Category: English

In the second year of my divorce battle with Rachel, the court stripped me of everything. I was cleaned out, left with nothing but the clothes on my back and a mountain of debt. While I was packing my life into cardboard boxes, my daughter fished an old, dusty phone from the bottom of a trunk. “Look, Daddy! It lights up!” I tapped the screen. A single email notification popped up, casting a dim glow over the empty bedroom. It was a message from ten years ago, written by my younger self. Are you doing okay, twenty-eight-year-old Drew? Did you marry the girl of your dreams? Is our baby as cute as you always hoped? She loves kids more than anything. I bet you guys are incredibly happy, aren’t you? My throat tightened. I gripped the phone, typing back a reply line by line. I got married. We have a beautiful daughter. But three years into the marriage, I found out she was sleeping with my best friend. The godfather of our child. We fought in court for two years. She won. She made sure I was left with absolutely nothing. Seconds after I hit send, a reply flashed across the screen. You’re lying! Rachel and Jordan love me more than anyone in the world. They would never betray me! I let out a bitter, hollow laugh, my fingers trembling against the glass. The people who love you most? Our daughter has a congenital heart defect. She won’t survive without surgery. I literally got down on my knees, begging Rachel for the money to save her life, and she accused me of trying to extort her. She froze all my bank accounts and spent our wedding savings on a lavish ceremony with Jordan. The invitations are already out. Drew, don’t be an idiot. Ten years from now, Rachel doesn’t love you anymore. Whether you break up with her or stay—it’s your choice. … The messages stopped. I waited ten minutes, but there was no reply. Eighteen-year-old Drew was so hopelessly in love with Rachel. How could he possibly believe me? I wiped the tears from my eyes and went back to packing. My daughter sat on top of the open suitcase, swinging her little legs. “Daddy, why are we moving?” she asked in her sweet, quiet voice. I opened my mouth, but the words caught in my throat. How do you explain to a child that you lost everything? How do you tell her that her mother is marrying someone else, and that she will soon have a brand-new family that doesn’t include us? It was a burden too heavy for a four-year-old to carry. Below, the purr of a high-end engine broke the quiet afternoon. A sleek, black Mercedes-Maybach pulled up to the curb. Jordan and Rachel stepped out, laughing and talking in low, intimate whispers as they walked up the steps. I dragged my heavy suitcase down the stairs, meeting them right at the landing. Jordan smirked, waving a marriage certificate in front of my face. “Leaving so soon, Drew?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Rachel was in such a rush. The court finalized the divorce this morning, and she insisted we get hitched this afternoon. She couldn’t wait a single minute.” I didn’t look at him. My eyes locked onto Rachel, but she simply stepped aside, her expression entirely blank. She looked at me the way she would look at a stranger on the subway. Lucy, completely unaware of the tension, waved her tiny hand. “Uncle Jordan, hug!” Jordan smiled warmly, pinched her cheek, and slid a thick white envelope into my hand. “Just a little something for the kid. Take it.” The envelope was heavy. In the old days, my fist would have met his jaw before he could finish the sentence. But now, I swallowed my pride, gripped the envelope, and slid it into my pocket. Rachel’s brow furrowed in disgust. “Is this who you are now, Drew? You couldn’t win any assets in court, so now you’re stooping to taking handouts?” I stood there in silence for a few seconds before asking one last time, my voice barely a whisper. “Rachel… Lucy’s surgery. Can you please just—” “Drew, enough!” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “I have given you more than enough money over the years. Stop using our daughter as a cash cow. I saw her physical report from the clinic—she’s perfectly healthy. You won’t extort another dime from me.” I gripped the handle of my suitcase so hard my fingernails dug into my palms. It hurt enough to bring tears to my eyes. I had told her dozens of times that the clinic report Jordan gave her was a fake, but she refused to believe me. She said Jordan’s family owned the best private hospital in the city, so there was no way they could be wrong. She trusted Jordan blindly. When I tried to show her the official diagnosis from the state general hospital, she tore it to pieces right in front of me, calling me a liar. She had even hired a high-powered corporate legal team specifically to ensure I walked away with nothing. Lucy pulled at my coat. “Daddy, I’m scared.” I bent down, scooped her into my arms, and walked right past them, dragging the suitcase behind me. As I brushed past Jordan, I caught the sharp, woody notes of his cologne. It was the custom fragrance Rachel had gifted me for our anniversary two years ago. She had told me it was a limited blend, that it represented how I was the only one in her heart. Not long after, the same scent started clinging to Jordan. Every time I smelled it, it felt like a physical blow. I loaded our lives into the back of my old sedan. As I started the ignition, the old phone in my pocket vibrated. Are you really me? eighteen-year-old Drew wrote. I asked Rachel about it. She laughed and said she’d only ever love me. She promised our baby would be healthy and beautiful, and that she’d give her the world. Rachel loves me. I believe her. Of course he did. He was young and untouched by betrayal. I pulled the gold-embossed wedding invitation from my bag, took a photo of the names Rachel & Jordan printed in elegant cursive, and hit send. Ask her then. If she swore to love me forever, why is she marrying him today? After sending the email, I powered the phone down. From the moment I first discovered Rachel’s affair until today, I had remained remarkably quiet. I had signed the papers quietly. I had stood in the courtroom quietly. Even when her lawyers tore my character to shreds, I hadn’t shed a single tear. But now, communicating with the ghost of our past, a profound wave of grief washed over me. Because I remembered, better than anyone, how fiercely she used to love me. When my family went bankrupt when we were sixteen, she gave me every penny of her savings to help pay off our debts. When her parents cut her off financially to force us apart, she worked three part-time jobs just to help me pay my college tuition. After graduation, she defied her entire family to move to an unfamiliar city and build a startup with me. I had tried to push her away back then, telling her she deserved a better life. But she had held onto me, crying, and said, “Drew, as long as I have you, I don’t need anything else.” We had promised to build a beautiful life for our future children. But the very day we finally moved into our dream home, our marriage began to rot from the inside out. I drank myself to sleep that night in our cramped rented apartment. The next morning, my head was splitting, but I forced myself to sit up and dial every contact in my phone, begging for loans to cover Lucy’s surgery. I had just put the phone down when the preschool called. “Is this Lucy’s father? Lucy just collapsed on the playground. We’re in the ambulance on the way to the pediatric ER…” By the time I sprinted into the hospital lobby, Rachel was already there. She stood by Lucy’s bed, looking down at our pale, unconscious daughter. Her expression was cold and harsh. “Alright, Drew. How much do you want this time?” My hands shook as I dug through my bag for the medical charts. “Rachel, she’s really sick. Just look at the arterial scans, please—” Rachel grabbed my wrist, her grip unexpectedly painful. “Stop acting.” She threw a shiny platinum debit card onto the linoleum floor. “I know exactly what’s wrong with Lucy. This card has more than enough to cover your rent and living expenses. The PIN is your birthday.” I wrenched my hand free and knelt to pick up the card. Rachel glanced at Lucy one last time, then turned toward the exit. As she passed me, she paused. “Drew, if you had just pretended not to know about Jordan and me, we would still be a happy family. I never wanted to marry him. You’re the one who insisted on a divorce and made this so incredibly ugly.” My chest heaved with a quiet, burning rage. Pretend? How could I pretend when I had walked into our own guest bedroom and seen her wrapped in the arms of the man I called my brother? Even when she was pregnant, she couldn’t keep away from him. It was the constant stress and her reckless lifestyle that had caused Lucy to be born premature. Since she was an infant, Lucy had been in and out of critical care. While I spent sleepless nights weeping in hospital corridors, Rachel was either at “late-night business dinners” or traveling with Jordan. Jordan had spent more time with our daughter than Rachel ever did. I leaned against the hospital wall, suddenly remembering the old phone. I pulled it out, charged it, and powered it on. Several unread emails popped up. Drew, I asked her, the messages from my younger self read. She saw the photo of the invitation and broke down. She swore it wasn’t her. She actually cut Jordan out of her life. He lost his mind, screaming at her, but she told him she couldn’t bear the thought of hurting future-you. Jordan was supposed to go to the same college as us, but now he’s enrolling in a school abroad. See? The future can be changed. Rachel also said that if she ever turns into the monster you described, she wants to apologize to you. She’s so sorry. A strange sensation washed over me, like ink dissolving in water. My mind felt fuzzy for a moment, and then, a set of new memories settled into my brain. In this altered timeline, Rachel had indeed severed ties with Jordan after high school, and Jordan had left the country. But four years later, he returned. He used his family’s massive investment fund to bail out Rachel’s struggling startup, positioning himself as her primary partner. They still ended up in the same bed. I typed back to the eighteen-year-old Drew: It doesn’t work. He comes back. If you want to save our daughter, you have to break up with Rachel. You have to leave her completely. Lucy remained unconscious through the night. The next morning, she slowly opened her eyes, her tiny hand reaching out to touch my cheek. “Don’t cry, Daddy. Lucy doesn’t hurt anymore.” I buried my face in her small, warm palm, letting my tears flow silently. The doctor stepped into the room, his face grim. “Mr. Evans, your daughter’s vitals are dropping. We need to get her into the operating room as soon as possible. Have you secured the deposit?” “I’m working on it,” I whispered. I had exhausted every single resource. The money I managed to scrape together was barely enough to cover the pre-op tests. In a state of sheer desperation, I dialed Jordan’s number. “Jordan… please. I need sixty thousand dollars. I’ll sign whatever you want. I won’t contest the assets, I won’t look at Rachel again. Just let Lucy live.” A soft, mocking chuckle came through the receiver. “Well, look who finally crawled back to me.” “Jordan, please.” “There’s a high school reunion tonight at the hotel downtown,” Jordan said, his voice dripping with malice. “Come down. Get on your knees and beg me in front of everyone, and maybe I’ll think about it.” At eight o’clock that evening, I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the private dining room. The laughter inside died down instantly. Dozens of eyes turned to me, filled with amusement and pity. “Wow, Jordan wasn’t lying. The fallen prince actually showed up for a handout.” “If he hadn’t played the victim and kept Rachel away from her family back then, she would have married Jordan years ago…” I had lived with these whispers for three years. But the boy who used to throw punches to defend my honor in high school was now the man sitting on the plush velvet sofa, swirling a glass of expensive Cabernet. “You’re here,” Jordan said, tilting his chin upward. “On your knees, Drew.” I froze, my joints locked. “What’s wrong? Don’t want the money?” He slid a blank check across the polished mahogany table. “Kneel, and you can write whatever number you want.” The room erupted into snickers. “Just do it, Drew. Don’t act like you still have pride.” My fists clenched, my chest burning with a humiliation so intense it felt physical. Slowly, I let my knees drop to the carpet. “Jordan, I’m begging you. Save Lucy. She’s only four. She didn’t do anything wrong.” Jordan stood up, walked over to me, and slowly tipped his glass, pouring the dark red wine directly over my head. “You know what I hate most about you, Drew?” he whispered, his eyes dark. “We grew up together, the three of us. But Rachel always looked at you. I spent years trying to earn her parents’ approval, and she threw it all away for a charity case like you.” The cold, sticky liquid ran down my forehead, dripping into my collar. Jordan tossed the check onto my wet lap. “Take it. Write the amount. We were brothers once; I’m not going to let a kid die.” I picked up the pen and wrote the exact amount needed for the surgery. Not a penny more. Just as I finished, the double doors burst open. Rachel walked in. She took one look at the check in my hand, walked straight up to me, and delivered a stinging slap across my face. I fell sideways onto the floor, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. “Have you no shame, Drew?” she spat, her voice trembling with rage. “You’re actually begging Jordan for money now?” Jordan stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Babe, don’t be mad. I just felt bad for him. He has nothing left.” Rachel looked down at me, her eyes filled with cold, unadulterated disgust. “Take the charity and get out. You’ve embarrassed yourself enough.” I grabbed the check and scrambled to my feet, walking out to the sound of hushed laughter. As the heavy doors clicked shut behind me, I caught the voice of an old classmate asking, “Rachel, do you ever regret marrying him in the first place?” Through the crack in the door, I heard her clear, steady reply. “Every single day. If I could go back ten years, I wish I’d never met him.” My chest seized. If eighteen-year-old Rachel could hear those words, she would hate the woman she had become. I rushed back to the hospital and scheduled the surgery for the following week. After agonizing over it, I dialed Rachel’s number. It took ten attempts before she finally answered. “Rachel… can you come to the hospital on Wednesday? It’s the day of her surgery. She keeps asking for her mom.” The line was quiet for a long moment. “I have a product launch. I’m busy,” she said flatly. “Just text me when it’s over. Oh, and Jordan and I are having our ceremony this weekend. Don’t cause any trouble.” Before she could say another word, I hung up. The day of their wedding, the entire city seemed to be celebrating. Every local news channel was broadcasting the “wedding of the century” live from the grand cathedral downtown. I sat by Lucy’s bed, staring at the gold-embossed invitation, wanting nothing more than to tear it into a thousand pieces. Suddenly, the monitors beside the bed began to blare. Lucy’s face turned a terrifying shade of blue, her tiny chest heaving as she gasped for air. Within seconds, a team of doctors and nurses rushed into the room, pushing me out of the way. “Lucy! Lucy, look at Daddy! Stay with me!” I screamed, but a nurse held me back as they wheeled her toward the ICU. “Mr. Evans, her lungs are failing. We have to do the emergency bypass right now! Go to the billing desk and clear the deposit!” I sprinted to the desk, pulling the platinum card Rachel had given me from my wallet. “Declined,” the receptionist said, looking at me with pity. “The account has been frozen.” My blood ran cold. Rachel had frozen the card. I called her. Declined. I called again. Blocked. I ran out of the hospital, hailed a cab, and urged the driver to fly toward the cathedral. When I arrived, the steps were covered in white rose petals. Rachel was standing near the entrance, her magnificent lace gown trailing behind her, a bouquet of white calla lilies in her hands. I lunged past the security line, grabbing her arm. My voice was completely shot, raw and bleeding. “Rachel, Lucy is dying! She’s in the ICU right now. Unfreeze the card! Please, I’m begging you, just unfreeze the card!” Rachel’s face darkened. She waved her hand, and two large security guards immediately grabbed my shoulders, dragging me backward. “Drew, stop this ridiculous drama!” she yelled over the crowd. “I checked the clinic reports myself. She has a mild arrhythmia. To crash my wedding with a lie like this… you’re pathetic.” “Rachel! Please!” The heavy oak doors of the cathedral closed, and the beautiful, resonant notes of the wedding march began to play, completely drowning out my screams. I fell to my knees on the stone steps. In my pocket, the old phone vibrated. It was a message from eighteen-year-old Rachel. Drew, it’s Rachel. I know everything now. I promise you, I will never let those awful things happen to us. I swear to love you with my entire life. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I stared at the screen, my vision blurring with tears. The eighteen-year-old Rachel had sworn to love me with her life. The twenty-eight-year-old Rachel was inside, walking down the aisle to another man, leaving our daughter to die alone. My phone rang. It was the hospital. “Mr. Evans… I am so sorry. We couldn’t get her into the operating room in time. Lucy passed away at 2:14 PM.” The world went entirely silent. The air left my lungs. My mind went blank, a vast, frozen wasteland. Through the stained-glass windows of the cathedral, I could hear the faint sound of cheering. They were exchanging rings. A sudden, violent surge of adrenaline hit my system. I broke free from the guards’ grip, threw my weight against the heavy wooden doors, and charged down the center aisle. “Rachel!” I screamed, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “Our daughter is dead! She’s dead because of you!” The guests gasped, rising from their pews. Rachel shrieked, stepping back into Jordan’s arms. “Drew, you’re insane! Lucy was fine! Someone get him out of here!” “Drew, get the hell out!” Jordan yelled, stepping in front of her. “I paid for her treatment!” I lunged at him, my fist connecting heavily with his cheekbone. “You changed the records! You knew she was dying, and you hid it from her! You killed my little girl!” The chapel fell into absolute chaos. Guests were screaming, and several security guards tackled me to the ground, pinning my face against the cold stone floor before dragging me out into the pouring rain. As I lay on the wet pavement, the old phone in my hand buzzed one last time. It was eighteen-year-old Drew. I can’t do it, Drew. I can’t break up with her. She loves me too much, and I love her. I have to believe her. I let out a ragged, weeping laugh. We were the exact same fool, he and I. Even when we knew how the story ended, we still chose to believe. I pushed myself up, my fingers slippery with rain and blood as I typed my final reply. Drew, Lucy is dead. She died ten minutes ago while Rachel was kissing Jordan at the altar. They killed her. I am begging you, please break up with her. Don’t love her. Don’t marry her. Please… don’t let my little girl die again. The tears blinded me completely. I couldn’t see where I was going. I stumbled off the curb, my boots slipping on the wet asphalt. High-beam headlights cut through the gray storm. A horn blared, deafening and sharp, followed by the violent screech of brakes. The world spun. In the final, fading moments of my consciousness, I thought I saw an eighteen-year-old girl in a high school uniform, tears streaming down her face, sprinting toward me through the dark. “Drew!”

