Category: English

“Harper! Please. I finally landed this absolute unicorn of a job. Just cut your hair and go for me!” “We’re identical twins, Harp. Literally the exact same face!” My brother, Hudson, clutched his heavily casted leg on the hospital bed, blubbering like an oversized, pathetic golden retriever. I gave him a cold, flat stare. “Not happening. I just quit my toxic agency job, and I am actively entering my soft life era.” “I’ll give you the entire ten-grand-a-month salary! Plus my custom-built, liquid-cooled gaming rig!” I paused. My eyes drifted to the mirror, taking in the long, waist-length waves I’d spent two years growing out. Slowly, silently, I picked up the styling shears. Look, for that kind of cash, dignity is negotiable. How hard could it be to strap down my chest, throw on a Brooks Brothers suit, and pretend to be a guy for a few weeks? I, Harper Hayes, was nothing if not adaptable. As long as I kept my head down, did the work, and remained a perfectly invisible corporate drone, I could ride this out until his femur healed, take the money, and vanish into the sunset. It was a flawless plan. Until my very first morning, when I tripped in the middle of the executive lobby, tackled the notoriously ruthless billionaire CEO to the marble floor in front of the entire company, and planted a dead-center, high-impact kiss right on his mouth. 1 “Boss, if I told you that was just a very passionate, modern corporate greeting, would you believe me?” I scrambled off him, my limbs flailing as I tried to salvage whatever was left of my brother’s career. “What department are you in? You’re fired.” Roman Brooks stood up, his face a thundercloud of pure, unadulterated rage. He was already ripping a sanitizing wipe from a dispenser on the security desk, scrubbing at his lips so hard I thought he might draw blood. Fired? Absolutely not. My ten grand! My gaming rig! Without a second thought, I dropped to my knees and threw my arms around his tailored Tom Ford trousers, hugging his thigh for dear life. “Mr. Brooks! Please! I have an eighty-year-old mother who needs medication, and a starving dog at home! I cannot lose this job!” Roman’s face turned a shade of glacial blue. He tried to yank his leg away, but I locked my grip. I was a barnacle. He was the ship. “Let. Go.” “Not until you take it back! I’ll be your corporate pack mule! I’ll scrub the toilets! Anything!” A vein pulsed visibly at Roman’s temple. Through gritted teeth, he shot a lethal glare at his Chief of Staff standing nearby. “Elias. Who the hell is this?” Elias wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Sir, this is Hudson Hayes. Your new executive secretarial assistant. He started today.” Roman looked down at me. If looks could physically sever limbs, I would be in pieces. “Fine. Hudson, is it? Go scrub every single men’s restroom in this building, from the lobby to the thirtieth floor. Now.” My eyes went wide. Ten grand a month. An absolute unicorn of a job. And my first assignment was toilet duty. I marched toward the janitorial closet, teeth grinding so hard my jaw ached, mentally cursing Hudson to the deepest pits of hell. Three hours later, I was squatting in a stall on the thirtieth floor, clutching a toilet brush, deeply questioning my life choices. My lower back was screaming. Suddenly, the heavy oak door creaked open. Footsteps echoed against the tile. Roman walked in, followed by Elias. I immediately ducked my head, scrubbing the porcelain with the manic intensity of a seasoned convict. “Hayes. Are they clean?” Roman’s voice was like ice water down my spine. “Immaculate, Mr. Brooks. You could eat a five-course meal right off the bowl.” Roman ignored me, stepping up to the urinal and unzipping his slacks. I squeezed my eyes shut, mortified. “Why are your eyes closed?” The chill in his tone sharpened. Because I’m a woman, you psychopath! I don’t want to see your junk! “Just out of profound respect for your intimidating presence, sir. I feared looking might induce a deep sense of masculine inadequacy,” I babbled, saying the first insane thing that came to mind. Roman let out a low, derisive scoff. The sound of running water echoed in the quiet bathroom. I thought I’d survived, but after he washed his hands, he didn’t leave. Instead, he walked right up to me, his dark eyes narrowing as they locked onto my chest. “You’re completely lacking in height, yet your pectorals are bizarrely prominent. Your buttons are practically screaming for mercy.” My stomach dropped into my shoes. I was wearing a heavy-duty chest binder, but Hudson’s spare dress shirt was definitely pulling tight across my bust. “I, uh… I hit the bench press really hard this weekend, sir. Swollen pecs. Huge gains.” Roman’s eyes darkened with skepticism. Without warning, he reached out, a single finger extending to poke me directly in the chest. Panic seized my throat. I recoiled violently, my heel slipping on a puddle of soapy water. I threw my arms out as I tipped backward. Roman’s reflexes kicked in—he grabbed my wrist to steady me, but my momentum was too much. With a deafening crash, we both went down. He landed flush against me, pinning me to the wet tiles. My face was buried directly in his very real, very solid chest. “Hudson Hayes!” His roar bounced off the subway tile, rattling my eardrums. “Sir, you grabbed me! I am a victim of physics!” I yelled back, terrified and out of breath. “Half a month’s pay. Gone.” He spat the words out, scrambling off me as if I were radioactive, and stormed out of the bathroom. I lay on the cold, wet floor, staring at the fluorescent lights, wanting to cry. What kind of twisted nightmare was this? For the next month, Roman Brooks made it his personal mission to break me. 2 I hadn’t been at my desk for five minutes before the intercom buzzed. It sounded less like a phone and more like a death knell. “I want a pour-over. Single-origin Ethiopian beans. High altitude. Water temperature at precisely 186 degrees.” I rolled my eyes at the blinking red light. Why don’t you just drink morning dew collected by elves, you absolute tyrant. I marched into the executive pantry, armed myself with a digital thermometer, and brewed the damn coffee. I carried it into his cavernous, glass-walled office. Roman didn’t even glance up from his tablet. He took a sip. “Too hot. Scalds the tongue. Do it again.” I swallowed the urge to dump the ceramic mug over his impeccably styled hair. I took it back. Second cup. “The grind was uneven. I can taste the over-extraction. Again.” Third cup. “You let it bloom ten seconds too long. It’s bitter. Again.” For the entire morning, I was a hamster on a wheel, running between the pantry and his desk nine separate times. By the tenth time I stood in the kitchen, staring at the steaming mug, a dark, villainous laugh bubbled up in my throat. You want to play games, Brooks? Let’s play. I reached into my bag and pulled out a small glass vial of concentrated wheatgrass, spirulina, and cayenne pepper extract I used for detoxing. It looked like swamp water and tasted like battery acid. I unscrewed the cap and dumped half the vial into the dark roast. To mask the lethal smell, I stirred in three raw sugar cubes. Wearing my best customer-service smile, I carried the toxic sludge into his office. “Your perfect cup, Mr. Brooks. Please, enjoy.” Roman took the mug, brought it to his lips, and took a generous gulp. I watched in quiet fascination as his complexion shifted through a beautiful spectrum of colors—flushed pink, sickly green, and finally, a terrifying, mottled purple. He spat it out, choking, coughing, and scrambling out of his leather chair as he bolted for his private en-suite bathroom. The sound of violent dry-heaving echoed through the open door. I stood there, blinking innocently. When he finally emerged, leaning heavily against the doorframe, his eyes were bloodshot and murderous. “Hayes! What the hell did you put in that?” “Just a holistic wellness blend, sir,” I said, my voice practically dripping with concern. “You’ve seemed a bit stressed lately. It’s an organic, cold-pressed detoxifier. Great for the gut. Even better for male vitality.” “I am docking your entire performance bonus for the month!” he rasped, gripping the collar of his shirt. “You’re staying here tonight. You’re going to audit the last ten years of expense reports for the entire C-suite. And you are not leaving this building until it’s done.” I bowed my head submissively, internally calculating how I was going to extort this lost bonus money out of Hudson. By 11:00 PM, the executive floor was a graveyard. The only light was the glow of my monitor. Roman’s office door was cracked open. He was absolutely still in there, waiting for me to crack, relishing the sight of my suffering. The stack of expense reports was a mountain. Worse, the building’s HVAC system had switched to its overnight cycle. It was blowing stale, lukewarm air. No AC. Sweat prickled at my hairline. I was boiling in the stiff button-down and the suffocating chest binder beneath it. Figuring I was the only one out here, I unfastened the top two buttons of my shirt, letting the air hit my collarbones. I slipped a portable neck massager around my shoulders, popped in my AirPods, and blasted a true-crime podcast to keep myself awake. I was deep in the zone when a shadow suddenly fell across my desk. I pulled out an earbud and blinked up slowly. Roman was standing right in front of my desk. His eyes weren’t on my face. They were locked, with alarming intensity, on the open V of my collar. I glanced down. Oh, god. The thick, beige elastic edge of my chest binder was clearly visible. I slapped a hand over my chest, violently yanking the neck massager off, and shot out of my chair. “Mr. Brooks!” I gasped. “You—you can’t just stare at a male subordinate like that!” Roman’s gaze snapped up to my face. His expression was freezing cold, but there was a strange tension in his jaw. My fingers fumbled as I frantically tried to re-button my shirt. My brain went into overdrive. “Look, I know I’m on the slender side, and maybe I have a… delicate bone structure,” I babbled, holding a massive binder of expense reports over my chest like a shield. “But that is no excuse for you to be late-night lurking over my clavicles.” His left eyelid gave a microscopic twitch. I didn’t give him a second to speak. “And for the record, this isn’t what you think it is.” Roman finally broke his silence. His voice was incredibly low, a rough gravel sound. “And what exactly do I think it is?” I choked for a fraction of a second before doubling down. “It’s a men’s orthopedic posture-correction vest.” He stared at me in dead silence. I kept shoveling the dirt. “I have severe lumbar lordosis. My chiropractor says if I don’t wear the structural support garment, my spine will eventually curve until I resemble a cocktail shrimp.” Roman’s eyes drifted back down to my chest. My scalp prickled with nervous heat. I had to keep talking to fill the terrifying quiet. “Of course, if corporate policy explicitly forbids male employees from pursuing spinal alignment, I can strip it off right now. But if the board hears that the CEO is forcing his male assistants to undress in the dark after midnight… well, the optics aren’t great.” 3 Something shifted in Roman’s expression. He stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds, opening his mouth as if to say something, before his jaw snapped shut. Without a single word, he turned on his heel and walked back into his office, shutting the door. I collapsed into my ergonomic chair, letting out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since I took the job. Too close. Surprisingly, Roman didn’t make my life a living hell the next day. But the relief was short-lived. That afternoon, Elias dropped a bomb in the executive team’s Slack channel. Team, as a reward for Q2’s incredible margins, Mr. Brooks will be personally hosting a mandatory departmental retreat this Friday at the Aspen Springs Wellness Retreat. The chat exploded with party parrot emojis. I stared at the words Wellness Retreat and broke out in a cold sweat. Aspen Springs meant hot springs. Pools. Saunas. If I had to strip down to swim trunks, the gig was up instantly. Roman stepped out of his office. He slipped his hands into his tailored pockets, his eyes cutting straight through the bullpen to lock onto me. “Hayes. This retreat is mandatory for all executive staff. Anyone who no-shows is terminated on the spot.” Friday afternoon, Aspen Springs. The outdoor geothermal pools were steaming in the crisp mountain air. The rest of the staff were already in their swimsuits, lounging with drinks. Roman was sitting at the edge of the main pool, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his waist. He looked like an underwear model—lean, broad-shouldered, with eight-pack abs that looked carved out of marble. But his eyes were fixed on the locker room doors. I shuffled out. I was wearing a full-body, UV-protective, long-sleeved neoprene surfer’s rash guard. Over that, I had layered a massive, baggy vintage band tee. I looked like a deep-sea diver who got lost on the way to a grunge concert. Roman scoffed, pushing himself up and walking toward me. “Hayes, what the hell are you wearing? Are you planning to salvage the Titanic? Take the shirt off.” I took a deep breath, molding my face into an expression of profound, tragic grief. “Sir, to be completely transparent with you, I cannot remove my clothing. Nor can I enter the water.” Roman crossed his arms, his biceps flexing. He looked highly amused. “Why? Hiding a dark secret?” “I have a severe, medically diagnosed phobia of water. And my spiritual healer specifically warned me that my rising sign is currently in a severe hydro-conflict.” My coworkers floating nearby fell completely silent, staring at me. “She said if I submerge in unpurified natural water, I will absorb toxic frequencies, suffer a spontaneous psychic break, and die instantly.” Roman’s teeth ground together audibly. “Hayes. Do you think I’m an idiot? You’re getting in the water today if I have to throw you in myself.” Before I could react, his hand shot out, grabbing the hem of my baggy T-shirt. “Take it off. I won’t say it again.” “No!” I gripped the fabric desperately. We began pulling back and forth right at the edge of the wet flagstone. My foot slipped on a patch of slick algae. I lost my balance, my flailing arm catching his shoulder, and we both tumbled backward into the deep end. The water swallowed us. I aspirated a lungful of chlorinated hot spring water, thrashing wildly as I kicked toward the surface. Roman’s arm hooked securely around my waist, hauling me up into the air. My coughing fit was violent, but it was eclipsed by the sudden, burning heat of his palm against the side of my waist. Through the wet, clinging fabric of the rash guard, his hand felt like a brand. I panicked, shoving him hard in the chest, and scrambled up the pool ladder like a drenched rat. I stood on the deck, shivering. The oversized T-shirt was now plastered to my skin. Even with the heavy chest binder, the subtle curve of my waist and hips was suddenly, glaringly obvious. Roman stayed in the water. He didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten to dock my pay. He just floated there, staring up at my dripping silhouette, his dark eyes turning unreadable and dangerously deep. He didn’t force me back into the water that day. But after we returned to the city, everything changed. The torture stopped. The insane coffee demands stopped. Instead, he just started… watching me. All the time. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. During a Tuesday briefing, I was furiously typing up minutes. I glanced up and realized he wasn’t listening to the VP of Finance at all. His eyes were locked on my throat, staring exactly at the spot where my Adam’s apple should have been. I casually reached up and popped my collar, adjusting my tie to hide my neck. As soon as the meeting ended, Roman stood up and addressed the room. “Given the stress of the quarter, I’m implementing mandatory executive health screenings. I’ve brought in a concierge medical team today. Full biometrics, skeletal analysis, and precise bodily measurements for ergonomic seating.” Measurements? My blood ran cold. Roman slowly turned his head to look at me. “Hayes. You’re up first.” The temporary medical suite was set up in an empty boardroom. It was just me, Roman, and a mild-mannered male doctor wearing a stethoscope. The doctor held up a yellow tailor’s measuring tape and gave me a warm, professional smile. “Mr. Hayes, if you could just unbutton your shirt, I need to get an accurate chest circumference.” He stepped toward me. I backed up until my shoulder blades hit the drywall. I grabbed the lapels of my suit jacket and clutched them to my chest like a Victorian maiden. “Death before dishonor!” I shouted, channeling my inner patriot. “My body is a temple! Only my future wife gets VIP access to this! I am saving myself!” The doctor froze, completely bewildered. Roman let out a dark, frustrated sigh. He snatched the measuring tape out of the doctor’s hands and closed the distance between us with three long strides. “VIP access? In this company, I make the rules. I’ll measure you myself.” The doctor gasped softly, taking the hint, and quickly scurried out of the room, shutting the door tight behind him. We were completely alone. Roman stepped into my personal space. He leaned down slightly, his breathing shallow. The faint scent of bergamot and cedar washed over me. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, making the tips of my ears burn. He held an end of the tape in each hand and reached his arms around me, essentially pulling me into a phantom embrace as he looped the tape behind my back. “Chest out,” he murmured. I went completely rigid, holding my breath so tight my lungs burned. Thank God I double-wrapped the binder today. He pulled the tape taut across my chest. As he did, his knuckles brushed lightly, accidentally, against the center of my chest, right over my heart. I felt his hands stutter and freeze. “Hayes,” he whispered, his brow furrowing. “You have broad pecs, but… why are they so incredibly soft?” The confusion in his eyes was genuine. But we were so close—so dangerously close—that I could see a faint, creeping redness crawling up his neck. Before I could invent a lie about low muscle density, his hands slid lower, tracing the line of my ribs until the tape rested around my waist. I am incredibly, embarrassingly ticklish. The moment his thumbs pressed against my sides, my knees buckled. It was a pure reflex—I flinched, shrinking away from the sensation, which resulted in me stumbling directly forward, colliding flush against his chest. Our bodies pressed together, zero space between us. Roman inhaled sharply. I felt his Adam’s apple bob against my forehead. When he spoke, his voice was thick, edged with a raw, rough friction he didn’t even try to hide. “Why is your waist… so small?” His eyes were completely black now, heavy with an intensity that felt like he was trying to x-ray straight through my button-down. Slowly, deliberately, his gaze dropped lower. His hands, still holding the tape measure, began to slide down my hips, heading straight for my backside.

