wrapping around my wrist. His voice returned to its usual, manufactured warmth. “Let’s go, then. Let’s have dinner.” The words barely left his mouth before Evangeline burst into the hallway, her eyes already swimming with tears. She looked at Alistair, a picture of tragic, breathless terror. “Did you finish the reading, Alistair?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Is Josie… is she finally moving into the house?” Alistair met her pleading gaze. For a long moment, the air in the hallway felt suffocatingly heavy. Evie’s lower lip quivered. A single, perfect tear rolled down her cheek. “I… I understand. Congratulations, Josie. You finally get to go home. I’ll… I’ll go pack my things right now.” She spun around, sprinting toward the door with a theatrical sob. Her foot caught the edge of an expensive ceramic planter, and she went crashing to the floor. Alistair’s grip on my wrist instantly loosened. His body jerked forward, a visceral, instinctive urge to rush to her side. But he forced himself to stay planted, watching as the housekeeper scrambled to help Evie up. It took him a long time to speak, his voice dropping into a stern, heavy register. “The result is the same as always.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “But Evie, you need to remember: Josie is the true daughter of this family. When the day comes that the coins show a blessing, you will have to leave. And there will be no tantrums. The Montgomerys owe you nothing.” Evie bit her lip, looking utterly devastated, before sobbing into her hands and running out of the room. Alistair stood frozen, his face a mask of cold authority. He didn’t chase after her. But the fingers still loosely circling my wrist? They were trembling. You can never truly hide who you care about. Years ago, down in Georgia, I had broken a rule on the base. My adoptive brother, Bennett, made me stand at attention in the sweltering Southern heat as punishment. But terrified that the sun would be too harsh on me, he had walked over and stood directly in front of me, using his own broad shoulders to cast a shadow over my face. He had looked just like this—silent, stern, and unyielding. But with my head bowed, I had seen his fingertips twitching at his sides, aching to reach out and pull me inside. 3 The dining table was crowded with Montgomery aunts, uncles, and cousins. Someone sighed heavily into their wine glass. “Evie is still out on the porch crying. She hasn’t eaten a bite. The poor girl is going to starve.” Alistair ignored them, methodically placing a portion of roasted vegetables onto my plate and ladling soup into my bowl. He didn’t even look up as he spoke. “Leave her. If she doesn’t want to eat, she can go hungry.” A hushed, uncomfortable silence fell over the table. The holiday dinner dragged on, cold and awkward. Honestly, it didn’t feel much different from the nights I ate alone in this apartment. Evangeline and I were the exact same age. She had been brought into the Montgomery family when she was four. Even if the family refused to say it out loud, the truth was obvious: twenty years of shared history had forged a bond far thicker than the blood I shared with them. As the dinner wound down, I reached for my favorite dish—the glazed duck confit. There were only three pieces left. An older aunt cleared her throat. “Leave some of the duck for Evie, please. It’s her favorite, too. Besides, Josie… you’ve already had quite enough.” Alistair’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing with a sudden, glacial warning. Without a word, he reached across the table, picked up the platter, and scraped the remaining duck directly onto my plate. “We are not catering to her tantrums,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. It was a fierce defense. But the moment he set his fork down, his mind was clearly a million miles away. When the housekeeper tied up the trash bags from the kitchen, preparing to take them out into the freezing night, Alistair suddenly stood up. “I’ll take it,” he murmured. The housekeeper blinked in surprise but handed over the bags. Once Alistair was gone, the tension in the room evaporated. The Montgomerys broke into small clusters, laughing and chatting effortlessly among themselves. To them, I was a stranger wearing their last name. I had absolutely nothing to say to any of them. Feeling suffocated, I stood up and slipped out the back door for some air. I wandered aimlessly until I approached the rear courtyard. Through the biting chill, I heard Evie’s muffled, pathetic sobbing, intertwined with Alistair’s low, soothing voice. I stopped at the top of the stone steps. The first snow of the season had begun to fall over Boston. Alistair and Evie were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on a wrought-iron bench. Between them was a takeout container of glazed duck. He raised a hand, his palm gently, adoringly brushing a few stray snowflakes from her hair. Evie’s eyes were red-rimmed. She pushed lightly at his chest, looking up at him with immense grievance. “You’re about to throw me out on the street. Why do you even care if I eat?” Alistair was caught off guard by the push, swaying slightly, but there was no anger in his face. Only a bottomless, indulgent warmth. It was a look he had never given me. The smiles he offered me were always meticulously constructed, stiff with obligation. This? This was real. He sighed, a fond, helpless sound. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been a part of this family for nearly twenty years. Do you honestly think I’d ever let you be thrown out?” 4 Evie let out a wet sob and buried her face into the crook of his shoulder. Alistair picked up a piece of duck with his fork and brought it to her lips. “I had the head chef at the country club make this specifically for you. It’s vastly better than what the housekeeper threw together.” The taste of the housekeeper’s duck was still lingering on my tongue. Evie took a bite, her sobs slowly quieting down. Alistair’s voice dropped lower, reasoning with her in the dark. “Josie is different from you, Evie. She grew up wandering on the outside. She’s never known what it means to be truly loved or spoiled.” He paused, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Giving her a few pieces of meat… it makes her happy. It keeps her pacified. And as long as she’s grateful for these little crumbs, it ensures you can stay safely in the Montgomery house.” So that was it. Over the last seven years, whenever he had taken my side in some trivial, meaningless argument, it hadn’t been out of love. It was a calculated strategy. He genuinely believed I was so starved for affection, so desperate for scraps, that a few kind words would keep me weeping with gratitude while they locked me out in the cold. But he was wrong. Before the Montgomerys dragged me back to Boston, I was loved. Fiercely. Down in the humid, sprawling military base in Georgia, I had been cherished. The base commanders’ wives treated me like their own. And my adoptive brother, Bennett? He had been my father, my protector, my entire world. He never let a single ounce of suffering touch me. If there was a prime cut of meat on the table, it was always pushed onto my plate. I never lacked for toys, clothes, or joy. Bennett lived a rugged, unforgiving life as a soldier, yet he always remembered to bring home pink ribbons and strawberry shortcake for me. If it hadn’t been for the illness that suddenly ravaged his body, he never would have let the Montgomerys take me. I remember the day I left. He had looked at me, his stoic face pale, and said, “Josie, he is your blood. Your parents are gone. If you don’t go back, Alistair will be entirely alone in this world.” He had forced a smile. “Besides, I’m sick now, kid. Knowing you have a massive, wealthy family up North to look after you… it gives me peace.” And so, I followed Alistair to Boston. Then came the family rule. The coin toss. The very first time Alistair prepared to cast the coins, Evie had stormed into the foyer, a weeping, hyperventilating mess, screaming, “If it’s a blessing, I’ll pack my bags and disappear forever!” I still remember the way Alistair’s body violently seized up at her words. He went into the study. He came out and said it was a curse. He did it ten times. A hundred times. It was always a curse. Honestly? I didn’t feel much back then. Not anger, not devastation. I had been lost when I was three years old. I had zero memories of the Montgomerys and even less emotional attachment to them. Back then, I had just looked up at Alistair and asked quietly, “Then… can you just buy me a ticket back to Georgia?” 5 Just a month before they found me, Aunt Martha down on the base had promised me that as soon as the school term ended, she was going to make her famous Southern braised short ribs. She told me to run straight to the barracks, grab Bennett, and come over for dinner. I had been looking forward to it for weeks. Instead, I was abruptly uprooted by strangers claiming to be my blood and dragged thousands of miles away to the freezing, manicured streets of Boston. When Alistair told me the coins had forbidden my entry, I was secretly desperate for him to say yes, to send me back. But Alistair had just walked over, his eyes overflowing with this gentle, tragic pity. He wrapped his hand around my wrist and murmured, “Don’t cry, Josie. I can toss the coins every month. A blessing will come eventually. In the meantime, I’ve set up a gorgeous apartment for you. I’ll be there constantly.” I tried to tell him I wasn’t crying. I didn’t want an apartment. I wanted to go home to the base where the cicadas hummed and the air smelled like pine. But then Alistair said, “I’ll stay with you tonight. Mom and Dad are gone. Just… keep your big brother company, okay?” He looked so gutted. So incredibly lonely. Exactly like Bennett had warned me. And Bennett had made it clear: legally, I was a Montgomery now. Under the law, Bennett had no right to keep me in military housing. I didn’t have a choice. So, I nodded. I enrolled in a prep school in Boston. The coursework was suffocating. To his credit, Alistair was meticulous in his care for me. No matter how demanding his schedule running the family empire was, he always made time to personally accompany me on the grueling, multi-day train rides down South to visit Bennett a few times a year. Aside from the fact that he could never seem to cast a blessing, never bring me into the estate, and never ask Evie to leave, I couldn’t point to a single flaw in his performance as an older brother. But I wasn’t stupid. And I wasn’t numb. Seven years is a long time. It was impossible not to notice the cracks in the facade. It was impossible not to finally peek through the crack in that oak door and see the truth for myself. Honestly, finding out wasn’t even a shock. Once you poke a hole in paper, you can see the entire rotting room behind it. 6 I pulled myself back to the present, my eyes fixed on the two figures huddled together in the snow-dusted courtyard. Alistair had a terrible stomach. He rarely ate large portions. He had already had dinner, yet half of Evie’s takeout box ended up in his mouth. People always say food tastes better when you eat it with someone you love. I turned around and walked silently back inside. The Montgomery relatives were still drinking and laughing. Not a single person noticed I had returned, just as no one had noticed I’d left. I bypassed the living room and climbed the stairs to my solitary bedroom, sitting down by the frosted window. The snow was falling heavier now, the Boston skyline turning into a gray blur. It was funny. The apartment was packed with people today, yet I felt colder and more isolated than ever. In the reflection of the windowpane, my mind conjured Bennett. I remembered New Year’s Eve back in Georgia. He had poured himself a glass of cheap bourbon and handed me a glass of Coca-Cola. Through the steam of the chili pot bubbling on the stove, he tapped his glass against mine. “Happy New Year, Josie. Stay safe. Stay mine.” The men in his platoon always said Captain Bennett was made of ice and iron. He had this permanent, terrifying scowl that made the fresh recruits physically shake. But to me? He was just warm. He only ever called me Josie. Sometimes it was a low, indulgent rumble. Other times, it was laced with exasperation. But it was always, always mine. I picked up an empty water glass from my nightstand and tapped it against the glass, right where his reflection hovered. “Happy New Year, Bennett,” I whispered. My fingers touched the cold pane. The illusion shattered. I missed him. An ache so deep it hollowed out my chest. I realized it rarely snowed in Georgia; he had probably never seen a real blizzard. I pulled out a sheet of stationery and started writing a letter. I didn’t even know what to say. If I said I was doing great, it would feel like ash in my mouth—I was a terrible liar. If I said I was miserable, it would only break his heart. After staring at the blank page for twenty minutes, I wrote three lines: Bennett, it’s snowing in Boston. It’s beautiful. If I roll a snowball and bring it down South, do you think it would survive the trip so I could show you? I folded the letter, shoved it into an envelope, threw on my coat, and walked down the street to drop it into the blue mailbox. By the time I returned, the sky had gone pitch black. The living room was still roaring with conversation. Alistair and Evie were standing by the bay window. He was murmuring something that had her bent double with laughter. Exhausted by the charade, I headed for the stairs. But then I saw what was in Evie’s hands. It was small. Familiar. Panic spiked in my chest. I whipped my head toward the bookshelf on the landing. The glass display dome was empty. She was holding my wooden figurine. Years ago, a local woodcarver had visited the base. Bennett had spent weeks, his massive, calloused hands fumbling with tiny whittling knives, just to carve a miniature wooden doll that looked like me. I had kept it under a tinted glass dome for seven years, terrified that sunlight or dust would ruin it. Now, the glass dome was tossed carelessly onto a side table. My heart seized. I lunged forward, taking the stairs two at a time. As I got closer, I heard Evie giggling. “God, it’s so ugly. It doesn’t look anything like you, Josie.” Alistair smiled affectionately, shaking his head. “Alright, put it back before she—” Before he could finish, a raw, primal scream tore from my throat. “Give it back!” Evie gasped, whirling around to face me, her eyes wide with manufactured, innocent shock. I lunged to rip it from her hands. But before my fingers could even graze it, she acted as if I had violently startled her. Her fingers simply opened. The wooden doll hit the hardwood floor. A loud crack echoed through the room as one of its carved arms snapped clean off. It felt like a bomb went off inside my skull. My vision went entirely red. Shaking with pure, unfiltered rage, I raised my hand and swung at Evie’s face. But Alistair didn’t pretend to be the impartial brother this time. His reflexes were razor-sharp. He stepped in, violently shoving Evie behind his back. Under my bloodshot glare, a flicker of genuine guilt and panic crossed his face. “J-Josie, it was an accident. Her hand slipped. I’ll buy you a—” Accident? I wasn’t blind. I stared at him, my voice a ragged, breathless hiss. “Get out of my way.” 7 The raucous laughter in the living room died instantly. A suffocating silence swallowed the apartment. The Montgomery aunts and uncles swarmed the stairs, their voices a cacophony of useless platitudes. “Josie, calm down! You’re hysterical.” “It’s New Year’s Eve, for heaven’s sake. Evie obviously didn’t mean to do it. Don’t ruin the holiday.” Every single one of them was stepping in to protect her. They were an impenetrable wall of armor for Evangeline. I didn’t care. I threw myself forward, clawing wildly, trying to drag Evie out from behind Alistair’s back. Alistair caught my wrists, holding me back. The aunts grabbed my shoulders, pulling and tugging at my clothes, their voices blurring into a chaotic buzz. A high-pitched ringing erupted in my ears. I couldn’t hear them anymore. Someone—I didn’t know who—yanked my arm too hard, or maybe shoved me. I ripped myself free from their grip, lost my balance, and stumbled backward. My head slammed hard against