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I saw the post on our building’s resident WhatsApp group at ten on a Tuesday night. It was the kind of message that made me stop mid-sip of my wine, my eyes widening in the dim light of my living room. Belinda, the pregnant woman from across the hall, had tagged everyone. “Can anyone keep my husband company? Requirements: chat with him, cook him dinner in the evenings. I’ll pay $3,000 a month pocket money, plus a brand-new La Mer skincare set.” The chat went instantly quiet, a collective breath held in the digital ether. Then, she tagged me directly. “Lauren, I think you’re perfect for this. You’re single and beautiful. I’ve already left the gift box at your door. Just head on over tonight.” I opened my front door. Sure enough, there was a beautifully wrapped green box sitting on the welcome mat. I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. I picked up the box, walked to the trash chute down the hall, and tossed it right in. Then I typed a quick reply in the group chat: “Are you out of your mind?” I honestly thought it was just some bizarre, temporary lapse in sanity. I was wrong. It was only the first step into a nightmare. … At seven the next morning, I opened my door to head to the office. “Lauren, you took the skincare. Why didn’t you show up to keep my husband company last night?” Belinda was standing in the hallway, blocking my path. Her hands were propped on her heavily pregnant belly, her eyes wide and demanding. I frowned, keeping my voice low. “Have you completely lost your mind?” Belinda’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How dare you speak to me like that? I was trying to be generous. That La Mer set cost more than you make in a week, and you take my things and refuse to do the work? Where is your decency?” I pointed toward the end of the hallway. “The box is in the trash chute. Go fish it out if you want it. Now, get out of my way.” I tried to step around her toward the elevator, but she lunged forward, grabbing the strap of my canvas tote bag. “You stay right here! Is it the money? Do you think three grand isn’t enough?” Belinda’s grip was surprisingly tight. “I’m telling you, it’s easy cash. Just cook for my husband, talk to him. It’s not like it’s going to kill you!” My face went cold. “Belinda, let me say this one last time. I have zero interest in your husband, and I have zero interest in your money. If you touch me or my belongings again, I will call the police.” “Go ahead! Call them!” Belinda didn’t flinch. Instead, she pushed her pregnant belly toward me. “I’m pregnant. What do you think the cops are going to do to me? Touch me. Lay one finger on me and I’ll sue you until you’re completely bankrupt!” The shouting was loud enough to echo in the concrete stairwell, drawing the attention of our neighbors. Mrs. Higgins, an elderly woman from the floor below, poked her head out of the elevator vestibule, holding a mug of tea. “Oh, Lauren, dear, what’s all the commotion? It’s far too early for this.” Belinda pointed a manicured finger at me. “Mrs. Higgins, you be the judge! This girl took my expensive gift, promised she’d help watch my husband while I’m resting, and now she’s going back on her word!” My hands shook with sheer frustration. How could anyone twist reality so effortlessly? I pulled out my phone and pulled up the WhatsApp group. “Mrs. Higgins, look at this. She posted this insane proposal last night. I didn’t let her in, I didn’t accept her package, and I threw it straight into the garbage.” Mrs. Higgins squinted at the screen, then looked at Belinda. Her expression shifted into deep, awkward discomfort. “Oh, Belinda… sweetheart, this is… well, it’s a bit much, isn’t it? Who hires a companion for their own husband?” “What do you mean, a bit much?” Belinda’s voice grew louder, more hysterical. “I’m pregnant! I can’t take care of him right now. What’s wrong with finding him a little company? It’s my duty as a supportive wife!” She glared at me, her eyes dripping with condescension. “She’s a single woman. She dresses up to turn heads every single day—we all know what she’s looking for. I’m offering her a paid opportunity, and she’s acting like she’s too pure for it!” I took a deep, steadying breath, bypassing her completely, and dialed building security. “This is Lauren in Apartment 802. I have a tenant blocking my doorway and harassing me. Send security up right now. If they aren’t here in three minutes, I’m calling 911.” Hearing me mention security, Belinda’s face flickered with a brief flash of hesitation. “Call them! You think I’m scared of some rent-a-cops? My husband is a senior VP at a top firm. He could crush you like a bug!” Five minutes later, two security guards stepped out of the elevator, looking thoroughly flustered. I pointed at Belinda. “Get her away from my door so I can go to work. If she blocks me again, I’ll file a formal complaint against management for failing to maintain a safe building environment.” The guards looked apologetic, shifting on their feet. “Uh… Mrs. Matt, please. You’re pregnant, you shouldn’t let your blood pressure get this high. Let’s just go back inside, okay?” Belinda slapped their hands away, her finger nearly touching my nose. “Lauren, you’re going to regret this! This isn’t over! You think you can treat me like this? I’ll make sure you can’t show your face in this neighborhood!” I kept my expression entirely blank, walked past her, and stepped into the waiting elevator. I tried to convince myself that if I just ignored her, she would eventually get bored and stop. But I had severely underestimated how low she was willing to sink. That evening, I didn’t get home until eight after a grueling sprint of overtime. The moment the elevator doors slid open on the eighth floor, a sharp, chemical stench hit my nose. Wet paint. I walked toward my door, and my heart dropped into my stomach. My door was covered in thick, dripping crimson paint. Slurred across the wood in frantic, jagged strokes were the words: HOMEWRECKER GO TO HELL. Hanging from the brass doorknob by a bright red string was a dead, bloodied rat. The hallway seemed to spin. A wave of intense nausea washed over me, and I had to lean against the wall to keep my knees from buckling. Right then, my phone buzzed in my hand. I picked up. Belinda’s soft, mocking laughter came through the receiver. “Do you like my housewarming gift, Lauren?” My voice was like ice. “Your gift? Are you admitting you vandalized my door?” Her tone was dripping with fake innocence. “Vandalized? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a fragile pregnant woman, Lauren. I can barely bend over to tie my shoes, let alone carry a paint can. What could I possibly do?” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “But then again, there are plenty of decent people in this building who can’t stand a homewrecker. Maybe some good Samaritan decided to do some community service.” My grip on the phone was so tight my knuckles turned white. “Belinda, do you honestly think you can get away with this just because the hallway camera is down?” “Go ahead and check the feeds,” she sneered. “The building manager told us weeks ago that the system is broken. Lauren, be smart. Wash up, put on something nice, and go to my husband’s room tonight. Let’s put this little misunderstanding behind us.” “Otherwise, tomorrow, it won’t just be paint on your door.” I hung up immediately, blocked her number, and dialed 911. Ten minutes later, two officers arrived. I laid out the entire sequence of events, showing them the WhatsApp logs, the call logs, and the recording of the call I had just received. The two young officers exchanged troubled looks. “I’ve heard some strange neighborhood disputes, but this is a new one,” one of them murmured before walking over to knock on Belinda’s door. The door opened. Belinda was wearing a loose, flowing linen maternity dress, holding a pristine bowl of washed grapes. When she saw the police, her face contorted into a perfect picture of innocent shock. “Officers? Oh my goodness, is everything alright? Did something happen?” The officer pointed toward my door. “Do you know anything about this, ma’am?” Belinda gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth. “Oh, how dreadful! Who would do such a horrible thing? Lauren, have you been getting involved with the wrong crowd?” I stared at her, my voice deadpan. “That’s not what you said on the phone five minutes ago.” The officer pulled out my phone and played the audio recording. As her own voice echoed in the hallway, Belinda’s eyes welled with tears. “Officers, please listen to that. Did I ever actually admit to doing it? I was just upset because she’s constantly trying to catch my husband’s eye. I was just talking back. How could a pregnant woman carry paint and do all that?” The officers looked frustrated. Without direct camera footage or an explicit admission, their hands were tied. “Mrs. Matt, your statements on this recording clearly constitute harassment,” the officer warned her, his voice stern. “Consider this a formal warning. If there are any further incidents, we will have no choice but to issue a summons.” Belinda nodded eagerly, wiping her dry eyes. Once the police walked away, the hallway fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Just the two of us. Belinda’s face instantly changed, her tearful expression melting into a cold, triumphant smirk. “See that, Lauren? Even the cops can’t touch me.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I am carrying the heir to the Matt family fortune. Even if I ended you, any lawyer would get me off on postpartum psychosis. I wouldn’t spend a single day in a cell.” I looked at her, and for the first time, a strange, calm smile touched my lips. “Is that so? Let’s see how that works out for you.” I didn’t waste another word. I walked away, called a locksmith to change my locks, and hired a professional deep-cleaning crew to scrub the paint off my door. The next morning, the moment I walked into the lobby of my office building, the receptionist, a sweet girl named Julie, rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Lauren, oh my god, have you looked at the company Slack?” My stomach tightened. I pulled out my phone. On the main company-wide channel, an anonymous user had posted a long, detailed article. The title was venomous: The Dual Life of Senior Designer Lauren: Classy on the Outside, Homewrecker on the Inside. The post featured my professional headshot side-by-side with a cropped screenshot of Belinda’s WhatsApp message to me. The text beneath was pure poison: “This woman targets married men for money. She accepted expensive luxury gifts from a pregnant neighbor’s husband, but when she realized she couldn’t extort more cash, she backed out and called the police on a pregnant woman to cover her tracks.” The office was already humming with it. When I walked through the bullpen, my coworkers’ conversations died instantly. Eyes darted toward me, whispered judgments hanging thick in the air. I didn’t hesitate. I walked straight into the Director’s office. Diane, our Design Director, was a sharp, formidable woman in her late forty’s. She looked at the screenshots I handed her, then at the police report and the call logs. Her brow furrowed deeply. “Lauren, I’ve worked with you for five years. I know your character,” Diane said, her voice measured but serious. “But this post has spread like wildfire. We’ve already had two major clients call asking if this is going to affect our current campaign.” “I understand,” I said, drawing a breath that felt like lead. “I will handle this completely. If I can’t resolve it within the month, I will tender my resignation.” Diane nodded slowly. “Alright. Take the time you need to clear this up. I’ve already instructed IT to permanently remove the post and track the IP.” Leaving her office, I immediately called Russell, a private investigator I’d met through a mutual acquaintance. Defamation. Harassment. Extortion. I wasn’t going to play defense anymore. I booked a room at a boutique hotel near my office and didn’t return to the apartment. For the next month, Belinda went completely silent. There were no more posts, no more text messages. Everything seemed to return to normal. I allowed myself to believe they had finally realized they were playing a dangerous game and backed off. I was incredibly naive. It was a rainy Friday afternoon, exactly four weeks later, when I walked out of the office lobby. A figure stepped out from the shadow of the awning, blocking my path. He wore a tailored gray suit and gold-rimmed glasses, looking every bit the polished professional. He looked at me with an expression of profound, humble apology. “Lauren? Hi. I’m Zachary Matt, Belinda’s husband.” I stopped, my body instantly tensing. “What do you want?” Zachary sighed, reaching into his leather briefcase to pull out a beautifully wrapped package. He held it out with both hands. “I came to apologize to you in person,” he said, his voice soft and deeply apologetic. “Belinda’s hormonal levels have been completely unstable since she got pregnant. She’s had severe mood swings, and she’s done some incredibly irrational things. I’ve been traveling out of state for work and had no idea how bad things had gotten. I am so, so sorry for the nightmare she put you through.” I didn’t touch the box. “I don’t want your apology, and I don’t want your gifts. I’ve retained a lawyer, Mr. Matt. We’ll settle this in court.” At the word lawyer, Zachary’s eyes flickered. He withdrew the box slowly, taking a step closer. His voice dropped to a low, confidential murmur. “Lauren, a lawsuit is so exhausting. It takes months, and honestly, a public dispute like this won’t do any favors for a single woman’s reputation.” He adjusted his glasses, his eyes drifting down my figure with a slow, deliberate assessment. “To be honest… Belinda’s idea was crazy, but it doesn’t mean it was entirely wrong.” I froze, wondering if I had somehow misheard him. “What did you just say?” Zachary smiled, a greasy, predatory curl of his lips. “You’re a gorgeous woman, Lauren. It must be so exhausting, trying to survive in this city entirely on your own. Belinda’s health is poor right now, and she can’t… satisfy me.” He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from my cheek. “If you agree, we don’t have to talk about three thousand dollars. I can make it thirty thousand a month. All you have to do is spend a few nights a week with me.” “Belinda is old-fashioned. She genuinely believes this is her duty to keep me happy. See? My entire family wants you. Why are you hesitating?” A wave of cold revulsion washed over me. These two were a perfect match: one was a delusional madam, and the other was a self-righteous john. I slapped his hand away and, in one fluid motion, brought my palm hard across his cheek. SLAP. Zachary’s head snapped to the side. He cupped his face, his polite facade instantly evaporating into a dark, vicious glare. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lauren,” he hissed, spitting a bit of saliva onto the pavement. “I was throwing you a bone.” He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper against the sound of the rain. “Believe me, I have a hundred ways to make you beg me to touch you.” I met his gaze, my voice deadly quiet. “I’d love to see you try.” I turned on my heel and walked away. The moment I got back to my hotel room, I called Russell. That night, around two in the morning, I was pulled from a deep sleep by a violent, deafening pounding on my hotel door. BANG! BANG! BANG! “Lauren! You miserable bitch, open this door!” It was Belinda. I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. How did they find out which hotel I was staying at? “Open up! You think you can sleep with my husband? You think you can lay your hands on him? Get out here!” The screaming was hysterical, accompanied by a barrage of vile insults that echoed down the quiet hallway. I grabbed my phone, immediately dialed 911, and then called the front desk. “I’m in Room 802. There are people trying to break down my door. Send security up immediately!” Outside, the noise grew louder. Zachary’s voice joined the shouting. “Lauren, stop playing innocent! You had the nerve to hit me, but now you’re hiding like a coward?” His voice sounded slurred, heavy with alcohol and toxic confidence. I stood flush against the door, my hand trembling as I held a can of pepper spray. Five minutes felt like an eternity before I heard the sharp command of security guards, followed by the heavy, hurried footsteps of police officers. Only then did I let out a long breath and unbolt the lock. The hallway was a scene of utter chaos. Belinda’s hair was wild, her eyes crazed as she struggled against an officer trying to hold her back. Zachary was standing to the side, raising his hands to explain to another officer. “Officer, please, it’s just a family matter. My wife is pregnant and highly emotional. She thought her husband’s mistress was in this room. We just wanted to talk.” I stepped out, pointing directly at them. “Officer, they have been stalking and harassing me for over a month. They tracked me to this hotel.” The responding officer recognized them immediately. “You two again? The vandalism case from last month isn’t even resolved, and now you’re causing a scene at a hotel?” Belinda’s eyes turned bloodshot, her face contorting with wild rage as she lunged toward me. “You whore! You hit my husband! I’ll tear your eyes out!” The officer grabbed her arm, pinning her back. “Ma’am, calm down! You’re pregnant, you need to stop this!” Suddenly, Belinda went completely still. The rage on her face vanished, replaced by a ghastly, pale mask of pure terror. A low, guttural moan escaped her throat. “My… my stomach… Oh god, it hurts…” She collapsed onto her knees, and within seconds, a dark, brilliant pool of blood began to seep through the hem of her light-colored dress, staining the patterned hotel carpet. Everyone froze. Zachary’s face drained of color as he threw himself onto the floor beside her. “Belinda! Belinda, what’s happening?” The officer immediately barked into his radio: “Dispatch, we need an ambulance at the Grand Hyatt, eighth floor. Hemorrhaging pregnant female.” The hallway was a blur of shouting and panic. Belinda clutched Zachary’s jacket, her fingers trembling, her gaze locked onto me with a look of absolute, venomous hatred. “It’s her… she did this to my baby… Zachary, don’t let her get away with this…” When the paramedics finally arrived and wheeled her out on a stretcher, Zachary stood up. He turned back to look at me, his eyes dark with a terrifying promise. “If my child dies, Lauren, I will make sure you pay with your life.”