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1 In my third year as Arthur Bradford’s little secret—the pretty thing he kept tucked away in a gilded-cage townhouse—his high-society fiancée finally came knocking. She didn’t throw a scene. Instead, she laid a folder on the marble kitchen island. Inside was my mother’s critical care chart, along with a quiet, icy threat: make myself disappear, or my mother’s medical support would be cut off that very night. I’ve always been a pragmatist. I valued survival over pride. Before the sun rose, I had swept my most valuable jewelry into a duffel bag, packed a single suitcase, and fled Boston in the dead of night, carrying a secret of my own: a child growing inside me. The rumor mill whispered that when Arthur discovered my empty closet, he went absolutely feral. Word was he vowed to tear the country apart to drag me back, threatening to break my legs and lock me inside that townhouse forever. I was terrified enough to stay entirely off the grid for five years. I hid in Savannah, Georgia, building a quiet, small life under a different name. But my luck ran out on the day of my son’s preschool graduation. Standing near the school gate, I froze when I saw my little boy, Toby, clinging to the tailored trousers of a very tall, very imposing stranger. “You took my twenty dollars,” Toby declared, his voice carrying over the chatter of the crowd. “That means you have to be my dad for the day!” The man gripped the hood of Toby’s green dinosaur sweater, lifting him slightly so they were eye-to-eye. A cold, dangerous smirk played on his lips. “Little con artist. You think twenty bucks buys a father?” Toby immediately dropped to his bottom on the concrete, opened his mouth, and let out a theatrical wail. “Hey, everyone, look!” he screamed, tears flowing on command. “This rich guy took a kid’s money and won’t do his job! He’s bullying an orphan!” Dozens of parents instantly whipped out their iPhones, cameras pointing at the scene. A sharp vein pulsed at the man’s temple. But what made my knees turn to jelly was his face. It was an absolute, undeniable mirror of my son’s. I retreated into the crowd, my chest tight. God help me. How on earth was Arthur Bradford in Savannah? And worse… the man I had spent five years running from had just been bought by his own son for a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. “Stop crying, kid. I’m not in the mood.” Arthur held Toby by the hood of his dinosaur sweater, his face dark enough to summon a thunderstorm. Toby took a deep, dramatic breath and let out another earth-shattering sob. It was a masterpiece of emotional manipulation. Arthur actually looked stunned. He wasn’t used to people treating his threats as an invitation to make more noise, let alone a tiny human who barely reached his thigh. The crowd of onlookers grew larger. Toby peeked through his fingers, realized he had an audience, and raised the volume. “He took my twenty dollars! I don’t even have a dad, and now I’m being scammed!” A woman nearby raised her phone, frowning at Arthur. “He looks wealthy. Why is he stealing twenty bucks from a toddler?” “Cheap soul in an expensive suit,” another murmured. Arthur looked down at the two crumpled ten-dollar bills in his palm, his jaw clenching so hard I thought his teeth might crack. I desperately searched for an escape route. The other parents had no idea who Arthur Bradford was, but I did. He was the head of the Bradford Group—ruthless, impatient, and legendary for his temper. He was also my son’s biological father. I took a slow step backward. Then another. But Toby caught sight of me through the gaps in the crowd. “Mommy!” he squealed, scrambling up and sprinting toward me. At that exact second, Arthur’s gaze followed the boy. Across the sea of parents and bright balloons, our eyes met. He froze. I spun on my heel and bolted. “Nora!” The familiar, deep baritone sliced through the humid morning air. I ran faster. “Stop right there.” Only an idiot would stop. He had threatened to break my legs five years ago; I had an excellent memory for self-preservation. But I’d only made it three paces before Toby threw his arms around my knees, anchoring me to the spot. “Mommy, you’re leaving me behind!” My sweet boy, I thought, I was trying to save us both. I bent down and scooped him into my arms. “I was just… testing your reflexes.” “Did I pass?” “Yes. Your reward is that you’re not grounded today.” A gloved hand wrapped firmly around my wrist from behind. The faint, expensive scent of cedarwood and cold rain washed over me. Arthur’s voice was low, vibrating with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. “Take another step. I dare you.” My legs felt like water, but I forced a bright, perfectly vacant smile as I turned around. “Mr. Bradford! What a small world.” “It’s not small,” he said, his fingers tightening gently but immovably around my wrist. “I’ve been looking for you for exactly one thousand, eight hundred and ninety-seven days.” My heart hammered against my ribs. He had counted the days. He was definitely here to ruin my life. I shifted Toby higher on my hip, hoping the sight of his own flesh and blood would appeal to whatever tiny shred of humanity Arthur possessed. Arthur’s gaze drifted down to the boy. Father and son stared at each other. They had the exact same slate-gray eyes, the same straight nose, and the same stubborn curve of the lip when they were annoyed. When I was pregnant, I had prayed every night that the baby would take after me. Clearly, those prayers had gone unanswered. Except for a mutual hatred of carrots, Toby was a miniature clone of his father. Arthur’s eyes fell on the graduation name tag pinned to Toby’s small gown. “Toby Mercer?” Toby puffed out his chest. “Toby with a Y. Mercer like my mom.” “You have your mother’s last name?” “Of course.” Arthur looked back at me, his eyes narrowing. “How old is he?” “Five,” I blurted out before Toby could speak. “He just turned five. He was premature. Very delicate, very small for his age.” Toby patted his beautifully round tummy. “Mom, you told me I was eight pounds when I was born.” I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. Remind me to throw away his storybooks tonight, I thought. Honesty is highly overrated. Arthur’s lips curved into a dangerous, mocking smile. “An eight-pound preemie?” “He… grew very quickly in the incubator.” “And where is his father?” “Dead,” I said flatly. “How did he die?” “Bad temper. Quite tragic, really. He choked on his own stubbornness.” Arthur’s face went completely dark. Toby slid down from my arms and reached up, shoving the crumpled twenty-dollar bill back into Arthur’s hand. “Alright, mister. We still have a contract to finish.” “What contract?” Arthur asked. “Three minutes of photos, five minutes of listening to my teacher tell you how smart I am, and you can have a two-minute break.” Arthur looked at the money, then knelt down to Toby’s eye level. “Why did you choose me out of everyone here?” “Because you look like me,” Toby said simply, then leaned in to whisper, “And my teacher won’t be able to tell you’re a fake.” My heart skipped a beat. Arthur was quiet for a long moment. Then, he stood up, easily lifting Toby into his arms. “Ten minutes?” “No price increases,” Toby negotiated, pointing a tiny finger. “Deal.” Arthur turned his gaze to me, the intensity in his eyes burning hot. “As for our outstanding debts, Nora… we’ll calculate those very slowly.” Before I could protest, the school photographer ushered us toward the graduation backdrop. “Mom and Dad, lean in closer,” the photographer called out. I stepped to the far left. Arthur remained on the far right. An entire ocean of empty space separated us. Toby sighed, reaching out to grab a handful of my dress and a handful of Arthur’s suit jacket. “You grown-ups are so much work.” With a sharp tug, he yanked us together. I lost my balance on my heels, stumbling straight into Arthur’s chest. His hand instinctively came up, wrapping securely around my waist to steady me. The flash went off. And just like that, our first family photo in five years was captured. “Arthur? I’ve been looking all over for you.” A soft, melodic voice drifted from the edge of the lawn. I looked up. Victoria Sinclair stood there, her eyes locked onto me. Five years ago, she was the one who had handed me my mother’s critical care transfer papers, forcing me out of Boston. Victoria’s expression of shock lasted only a second. Quickly, a polished, gracious smile masked her face as she walked toward us. “Nora. What a miracle. You’re actually alive.” She spoke as if she were thrilled, but the cold calculation in her eyes told a very different story. I instinctively stepped in front of Toby, shielding him from her view. Five years ago, right after I discovered I was pregnant, my mother suffered acute heart failure. The specialist hospital she was admitted to belonged to the Sinclair family network. Victoria had laid the transfer agreement next to my mother’s emergency surgery consent form. If I vanished, the surgery would proceed immediately. If I stayed, the surgeon would walk out, the bed would be cleared, and the critical medication would be withheld. Arthur was in Europe at the time. I had called his personal line seventeen times, but it went straight to voicemail every single time. I couldn’t risk my mother’s life on a silent phone line. I sold the jewelry Arthur had given me and left Boston that afternoon. Now, Victoria was staring at Toby. Her gaze lingered on his face for so long it made my skin crawl. “Is this your son?” she asked. “Yes.” “Who’s the father?” “None of your business.” Victoria let out a soft, dry laugh. “I suppose not.” She reached down, intending to pat Toby’s cheek, but he quickly ducked behind my leg. “Ma’am, I don’t like being touched by strangers.” “I’m an old friend of your mother’s, sweetheart.” Toby peeked out from behind my dress, studying her face with analytical gravity. “But whenever Mommy looks at you, she starts shaking.” The air on the lawn instantly turned frigid. Arthur turned his gaze to me. “You’re afraid of her?” “I’m just cold,” I lied. “It’s ninety degrees out, Nora.” “I have poor circulation.” I grabbed Toby’s hand, desperate to leave, but he checked his little dinosaur wristwatch. “We still have two minutes left of your rental time.” “What rental?” Victoria asked, her brow twitching. “The temporary dad,” Toby explained. Arthur’s expression soured further. At that moment, Toby’s preschool teacher walked over. “Oh, Toby’s dad made it after all!” Toby nodded. “I rented him.” The teacher’s smile faltered. Toby thought about it, then corrected himself. “He’s seasonal.” It didn’t sound any better. The teacher cleared her throat and handed me an envelope. “Tonight is the graduation banquet. Toby is our valedictorian, so he’ll be giving a speech on stage. We expect all parents to attend.” Toby immediately wrapped his arms around my leg. “Mommy, you promised you’d record it.” He had been practicing his speech in front of his stuffed animals for an entire month. I nodded, my heart softening. “Of course I’ll be there, sweetie.” “I’ll be there too,” Arthur said quietly. Victoria’s smile stiffened. “Arthur, your mother is waiting for us in Boston to discuss the wedding arrangements.” “There are no arrangements,” Arthur replied, his voice flat. “But our families agreed—” “Then let our families marry each other,” Arthur cut her off. I stared at him, bewildered. They aren’t married? Then why, five years ago, did Victoria carry herself with the absolute authority of the future Mrs. Bradford? Before I could puzzle it out, Arthur walked away with the teacher to discuss the evening’s logistics. The moment he was out of earshot, the warmth drained from Victoria’s face. “Bring the child tonight,” she whispered, her voice sharp as glass. “But the moment he finished his speech, you will pack up and leave Georgia. Permanently.” I clenched the invitation card in my hand. “On what authority?” “On the authority that the experimental medication keeping your mother alive is manufactured exclusively by Sinclair Pharmaceuticals.” She stepped closer, her perfume cloying and suffocating. “I saved her life five years ago, Nora. I can take it away just as easily.” A cold dread settled deep in my bones. “Victoria, what do you want from me?” “I want a kept woman to stay in the gutter where she belongs.” She cast a dismissive glance at Toby. “I don’t care whose child that is. But nothing—especially not a stray kid—is going to stand in the way of my marriage into the Bradford family.” A warm, sticky hand slipped into mine. Toby looked up at me, his eyes wide with confusion. “Mommy, what’s a kept woman?” My throat felt tight. “It’s… just an old term for a bird in a cage, sweetie.” “Why did that lady call you a bird?” I looked at Victoria, my voice steady and clear. “Because her vocabulary is very limited, Toby.” Toby let out an “O” of understanding. “Ah. That explains why her face doesn’t move when she laughs.” Victoria’s face turned an exquisite shade of green. I led Toby away before she could speak. But we had only walked a few yards when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from an unknown number. If you don’t show up tonight, I will personally come to your house and drag you out. My hand shook, nearly dropping the phone. Faced with Victoria’s threats on one side and Arthur’s pursuit on the other, this wasn’t a graduation. It felt like the funeral of my freedom. At seven o’clock that evening, the graduation banquet began. I tried to slip into the very back row of the ballroom, but the school staff enthusiastically escorted us straight to the head table. Arthur sat directly across from us. From the moment we sat down, his eyes never left Toby. It made me so nervous I could barely swallow my water. Toby, however, was entirely unfazed. He carefully picked the carrots out of his salad and dropped them onto Arthur’s plate. “Here, mister. You eat them.” “Why are you giving them to me?” Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because you’re on my payroll.” “Our ten minutes ended hours ago.” Toby reached into his pocket and produced a gold plastic arcade token, sliding it across the white tablecloth. “I’m extending the contract.” Arthur picked up the token. “This isn’t currency.” “It gets you a ride on the toy spaceship at the mall. That’s worth way more than twenty dollars.” “I don’t ride spaceships.” “Then what do you like?” “Silence,” Arthur said dryly. Toby nodded solemnly. “Fine. Then stop talking and listen to me explain how the Tyrannosaurus Rex hunts.” Arthur’s temple twitched, but he didn’t pull away. Within five minutes, he had received a comprehensive lecture on prehistoric apex predators. To my surprise, he actually listened, his expression remarkably patient. Watching them sit together—the same sharp jawlines, the same intense focus—a dull ache bloomed in my chest. Toby had always been a sensitive, observant child. During previous father-son events at preschool, he had never asked me why he didn’t have a dad. He had only asked me once, right before bed: “Mommy, are dads very expensive to buy?” He had spent six months saving his allowances, thinking that if he just had enough cash, he could purchase a father of his own. “Toby, sweetie, it’s time to head backstage and get ready,” a teacher called out, interrupting my thoughts. Toby jumped off his chair, adjusting his little cap. “Mommy, make sure you take the video from a high angle so I look tall.” “You’re only three feet tall, Toby.” He thought about it. “Then make everyone else look shorter.” I walked him to the backstage waiting area and smoothed down his little graduation gown. Just as I finished, a frantic school staff member rushed up to me. “Ms. Mercer? Your mother just collapsed downstairs in the lobby.” Panic seized me. “My mother? She didn’t come tonight; she’s back at the apartment!” “A Ms. Sinclair told us she arrived to surprise you and fainted near the entrance.” A cold dread flared in my chest. But where my mother was concerned, I couldn’t afford to hesitate. I told Toby to stay put, ran out of the ballroom, and took the elevator to the lobby. The reception area was completely empty. I pulled out my phone and called my mother. She picked up on the second ring, her voice clear and lively as she watched her evening game shows. She was perfectly fine. It was a distraction. I turned and bolted back to the elevators. The moment the doors opened on the banquet floor, I heard a chorus of gasps from the ballroom. Victoria stood near the stage, cradling an open leather case, her expression one of theatrical heartbreak. “This was my grandfather’s antique violin,” she cried, her voice trembling. “It’s worth over three million dollars. We were planning to auction it for the school’s music program tonight. Who would do this to the strings?” A janitor stood nearby, pointing a finger toward the stage. “I saw that little boy playing near the case earlier.” All eyes in the room locked onto Toby. He stood there in his oversized gown, clutching a violin bow in his small hand, his face pale with confusion and fear. “I didn’t break it,” Toby whispered. Victoria knelt down in front of him, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Sweetheart, if you just tell us who told you to do this, no one will be angry with you.” “Nobody told me to do anything.” “Then why is the bow in your hand?” “A lady in a blue dress handed it to me.” “Which lady?” Toby looked around the crowded room, but the assistant who had lured me downstairs was nowhere to be seen. The whispers from the crowd started rising, sharp and cruel. “I heard the kid doesn’t even have a father.” “No discipline at all. What a shame.” “A three-million-dollar instrument… how is a single mother supposed to pay for that?” I shoved my way through the crowd, pulling Toby behind me. “You have absolutely no proof it was him!” Victoria stood up, brushing off her skirt. “The bow was in his hand, Nora. And we have an eyewitness.” “I want to see the security footage,” I demanded. The school principal stepped forward, looking uncomfortable. “Ms. Mercer, the backstage cameras experienced a system malfunction about half an hour ago.” Of course they did. The trap was seamless. Get me out of the room, cut the cameras, and frame a five-year-old. Victoria sighed softly. “Nora, if the boy apologizes, I won’t press charges. But given the circumstances, I don’t think it’s appropriate for him to deliver the valedictory speech tonight.” Toby’s small body went rigid. His eyes welled with tears, but he bit his lip, refusing to let them fall. “Mommy, I didn’t do it,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I practiced so hard. Why can’t I go on stage?” My heart shattered. He had spent hours reciting his lines to his stuffed bear, sometimes even mumbling the words in his sleep. The principal sighed. “Ms. Mercer, please. Just have the boy apologize so we can move on.” “Apologize for what?” The heavy double doors of the ballroom swung open, and Arthur strode in. His eyes swept over Toby’s tear-stained face, and his expression instantly hardened into ice. “Who touched him?” Seeing Arthur, the tears Toby had been holding back finally spilled over. “Mister… they’re saying I’m a bad kid.” Arthur walked straight to us, ignoring the whispers of the crowd, and held out his arms. Toby hesitated for a fraction of a second before burying his face in Arthur’s neck. My throat tightened. The twenty-dollar father was proving to be worth every penny. Arthur patted Toby’s back, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Did you break the violin?” “No.” “Then you didn’t do it.” Toby sniffled, looking at him. “Why do you believe me?” Arthur was silent for a moment. “Because you’re a lot of things, kid, but you’re not stupid enough to get caught like this.” Leave it to Arthur to offer comfort that sounded like an insult. But it worked. Toby stopped crying, wrapping his small arms tighter around Arthur’s neck. “You’re not as mean as you look.” Victoria’s expression turned incredibly sour. “Arthur, the bow was in his hand, and the staff saw him. This is a common delinquent behavior. You shouldn’t risk the Bradford family reputation for a child who means nothing to you.” Arthur turned a cold, piercing glare on her. “Who told you he means nothing to me?” Before Victoria could respond, Arthur motioned to his personal assistant, who had just entered. “Check the violin.” The assistant knelt by the case, inspecting the broken strings with a small flashlight. A minute later, he pulled a thin, transparent wire from the bridge of the instrument. “The strings weren’t cut,” the assistant announced. “Someone wrapped high-tension fishing line around the pegs. The moment anyone lifted the bow out of its holder, the tension snapped the strings automatically.” The room erupted into murmurs. Victoria quickly recovered. “That only proves it was a trap, Arthur. It doesn’t prove who set it.” “Actually, it does,” Arthur said. He reached down and tapped the small plastic dinosaur keychain clipped to Toby’s backpack. “My son’s bag has a built-in safety camera.” I stared at him. “Since when?” “Since we took the photos this morning,” Arthur said calmly. “A certain little con artist claimed I don’t do my job after taking his money. If I’m on the clock, I protect my client.” I decided right then that Toby’s twenty dollars was the best investment we’d ever made. The assistant connected the keychain’s memory drive to the ballroom’s large projector screen. The screen flickered to life. The wide-angle feed showed Toby sitting quietly in the corner, holding his speech cards. A young woman in a blue dress walked up to him, smiling warmly as she handed him the violin bow. The moment he took it, a sharp snap echoed from the case. The woman immediately turned and walked away. “Wait,” someone in the crowd called out. “Isn’t that Ms. Sinclair’s personal assistant?” The room went dead silent. The assistant tried to slip toward the exit, but Arthur’s security team blocked her path. “It wasn’t my idea!” the woman shrieked, her face pale with terror. “Ms. Sinclair told me to do it! She wanted to ruin the boy’s speech so she could force Ms. Mercer out of the city!” Victoria’s face drained of color. “Shut your mouth!” I stepped forward, my voice shaking with years of pent-up anger. “You were terrified Arthur would recognize me, so you staged this entire farce. Just like five years ago, you only know how to threaten people’s families!” The ballroom was silent enough to hear a pin drop. Victoria straightened her spine, desperately clinging to her dignity. “Nora, don’t be ridiculous. You’re delusional.” She reached into her designer clutch and pulled out a document, tossing it onto the table. “You’re the one who took a settlement from the Bradford family five years ago and ran. Now you show up with a child of questionable parentage, clearly trying to extort Arthur.” The projector screen suddenly flashed with several scanned photographs. They showed me years ago, sitting in Arthur’s private Boston townhouse, wearing his silk robe and the diamond necklace he had bought me. Below the photos was a signed “Relationship Termination and Settlement Agreement.” The room erupted into scandalous whispers. “So she was just his kept mistress.” “No wonder she hid the kid.” “She’s clearly back for a payday.” The whispers buzzed in my ears like a swarm of hornets. The past I had spent five years trying to bury was being stripped bare in front of my son’s teachers, classmates, and neighbors. I didn’t care about my own reputation, but Toby was only five. How was he supposed to survive this? Victoria looked at Arthur, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Arthur, you don’t even know who fathered this child. Tell everyone the truth. Tell them this boy has nothing to do with you.” Arthur didn’t say a word. Toby, sensing the hostility in the room, clung tighter to Arthur’s neck, his voice fierce as he cried out, “Stop saying mean things about my mommy! She works every day, and she feeds the stray cats, and she’s the best mommy in the whole world!” My eyes stung. I reached out to take him. “Toby, sweetie, let’s go home.” But Arthur didn’t let go of him. Victoria pressed on, stepping closer. “Arthur, speak up. Surely you aren’t going to claim a child of unknown blood?” “Who said his blood is unknown?” The deep, quiet question cut through the noise of the ballroom. Victoria’s triumphant smile froze. “What?” Arthur leaned down, gently straightening Toby’s crooked dinosaur hood. Then, holding the boy securely on his hip, he turned to face the crowd. “The violin was a setup,” Arthur announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. “And this boy is not a child of unknown blood.” Victoria’s lips trembled. “Arthur, you haven’t even run a DNA test.” “I don’t need one,” Arthur said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. “He is my son. From this day forward, Toby is a Bradford.” A collective gasp echoed through the room. But I knew the truth. He didn’t need to adopt anyone else’s child to save us. Because the boy he was holding was his own biological son. “You’re insane,” Victoria whispered, stepping back. Arthur looked at her, his eyes cold as death. “Your debt will be settled shortly. But first, let’s look at this.” His assistant handed him a blue folder. Arthur took the papers inside, along with the “settlement agreement” Victoria had produced, and threw them onto the table in front of her. The papers scattered across the polished wood. The forensic report was clear: the signature on the five-year-old settlement agreement was a forgery. Arthur had never signed it. Victoria’s face went entirely white. “Why does a document I never signed exist in your files, Victoria?” Arthur asked, his voice dangerously soft. “And who gave you the authority to threaten Nora’s mother to force her out of Boston?” Victoria’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Arthur didn’t wait for an answer. He carried Toby toward me, his footsteps slow and deliberate. I instinctively stepped back, but he stopped directly in front of me, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. “Her debt is clear,” he murmured, his voice cracking slightly as he looked down at Toby, then back at me. “But now, Nora… it’s your turn.” My heart leaped into my throat. Arthur’s voice was barely a whisper, rough and thick with unshed tears. “Tell me the truth, Nora.” “Whose son is he?”