the edge of the stair railing. White hot pain flared behind my eyes, and my vision swam. Evie pressed herself against the wall and started to wail. Alistair’s face drained of color. He dropped to his knees beside me, his hands hovering over my shoulders, his voice shaking. “Josie… let me see. Where did you hit your head? Let me look.” I stared up at his face. This incredibly handsome, wealthy man. This face practically radiating hypocritical, suffocating concern. It was the exact same face he had worn seven years ago when he arrived in Georgia to claim me. I had been so perfectly fine before he came. I hadn’t needed him to rescue me. I hadn’t needed to be this completely, utterly alone. I had people who loved me. People who cared if I lived or died. In that moment, seven years of silent humiliation, of swallowing my pride, of waiting by cracked doors for silver coins to fall… it all violently boiled over. Acid rose in my throat. As he leaned in to touch me, I swung my arm with everything I had left. SMACK. The slap echoed like a gunshot. Alistair froze, still crouched over me, his hand suspended in mid-air. The red imprint of my hand bloomed across his pale cheek. My chest heaved, tears of absolute fury spilling down my face as I screamed at him. “Why did you take me?!” “If you never wanted me in your house, why did you drag me away from mine?!” Pure terror flashed through Alistair’s eyes. “Did you… did you…” For a split second, he knew I had seen through the lie. But before he could speak, the Montgomery elders rushed to his defense. “Josie, how dare you!” an uncle barked. “The coins have dictated against it! Do you think Alistair enjoys this? Do you think he’s lying to you? To lie about the family casting is a sin against the ancestors! He’d be cursed!” A hysterical, broken laugh clawed its way out of my throat. Cursed? If lying about the coins brought a curse, Alistair should have been struck by lightning a hundred times over. He hadn’t needed to do this. He could have just left me in Georgia. He could have just pretended he never found me. But no, he needed the grand performance. He needed to use the “omens” as a shield to prove to Evie just how much she meant to him—that he loved her so much, he’d leave his own flesh and blood rotting on the doorstep for seven years. I hadn’t even been allowed into the estate to see our parents’ graves. Alistair finally snapped out of his shock. Perhaps deciding I was just lashing out in grief, he looked down at me, his eyes swimming in a pathetic, desperate swirl of guilt. “I’ll… I’ll get a blessing for you, Josie. Very soon. I promise.” I looked dead into his eyes. A small, genuine smile touched my lips. “Who the hell cares?” 8 Utter shock washed over Alistair’s face. To him, his promise was an act of divine mercy. Granting me the right to enter the Montgomery estate should have had me weeping with joy at his feet. I slowly pushed myself up and knelt on the hardwood floor. With trembling fingers, I picked up the splintered pieces of my wooden doll. It was probably ruined forever, but I was going to take it with me anyway. The Montgomery relatives were still hovering, their voices tight with barely concealed disgust at my behavior. I tuned them out completely. But Evie just couldn’t help herself. She had to play the martyr one last time. Assuming the danger had passed, she took a hesitant step forward, tears tracking perfectly down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Josie. Here, let me help you put it back together.” She leaned down and reached out, her manicured fingers brushing against a piece of the broken wood. I shot up to my feet, snatched the wood from her hand, and slapped her. Hard. Evie threw her body into a violently exaggerated spin. As she stumbled backward, her hip clipped the hallway console table, knocking over a ceramic mug. It shattered against the floor. Evie collapsed into the shards, letting out a blood-curdling shriek as a tiny sliver of ceramic grazed her forehead. Chaos erupted. The Montgomerys shrieked, scrambling over each other to lift her off the floor, to check her pulse, to dab at her skin. A sharp voice cut through the noise, aimed directly at me. “Josie! Are you out of your mind?!” Alistair stared at the single drop of blood trickling down Evie’s forehead. His face went dead, his eyes hardening into flint. For the first time in seven years, he dropped the act. “I told you I would get you your blessing,” he snarled at me, his voice dripping with venom. “You didn’t need to take your jealousy out on Evie.” The moment I laid a hand on his precious Evangeline, the facade of the loving, torn brother completely shattered. Evie slumped against the wall, clutching her head and whimpering that she felt dizzy. Alistair didn’t spare me another glance. He scooped Evie up into his arms, bursting through the front door into the freezing night. Despite the fact that her ‘injury’ required a band-aid at best. It was exactly like he had said. She was a delicate flower raised in a greenhouse. I was a weed. One by one, the relatives grabbed their coats and hurried out the door after them. Within sixty seconds, the crowded, suffocating apartment was entirely, perfectly empty. I stood alone in the deafening silence. Surprisingly, my heart rate began to slow. A profound, chilling calm washed over me. It was just like I had thought seven years ago. I never truly loved the Montgomerys. I didn’t care about Alistair. Maybe his fake warmth had tricked me into believing in the fantasy of a biological family for a little while. Maybe I had genuinely wanted to belong. But now? The fantasy was dead. At least now I was free to walk away. I was twenty-four years old. I had graduated from medical school and was completing my residency at a local hospital. There was no law on earth that could force me to stay tethered to Alistair Montgomery. I thought about the letter I had just dropped in the mailbox. I should just bring the snow to him. I couldn’t wait another second. First thing tomorrow morning, the moment the Amtrak station opened, I was buying a ticket back to Georgia. A violent, desperate homesickness crashed into me. I wanted my real home. I wanted to see Bennett. I wanted Aunt Martha’s braised short ribs. She promised them to me seven years ago, and I never got to eat them. Bennett always told me a soldier never breaks a promise. Aunt Martha was a military wife; she wouldn’t break hers either. I carefully placed the broken pieces of my wooden doll into my coat pocket. My eyes burned with unshed tears. For seven years, this expensive apartment in Boston was just a waiting room. It had never been home. I walked into my bedroom, grabbed a duffel bag, and started packing.

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Three years after my murder, my mother came looking for me to take the fall for my adopted brother’s crimes. Again. She had already mastered the art of the smear campaign. Working in tandem with my wife—who also happened to be my former manager—she had bought the trending hashtags and fueled the rumors that I, a disgraced former Hollywood A-lister, had assaulted yet another fan. Riding the wave of public outrage, she barged into my apartment, clutching a drafted confession with my name on it. But when she took in the sight of the dust-coated, dead-silent living room, her face darkened. “You swore up and down you’d take care of me for the rest of my life,” she snapped to the empty air. “And now look at you. You don’t even want your own home?” Growing impatient, she grabbed the arm of the building super who was passing by in the hall, demanding to know where I was. The super jingled a ring of keys and gave her a flat, pitying look. “Cameron Cole? He’s been gone for three years, lady.” “That scandal with the fan got so ugly… the obsessive stans tracked him down here and hacked him to death.” … 1 “Hacked to death?” My mother froze for a fraction of a second. Then, she let out a harsh, echoing laugh at the empty room. “Wow, Cameron. You’ve really outdone yourself! You hate your brother so much you’ve learned to curse yourself with a fake death?” “Why not just tell the press Spencer was the one who killed you while you’re at it?” She yelled as she stalked deeper into the apartment, her voice rising in indignation. “I gave you life! I raised you for thirty years! What is the big deal about doing two measly years in prison for your brother?” “Spencer’s parents died to save my life. You are my son. It is your absolute duty to pay off my debt!” “But no, you decide to play dead? You hire actors to lie to me? Have you completely lost your mind?” The super impatiently rattled his keys again. “Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but nobody has the time to play make-believe with you.” “I stood right there and watched them load him into the coroner’s van. His ashes are literally sitting right there in that jar.” “Impossible!” My mother’s voice spiked into a shrill shriek. “He wires me money for living expenses every single month! How does a dead man send wire transfers?” She pointed a rigid, accusatory finger at the super. “You go back and tell Cameron to drag his ass out here and sign this paper.” “If he keeps hiding, I will go on national television every single day and drag his name through the mud! I’ll let the whole world see the ungrateful parasite I raised!” I floated near the ceiling, a phantom lump forming in a throat I no longer had. The money she received every month… that was the payout from the life insurance policy I’d bought. I never imagined my final act of providing for my family would become her ultimate proof that I was faking my death. The super looked at her like she was completely unhinged, took a phone call, and muttered curses under his breath as he walked away. The moment he was gone, my mother started tearing the place apart. She kicked chairs. She yanked drawers entirely out of their tracks. She moved like a cornered, enraged animal. “Cameron! Get out here! Sign the damn confession!” “The internet is ripping Spencer apart! He’s so stressed he can’t sleep, and you have the nerve to hide from us?” Three years ago, Spencer forced himself on a groupie. The paparazzi caught it on tape. But by the next morning, every piece of evidence had been meticulously altered to point to me. I went away for two years. I fell from an Academy Award-winning actor to an inmate. The night I was finally released, I walked into my home only to see a drunken Spencer kick my young son so hard the boy fell backward. From Spencer’s slurred, boastful taunts, I learned the truth: the entire setup, from the beginning, had been orchestrated by my mother. And my wife, Natalie, had executed it. I scooped up my bruised, crying son and fled into the night. For three years, my mother never offered a single word of explanation or apology. And now, her first words to me were a demand to be the scapegoat once again. “Alright, that’s enough! Come out, I won’t yell at you anymore.” Finding nothing in the bedroom, she stood in the hallway, hands on her hips, negotiating with the air. “Cameron, I know how you tick. You’re just throwing a tantrum because you think I favor Spencer, right?” “Fine. I promise you, once this blows over, I’ll pay more attention to you.” When silence was her only answer, a layer of petulant hurt crept into her voice. “Cam… are you really not going to come out?” “I bled myself dry raising you. I paved the way for your career. And now you’re going to abandon your own mother?” Her anger flared anew, hot and blinding. She swiped her hand across a shelf, sending a framed photo of me crashing to the floor. Then she grabbed my Best Actor trophy and hurled it directly at the only family portrait hanging on the wall. The glass shattered outward in a violent spray. “Are you coming out or not?!” “If you don’t, we are done! You can go rot for all I care. I no longer have a son!” I instinctively dove forward to stop her, but my ghostly hands slipped right through her shoulders. Mom, please! This apartment is the only safe haven my boy has left… he’s only six… please, stop… But she couldn’t hear me. She didn’t care. She marched over to the table and snatched up the heavy, white ceramic urn. When she realized what it was supposed to be, a cold, mocking smirk twisted her lips. “You really went all out, didn’t you, Cam? You even bought fake ashes?” “You used to threaten suicide to get me to kick Spencer out of the house. Now you’re hiding behind a pile of dust? Who do you think you’re fooling?” Tears of frustration spilled over her lashes, but her voice remained like iron. “I am your mother, not your enemy. Is all this theater really necessary?” “Fine. You want to act? I’ll play along!” She raised the heavy urn high above her head, ready to smash it against the hardwood. I could only offer a bitter, silent laugh. In her mind, every single thing I did was a manipulative ploy to drive Spencer away. Just like the night I got out of prison. I had walked onto the terrace and found Natalie wrapped in Spencer’s arms, whispering softly that she wanted to give him a child. My reality fractured. I stood on the edge of the roof, ready to step off. My mother had looked at me with the exact same expression of annoyed condemnation. I didn’t jump. I didn’t jump because the smartwatch on my wrist crackled, and I heard my son crying out for his daddy. At the thought of my boy, a faint creak echoed from behind the bedroom door. 2 My mother’s raised hands paused in mid-air. “Oh, finally breaking character? Come on out, Cameron. Or I swear to God I will burn this place to the ground, ashes and all.” A hand as thin as a brittle twig slowly pushed the door open. A timid, trembling voice followed. “Grandma… Daddy is… he’s really dead.” My mother stared at the child in front of her, completely derailed. My son was swallowed by an oversized, moth-eaten sweater. His neck looked like a fragile reed, barely able to support the weight of his head. He swayed slightly on his feet. My ghostly chest tightened so violently I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to rush forward and wrap my arms around him, to shield him from the storm that was about to break. I knew my mother’s madness too well. Years ago, a twenty-three-year-old Spencer had casually complained that my son was glaring at him. My mother’s response was to slap my three-year-old boy to the floor and force him to kneel in the corner for the entire night. Now, her gaze swept over the filthy, emaciated boy with a mixture of disgust and complex emotion. “What has Cameron been doing to you? You look like a street rat! He doesn’t deserve to be a father!” She took two aggressive steps forward and seized my son by the arm. “Where is your dad? Tell Grandma. If you tell me, I’ll take you home and feed you a proper meal.” Toby shrank back in terror, massive tears spilling down his hollow cheeks. “Daddy… is really dead…” He pointed a shaking finger at the white ceramic jar. “That’s… that’s Daddy’s ashes.” “Bullshit!” My mother’s patience instantly evaporated. She violently hurled the urn at the floor. It shattered with a deafening crack. “Cameron is probably hiding in a closet laughing his ass off! I can’t believe he’s teaching you to lie to my face!” Staring at the gray-white powder dusting the floorboards, Toby let out a guttural sob. He threw himself onto the ground, desperately trying to scoop the powder back together with his tiny hands. “Daddy! Daddy—” My mother yanked him away by his collar. She lifted her designer heel and stomped squarely onto the pile of ashes, grinding her sole into the powder. “Stop crying! He is not fit to be your father! Using his own flesh and blood just to spite his brother? He’s a monster!” Toby lay sprawled next to the ruined ashes, gasping for air between hysterical sobs. “He isn’t! Daddy died… so many people came in and cut him… I got cut too…” He pulled up the hem of his oversized sweater. Two jagged, violently purple scars crawled across his protruding ribcage. My mother’s foot froze in the ashes. With trembling fingers, Toby pulled a crinkled envelope from his pocket. “Daddy gave this to me… he told me to find Grandma… he said if Grandma read it, she would understand…” It was the lifeline letter I had written to my son in my final days. It contained the absolute truth of everything. I had hoped that, eventually, he could trade that letter for a shred of their