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Three years after our “paper” divorce, my six-year-old daughter, Lily, walked for two hours through the cold streets just to find me. She gently tugged at the edge of my coat. “Mommy, I’m so hungry.” My heart dropped. On the way to get her food, a post on my Snapchat suddenly flashed through my mind. It was a photo Julian had posted just a few hours ago. It was a picture of a beautifully prepared, organic kid’s meal. His caption read: Nothing is too good for the kids. Always homemade with love. “Didn’t your daddy make you dinner?” I asked, my voice trembling. Lily shook her head. “No. That was for Leo.” I froze in my tracks. Leo was Celeste’s son. Celeste, his first love. In that instant, the cold truth washed over me. There was never a “paper” divorce. He had left me for real. 0 I pushed the menu in front of Lily. But my eyes kept drifting downward. I saw the worn-out, scuffed edges of her little sneakers. I couldn’t bear to think about how she had walked such a long distance all by herself. Lily flipped to the very back of the menu and pointed to the simplest thing on the page—a small bowl of Mac and Cheese. My chest tightened. It physically ached. “Why only that, sweetheart? You can have whatever you want with Mommy!” I thought she was just feeling distant because we hadn’t seen each other in a month. Forcing a smile, I took the menu back and ordered three more of her favorite dishes. But Lily shook her head fearfully. “Daddy doesn’t let me eat that much.” “He says girls need to stay skinny to look pretty.” “Mommy, I was just so hungry… that’s why I came to find you. Please don’t tell Daddy.” She looked up at me, her eyes filled with an anxiety that no six-year-old should ever have. We had only been apart for a month. How did she become like this? My heart was bleeding. Tears blurred my vision, and I quickly began piling food into her plate to hide them. “You’re only six, baby. You need to eat to grow.” “Didn’t Mommy send you those bags of pecans last week? If you were hungry, you should have eaten some of those.” Regret hit me like a tidal wave. I should have packed her more snacks. Even some crackers would have saved her from this misery. The last time I saw her, her cheeks were chubby and rosy. Now, she looked like a shadow of herself. Lily looked up and saw a tear slip down my cheek. She stood up on her chair, reaching out her tiny hand to wipe my tears away. But the moment her fingers touched my face, a cold sweat broke out across my back. I grabbed her wrist. Her tiny, delicate hands were covered in raw, healing cuts and bruises. “What happened to your hands?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but I was crumbling inside. My voice shook violently. But Lily just gave me a small, innocent smile. “I got them from shelling the pecans.” “Daddy said the dog would choke on the shells, so he made me shell them all and grind them into powder for the dog’s food.” “I shelled two whole bags, Mommy! Aren’t I strong?” She tilted her head up, waiting for my praise. But the words caught in my throat. It felt like swallowing glass. I excused myself, walked out of the restaurant, and dialed Julian’s number. It rang three times before he finally picked up. “What is wrong with you?” I screamed. “You starve Lily, and then you make her shell the pecans I sent her just to feed your damn dog?” “Julian, do you even deserve to be a father?” The rage I had kept locked in my chest exploded. Julian’s voice on the other end was cold, indifferent. “She eats less now so she won’t have to suffer through diets when she’s older. I’m saving her from ending up like you, obsessing over weight every other week.” “And stop sending those cheap organic snacks. Who knows where they’re sourced? You can’t even guarantee they’re clean.” Before I could speak, the line went dead. He was right about one thing. Julian was a billionaire’s son. He grew up in absolute luxury. Even his kid’s meals were topped with caviar. But Lily didn’t get caviar. She didn’t even get her pecans. She had nothing. I stood there, listening to the heavy thud of my own heartbeat. I wiped my face, refusing to let my daughter see me break down. But Lily was too smart. She noticed the moment I walked back in. She lowered her fork, not daring to look me in the eye. “Mommy… is Daddy mad at me?” I forced a warm smile and stroked her hair. “No, sweetie. Daddy wants you to eat up.” “After this, Mommy will take you to your piano class, okay?” She was too young. I didn’t want her to carry the weight of our broken family. But Lily just looked at me blankly. “The piano class?” “Daddy said Leo needed it more. He gave my spot to him.” 0

For a second, I couldn’t process her words. That piano class was taught by a world-renowned pianist. I had pulled dozens of favors and spent months on a waiting list to get Lily in. And Julian just gave it away to Celeste’s son? What kind of sick joke was this? Without wasting another second, I took Lily and drove straight to the prep school. After settling Lily in the waiting room, I stormed into the director’s office. “Why wasn’t I notified that my daughter’s spot was transferred?” “I signed the contract. I paid the fees. Did anyone think to ask for my consent?” The administrator looked incredibly uncomfortable. Her face flushed red as she spoke softly. “Mr. Sterling arranged it personally. He specifically instructed us not to tell you.” All the air left my lungs. Classic Julian. When he wanted to cover his tracks, not a single whisper would escape. I had paid thousands in tuition, only for Celeste’s kid to reap the benefits. I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. The administrator was just doing her job. But as I turned to leave, she called out to me. “Mrs. Vance… I highly suggest you pay closer attention to Lily’s mental health.” “She’s been… isolated by her classmates lately.” The hesitation in her voice sent a chill straight down my spine. Lily was a sweet, gentle girl. How could she be isolated? My mind was a chaotic mess as I walked out into the hallway. And then, I saw him. Julian was walking out of a classroom, holding Leo’s hand. He naturally reached down to take the boy’s backpack, carrying it for him. I stared, dazed. I wondered if he ever smiled like that when he was with Lily. “Daddy!” Lily saw him too. She ran toward Julian, her little arms outstretched, desperately wanting a hug. But Julian flinched. He stepped back, avoiding her completely. An expression of pure disgust flashed across his face, as if she were a stranger. “You have the wrong person,” he said coldly. Lily froze. Her hands fell to her sides, her tiny fingernails digging deep into her palms. Class had just ended, and several kids gathered around, watching the scene. “Look, Lily has no daddy!” “Even my dog has parents. Lily is unwanted!” The kids’ laughter echoed down the hallway. It pierced my ears. Without thinking, I rushed forward and pulled Lily tightly into my arms. “Go away! All of you!” “I am Lily’s mother! She is not unwanted!” My entire body was shaking. It felt like someone had ripped a piece of my heart out. My sweet Lily. What kind of hell had she been living in? Three years ago, to protect Julian’s family assets during a massive corporate restructuring, we agreed to a legal divorce. Back then, he had held my hands and cried like a child. He promised it was just on paper. He promised that once things settled, we would remarry. He promised Lily would never suffer. Because of those promises, I waited. Year after year. But it was all a lie. Julian heard those kids mocking Lily. He heard her crying. But he turned around and walked away without a single backward glance. As Julian got into his car, I ran out and blocked his path, standing right in front of the hood. “You owe me an explanation!” 0