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My cousin, Sophia, is obsessed with testing my boyfriends. No matter how many times I say no, she never stops. Once she hooks them, she dumps them, then posts in our family group chat to tell everyone my guy is trash. But this time, she has no idea she’s walking straight into a trap I designed just for her. She has to walk in. There’s no other way. Sophia has been divorced for three years. She lives off a massive alimony check from her ex-husband, playing around with a new guy every week. Male models today, young studs tomorrow. But recently, she set her sights on a new target—the guy I’ve been dating for six months, Tristan Thorne. I wasn’t surprised she found out about him so quickly. Last week, my mom stopped by my apartment to pick up some things and bumped right into him. My mom, Eleanor, has a major disease: she’s utterly green-eyed. Her sister—my Aunt Sarah—constantly brags about how Sophia married rich and still has endless cash after her divorce. Naturally, my mom’s life goal is for me to marry someone even richer than Sophia’s ex-husband. The fact that I had been single for so long was practically giving her a heart attack. Tristan and I met at a bar. He caught my eye in the crowd, and it took me six months of chasing to finally make him mine. He is younger, hotter, and significantly wealthier than Sophia’s ex-husband. He was exactly what my mother had been praying for. She immediately posted on our family group chat on Snapchat: “My daughter is getting married soon!” I rolled my eyes and replied with a shrugging emoji: “It’s not that serious, guys. Don’t worry about it.” My mom instantly fired back with a photo of him: “Look at his face, look at that designer watch. You’re telling me you’re not serious?” Sophia immediately chimed in: “Wow, Chloe, where did you find such a catch? Want me to test him out for you?” I didn’t reply. But I knew that whether I liked it or not, she was going to try. This time, though, I was ready.

On our very first date, I warned Tristan. “I have a drop-dead gorgeous, very sophisticated cousin named Sophia. She loves adding my boyfriends on Snapchat. If she adds you, do not accept.” Tristan smirked. “Afraid I’ll fall for her?” I gave him a sweet smile. “Afraid you’ll lose your mind and end up dead. Honestly, every single one of my exes died that way.” He pulled me into his arms and spent the next hour reassuring me. “That would never happen. You’re the only one for me, Chloe.” Thanks to my warning, when Sophia first tried to add him, Tristan ignored her. He even complained to me a few times. “Your cousin Sophia is relentless. She’s tried adding me from ten different throwaway accounts already.” I kissed his cheek to reward him. “Good boy. Keep holding the line. Don’t let her wild reputation tempt you.” He swiped to decline another request without missing a beat, then looked up at me. “My parents want to have dinner with you,” he said. “We’ve been dating for six months, and you still haven’t met them. They’re dying to meet you based on what I’ve told them.” I paused, then ruffled his hair. “Let’s wait a bit. I’m swamped with work this quarter. Once the quarterly review is over, dinner is on me.” “No way you’re paying,” he laughed. “If you just show up, my parents will be thrilled. We’ll eat at one of our family’s hotels!” Maybe because she was getting nowhere on Snapchat, Sophia grew impatient. She suddenly announced she was going to crash at my apartment for a while. I flatly refused, but my mom—who was desperate to show off the luxury condo Tristan had rented for me—eagerly gave Sophia my address. So when I got home from work, Tristan and Sophia were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, both staring at their phones. Tristan pulled me into the bedroom, looking annoyed. “I swear I didn’t talk to her. Why is she even here?” I acted nonchalant. “My mom probably gave her the address. She’s always like this. Just ignore her.” He swore to God he was innocent, but a small seed of unease was planted in my chest. I couldn’t stop thinking about how they looked sitting on the couch together. Would Tristan really break? It took me six grueling months of chasing to get him. He wouldn’t throw it all away in a single night, would he? I felt anxious. Part of it was my own insecurity, but another part was simply not knowing how long Tristan could actually hold out.

Tristan didn’t stay the night. He owned another apartment in the building next door, so he went back there. The next morning, he came over to bring me breakfast. There were seven or eight different pastries and bagels spread across the table. When Sophia saw it, she smirked triumphantly. “Did you bring all this because you knew I was here?” she purred. “Oh, I love these bagels! The line at this bakery is always insanely long. Did you wake up early just to get them?” Tristan gave her a cool glance. “Actually, I forgot you were here. I bought less than usual today. Chloe has a weak stomach in the morning, so I wanted to give her options.” Sophia let out a long, drawn-out “Oh,” but her fingers kept tapping against her freshly manicured nails. I knew that habit. It meant she was calculating. If she had only been mildly interested in Tristan before, she was determined to have him now. I squeezed Tristan’s hand, gripping it so hard that he looked at me in confusion. I quickly apologized and left the table. When I got home from work that evening, they were sitting on the couch again. Tristan stood up immediately to greet me. He whispered, “Doesn’t your cousin have a job? Why is she always here? Doesn’t she have her own place? Why is she lurking around ours every single day?” I looked at him and said, “Maybe if you just accept her friend request, she’ll leave you alone.” His face froze. After a moment, he murmured, “Actually, I just added her. She said she’d go home tomorrow if I did.” I just muttered “Oh” and walked into my bedroom. Tristan followed me in, wrapping his arms around me and asking if I was mad. “I just didn’t want her hanging around us every day,” he explained, pulling out his phone to prove his innocence. “Look, I already put her on mute. I won’t even see her messages.” I kept quiet, but my disappointment must have been obvious. Tristan spent the next hour trying to cheer me up. Even at dinner, he kept trying to make me laugh and piling food onto my plate. Sophia watched us, letting out a soft chuckle. “Aren’t you attentive, Tristan?”

Tristan ignored her and kept talking to me about a new retail chain he was launching. Sophia deliberately clattered her fork against her plate. When we both looked at her, she smiled. “Oops, sorry. That’s my area of expertise. I got a little excited.” She looked at a bewildered Tristan and said, “My ex-husband did pretty well with retail chains. He has tons of distribution channels he can share with me. For Chloe’s sake, I could totally hook you up.” She went on to describe the brand in detail. I could see the spark of interest in Tristan’s eyes. He looked at me hesitantly, then back at Sophia. “But since he’s your ex, wouldn’t that be awkward?” “What’s awkward about it?” she shrugged. “One night together, and everything gets solved. Just wait for my call.” Tristan didn’t refuse this time. I knew right then that she was officially unmuted. Sure enough, once we were back in our bedroom, he said, “Your cousin is actually really helpful and straightforward.” I looked up at him, my eyes welling with tears. He immediately pulled me close. “Hey, I was just saying. Do you really think I’d be interested in a woman who’s still sleeping with her ex-husband?”

Sophia left my apartment the next day, and Tristan didn’t come back for several days either. He claimed he was out of town scouting locations because they were opening several stores at once. A few times during our FaceTime calls, I caught a glimpse of Sophia in the background. He quickly explained, “Sophia called to check on the progress. When she heard I was in the next city, she decided to tag along. Honestly, her help saved us a ton of trouble. Even my dad praised me for this.” Like any trust-fund heir, Tristan spent his whole life trying to step out of his father’s shadow. His father and grandfather were highly respected entrepreneurs. Tristan wasn’t incompetent, but he was always eclipsed by his family’s legacy. He desperately wanted to prove himself. This expansion went incredibly fast and secured prime locations. Even his father and grandfather praised him at the family dinner. Tristan wired me $30,000, telling me to buy a designer bag for Sophia in my name. “I know she only helped me because of you,” he said. “It’s better if it comes from you. I know how to handle these boundaries.” He added, “Pick something she’ll really like. If it’s not enough, I’ll wire you more.” I pulled out my phone and dialed my cousin’s number. As soon as she picked up, I said, “Thanks for helping my boyfriend. He wanted to buy you a thirty-thousand-dollar bag. Is there a specific one you want, or should I just wire you the cash?” There was a long silence on the other end. Then, a deep, masculine voice spoke. “Chloe? Why is your boyfriend buying things for Sophia?” Oh my god. Sophia and her ex-husband’s names were right next to each other on my contact list. I had accidentally called her ex, Arthur Pendelton. Arthur, Sophia, and I had all gone to the same college. Arthur was a year ahead of us, and we used to run into each other at club activities. I had only mentioned once that I thought Arthur was incredibly attentive. The very next day, Sophia started pursuing him. They broke up and got back together several times before finally getting married right after graduation. Three years later, they divorced.

To prevent any misunderstanding with the man who was still paying my cousin’s massive alimony bills, I quickly explained. “No, no! It’s not like that. She did a huge favor for my boyfriend. But we should also thank you, Arthur. My boyfriend’s retail expansion only succeeded because of your resources.” “I thought she was finally getting her act together and starting her own business,” Arthur muttered. “Turns out she was doing it for your boyfriend. She’s certainly put more effort into him than she ever did for me.” Before I could say anything, he added, “Alright, I get it. I’ll buy the bag for her. Keep the money for yourself.” I returned the money to Tristan and told him Arthur said no. Tristan looked baffled. “Isn’t he her ex-husband? Why is he still acting so possessive?” “How else do you think my cousin affords all those designer clothes and her lifestyle?” Tristan’s expression tightened. He looked at me, then murmured, “Right.” That night, Sophia burst into my apartment. She had been drinking, her face flushed as she sat on the couch and picked a fight with me. Despite the alcohol, her mind was sharp and her logic was brutal. She tore me to shreds from head to toe, and finally pointed a finger at Tristan. “You think you can play in the big leagues?” she sneered. “Wake up, Chloe. You will never, ever live the life I live.” “Did you seriously complain to Arthur that I was stealing your boyfriend so he’d cut off my alimony? Let me tell you, I can find a replacement tomorrow. Watch me.” When Tristan heard that, a dangerous spark lit up in his eyes. I suddenly felt completely exhausted. Leaving them alone in the living room, I went back to my bedroom. After that night, Tristan started working late and traveling even more frequently. Even when I told him I was free and could finally meet his parents, he politely declined, saying the timing wasn’t right. By then, I already knew the truth. Sophia had won again.

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My wife is a gold-digger who count every single penny—but only when it comes to me. Right after we got married, she demanded we live a strict 50/50 lifestyle just so she could keep track of every cent we spent. It was ridiculous. If she took our daughter out and bought a $2 bag of chips, she would literally text me before she even got home, demanding her $1 back. But things went too far when our daughter was rushed to the ER with acute gastroenteritis. I was at the front desk, waiting to pay the deposit. When I called Chloe to split the bill, she dismissed me with a cold, uncaring text: [You were the one watching her when she got sick. Don’t ask me to pay for my half of the medical bill.] Yet, that very same night, she was throwing down $20,000 at a VIP club, all just to get a smile from a hot male host. Chloe was nickel-and-diming me over our daughter’s expenses again. This time, she wanted to split the bill for a sudden trip she took with our daughter, Ruby, to a ramen shop. The bowl of ramen cost $17. “Ruby ate most of it. She had almost the entire bowl, so let’s put $10 on her tab,” Chloe said, completely serious. “And I didn’t touch the broth at all, so I’m not paying for that $3 portion. In total, you owe me $13.” As she spoke, Chloe was tapping away on her iPad, updating her digital expense spreadsheet. It was filled with hundreds of entries tracking every single split expense over the last two years. Everything was in there—from a $2 pack of Oreos to our mortgage down payment. She called it a 50/50 split, but in reality, Chloe always found some absurd excuse to pay less than her half. To keep the peace in our home, I had always swallowed my pride and let it slide. “It’s a $17 bowl of ramen, Chloe. Do we really need to split it down to the broth?” I sent her $100 via PayPal and muttered under my breath, annoyed. “Besides, I took Ruby to the theme park last weekend and paid for everything. I didn’t ask you for a single dime.” “We’re a family. Why make it so complicated? It all goes to Ruby anyway.” Chloe always claimed she wanted a 50/50 split to keep our finances transparent and fair. But as I watched her accept my $100 payment and log only “$17 received” on her spreadsheet without giving me change, my stomach turned. This was her idea of “fair”? I wanted to use this moment to finally talk about ending this toxic 50/50 arrangement. But the moment I brought it up, Chloe lost her mind. “It’s just a hundred bucks, Luke! Why are you being so cheap? You’re a grown man!” “I keep this ledger to protect myself. I don’t want you stabbing me in the back later over money. That’s the only reason.” “If I don’t keep track of everything, I’ll be completely vulnerable.” Her stubbornness was exhausting. But what really broke my heart was what she said next. Was she seriously that convinced I would stab her in the back over money? We had been married for years, we had a child together, and she didn’t trust me even a little bit? While I was lost in my thoughts, Chloe finished scrolling through her phone and casually mentioned that her cousin was getting married next month. She told me to prepare a nice cash gift for the wedding registry, and that’s when I realized something was off. “Wait, didn’t we agree that we would handle our own families’ gift expenses? Why am I paying for your cousin’s gift?” It wasn’t even about the money. I just remembered how, a few weeks ago, my sister had a baby. When I mentioned buying a gift, Chloe immediately shut me down. Back then, she stood on her high horse, lecturing me about how we decided on a strict 50/50 lifestyle and that we had to stick to the rules. But now that it was her family, the rules suddenly changed? “But this is a family expense! Sending a good gift represents both of us!” Chloe argued. “I swear, Luke, I never realized how incredibly petty and cheap you are. You argue over every little thing!” When it came to splitting bills, Chloe always found a way to be right.

In the end, I gave in and paid for her cousin’s wedding gift. But after getting what she wanted, Chloe didn’t write it down in her spreadsheet. “Well, we didn’t split this one down the middle, so how am I supposed to log it?” she shrugged. “Don’t be so petty, Luke. Just let it go.” She shut me up by gaslighting me again. She was a master at double standards. Later that day, I vented to my buddies on WhatsApp. My close friend, Zach, who went to college with us, sent me a message. [Wait, man. I don’t remember Chloe being like this back in college. What happened to her over the years?] Zach, Chloe, and I all went to the same university. Although Chloe and I didn’t start dating until after graduation, the three of us used to hang out all the time back then. Zach knew what Chloe used to be like. “I have no idea where she picked this up. But right after we got married, she insisted on this lifestyle,” I texted back, feeling defeated. Looking back, Chloe brought up the 50/50 rule the morning after our wedding. She claimed her parents suggested it, saying it was the best way to prevent financial arguments. “You have no idea how many young couples divorce because of money, Luke,” she had said back then, looking so innocent and sweet. “My parents just want the best for us. Let’s just listen to them, okay?” Because I loved her, I agreed. At first, I thought sharing expenses was normal, so I didn’t think much of it. [Honestly, Luke, you need to have a serious talk with her. Marriage shouldn’t feel like a business transaction. How can you build a life together like this?] Zach texted back, trying to talk some sense into me. Even outsiders could see how toxic this was, yet Chloe had dragged this on for years. I texted him a quick “Yeah, I know,” but then my phone buzzed again. It was a screenshot from Chloe. It was an Amazon receipt for a brand-new $1,200 gaming laptop. [Hey, I accidentally broke your laptop, so I threw it out and ordered a new one. Remember to transfer me your half of the cost, okay?] Her casual tone made my heart drop. I ran to our home office to check. Sure enough, the laptop I had carefully placed on my desk was gone. That was a brand-new laptop I had bought just a month ago! How could she just break it, throw it away, and expect me to pay for its replacement?! And since she was the one who broke it, why on earth was she asking me to pay 50% for the new one?!

I confronted Chloe immediately. But she just dug her heels in and started shouting. “A laptop is a household expense, isn’t it? Shouldn’t a married couple share major expenses like this?” “I’m just trying to manage our family budget, Luke! Why do you always have to be so incredibly petty?!” Chloe started tearing up, playing the victim before I could even get angry. Her “I’m doing this for your own good, why can’t you see that?” act completely speechless. For a moment, I felt a suffocating anger rising in my chest. I couldn’t even find the words to argue. And before she walked away, she didn’t forget to remind me to PayPal her my “half” of the money. “Besides, the old laptop was completely broken anyway. It was useless, so I sold it to a junk recycler for a few bucks,” Chloe added casually when I asked what happened to my old device. “Where is the money from selling it?” I demanded, my voice shaking with anger. I had paid for that original laptop entirely with my own savings. Chloe hadn’t contributed a single cent to it. Since she sold it, that money belonged to me. She couldn’t expect me to pay for the new one while she pocketed the cash from my old one! Hearing this, Chloe’s face twisted in anger. “The junk guy barely gave me anything for it! I put that cash straight into our grocery budget anyway.” “Seriously, Luke? You’re a man. Do you really have to be this pathetic over a few dollars?”