mercy. But he had never gone to them. He stayed here, terrified that if he left, I would be lonely in this empty apartment. My mother stared at the envelope, then back down at the skeletal child. A flicker of genuine pain crossed her face. Her hand shook as she reached out to take the letter. “Don’t listen to a word of it!” The front door slammed open. My wife, Natalie, strode in, her arm wrapped tightly around a pale, swaying Spencer. She crossed the room in two strides and snatched the letter right out of Toby’s hand. “Cameron is really sinking to new lows, using a kid as a shield.” Natalie pulled out her phone and swiped to a screenshot. “Mom, look at this. Thank God Spencer has connections. A tabloid photographer just leaked this to him.” “Cameron booked a flight out of the country for today. He’s trying to take the company money and run!” Right on cue, Spencer fell into a fit of breathless coughing, squeezing a few strategic tears from the corners of his eyes. “Mom, Nat… just let it go. Cam obviously still hates me.” “Please don’t fight with him over me. Just let me go to prison. As long as you two are happy…” His knees buckled, and he sagged toward the floor, playing the part of a boy entirely drained of his will to live. My mother scrambled to catch him, frantically rubbing his back to soothe him. “Don’t say such stupid things! You are a superstar now. Your future is blindingly bright. How could you ever survive prison?” Natalie held him close, her eyes brimming with fierce protectiveness. “Exactly. Your heart condition is too fragile. You’d die in a place like that.” “Cameron isn’t going anywhere. I promise you, I will drag him back here myself.” She reached down and violently hauled Toby up from the floor by his arm. “Enough with the theatrics.” “What’s so great about your ex-con father anyway? Talk! Where is he hiding?” Toby stumbled, his entire little body vibrating with fear. But he shook his head violently, tears flying in every direction. It felt as though a blade was methodically slicing my soul into ribbons. I lunged at Natalie, trying to pry her fingers off my son, but I was nothing but air. Just like the night I died, desperately trying to dodge the blades of the mob. Because Spencer had bribed the guards on the inside, I was released from prison with three broken ribs and a shattered wrist. That night, my son—who had narrowly escaped the attackers’ knives—cradled my bleeding, dying body. He used his smartwatch to call for help. He called again and again. Finally, they answered. He got Natalie snapping, “Stop bothering me.” And my mother sighing, “Your father brought this on himself.” He held me as I bled out on the asphalt, shivering and crying into my chest. It was an exact mirror of the moment unfolding before me now. And they remained just as utterly heartless. Toby pointed frantically at the letter crumpled in Natalie’s fist, his voice hiccuping. “The… the letter says it… Daddy said, if you read it, you’ll know…” A fleeting shadow of guilt brushed across Natalie’s eyes. Her lips parted. My mother couldn’t help but interject. “Maybe we should just read it? It won’t take a minute.” Natalie hesitated, her thumb sliding under the seal of the envelope. In that exact second, Spencer suddenly clutched his chest and went limp, sliding heavily toward the floor. “Nat… my heart is racing… I can’t breathe…” The color drained entirely from his face, his eyes rolling upward. Natalie instantly dropped the letter, the paper completely forgotten. She and my mother dove for him, grabbing him under his arms to keep him upright. “Hurry! It’s his heart! Get him to the car!” “Spencer! Spencer, look at Mom, stay with me!” They hoisted him up and bolted out the door without a single backward glance. The envelope drifted to the ground, landing squarely in the scattered ashes. In the chaotic rush to the door, Toby was knocked backward. His small head struck the jagged edge of the broken ceramic urn. 3 Natalie slammed her foot on the gas pedal, weaving recklessly toward Central Hospital. Spencer lay slumped against the passenger window, pale and breathing in shallow, raspy gasps. “Mom… Nat… stop worrying about me…” “I’m never going to get a donor heart in time anyway. I don’t have long left.” “Just take me to the police station. Let me turn myself in. That way, Cam won’t feel like he has to run away just to punish me.” He offered a weak, trembling wave of his hand, tears clinging to his lashes. “I know… I know I never truly belonged in this family anyway.” “I stole Cameron’s entire life… just let me do this. Once I’m dead, I can finally see my real parents again.” It was his signature move. No matter how catastrophic his mistakes, as long as he cried about his dead parents, my mother’s forgiveness was absolute. And Natalie, who had started out as an assistant in my mother’s shadow, always took her cues from the matriarch. Right on cue, my mother leaned forward from the backseat and gripped his shoulder, her voice cracking. “Stop talking nonsense! I will lay down my own life before I let you go to jail. I will find Cameron and I will force a pen into his hand!” Natalie kept one hand on the steering wheel and reached over to stroke his leg. “Stop spiraling, Spence. I’ve already pulled every string in the city looking for a donor heart. You are going to live a long, beautiful life.” Spencer lowered his eyes and nodded. A microsecond of smug satisfaction touched his lips. When he turned back to look at my mother, the tragic, wounded boy had returned. “Mom… Nat… you two are too good to me. I could spend ten lifetimes working like a dog, and I could never repay you.” He paused, testing the waters carefully. “…I’ve been watching the company’s stock… Cam’s latest scandal is tanking our shares. Should we… maybe vote to strip his equity? Just temporarily. To protect the family…” My mother’s face hardened. “That won’t be necessary.” A heavy silence stretched. Then, her voice dropped to a low, bruised whisper. “I know he hates me… but I am his mother. When he was a little boy and caught that terrible fever, I stayed awake for three days and three nights holding him…” She looked up, her eyes rimmed with red. “He owes me his life. He can never repay that debt. All I asked was for him to carry a little bit of the weight for our family, and this is how he treats me?” Natalie opened her mouth to chime in, but my mother waved her off. Her tone turned sharp again. “Enough. We’re not talking about this anymore. When I track him down, I’m going to set him straight. He is still my son. And I still have a grandson.” Natalie nodded in agreement. “Cameron’s reputation is in the gutter, but I know he really loved me. Once this is all over, I’ll make it up to him.” “Spence, you just focus on resting. We’ll handle the dirt.” My translucent form went entirely rigid. One sacrificed me relentlessly under the guise of paying a debt. The other played the accomplice without a shred of moral boundary. And they thought they could torture me to death and then simply “make it up to me”? A wave of phantom nausea rolled through whatever was left of my soul. Spencer’s face contorted violently for a fraction of a second, but almost instantly, his eyes welled with tears again. “You’re right, Mom. I’m overthinking it… Cam is a good guy. This is all my fault…” My mother cooed, pulling him into an awkward embrace over the center console. Natalie was about to offer more comfort when her cell phone rang through the car’s Bluetooth. “Hello, this is the building management at Providence Manor. Your son, Toby Cole, has suffered a severe head trauma and is unconscious. We need you to—” “Injured?” Natalie scoffed, her face twisting into an ugly sneer. “He was perfectly fine five minutes ago. How exactly did he get injured?” “Did Cameron tell you to make this call? Tell him to drop the act. I’m not playing these games.” “Ma’am, I am the building super. The boy’s injuries are critical, you need to—” Natalie’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. She opened her mouth to snap back. But Spencer leaned heavily toward her, his voice a pathetic whine. “Nat… is Cam mad at me again? Maybe… maybe you should go. I’ll… I’ll be fine by myself…” “I know the super works for him… but what if it’s real? Toby is just a little boy…” He made a grand, straining show of trying to unbuckle his seatbelt to get out of the moving car. My mother grabbed him, her eyes shining with fierce affection. “Look at you! You’re in this much pain and you’re still worrying about everyone else!” Natalie’s face flushed with fury. The veins in her neck went taut. “Cameron, you are unbelievable. Lying through your teeth, using your own son to fake an emergency!” “Tell him to drop dead! I don’t have time for his amateur hour theater!” She aggressively hit the button on the steering wheel, terminating the call. I threw myself against the dashboard, screaming, trying desperately to grab the wheel and spin the car around. Natalie! That’s your son! He smashed his head on the urn! Go back for him! My hands phased right through the leather. She didn’t blink. Instead, my mother’s voice filled the cabin, absolute and merciless. “This is outrageous! Nat, when we get to the hospital, just forge his signature on the confession. We’ll hand it straight to the police.” “If he refuses to show his face and keeps pulling these sick stunts, then he doesn’t get to complain when we play hardball.” Natalie nodded sharply. “Fine. I can forge his handwriting in my sleep. He was the one who taught me how to write properly anyway.” I stared at them, drowning in despair. Natalie had been a scholarship student from a dirt-poor background, sponsored by my family. I had spent hours sitting behind her, my hand over hers, patiently correcting her penmanship. And now she was using that exact handwriting to forge my criminal confession. The car screeched to a halt in front of Central Hospital. They flanked Spencer on either side and rushed him straight to the cardiology wing. The attending physician looked over Spencer’s chart, his brow deeply furrowed. “Mr. Cole’s condition… he really does need a transplant as soon as possible. Miraculously, we just received a donor heart that is a perfect match.” My mother’s eyes widened, practically glowing. “Are you serious? Name your price! We have money, we can negotiate with the family!” The doctor shifted uncomfortably. “The issue is… the donor is a child. And he is currently still alive.” “The boy was brought into the ER with catastrophic brain trauma. However, his father is deceased, and his mother… has abandoned him.” Natalie raised an eyebrow and let out a sharp, cold laugh. “A kid whose parents don’t even want him? He’s a burden alive anyway. Take the heart.” The doctor opened his mouth to protest, but Spencer suddenly clutched his chest, letting out an agonized groan. My mother seized the doctor by his coat lapels. “Did you hear him? He’s out of time! Go prep the child for extraction, and get my son into the OR!” “We have waited too long for this. I am getting this heart for my son, whatever the cost!” 4 The doctor didn’t argue further. He turned and rushed down the hall to prepare the surgical team. The moment the door clicked shut, a vicious smirk flashed across Spencer’s face. But he quickly smoothed his features back into a mask of noble sorrow. “Mom… Nat… please don’t hurt an innocent kid just for me… I’m going to prison soon anyway, it’s not worth it…” His hands trembling flawlessly, he pulled his phone out and swiped to a new set of photos. “Look what I just got from my contact at the tabloids. Cam is at the airport right now. He’s taking the whole family and fleeing the country.” In the photograph, I was standing in a brightly lit international terminal. My arm was wrapped around a tall, elegant woman. Toby was nestled happily in the woman’s arms, a massive, carefree smile on his face. Standing next to us was my father—the man who had walked out on my mother and me decades ago. My mother took one look at the screen and the blood drained from her face, leaving a terrifying, ashen rage behind. “Unbelievable! Cameron!” “He played us all for fools! He’s running off with that old bastard to live it up overseas?! After everything I did for him?!” The humiliation and fury utterly destroyed whatever reason she had left. She shot up from the chair, nearly dropping the phone. “I am going to the precinct right now! Let’s see how far he gets when the police flag his passport!” Natalie stared at the unknown woman in the photo. Her eyes went completely dead, dark and terrifying. “You dare replace me, Cameron? You’re making my son call another woman ‘Mom’? I will end you.” “I’m taking full custody! I’m taking everything you own!” At that exact moment, Natalie’s phone began to ring. “Mommy… someone wants to take my heart out… I’m so scared… Mommy, please save me…” “Toby?” Natalie froze for a second. “What are you talking about? Who wants to take your heart?” “It’s true… the doctor said they’re going to take it out… Mommy, please, I’m scared…” Natalie’s lip curled. Her anger flared into a blinding white heat. “You are still lying to me?! Your father is at the airport with his new whore getting ready to board a flight, and you’re still playing these sick games?!” “Go to hell! You are no son of mine!” She violently threw her phone against the wall. The screen shattered. It was in that moment I finally understood why Spencer had looked so smug. I realized whose heart the doctor meant. The “abandoned” child. It was Toby. I threw myself at Natalie like a madman, trying to claw the phone back from the floor, but my hands just passed through the plastic. I screamed at my mother. I fell to my knees, begging her, tearing my throat raw, but she didn’t even glance in my direction. Toby called back. Again and again. She rejected the call every single time. After hanging up on him for the twenty-third time, my mother blocked the number in annoyance. She turned back to stroke Spencer’s hair. “Spence, don’t you worry. Mom will never forget that I owe your parents my life.” “Nobody is going to ruin this for you. I will secure this heart, and I will clear your name. I promise you.” Spencer’s eyes were wet with perfectly timed tears. He nodded like an obedient child and buried his face in my mother’s shoulder, a sick smile hidden against her jacket. Why? Why did this keep happening? Why was I foolish enough to believe they possessed a shred of humanity? Tears of blood leaked from my eyes as I broke down completely. My mother walked over to the bed and gently cupped Spencer’s cheek. “Have a good sleep, sweetheart. When you wake up from the surgery, Mom has a big surprise for you.” Sharing a resolute look with Natalie, my mother swept out of the room. They marched straight to the police precinct. She slammed the signed confession onto the front desk. “Officer, I am here to report a crime! My son, Cameron Cole, sexually assaulted a fan!” The desk sergeant picked up the paper, read it, and then looked at it again. “Who exactly are you trying to press charges against?” Natalie squared her shoulders, her tone hard and unwavering. “Cameron Cole. My husband. He assaulted a fan. We are requesting an immediate warrant for his arrest.” The officer stared at them in absolute disbelief. He looked at them like they belonged in a psychiatric ward. “Did you two print this out at home as a joke?” My mother’s heart skipped a beat, but she recovered quickly, her voice dripping with authority. “What do you mean a joke? He signed this himself! He’s currently at the airport trying to flee the country. Add evading arrest to the charges!” The officer reached into a deep drawer, pulled out a thick, sealed manila folder, and dropped it heavily onto the counter. “Cameron Cole died three years ago. I was the lead detective on the case.” “We couldn’t reach any next of kin. I was the one who personally handed his ashes over to his son.” “The kid couldn’t have been more than four. He looked like a skeleton. That urn was bigger than his head, and he just… dragged it out of here, one step at a time.” Natalie’s face turned the color of bone. The arrogant smirk melted off my mother’s face, leaving a frozen, grotesque mask. Right at that moment, the precinct dispatch radio cracked loudly to life. “We’ve got a 10-54 at Central. Anonymous tip reporting an illegal organ harvesting in progress. The victim is a pediatric patient… male child.”