Julian looked surprised to see me. Before rolling down his window, he carefully put noise-canceling headphones on Leo. “Today isn’t your scheduled visitation day, Elena.” “Have you forgotten how to follow rules?” He didn’t even look me in the eye. He leaned against his steering wheel and lit a cigarette. The smoke drifted between us, blurring his face. It felt like I was looking at a complete stranger. “You’re the one who broke our agreement first!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Julian, you promised you would take care of Lily! What the hell are you doing to her?” “You starve her, you take away her classes, and you pretend she doesn’t exist!” “She is your own daughter!” I lost all control. I screamed at the top of my lungs, demanding justice for my little girl. But Julian’s brow didn’t even twitch. “Leo has real musical talent. Letting Lily take those classes is just a waste of money.” “Lily’s custody belongs to me. I raise her my way, and you have no right to interfere.” “Besides, she’s alive and well, isn’t she?” I stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. Was survival the only bare minimum he thought his daughter deserved? “Do you have any idea that her arms are covered in bruises? That boy, Leo…” When I had pulled Lily into my arms earlier, she had whimpered in pain. That was when I noticed the dark purple bruises on her tiny arms. Leo was the one doing this to her, right under Julian’s nose. But before I could finish, Julian cut me off. “Enough.” “Don’t try to throw dirt on him. Leo would never do something like that.” “No wonder Lily has started lying lately. She clearly learned it from you.” With that, Julian started the engine, forcing me to step aside. “I have things to do.” He stepped on the gas and sped away. Leaving me standing alone in the cold wind. He knew. Lily must have cried to him for help. But Julian chose not to believe her. He would rather believe Celeste’s son than his own blood. The strength drained from my legs, and I collapsed onto the pavement. So this was what it meant to love someone else’s child. Because he loved Celeste, he loved her son. And because he was done with me, Lily had to pay the price. That evening, I saw Julian again at a high-end restaurant. It turned out his “important business” was celebrating Leo’s birthday. But he had completely forgotten. Today was Lily’s birthday too. Through the glass of the private dining room, I saw Julian, Celeste, and Leo sitting together, looking like a perfect, happy family. Three years ago, Julian had celebrated Lily’s birthday just like that. He bought every single flavor of cake because he didn’t know which one she’d like best. He imported limited-edition dolls and custom-made princess dresses. He had even placed a diamond necklace around my neck, whispering how grateful he was that I gave him such a beautiful daughter. Those memories felt like they happened yesterday. But in the blink of an eye, everything had changed. I was holding a takeout box of Lily’s favorite food, getting ready to leave, when a cheer erupted from the private room. I turned around. Julian was presenting Leo with his birthday gifts. The boxes piled up, overflowing from the table. Then, Julian pulled a black platinum card from his wallet. “There’s fifty thousand dollars on this. Buy whatever you want, buddy.” My breath hitched. Leo gasped in excitement, but I felt like I had been doused in ice water. That card… was the savings account I had set up for Lily’s college fund! I could barely breathe. Celeste leaned over and kissed Julian’s cheek. “Julian, this is too much.” “It’s nothing. Just pocket change.” Yes, to Julian Sterling, fifty thousand dollars was pocket change. One of his custom suits cost more than that. But that was money I had saved, dollar by dollar, working late-night shifts. I knew the Sterlings were incredibly wealthy, but I wanted to contribute to Lily’s future. When I handed Julian that card a year ago, he had kissed my forehead and told me to rest, promising that the Sterling family would always provide for Lily. It was all a lie. My ears buzzed. I was about to storm in there and demand my card back. But suddenly, a pair of strong hands grabbed me from behind. Before I could scream, I was pinned to the floor. The bright lights of the restaurant hallway faded, and darkness took over. 0

When I opened my eyes, I was in the backseat of Julian’s SUV. He was sitting next to me. He was looking in the vanity mirror, wiping a bit of frosting from his nose. The warmth from the party hadn’t fully faded from his face, and a soft smile lingered on his lips. Seeing me stir, he spoke in a casual tone. “Celeste has had a hard time raising Leo alone. I just wanted to help them out a bit.” “Elena, don’t overthink it.” His tone was so indifferent. Like he had just done a minor good deed. I knew we were divorced. I had no right to care who he helped. But he had no right to touch Lily’s money! I ripped the restraint cloth off my arms and threw it right at his face. “Give me back the money, and give me back Lily!” There was no longer any reason to leave Lily with him. If he didn’t want to raise her, I would do it myself. I expected him to agree easily, but instead, Julian reached out and gently took my hand. His eyes softened. “Lily is my daughter. How could I not love her?” “I’ve actually made arrangements to send her to a traditional boarding school upstate. They’ll teach her discipline and domestic skills. When she’s older, she can marry Leo. They’ll keep it in the family.” My heart stopped beating for a second. I stared at Julian, desperately searching his face for any sign of a joke. There was none. He was completely serious. “Are you insane? That place is a prison! You want to throw your own daughter into a house of submission?” Without thinking, I slapped him across the face. The slap echoed in the quiet car. I only regretted that I hadn’t hit him harder. Julian froze. When he turned back to look at me, his eyes were dark with malice. “Elena, I am not asking for your permission.” “Lily is lazy. She doesn’t even know how to clean up after herself. How is she going to take care of Leo in the future?” “Sending her to that school is for her own good. She needs to learn her place early so she doesn’t suffer later.” His tone left no room for argument. Before I could scream at him again, his phone buzzed. The name Celeste popped up on the screen, accompanied by a red heart emoji. His harsh expression melted instantly. He gave the driver a quick nod. The door was opened, and I was shoved out of the car like a piece of trash. I fell hard onto the gravel road. Sharp stones sliced into my palms and arms. But as the blood began to seep through my skin, I felt no pain. I pressed my hand against the wound and walked toward my apartment. Lily was still waiting for me. Thankfully, I made it back before midnight to celebrate her birthday. After she blew out the single candle on her small cake, she looked at the clock anxiously. “Mommy… can I sleep here tonight?” she whispered. That broke me. I pulled her into a tight hug. “You’re staying here tonight.” “And we are never going back.”

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“Yulia, you shameless skank! Xander is NOT a Johnson!” At my son’s graduation party—the day we were celebrating him getting into a top ivy league university—my ex-mother-in-law crashed the event, dragging my ex-husband and his new wife along with her. She threw a paternity test in my face, demanded I pay back what she called “child support,” and tried to destroy my reputation in front of everyone. The whole room erupted. Dozens of phone cameras swung toward me. Looking at the three of them and their ugly, twisted faces, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t cry. I calmly reached into my purse and pulled out a yellowed, confidential medical document. “Yvonne Johnson—eighteen years ago, when you were on your knees begging me to do IVF, you had a very different tune.” The August heat was brutal. The air conditioning inside the seafood restaurant was cranked up high, but I still felt a thin layer of sweat on my skin. Today was Xander’s graduation party. Eighteen years old. Top 1% SAT score. Accepted into an Ivy League university. I stood near the entrance greeting guests in a custom-made red dress. Xander stood beside me in a crisp white button-down shirt—he’d shot up to six feet tall, with little dimples that appeared at the corners of his mouth every time he smiled. “Mom, go take a break. I’ve got this.” He handed me a cup of hot coffee. I took it, my eyes watered up just a little. Eighteen years. From a tiny newborn to this tall, handsome young man standing next to me. I raised him on my own—playing both mom and dad—and I’d done it. “That Miller girl really has it made! Look at the son she raised!” “No kidding. Single mom and everything—she really pulled through.” Friends and family gathered around us, the compliments flowing freely. I smiled and nodded along, feeling a weight finally lift off my chest. Xander had done well. His future was wide open. And I’d done my job—at least most of it. Then the front doors burst open with a deafening bang. The crash cut through every conversation in the room. Everyone froze and turned toward the entrance. The smile died on my face. Yvonne Johnson. My ex-mother-in-law. She swept in wearing a bright red silk dress, a gaudy string of pearls around her neck, a designer bag hanging from her arm, and a look on her face like she owned the place. Behind her came my ex-husband, Albert Johnson, and his new wife, Mia. Albert had packed on a lot of weight—his shirt stretched tight over a beer gut—and his hair had thinned considerably on top. Mia was dressed to the nines, tottering in sky-high stilettos, clutching Albert’s arm with her chin tilted up like she was royalty. The three of them looked like three toads who’d crashed a Swan Lake —revolting no matter how you looked at them. “Yulia! You shameless slut!” Yvonne was still halfway across the room, but her grating voice cut through everything. The entire hall went dead silent. Xander instinctively stepped in front of me, brow furrowed tight. “What do you think you’re doing?” “What am I doing?” Yvonne let out a cold laugh and raked her eyes over Xander with open contempt. “I’m here to expose your mother for what she really is!” She closed the distance in a few steps, yanked a stack of papers from her bag, and flung them straight at my face. The sharp edges sliced across my cheek. It stung. “Come get a good look, everyone!” Yvonne spun around to face the room and shouted at the top of her lungs. “This woman—Yulia—was sleeping around behind my son’s back! That boy is a bastard, and the Johnson family has been stuck supporting him for years without knowing the truth!” The room exploded. Friends and relatives turned to each other, the whispers swelling like a wave. “Oh my God, is that true?” “No way—Yulia always seemed so… normal.” “You never really know someone, do you? Look at how sure that woman sounds.” Xander’s face went white. He stared at the papers scattered across the floor, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. I took a deep breath and bent down to pick up the paper from the floor. A paternity test report. The conclusion section read: Albert Johnson is excluded as the biological father of Xander Johnson.

I stared at those words and suddenly started laughing. I laughed so hard tears nearly sprang to my eyes. Five years. It had been five years since Albert and I divorced. In those five years, his family never once checked in on us — never paid a single dime in child support. Now that Xander had gotten into a good university, now that he’d actually made something of himself, they had the nerve to show up and cause a scene. I didn’t even need to think about it. Mia’s hasn’t showed any sign of getting pregnant this whole time, and they were getting desperate. They wanted to use this as an opportunity to drag Xander’s name through the mud — and mine along with it — so they could either claim Xander for themselves or squeeze some money out of me. Quite the scheme they had cooked up. “Laughing? You still have the nerve to laugh?” Yvonne jabbed her finger at my face. “The evidence is right there! You owe the Johnson family an explanation — today!” Albert cowered behind Yvonne, his eyes darting everywhere but at me. Mia, on the other hand, was loving every second of it. She let out a cold laugh and said with a sneer, “Yulia, you always acted so high and mighty. Didn’t think you had it in you to be this shameless. Passing off some other man’s bastard as a Johnson — aren’t you afraid karma will catch up with you?” I ignored her and turned to look at Albert instead. “Albert, do you think Xander is a bastard too?” Albert shrank back, stammering. “The test results are right there… Yulia, just… just admit it. Return what our family gave you over the years, and we’ll call it even.” “What your family gave me?” I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “Albert, swear to god — in the five years since our divorce, have you paid Xander a single dime in child support?” “I…” Albert had nothing to say. “Don’t change the subject!” Yvonne shoved him aside and stepped forward, puffing up like a mother hen shielding her chick. “So what if we didn’t pay child support? You had a bastard kid — why should the Johnsons foot that bill? Let me tell you something, Yulia. If you don’t compensate us for the emotional damage you’ve caused this family, I will make sure you can’t show your face in this city. And that little mongrel of yours? He won’t even make it to college.” Bastard. Little mongrel. The insults kept rolling out of her mouth. Xander was shaking with rage, his eyes were blood shot. He stepped forward, ready to confront her. I grabbed his arm. “Xander.” I patted the back of his hand, my voice was dead calm. “If a dog bites you, you don’t bite back. Let me handle this.” I turned back around and looked at Yvonne’s face, twisted with fury. “Yvonne, you just said — black and white, right there on that test — that Xander is not Albert’s son.” “That’s right!” “You’re correct.” Dead silence fell over the room. Everyone stared at me, wide-eyed, unable to believe what they’d just heard. Even Yvonne froze, clearly not expecting me to admit it so willingly. “He is not Albert’s son.” I said it slowly, one word at a time. A wave of gasps rippled through the crowd. Someone pulled out their phone and started recording. Mia grinned with delight and pointed her phone straight at me. “Did everyone hear that? She admitted it herself! This is big news!” Yvonne snapped out of her daze and turned even more vicious. “Well, well! So you finally admit it, you shameless woman! You—” “But—” I cut her off. I reached into my bag and pulled out a worn kraft paper envelope from the innermost pocket. The envelope was old, its corners frayed and torn. “Yvonne, do you want to know why Xander isn’t Albert’s son?” I fixed my gaze on her, eyes sharp as a blade. Yvonne shifted uncomfortably under my stare and took an involuntary step back. “Why… why? Isn’t it obvious? You were sleeping around!” I let out a cold laugh and, right in front of everyone, untied the string on the envelope.