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Because my face looked strikingly similar to Alex’s obsession, he strung me along as a rebound for five whole months. During that time, by a chaotic twist of fate, I ended up in bed with his older brother, Stuart. After that night, a dark, twisted dynamic began. Above the table, the melancholic Alex would gently tutor me on my homework. Below the table, Stuart’s bare leg would slowly slide up my calf, teasing me. In the living room, Alex would play a sad melody on the piano to ease his troubled heart. Right across the door, Stuart would press me against his study desk, gripping my waist, kissing me senseless. When Alex got wasted because Elena ignored him, he would hug me and pour his heart out. Standing right behind him, Stuart would look down at me, his dark eyes hooded, leaning over to steal a soft kiss from my lips. Finally… Alex realized how perfect his “rebound” was and decided to accept my 99th confession. But when he opened the balcony door, he saw Stuart. My eyes were blurry with desire, my forehead resting against Stuart’s chest. Stuart raised his hand, casually wiping a smudge of my lipstick from his own lips, and turned around. “Meet my wife, Chloe.” For the first time in his life, the perfect, polite Alex completely lost his mind and swore. “When the hell did this happen?!”

My phone screen lit up with two Snapchat notifications. [Chloe, are you going to confess to me today too? Honestly, I’m actually looking forward to seeing you.] [Location: The Onyx Lounge] Alex and I had an agreement: if I confessed to him 99 times, we would officially start dating. He said he didn’t want to rush into a relationship. He wanted to make sure I was genuine. For the first 98 times, I took his challenge seriously. I prepared flowers, got him gifts, and publicly chased him. He just kept count, casually telling me to try harder next time. Right outside the VIP booth, I heard someone bring up the topic. “Alex, Chloe has been chasing you for five months. It’s almost the 99th time. Are you really going to say yes?” Hearing them talk about me, my hand froze on the doorknob. Deep inside the plush sofa, a guy was playing with a Rubik’s cube. It was Alex. His pale fingers flicked the toy boredly. The music outside was deafening, the crowd wild. Yet, he sat there with a cold, gloomy aura that completely isolated him from the warmth of the room. He glanced at the teasing looks from his friends, then shifted his eyes back to the amber liquid in his glass. After a clink of glasses, a drunken voice laughed. “A fake is always a fake.” “She’s just like this toy in my hand. I play with it when I’m bored. When I don’t need it, I can throw it aside.” The guys exchanged glances and burst into laughter. “Come on, we all know why Alex didn’t reject Chloe. He’s just trying to make Elena jealous.” “Am I right, Alex?” Alex’s sharp, handsome face was half-hidden in the dim light. Nobody could read him. Unlike his trust-fund friends, Alex had a clean private life. He was polite, though he carried a strange, antisocial coldness deep down. My chest tightened. I waited for his answer. Alex didn’t deny it. The tear mole under his eye, which usually made him look gentle, now seemed incredibly cold. “I never said that.” “But if Chloe confesses again, I won’t have a reason to say no.” The booth erupted into jeers again. “Poor Chloe. She’s being used as a rebound by a bad guy like you.” “Alex, if you don’t want her, let her be the appetizer. It’s not like you’re losing anything.” “Or introduce her to me… she’s totally my type.” Suddenly, Alex walked over and patted the guy’s face mockingly. He didn’t say a word, but the threat was loud and clear. Someone quickly tried to smooth things over. “Shut up, dude. She has the exact same face as Elena…” “Even if Alex doesn’t want her, she’s out of your league.” These rich kids’ conversations were always vulgar. Behind closed doors, their jokes were probably even worse. Standing outside the door, my heart didn’t even ache. After being his puppy dog for five months, I already knew he had a first love locked in his heart. No wonder his friends always looked at me with mockery and amusement. Was I sad? Not really. Honestly, I felt a tiny spark of… relief? Well, since he felt this way… Then I didn’t need to feel guilty about sleeping with his brother Stuart during our “talking stage,” right?

I waited ten minutes until they changed the topic. My phone buzzed. It was a text message—short, cold, and professional, just like the sender. [Where are you?] I sent him my location. A second later, another brief reply popped up. [Wait for me.] I pushed the door open and walked into the booth. There were two new faces inside now. It was Elena and her broke scholarship boyfriend, Liam. Alex’s dark gaze slowly retracted from them. Seeing me enter, his drunken eyes warmed up instantly. “Chloe, you’re finally here. Sit next to me.” “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you?” He raised his voice intentionally so everyone in the room could hear. Especially… Elena, who was sitting across from us. His words sounded like his usual gentle self, but they carried a hint of showy affection. Alex always wore a mask of a gentle, polite gentleman, but deep down, he was emotionally distant. As expected, Elena’s gaze flicked over to me. “Alex, is this your girl?” Once she got a clear look at my face, her eyes filled with disdain. “Your taste has really gone downhill. If you can’t get the original, I guess you don’t mind a cheap knockoff.” Alex suddenly let out a low laugh. “Then tell me, Elena, what kind of girl is worthy of me?” His eyes were filled with jealousy, his jaw clenching tightly. This was the first time I saw his perfect composure shatter. He grabbed Elena’s wrist tightly. “Elena, I don’t have the patience to crawl behind you like a dog forever.” Just then, his phone rang in his pocket. He answered it with irritation. Two seconds later, his face cleared up. He turned to the group. “Put out your cigarettes. Stuart is coming.” Alex had been terrified of his half-brother since childhood. The Williams family was elite. Their parents were powerful figures in both business and politics. But Stuart was a legend. In just five years, he took a dying company and listed it on the stock market. His power was unmatched. Alex had always tried to follow Stuart’s footsteps, feeling crushed under his shadow yet deeply admiring him. On my phone, the dark gray profile picture sent a message: [I’m here.] The next second, the door opened. Everyone’s eyes locked onto Stuart. He was tall, wearing a charcoal-gray tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders. Stuart’s eyes were deep and cold. He swept his gaze across the room and finally landed directly on me. “Why are you here?” Alex asked, walking toward him. “I thought you hated loud places.” The two brothers stood side by side—one soft, one hard. Compared to Alex’s delicate, pretty-boy looks, Stuart was ruggedly handsome and mature. Just standing there, he commanded the room. “Just finished a dinner with a client. Stopped by for a drink.” Alex started introducing his friends. When it was my turn, he glanced at Elena, who was watching him with crossed arms. She seemed to be waiting to see how Alex would label me. “My classmate, Chloe.” Alex tried to read my expression, but I kept my head low. Everyone in the room assumed I was heartbroken by his distant introduction. “Chloe, this is my brother. You’ve met him before.” Alex used to invite me to the Williams mansion all the time. Back then, I was so proud because I thought I was special—he had even given me a spare key. I bit my lip and forced out a dry, “Hi.” Stuart curved his lips into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. Hearing my raspy voice, Alex paused, frowning with concern. “Do you have a cold?” I met Stuart’s dark, unreadable gaze, quickly looked away, and nodded. Actually, I didn’t have a cold. It was just that yesterday, some dominant man had forced me to call him “Sir” on his bed all night. My voice was completely shot. Looking at the straight-faced, elegant Stuart, I sneered in my heart. What a hypocrite. He really knew how to act.

Elena let out a cold snort and suddenly pushed me right in front of Stuart. She covered her mouth, acting innocent. “Don’t you think Chloe looks exactly like me?” “Alex is so funny. Even his rebound has to look like me… Anyone would think he’s still obsessed with me.” Alex’s pursuit of Elena years ago wasn’t loud, but both families knew about it. She was bringing this up to humiliate me and make me back off. Even if she didn’t want Alex, she wouldn’t let another girl have him easily. Stuart looked at my face, then at hers. His eyelashes fluttered as his deep voice echoed in the quiet room. “They don’t look alike. Chloe has much better class.” With just one sentence, Elena’s face turned bright red with embarrassment. She stared at him in disbelief. “Stuart… are you kidding me?” He answered calmly, perfectly polite. “Just an objective observation.” Elena didn’t dare snap at Stuart, so she could only grit her teeth and stomp over to Alex to vent. “Is Stuart blind? He actually said Chloe looks better than me!” “You guys tell me! Who’s prettier?!” The guys looked between us, their voices weak. “Well, Chloe is a dance major. Her posture is really…” Elena stomped her foot in anger. “You guys are all idiots!” Under the table, I kicked Stuart’s leg. Was he trying to start a war for me?! They started playing a game of Truth or Dare with cards. Alex looked at Stuart. “It’s just some simple party games. Want to join?” Stuart kept his eyes half-closed, looking bored. Then, he leaned slightly closer to me. His hot breath brushed against my neck, his deep, raspy voice sending shivers down my spine. “What about you, Chloe? Are you playing?” He took off his glasses. His deep, dark eyes caught mine, reflecting my flushed face. Under the table, his hand grabbed mine. Stuart slowly rubbed his thumb against my palm, his skin burning hot. I tried to pull my hand away, but he gripped it tighter, refusing to let go. Suddenly, someone dropped a card and leaned down to pick it up. Fearing we’d get caught, I yanked my hand back. My heart was pounding like crazy. Stuart’s face remained completely stoic. He parted his lips slightly. “If you play, I’ll play.” Fortunately, the lights in the booth were dim, so no one saw my burning red cheeks. I blindly grabbed a glass of water to gulp down, but Stuart’s hand quickly clamped around my wrist. “That’s vodka.” He took the glass away and poured me a cup of orange juice himself. “Drink this.” “Wow, why are you so attentive to her?” Elena asked, her voice laced with jealousy. “Anyone would think you have a crush on Chloe.” Stuart smiled but didn’t answer. Alex quickly cut in. “What are you talking about? My brother has a girlfriend.” “He’s probably just looking out for Chloe because she’s shy.” “Elena, don’t talk nonsense.” Alex had easily convinced himself. Yes, Stuart was famous for being a clean, cold businessman who never got involved with women. Having feelings for Chloe? Impossible. At that moment, Stuart’s large hand suddenly rested on my thigh, smoothing down the hem of my skirt that had ridden up. I looked up and met his dark, possessive eyes. He stared at me silently, his eyes dark with desire. My heart skipped a beat, and I quickly looked away. The inner side of my thighs still ached slightly, and the love bites that were starting to fade felt like they were burning up again. Alex had no idea that the “girlfriend” Stuart had was me. Soon, the game turned in Elena’s favor. She had her friends look at everyone’s cards, easily figuring out who had what. “I’m the King this round.” Her mocking eyes locked onto me, a cruel smile on her lips. “I want Number 3 to slap Number 9 ten times. Hard. Consecutive slaps… if you pause, you start over.” Elena wasn’t joking. Instantly, everyone turned to look at me, waiting for the drama. Alex had already bragged about having card Number 3. And my fingers tightly gripped my card. Number 9. Chloe.

Seeing my pale face, Elena laughed out loud. She tilted her head, her voice sweet and toxic. “Alex, she’s your guest after all. If you can’t bring yourself to do it, I can gladly do it for you.” My card had definitely been swapped by the dealer under Elena’s orders. She wanted to embarrass me to get her revenge. I looked at Alex with wide, innocent eyes. “Alex, this is a bit too much. Why do we have to resort to slapping people?” Elena slammed her glass onto the table. “Alex, your girl is such a party pooper.” “Usually, everyone plays along. What, are you trying to make me look bad?” Alex knew Elena’s temper. If she wanted to humiliate me today, she wouldn’t stop until she got her way. He looked at my hurt expression, then at the stubborn Elena. “Chloe is shy. Let’s change the dare, Elena.” Hearing Alex defend me, Elena rolled her eyes. “Fine. Just slapping is boring anyway.” She smiled like a snake. “Classmate Chloe is a dancer, right?” “Thirty-two fouetté turns should be a piece of cake for you, right? Do it on the table.” She looked around the room, enjoying everyone’s shocked faces. “But, if you lose your balance and fall… or if you can’t finish them, you lose.” “If you lose, you have to get down on your knees, bark like a dog three times, and admit that you, a cheap rebound, aren’t even worthy of dancing on stage.” “So, Chloe, do you dare to play?” Even Alex frowned at this. Everyone could tell Elena was actively destroying my dignity. I looked up, forcing a look of fear and helplessness as I looked at Alex. “Alex, this is too much. This isn’t even a game anymore.” My weakness only fueled Elena’s arrogance. She sneered, “If you can’t play, don’t come. Why act so pure?” “Alex, you have two choices. Either you drink these three glasses of neat vodka for her and we end our friendship, or… let her dance.” Alex hesitated for a few seconds. Between Elena and me, I was obviously the easier one to sacrifice. “Chloe, just dance. I believe in you.” My heart sank, but I almost wanted to laugh. “What if I can’t do it?” I asked. If I failed, would he make me kneel and bark like a dog too? Just as he reached out to pull me up, I slowly flipped my card over, a smirk flashing in my eyes. “Though I’d love to dance, I have card Number 7.” “Oh my gosh, whoever has Number 9 is so unlucky! They have to bark like a dog!” Since I wasn’t Number 9, then… Everyone’s eyes instantly shifted to the corner. The man leaning against the leather sofa finally moved. Stuart slowly threw his card onto the table. He didn’t look at Elena. Instead, he looked at me, his tone laced with a faint, dangerous amusement. “Wow, Elena, you’ve got some nerve. You want Alex to slap me ten times? Or do you want me to kneel and bark like a dog?” His voice was ice-cold, sending shivers down everyone’s spines. Did they have a death wish? Slap Stuart? Who would dare? Elena scrambled to check my card. It was indeed a 7. Her face turned deathly pale. “How? I thought…” There was no way Stuart could have swapped cards with me. It had to be the dealer’s mistake. Stuart stared at her coldly. “You thought what?” Elena didn’t dare admit she had rigged the deck. She could only vent her anger on the “innocent” dealer. “Nothing…” Stuart pushed the three glasses of vodka toward Alex. His tone was absolute. “Drink.” “And call yourself an Uber later.” Alex looked at the three full glasses of high-proof alcohol, swallowing hard. “Stuart… I…” But the moment he met Stuart’s dark, commanding eyes, the words died in his throat. Helpless, Alex closed his eyes and began to chug the alcohol. As he drank, a cold light flashed in my eyes. The moment I got my card, I felt a slight crease on the corner and secretly swapped it with Stuart when we touched hands. I had planned to leave peacefully. But now, there was no need to be nice.

Alex leaned in. “Chloe, I just didn’t want us to fight because of me. I’m sorry you had to go through that.” “Elena has always had a bad temper. If you want to be with me, you have to tolerate these things.” Taking advantage of the dim light, I rolled my eyes. Elena was still looking for a chance to target me. But this time, both Alex and Elena fell into a trap. Someone suggested a couple’s push-up game. Elena feigned annoyance at the guy who made the rule. “Oh my god~ my boyfriend is literally right here!” Even so, she didn’t try to avoid it at all. She covered her face and lay down on the floor, ready. The guy smirked. “Doing it face-to-face is boring! You should do it the other way around!” Elena squealed and stomped her foot. “Ugh, you guys are too much!” Elena put on a high-pitched, fake voice, while her broke boyfriend’s face grew darker by the second. Before Alex started, he glanced at me. I was eating fruit, occasionally clapping along. I looked completely indifferent to the fact that he was about to get physically intimate with another woman. Alex walked over to me, explaining, “Chloe, it’s just a game. If you mind, I won’t do it.” Everyone was waiting for me, the loyal puppy, to look devastated. Instead, I smiled brightly. “I don’t mind at all. Go ahead.” Alex’s eyebrows knitted together. “You’re not jealous? You’re just going to watch me touch another woman?” I replied calmly, “Didn’t you say it’s just a game?” “I can handle it.” His expression turned complicated. “Right. It’s just a game.” My reaction was too calm. Usually, a girl who liked a guy would show some emotion, right? A seed of doubt planted in Alex’s mind, but it quickly vanished. Chloe was just too obedient. Girls like her were too easy to control. He’d make it up to her later. The game started, and the two of them ended up flushed and panting. Alex’s ears were red, and Elena looked thrilled. She didn’t want to admit she was blushing, so she pushed Alex off her. “Enough! Alex, I told you to work out more. Are you trying to crush me to death?!” Alex sat up. “Elena, you’re blushing. Didn’t you say you’d never fall for me?” He looked mockingly at Elena’s boyfriend. A month ago, this would have broken my heart. But now, it just looked childish. Soon, the bad luck of the card game fell on me again. This time, the dare came from another guy. “Either drink three glasses of vodka, or grab any guy in this room and hot kiss him for three minutes. Choose.” Disgusting. I scanned the faces of the men. Alex looked annoyed. And Stuart sat there, expressionless. Everyone started chanting. “Alex, you gotta save your girl!” Alex picked up his glass but didn’t drink. “Who else would she choose besides our Alex?” Just as I took a step forward, Elena and her boyfriend started screaming at each other over the push-up game. They slammed a glass, shattering it all over the floor. Crying hysterically, Elena pointed at the guy who was about to walk out. “Leave if you dare!” He gave her a cold look and slammed the door behind him. Elena collapsed to the floor, sobbing. Alex frowned and immediately rushed to her side. A smug smile flashed across his face. “See? I told you he wasn’t right for you…” Slap! Elena swung her hand and slapped him hard across the face. The slap was so loud that even I winced at the red mark blooming on Alex’s cheek. “You’re happy to see us like this, aren’t you?!” “If we break up, it’s all your fault!” Being slapped in front of everyone made Alex snap. He grabbed her slender wrist. “How long are you going to degrade yourself for that loser?!” “Can’t you see me?!” Alex’s eyes turned bloodshot. He grabbed her neck and kissed her brutally. It was a messy, heated kiss, and Elena melted in his arms. “You bastard!” She sobbed, pushed him away, and ran out. The room fell into complete chaos. At that exact moment, a warm scent of pine enveloped me, and a large hand cradled the back of my neck. Before I could react, Stuart pulled me into the dark corner of the hallway and kissed me. When it ended, I looked around in panic. Fortunately, no one saw us. Wait, actually, I saw one petrified face. It was one of Alex’s friends. Stuart noticed his gaze. He slowly raised a finger to his lips, his eyes full of silent warning. The guy nodded frantically, watching us slip out of the lounge. Back in the booth, Alex wiped the blood from his lip. The room was dead silent. When he finally snapped out of it, he looked around for me. “Where’s Chloe?”

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Growing up, I always thought I was a broken piece of trash who couldn’t enjoy the “good things” in life. Seafood sent me into anaphylactic shock. Beef gave me severe rashes. Whenever I got greedy and sneaked a bite of the premium ingredients on my brother Marcus’s plate, my mother would look as if she were facing a mortal enemy and force a bowl of “desensitization medicine” down my throat. After drinking it, I would inevitably vomit and suffer from violent diarrhea, ending up bedridden for two whole days. I was filled with tearful gratitude, genuinely believing she was saving my life. Until my checkup at age twenty. The doctor stared at my clean allergen report, his brows furrowed. “You are perfectly healthy. You don’t have any food allergies at all.” I froze. That afternoon, I went home early. I broke into the cabinet where my mother kept the “medicine” locked away, took some of the residue, and ran to a local pharmacy. The pharmacist sniffed it for a long moment, his face turning incredibly grave. “This is a highly toxic, severe herbal emetic and laxative. Long-term ingestion of this can cause permanent infertility. You must not take this under any circumstances.”