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When my adoptive parents finally brought home their biological daughter, I knew the drill. I didn’t wait for the awkward “we need to talk” dinner; I started packing my bags, planning to move into one of my other properties. But when Hailey—the girl who was supposed to be the “real” version of me—found out I was leaving, she didn’t cheer. Instead, her eyes welled up with practiced precision. “I’m here to join this family,” she sobbed, clutching my mother’s hand. “Not to break it apart. Please, don’t leave because of me.” I was moved. I actually believed her. I chose to stay. But the honeymoon phase didn’t even last a week. Hailey began a campaign of petty, amateur frame-ups. And my parents? They didn’t just take her side; they built a fortress around her, leaving me out in the cold. I finally realized that she didn’t want me to stay because she loved me. She wanted me to stay so she could watch me be stripped of everything until I was forced out with nothing but the clothes on my back. The moment that realization clicked, I started packing again. Only this time, I wasn’t packing my own suitcases. I was packing hers. And my parents’. After all, they seemed to have forgotten one minor detail. I don’t just live in this estate. I own it. … A sharp, jagged scream sliced through my sleep. I threw on a robe and hurried into the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs. I didn’t even have time to ask what was wrong before my adoptive mother, Lydia, was in my face. Her expression was a mask of fury I’d never seen before. In the fifteen years I’d lived with them, Lydia had always been the embodiment of soft-spoken grace. She didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t need to. Until now. “Paige, how could you?” she hissed, her voice trembling with a terrifying heat. “How could you be so cruel to Hailey? She’s been suffering for over a decade in the shadows, and now that she’s finally home, this is how you treat her? Like garbage?” I blinked, looking past her at the scene in the hallway. “Cruel? What are you even talking about?” My lack of immediate repentance only fueled the fire. Lydia’s face turned a dangerous shade of red. My father, Charles, stood by the railing, looking at me with a profound, soul-crushing disappointment. Even Mrs. Gable, our housekeeper, was there, biting her lip and looking away, caught between her loyalty to me and her paycheck. And there was Hailey. The “true” daughter we’d welcomed home only seven days ago. She was huddled behind Lydia, trembling, her eyes red-rimmed and leaking tears. “Mom, please, don’t get mad at Paige,” Hailey whimpered, her voice small and broken. “It was… it was my choice. I just wanted…” “Don’t you dare defend her!” Lydia snapped, though her hand was gentle as she reached back to pat Hailey’s shoulder. She turned back to me, her eyes cold as flint. “Look at your sister. Even now, she’s trying to protect you. I spent fifteen years raising you, giving you everything, and you turned out to be a bully?” Before I could get a word in edgewise, Lydia softened her voice for Hailey. “Hailey, sweetheart, I know you’re a good person. I know you don’t want any trouble. But this is your home. You are the one who belongs here, and you should never, ever have to settle for less than the best. I’m going to make this right.” She shot a look at Charles. “Are you just going to stand there? Your daughter is being mistreated under your own roof!” I felt a surge of genuine anger. It was 5:00 AM. I was exhausted, and I was tired of the charades. “Can someone please stop the performance and tell me exactly what the ‘crime’ is? I’m not in the mood for riddles.” Mrs. Gable couldn’t stay quiet any longer. She blurted out, “Paige, dear, Hailey told them you forced her to sleep in the utility closet. Mrs. Fairchild found her there this morning during her early workout.” I almost laughed. I had read about this kind of pathetic drama in airport paperbacks, but I never thought I’d be the protagonist of one. I knew that if I got angry, I’d look guilty. If I screamed, I’d look like the villain they were already painting me to be. “I personally showed you to the south-facing guest suite, Hailey,” I said, my voice measured and calm. “It’s the same size as the master bedroom. Why on earth would I tell you to sleep in a closet?” Hailey looked at me like a cornered rabbit, her breath hitching. “Yes… you’re right. It’s all my fault. I just… I felt like I didn’t deserve a nice room. Please, Dad, Mom, don’t be mad at Paige. If you fight because of me, I…” She trailed off, leaving the rest to their imaginations. “If we fight, what?” I challenged, stepping closer. “What happens then, Hailey?” “I’ll just… I’ll feel so guilty,” she whispered, looking at the floor. A cold, dry laugh escaped my throat. “Guilty? You’re standing there spinning a web of lies to make them think I’ve been abusing you, and you’re worried about guilt?” “How dare you threaten her right in front of us!” Lydia cried. “If this is how you act when we’re watching, I can only imagine what you do when our backs are turned.” Charles finally spoke up, his voice heavy. “Paige, Hailey is a gentle soul. Do you really expect us to believe she chose to sleep in a dirty closet when a luxury suite was available? Nobody would do that. I want an explanation, and I want it now. Or else…” I didn’t bother explaining further. I simply pointed to the small, discreet dome in the corner of the ceiling. “Hailey hasn’t been here long, so she probably didn’t realize this house is equipped with a top-tier security system. There are cameras in every hallway. We’ve only been home a week. Let’s go to the security room and watch the footage, frame by frame. Let’s see exactly who went into that closet and when.” Lydia and Charles exchanged a glance. “Fine,” Lydia snapped. “I’m so angry I forgot about the cameras. Let’s go. And when the footage shows the truth, don’t expect me to be so forgiving.” As we turned toward the stairs, Hailey’s knees suddenly hit the floor. “Wait! Please!” she sobbed, clutching at Lydia’s robe. “Paige didn’t know. I… I lied. She did give me a beautiful room. But I’ve spent my whole life in tiny, dark places. I didn’t feel like I belonged in that big bed. I snuck into the closet after everyone was asleep because it felt… safe. It’s my fault. I’m just so used to suffering that I don’t know how to be happy.” Silence fell over the hallway. Charles frowned, looking confused. “Then why did you imply it was Paige’s doing earlier?” Hailey shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “I didn’t mean to. I saw how angry you were, and I got scared. I’ve lived in fear for so long… I just say things. Everything is my fault. I’m the one who doesn’t belong.” I stood there, frozen, waiting for the apology. Waiting for Lydia and Charles to turn to me and say they were sorry for accusing me of being a monster. Instead, they both knelt down and gathered Hailey into their arms. “Oh, my poor baby,” Lydia cooed, her voice thick with emotion. “You’ve been through so much. We’re so sorry. We’ll make it up to you, I promise. You’re home now. You never have to be afraid again.” The three of them stayed there, a tableau of biological unity, while Mrs. Gable and I stood awkwardly to the side. A hollow ache started in my chest. Was the fifteen years of love they’d given me really that fragile? Was it just a placeholder until the “real” thing arrived? Mrs. Gable waited until they had disappeared into Hailey’s room before whispering, “That girl is trouble, Paige. Last week, when you mentioned moving out to your other place, she was the one who begged you to stay. ‘I’m here to join the family, not break it,’ she said. And now this? It’s a setup.” I forced a tight smile. “She’s new, Mrs. Gable. My parents are just overwhelmed with guilt for the years she missed. I’m not going to let it get to me. They’ve been good to me for a long time… let’s just see how this plays out.” But deep down, I knew. The wind had shifted. In the weeks that followed, Hailey treated me with a terrifying, wide-eyed “fear.” She acted like I was a ticking time bomb, occasionally dropping cryptic, passive-aggressive comments that made my skin crawl. My parents, realizing they’d been a bit too hasty during the closet incident, tried to buy my forgiveness with expensive jewelry and designer bags. Then came the invitations for Hailey’s official “Welcome Home” gala. The day before the party, she crept into my room. “Paige? Can we talk? I’m so sorry about before. It wasn’t my fault—Mom and Dad just jumped to conclusions. I’ve been trying to tell them you’re wonderful.” She held out a garment bag. “I bought this for you. As a peace offering. Please wear it to the party tomorrow. It would mean so much to the parents to see us standing together, looking like sisters.” I looked at the bag. Hailey had actually done her homework; the brand was my favorite, the style was exactly what I usually wore. But I knew her. I knew the look in her eyes. I took the dress, and with a sudden, sharp yank at the side seam, the whole thing disintegrated. The threads had been pre-cut or treated with some kind of acid. If I had walked into a crowded ballroom in that dress, it would have literally fallen off my body within an hour. Hailey’s face went pale, but her eyes stayed cold. “I… I didn’t do that! It must have been the boutique—” “Give it a rest, Hailey,” I said, tossing the ruined fabric at her feet. “This is getting boring. Did the closet incident not teach you anything?” She looked around my room, making sure the door was shut, and then her entire demeanor changed. The “scared rabbit” vanished, replaced by a predatory sneer. “You’re nothing but a placeholder, Paige,” she whispered. “A temporary fix from an orphanage to fill a hole in their hearts. But I’m back now. And as long as I’m here, there is no room for you in this family.” I almost had to admire her nerve. “Is that so?” She stepped closer, her voice a low hiss. “Last time, you had the cameras. You got lucky. But this time? There are no cameras in your bedroom. Watch what happens.” Before I could react, she raised her hand and delivered a stinging slap to her own face. Then another. She was hitting herself with a frantic, desperate energy. “You think I’m a pushover?” she panted, her face beginning to swell. “You think I actually wanted you to wear that dress? No. I want you gone. Not just out of this house, but out of their lives. You came here with nothing, and you’re going to leave with nothing. The love, the money, the clothes, the jewelry… and your precious fiancé, Bennett? I’m taking it all back.” She looked around, spotted a pair of crafting scissors on my vanity, and hesitated. “If you want them to believe you, you’ll need blood,” I said calmly, pointing at the blades. “A few bruises won’t be enough.” Hailey took a ragged breath, grabbed the scissors, and plunged the tip into her own palm. She gasped, trembling with pain, but she wasn’t done. She ran toward my full-length mirror and threw herself into it. The glass shattered in a deafening explosion. She lay there among the shards, bleeding from a dozen small cuts, her hair matted, her face bruised. She looked like the victim of a brutal assault. Satisfied, she lunged at me, wiping her bloody hands all over my white sweater before letting out a blood-curdling scream. “Help! Mom! Dad! Please, help me!” Lydia and Charles burst through the door seconds later. Their affection for me had been wavering for weeks, and I knew this was the final test. I stood there, motionless, watching them. I wanted to see if they would choose the daughter they had raised or the daughter who shared their blood. Lydia screamed as she saw Hailey on the floor. “Paige! My God, what have you done?” I shrugged, my voice flat. “It’s not what it looks like. She did this to herself. It’s the closet incident, part two.” Hailey looked up, her voice a weak, guttering flame. “Mom… it’s okay. I just came to give her the dress… she hated it… she said I was trying to replace her… she just started hitting me…” Charles was already on his phone, shouting for Mrs. Gable to call an ambulance. He stepped between me and Hailey, his face twisted with loathing. “I am so ashamed of you, Paige. We gave you everything. How could you be this demonic?” Hailey let out a sob. “Don’t be mad at her, Dad. It’s my fault. I’m the outsider. I’ll move out as soon as I’m healed… I don’t want to cause trouble…” I nodded slowly. “You’re right. You should leave.” Charles turned and slapped me. The force of it knocked my head to the side, my cheek stinging with a heat that reached all the way to my soul. “How dare you,” he breathed. “After everything she’s tried to do for you.” I held my face, a cold, hard knot forming where my heart used to be. The parents I had loved were gone. They had been replaced by strangers blinded by biology. The paramedics arrived and whisked Hailey away. Lydia and Charles didn’t even look at me as they followed the stretcher. At the door, Charles stopped and looked back, his eyes dead. “I expect you to be gone by the time we get back.” Mrs. Gable stood in the doorway, her eyes filled with tears. “I saw her go in there with those scissors, Paige. I know you didn’t do it.” “I know,” I said quietly. “Help me pack, will you?” Because of Hailey’s “injuries,” the gala was canceled. It took a week for them to bring her home. When they walked through the front door, leaning on each other, they saw the mountain of luggage in the foyer. Lydia frowned. “You’re still here? I told you to leave a week ago.” Hailey, draped in a silk wrap with her hand in a heavy bandage, sighed dramatically. “Oh, Paige, don’t be like that. Dad was just upset. You don’t have to leave. I’m fine now. I’m just a ‘stray,’ right? I can handle a little beating. Just apologize to Mom and Dad, and I’m sure they’ll let you stay in the guest house.” I smiled. It was a sharp, dangerous thing. “Who said I was leaving?” Hailey blinked, her rehearsed pity faltering. “Then why is all this luggage here? You’re not seriously trying to stay where you’re not wanted, are you?” “Oh, no,” I said, stepping toward them. “You’ve finally caught on, Hailey. You’re smarter than you look. These aren’t my bags. They’re yours. All three of you. I’ve had them packed and ready since Tuesday.” Hailey laughed, a shrill, nervous sound. “What are you talking about? This is the Fairchild estate. You can’t kick us out of our own home.” Mrs. Gable stepped forward, holding a thick leather folder. “Actually, Miss Hailey, this is the Paige Fairchild estate. The name on the deed isn’t Charles or Lydia. It’s Paige.” And it wasn’t just the house. I was the majority shareholder of the entire family empire. The color drained from their faces in a synchronized wave of shock. “That’s impossible,” Hailey whispered.

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The moment my son climbed into the backseat, he pulled a crumpled lemon-poppyseed muffin from his backpack. Michelle’s face went stone-cold. “I’ve told you a thousand times, no eating in the car. Who raised you to be so undisciplined?” Toby flinched, the pastry halfway to his mouth. Michelle stared at a few stray crumbs that had tumbled onto the leather upholstery, and her temper snapped. “You’re just like your father. Completely lacking any sense of class.” I froze, my hand still gripping the door handle. In the passenger seat, her assistant, Marcus, lifted his wrist. He made a show of checking his latest-model smartwatch—the kind that costs more than a mortgage payment. “Maddy, the clients are going to be there any minute,” Marcus said, his voice smooth and condescending. “Let’s not let the small stuff derail the big picture.” Michelle grabbed a pack of wet wipes and hurled them at my chest. “Clean up that mess, then take a Lyft home. Both of you.” The engine roared to life, and the Mercedes S400L peeled away, its tires hitting a deep puddle and drenching my jeans in icy, muddy water. I stood on the curb, clutching Toby’s small, shaking hand. The wind was biting. I’d bought that car for her. I’d used the entire inheritance my father left me to pay for it in cash, just so she could “look the part” of a successful CEO among her peers. I wiped the mud from my jacket and pulled out my phone to call my sister, Beatrice. “I’m selling the car,” I said, my voice tight. “As fast as possible. And that bridge loan we talked about for Michelle’s new supply shipment? Kill it. Now.” … We waited twenty minutes for a cab. When the door finally opened, the smell of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener hit me like a physical blow. I instinctively covered my nose. The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror with a sneer. “It’s rush hour, pal. You want the ride or not?” I ushered Toby inside. The driver lit a cigarette, ignoring us completely. “Excuse me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Could you put that out? There’s a child back here.” The driver looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my damp, stained clothes. “If you’re so high and mighty, get your own car. This is a taxi.” I rolled down the window, the cold wind stinging my eyes until they watered. When we finally got home, Toby started inhaling the muffin, his small jaw working frantically. “Dad, the jump rope competition ran late today,” he whispered between bites. “I won first place. I was just… I was so hungry.” I smoothed his messy hair. “You did great, Toby. I’m proud of you.” I stripped off my ruined jacket, washed my hands, and started dinner. An hour later, a text flashed on my phone from Michelle. Meeting with clients. Won’t be home for dinner. I didn’t reply. After Toby and I finished, I scraped the portion I’d made for Michelle directly into the trash. I did the dishes, gave Toby a bath, tucked him in, and laid out his clothes for school the next morning. By the time I crawled into bed, it was almost 10:00 PM. Another text arrived. This client is a nightmare. But if we land this, we’ll finally be out of the red from last year. Once this rush is over, I’ll take you and Toby to the theme park this weekend. I typed back: Is Marcus with you? Yeah. Thank God he’s here to handle the drinks for me. I’d be underwater without him. I replied: Don’t drink too much. Get back early. You have to drop Toby at school tomorrow. Two hours later: Too buzzed to drive. Crashing at a hotel near the office. See you tomorrow. I turned my phone face down. Marcus had joined the company three years ago. In three months, he went from an intern to Michelle’s personal “special assistant.” “Marcus has talent, Jack. We need him in the executive suite.” “Marcus lives so far away; it’s not safe for him to commute late. I’ll just give him a lift.” “Marcus needs to sit in the front; we’re discussing strategy. It’s more efficient.” I had fought with her. I had asked her to fire him. She had just crossed her arms, looking at me as if I were a particularly annoying bug. “I can’t. He’s my right hand. I literally can’t function without him right now. Stop being so paranoid and focus on taking care of our son.” She couldn’t function without him. Michelle and I were college sweethearts. I remember the day we met—literally bumping into each other in the quad. I was ready to be annoyed until I saw her face, and my heart just… stopped. It was that classic, cinematic love at first sight. I chased her for six months. On my birthday, she played an acoustic version of “Your Song” for me, looking at me with such intensity I felt like the only man on earth. She’d stood on her tiptoes to kiss me. We married the week after graduation. Michelle had dreams. She wanted to build something, to give us a “legacy.” She started her firm with a small family loan. For two years, she lived at that office, and we used her first real profits to buy our house. Then Toby came. Michelle held him and whispered that he was going to be a “prince.” One night, she leaned her head against my chest. “Babe, the company is finally scaling. I need to look successful to get these investors. I need a real car. Do you think…” I gave her every penny my father had left me. And then came Marcus. I checked the clock. 