“Albert Johnson. Male. Twenty-nine years old.” I pulled a yellowed lab report from the envelope, my voice clear and loud enough for every single person in the lobby to hear. “Semen analysis report: sperm density — zero. Sperm motility — zero.” I paused, my eyes sweeping over Albert’s face, which had gone ghost-white in an instant. “Diagnosis: Primary azoospermia.” Boom! The room erupted again. This time, the uproar was even louder than before. “Azoospermia? Doesn’t that mean he’s shooting blanks?” “Oh my God, so it’s the man who can’t have kids!” “And that old woman had the nerve to accuse the wife of cheating? Shameless!” Albert stood there like he’d been struck by lightning, completely frozen. His face, usually slick and flushed, was drained of every drop of color. The smile on Mia’s face went rigid. She whipped her head toward Albert, her voice sharp and unsteady: “Albert! What is this? You told me there was nothing wrong with you!” Albert stammered, “M-Mia, just let me explain—” “Explain what?!” Mia slapped him across the face. The crack of it echoed through the room. “You lied to me! You actually lied to me!” Mia was shaking with rage, pointing right in his face. “Your mother made me drink that disgusting herbal medicine every single day and called me a hen that couldn’t lay eggs — and it turns out you are the one who can’t have kids, you useless piece of garbage!” Albert covered his face with his hand and couldn’t say a word. Yvonne panicked too. She hadn’t expected me to still have the medical records from back then. But she was a seasoned troublemaker. Her eyes darted around, and she launched right back into her act. “It’s fake! All of it’s fake!” Yvonne lunged at me, trying to snatch the lab report out of my hand. “Yulia, you conniving witch! You’re trying to cover up your own affair by forging documents to frame my son! My son is perfectly healthy!” I stepped back, dodging her grab, and held the lab report high above my head. “Forged?” I laughed coldly. “It has St. Mary’s Hospital’s official seal, the attending physician’s signature, and Albert Johnson’s own signature right there at the bottom. Go ahead — verify it yourself.” I flipped the lab report around and held it up for everyone to see. A clear red official seal. The doctor’s bold, sweeping signature. And Albert Johnson’s unmistakable scrawl. Someone in the crowd called out: “That seal looks real to me!” “The handwriting matches too!” Yvonne’s face cycled through every shade of red and white, like she couldn’t settle on one. She gritted her teeth and pushed back: “Even if… even if that record is real, it only proves my son had health issues back then! How does anyone know where that kid of yours really came from? For all we know, you slept with some random man!” “Still not giving up, are you?” I nodded and pulled another sheet of paper from the folder. “In Vitro Fertilization – Embryo Transfer Informed Consent Form.” I read it out, word by word. “Patient: Yulia Miller. Spouse: Albert Johnson. Due to the spouse’s severe azoospermia and inability to provide viable sperm, both parties have consented to in vitro fertilization using an anonymous donor from a licensed sperm bank.” I turned to the last page and pointed to the signature line. “Family member signature — Yvonne Johnson.” I held the consent form right up in front of Yvonne’s face. “Yvonne, that’s your own signature. Surely you recognize it?” Yvonne’s eyes locked onto that signature, wide and unblinking, like they might pop right out of her head. Her lips trembled. She couldn’t get a single word out.

“You… you’re lying! I never signed that!” Yvonne suddenly snapped, shoving me aside and jabbing a finger in my face. “Yulia, who did you pay to make all this up?! You think a few sheets of paper are enough to fool people? Not a chance!” She turned to the crowd and shouted: “Don’t believe her! This woman is calculating as hell! She’s trying to get her hands on the Johnson family’s money — that’s why she cooked all this fake stuff up!” The people around them exchanged uneasy glances, unsure who to believe. It was all happening too fast. Too many twists. “Fake?” I looked at Yvonne — shameless and unyielding as ever — and shook my head. “Yvonne, if I was brave enough to bring it out, I’m not afraid of you checking it.” I took out my phone and opened an audio file. “Since you won’t admit to signing it, let’s all listen to this.” I turned the volume all the way up. A brief burst of static, then a woman’s voice came through the phone—wailing, hysterical. “Yulia, please! I’m begging you!” The moment those words rang out, the room erupted. Because that voice—it was identical to the one Yvonne had been screaming with just moments ago. The recording kept going. “Albert’s condition—the doctors say there’s no cure. The Johnson family can’t die out without an heir! Yulia, please consider IVF. A sperm donor is fine too. As long as you’re the one carrying the baby, I’ll accept the child as my own! I’ll treat you like my own daughter!” Then came my voice—younger, weighed down with exhaustion and resignation. “Mom, this is a huge decision. What do we tell the child when they grow up? And what if you two change your minds?” “We won’t! We absolutely won’t!” Yvonne’s voice was fierce with conviction. “I swear to God! Only the three of us will ever know. We take this to our graves. If I ever go back on my word, may lightning strike me dead!” “Words aren’t enough. The hospital needs a family member’s signature.” “I’ll sign! I’ll sign right now! Just say yes, and I’ll do whatever it takes!” The scratch of pen on paper came through the recording. Then a dull thud. “Yulia, I’m on my knees. The future of this family rests entirely on you.” The recording cut off. The hall went dead silent. Every pair of eyes turned to Yvonne. Shock. Contempt. Disgust. Yvonne’s face had gone a deep, ugly shade of red. Her whole body trembled—shaking so violently she could barely hold herself together. “You… you recorded me!” She pointed at me, her finger quivering like a leaf caught in the wind. “If I hadn’t, how was I ever going to expose that fake face of yours today?” I stared at her, cold and steady. “Eighteen years ago, you got down on your knees and begged me to give your son an heir. Eighteen years later, you show up here with your son to ruin my son’s graduation party, calling him a bastard to his face. Yvonne Johnson—do you even have a conscience?” Albert crouched on the floor, head buried in his hands, like he was desperate to disappear through the floorboards. Mia let out a sharp, humorless laugh. The look she gave Albert was like she was staring at a pile of trash. “Oh, wonderful. Just wonderful.” Mia began to clap slowly, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “What a performance you two put on. You played me like a complete fool.” She stormed over to Albert and kicked him hard. “Albert, you are pathetic, useless for a man! Not only did you trick me into marrying you, you had me taking fertility herbal supplements for three years! Do you have any idea I ended up in the hospital twice with a bleeding stomach because of those treatments? Are you even human?!” Albert rolled across the floor under her kicks, begging for mercy. “Mia, please stop—I know I was wrong. I only kept it from you because I loved you so much. I couldn’t bear to lose you—” “Loved me? You loved having a baby machine!” Mia landed another kick. “Divorce. I want a divorce. I’m going to sue you for fraud. I’ll make sure you lose every single thing you own!” Watching them tear into each other, I felt nothing stir inside me. Nothing except disgust.

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I was stalked by a creep for two straight weeks. He wore a black trench coat, haunting me like a ghost that refused to disappear. To protect myself, I set a trap in the underground parking garage, blasted him in the face with high-concentration pepper spray, and called the police. I thought the nightmare was over — until a woman moved in next door. She told me with red-rimmed eyes that the creep was actually her cheating husband. I believed her. We formed an alliance and installed a hidden camera in the hallway to catch his mistress. But when the footage came out, I was horrified to discover that the “mistress” in the video — the one acting strangely, talking to thin air — was me. And the man I’d been treating like a stalker, the one I’d hurt over and over again, looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and said, “Abby… I’m your husband…” The lights in the underground parking garage always flickered. Click. Click. Click. There was another sound beneath my footsteps. Soft. Heavy. Keeping a steady distance of about thirty feet behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know — the creep was back. This was the fifth time this month. He always wore a long black trench coat and a baseball cap pulled low, half his face swallowed by shadow. Every time I came home after a late shift, he’d appear like a ghost on the only path back to my apartment. I tightened my grip on the pepper spray in my pocket. My palm was slick with sweat. The elevator bay was just ahead. If I could make it inside and hit the close button, I’d be safe. I took a deep breath and broke into a run. The footsteps behind me sped up too. I practically threw myself into the elevator bay, jabbing the up button over and over. The elevator doors slid open. I stepped in, spun around, and reached for the close button. Just as the doors were about to shut, a large hand shoved through the gap. The sensors caught it. The doors bounced back open. The man in the black trench coat stood in the doorway, his chest heaving. He lifted his head. Beneath the brim of his cap were a pair of eyes shot through with red. “Abby…” His voice was hoarse, edged with a desperation that made my skin crawl. He knew my name. My scalp went cold. Every ounce of fear I’d been holding back exploded into raw, instinctive rage. “Stay away from me, you freak!” I yanked out the pepper spray and drove my thumb down on the trigger, aiming straight at his face. A concentrated blast hit him dead-on. “Ahhh—” He let out a cry of pain, both hands flying to his eyes. He stumbled backward and slammed hard into the wall behind him. I hammered the close button. The doors finally shut, cutting off the sight of him writhing in the hallway. I pressed my back against the elevator wall, gasping, my whole body shaking. The moment I got home, I deadbolted the door and called 911. The police arrived quickly. Two young officers swept through the garage and came up empty. “Ma’am, we pulled the garage footage,” the taller one told me, “but that spot is a blind zone for the cameras. Don’t worry though — we’ll increase patrols in the area. If you see him again, call us right away.” I nodded, but the unease didn’t leave me. The way that man had looked at me was strange. Not leering. Not predatory. It was something else entirely — complicated, pained, almost desperate. Like he was suffering. I wasn’t buying it. A creep is a creep. I poured myself a cup of hot tea and forced myself to breathe. Then the doorbell rang. I flinched so hard I nearly dropped the mug. Through the peephole, I saw a woman standing in the hallway.

She was wearing a wine-red silk slip dress with a thin cashmere cardigan draped over her shoulders. Her long, wavy hair fell loosely around her face. Beautiful. And exhausted. I hesitated, then cracked the door open — just enough, the chain still on. “Hi. I just moved in next door.” The woman gave me a strained smile. Her eyes were red. “I’m Zoe.” “Can I help you?” I kept my guard up. “I… could I come in for a minute?” Zoe bit her lip. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t know who else to turn to. I’m scared.” Something in me softened at the sight of her. We were both women. Both living alone in a city that didn’t care. Everyone falls apart sometimes. I unlatched the chain and let her in. Zoe sank onto the couch, cradling the mug of hot tea I handed her, her body still trembling faintly. “What happened?” I passed her a few tissues. Zoe wiped her eyes and looked up at me, her gaze full of desperation. “Abby, women need to stick together — can you help me out?” I blinked. “Help you with what?” “Help me catch my husband’s mistress.” I nearly choked on my own saliva. In the middle of the night, she’d come to her neighbor’s door for this? “Your husband… is cheating on you?” I asked carefully. Zoe nodded, and the tears started falling again. “He’s been coming home really late lately, and he smells like another woman’s perfume. And I found out he’s been secretly following someone.” “Following someone?” I latched onto that word immediately, and a wave of unease washed over me. “Yeah. He was wearing a black trench coat and a baseball cap…” My head started buzzing. Black trench coat? Baseball cap? Following someone? “Your husband — is he really tall? Around six foot one or so?” I asked urgently. Zoe stared at me. “How did you know?” That confirmed it. The creep I’d pepper-sprayed in the parking garage was my next-door neighbor’s husband. I was so angry I could grind my teeth. No wonder he knew my name — he must have checked the building’s resident registry, or overheard it somewhere. He had a gorgeous wife right next door, and instead he was out there stalking me. What an absolute creep and a scumbag, through and through. Fueled by shared outrage, I immediately told Zoe everything that had happened in the parking garage. “What? You pepper-sprayed him?” Zoe’s eyes went wide — and then, to my surprise, a look of deep satisfaction crossed her face. “Good. Serves him right. Men like that need to be taught a lesson.” Just like that, we were on the same side. Zoe sipped her water and glanced around my apartment. “You live alone?” I nodded. “Yeah, just moved in not too long ago.” Her gaze drifted to the front door. She frowned slightly, like something was turning over in her mind. “Abby,” she said, turning to look at me with a new resolve in her eyes, “I want solid evidence before I take him for everything he’s got. Would it be okay if I… installed a hidden camera outside your door?” I froze. “If I put it outside my door, he’ll get suspicious. But if it’s on your side, it’ll catch the blind spot in the hallway — he’d never think to look there.” Zoe took my hand, her voice soft and earnest. “Please, Abby. I’m begging you.” Looking at her red, swollen eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to say no. And honestly — if it could capture evidence of that creep’s behavior, it would protect me too. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