“Maria, dinner is ready. Why aren’t you home yet?” Caller ID: Mom. I declined the call. The pharmacist probably noticed how pale I had turned. His voice softened, filled with concern. “This medicine… are you the one taking it?” “My mother has been giving it to me. Since I was five.” He was completely stunned. Even a man who had practiced medicine for forty years didn’t know how to respond to that. I put the herbal residue into a ziplock bag, stuffed it into my pocket, and walked out the door. The streetlights had just flickered on. After walking through two intersections, I saw a Japanese restaurant. Through the glass window, I saw a mother peeling shrimp for her daughter. I stood there for ten seconds, then pushed the door open. “Table for one? Right this way, please.” I sat down and flipped open the menu. Salmon sashimi, sweet shrimp, sea urchin, grilled mackerel. I pointed at them. “I want all of this.” When the dishes arrived, the orange-pink salmon was laid beautifully over shaved ice, the sweet shrimp curled translucently, and the sea urchin glowed like a miniature sunset. For twenty years, I had only ever seen these things on Marcus’s plate. I picked up my fork, took a slice of salmon, and put it in my mouth. It was cool, melting into a rich, buttery flavor on my tongue. The moment the savory taste wrapped around my taste buds, I instinctively braced myself—waiting for the rashes, the tightness in my throat, the difficulty breathing. Ten seconds. Thirty seconds. A minute. The skin on my wrists remained perfectly clean. My breathing was completely smooth. I ate a sweet shrimp. Nothing happened. I took a spoonful of sea urchin. Still, nothing happened. I sat in that quiet corner alone, finishing the entire table of seafood. The soy sauce dish was empty, the wasabi scraped clean, and I even stuffed the last piece of pickled ginger into my mouth. And then, tears began to stream down my face. It wasn’t out of joy. It was because for twenty years, it turned out I could eat absolutely anything. My phone lit up again. It was my mother’s fourth call. I picked up. “Where on earth are you? Just because David isn’t home doesn’t mean you can just skip dinner, right?” “Mom, I already ate.” “Ate what? How can your stomach handle random food outside? Get back here right now. I warmed up some tomato bisque for you.” “No, thanks.” “What do you mean, ‘no’? Your complexion has been terrible lately. Don’t you need to detox? I just brewed a fresh pot of medicine. It’s warming on the stove.” The medicine. That extremely bitter, pitch-black liquid that made me vomit and suffer from diarrhea for days. “I’m not drinking it anymore.” There was a silence on the other end of the line for two seconds. Those two seconds felt twice as long as usual. “Maria, what did people tell you outside?” “Nothing. I just don’t want to drink it.” “We will talk when you get home,” her voice returned to its usual gentle tone. “Marcus saved some soup for you. Hurry back.” Marcus saved soup for me. What soup? He had never saved anything for me in his entire life. The world on his plate and the world on mine were separated by an entire galaxy. I wiped the tears from my face and paid the bill. Sixty dollars. Six empty plates stacked up. When I reached the front of our house, the living room lights were blazing. The curtains weren’t drawn. I could see Marcus playing video games on the couch, with half-eaten King Crab legs sitting on the coffee table. I pushed the door open, and the rich scent of crab meat filled the air. My mother brought out a bowl of tomato bisque from the kitchen, placing it at my usual spot with a smile. “You’re back? Drink this. It’s good for your body.” Next to the tomato bisque sat a bowl of plain green salad. My spot at the table always had salad and the plainest food. Marcus sat at the other end of the couch with his crab legs, not even looking up. “Mom, I had my allergens tested at my checkup today.” Her fork froze in mid-air for less than half a second. “Why would you test for that? Don’t I know your body better than anyone?” “The report says I’m not allergic to anything.” “Well, that’s because you’re cured now! My medicine worked. After drinking it for so many years, your body is finally balanced. You should be thanking me.” I looked into her eyes. There wasn’t a single shred of guilt. She actually believed her own lies. “I’m not taking the medicine anymore.” “What are you talking about? Did you run into some sketchy doctor outside?” “Those people just love to scare you to make money. Stay away from them. My recipe is a hundred times more effective than their treatment.” She walked back into the kitchen. The clay pot on the stove was still warm. When she lifted the lid, a plume of black steam rose, carrying that intensely bitter smell into the living room. My stomach knotted up in an instant. Twenty years of muscle memory was stronger than any truth. My mother walked out carrying the dark brew and placed it right in front of me. “Be a good girl, drink it, and go to bed early. I’ll make you something else tomorrow.”

“What is that smell on you?” The next morning, the moment I stepped out of the bathroom, my mother blocked my path in the hallway, leaning in to sniff me. My heart skipped a beat. “What smell?” “It smells fishy.” She stared at me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe like a security sensor. “Did you eat seafood last night?” Even though the scent of the seafood feast was 90% covered by my body wash, she had actually smelled it. “No, it must be—” “You’re lying.” Her tone didn’t rise; instead, it dropped a dangerous octave. “Maria, did you sneak out to eat seafood behind my back?” “Mom, my checkup yesterday proved that I’m not allergic—” “Not allergic?” She suddenly grabbed my wrist in a tight grip. “When you were five years old, you almost died in the ER! Did you forget?” “Your eyes were swollen shut, your entire body was covered in hives, and you had to wear an oxygen mask all night! And you’re telling me you’re not allergic?” I remembered that ER visit. But what I wanted to know now was—was that really because of seafood, or was it because of her medicine? “I’m perfectly fine now. Nothing happened.” “Just because you’re fine now doesn’t mean you’ll be fine later!” She let go of me and stormed into the kitchen. I heard the heavy lid of the clay pot slam open. She emerged with a bowl of the dark medicine, the black liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “Drink it.” “I said no.” “You ate seafood last night. If you don’t drink this, the toxins won’t leave your body. Do you want to wait until you can’t breathe and have to be rushed to the ER again?” “Mom—” “Maria!” Her sharp cry made Marcus look up from his game in the living room. My mother stood before me, holding the bowl, her eyes welling with tears. Her lips trembled, and her jaw was tense. And then, she started crying. “Do you have any idea how terrified I was when you were hospitalized as a kid? I sat in that hospital hallway all night, I didn’t even realize I had lost my shoes.” “Now that you’re grown up, you think you don’t have to listen to me? Am I trying to hurt you? I am your mother!” Tears streamed down her face. Marcus got up from the couch, walked over to stand behind her, and glared at me. “Maria, what is wrong with you? Can’t you see Mom is crying? Is it really that hard to just drink a bowl of medicine?” “You don’t understand, Marcus.” “What is there to understand? All I know is that Mom has spent her life worrying about your health, and you think you can just say ‘I’m not drinking it’ and be done with it?” “Don’t you know how fragile your body is?” He turned to our mother, his voice softening. “Mom, stop crying. I’ll talk to her.” Then he looked back at me, his face filled with genuine confusion and disapproval. He couldn’t comprehend why a daughter, who had been fed medicine and cared for by her mother for twenty years, would suddenly reject that love. Because he didn’t know. He never had to know. The King Crab on his plate didn’t need an explanation, and the plain pasta on mine didn’t either. Everything in this house was allocated based on one single rule: “Maria is allergic.” “Maria, just drink it. Stop making a scene.” My mother pushed the bowl a step closer to me. The bitter stench hit my nose, and my stomach began to churn again. Twenty years of conditioned reflexes remained loyal. Even though my brain knew the truth, my body was still terrified. “Mom, I really—” “You ‘really’ what? ‘Really’ not allergic? Then explain to me, when you sneaked a bite of mango last year and your lips swelled up like a balloon, whose fault was that?” “Or two years ago, when you touched a piece of beef jerky and got rashes all over your hands, whose fault was that?” Last year. Two years ago. Every single rash, every single swelling—was it really an allergy, or was it the masterpiece of this medicine? I couldn’t tell anymore. She was too good at this. She had used twenty years of lived experiences to build an airtight cage around me. If I said “I’m not allergic,” she could bring up a hundred pieces of evidence to prove me wrong. Those “evidences” were real—I really had swollen up, vomited, and ended up bedridden. Except the culprit was never the food. It was the bowl of medicine in her hands. But I didn’t have solid, irrefutable proof yet. The preliminary analysis of the medicine residue was in my pocket, but the pharmacist hadn’t given me an official medical document. If I flipped the table now, she would have plenty of time to destroy everything hidden in her cabinet. I looked at the bowl, then reached out and took it. My mother’s tears instantly receded, and the corners of her mouth relaxed slightly. I brought the bowl to my lips. The moment the dark liquid touched my mouth, the bitter taste hit my tongue, and a wave of nausea surged from my stomach. I looked up at her. She was watching me drink, her face wearing the same gentle expression she had on any ordinary night. I slammed the bowl down. The dark medicine splashed onto the coffee table, seeping into the cracks and staining the wood dark. “I’m not drinking it.” She froze. Marcus froze. The living room fell into a dead silence for five seconds. The only sound in those five seconds was the slow drip of the dark liquid falling from the edge of the table to the hardwood floor. Drip. Drip. My mother stared at the dark puddle. The emotion flashing in her eyes wasn’t anger. It was panic. But she suppressed it quickly. She bent down, grabbed a rag, and began wiping the spill. Her voice was strangely light. “Fine. If you don’t want to drink it, don’t. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” She finished wiping, stood up, and walked to the kitchen door. Then she paused and looked back at me. Her smile was still there, but her eyes had completely changed. “Maria, have you been under too much pressure lately? Your mental state seems a bit off.” “If you have something on your mind, you can talk to me. Don’t keep it bottled up. And don’t listen to random strangers outside, okay?” She turned and left. Marcus sat back on the couch, muttering under his breath, “Psycho.” I didn’t know if he was talking about me or the situation. I went back to my room, only to find that the lock on my door had been changed. It was one of those old-fashioned knob locks that could only be locked from the outside. I couldn’t lock it from the inside anymore. In an instant, I realized: she was keeping me locked in. My phone buzzed. It was a message from my mother on Snapchat. I opened it. Her voice message sounded as sweet as a lullaby. “Maria, I know you’ve been stressed lately. Maybe the checkup put too much pressure on you.” “I’ll take you to the hospital tomorrow to get you checked out. Dr. Coleman is an old friend of mine. He’s much more reliable than those doctors outside.” “Please stop doing these crazy things on your own, okay? Be a good girl.”

“Maria, your mom told me you threw a tantrum yesterday?” My dad’s face appeared on the FaceTime screen. The wind from the construction site blew dust onto his hard hat, which he wiped away with his sleeve. He frowned at me. My mother was sitting right next to me. She hadn’t just sat down by chance. The very second I dialed the call, she had walked out of the kitchen with a plate of fruit and naturally sat down beside me—so naturally that it felt rehearsed. “Dad, I had my allergens tested during my checkup.” “Your mom told me about that.” He cut me off, speaking rapidly as if he were trying to meet a construction deadline. “What do you mean, you’re not allergic to anything? Do you actually believe those cheap, mass-produced tests?” “When you were a kid, you almost choked to death in the ER. I had to drive all night from the project site just to sign your surgery consent form—was that fake?” “That wasn’t an allergy, Dad. It was—” “That’s enough,” he waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t I know what kind of person your mother is? She pinches pennies just to brew your medicine, watches your diet, and cooks separate meals for you. Stop being so dramatic.” My mother let out a soft sigh beside me, just loud enough for the phone’s microphone to pick up. “I don’t blame her, David. She’s twenty now; she has her own ideas.” “I’m just worried she’s met some bad people outside who are taking advantage of her.” She glanced at me. It wasn’t the look of a worried, loving mother. It was a warning: If you dare tell your father about the medicine, just see what happens. “Dad, can you come home for a bit?” “Are you kidding? The site is right in the middle of a major phase. How can I just leave? Your mother is right there with you anyway.” “I want to talk to you. Alone.” “What is there to talk about alone? Your mother is right there, just say it. What secrets are you keeping from your own family?” My mother took over the conversation, patting the back of my hand, and gave a tight, bitter smile to the camera. “David, don’t yell at her. She’s probably just stressed about her new job. I’ll take her to see a doctor and get her sorted out.” The call ended. In the afternoon, my Aunt Bella showed up. No one had warned me. When she appeared in the living room, I was in my room searching for independent medical testing laboratories. “Maria, come out and sit with us,” my mother’s voice called out from the hallway. I walked out. Bella was sitting on the couch peeling oranges, a pile of peels already stacked on her plate. She had clearly been here for a while. “Oh, Maria,” she pulled me down to sit beside her, patting my hand. “Your mom called me. She said you haven’t been very obedient lately.” “Bella, there’s something—” “Let me finish first. Do you have any idea how hard your mother has worked all these years?” “During all those years of your allergies, she got up in the middle of the night to brew medicine, cooked special meals, and took you to see doctors. Do you think that didn’t take an emotional toll on her?” Every single word she said was a carbon copy of my mother’s usual guilt trips, copy-pasted into a relative’s mouth. “If you really aren’t allergic anymore, isn’t that great? It means your mom’s medicine worked! Why are you still picking fights with her?” “I’m not picking fights—” “Then why did you make your mother cry? When she called me this morning, her voice was completely hoarse.” I looked at my mother. She was sitting nearby peeling an apple, her face a perfect picture of quiet hurt and long-suffering endurance. “Maria,” Bella lowered her voice, leaning in closer. “Your mom asked me to check if you’ve been watching some sketchy influencers online who are tricking you into doing these tests just to sell you products. There are so many of those scammers nowadays.” I opened my mouth, then closed it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to speak. It was that speaking was completely useless. This web was too vast—she had spent twenty years weaving an airtight narrative, and all our relatives were both the audience and the messengers of her story. If I rushed in waving a lab report and screaming “She’s lying,” I would only be treated as a lunatic. “I understand, Bella.” “Good girl. Go apologize to your mom, okay? We’re family, after all.” After she left, I opened my phone and searched for my mother’s YouTube channel. Bella had mentioned her YouTube account before, but I hadn’t paid attention to it at the time. I found it. Her profile picture was a silhouette of her in the kitchen, her apron neatly tied. The channel name: Allergy Mom’s Journey. Subscribers: 114,000. I clicked on it. The video list was endless. The earliest video was uploaded three years ago, titled: “When your child is allergic to everything, a mother has to find a way.” I scrolled down, video by video. “Allergy-Friendly Lunchbox Ep. 52 | My Eldest Daughter’s Special Meal” “Brother Eats Lobster vs. Sister Eats Plain Potatoes | A Mother’s Heart Breaks” “Brewing the Healing Soup for 3 Hours, Hoping My Daughter Cures Her Allergies Soon” Every video had tens of thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands of views. The comment section was filled with pure adoration. “You are the most incredible mother on the internet.” “Even though the daughter can’t eat normal food, she is so blessed to have a mother like you.” “This made me cry. A mother’s love is truly selfless.” I counted. Two hundred and forty-seven videos. In every single one, she stood before the stove, gently stirring a pot of soup, her face carrying that perfect touch of melancholic maternal worry. Worrying about her daughter’s fragile health, aching because her daughter couldn’t enjoy good food. Over a hundred thousand people watched her performance of maternal devotion. Not a single soul knew what was actually hidden at the bottom of that pot. I shut off my phone. The room was completely silent. The changed lock on my door couldn’t be locked from the inside; the slightest breeze would push it open a crack. My phone buzzed. My mother had just posted a message in our family Snapchat group. “Please don’t listen to Maria’s wild stories, everyone. The poor child is just under a lot of pressure at work, and she’s getting a bit paranoid.” “I’m taking her to see a doctor to get her back on track. She’ll be fine in a couple of days.” An instant flood of replies expressing “sympathy for Susan” filled the chat. My Uncle John replied: “Maria has always been a good kid. She’s probably just exhausted. Don’t worry too much, Susan.” My mother replied: “I can’t help but worry. She’s my daughter, after all. As a mother, I’d do absolutely anything for her.” I stared at that sentence: ‘I’d do absolutely anything for her.’ Including poisoning me for fifteen years. I closed the app and stuffed the phone under my pillow. There was a water stain on my ceiling shaped like a bowl. I stared at it for a long, long time. From outside, my mother’s laughter drifted in—she was talking to Marcus in the living room. Marcus mumbled in response, followed by the clatter of a spatula hitting the pan. “Marcus, you’re having the prime rib with lobster tail tonight. I added a soft-boiled egg for you.” “Maria’s pasta is warming in the pot. Call her out in a bit.” Separated by a single wall. He ate lobster; I ate plain pasta. Her YouTube channel was currently uploading its 248th episode of Allergy Mom’s Journey. And I couldn’t even lock my own bedroom door.