2:00 AM. I needed to sleep. I was the one who had to get Toby to school, after all. The next morning, after the school run, I saw Michelle’s post on Instagram. A photo of a high-end steakhouse. Deal closed. Celebration dinner at Prime 108 tonight for the whole team! Marcus had commented with a cheeky wink emoji. I sent her a message: Company dinner? I’d like to come. A second later, my phone rang. “Jack, it’s a work thing. It’s not appropriate for you to be there.” “I’m the CEO’s husband,” I said. “Why wouldn’t it be appropriate?” I went to my closet. It was filled with dusty, outdated clothes. I pulled off my faded jeans and realized I didn’t own a single suit that still fit properly. I hadn’t bought new clothes for myself in three years. I ended up back in the jeans. I arrived at the restaurant at the same time as Michelle. She looked at me, her eyes flitting over my casual clothes with a flash of embarrassment. She didn’t say a word, just led me to a seat at the far end of the table. The rest of the team filed in. Marcus walked in looking like a catalog model in a tailored charcoal suit and Italian loafers. He slid into the seat right next to Michelle, effectively placing himself between us. He took off his smartwatch and set it on the table next to my water glass. I recognized it. The newest Ultra series. Three thousand dollars. Michelle raised her glass. “The supplies arrive tomorrow, and then we hit the ground running. Bonuses for everyone once we ship!” The table erupted in cheers. Marcus reached for a wine glass, but Michelle caught his wrist. “You worked hard enough yesterday. I’ll take this one for you.” The table started teasing them. “Careful, Marcus, Boss-lady is looking out for you!” “Seriously, Maddy, Marcus is the only reason we landed the Miller account. He’s your MVP.” “To Marcus!” someone shouted. “The man behind the woman!” Marcus picked up the glass of warm lemon water Michelle had poured for him. “Hey, it’s all for the company. Let’s eat before it gets cold.” The man behind the woman. The words felt like a physical weight in my chest. I looked at Marcus. There was a faint, purple-red mark on the side of his neck, partially hidden by his collar. I looked at Michelle. She had a matching one, slightly more visible, just below her earlobe. Michelle began peeling shrimp, one after another, placing them on Marcus’s plate. Marcus made a show of protesting. “Alright, Maddy, I’m stuffed. Give some to Jack.” He slid two shrimp from his plate onto mine. I didn’t touch them. Michelle wiped her fingers. “Jack, I thought you loved shrimp. Eat up.” So she remembered that, at least. The table was covered in dishes Michelle had ordered—dozens of things, none of which I particularly liked. She had spent years navigating the corporate world; she was a master of social graces and knowing people’s tastes. She just didn’t care about mine. In front of me was a plate of Sweet and Sour Pork—Marcus’s favorite. Marcus picked up a piece of pineapple and dropped it on my plate. “Jack, you should just relax and enjoy being a stay-at-home dad,” Marcus said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Leave the stress of the company to me. I’m happy to carry the load for Michelle.” Michelle looked at him, her expression softening into something like adoration. I’m allergic to pineapple. I quietly moved the piece to the side of my plate. Michelle’s face darkened. “Jack, don’t be rude. Marcus is trying to be nice. Eat it.” “You forgot,” I said quietly. “I’m allergic.” “Oh, for God’s sake, stop making excuses. I’ve never seen you have a reaction. You’re just trying to make a scene.” She picked up the pineapple with her own chopsticks and dropped it back onto my plate. “Eat. It.” I ate it. Within minutes, my face began to flush and burn. I excused myself to the restroom. I tried to splash cold water on my face, but the heat was spreading. My phone buzzed. It was Beatrice. I have a buyer for the Mercedes. A private collector. Cash offer, he can close today. Jack… is she hurting you? The dam finally broke. I crouched on the floor of the stall, hand over my mouth to stifle the sound of my sobbing. I stood up, wiped my face, and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, my skin splotchy from the reaction. The car was gone. And so was she. That night, Michelle brought home a box of Benadryl. “You shouldn’t have come today,” she said, her voice cold. “You’re a house husband, Jack. Going to events like that just makes everyone uncomfortable. You don’t fit in anymore.” I looked at her, my vision finally clear. “And whose fault is it that I’m a ‘house husband’?” Michelle’s tone softened slightly. She tried to step into my space, to wrap her arms around me. “Look, I know these last few years have been hard on you. But it hasn’t been easy for me either. Everything I do, I do for you and Toby.” I pushed her hands away. “We both know who you’re doing it for.” She slammed the medicine down on the table. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately! You’re so paranoid.” She started packing a small overnight bag. “I have to travel for work the next few days. Just take care of Toby. And tell your sister to send that money for the supplies. We need it urgently.” The door slammed. For years, Michelle had used the “cash flow” excuse to borrow from Beatrice. The first time: A client is late on a payment. The second time: We’re expanding the marketing department. The third time: We need new equipment… Michelle always told me, “I’m doing this for us. Your sister is helping our family.” And I believed her. I was the one who begged Beatrice for the money every single time. This time, she wanted sixty thousand dollars for “new materials.” I asked Beatrice to send me the full history of the transfers she’d made to Michelle. $10,000. $20,000. $25,000. $30,000… Total: $185,000. Michelle hadn’t paid back a single cent. She always said later. Always when we’re profitable. I saved the screenshots to a private folder. While cleaning the house later that night, I found a receipt tucked into the back of a drawer. Luxury Watch Boutique. $36,800. February 5th. I remembered February 5th. That was the day Michelle had begged for forty thousand dollars to pay “staff holiday bonuses.” I had practically got on my knees to convince Beatrice to lend it. Michelle had turned around and spent nearly all of it on a watch for Marcus. I opened Instagram and searched for Marcus’s profile. It wasn’t private. His latest post was tagged in Miami. A few days of much-needed R&R. The photo was of a woman’s back as she looked out over the ocean. I’d know those shoulders anywhere. It was Michelle. I scrolled down. Headed to Miami! First class is the only way to fly. Early Christmas gift from the boss. Love it. Business trip—Boss got the penthouse suite. Gotta keep grinding. Salary doubled this year! Long commute is over—Boss rented me a place right by the office. She’s the best! I scrolled all the way to the first post. Starting the new job. The CEO is a total babe. A notification popped up from Toby’s school group chat. Spring uniform fees and field trip dues: $1,080. Please pay by Friday. I checked my bank balance. $325. For years, Michelle told me we were “tight” and I needed to be frugal. I had listened. I had shopped at discount grocers while she bought Marcus smartwatches and penthouse stays. The phone rang. It was Beatrice. “Jack, where’s the car? I’m here with the buyer.” I looked out at the Mercedes in the driveway. It had cost over a hundred thousand dollars. In three years, I had driven it maybe five times. The buyer did a walk-through. He was happy. Sixty-five thousand dollars, wire transfer in three days. Three days later, Michelle returned. She didn’t look tired at all. She looked radiant. “God, I’m exhausted,” she sighed, dropping her bags. “Business trips are draining. Do me a favor and unpack for me? I have to get to the office.” She tossed the keys toward me and walked out. That afternoon, I went to her office. Her door was locked. I heard voices inside. Marcus. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again, harder. Michelle’s voice came through the door, sharp and annoyed. “I said I was resting! No interruptions!” I didn’t say a word. I just kept knocking. Finally, the lock turned. Michelle stood there, her hair slightly disheveled. She blinked when she saw me. “Jack? What are you doing here? You know you shouldn’t be here.” “Toby left something in the car,” I said calmly. “I need the keys.” I stepped past her into the office. I saw a shadow move behind the large filing cabinet. Michelle grabbed her purse and fished out the keys. “Here. Go find it and bring them right back.” I took another two steps in. I looked at the leather executive chair behind her desk. There was a damp, dark patch on the seat. Michelle touched her nose nervously. “I… I spilled some water earlier.” I looked at the cabinet where the shadow was hiding. I looked back at her. “Go on,” she urged. “I have a meeting.” I turned and walked out. As the door clicked shut, I heard the low, muffled sound of Marcus’s laughter. The car buyer called ten minutes later. The sixty-five thousand dollars hit my account. I felt a sudden, massive weight lift off my shoulders. The loss in value on the car didn’t matter. It was the price of my freedom. An hour later, Michelle called. “Did you find it? Bring the keys up. I have to go meet a client.” “And did you talk to Beatrice? Where’s the money? If we don’t get those materials, we’re going to be in breach of contract. That’s a huge penalty, Jack. Are you even listening to me?” I hung up. I texted Beatrice: The car is gone. It’s done. Now, let’s get your money back. Michelle called again. “Jack! What is wrong with you? Has staying home with a kid finally rotted your brain? The whole company is waiting on this! If this deal dies, it’s on your head!” I hung up again. I stood in the lobby of her building and watched her come out of the elevator, her face contorted with rage. Marcus was right behind her, adjusting his tie. As she approached, I noticed the hem of her skirt was still slightly damp. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she hissed. “And your sister—she was supposed to wire the funds two days ago! Give me the keys. Now.” “Where’s the car?” she screamed, looking at the empty spot in the parking lot. “It was right there!” Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Beatrice. Michelle opened it, and I watched the color drain from her face until she had to grab a pillar to stay upright.

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My best friend walked down the aisle in a white wedding dress. Without a second thought, I stormed the altar. Right there, in front of a hundred gasping friends and family members, I slapped her across the face. Twice. Her groom. Her parents. Her soon-to-be in-laws. Not a single one of them stepped forward to stop me. As she stared at me, her eyes wide with a terror I didn’t quite recognize, I raised my hand again. “I’m calling the police!” she screamed, her voice shrill and trembling. The groom, standing rigidly beside her, finally moved. He reached out and clamped a hand over her wrist, pulling her phone down. “If you dare call the cops,” he said, his voice dead and hollow, “I am canceling this wedding.” 1. Before I struck her, I had asked a very serious question. “Why did you choose a white dress?” My best friend, Daisy, hadn’t even blinked. “What else is a bride supposed to wear? It’s a wedding. You wear white.” The blood drained from my face. I took a step closer, raised my hand, and let it connect violently with her cheek. The crack echoed through the vaulted ceilings of the estate. A maid of honor assaulting the bride at the altar—it was unheard of. The pews erupted into hushed, frantic whispers. What kind of bad blood is between them? they murmured. What could possibly drive Betty to attack Daisy on the happiest day of her life? Daisy was completely stunned by the blow. She stumbled back in her towering heels, almost tripping over her own cathedral-length train. Chad, her groom, stood merely inches away. He didn’t flinch. He just watched. “Betty, are you out of your damn mind?!” Daisy roared, pressing a manicured hand to her reddening cheek. “If you have a problem with me, use your words! Why are you attacking me out of nowhere?” “Are we still best friends?” I asked. My voice was eerily steady. “Yes!” she snapped back. It was supposed to be an undeniable truth. Daisy rubbed her swelling jaw, her eyes pooling with tears of pure victimization. “So whatever it is, just tell me. I know you have a temper, Betty, but you can’t just hit people.” I forced the bile down my throat. “Do you honestly not know why I just hit you?” Daisy stared at me, genuinely baffled, and shook her head. She paused, pretending to search her memory. “Did I do something to betray you?” I let out a long, heavy breath and beckoned her closer with a curl of my finger. “Come here,” I whispered. “I’ll tell you.” The second Daisy leaned in, I swung again. Crack. 