The next day was the weekend, and Zoe wasted no time. She came back with a tiny camera disguised as a small motion-sensor night light and mounted it on the wall just outside my door. The lens pointed straight down the hallway toward the elevator — the only way in — and it had a clear view of her front door too. “Done!” Zoe dusted off her hands, a gleam of revenge flickering in her eyes. “If he ever dares bring that woman back here, or comes near you again, I’ll make sure he regrets every second of it.” The next few days were surprisingly quiet. The man in the black trench coat didn’t show up again. Every evening when I got home from work, I’d glance at the little night light on the wall out of habit, and it made me feel just a little bit safer. Zoe started coming over a lot too. We’d order takeout together, vent about our insufferable bosses, and go on long rants about terrible men in general. I was amazed by how well we clicked. We both loved extra-cheese pizza, we were both allergic to mango, and we even had the exact same taste in movies — we were both obsessed with twisty, mind-bending psychological thrillers. “Abby, I feel like we’re long-lost sisters,” Zoe said one evening, a little tipsy on red wine, sinking back into the couch with a dreamy look on her face. I smiled. “Yeah. Me too.” In a city where I barely knew anyone, finding a friend who just got me — that felt like real luck. But the quiet didn’t last. On the fifth night, I worked late and didn’t get home until ten. The moment I stepped off the elevator, something felt off about the hallway. It was too still. Even the faint sound of a TV from next door — something I’d gotten used to hearing — was gone. I slowed my steps and tightened my grip on the pepper spray in my bag. As I reached my door, I glanced instinctively at Zoe’s place. No light coming from under the door. Was she out? Already asleep? I pulled out my keys — and then I heard it. A sound. Coming from inside my apartment. A soft rustling. Like someone moving things around. Every drop of blood in my body went cold. Someone was in there. The first face that flashed through my mind was his — the creep in the black trench coat. How did he get in? Does he have a key to my apartment? I didn’t rush to open the door. Instead, I tiptoed back to the elevator lobby and dialed 911. “Hello? I think someone broke into my apartment. Yes, I’m outside right now. I’m too scared to go in…” I hung up and stood there, eyes locked on my front door, heart hammering in my chest. About ten minutes later, the elevator chimed and the doors slid open. Two officers stepped out — the same two from last time. “Madam, what’s going on?” the tall one asked. “I heard noises coming from inside. Someone’s in there, I know it!” I pointed at the door, my voice shaking. The officers exchanged a glance and motioned for me to step aside. The tall officer drew his baton and approached the door carefully, reaching out to try the handle. It wasn’t locked. My stomach dropped. I was sure I’d deadbolted it when I left this morning. I was absolutely sure. The officer shoved the door open and rushed in. “Police! Don’t move!” I followed behind them, peering in from the doorway. The living room was empty. The bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom — they swept every corner. Nothing. “Madam, are you certain you heard something?” The tall officer put his baton away and looked at me with a furrowed brow. “Yes, I’m certain! There was definitely a sound!” I was getting frantic. I pointed at the coffee table, which was clearly out of order. “Look — it wasn’t like this when I left. Someone moved these magazines.” The officers walked over to check, then examined the windows. “Windows are locked from the inside. No sign of forced entry on the door either.” The tall officer let out a slow breath. “Madam, have you been under a lot of stress lately? Sometimes when people are exhausted, they—” “No. I heard it. I know what I heard.” There was nothing I could say to make them believe me. After they left, I sat alone on the couch, staring at the empty apartment, a cold unease creeping under my skin. Someone had been in here. I was sure of it. The air still carried a faint trace of cigarette smoke — and something else. Something sharp and clean that I couldn’t quite name. It was him. That creep. It had to be. Then it hit me — the security camera outside my door. Of course. The camera must have caught something. I grabbed my phone and called Zoe. “Sorry, the number you have dialed is unavailable…” What? Why was her phone off? I went next door and knocked hard. No answer. A wave of unease washed over me, deep and unsettling.

That night, I left every light in the apartment on and sat on the couch until morning. I showed up to work the next day with dark circles under both eyes. I couldn’t focus on anything. My mind kept drifting back to the night before. The moment the workday finally ended, I rushed home and went straight to Zoe’s door. It opened. Zoe was wearing an oversized white button-down, her hair messy, her face drained of all color. “Zoe, what happened? Where were you last night?” I grabbed her hand — it was ice cold. “Abby…” The moment she saw me, her eyes filled with tears. “He came back. That bastard came back last night.” My chest tightened. “Did he hurt you?” Zoe shook her head, her jaw clenched. “No. He just came to get his things. He wants a divorce — and he wants me to walk away with nothing.” “Are you serious?!” I was furious. “He’s the one who cheated. He’s the one who’s been stalking someone. And he has the nerve to kick you out with nothing?” “That’s exactly why we need proof.” Zoe grabbed my hand, her eyes burning with intensity. “Abby — the camera. Whatever happened last night, the camera caught it.” Right. The camera. I pulled her into my apartment and locked the door behind us. Zoe took out her phone, pulled up the app connected to the hidden camera, and scrolled back to last night’s footage. We sat side by side on the couch, eyes glued to the screen. The image was sharp and clear. The hallway was empty, the motion-sensor light flickering on and off every now and then. Time ticked by, second by second. We dragged the progress bar to 9:30 PM. Then a figure appeared in the frame. My heart leapt into my throat. But when the figure stepped fully into view, I froze. It wasn’t the man in the black trench coat. It was a woman. Wearing the same beige coat I’d had on yesterday. Carrying my bag. It was me. The woman on screen didn’t do what I remembered. She didn’t stop at the door, hear a noise, back away, and call the police. She walked straight to my door, pulled out her keys, unlocked it, and went inside. Then the door closed. No hesitation. No panic. No retreat to the elevator lobby. I stared at the screen, my mind completely blank. “What… what is this?” I stammered. “I could have sworn I…” “You could have sworn what?” Zoe turned to look at me, her expression cold. The look in her eyes sent a chill straight through me. I stared at her now — not with that pitiful, helpless look she’d worn before. This was different. This was scrutiny. Cold, mocking scrutiny. “I heard something inside, so I didn’t go in — I stepped back and called the police!” I said desperately. “The cops came! They actually showed up!” “The police?” Zoe let out a cold laugh. “Abby, look at the footage carefully. Did any cops show up last night?” I snatched the phone out of her hand and frantically dragged the progress bar forward. 9:40. 10:00. 11:00… The hallway was empty. No police. No one had come at all. According to the security footage, I walked through the door at 9:30 — and never came back out. “That’s impossible… this is absolutely impossible!” I threw the phone onto the couch and grabbed my head with both hands. “I called the police. I talked to them. The footage is fake. Someone tampered with it!” “Abby, calm down.” Zoe’s voice dropped suddenly, soft and drifting, like it was floating. “The footage wasn’t tampered with. It’s you… you’re not well.” “I’m perfectly fine!” I shot to my feet and pointed straight at her. “It’s you! You did this, didn’t you? You and that psycho husband of yours cooked this whole thing up to mess with me!” Zoe looked at me, and something flickered in her eyes — a flash of sadness. “Abby, really look at me.” She stood up and moved toward me, one slow step at a time. “Don’t you think… we look alike?” I froze. I stared hard at Zoe’s face. Before, I’d just thought we clicked — that we had some natural chemistry. But now, looking closely… Her brows. Her nose. That tiny mole on her chin. Aside from the heavy makeup and the way she carried herself — more mature, more striking — her features were identical to mine. Every single one. “Who… who are you?” I backed away, step by step, until my back hit the cold wall behind me. “Who am I?” Zoe smiled — and tears spilled down her face. “Abby, I’m the coward inside you. The part of you that’s too scared to face the truth.” “You’re out of your mind!” I pressed my hands over my ears and shook my head frantically. “Am I? Then tell me — why are we both allergic to mango? Why do we both always order extra cheese? And why is there a wine-red silk slip in your closet that’s exactly like mine?” Each word Zoe spoke hit like a blade driving straight through my skull. And then I remembered. That wine-red silk slip — I’d bought it last month. Never worn it, because I thought it was too revealing. But the night Zoe first knocked on my door, that was exactly what she had on. “You lied to me… you lied to me!” I screamed, completely falling apart. “I’m calling the police! I’m going to find that officer from last night!” I fumbled with my phone, frantically scrolling through last night’s call history. Nothing. There was no record of calling 911. Not a single one. Just one outgoing call to an unsaved number I didn’t recognize. Duration: two minutes. I stared at the digits on the screen — and felt a strange, unsettling sense of familiarity wash over me. “Go ahead.” Zoe stood over me, looking down. “Call it. See who picks up.” My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone. I pressed dial and switched it to speaker. Ring… ring… Two rings. Then someone answered. “Hello?” A low, hoarse voice came through — heavy with exhaustion. It was him. The man I’d pepper-sprayed by the elevator. “Who… who are you?” I heard my own voice trembling. Silence on the other end. It stretched so long I thought he’d hung up. Then the voice came back — cracked, broken, like something inside him was shattering. “Abby, have you forgotten me again?” he said. “It’s Eric. I’m your husband.”

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My best friend had been sleeping with my ex-husband for three years. Together, they spread anonymous rumors, ruined my reputation, and pushed me to the edge. That was when Ethan Grant appeared. He stepped in front of the knife, protected my son Luca, and treated us with a kind of gentleness that almost felt unreal. And just when I was about to fall for him, he tore off the mask. That was when I realized I had only fallen from one trap into another. I slammed the door and tried to leave. He caught my wrist and dropped the truth that shattered what was left of me. “That child you gave birth to six years ago? He’s mine.” 00 At two-thirty in the morning, the underground parking garage of Harbor Grand Hotel felt like a walk-in freezer. The ventilation system rumbled overhead like some dying beast dragging out its last breath. My name is Evie Lane. I am thirty-five years old, and I am the deputy lobby manager of this luxury hotel. By day, I wear tailored suits, eight-centimeter heels, and a smile polished enough to survive the worst guests money can buy. By night, I drag my exhausted body through a custody war over my son, Luca. Life had become a grinder, and I could feel it stripping me down piece by piece. My calves throbbed. My stomach burned from a day lived on black coffee. When I hit my key fob, my battered used car flashed twice in the dark. The second I touched the handle, a rough hand reeking of cigarettes and cheap liquor slammed against the door. “Evie Lane, how much longer are you going to hide from me?” I knew that voice even before I looked up. Derek Cole. My ex-husband. Gambler. Liar. Human ruin. Every drop of blood in my body seemed to rush backward. I turned and saw the bloated, sleepless face I hated more than anything. “What are you doing here?” I took a step back until my spine hit the cold window. “This is my workplace. Leave now, or I call security.” “Go ahead. Call them.” He moved closer instead. “Let everyone at your precious hotel see what kind of woman Evie Lane really is. A bitch who won’t even let the father see his own son.” We had been divorced for two years, and still he clung to my life like rot that would not wash off. “Custody will be decided in family court,” I said, forcing my voice steady while my hand slid toward my bag for my phone. “We have nothing to discuss.” “Don’t hide behind family court.” He grabbed my wrist so hard I almost cried out. My bag hit the floor. My phone skidded away and stopped by his shoe. “Listen carefully, Evie. If you want me to give up custody of Luca, you pay me. Thirty grand. No, fifty. If you don’t, I go to his preschool tomorrow and take him myself.” Spit hit my cheek. The smell of alcohol made my stomach twist. “You’re insane. That’s your son. You can’t use him like this.” “I can’t eat. I don’t care about a kid.” His other hand caught my collar. “If you don’t pay, you’re not leaving this garage tonight.” Fear flooded through me. At this hour, no one came down here. “Let go of me! Help!” His answer was a brutal slap. My ears rang. The taste of blood bloomed in my mouth. I lost my footing and hit the concrete hard, skin ripping across my palm. “Ungrateful bitch.” He lifted his foot to kick me. I shut my eyes. “If you do that,” a cold male voice cut through the garage, “I can promise you’ll spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair.” Derek froze. I looked up. A man stepped out from the shadow of a support column. Tall. Immaculate dark gray suit. Black briefcase in one hand. Even in that dim, filthy garage, he carried himself with an ease that felt almost cruel. His dress shoes struck the concrete in slow, measured steps, like a countdown. “Who the hell are you?” Derek barked, though he had already retreated half a step. The man ignored him and stopped in front of me. He looked down once, taking in my swollen cheek and bleeding palm with a glance so brief it barely seemed human. “Ms. Lane,” he said evenly. “I am Ethan Grant. Your attorney.” 00