“Have you had a history of taking highly toxic or severe cold herbal medications long-term?” The OBGYN specialist moved the ultrasound transducer away from my abdomen. Her voice was professional and neutral, but the way she framed the question made my heart sink. “Yes… for about fifteen years.” She took off her gloves, washed her hands thoroughly at the sink, and finally sat back down at her desk. She opened the computer, brought up my scans, and remained silent for about ten seconds. “Your endometrial lining is only 0.3 centimeters. The normal range is 0.8 to 1.4.” “Your ovarian reserve has severely depleted. Your AMH level is 0.4. For a healthy woman your age, it should be between 2 and 6.” She turned the monitor toward me, pointing at the black-and-white images labeled with cold, clinical numbers. It felt like a final judgment. “Your ovarian function is currently close to that of a perimenopausal woman. The probability of natural conception is extremely low.” ‘Perimenopause.’ A word that belonged to women over forty-five was now stamped onto the medical report of a twenty-year-old girl. “Can it be cured?” “We can try hormonal therapy and lifestyle adjustments, but the chance of recovering to normal levels—” She paused. “It’s very slim.” I took the medical report. The piece of paper felt incredibly light, yet too heavy to hold the weight of those words. “Do you have any other questions?” “No. Thank you.” When I walked out of the clinic, the sun was blindingly bright. I sat on the steps outside the clinic, laying three documents out on my lap—the allergen report, the pharmacist’s chemical analysis of the medicine, and the gynecological report. Three pieces of paper. Twenty years of my life. My phone rang. It was a voice note from my mother on Snapchat. “Maria, Bella and John’s family are coming over for dinner tonight. Come home early to help me clean up. Oh, and I made some baked yams for you. Just for you.” The voice note ended with a light, cheerful chuckle, as if she were talking about the most mundane household chore. When I arrived home, the living room was already packed. Bella was cracking sunflower seeds, John was scrolling through his phone, and Aunt Chloe was chatting happily with Marcus. The dining table was loaded with food. At my designated spot, there was still only a bowl of bland, plain pasta. “You’re back!” My mother popped her head out of the kitchen with a bright smile. “Maria, wash your hands quickly. We were just waiting for you.” Chloe looked at the table and asked casually, “Why isn’t Maria eating the main dishes with us?” “Oh, don’t even ask,” my mother’s face instantly shifted into that deeply practiced expression of sorrowful regret. “Maria has a fragile, highly allergic constitution. She can’t touch anything.” “Seafood sends her into shock, beef gives her terrible rashes, and she can’t even stand the smell of mangoes.” “Oh, poor thing.” “I know, right?” She sat down, uttering her favorite line as naturally as breathing. “She’s just had a hard life. She was born with bad luck.” ‘Born with bad luck.’ She had repeated that line to me for twenty years. Marcus kept his head down, stuffing his mouth with shrimp, saying nothing. John looked up at me. “Maria, you should go get a proper medical test. Allergy tests are extremely accurate these days.” I opened my mouth to speak. “We did,” my mother chimed in quickly, waving her hand with a dismissive chuckle. “Those laboratory machines are highly unreliable. I understand her body better than anyone. I’ve watched her grow up, after all.” She stood up, went into the kitchen, and brought out a bowl of the jet-black liquid, placing it right in front of me. Everyone at the table saw it. “Here, Maria. You ate some sketchy food outside yesterday. Drink this to flush out the toxins.” The dark liquid glistened oily under the dining room light, its bitter vapor rising slowly. A severe emetic laxative. Highly toxic. Long-term use causing permanent infertility. “Yes, Maria, you have to be careful with your fragile health,” Bella chimed in from the side. “Susan really goes above and beyond for you,” Chloe added. I picked up the bowl, my palms slick with cold sweat. Everyone’s eyes were locked onto me. I set the bowl back down. “Mom, I’m not drinking it tonight.” “What’s wrong?” Her smile remained, but the muscles around her eyes tightened. “Are you throwing a fit in front of our guests?” “No, I’m not throwing a fit. I just—” “Maria,” she lowered her voice, leaning in so close her lips almost brushed my ear. “If you embarrass me in front of everyone tonight, you’d better think carefully about how you’re going to survive under my roof from now on.” There was no warmth left in that voice. Only cold, absolute control. “Just drink it, Maria,” Bella tried to play peacemaker. “Your mother went through so much trouble to brew this for you. Don’t let it go to waste.” I picked up the bowl again, brought it to my lips, but didn’t drink. I placed the bowl back on the table, stood up, and said, “Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” As I walked away from the dining table, I could feel every single gaze pinning me from behind. My mother’s voice drifted after me—”It’s fine, it’s fine. She’s just been under a lot of stress lately. I’ll talk to her in a bit.” Inside the bathroom, I locked the door and leaned my back against the cold tile wall. My palms still carried the residual warmth of that poisoned bowl. I was running out of time. She was accelerating everything—bringing the relatives over was to put pressure on me. Bringing the medicine to the dining table in front of everyone was her way of asserting dominance. If I kept dragging this out, she could destroy all the evidence in her cabinet at any moment, or even switch the medicine. I pulled out my phone. A thought struck me—with my mother busy hosting guests, her phone must be charging in her bedroom. I slipped out of the bathroom and quietly entered her bedroom. Her phone was lying on the nightstand, its screen glowing—she had forgotten to lock it. Her pinned chats were right at the top. The first was the family Snapchat group. The second—labeled: Mr. Henderson (Herbs). I tapped it open. The chat history stretched back from yesterday to three years ago. At the beginning of every month, she would send the same message: “The usual. Two batches.” The reply was always just a price and an address confirmation. I scrolled up, finding a conversation from a week ago. Her message: “Henderson, make this month’s batch a bit stronger. She didn’t vomit much last time. I think her body is building a tolerance.” His reply: “Understood, I’ll adjust the dosage. But you can’t keep increasing the strength of this stuff. It’s going to cause serious damage if she takes too much.” Her reply, sent five seconds later: “It’s fine. Her body can take it.” I read every single word. Then, I took screenshots and sent them to my email. I took a second screenshot, a third, a fourth, until my fingers went numb. Just as I sent the last one, my mother’s voice called out from the living room, sounding sweet and cheerful. “Maria? Where did you run off to? Come on out and have some yams before they get cold.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “464056”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

On the night before my final thesis defense, Ethan Carter smashed my 3D architectural design model into pieces. All because Lily Gray, the newly admitted scholarship girl, said she wanted to see what the structure looked like inside. “It was just a slip of the hand. Do you really have to look at me with that dead, emotionless face?” Ethan carelessly brushed the dust off his hands. “Sera, you’re the campus goddess. You can easily build another one with a snap of your fingers. Lily has never seen anything of this scale. Just consider this as opening her eyes to the real world.” I stared at the shattered pieces of the architectural model on the floor. It had taken me three grueling months of sweat and sleepless nights to build. Now, it was nothing but trash. I didn’t scream or throw a tantrum like I used to. Instead, I calmly pulled out my phone and tapped the cancel button on my thesis defense application. Suddenly, a bright, glowing wall of chat comments flashed before my eyes: [Nooo! Seraphina, don’t do anything reckless! Ethan is just trying to show off in front of his little mentee. You’re the one he truly loves!] [Exactly! Sure, the model was expensive, but didn’t Ethan buy you a Hermes Birkin to make up for it? He knows he messed up. If you break off a ten-year relationship over some stupid plastic model, you’re throwing away your entire youth!] [Look at his hands! He’s shaking because he regrets it already. He’s just too proud to admit it. Give him a way out, and he’ll spoil you rotten again!] [Why is the female lead being so dramatic? Lily is so poor and pitiful. What’s wrong with her taking a look? You’re a billionaire heiress, why do you even care about this?] I let out a soft, mocking laugh. Once upon a time, for the sake of Ethan, I had rejected my acceptance letter from the world’s top architecture school in London, choosing to stay at this mediocre state college instead. I did it for what I thought was love. But now, I was done. It wasn’t just my thesis model that was shattered. Ethan, I am officially opting out of your life.

I grabbed the unopened Hermes box from the table and tossed it directly into the trash can. “Ethan, let’s break up.” Ethan froze for a second, then let out a sharp sneer. He casually wrapped his arm around the innocent-looking Lily, who was standing beside him. “Seraphina, are you out of your mind?” “You’re breaking up with me over this minor accident? Fine. Don’t regret it.” “The moment you walk out that door, even if you beg me on your knees, I won’t give you a second glance.” I ignored him, turned around, and walked straight out of the studio. Behind me, Lily’s timid, trembling voice echoed: “Ethan… did I do something wrong? Seraphina looks really mad…” “Don’t worry about her. She’s just spoiled and throwing a tantrum.” Ethan’s voice was cold as ice. “Within three days, she’ll definitely come crawling back to me in tears.” Well, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed this time. Those three days will be used to pack my bags. And to completely erase you from my life. Outside, the rain was pouring. I walked into the storm without an umbrella, letting the cold water wash away ten years of absolute absurdity. From fourteen to twenty-four. I had treated Ethan like my entire world. Yet, he treated me like a stepping stone to boost Lily’s ego. Disgusting. After blocking Ethan on Snapchat, Instagram, and every other platform, I contacted the London professor who had offered me a spot years ago. “Professor, I’m ready to accept your offer now.” By the time I finished packing and sorting out the details, it was already past midnight. I dragged my suitcase into the lobby of the luxury high-rise apartment near campus. My dad had bought this place for me so I wouldn’t have to commute, but I had left it empty just to share a cramped off-campus apartment with Ethan. As the elevator doors slid open, I noticed a man leaning against the wall of the hallway. He was dressed in all black, casually smoking a cigarette. The tiny, glowing ember illuminated his strikingly handsome, rebellious face. Xavier Thorne. He was the notorious bad boy of Easton University, and Ethan’s ultimate rival. The chat pop-ups in my mind went absolutely wild: [Oh my god! Why is HE here? Run, Seraphina! This guy is extremely dangerous!] [Sera, don’t be stupid! He’s a literal psycho. Ethan might be a jerk, but he would never actually hurt you. This guy is on another level!] [It’s over, it’s over! Quick, call Ethan for help!] [I heard Xavier’s family has deep ties with the underground mafia. You can’t mess with him. Run!] I ignored the screaming chat boxes. Mainly because my smart lock was acting up. The fingerprint scanner was dead, and the keypad kept showing an error. Just as I was about to call a 24-hour locksmith, Xavier pinched out his cigarette. He took a few slow steps toward me, bringing with him the subtle scent of rich tobacco and fresh mint. “Well, if it isn’t the campus goddess. Did you get kicked out of your house?” His voice was deep, laced with a teasing smirk. I was in no mood for his games. “Let me borrow your phone. Mine is dead.” Xavier raised an eyebrow. Instead of reaching for his phone, he stepped closer, leaned past me, and tapped a few numbers on my lock keypad. With a soft beep, the lock clicked open. I froze. Xavier leaned casually against the doorframe, his smile dangerously charming. “I bought this entire penthouse floor. Of course I know the master backup code.” “No need to thank me, neighbor.” With that, he turned and strolled into the apartment directly opposite mine. Leaving me standing there in utter disbelief. Once inside, I plugged my phone into the charger. The second the screen lit up, dozens of angry voice messages from Ethan flooded my Snapchat. “Seraphina, you’ve got some nerve blocking me, huh?” “Let me tell you right now, if you don’t publicly apologize to Lily tomorrow, we are done!” “Your stupid model was garbage anyway. I did you a favor by smashing it so you wouldn’t embarrass yourself at the defense!” The last message was a photo. Ethan had taken Lily to the exclusive lounge we always frequented, throwing a massive party. His caption read: “Celebrating being single. All drinks on me tonight.” In the corner of the photo, Lily was wearing the limited-edition designer dress Ethan had ordered for me last week, laughing like a clown. [Aww, look! He’s just trying to make you jealous! He’s literally waiting by his phone for you to call!] [Sera, just swallow your pride. That dress looks so cheap on Lily anyway. Ethan is definitely thinking about you!] [If you go there right now and give him a kiss in front of everyone, this whole thing will be over!] I let out a cold sneer. Over? Sure. Let’s make it official. I screenshotted the photo and forwarded it straight into my family’s WhatsApp group. My caption: “We broke up. From now on, the Vance family cuts all ties with the Carters.” Less than a minute later, my dad replied: “Understood.” Ethan, your golden days are officially over.

The next morning, I went to the dean’s office to file my withdrawal papers. As I walked out, Ethan and Lily blocked my path. Lily’s eyes were puffy and red, looking like she had been crying for hours. “Seraphina, please don’t drop out of school. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have touched your model…” “At least you’re self-aware,” I interrupted her performance. Lily choked on her words, her tears threatening to spill. Ethan immediately lost his temper. “Seraphina! How long are you going to keep up this pathetic act? Does forcing Lily to apologize make you feel powerful?” “Dropping out? Who are you trying to scare? With your spoiled, fragile personality, what can you even do without Easton University? Without me?” “Apologize to Lily right now, withdraw your paperwork, and don’t make me slap some sense into you.” A crowd of students had gathered around, whispering and pointing fingers at me. To them, I was the spoiled, rich bully tormenting an innocent scholarship girl. The chat boxes started spamming again: [Sera, stop being so stubborn! He’s giving you a chance to save face! If you don’t drop out, you’ll still be the future Mrs. Carter!] [Exactly! Don’t ruin your own future over some green tea drama! Ethan still cares about you, he’s just acting tough!] [Take your mom’s advice, hug him, cry, and apologize! It’s not too late!] I looked at Ethan’s arrogant face and realized just how blind I had been. “Ethan, did you seem to forget something?” I slapped my approved withdrawal form hard against his chest. “My family built the library at this university. We funded the entire science wing.” “Even if I decided to burn this place to the ground, nobody would dare say a single word to me.” “As for you…” I swept my eyes over him with pure disgust. “Without the Vance family backing you, what are you even worth?” The hallway fell into dead silence. Ethan’s face turned a violent shade of purple. He raised his hand, aiming a hard slap right at my face. “Seraphina, you’re asking for it!” But before his hand could reach me, it was caught mid-air. “Crack.” The sound of fracturing bone echoed clearly through the corridor. Xavier had appeared out of nowhere. He held Ethan’s wrist with a single hand, his grip vice-like, his smile deadly. “Hitting a woman, Ethan?” “Are you tired of having hands?” Ethan broke out into a cold sweat from the pain, but he still tried to yell, “Xavier! This is a private matter between me and Seraphina! None of your business!” Xavier tightened his grip, making Ethan scream in agony. “A private matter?” Xavier reached out with his other hand, lazily twirling a strand of my hair around his finger. “How come Seraphina didn’t mention you when she spent the night at my place last night?” Instantly, the crowd erupted into chaotic whispers. Even I was stunned. Since when did this guy become such a liar?

Xavier’s words were like a bomb dropping on the crowd. Ignoring the agonizing pain in his wrist, Ethan stared at me, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “Seraphina, is he telling the truth?” “Are you really that cheap? You jump into another man’s bed the exact same night we break up?” Beside him, Lily gasped, covering her mouth in mock horror. “Seraphina, how could you… Ethan has a bad temper, but he was always loyal to you…” I opened my mouth to deny it, but suddenly, a strong arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against a hard chest. Xavier leaned down, his warm breath brushing against my ear. “What’s wrong? Shy to admit it?” “Who was the one begging me to go easier on them last night?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear enough for everyone in the hallway to hear. My entire body went rigid. Is this guy a natural-born actor or what? Just as I was about to stomp on his foot, I caught his eyes. They were dark, deep, and filled with an intensity I couldn’t quite read. The chat went completely insane: [Noooo! Seraphina is ruined! How could she sleep with the villain? My ship has sunk!] [Even though Ethan is a jerk, he never touched another girl! Sera, I am so disappointed in you!] [It’s over, there’s no going back now. Is she just throwing her life away?] [Xavier is definitely using her! He just wants to get back at Ethan! Wake up, Seraphina!] I took a deep breath. If Ethan wanted to believe I cheated, then so be it. Either way, I wanted nothing to do with him anymore. I leaned back into Xavier’s embrace, flashing Ethan a dazzling, mock-sweet smile. “Yes, it’s true.” “And honestly, Xavier is a million times better than you.” “At least he doesn’t smash my hard work just to impress some cheap girl.” Ethan trembled with pure rage. “Fine! Fine! Fine!” He snarled, his eyes dark with malice. “Seraphina, you will regret this!” “I will make sure you realize just how miserable your life will be without me!” With that, he grabbed Lily and stormed off, completely humiliated. As the crowd dispersed, I immediately pushed Xavier away. “Done acting?” Xavier didn’t seem bothered. He casually slid his hands into his pockets. “Throwing me away the second I’m no longer useful? How heartless, Seraphina.” He stepped closer, his gaze turning serious. “But just so you know, one thing I said was absolutely true.” “I really am a million times better than him.” I rolled my eyes and walked away. Behind me, his low, amused chuckle followed me down the hall. Back at my apartment, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Sera, what is wrong with that Carter boy? I heard he destroyed your thesis project?” “Mom, I want to transfer to London.” There was a brief silence on the other end. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Your father and I support you. As for Ethan, the Vance family will make sure he pays for what he did.” After hanging up, I stared out at the city skyline. For the first time in years, my mind felt incredibly peaceful. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number. “Velvet Lounge, 8 PM tonight. If you don’t show up, you’ll regret it.” Attached was a photo of Xavier, beaten up and covered in blood. My heart stopped.

By the time I rushed into Velvet Lounge, the private VIP room was in complete ruins. Ethan was sitting in the middle of the couch, his designer shoe stepping heavily on Xavier’s face. Lily was curled up next to him, feeding him grapes. Xavier was covered in cuts and bruises, yet he was still laughing—a completely mocking, arrogant laugh. “Is this all you got, Ethan?” “Bringing ten guys to jump me? You’re a pathetic clown.” Ethan ground his heel harder into Xavier’s cheek. “Shut up. Right now, you’re nothing but a dog at my feet.” Seeing me enter, Ethan’s eyes lit up. He lifted his foot, looking like a little boy waiting for a prize. “Sera, you came.” “I knew you couldn’t stay away from me.” “Apologize to Lily on your knees right now, swear you’ll never see this street trash again, and I’ll forgive you.” Staring at Xavier, who was bleeding on the floor, a fierce, burning anger roared inside me. The chat comments were still desperately trying to persuade me: [Sera, just kneel! Ethan is just incredibly jealous! He only beat up Xavier because he loves you so much!] [If you just submit to him, Ethan will take Xavier to the hospital! Look how much he cares about your reaction!] [Xavier is just a street thug anyway, he deserved it! Don’t ruin things with Ethan over him!] I marched forward. Before anyone could react, I grabbed a heavy bottle of red wine from the table and slammed it directly over Ethan’s head. “Smash!” The glass shattered into a million pieces. Crimson wine mixed with blood poured down Ethan’s face. Screams echoed through the room. Lily shrieked and fell off the sofa in terror. Ethan clutched his bleeding head, staring at me in absolute shock. “Seraphina! You hit me? For this street trash?” I tossed the broken neck of the bottle onto the floor, looking down at him coldly. “Ethan, that bottle was for my destroyed architectural model.” Then, I pointed at Xavier. “As for him…” “Whoever touched him tonight, I want their hand.” I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in a very long time. “Uncle Marcus.” “Bring your men to Velvet Lounge. Someone is laying hands on your niece’s people.” A dark chuckle came from the other end of the line. “Give me three minutes, sweetheart.” Ethan’s face drained of all color. He knew exactly who Uncle Marcus was. Marcus Vance—the undisputed king of the city’s private security and underground syndicates. Even Ethan’s father had to bow and call him “sir” in public. “Seraphina, are you insane? Calling your uncle over a stupid fight?” Ethan panicked, his voice shaking. “We were just messing around…” “Messing around?” I knelt down, gently helping Xavier sit up. Seeing the blood on his lips, my heart twinged with an unfamiliar pain. “Does it hurt?” I whispered. Xavier looked at me, a flash of surprise crossing his dark eyes. Then, he smirked weakly. “It hurts like hell.” “But a kiss from you might make it better.” Even in this state, he was still flirting. I glared at him, taking out my silk handkerchief to gently wipe the blood from his face. At that moment, I could practically hear Ethan’s heart shattering. Along with the desperate screams of the system chat: [Oh my god! It’s over! The ship has completely burned down! She really fell for the bad boy!] [The plot is totally ruined! Where is the regret arc? Why is the male lead being absolutely destroyed?] [I don’t believe it! She must be acting! She still loves Ethan!] Love him? I was blind before. Now, I just wanted to see him rot.

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Working overtime until 11 PM, I dragged my exhausted body into my car. Suddenly, the intern slid into the passenger seat. “Claire, there are no buses running this late. You need to drive me home.” I kept a polite smile on my face. “You live in the far suburbs. It’s over an hour’s round trip. If I drive you, I won’t get any sleep tonight.” She and I didn’t live in the same direction at all. I unlocked the doors and gestured for her to get out. To my surprise, she buckled her seatbelt. “I’ve been working my butt off doing overtime until now. As my manager, shouldn’t you drive me? Or are you trying to corporate-bully a helpless intern?” I was completely dumbfounded. What did this have to do with bullying? Besides, the project didn’t even need her help. She was the one who insisted on staying just to “fit in.” She had spent five hours playing games on her phone. I only kept my mouth shut because she was young and fresh out of college. Before I could refuse, Chloe had already opened her game on Snapchat, kicked off her shoes, and propped her bare feet right on my center console. A sour, smelly odor instantly hit my nose, making my eyes water! She casually picked her nose and wiped it on the leather seat. “Hey, Claire, why aren’t we moving? What are you waiting for?”