2. Whatever fragile peace had settled over the room in the last two minutes shattered instantly. I had put the full weight of my shoulder into that second slap. A thin line of blood gathered at the corner of Daisy’s mouth. The shock mutated into pure, unadulterated rage. “What is wrong with you, Betty?!” she shrieked, spitting venom. “I gave you the benefit of the doubt, and you hit me again?!” But what seemed to infuriate her even more was the stoic silence of the man who was supposed to be protecting her. “Chad, are you even a man?!” she screamed at him. “Your wife is being battered in front of you, and you haven’t said a single word!” Below the altar, the affluent guests were practically buzzing with scandalous theories. “Do you think the maid of honor is sleeping with the groom? I mean, the three of them practically grew up in the same country club.” “Wait, did the bride steal him from her? Is this some twisted revenge plot?” “Honestly, the maid of honor always looked better with Chad anyway…” “Enough!” Daisy hollered at the crowd. She whipped her head back toward us, squeezing out two perfect, trembling tears. She looked between me and Chad, the picture of a wronged woman. “Is that it, Betty? Are you in love with my husband?” She turned to Chad, her voice cracking. “And you? Are you still hung up on her?” Chad’s jaw tightened. He offered no defense, no denial. “I have absolutely zero interest in your husband,” I told her, my tone flat. “But I am still going to hit you again.” Daisy scrambled backward, genuine fear finally breaking through her theatrical outrage. “Betty, please. This is my wedding. The most important day of my life. Can we just talk about this like adults? Please, no more.” I looked at her. I looked at the face I had known since we were seven years old. And I shook my head. “No.” That was the breaking point for the crowd. Watching a bride weep in her ruined makeup was too much for the guests to bear. The murmurs turned into outright condemnations. “She’s just a jealous, bitter spinster,” someone muttered loudly. “Ruining a wedding like this? They’re supposed to be sisters. She’s acting like a mortal enemy.” A few of Daisy’s sorority sisters finally broke rank, rushing up the steps to physically block me. “Back off, Betty,” one of them hissed. “Whatever she did, you don’t do this today. Assault is a felony. If you don’t step down right now, we’re having security throw you out!” My own parents, mortified by the social suicide I was committing in front of the city’s elite, hurried up the aisle. My mother grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “Betty, stop this madness! We let you get away with your tantrums when it’s just you two girls behind closed doors, but this is the Marks’ daughter! Do not ruin this family’s day!” My eyes dropped to the hem of the white dress. My hands curled into fists at my sides, and then, slowly, I raised one again. “Mom. Dad. I’m sorry,” I said, my voice thick with absolute conviction. Before they could react, I lunged forward, dodging the bridesmaids, and clamped my hand around Daisy’s arm. She shrieked, trying to throw herself behind her parents, who had just reached the altar. “Mom! Dad! Help me! Get her out of here!” But in a moment that defied all logic, Mr. and Mrs. Mark instinctively stepped aside. They left her entirely exposed. I would have landed the third slap right then and there, had my father not tackled me by the waist, dragging me backward. My dad, a man who built his entire life on stoic, quiet diplomacy, was vibrating with rage. “What is wrong with you?!” he bellowed. “Is this how I raised you?!” My mother was frantic, adjusting her pearls as if fixing her jewelry could fix the scandal. “Betty, you are acting like a street thug! If you lay another finger on Daisy, I will disown you. I mean it!” Daisy collapsed onto the marble floor, sobbing hysterically. It was a gut-wrenching sound, the kind of crying that tears at your chest. But as I stood there, listening to it, my heart remained entirely stone. The standoff stretched. Bizarrely, it was Mr. Mark who broke the tension, turning to comfort my father. “Deep breaths, Richard. Betty wouldn’t do this without a reason.” Mrs. Mark—Daisy’s own mother—turned and snapped at the weeping bride. “Get up off the floor, you’re making a spectacle of yourself. Betty’s upset. If she needs to hit you a few times to get it out of her system, let her.” Daisy froze, her mouth falling open. She stomped her foot against the marble. “Mom! Dad! Which one of us is your actual daughter?!” A wave of profound confusion washed over the congregation. If you had walked in blind, you would have sworn I was the Marks’ flesh and blood. I looked at my parents, my chest tight. “Mom, Dad. Even if you disown me right here and now… I am going to deliver this third slap.” My parents stared at me, paralyzed. They knew me. They knew that once I locked onto a truth, I was immovable. And they knew they could never actually disown me. Daisy, realizing no one was coming to her rescue, tried to swing at me. But I had rowed Division I crew for four years; she had skipped gym class since high school. I caught her wrist effortlessly, twisting it down, and rolled up my silk sleeve. I braced my footing, preparing for the final strike. She curled in on herself, covering her stomach with both hands, and screamed, “Stop! You can’t hit me! I’m pregnant!” 3. “And?” I asked. The word dropped from my lips like ice. Even the wedding officiant couldn’t take it anymore. He stepped out from behind the podium, holding his hands up. “Miss, you’ve gone too far. She’s carrying a child. You cannot strike a pregnant woman.” Daisy nodded frantically, turning her desperate, tear-streaked face toward Chad’s parents in the front row. “Mr. Peterson! Mrs. Peterson! Please, have security throw her out! I’m carrying the first heir to the Peterson family!” The silence from the groom’s side of the aisle had been deafening. Finally, the matriarch of the family spoke. Mrs. Peterson offered a tight, terrifyingly polite smile. “Betty, darling. Let’s just cool our tempers. Whatever grievance you have, we will personally ensure you are compensated once the ceremony concludes.” I let out a harsh, barking laugh. “And what if I decide I’m going to hit her right now? Are the Petersons going to try and stop me?” Mr. Peterson’s face hardened. He was a man used to giving orders, not taking ultimatums. “What exactly are you implying, Betty?” “I’m implying that if you step in my way, my family’s venture capital firm will immediately pull the funding for the Peterson-Holdings merger.” The two Peterson elders exchanged a rapid, calculating glance. Daisy, emboldened by her pregnancy, thrust her chin out. “I am carrying the Peterson golden grandchild! My in-laws would never let you humiliate me over a business deal!” To the absolute horror of the entire room, Mr. Peterson let out a booming, jovial laugh. He stepped forward and practically pushed Daisy back into my line of fire. “Betty, sweetheart, hit her as much as you need to. Just don’t put her in the hospital.” The collective gasp in the room sucked all the oxygen from the air. A billionaire father-in-law, willingly offering up his pregnant daughter-in-law to be physically assaulted to secure a corporate merger. The Petersons and my family were old money, apex predators in this city, but this level of transactional cruelty was staggering. Daisy’s eyes were bloodshot. She dropped to her knees, clutching Mrs. Peterson’s designer gown. “Mom, you can’t let her do this. What if she hurts the baby?” Mrs. Peterson hesitated for a fraction of a second. She read the cold, hard math in her husband’s eyes. The merger was worth billions; a pregnant daughter-in-law was replaceable. She patted Daisy’s hair with a chilling detachment. “Daisy, dear, if Betty needs to get this out of her system, just take the hit. I promise I’ll buy you that villa in Tuscany you wanted as an apology.” Daisy looked at her like she was a monster. “How can you say that?! I am going to be a Peterson! If she slaps me, she’s slapping your family’s legacy! If you let her do this to me, I’ll be a laughingstock!” Mrs. Peterson’s veneer of politeness vanished. She scoffed, her gaze turning icy. “Getting knocked up out of wedlock is what made you a laughingstock. Now stop wasting our time. Take the slap so we can finish this damn wedding.” With a flick of her wrist, Mrs. Peterson signaled her private security. Two massive men in suits stepped onto the altar and pinned Daisy’s arms behind her back. Mrs. Peterson smiled at me, sweet as arsenic. “Go right ahead, Betty.” Throughout all of this, Chad remained slouched against a floral pillar in the corner. He hadn’t moved a muscle. He looked like a ghost watching his own funeral. The romantic facade of high-society love was rotting right in front of us. Against the weight of billions of dollars, a ten-year romance meant absolutely nothing. Daisy glared at me, her chest heaving, pure hatred radiating from her. “Betty. If you touch me one more time, I swear to God, I will destroy you.” I reached out and grabbed her by the jaw, tilting her face up to the light, taking my time to find the perfect angle. “Okay,” I whispered, my voice devoid of emotion. “I’ll be waiting.” Seeing the deadness in my eyes, panic finally overtook her rage. She knew this slap wasn’t going to be a warning. It was going to be an execution. “I’m calling the cops!” she shrieked, thrashing against the guards. “Someone call 911!” The guests below instantly woke from their stupor, dozens of hands diving into designer purses and suit jackets to retrieve their phones. That was when Chad, who had been a statue for the last ten minutes, snapped to life. He vaulted up the stairs, violently snatching the microphone from the officiant’s trembling hands. “Nobody calls the police!” his voice boomed over the speakers, rough and jagged. At his command, the Peterson security detail flooded the aisles, swiftly confiscating phones from the bewildered guests. The crowd stared at Chad, deeply unsettled. When Daisy was being beaten, he had stared at the ceiling. The moment she mentioned the police, he sprang into action. To the room, the narrative was crystal clear: Chad was protecting me. “Oh my god, he really is sleeping with Betty. He’s letting his own wife and unborn child get trampled just to keep his mistress out of jail.” Daisy looked at me, then wrenched her neck to stare at Chad. The betrayal in her eyes was almost profound. “Chad. Are you seriously sleeping with her behind my back?” Chad didn’t defend himself. He didn’t even look at her. “How could you do this to me?!” Daisy sobbed, trying to rip her arms free to hit him. “After everything? I am carrying your child!” He stepped forward, grabbed her wrists, and shoved her backward with a force that made the crowd gasp. “That’s enough,” he said, his voice laced with pure venom. “You ungrateful, heartless bastard!” she screamed. I watched her cry. The tears looked real. The agony looked real. But my hand was still itching to deliver that third strike. Daisy aggressively wiped the mascara-stained tears from her face. She looked at Chad, a dark, desperate threat in her eyes. “And what if I call the police anyway?” A strange, twisted look of relief flashed across Chad’s face. He let out a dark, empty chuckle. “If you call the cops, I’ll divorce you before the ink on the marriage certificate dries.” Daisy froze. She hadn’t expected him to drop the nuclear option so casually. “You… you would divorce me? Over a phone call? Have you lost your damn mind?” “Dial the number,” Chad said, staring her dead in the eyes. “And I walk.” Mrs. Peterson rushed forward, grabbing Daisy’s arm. “Daisy, don’t be stupid! It’s one slap. Are you really going to throw away a billionaire marriage over a bruised cheek?” Truthfully, I was just as curious. How far was Chad willing to go? Was he really willing to detonate his own life over this? Chad and Daisy had been together for ten years. They were the golden couple of our social circle. He treated her like royalty; she was the sun he orbited. Yet today, his apathy was suffocating. None of us—not the guests, not his parents—could understand why he was marrying her if he clearly despised her this much. But I knew. I was about to force the truth out into the light. Faced with Chad’s absolute coldness, Daisy seemed to shatter. Everyone in the room assumed the wedding was over. Suddenly, Daisy broke free from the guards, charged at me, and shoved me hard. I stumbled backward, my heels catching on the altar stairs, and I hit the floor. She stood over me, trembling with a fury that felt entirely alien to the girl I grew up with. The sweet, gentle Daisy was gone. “Are you happy now, Betty?!” she screamed, her voice tearing. “Are you determined to ruin my life?! If it weren’t for you, none of this would be happening! Chad is going to divorce me, and it’s all your fault! How can you be this evil?!” Was I? I was burning a two-decade friendship to the ground. I was destroying my family’s reputation. I was doing this knowing that absolutely no one in this room understood my motives. But the girl standing over me? She knew. She had to know. I pushed myself up off the floor, dusting off my dress. “I will tell you exactly why I need to slap you a third time,” I said quietly. “Right after I do it.” Daisy tilted her chin up, closing her eyes like a martyr awaiting the guillotine. She braced for the impact. But I didn’t move. My hands stayed at my sides. Daisy cracked an eye open, her chest heaving. “What are you waiting for? Do it!” I looked at her, and I delivered a sentence that made the entire room freeze. “Didn’t you want to call the police? I’m waiting for you to call them.” Daisy’s eyes went wide. My utter lack of fear drove her over the edge. “You think you’re so untouchable, Betty! You think just because your family has money, you can torture me and get away with it!” She yanked a burner phone from the folds of her dress. “Fine! Let’s see how arrogant you are when they’re putting you in handcuffs!” She dialed 9-1… Before she could hit the final digit, Chad lunged. He snatched the phone from her hand and smashed it against the marble floor. The plastic casing shattered into a dozen pieces. “I SAID NO COPS!” His voice tore from his throat, a ragged, guttural roar that echoed off the high ceilings. He signaled his assistant, who immediately rushed forward with a manila folder. Chad ripped it open, pulling out a pre-signed divorce settlement. “Did you think I was playing a game with you? You make that call, and we’re going to the courthouse right now.” Tears streamed down Daisy’s face, ruining whatever makeup was left. She was trapped in an impossible corner, vibrating with indecision. I calmly reached into my designer clutch and pulled out my own phone. “If you won’t call them,” I said softly, “I will.”

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My husband bought me a mascara. After seven years together, Bennett—a man who couldn’t tell the difference between foundation and concealer if his life depended on it—still didn’t understand why I spent forty minutes at the vanity every morning. But he loved to watch. He loved to compliment me. Curious, I asked him how he even knew I was running low. He scratched the back of his neck, giving me that boyish, lopsided grin. “You usually only pump the wand twice before applying it. Last week, I counted six pumps. I figured it was drying out.” My throat tightened. It was such a small, observant detail—the kind of thing that makes you believe your marriage is an impenetrable fortress. I thought this was what a “good” marriage looked like. It wasn’t until six months later, while deep-cleaning the guest room, that I found a crumpled receipt tucked inside an old coat pocket. That mascara—the one I had treated like a precious heirloom, saving it for date nights and special occasions—wasn’t a gift. It was a “Gift with Purchase.” A freebie that came with a bottle of expensive, high-end perfume. The kind of perfume I didn’t own. 1 I stood in the bathroom for a long time, clutching that wrinkled slip of paper. The mascara sat on the counter: a sleek black tube with gold lettering. I had opened it so carefully, cherished it so much. A “free gift.” It turned out I was just basking in the glow of someone else’s luxury. A cold chill settled in my marrow. If the mascara was here, where was the perfume? The question sat on my chest like a lead weight. When Bennett came home, I found myself sniffing his coat when he wasn’t looking. When he showered, I’d “accidentally” walk past his phone, hoping to catch a glimpse of the screen. But everything seemed normal. He still walked through the door shouting, “Hey, honey, I’m home!” He still brought me a bouquet of flowers every Friday. But the weeds of suspicion had already taken root in my heart, growing wild and suffocating. A week later, I decided to drop by his office with a surprise lunch. Through the slight crack in his blinds, I saw a woman I didn’t recognize. She was wearing a pencil skirt and a deep V-neck blouse, leaning casually over Bennett’s desk, pointing at a file and laughing. Bennett was leaning back in his chair, a relaxed, genuine smile on his face. She looked young. Beautiful. Vibrant. They were in their own world—a world of deadlines and inside jokes that I had no part of. My blood turned to fire. I didn’t think; I just pushed the door open. “Bennett!” They both jumped. The girl straightened up, her gaze raking over me with casual indifference. “And you are?” “I’m his wife!” My voice was shrill, vibrating with a rage I couldn’t contain. Before I could stop myself, I swung. My palm connected with her cheek in a sharp crack. “Is this how you dress to seduce other people’s husbands? Have you no shame?” The entire floor went silent. Every head turned. Bennett’s face darkened instantly. He grabbed my wrist, his grip tight and punishing. “What the hell is wrong with you?” “They were practically on top of each other!” I screamed at the room. “Do you all think I’m blind?” “Shut up, Lauren!” He hissed, shoving my hand away. “This is Natalie. She’s the new temp. She’s getting married next month and leaving the firm. She was literally handing in her resignation.” Married? I froze. Natalie held her cheek, a cold, mocking sneer twisting her lips as she looked me up and down. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. “You think every woman in the world is clawing for your husband’s leftovers? It’s always the housewives who have nothing else going for them that treat their husbands like prizes.” A few people in the cubicles nearby snickered. My face burned with a heat so intense I thought I might catch fire, followed by a bone-deep cold. Bennett wouldn’t even look at me. “Stop embarrassing yourself. Go home. Now.” “Bennett…” “Go!” I walked out of that building under a firing squad of judgmental stares. In the elevator mirror, I saw a woman with frizzy hair, bloodshot eyes, and a pathetic insulated lunch bag. I had made a fool of myself. I knew that. But more than the embarrassment, I was terrified of losing him. When he came home that night, his face was a mask of resentment. I tried to apologize immediately. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. I was just—” “Whatever.” “But the perfume… I found the receipt, Bennett. Who was it for?” His thumb froze over his phone screen. He looked up, his brow furrowed in a deep, weary line. “It was for a client, Lauren. An important client. A woman. Are you satisfied now?” He tossed his phone onto the sofa, his voice dripping with irritation. “Can you stop being so paranoid? My job is stressful enough without coming home to a private investigator.” “I didn’t mean—” “Then what did you mean?” He stood up, towering over me. “Look at yourself. You’re turning into one of those neurotic, bitter women. I work myself to the bone so you can have this life, and this is how you repay me? By picking fights?” The room felt like it was spinning. I stood there, mouth open, completely silenced by his conviction. For the next few days, I was the perfect wife. I cooked, I cleaned, I barely breathed a word. I was sorting his shirts by color for the laundry when a flash of crimson caught my eye. On the underside of his collar, near the left side of his neck. A smudge of lipstick. A kiss. My hands began to shake uncontrollably. My gut hadn’t lied to me. He was cheating. When Bennett walked in that evening, I held the shirt up in front of him like a flag of war. He blinked, a look of pure absurdity crossing his face before it hardened into cold mockery. “Lauren.” He shook his head, his voice dangerously quiet. “Do you want me to be cheating on you? Is that it? Would that make you happy?” “The lipstick, Bennett. Explain the lipstick.” “I don’t know! We went to a happy hour with the team. People get crowded, people bump into each other. Is it that hard to believe?” He stepped closer, his voice rising. “Are you so bored with your life that you’re praying for me to have an affair?” “But the evidence—” “Oh, the ‘evidence’?” He let out a harsh, dry laugh. “Then call the cops! Sue me! Do whatever you want since you’ve already decided I’m a monster!” I couldn’t breathe. Tears blurred my vision. How did we get here? Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He stepped away to answer it. The second he heard the voice on the other end, his irritation vanished, replaced by a soft, urgent concern. “Yeah. Okay. Don’t panic. I’m coming right now.” “Bennett!” My voice broke. “We aren’t finished. Where are you going?” He didn’t even look back. He grabbed his keys and headed for the door. “Who was that?” I tried to grab his arm. Slam. The door hit the frame with a deafening thud. He was gone. And I was alone in the silence, drowning. 2 The cold war lasted for days. I couldn’t sleep, and my stomach was in a constant state of revolt. Everything I ate came right back up. Two pink lines appeared on the plastic stick. I went to the clinic to confirm it. I sat in the waiting room, clutching my ticket, surrounded by happy couples. Husbands were rubbing their wives’ backs, whispering about names and nurseries. I sat on a plastic chair, feeling like a ghost. “Mommy, I’m thirsty.” “Hold on, honey. Daddy went to get you some water.” The voice caught my attention. I looked up, and the blood drained from my face so fast I felt faint. The woman was plain-faced, wearing no makeup, sitting next to a boy who looked about five. And the man walking toward them with a gentle, doting smile? My husband. Bennett unscrewed the cap of a water bottle and handed it to the woman before naturally leaning down to adjust the straw for the little boy. In the middle of a sweltering July, I felt like I was standing in a blizzard. My knuckles were white against the ultrasound referral in my hand. “Bennett.” My voice was a raspy whisper. His smile died. His face went pale, then hard, and his first instinct—his very first instinct—was to pull the woman’s hand behind his back, shielding her. “What are you doing here?” “I think I should be asking you that,” I said, my voice trembling. “Who is she? Whose child is that?” Bennett stepped toward me, lowering his voice into a sharp hiss. “Not here. Haven’t you embarrassed me enough at the office? Do you have to do it at a hospital, too?” “Embarrassed you?” The tears started falling. “Bennett, look me in the eye and tell me who she is! If you’re man enough to have a second family, be man enough to admit it!” Heads were turning. The woman looked down, pulling the boy into her lap. Bennett’s expression shifted to pure disgust. “Enough!” he barked. “Just go home, Lauren. Now.” “I want a divorce.” My voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from someone else. A sharp, pulling pain radiated through my lower abdomen. I looked at him and added, very softly, “I’m pregnant.” Bennett froze. The air between us turned to lead. “Mr. Miller, please… don’t do this.” The woman finally spoke. Her voice was soft, melodic, and seemingly full of regret. She stepped forward, looking at me with wide, tearful eyes. “Ma’am, please don’t misunderstand. I work for your husband. My ex-husband… he’s dangerous. I’m here to document injuries.” She pulled back her sleeve to reveal a nasty purple bruise on her forearm before quickly covering it. “Mr. Miller saw that I was struggling alone with a child and offered to help. He didn’t tell you because he didn’t want you to worry. It’s all my fault…” She began to cry—quiet, delicate sobs. The boy hugged her leg and looked at Bennett with big, watery eyes. “Uncle Bennett…” Bennett looked shaken. He looked at the woman—Trisha—then at me, sighing as he moved toward me. “Lauren…” He reached out, then hesitated, his voice softening. “I’ve missed you. Let’s just go home. We can talk about this properly, okay?” He pulled me into a hug. I was stiff, but the familiar scent of his cologne and detergent washed over me. I thought about college, when he skipped meals to buy me a birthday cake. I thought about our first tiny apartment, sharing instant noodles. I thought about the day he got his first big bonus and spun me around, shouting, “We’re finally going to have a real home, baby!” Seven years. From college sweethearts to a beautiful house in the suburbs. So many good memories. And now, a baby. I was just being paranoid, right? I told myself. Why would he throw away seven years of history for a divorced mother? The dam broke. I buried my face in his chest and sobbed until I couldn’t catch my breath. All the doubt and pain seemed to pour out of me. “Don’t be upset,” he whispered. “It’s my fault. I should have told you.” Trisha stepped closer, pulling out her phone. “Lauren, let’s exchange numbers. From now on, if Mr. Miller helps me with anything, I’ll clear it with you first. I never want to be the cause of a misunderstanding again.” I thought the storm had passed. I thought my life was back on track. I was a fool. After that, Bennett stopped sleeping in the guest room. But he started coming home later and later. It was always “overtime,” “meetings,” or “business trips.” He finally agreed to come to my twelve-week ultrasound. We were walking toward the door when his phone rang. He took the call, then turned to me with a look of practiced regret. “Emergency at the office, honey. I have to go. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” I rubbed my belly, staring at the empty seat beside me in the waiting room. Late that night, I was scrolling through Facebook. I found Trisha’s profile. She had posted a photo of a chalkboard that said Parent-Teacher Night. In the corner of the frame, a man’s hand rested on a school desk. He was wearing the Rolex I had bought Bennett for his birthday last year. The caption read: Toby said it was so nice not to be the only kid without a dad there tonight. I stared at the photo, my skin turning to ice. When Bennett crawled into bed at 2 AM, I didn’t even turn on the light. I just asked him. Again. He didn’t even flinch. “Trisha is a single mom, Lauren. She has no one. I went to help out. Is that a crime? Does every other child in the world have to suffer because you’re insecure?” “What about the child in my womb?” I screamed. “Is your child important, or is hers? You promised to be at my ultrasound, but you were at a PTA meeting for a kid that isn’t yours! Bennett, who are you a husband to? Who are you a father to?” “You’re heartless,” he said coldly. “I’m tired of the drama. I’m going to sleep.” The next day, I went to his office. I needed to know the truth. I was in the restroom stall when I heard two women come in, laughing and gossiping. “Did you see Trisha’s new bag? A Chanel flap. That’s like, six grand. Where does a secretary get that kind of money?” “Where do you think? Bennett Miller. He picks her up every morning. I heard he even paid the deposit on her new condo.” “Are you serious? Doesn’t he have a wife?” “Yeah, but Trisha’s got him wrapped around her finger. They leave together every day. He picks up her kid, takes them to dinner, tucks them in, and then goes home to the wife. It’s a full-on double life.” “God, that’s bold…” The water ran, then stopped. They left. I sat on the toilet, paralyzed. It wasn’t overtime. He was playing house with them. He was having dinner with them every night and coming home to me for the leftovers of his day. I don’t know how long I sat there. When I finally stood up, my legs were like jelly. I wanted to storm into his office and burn it all down, but my feet wouldn’t move. I couldn’t get the look of disgust he’d given me at the hospital out of my head. I wandered down to the parking garage, a ghost in my own life. I pushed open the heavy fire door and saw them. Under the dim fluorescent lights, next to his car. They were wrapped in each other’s arms. Bennett had his back to me, holding Trisha tight, stroking her hair and whispering into her ear. It was a gesture of pure, unadulterated devotion. Trisha looked over his shoulder and saw me. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. She just slowly, calmly, let a small, triumphant smile spread across her face. I stood in the shadows and watched. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just watched my life end. 3 I met with a lawyer on my own. The conference room was freezing. The lawyer told me the law was on my side, provided I was ready to pull the trigger. I just sat there, hand over my stomach, silent. As I left the office, my phone rang. “Lauren,” Bennett said, his voice clipped and busy. “Trisha and I are stuck at a meeting. Go pick up Toby from preschool and take him home. The spare key is under the mat.” A wave of absurdity washed over me. Even now, he thought I was a puppet. He thought our marriage was an unbreakable cage. “I’m not—” “I texted you the address. We’re slammed. It’s just a quick errand. Bye.” He hung up. I looked at the phone. The child was innocent, I told myself. He shouldn’t have to sit alone at a school because his mother was busy sleeping with my husband. I went. Toby saw me and scowled, but he followed me to the car. On the walk back to their apartment, he stomped ahead of me. My lower back was aching, a dull, pulsing throb. In the middle of the courtyard, he stopped and glared at me. For a five-year-old, his eyes were full of a terrifying, concentrated malice. “My mommy says you’re the reason my daddy can’t live with us.” His voice was high and cruel. “She says you’re a parasite. Why won’t that little mistake in your tummy just die already?” I froze. “What did you say?” “You’re a bad woman! I hope the baby dies!” He screamed it, and then, with a sudden, violent burst of strength, he lunged forward and shoved me with both hands right in the center of my stomach. I wasn’t prepared. I stumbled back, my heel catching on a gap in the paving stones. I fell hard, my back hitting a concrete planter before I landed on the ground. A white-hot bolt of pain shot through my abdomen. I curled into a ball, gasping, as I watched the boy turn and sprint away toward the apartment building. Then, I felt it. A warm, terrifying rush of liquid. I reached out, trying to find a hand, a voice, a miracle. But there was only the cold stone and the fading sound of a child’s laughter. At the hospital, I was jolted awake by a hand shaking my shoulder. “Where is my son?! What did you do with him?!” Trisha was standing over my bed, her eyes red and puffy, her fingers digging into my arm. “Lauren! If you hate me, take it out on me! Give me back Toby! Give him back!” The movement tore at my stitches. The world went grey. Bennett stepped into the room, pulling her back. “Where is he, Lauren? The teacher said you picked him up. Where is the boy?” His eyes were cold, accusing. I forced my cracked lips open. “He pushed me… then he ran…” “Ran? A five-year-old? Where could he go?” Bennett’s voice was a low growl. “What did you really do to him, Lauren?” Trisha began to wail. “I know I’m nothing to you! I’m just a secretary! I’ll leave, I’ll never look at him again! Just please, give me my baby back!” She collapsed to her knees by my bed, sobbing hysterically. Bennett looked at her with such agonizing pity that it felt like a physical blow to my heart. He lifted her up, cradling her. Then he turned his gaze back to me, his voice dripping with venom. “You don’t have to do this, Trisha. You’re a woman who works for what she has. You aren’t like her. She’s nothing without me.” He stepped closer, his face inches from mine. “You’re so pathetic and bitter that you took it out on a child? Do you even deserve to be a mother, Lauren?” Every word was a poisoned needle. I felt the blood pooling beneath me again, but it was nothing compared to the ice in my soul. I looked at the man I had loved for seven years. He was holding another woman, using his words to slaughter me. I didn’t cry. The tears were gone. With a surge of strength I didn’t know I had, I ripped the IV out of my hand. A bead of blood bloomed on my skin. I threw back the covers and stood up, ignoring the agonizing tear in my body and the dizzying rush of nausea. “What are you doing?” Bennett snapped. “Finding the kid.” I gripped the wall, sliding my hand along it as I shuffled toward the door. I wouldn’t let them pin this on me. Bennett blinked, stunned. Trisha continued to howl. I walked out into the hall. I asked every nurse, every visitor, describing the boy. My hospital gown was stained red. People stared, but I didn’t care. Eventually, someone called the police. They found him. He was hiding in the bushes by the apartment complex. And they found the security footage from the courtyard. In the police station, we all sat in silence as the grainy footage played. The audio was crisp. “You’re a bad woman! I hope the baby dies!” The shove was clear. My fall was violent. Bennett watched the screen, his mouth falling open. He looked at Trisha, whose face went from red to white to a sickly green. Then he looked at me, his lips trembling.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “411828”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was seven months pregnant when I went to book my suite at The Eden, the city’s most exclusive postpartum wellness retreat. I sat in the plush velvet chair, sipping cucumber water, while the intake coordinator typed my information into her tablet. Suddenly, her manicured fingers stopped. She looked up, her expression twisting into something caught between pity and disgust. “Ms. Winston? I’m sorry, but our system shows your husband, Chad, registered with us six months ago.” I blinked, a soft laugh escaping me. “There must be a mistake. We haven’t booked anything yet.” “There’s no mistake.” Her voice dropped ten degrees. “And his listed spouse certainly isn’t you.” My mind blanked. I pulled out my phone, pulling up a photo from our wedding day in Napa Valley—Chad and me, radiant under the California sun. “Look. This is my husband.” The coordinator rolled her eyes, losing any pretense of luxury-service politeness. She spun her tablet around to face me. “Mr. Winston has been married for five years. They just had their second child. Here is the scanned copy of their marriage certificate, and their intake photo from our VIP suite.” The breath was knocked out of my lungs. On the screen was a photograph of a man holding a newborn, his arm wrapped intimately around a stunning, exhausted-looking woman. They looked the picture of domestic bliss. The man in the photo was undeniably my husband, Chad. My pulse roared in my ears. If they had been married for five years… who the hell was I? … “Mr. Winston’s wife is a Platinum member here,” the receptionist sneered, her eyes raking over my swollen belly. “I don’t know what kind of scam you’re trying to pull, but you have a lot of nerve showing your face. Get out. We don’t cater to shameless mistresses here.” Before I could even process the humiliation, security was escorting me out. I stood on the bustling Manhattan pavement, the heavy glass doors of The Eden locking behind me. The August heat pressed down on my chest, but I was shivering. I kept seeing that screen. Chad’s face. Chad’s name. But the woman… I had never seen her before in my life. Why would Chad hide an entire family from me? A hot, blinding spike of rage pierced through my shock. My fingers trembled as I dialed his number. I needed to hear his voice. I needed to scream. Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system… I called again. And again. I fired off a dozen frantic texts, all vanishing into the void of undelivered green bubbles. Then, the rational part of my brain—the part that managed crises—kicked in. Chad was in London. He was in the middle of a grueling roadshow, securing international investors for Vanguard Holdings’ upcoming IPO. He was probably in a boardroom thousands of miles away. I closed my eyes, pressing a hand to my belly. Breathe. Just breathe. There has to be an explanation. And if there isn’t, I will burn his world to the ground. Just as I reached my car, my phone buzzed with a FaceTime request. Chad. I swiped answer immediately. “Chad—” “Hey, baby,” his voice was a soothing rumble. The camera flickered on, revealing his handsome, familiar face. He was in his hotel suite, his tie loosened, a half-empty espresso cup on the mahogany desk beside him. He looked utterly exhausted, the shadows under his eyes heavy and dark. For a fraction of a second, my heart ached for him. Then reality slammed back into me. “Are you hiding something from me?” I demanded, my voice cracking. “Do you have another family, Chad?” The sleepy affection vanished from his face, replaced by a stark, absolute terror. If he could have reached through the screen to drop to his knees, he would have. “Nora, what? No! God, no! You are the only woman I love.” His voice was frantic, bordering on hysterical. “There is no one else. There has never been anyone else!” Desperate to prove it, he grabbed his phone and gave me a chaotic, dizzying tour of his hotel room—the closets, the bathroom, the unmade bed—proving there wasn’t a single trace of another woman. “Who told you this? Was it a tabloid? A gossip blog?” He was pacing now, running a hand through his hair. “As soon as this IPO is done, I’m suing them into oblivion. Nora, look at me. You have to believe me. You are my entire life.” Watching his absolute panic, the tight knot in my chest began to loosen. Chad and I had met in grad school. He had been the brilliant, aloof tech prodigy, but around me, he was a stuttering mess. He harbored a crush on me for two years before finally cornering me in the library with a bouquet of hydrangeas, looking like he was walking to his execution. That stark contrast—the cold, untouchable genius who turned into a devoted golden retriever only for me—was what made me fall for him. When he proposed, we were standing on the balcony of our tiny first apartment. He hadn’t just offered me a ring; he had transferred all his founder’s shares into a trust in my name. “You are the only certainty in my life,” he had sworn under the moonlight. “Everything I build is yours. If I ever betray you, I want you to leave me with absolutely nothing. Let me burn.” Since the day we married, he had been obsessively devoted. He managed our finances, cooked dinner if I worked late, and his friends constantly teased him for never staying out past seven o’clock. How could a man like that have a secret wife and kids? “Okay,” I exhaled, leaning back against my car seat. “I believe you. But when you get home, we are getting to the bottom of this.” “I promise, baby. I love you.” I ended the call, the heavy stone in my gut finally dissolving. It had to be a mix-up. Identity theft, maybe. I would just find another retreat. Before I could start the engine, my phone rang again. It was Mark, Vanguard’s VP of Public Relations. “Nora, thank God,” Mark sounded breathless. “The lead presenter for the flagship product reveal just got into a car accident on the I-95. The press is already here. The board is panicking. I can’t reach Chad. We need you.” My blood ran cold. This press conference was the cornerstone of the IPO. If it collapsed, months of Chad’s work would evaporate. “I’m on my way,” I said, shifting into gear. Two hours later, I walked through the glass doors of Vanguard Holdings. The lobby was swarming with journalists and cameras. Mark looked like he could weep with relief when he saw me. I told him to go to the hospital to check on our presenter; I would handle the stage. I took a moment in the green room to steady my breathing, smoothing down my maternity dress. I walked out into the glaring lights of the conference hall. As I approached the podium, I noticed the front row of executives whispering furiously, averting their eyes when I looked at them. I brushed it off as pre-show jitters. I tapped the microphone, introducing myself as Chad’s wife and a majority shareholder, ready to begin the presentation. Before I could finish my first sentence, a chair scraped violently against the floor. A woman stood up. She pulled a document from her designer bag and held it up to the flashing cameras. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice dripping with venomous confidence. “If you’re the CEO’s wife… then what does that make me?” My stomach plummeted. It was her. The woman from the photo at the postpartum center. How the hell did she get past security into a closed corporate press event? I stared at her, my vision blurring. She was dressed impeccably—too impeccably. Her silk blouse, the cut of her blazer, the delicate diamond pendant resting at her throat… it was exactly my aesthetic. And slung over her arm was a limited-edition Birkin. The exact bag Chad had supposedly spent eight months on a waitlist to get for my anniversary. A fresh wave of anger washed over me. “Security!” I snapped into the microphone. “Who let her in?” The room erupted. The livestream behind me, projected onto a massive LED screen, was instantly flooded with thousands of comments scrolling at lightning speed. [Wait, is that Vicky? The lifestyle vlogger? She’s always talking about how spoiled she is by her CEO hubby!] [OMG, Vicky said on her story an hour ago she was going to confront her husband’s mistress. Vanguard’s CEO is her husband?!] Vicky—that was her name—smirked. She stepped into the aisle, holding the marriage certificate out for the cameras. “I have been married to Chad for five years. We share a bed every night. I had no idea he was keeping a pet on the side.” Her followers in the livestream chat turned into a pack of rabid wolves. [Look at her big belly! Trying to trap him with a bastard kid!] [If she’s the real wife, where’s her marriage certificate? Produce the receipts, homewrecker!] [She’s so plain compared to Vicky. Did she really think Chad would choose her? Vomit.] I gripped the edges of the podium, my knuckles turning white. “This is absurd. I am Chad’s legal wife. We built this company together.” I grabbed my phone to pull up a digital copy of our marriage license, but my hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t navigate my files. Then I remembered—in a fit of passionate, youthful rebellion right after we signed the papers at City Hall, we had framed the original but lost the digital scans during a server crash. We were currently waiting for the state to mail our newly issued copies for the baby’s birth certificate. Vicky saw my hesitation and laughed. It was a cruel, hollow sound. “I knew she couldn’t prove it. Because I am the only Mrs. Winston.” The chat screen behind me was a wall of pure hatred. [Vicky has been posting about him for years! We’ve watched them grow together. This mistress is delusional.] It made no sense. Chad worked eighty-hour weeks. Whatever free time he had, he spent curled up on the couch with his head in my lap. How could he possibly be running a secret double life and participating in a couples’ vlog? “Your certificate is a forgery,” I said, my voice projecting clearly over the murmurs of the press. “Falsifying government documents is a federal crime.” Vicky’s eyes flashed. She reached into her bag and threw a stack of glossy photographs onto the floor. They scattered across the stage. Photos of Chad as a teenager. Chad at his college graduation. Chad and Vicky, young and intertwined, looking like the perfect high-school sweethearts. Then, the heavy oak doors at the back of the conference room swung open. A little boy walked in. He had Chad’s jawline. Chad’s dark, brooding eyes. The exact way Chad carried his shoulders. It was like looking at a ghost of my husband’s past. “Mommy?” the boy called out, totally unfazed by the flashing cameras. “Who’s yelling at you in Daddy’s office?” The room went dead silent. Then, the livestream exploded. [That kid is a carbon copy of the CEO! THE AUDACITY OF THIS MISTRESS!] Vicky tilted her chin up, looking at me like I was something she had scraped off her shoe. “Give it up. Stop living in a fantasy. Not every cheap girl who opens her legs gets to become the queen of the castle.” My breath came in short, jagged gasps. The resemblance was uncanny. It was terrifying. My fingers flew across my phone screen, dialing Chad over and over. Voicemail. Voicemail. Voicemail. “Are you insane?!” I screamed into the phone, leaving a frantic audio message. “Someone is tearing your wife apart in your own boardroom! Answer the damn phone, or so help me God, we are done!” My blood felt like battery acid. I tried to ground myself in reality. Chad had looked exhausted on our call earlier. He always muted his phone when he finally crashed. It made sense that he wasn’t answering. I needed an anchor. I scrolled down and hit dial on Declan’s name. Declan was Chad’s best friend since childhood, and now a massively successful Hollywood actor. If anyone knew the truth, it was him. He picked up on the second ring. I held the phone up to the microphone. “Declan. Tell me right now. Does Chad have another family?” Declan sounded groggy, clearly waking up in a different time zone, but the sheer panic in my voice snapped him awake. “Nora? What? Who the hell is feeding you that garbage?! I swear on my life, Nora, Chad is obsessed with you. You are the only woman he’s ever loved. He doesn’t even look at anyone else!” A collective gasp rippled through the press corps. The livestream slowed down. [Wait, that’s Declan Winston. He’s an A-lister. He wouldn’t risk his career to lie for a mistress.] [But look at the kid! You can’t fake genetics like that!] I straightened my spine, staring Vicky down. “There are eight billion people in the world. People look alike. And God knows what kind of cosmetic procedures you’ve subjected yourself to. A child’s face isn’t legal proof.” Vicky’s smirk faltered, her brow furrowing. She pulled out her own phone. “Fine. Let’s ask him.” She tapped her screen and dialed Chad via FaceTime. He answered on the first ring. Vicky connected her phone to the Bluetooth projector. The massive LED screen behind me flickered, and suddenly, Chad’s face was looming over the entire room. The same face I kissed every morning. I felt a surge of triumph. He was going to clear this up. He was going to destroy her. But then Chad smiled. A soft, devastatingly fond smile. “Hey, baby,” his voice echoed through the speakers. “What are you up to?” The little boy ran to the phone. “Daddy!” Chad’s eyes crinkled with warmth. “Hey, buddy. Are you being good for Mommy?” The boy pouted, his little face scrunching up. “I am. But someone is making Mommy sad. There’s a bad lady here saying she’s your real wife. She’s yelling at Mommy in front of everybody.” A shadow crossed Chad’s face on the screen. His jaw tightened in a display of protective anger I had only ever seen him use for me. “Who the hell thinks they can walk into Vanguard and disrespect my family?” Chad’s voice was ice cold. “Vicky, my love, don’t take that. Fight back. Your husband has your back.” Before my brain could even process the psychological whiplash, Vicky lunged. Her hand cracked against my cheek with the force of a whip. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silent room. “I’ve tolerated your delusions long enough!” she shrieked. “I proved who I am! Now get out of my husband’s company!” I stumbled back, my hand flying to my stinging face. The world was spinning. “No… no, that’s impossible. That can’t be Chad. He would never…” “Give me the phone!” I lunged forward, desperate to look into the camera, to force the man on the screen to look me in the eye. Vicky panicked. She scrambled backward, clutching the phone to her chest. “Help! Help! She’s attacking me because she knows she lost!” Security guards rushed the stage, grabbing my arms. “Don’t touch me!” I screamed, wrapping my arms protectively around my stomach. “I am pregnant! If you hurt my baby, I will destroy every single one of you!” The guards froze, looking uncertainly between me and Vicky. “Ma’am… this is a press conference. You need to leave.” “Are you all blind?!” I sobbed, the betrayal tearing me apart from the inside. My mind was fracturing. Technology was too advanced now. AI deepfakes, voice modulation—it had to be fake. It had to be. Unless Chad stood in front of me in the flesh and said those words, I refused to believe my entire life was a lie. Then, salvation hit me. Martha. Chad’s foster mother. The woman who took him in when he was orphaned, who had become a true mother to me. “Fine,” I gasped, wiping a tear from my eye. “You say you’re his wife. Call Martha. Chad is out of the country, so you can fake whatever digital evidence you want. But call his mother. Let’s see who she claims as her daughter-in-law.” Martha was old money, a respected patron of the arts who spent her time between charity galas and her estate in the Hamptons. Nobody could bribe or fake Martha. When I married Chad, she had given me a vintage Cartier watch that belonged to his late mother. When I had the flu, she sat by my bed brewing chamomile tea. Just last week, she had wired me ten thousand dollars with a note that said, ‘Buy something beautiful for my grandchild.’ Vicky’s lips curled into a predatory smile. “You really want to dig your own grave? Fine.” She put the phone on speaker and dialed. The line clicked open. “Hello?” The elegant, cultured voice was unmistakably Martha’s. “Mom,” Vicky put on a flawless, trembling voice. “I’m at the office. There’s a woman here causing a scene, claiming she’s Chad’s wife. She’s being awful to me.” “Who dares touch my precious daughter-in-law?” Martha’s voice dripped with immediate, fierce protectiveness. “Hold on, darling. I am coming right now to sort this out.” The livestream erupted into mockery. [Game over. Even the mother-in-law claims Vicky.] [This Nora girl is a psycho. Someone call the psych ward.] I stared at the phone, my chest heaving. “Martha? It’s Nora! What are you talking about? It’s me!” Vicky snatched the phone away and ended the call, slapping me hard across the face again. “Shut your mouth! How dare you speak to my mother-in-law?” My hands were shaking so violently I dropped my own phone. It’s a setup. Someone is imitating her. I managed to pick it up and fired off a frantic text to Martha’s actual number, begging her to come to the Vanguard building. She replied instantly: I’m pulling up now, sweetheart. I let out a ragged breath. She was coming. The real Martha was coming to throw this imposter out. Ten minutes later, a sleek black town car pulled up to the front doors. The crowd parted. An older woman stepped out, leaning heavily on her signature silver-handled cane. Relief washed over me like a tidal wave. It was her. “Martha!” I cried out, practically running toward her, grabbing her free arm. “Thank God. Please, tell them! Tell them I’m your daughter-in-law! This crazy woman brought a kid and is trying to ruin Chad’s life!” Martha adjusted her silk scarf. She looked at me. She let the silence stretch for agonizing seconds. Then, she gently pulled her arm out of my grasp. She walked right past me, straight toward Vicky, and pulled her into a warm, maternal embrace. “Oh, my poor girl. Are you alright?” Then she turned to look at me, her eyes cold and utterly dead. “I know who you are,” Martha said, her voice projecting to the entire room. “You’re the little tramp who used to stalk my son. The one who tried to drug him and sneak into his bed.” The room gasped. “When he threw you out,” Martha continued, her tone conversational but lethal, “you were so desperate for a payday you tried to sleep with our estate manager. You are nothing but a delusional, gold-digging stalker.” I froze. The world turned to ice. “What… what are you saying? You’re not real. You can’t be real.” The livestream was a blur of vitriol. [She thinks the husband is fake, the mother-in-law is fake. Next she’ll say she’s the Queen of England.] [She got pregnant by the butler and is trying to pin it on the CEO!] I stared at the scar near Martha’s hairline—the scar she got the day of my wedding when she tripped near the altar. It was her. It was really her. Martha walked up to me, raised her hand, and slapped me so hard I tasted copper. “Stop playing the victim!” she hissed. “My only daughter-in-law is Vicky. Did you really think you could parade some bastard child in your belly and steal my family’s legacy? You disgust me.” “No!” I screamed, my voice tearing my throat. “No! You made me chicken soup when I was sick! You bought the crib for the nursery! Why are you lying?!” Vicky stepped forward, looking bored. “Are you done embarrassing yourself? Just leave. It’s pathetic.” This was a nightmare. A highly coordinated, terrifying nightmare. They were trying to erase my existence. “I’m calling the police,” I sobbed, pulling out my phone. “The police can pull the legal records. They’ll prove who I am.” Before I could dial 911, Martha swung her cane, knocking the phone out of my hand. It shattered against the marble floor. “You stupid bitch,” Martha hissed, dropping her cultured facade. “Vanguard is weeks away from going public. You want to drag the police into this and tank the stock? You want to ruin my son?!” I backed away, terrified. She was right about the stock. If the CEO was involved in a massive bigamy scandal, the IPO would crash. Chad would lose everything. Seeing my hesitation, Vicky struck. She lunged at me, grabbing a fistful of my hair. “You think you can just swoop in and steal my man? Steal the life that belongs to me?!” “Get off me!” I shrieked, trying to protect my stomach. “Throw her out!” Vicky screamed to the guards. But before they could move, Martha’s private security detail, who had followed her in, surged forward. They didn’t just grab me. They threw me to the floor. I hit the ground hard, instantly curling into a fetal position, my arms wrapped tightly around my womb. Vicky kicked me in the ribs. “Even if you die right here, Chad has enough money to bury the story!” Martha stood over me, her face contorted with rage. She kicked me directly in the stomach. “Whore!” Martha screamed. “This is for trying to ruin my son’s happiness! Die!” Agony ripped through my abdomen. It was a sharp, tearing pain that stole the oxygen from the room. I screamed, a guttural, animalistic sound of pure terror. Blood. I felt the warm, terrifying rush of blood soaking through my dress. “My baby,” I wheezed, my vision going black at the edges. “Please… call an ambulance. My baby.” Martha crossed her arms, looking down at me like I was roadkill. “Good. The bastard is gone. A piece of trash like you shouldn’t breed anyway.” Vicky knelt down, grabbing my face, her nails digging into my cheeks. “Cry all you want. Nobody cares about a dead rat.” The darkness was closing in. I closed my eyes, waiting for the end. Then, the heavy double doors at the back of the hall were practically ripped off their hinges. “Get your fucking hands off my wife!” a voice roared. It was Chad.

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