Ethan Grant. The name took a second to land. The Ethan Grant. Senior partner at Grant & White. Expensive, ruthless, undefeated. I had emptied almost everything I had to hire him, because Luca was the only thing in this world I refused to lose. I just had not imagined our first real meeting would happen with me on the garage floor, bleeding and humiliated. I looked up at him. He stood against the light, face unreadable, all cold authority and absolute control. “Mr. Grant…” My voice came out hoarse. He did not help me up. He simply shifted, putting his body between me and Derek. “So you’re the pretty-boy lawyer she hired?” Derek sneered, trying and failing to recover his swagger. “This is family business. Stay out of it. I can do whatever I want to my wife.” Ethan’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Dangerous. Without raising his voice, he took out his phone and turned on the recorder. “First, Ms. Lane divorced you two years ago. This is not family business.” “Second, your demand for fifty thousand dollars, accompanied by threats, constitutes extortion.” “Third, you physically assaulted her. I have just recorded your own statement. Depending on the extent of injury, that can carry criminal penalties as well.” Each point came down like a blade. Clean. Precise. Final. Derek’s face paled by degrees. “You’re bluffing,” he snapped, but his voice had already thinned. “I don’t know anything about law. Stop trying to scare me.” “Then test me.” Ethan stepped closer, and the difference in height suddenly mattered. “I can call the police right now. Extortion. Assault. Add your debt problems to that, and prison may be the least of your concerns.” He had found the pressure point. Derek was terrified of losing his freedom, even more terrified that his creditors would reach him where he could not run. His bravado collapsed. He shot me one poisonous look, then backed away. “Fine. You win this round. Just wait, Evie.” He turned and fled toward the exit like a dog kicked off a porch. Only after his footsteps disappeared did the tension leave my body. My knees gave out. I leaned against the wheel well, drenched in cold sweat and fighting for breath. Ethan turned back to me. Still no sympathy. Still no outstretched hand. He opened his briefcase, removed a thick file, and held it out. “These are the financial records and concealed assets we have gathered on your ex-husband. I need your signature.” I stared at him. Now? With my face on fire and my hand bleeding, he wanted paperwork? For one absurd second, I almost laughed. To him, I was not a woman in crisis. I was a case file. I forced myself up, dusted off my skirt, and took the papers. My hand shook badly enough that the pen nearly slipped. Blood from my scraped palm streaked the edge of the white folder. His gaze dropped to the red mark and paused. He said nothing. I signed anyway. “Done.” I handed it back. “And… thank you.” “Part of the job.” He slipped the folder away, then started to leave. After one step, he stopped, turned, and offered me a plain white business card. No title. No office address. Just his name and a number. “This is my private line,” he said. I took it and felt a trace of warmth still clinging to the card. “If that kind of man shows up again, don’t reason with him. Don’t try to carry it alone. Call this number.” His eyes held mine for one beat too long. “The law is a weapon, Ms. Lane. Not a shield. Protect yourself first. Then fight back.” 00

The next morning, I put my armor back on. At Harbor Grand, I became Evie Lane again. Efficient. Composed. Impossible to crack. “Why is the air-conditioning in the A-wing suites still not fixed? I want engineering there in five minutes.” “Guest breakfast complaints are up two points. Send the executive chef to my office.” “Those lobby flowers are dying. Replace the vendor.” Department calls flooded my radio. My heels snapped sharply against the marble. This was my battlefield, and here, at least, I knew how to survive. Only in the restroom mirror did I let myself look at the faint red mark still on my cheek. I covered it carefully. “You look awful,” Maya Reed said from the doorway. She carried a latte, wore flawless makeup, and looked exactly like the friend who had stood beside me for seven years. She was our front office manager, and once upon a time, I trusted her with everything. “Didn’t sleep well,” I said lightly. She crossed her arms. “Derek again?” My lipstick paused midair. “I knew it.” Maya clicked her tongue. “What about that lawyer? Ethan Grant, right? You paid a fortune for him. Is he doing anything?” At the sound of Ethan’s name, I saw him again in that garage, calm as winter, handing Derek’s threats back to him as legal charges. “He’s handling it,” I said. “We’re close to court.” “Good. Men like Derek only understand someone meaner than they are.” She patted my shoulder. “Still, I’ve heard Ethan Grant is cold and expensive and only loyal to money. Don’t trust him too easily.” “We’re strictly professional.” That should have been the end of it. Except later that morning, after I finished calming down a furious VIP over a delayed flight, a trainee at the front desk called out, “Ms. Lane, you have a delivery.” I frowned. I had not ordered anything. It was a thermal lunch bag with my name on it and no sender. Inside were three neatly packed containers: mushroom chicken soup still steaming, light side dishes, soft pumpkin porridge, a box of imported stomach medicine, and a tube of bruise cream. I went still. In this city, very few people knew about my stomach problems. Only one person knew I had been hurt the night before. Ethan Grant. Wasn’t he supposed to be cold? Didn’t people say he only cared about money? Why did he send this? The ointment had a small note attached in a sharp, disciplined hand. Eat on time. Take care of the bruise yourself. No signature. No wasted words. I stared at it longer than I should have. I was too old and too tired to mistake one warm meal for love. Men were rarely generous without motive. But what did Ethan Grant want from me? My legal fees had already been paid. And my heart? Surely a man like him had seen women far more polished, younger, easier, safer. I pushed those thoughts aside and lifted the soup. It was hot. Savory. Real. The warmth spread through my empty stomach and eased the pain in a way that felt almost indecent. While I ate, I pulled out the white card I had tucked at the bottom of my holder and searched the number on my phone. I sent a friend request with two words. Thank you. He approved it in under a minute. Black profile picture. Empty feed. No reply. We sat there in each other’s contact lists like a wire stretched in the dark, quiet for now, waiting. 00

On Thursday afternoon, I took half a day off and went to Grant & White. The firm occupied two full floors in the financial district. The lobby was all glass, steel, and severe black-and-white restraint. Even the sign on the reception wall looked expensive. After checking my appointment, the receptionist led me to a large corner conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows over half the city. The view was stunning. I could not enjoy it. There was something about that room that made me feel examined before anyone even walked in. A few minutes later, the door opened. Ethan came in wearing a dark blue shirt with the tie removed and the collar slightly open. He looked less lethal than he had in the parking garage, but only slightly. The eyes were still sharp enough to cut. “Ms. Lane.” He sat across from me and pushed over a heavy file. “This is everything we currently have.” I opened it. Hotel receipts. Gambling ledgers. Loan contracts. Evidence of hidden assets. Evidence of debt. Evidence of cheating. Evidence of a life built on rot. “Your ex-husband’s finances are worse than expected,” Ethan said calmly. “He is effectively broke and carrying close to three hundred thousand dollars in debt. His interest in custody is entirely strategic. He wants leverage. He wants money.” My fingers tightened around the papers. “Once the judge sees this, Luca stays with me. Right?” “Legally, yes.” His gaze did not soften. “But you are being naive, Evie.” The use of my first name hit harder than it should have. “You think a favorable ruling ends this? Men like Derek do not respond to court orders the way reasonable people do. The more frightened and accommodating you are, the more they feed on it.” “Then what am I supposed to do?” I asked. “I still have a job. I still have a child. I can’t spend every day waiting for him to come after us.” “Fight back.” Two words. Hard as stone. “Stop carrying yourself like prey. The law is useful, but not if you won’t pick up the sword.” The rebuke landed deep because part of me believed it. I had been enduring for so long that I had forgotten endurance and surrender were not the same thing. Before I could answer, my stomach seized violently. Pain shot through me so sharply that I bent over before I could hide it. Cold sweat broke over my back. Ethan frowned, stood, and walked out without a word. For a painful second, I thought he was irritated by the inconvenience I represented. He returned less than two minutes later with warm water and a prescription stomach medication packet from the firm’s emergency cabinet. “Take this.” I looked up. “Now,” he said. I obeyed. Once the pain dulled enough for me to breathe, he remained standing beside the table, one hand braced against the edge, watching me with an intensity that made me look away first. “You’re very good at functioning while falling apart,” he said quietly. I let out a brittle laugh. “Occupational skill.” “That isn’t a compliment.” Something in his tone stripped away my automatic defenses. “No,” I admitted. “It isn’t.” He stayed with me until the cramping passed. When I finally gathered the file to leave, he took it from my hands. “I’ll walk you out.” In the elevator, neither of us spoke. At street level, just before the doors opened, he said, “Strength is not pretending you feel nothing. Strength is deciding what happens next.” The words followed me all the way back to the hotel.

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Five years ago, he left me with a single text: “Let’s take some time apart.” Now he’s back—billion-dollar tycoon, empty-handed, begging me to open the door. But I’m no longer the girl who waited. I built my own empire. And this time, the only thing he can offer me is the truth. My name is Summer Blake. I’m thirty-two, single, and I run a crisis PR firm on the top floors of the financial district. If you want the flattering version, I’m a public relations strategist. If you want the truth, I clean up the messes rich people and powerful companies leave behind. That day, I was sitting in a glass conference room high above the city. My client was a fast-rising new energy startup. Their cash chain had snapped. A hostile acquisition was closing in. My job was to keep the public narrative from collapsing and squeeze out the last scraps of leverage they had left. The atmosphere in the room was suffocating. The acquisition team across from us acted like a pack of sharks. They tossed one clause after another onto the table, sharp and merciless. I sat beside my client, flipping through the documents in my hand with an impeccable professional smile. That was part of the job. No matter how badly I wanted to curse every person on the other side of the table, my face still had to look calm and refined. “Our boss will be here shortly. He’ll make the final call himself.” The man across from me checked his watch, every bit as arrogant as his money allowed him to be. That’s how the capital world works. Whoever has the money gets to control the room. The heavy double doors opened. A man walked in surrounded by assistants and senior executives. My hand stopped over the page for half a second. No longer. I turned the page as if nothing had happened and lifted my eyes. My heart, however, had already been seized by an invisible hand. Marcus Holt. What was he doing here? Five years. He looked older now. More composed. Colder. His suit fit him perfectly. He looked like everything he had always been built to become—untouchable, immaculate, high above everyone else. Only now there was something sharper in him. The hard authority of a man used to being obeyed. He was thirty-four now. No longer the young man who had once held me beneath a streetlamp and said in a hoarse voice, “Let’s give each other some space.” Now he was the man in charge of Apex Capital. The man behind this hostile takeover. The one my client had to bow to. The irony was almost funny. He took the main seat and flipped open the file in front of him. Then his gaze moved across the room and collided with mine. I didn’t look away. I met his stare, gave him a polite nod, and smiled at him with the same distant professionalism I would have used on any cold-blooded capitalist I’d never met before. His hand froze over the page. Real shock flashed in his dark eyes. Good. I wanted him shocked. I spent the entire negotiation cornering his team. I used reputation risk as a bargaining chip and forced them to give us three points on the acquisition price. Marcus said almost nothing. He only sat back and watched me. There was too much in his eyes for me to name. Curiosity. Disbelief. Something else I didn’t care to understand. I just wanted the meeting over. At last, the first round of agreement was reached. My client and I stood to shake hands. When it was Marcus’s turn, my client nervously stretched out a hand. “Mr. Holt, thank you for showing mercy.” Marcus didn’t look at him. He looked at me. Then he held out his hand. “Summer,” he said, his voice lower than it had been five years ago, roughened by something that sounded dangerously close to memory. “Long time no see.” I lowered my gaze to his hand. Then I gave him the smallest smile, touched his fingertips for the briefest second, and withdrew. “Mr. Holt, you’re being too polite. Have we met before?” All the blood drained from his face. The rush of satisfaction that hit me was ugly and immediate. Then I turned and walked out without looking back. By the time I got into the elevator, my palms were drenched in sweat. That night, I soaked in the bathtub for an hour and still couldn’t calm down. A financial news push alert popped up on my phone. **Marcus Holt of Apex Capital: the ruthless investor with five scandal-free years and no room for romance?** I laughed coldly and tossed the phone aside. Ruthless investor, my ass. If he had understood any of that five years ago, I wouldn’t have had to claw my own life together from the ground up. Just as I was thinking it, my phone vibrated. An unknown number. I didn’t answer. A text came through instead. Only two words. **I’m sorry.** I stared at the message for a long time. Then deleted it. Blocked the number. Reported it as spam for good measure. That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling and found myself dragged back to another stormy night five years earlier. He had texted me then too. **Let’s take some time apart.** And after that, there had been nothing. I had just closed my eyes when my phone buzzed again. This time it was my client. They had sent over a document and a message. **Summer, this is the post-acquisition PR integration checklist Mr. Holt’s side just sent. It’s unbelievably strict, and they insisted you handle it personally. Let’s start prepping tonight.** I opened the file. It was packed with over a hundred detailed, impossible PR demands. Professional. Precise. And nasty in all the right places. At the very bottom, the file metadata listed the creator’s name. Marcus Holt. I scrolled to the final page. In the notes section, there was one line that didn’t belong in any formal business document. **The oat latte at that café nearby is still worth ordering. You used to like it with less sugar. I don’t know if you still do.**