I was so angry I almost laughed. I had bought this Mercedes AMG for over a hundred thousand dollars, and I barely let a speck of dust touch it. Yet, the intern Chloe Bennett was treating it like her own personal trash can. Seeing my dark expression, Chloe rolled her eyes impatiently. “We’re colleagues, Claire. There’s no need to look at me like that. Don’t forget, the General Manager, Justin, is my brother’s best friend from college. He specifically told you to take good care of me. From now on, you should pick me up and drop me off. That way, you can mentor me on the road and have someone to talk to. It’s a win-win, right?” Relying on her connection with Justin, Chloe was treating me like her personal chauffeur. My temper flared. I narrowed my eyes and smiled. “Your place is over thirty miles from mine. The gas money alone is a lot. Even if I am your manager, I have no obligation to drive you for free, right?” “Oh, come on. How much could gas possibly be? I’ll split it with you. Just drive. My game is about to start.” Chloe pushed herself back against the leather seat, her dirty feet still resting on the console. “I gotta admit, your leather seats are way more comfortable than the city bus.” I didn’t say another word. I stepped on the gas and drove toward the outer suburbs, stopping at a gas station halfway there. Chloe had just finished a round of her game. “Why did we stop? Claire, we’re still far from my place.” “Didn’t you say we’d split the cost? Transfer me the money first.” Chloe rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Fine, fine. I’ll just Venmo you for the whole month, okay? A bus ticket is only two dollars. I’ll give you a hundred for the month. Consider the extra as a—” Before she could finish, I thrust the gas receipt in front of her. “Chloe, can you even do basic math? I just put seventy dollars of gas in the tank. A round trip to your place eats up a third of it. Twice a day, even with a discount, is at least fifty dollars.” “Plus, you dirtied my brand-new leather seats. A professional detail for this car costs at least a hundred dollars. Carrying someone like you means I’d have to clean it daily. That adds up to over four thousand dollars a month. Venmo me now.” Chloe clutched her phone, her face turning bright red. “Claire, Justin told you to look after me! Why are you being so cheap with me? I’m just an intern. I don’t even make four thousand a month. How am I supposed to pay you that?” “Oh, so you don’t have the money!” I unlocked the doors, reached over, and pushed her out of the car. “Then stop acting like a spoiled brat. Find your own way home.” Feeling a rush of satisfaction, I hummed a tune all the way home. A hundred dollars to use my brand-new hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes as her private Uber? In her dreams. The next day at the office, my colleagues looked at me with strange expressions. Some were whispering behind my back. I immediately realized what was happening. The intern was mad about being dumped on the highway last night. She was spreading rumors. Someone tapped my shoulder. “Claire, you need to check the local Reddit thread.” I opened it. A post titled “Intern Brutally Bullied: Dumped on the Highway at Midnight by Her Toxic Manager” was pinned at the very top. I clicked on it. One photo showed Chloe looking miserable and shivering on the side of the road. Another was a shot of my back as I got into the driver’s seat. The top comments were vicious: “Isn’t this Claire Miller, the top sales manager from the marketing department? Not only does she exploit her interns, but she also dumps them in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. How can anyone be so heartless?” “No wonder she’s the top sales agent. She built her career on exploiting her subordinates…” The people from my department had all seen the post. They were now crowding around Chloe, offering her comfort. Chloe held her head high, her sharp voice dripping with fake hurt. “I worked so hard until midnight. Instead of getting a simple thank you, I was abused just because I’m an intern.” “I used to think corporate bullying was just something you read about online. Now I know how real it is…” I didn’t care about a few stupid rumors. But normally, I only cared about my work and didn’t socialize much with my team. Now, their attitude was starting to affect the workplace. To prevent this drama from ruining our productivity, I walked over to the main screen and played my dashcam footage for everyone to see. The people who had been pitying Chloe a second ago suddenly distanced themselves from her, their eyes wide with shock. “A hundred bucks for a monthly private Mercedes ride? Is she insane?” “Leaving bare feet on the console is one thing, but wiping boogers on the seat? She looks so clean, but she’s actually so gross…” Publicly exposed, Chloe’s face flushed a deep crimson. She clenched her fists and stormed out of the office. Before she left, she glared at me with pure hatred. This wasn’t over.

Sure enough, the General Manager soon called me into his office. Justin was an Ivy League graduate who had been parachuted into his position. He always carried an insufferable, condescending attitude. “Claire, the company made you the marketing manager because we trusted you. Look at what you’ve done!” “You know we are targeting a younger demographic right now. The last thing we need is negative PR. Because of your toxic bullying behavior, our company is being dragged on TikTok and Reddit. You will personally bear all the financial losses!” Just as I was about to laugh in his face, Justin cleared his throat, pretending to give me a way out. “Tell you what. Make a public apology to Chloe first to control the damage. If there are no further issues, we’ll only dock your performance bonus for this quarter.” He tapped the document on his desk. “This is the disciplinary form. Sign it if you have no objections.” My face remained expressionless, but I was sneering inside. How could I not see through this? He was trying to defend Chloe while using me to establish his authority over the other departments. Too bad I didn’t play that game. “Justin, are you saying that if a dog bites me and I kick it away, I’m the one who has to apologize? Why don’t you just fire me and hire a pack of dogs instead?” Justin’s face twisted in anger. “Claire! I am your boss! I explicitly told you to take care of the new hires. What’s wrong with driving her home and talking about work on the way?” “You need to take responsibility for your mistakes!” I stood up and calmly picked up the disciplinary form from his desk. “First of all, I have no duty or obligation to take care of Chloe outside of work hours. I am not her mother. I don’t owe her a ride home at midnight.” Justin cleared his throat and looked away. I ripped the form to shreds. “Secondly, if you aren’t blind or deaf, you should have seen the video I played. You know Chloe fabricated the whole story to slander me, which is what actually damaged the company’s reputation. If you can’t see that, you should resign. Your IQ is clearly not fit for the GM position.” He slammed his hand on the desk and stood up, glaring at me. I tossed the ripped paper into his trash can. “Lastly, you don’t even have the authority to dock my bonus. Before the Chairman went to Europe for his business retreat, didn’t he tell you that my department reports directly to him?” With that, I smiled politely. “Justin, based on what I just said, I suggest you use your brain and make a more rational decision.” He didn’t realize that my confidence came from how indispensable I was to this company. The only reason he was the GM was because I didn’t want to waste my energy on corporate bureaucracy. By the time I left his office, he was wiping sweat from his forehead. I thought he would back down after this confrontation. Instead, he and Chloe doubled down, trying to rally the entire department to isolate me. During another late night of overtime, Chloe walked up to me, her eyes filled with venom. “Claire, no wonder a low-level manager like you can afford a hundred-thousand-dollar car.” “Turns out you’ve been stealing the bonuses that belong to us!”

I glanced at her coldly. “What kind of drama are you trying to stir up now?” Chloe slapped my payroll sheet onto my desk. “Claire, let’s not even talk about the past. Just look at the last major project. Everyone worked their asses off and stayed up late with you, yet you took fifty percent of the bonus pool for yourself. Doesn’t that money feel dirty?” “Using your seniority to bully interns and steal your subordinates’ hard work—others might tolerate it, but I won’t!” I let out a cold laugh and glanced toward the GM’s office. “Chloe, who gave you my payroll sheet?” Chloe tapped the paper against my cheek mockingly. “That’s none of your business. Claire, you’d better figure out how to explain this to the team.” “I am here to clean up this toxic workplace. Your good days are over!” I didn’t need to explain anything. I used my own network and clients to secure one multi-million-dollar contract after another. My contribution went far beyond what was visible on paper. According to the Chairman’s agreement, I was actually entitled to eighty percent of the bonus pool. The other thirty percent I distributed to my team was money I voluntarily gave out of my own pocket to reward them. But when it came to money, the team immediately sided with Chloe. Everyone united to isolate me. They dragged their feet on my assignments and even posted anonymously under Chloe’s thread: “Turns out Claire didn’t just bully the intern. She’s been screwing over her senior staff for years!” “I can confirm. She’s my manager. We do all the grunt work, and she pockets all the cash!” “Gross. She looks like a total fraud…” Meanwhile, Chloe became their savior. She walked around the office with her head held high, looking incredibly smug. “Don’t worry, guys. I won’t let her rip you off anymore.” “As a Gen Z, I’m here to fix this place. Some corporate parasites won’t be around much longer.” With Chloe egging them on, my team’s behavior grew worse. They didn’t just slow down their work; if I gave them a stern order, they simply went on strike. All my personal history was dug up and posted in the comment section. Overnight, I became public enemy number one. In my ten years of working, I had never felt this disappointed. When the Chairman returned to the country, I visited his house to discuss the upcoming restructuring. If the current team was uncontrollable, I would simply replace them. After wrapping up our meeting, I walked out of the Chairman’s villa and bumped into Chloe, who was out shopping nearby. She waved her phone at me with a smirk. “Claire, do you still have the energy to visit clients at their houses?” Her young face was filled with mockery. It was as if she had already crushed me under her heel and couldn’t wait to gloat. I smiled back. “You should worry about yourself first.” The next day, the staff didn’t even bother whispering. They pointed and sneered at me openly. I could hear words like “climbing the casting couch” and “corporate escort” being thrown around. Before I could figure out what new lie they had cooked up, Justin called me back into his office. “Claire, your disgraceful behavior has caused our stock price to plummet. A simple fine won’t cut it anymore.” “Pack your bags. You’re fired!”

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I was the undisputed sales king of the company, bringing in tens of millions in revenue every single year. But just because I didn’t praise her selfie in the company group chat, she fired me without a second thought. She immediately replaced me with her deadbeat cousin. Fast forward to a month later, and the company’s sales plummeted to absolute zero. Now, she was at my front door, begging on her knees. “Please, Leo, I beg you, come back. Marcus said if you don’t return, he’s going to dump me!” Marcus, my boss, went on a month-long business trip and left his girlfriend, Tiffany, in charge of the company. Who would have thought that her first act of “leadership” would be targeting me. At 10:00 AM, I walked into the office right on time. My coworker nervously pointed toward the boss’s office and whispered, “Tiffany’s here. She told you to get in there the second you arrived.” Tiffany was Marcus’s new girlfriend, and she was notorious for being incredibly arrogant and entitled. If she didn’t like the way you looked at her, she’d scream at you in front of everyone. Once, a female colleague named Lily stayed in Marcus’s office a bit longer than usual to present a report. Tiffany immediately spread disgusting sexual rumors about her, claiming she was sleeping her way to the top. She literally bullied Lily until she had no choice but to resign. But because Tiffany knew how to sweet-talk Marcus in bed, he just let her run wild. I never expected her to set her sights on me. I set down my coffee and pushed open the office door. Before I could even take a step inside, a heavy binder flew straight at my face. “Do you have any idea what time it is? Company policy says we start at eight! Why the hell are you just rolling in at ten?” The sharp edge of the binder cut a thin line across my forehead, drawing a bead of blood. I pressed my hand against my forehead, glaring at Tiffany, who was sitting behind the executive desk like she owned the place. Starting at ten was my exclusive privilege as the top sales representative. It was an unwritten rule that everyone in the company knew and respected. Years ago, when Marcus’s company was on the brink of bankruptcy, he hired me. In my very first month, I brought in five million dollars in sales, single-handedly saving the company. Since then, Marcus treated me like royalty. He consulted me on every major business decision. Tiffany slammed her hand on the desk, her face twisted in a hideous sneer. “Look at your timesheet! You’ve been arriving at ten for a solid month. Do you think you’re above the rules?” “According to our policy, being late three days in a row is grounds for immediate termination!” “Pack your trash and get the hell out of my office!” I stared at her, completely dumbfounded. “You’re firing me? Did you even bother to run this by Marcus?” I generated eighty percent of this company’s revenue. How dared she? Tiffany let out a mocking laugh, looking at me with pure disdain. “You’re just a glorified door-to-door salesman. A pathetic little peddler. Why wouldn’t I fire you?” “This is my boyfriend’s company. I’m the future lady of this house. I fire whoever I want!” Marcus had always been good to me, and I wasn’t about to let this slide without a fight. I sat down on the sofa. “Why don’t you call Marcus right now and see what he thinks?” Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Who do you think you are?” She pulled out her phone and dialed Marcus’s number, putting it on speaker. Marcus’s voice came through, sounding incredibly exhausted. “Hey, babe. What’s up?” The voice Tiffany used to scream at me instantly vanished. She switched to a sickeningly sweet, high-pitched baby voice. “Babe, I miss you so much.” Marcus sighed. “I’m in a meeting. Make it quick.” Tiffany shot me a smug, victorious look. “There’s a sales guy here who keeps breaking the rules. He’s always late, and he’s toxic to the culture. I want to fire him.” “Whatever, babe. Do what you want. I need to get some sleep.” Marcus hung up the phone before she could even reply. Tiffany smirked at me triumphantly. “Hear that? I have full authority. Now get lost!”

I let out a cold laugh and looked at Tiffany. “Are you absolutely sure about this?” “If Marcus comes back and finds out you threw me out, he is going to lose his mind.” I was genuinely trying to warn her. Headhunters had been trying to recruit me with insane seven-figure offers for years. I had only stayed this long out of loyalty to Marcus. If I walked out that door, my life wouldn’t change a bit. But Tiffany? She was playing with fire. Tiffany glared at me, her face contorting with rage. “Who do you think you are? You’re just a replaceable employee! I am his future wife. Do you honestly think he would choose a servant over me?” Hearing her words, I simply shook my head. Fine. Have it your way. I turned around and walked out of the office. Outside, my coworkers had heard the entire shouting match. They were all staring at me in shock. “What happened, Leo?” I calmly began packing my things into a cardboard box. I smiled. “Nothing much. I just got fired.” The coworker’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Fired you? Is Tiffany completely out of her mind? Everyone knows you’re the backbone of this place! Isn’t she terrified Marcus will dump her?” I shrugged. “Not my problem anymore. It was her decision, and she’ll have to live with the consequences.” “Besides, I’ve been working non-stop for years. I could use a good vacation.” I had already made enough money to retire comfortably. I just never had a good reason to walk away. This was the perfect excuse. My coworker was furious. “But why? What did you even do to trigger her?” I thought about it for a second. “Remember when she spread those disgusting rumors about Lily? I was the only one who stood up and called her out.” “She’s hated me ever since. She’s been looking for an excuse to get rid of me.” Just yesterday, Tiffany had posted a heavily edited glamor shot in our Snapchat work group. Everyone was spamming fire emojis, calling her gorgeous. I was the only one who left her on read. That was probably the final straw. “Should I call Marcus?” my coworker offered. “The company can’t function without you.” I shook my head with a smile. “Don’t bother. If I ever come back, it’ll be after she’s out of the picture. I can’t stand her drama anyway. Let’s see how this plays out.” After packing my box, I walked over to the finance office to collect my final paycheck. I had only worked ten days this month, but my commission alone was over ten thousand dollars. I explained to the accountant, Amy, that I had been terminated and asked her to process my direct deposit. Suddenly, Tiffany barged into the room, glaring at me. “Leo! I told you to get lost! What are you still doing here?” I looked at her coldly. She was practically vibrating with unearned authority. It was pathetic. Seeing that I was ignoring her, Tiffany lost her temper. She grabbed my sleeve, trying to pull me. “What are you doing in the finance room? Are you trying to steal company secrets? Get out before I call the cops!” I snatched my arm back, pushing her away. “Touch me again, and we’ll have a real problem.” “I’m just getting my final paycheck. I’m not even asking for severance, which is already incredibly generous of me.” Tiffany turned to Amy. “How much is his payout?” Amy stammered, “Ten thousand five hundred dollars.” Tiffany’s face went pale. “What? How much?” After Amy repeated the number, Tiffany pointed a finger at me. “You violated company policy by being late. Your insubordination has voided your commission. You get nothing!” I scoffed. “A standard lateness penalty is fifty bucks, Tiffany. Can you even do basic math, or did you drop out of middle school?” Tiffany crossed her arms, looking smug. “I just wrote a new policy. Three late arrivals, and you forfeit your entire month’s pay. Now, get out!”

“You don’t have the legal authority to write policies, Tiffany.” She smirked. “This company is going to be half mine soon. I can do whatever I want.” I didn’t want to waste my breath on her. “Fine. Expect a lawsuit from my lawyer.” With that, I walked out. I loaded my things into my car and drove home. Just as I sat down on my couch, my phone buzzed. I hadn’t been removed from the casual Snapchat group yet. Tiffany had posted a message: “From now on, everyone must reply to my messages within ten minutes. If you ignore me, you’ll end up just like the trash I threw out today.” So, it really was because I left her on read. Marcus must have saved a nation in his past life to deserve a curse of a girlfriend like her. The group chat immediately filled with submissive replies. I found it pathetic, so I left the group and blocked her number. My phone finally went quiet. But Tiffany refusing to pay my hard-earned commission? I wasn’t going to let that slide. All of our high-value client contacts were saved on my personal phone. I composed a mass email to all of them, politely informing them that I had officially resigned and would no longer be managing their accounts. Most of these clients were people I had personally brought in. They did business with the company solely because they trusted me. If I was gone, they had no reason to stay. Sure enough, within minutes, my phone started blowing up with Snapchat messages and emails. Clients were asking which agency I was moving to, promising to transfer their multi-million dollar contracts to follow me. I replied to them one by one, explaining that I was taking some time off but would let them know as soon as I made my next move. I spent the entire evening replying to messages until I fell asleep from exhaustion. The next morning, Peter, my former coworker, sent me a text: “Leo, you’re a legend! Half of our major clients just called to cancel their contracts. Was that your doing?” My plan had worked beautifully. I smiled and typed back: “I didn’t do anything. I just told them the truth—that I don’t work there anymore.” “Man, you’re the goat,” Peter replied. “Tiffany came in this morning and absolutely lost it. She started screaming at the sales team, demanding to know why they couldn’t retain the clients. Honestly, three of the guys are already packing their bags. No one wants to deal with her abuse.” It looked like the entire office was on the verge of a mutiny. I couldn’t wait to see how she’d explain this to Marcus. Meanwhile, I contacted my lawyer to draft a formal demand letter for my unpaid commissions. It wasn’t even about the money; it was about making her life a living hell. A few days later, my phone rang. It was an unknown number. I picked it up. “Hello?” Immediately, Tiffany’s screeching voice blasted through the speaker. “Leo! You absolute scumbag! Where did you hide the client database? They’re saying they only have your personal number! Hand over those contacts right now. That is company property! I will sue you for everything you have!” I laughed out loud. She was clearly panicking. “How can you be so disgusting? Give me the numbers now, or I swear to God, I’ll make sure you never work in this city again!”

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Four years into my marriage with Ethan Miller, he brought a seafood pizza to the table. I looked at it and said, “I’m allergic to shrimp, remember?” His hand, holding the fork, froze. “Wait, aren’t you allergic to mangoes?” Never. On the top right corner of the fridge, there was still a sticky note he had written himself: “Hazel’s Allergies: Shrimp, Penicillin, Pollen.” It had been there for four years. The corners were curled. He opened the fridge at least five times a day; all he had to do was look down. The person allergic to mangoes wasn’t me. I didn’t press him. I just picked the shrimp off and ate the mangoes he bought later. They were sweet. He looked relieved, thinking we were past it. That night, while cleaning the kitchen, I peeled the sticky note off. It left a clean, white square on the fridge door. I folded the paper neatly and slipped it under his car keys on the counter. He would grab those keys tomorrow morning. If he saw the note and asked why I took it down—it meant he still remembered what was on it. If he just took the keys and left— Then it was time for me to leave, too.

“Babe, I’m heading out!” 7:28 AM. Just like every other morning, he walked out of the bedroom, his hair still slightly damp. He bent down by the shoe rack to put on his shoes. On the entryway table, his car keys pressed down on the folded sticky note. I leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching him. His hand reached for the keys. His fingertips brushed the edge of the paper. He paused for maybe a fraction of a second. Then, he gripped the keys. The folded paper slid off the table and fluttered to the tiled floor. He didn’t look down. As he took a step forward, his left shoe left a dusty print right on it. The door clicked shut. The elevator chimed down the hall, and then there was only silence. I walked to the door, knelt, and picked up the paper. The gray footprint ran right over the words “Hazel’s Allergies”, completely covering my name. I stared at it for ten seconds. The creases were already fraying. I tossed it into the trash can. Time to go. Packing didn’t take long. In four years of marriage, the things that actually belonged to me were laughably few—a few seasonal clothes, an eyeshadow palette, my passport, and my driver’s license. There was one more thing in the study’s safe. It was the “Observation Journal” I had drawn for Ethan. I started it the year he went through severe depression, recording every single day. All my original sketches were tucked inside. The password was my birthday. I opened it, pulled the journal out, and stuffed it into the lining of my suitcase. The moment I zipped it shut, my phone buzzed. It wasn’t Ethan. It was Valerie, his secretary. She sent me an Instagram screenshot. It was posted to a custom group—but she had accidentally left Valerie in. Or maybe Valerie wanted me to see. The picture showed a mango Frappuccino sitting on an office desk. In the background, you could see a sliver of a dark gray suit sleeve. The caption read: “It feels so good when someone remembers your little preferences~” The poster: Chloe. In the bottom right corner was a location tag: Ethan’s office building. Valerie attached a message: “This new intern has been crossing the line lately. I thought you should know.” I saved the screenshot. I booked a business hotel, called an Uber, and walked out with my suitcase. The elevator mirror reflected my face. I wasn’t crying. My eyes weren’t even red. My lips, however, were dry and peeling. I couldn’t remember the last time I drank water. The hotel receptionist smiled. “How many nights will you be staying?” “I’m not sure.” I slid the keycard in. The curtains opened automatically, revealing a wide, empty view from the twenty-third floor. My phone buzzed again. 2:17 PM. Ethan. I didn’t answer. Second call, 2:19 PM. Third call, 2:21 PM. On the fourth call, I picked up. “What is your problem today?” His voice was accompanied by the sound of rapid typing. He was clearly busy. “The house is a mess, and you’re not even there. Where did you go?” “I took the sticky note down,” I said. “You didn’t notice.” “What sticky note?” Two seconds of silence. He really didn’t remember. “The one on the fridge,” my voice was steady. “The one that had been there for four years. I put it under your car keys. You stepped right on it.” The typing on the other end stopped. After a moment, he let out a frustrated laugh. “All this over a pizza? Hazel, have you gotten more and more dramatic these past two years?” “It’s not about the shrimp.” “Then what is it about?” “Figure it out yourself.” “I don’t have time for riddles,” he lowered his voice, likely because someone was passing by his office. “Just come home. Stop acting up.” I said, “Ethan, you can’t even remember what I’m allergic to. We need some space.” He let out a cold scoff through the receiver. “Space? How long do you need? We have the quarterly presentation tomorrow and a client dinner the day after. You choose “now” of all times to throw a tantrum?” “Get back to work.” I hung up. Outside, the city lights were flickering on. I lay on the unfamiliar bed, staring at the smoke detector on the ceiling. Its little red light blinked silently, like an unblinking eye. My screen lit up again at 11:03 PM. Ethan: “Hazel, where the hell are you? Come back so we can talk.” I didn’t reply. Second text: “You really have to be like this, don’t you?” Third text, forty minutes later: “Fine. Throw your tantrum. See if I care.” I flipped the phone over, face down on the nightstand. The screenshot of the mango Frappuccino flashed in my mind. “It feels so good when someone remembers your little preferences.” Good. Must be nice.

“Hazel? I brought you some things.” The next day at noon, there was a knock on my hotel room door. It was Valerie. She stood in the hallway holding a dark brown paper bag, a conflicted look on her face. “Ethan asked me to drop this off. He hopes you can cool down.” Inside the bag was a cake box with a cream-white finish and a gold-foil logo. I knew this bakery. It was a trendy spot where people lined up for thirty minutes. I had mentioned wanting to try it once, but he hadn’t even looked up, just saying, “Maybe another day.” “Where is he?” “At the office,” Valerie paused. “He said he’ll come pick you up himself after his meetings this afternoon.” I took the box. “Thanks, Valerie.” She opened her mouth as if to say something else, but ultimately just sighed and left. After the door closed, I set the box on the table and opened it. A three-layer mousse cake, topped with meticulously sliced mangoes. Mango. I used a small fork to nudge the top layer aside. The filling was mango, too. I couldn’t help but laugh. But it wasn’t a happy sound. He knew I didn’t eat shrimp, but he couldn’t distinguish between my shrimp allergy and a mango allergy. Now, to apologize, he bought a mango cake. How many things on Ethan’s “Hazel’s Preferences” list were actually accurate? At 3:30 PM, he arrived. He pushed the door open, his suit jacket draped over his forearm, sleeves rolled up twice. He looked like he had run all the way. But his watch face was turned toward the back of his hand—a subconscious habit. He was checking the time. “Did you eat the cake?” He immediately looked at the table. The box was open, the fork sticking out of it, practically untouched. “I had a bite.” “How was it? The line was incredibly long.” “Did you stand in it?” He paused. “I had the intern grab it, but I placed the order.” The intern. Which one? I didn’t need to ask. “Ethan,” I sat in the chair by the window, not bothering to stand. “This cake is mango.” “Yeah.” “I don’t like mangoes.” His expression stiffened for a second before he suppressed it. “But aren’t you… didn’t you say you weren’t allergic?” “Not being allergic and liking it are two different things. We’ve been married for four years, and there has never been a single mango in our fridge. Whose taste buds were you thinking of when you ordered this?” Silence fell over the room. He threw his jacket onto the bed, gripped the edge of the table, and looked down, avoiding my eyes. “Can you not always jump to conclusions?” “Which conclusions?” “You know what I mean,” he looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “Chloe is just a fresh grad interning at the firm. I’m just looking out for her—” “She posts your ‘care’ all over Instagram.” He shut his mouth. “‘It feels so good when someone remembers your little preferences’—did you order her a separate takeout? Did you specifically tell them no mangoes?” “That’s because on her first day, a colleague ordered mango milk tea for her. She took one sip and her lips swelled up! Of course I had to remember. It’s basic managerial duty—” “And what about your basic duty as a husband?” My voice wasn’t loud, but it seemed to choke him. Silence stretched between us. He stood; I sat. Then, he snapped. “Hazel, enough,” he pulled out a chair and sat down, his knees nearly slamming into the table leg. “She’s just a girl with a mango allergy. I’m her boss, so I know her medical limits. How does that translate to an affair in your head? Have you just been a stay-at-home wife for too long? Are you so out of touch with the real world that you’re this insecure?” “Stay-at-home wife. Out of touch. Insecure.” None of these words were new. Four years ago, when his startup failed, he completely broke down. He wouldn’t eat, shower, or leave the house. I quit my job as a lead illustrator at an art studio to care for him 24/7. When he woke up at 3:00 AM from nightmares saying life wasn’t worth living, I hid every sharp object in the house. That was when I started drawing the “Observation Journal”—tracking his daily progress, sketching him eating, capturing the first time he smiled. That journal got him through his darkest six months. Now, he stood across from me, telling me I was out of touch. “Ethan, not only is your memory failing, but so is your conscience.” He opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “Take the cake with you,” I stood up to grab my suitcase. “I’m staying with Maya.” “You—” “Don’t follow me.” I dragged my suitcase through the hotel lobby. It wasn’t cold, but the wind felt harsh against my face. At checkout, the receptionist asked, “Need me to call a cab?” “No, thank you.” While waiting at the crosswalk, my phone buzzed. A text from Ethan: “Fine. Go stay with your best friend for a couple of days to clear your head. Just don’t take too long.” As if he were granting me permission to take a breath of fresh air. I didn’t reply. I put my phone in my pocket and crossed the street.

“Hazel, Ethan says you absolutely have to be there.” A week later. Valerie’s call came through while I was hanging laundry on Maya’s balcony. It was his company’s fourth-anniversary gala. “What were his exact words?” Valerie cleared her throat. “He said, ‘Everyone knows how hard Hazel worked these past four years. She has to be there. Put her at the best table.’” In the living room, Maya rolled her eyes, silently mouthing: “Disgusting.” I remained silent for five seconds. “What time? Where?” “Saturday, 7:00 PM. The Grand Ballroom on the 18th floor of the Westin. Should I have your dress sent over, or—” “No need. I have my own.” I hung up, and Maya immediately rushed over. “You’re not actually going, are you?” “I am.” “Hazel, wake up! This is clearly him throwing you a bone to give you an out—” “I’m not taking his out,” I shook the duvet, sending a cloud of dust swirling into the sunlight. “But I want to see with my own eyes who is sitting in my seat.” Saturday, 6:55 PM. I arrived. Two young receptionists were handling check-ins at the door. They froze when they saw me, flipping through the list for a while before finding my name. “Your seat is at the VIP Table, Seat 3.” Seat 3. Ethan was Seat 1. I pushed open the frosted glass door of the private dining room. The round table was covered in a deep red tablecloth, with a floral centerpiece. Ethan sat in the host seat, leaning over to talk to the person next to him. She was wearing a cream-white satin dress, sharply tailored to show off her collarbones. A small pearl brooch was pinned to her neckline. I looked down at my own dress. Same brand. Same collection. Just a different color. Hers was the newly released spring limited edition. Chloe. Twenty-three, round face, bangs brushing her eyebrows. She looked as innocent as a fresh college grad. She was in Seat 2—to my right, right next to Ethan. And she was leaning over, carefully picking the raw onions out of his salad and piling them onto a side plate. I had done that for four years. Ethan hated raw onions; he couldn’t stand the sharp taste. She did it with practiced ease. “Hazel’s here!” Chloe saw me first and jumped up. Her chair scraped loudly against the carpet. “Please, sit! I was just helping Ethan proofread his speech and forgot to swap seats. I’m so sorry.” Her tone was light, her smile reaching her eyes. Ethan stood up briefly, tugging at his suit jacket. “You’re here? Go sit over there. The view from the opposite side is better.” Opposite. I used to sit right beside him. Now, he wanted me across the table. Chloe stood there, waiting to see my reaction. I walked over and sat in Seat 3. I said nothing. “Alright, everyone, let’s raise a glass!” The toasts began. After a few rounds, Ethan had quite a bit to drink, his face flushing. During the third round, the head of engineering came over to toast him with a glass of chilled white wine. Before Ethan could reach for it, Chloe stood up. “Let me drink this one for Ethan,” she took the glass, smiling at the manager. “Hazel doesn’t come to these dinners often so she doesn’t know, but Ethan’s stomach has been acting up lately. He can’t have cold drinks.” The manager turned to look at me. Two nearby colleagues laughed to ease the tension. “Chloe is so considerate.” “Stomach acting up.” There was absolutely nothing wrong with Ethan’s stomach. But he had started taking antibiotics last week for an inflamed wisdom tooth—a three-day prescription. You can’t mix antibiotics with alcohol. She didn’t know that. She only knew he hadn’t been drinking much lately, so she made up a “bad stomach” story to look caring. I stood up. I walked over. And I snatched the glass right out of Chloe’s hand. Her eyes widened. “Hazel—” I splashed the wine straight onto the table. The chilled white wine splattered, soaking half the tablecloth. “His stomach isn’t bad. He’s on antibiotics,” I said, staring at her. “Mixing antibiotics with alcohol can kill him. You don’t even know that, and yet you’re eager to play the doting wife?” The entire table went dead silent. Chloe’s lips trembled, and her eyes instantly welled with tears. “Hazel, I was just worried about him… I didn’t know he was on medication…” “Oh, you seem to know plenty,” I cut her off. “You know how to pick out his onions, you dare to edit his speeches, you remember all his little tastes. Are you twenty-three, or twenty-three months old? You don’t even know basic drug interactions, yet you’re so desperate to step into my shoes?” Ethan slammed his hands on the table and stood up. His chair tipped over. “Hazel, have you lost your mind?” He marched around the table, putting himself directly in front of Chloe—shielding her. “She was just trying to help. Do you have to be so vicious?” “Help?” “Can you just—” I slipped the platinum band off my left ring finger. It was a simple, lightweight band, engraved with our wedding date on the inside. I dropped it onto his plate, right on top of the pile of discarded onions. “Enjoy the gala,” I said. “Ethan, happy early divorce.” I turned and walked out. As the door closed behind me, I heard Chloe cry out, “Ethan…” in a whimpering voice. He didn’t chase after me.

“Hi there. I’m Chloe.” I heard that voice again three days later. I had gone back to the apartment to get the last of my things from the safe—my “Observation Journal”. When I pushed the door open, I froze. The safe was open. It was empty. The password was my birthday, which anyone could guess if Ethan had told them. I called him immediately. “Did you take the journal?” “Oh,” his tone was casual, as if discussing a piece of office stationery. “Chloe took an illustration project about depression and needed some inspiration. I let her borrow it for a couple of days. Your sketches are in there, right? She’ll return it once she’s done.” I nearly dropped the phone. “That is my property.” “We’ve been married for four years. What’s yours is mine. I just lent it out, I didn’t sell it. Why are you overreacting?” His name was still flashing on my screen. I could hear someone giggling in the background—a light, youthful female voice. “Where does she live?” “You don’t need to go there—” “Address.” He sighed, annoyed. “Apartment 2103, Oakwood Heights. Don’t cause a scene.” I hung up and took a cab straight there. Her apartment door wasn’t fully closed. When I pushed it open, the scent of lavender incense filled the air. Chloe was sitting at a small desk, her back to the door. On the desk lay my journal—or what was left of it. She was cutting it. Page by page, she was using an X-Acto knife to slice along the borders of my illustrations, separating my drawings from the written entries. The cut-out sketches were lined up next to a scanner; seven or eight had already been scanned. The desk was littered with paper scraps. The shredded journal entries—the words I had written to Ethan back then—lay in pieces. “Ate half a bowl of oatmeal today.” “He smiled for the first time.” “I’ll wait for you to get better.” My messy handwriting had been sliced into jagged fragments. Something crunched under my shoe. It was a tiny scrap of an illustration she had trimmed off and thrown on the floor. It had shoe prints on it. It was a sketch of our old cat. “What are you doing?” She spun around. There was no panic on her face. Instead, she offered a polite, sugary smile. “Oh, Hazel! You’re here. I’m just organizing some references. Ethan said I could use these drawings for inspiration… They’re really good, no wonder he kept them.” “These are my private sketches,” I walked over. “Give them back.” “But Ethan said I could—” I reached for the remaining uncut portion of the journal. About half was left. She slammed her hand down on it. “Hazel, don’t be like this. I’ll give them back as soon as I’m done scanning.” “Let go.” “It’s rude to grab things. Ethan gave me permission—” I pulled hard. She didn’t let go. Instead, she stood up, pinning the journal down with one hand, while her other hand— Something flashed. It wasn’t the X-Acto knife. It was a pair of heavy sewing shears. She must have grabbed them as she stood up. Or maybe it wasn’t an accident. I didn’t let go. Neither did she. During the struggle, her grip slipped, and the sharp tip of the shears sliced across the back of my right hand. It wasn’t a superficial scratch. It split open. The sensation of skin tearing was slow. First came a cold numbness, then the searing pain. The blood pooled faster than the pain could register. I looked down. A deep, dark gash ran from my thumb joint to the base of my pinky. The flesh was pale at the edges, and thick drops of blood began to drip, splattering onto the open page of the journal—right over a sketch of Ethan cooking in the kitchen. “Oh my god!” Chloe screamed, stepping back, dropping the shears onto the floor. “You… you’re bleeding! Don’t you dare blame me, you’re the one who tried to grab it—” I couldn’t close my right hand anymore. My fingers wouldn’t bend. Using my left hand, I grasped the blood-stained journal and the loose sketches she hadn’t scanned yet, clutching them to my chest. As I reached the door, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. Ethan had arrived. He took in the scene—the shredded paper, the overturned chair, Chloe sobbing in the corner. Then he walked forward. But not toward me. He shielded Chloe behind him. He glared at me, his eyes wild and bloodshot, like an enraged animal. “Hazel, have you lost your mind? Breaking into someone’s apartment to steal?” “Someone’s?” “Look at how terrified Chloe is—” “Ethan,” I lifted my right hand to show him. Blood was soaking into my sleeve, but my fingertips were dripping red, staining the floor. “Look closer.” He froze for a second. His gaze lingered on my hand. Then he looked back at Chloe’s tear-stained face. “…You terrified her. What do you expect me to say? It’s just a cut. Go to the hospital and get it bandaged. Did you really have to make such a scene?” It wasn’t just a cut. The wound was so deep I could feel the numb ache where the blade had scraped the bone. I was an artist. This was my right hand. My art teacher used to tell me, “Your right hand is your livelihood. Keep it as safe as your eyes.” “I called the police,” I said. “They’re on their way.” His face paled. “What did you say?” “I called them ten minutes ago. Assault, and attempted grand theft—my work is on her computer, the scans are all there.” Chloe broke down behind him. “Ethan, I didn’t steal anything! You told me I could take it! You said I could use it for reference—” Ethan’s jaw clenched. A knock sounded at the door. “Police department. Open up.” I walked out, clutching the bloody journal to my chest with my left hand. As I passed Ethan, he finally noticed my hand dripping blood. Right onto his polished leather shoes. The exact same pair that had crushed my sticky note the day before.

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