The next morning I showed up at the office looking like I hadn’t slept, because I hadn’t. My company wasn’t large. It occupied half a floor in a sleek building near the fashion district. Every inch of it had been paid for one ugly project at a time. By me and Sophie Bennett. My college roommate. My only real friend. My business partner. Beautiful, viciously sharp, impossible to fool. Back in college, she had been the one person who never believed Marcus and I would last. She had told me, “That man has too much buried behind his eyes. The water around him is deep, and you don’t know how to swim in deep water.” I hadn’t listened. Eventually, I nearly drowned. That morning, I threw my bag onto my desk and collapsed into my chair. “You look awful,” Sophie said from the break room, handing me a cup of coffee. “So. Which capitalist drained the life out of you this time?” “Don’t ask,” I muttered. “I saw a ghost.” “Male ghost or female ghost?” “Male.” “Hot?” “Hot enough to make me want to twist his head off and kick it down the street.” Sophie sat across from me and looked me over. “Marcus Holt?” I drank my coffee in silence. That was answer enough. “Unbelievable,” she said flatly. “Five years later and he climbs out of your graveyard like this?” I told her about the negotiation. About the way I looked him in the eye and asked if we’d ever met. Sophie slapped her thigh and grinned. “Good. He deserved it.” Then she sobered. “But this isn’t random. He sends you a file, insists you handle the account personally, and starts acting sentimental? He’s after something.” “I don’t care what he’s after,” I said. “It’s a project. I’ll handle it like any other.” Sophie leaned forward. “Summer. Stay away from him.” “I know.” “No, you don’t.” Her tone sharpened. “Don’t let some expired version of your past blow up everything you built over the last five years.” I didn’t answer. Because I remembered those five years too clearly. The days spent cleaning up other people’s disasters. The nights crying into my pillow until I threw up. The months when I could barely pay staff on time. The long, humiliating climb back to a life that belonged to me. By then, my company had a name. I had a home, a car, a reputation. I had built a life so solid I no longer needed anyone. Especially not him. That afternoon, while we were in a team meeting going through the integration checklist, the receptionist knocked and leaned in nervously. “Miss Blake? Mr. Holt from Apex Capital is downstairs. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he says he’ll wait.” The marker slipped in my hand and left a black streak across the whiteboard. I stared at it for a second. Then I said, “Tell him I’m busy.” “He said–” “I said I’m busy.” Her expression tightened. She nodded and left. The entire meeting room went quiet. I took a breath and forced my voice flat. “Why are you all staring? Keep going.” The meeting ended near seven. On my way past reception, I asked casually, “Did he leave?” “About two hours ago,” the receptionist said. I nodded as if it meant nothing. Then I went back into my office, stood by the window, and stared down at the street where his black Maybach was no longer parked. I felt relief. And then, against my will, something colder and hollower right behind it. I told myself to stop being pathetic. Then sent my assistant a message. **Push every meeting next week related to Apex Capital onto the deputy director. Make up whatever reason you want.** I put the phone down facedown and told myself that was the end of it. The next morning, the receptionist texted me before nine. **Something was dropped off for you. No name.** She attached a photo. Two oat lattes. Less sugar. A sticky note. **You still take it light, right?**

For the next few days, Marcus seemed to disappear. The silence should have made things easier. Instead, it only sharpened my temper. I buried myself in a luxury jewelry rebranding project for the North American market. It was high-budget, brutally competitive, and exactly the kind of account that changed a firm’s standing for years. Then one afternoon, in the middle of preparing our final proposal, Sophie walked into my office with a tablet and a look I didn’t like. “Check your email.” There was an anonymous message in the inbox. No subject line. Just an encrypted archive. Inside was a PDF. And inside the PDF was everything. The decision-making preferences of each board member overseeing the bid. Their professional histories. Their favored strategies. Even notes on personal habits and personality weaknesses. On top of that, it contained the rival bidder’s internal pricing floor. It was a cheat sheet. With something like that, our odds of winning would jump by half. At the bottom right corner of the file was a watermark from one of the top commercial intelligence firms in the country. I already knew what my gut was going to tell me. But I called an old contact at that firm anyway. After a little money and pressure, he finally admitted it. “A major client commissioned it directly from the top,” he said. “Who?” “Apex Capital. Marcus Holt.” For a second, all I could hear was blood rushing in my ears. Of course it was him. I felt sick. What did he think I was? Someone who needed him to rig the playing field because I wasn’t capable of winning on my own? Hadn’t he humiliated me enough with that same logic five years ago? Back then, he had called it protecting me. Now he was trying again. I looked at the PDF, then dragged both it and the email into the trash. Then deleted them permanently. Still not enough. Ignoring him felt too generous. So I called my lawyer. “I need a cease-and-desist sent,” I said. “Today.” The next morning, my law firm sent a sharply worded letter to the intelligence company, accusing them of obtaining non-public competitive information by improper means and attempting commercial bribery. I copied nearly every major PR head in the industry on it. Then, before anyone else could frame the story for me, I called Diana, the British executive leading the North American division of the jewelry brand. “Diana, I need to disclose something,” I told her plainly. “We received an anonymous document containing material that could compromise the fairness of the bidding process.” “I can’t verify who sent it or whether every detail inside is accurate. But I can tell you this: my firm will not use non-public material to win your business.” “To make that clear, we’re scrapping every previous version of our pitch and resubmitting a new proposal next week.” She was silent for a long time. Then she laughed softly. “That was the right decision, darling. Brave too. I’m looking forward to your new proposal.” We won the account two weeks later. And I won it clean.

By then, the gossip around what had happened with the anonymous file had already spread through the industry. The intelligence company tried to send its boss to my office to apologize. I didn’t see him. Their panic wasn’t my problem. Later, a friend from inside that same firm called me, nearly in tears. “You have no idea what kind of mess you made. Marcus Holt’s side is trying to pay anything to make this disappear.” “Then let him come talk to me himself.” Not through assistants. Not through money. Him. He sent his executive assistant in the end. The message was polished, professional, and empty. Marcus hoped to speak with me in person and explain the misunderstanding. I replied with two words. **Not available.** When they tried again the following week, I had my own assistant respond. **Miss Blake hopes Mr. Holt can learn to respect both commercial rules and her boundaries.** After that, everything finally went quiet. Too quiet, really. I told myself I had won. I had used his own methods against him and pinned him to the board. So why did it feel like throwing a punch into cotton? Like nothing had landed at all.

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The night the flower shop closed for good, I signed a contract. By the end of it, I had a new identity. Ethan Gray’s wife. He was waiting for me in a wheelchair, deep inside the Gray estate. Rain hammered against the roof of the black Maybach, dull and relentless, like war drums. I wore a white dress. The fabric was cheap, damp against my skin, and thin enough to make me shiver. It wasn’t a wedding dress. It looked more like something you buried people in. The air conditioner blasted cold through the car. My fingertips were numb, but the chill inside me cut deeper. Three hours ago, I was still wondering how I was going to make next month’s rent. Now my parents had stuffed me into this car and sent me to the Gray estate. “Ava Blake, don’t blame us for being cruel.” Before I got in, my mother, Susan Blake, forced a few tears into her eyes. Her voice sounded staged. “Blake Holdings is out of cash. Mrs. Gray made it clear. If we send someone with the right background to marry Ethan Gray and keep the family image intact, she’ll inject five million dollars into the company.” My father, Richard Blake, stood beside her with a dark face. “Your sister Isabella is supposed to marry into real power. Her future can’t be ruined by a dying man. You’ve done nothing with your life. You’ve eaten off this family for years. It’s time you paid the Blakes back.” Everyone in the city knew Ethan Gray’s name. He had once run Gray Group. Two weeks ago, he had been in a brutal car crash. The rumor was that his spine and brain had both been badly injured. That he was lying in intensive care, alive only because machines kept him breathing. Mrs. Gray, desperate and terrified of another scandal, had even listened to a private family adviser who claimed the estate needed a proper marriage to steady the Gray name. That woman was me. They put a price on my life. Five million dollars. Paid in full. The car rolled through the gates of the Gray estate. Behind me, the iron gates closed with a harsh metallic groan, like the last escape route locking shut. A middle-aged butler with no expression held a black umbrella and led me through a dim hallway. It seemed endless. At last, he stopped in front of a heavy redwood door. “Mrs. Gray. Mr. Gray is waiting inside.” The title sounded almost mocking. He stepped away. His footsteps faded into the dark. I took a breath. My palms were slick with sweat. I had already prepared myself for the worst. The stench of disinfectant. The beeping of monitors. A shriveled half-dead man. I pushed the door open. And froze. There was no glaring white light. No medical equipment. The room smelled faintly of cedar and bitter medicine. The main lights were off. Lightning flashed beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, briefly illuminating the wide bedroom. In that sickly white light, I saw a man. He wasn’t in bed. He sat in a wheelchair with his back to me, facing the storm outside. “Do people from the Blake family not know how to knock?” The voice was low and cold, edged with absolute authority. There was no weakness in it. It sounded like a blade at my throat. My whole body went rigid. A vegetable? Dying? The rumors. My parents’ certainty. In that instant, they turned into a joke. The wheelchair slowly turned. Another flash of lightning cut across the sky, and I finally saw his face. He was devastatingly handsome, and just as terrifying. A sharp jaw. A high nose. But what you couldn’t ignore were his eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. Dark. Deep. Cruel. Amused. He looked at me as if he had already seen every desperate thought in my head. Ethan Gray. He wasn’t just awake. He was terrifyingly alert. “You were forced to come here. I can tell.” He leaned back in the wheelchair and folded his long fingers over his knee. His tone was calm, almost casual. I stood three yards away, cold from head to toe, unable to speak. “Did the Blakes send you here to test whether I’m dead yet? Or do they really think offering up a woman will get them five million from the Gray family?” His mouth curved in a merciless smile. “Either way, you’re a discarded piece now.” He said it too clearly. Too brutally. Like he had ripped the last shred of dignity off me with one hand. Humiliation. Fear. Rage. They slammed into my chest at once. “If you want to run, the door is behind you.” He watched me, almost lazily. “I’ll have someone take you out. We can pretend the Blakes never sent anyone tonight.” Run? To where? Back to the house that sold me like trash? Back to my parents’ fury when they realized they weren’t getting paid? Or onto the street, broke and alone, to freeze in the middle of a storm? I stared at my soaked canvas sneakers. All the despair I had swallowed down all day hit bottom at once and came back up as something meaner. To hell with the Blakes. I looked up and met his eyes. I gritted out the most ridiculous question I had ever asked in my life. “If I don’t run. If I stay…” My voice shook with the force it took to say it. “How much will you pay me?” The room went still. Even the thunder seemed to pause. My heart pounded so hard it hurt. I was done for. He would think I was insane. A gold-digger. He’d have the butler drag me out like garbage. One second. Two. Three. Then he laughed. Low and real, from deep in his chest. He leaned forward slightly, and something dangerous lit up behind his glasses. “Interesting.” For the first time, there was a trace of amusement in his voice. “If you dare stay, name your price.”

The next morning, I sat at the far end of a dining table big enough for twenty. Actually, “morning” wasn’t accurate. I had never fallen asleep. After that absurd transaction, the butler had taken me to a guest room three times the size of my old apartment. I had sat on the bed all night, staring into space until dawn. Breakfast covered the table, but my stomach felt like stone. The staff at the Gray estate moved like flawless machinery, silent and efficient. Still, every time one of them passed with a tray, I could feel their eyes slide over me. Like they were looking at something cheap that had been shoved into an expensive display window. “So that’s the Blake girl they sent to curry favor with the Grays? I expected someone prettier.” “Keep your voice down. Mr. Gray hasn’t said anything yet. Looking at her, she’ll be gone in a week.” The whispers drifted out from the kitchen. My fingers whitened around the fork, but I sat up straighter. Don’t flinch, Ava Blake. You’re here to work. They’re just coworkers. Then I heard the soft hum of a motor at the dining room entrance. The servants instantly fell silent and stepped aside. Ethan Gray was wheeled in. He wore a dark gray cashmere lounge set. His face was pale, but the pressure he carried filled the entire room. He didn’t even look at me. He was pushed to the head of the table. The butler laid his napkin in place. Ethan began to eat with elegant precision, knife and fork barely making a sound. The whole room stopped breathing. My spoon suddenly felt impossibly heavy. “There aren’t many rules in this house,” he said after touching a napkin to his lips. His voice was as cold as a sentence being handed down. “Actually, there are none. Do as you like.” I looked up, startled. His eyes settled on me from across the long table. “Your movements, your spending, your social life. I won’t interfere. As long as you don’t use the title Mrs. Gray to drag me into some public scandal, you’re free to do whatever you want.” The butler stepped forward and held out a black card edged in gold. “Your advance,” Ethan said flatly. “And your salary.” Salary. The word felt unreal. “Starting today,” he went on, “your job is to play Mrs. Gray well. Attend the family events that matter. Help me deal with the business rivals waiting to laugh at me. Keep this marriage looking normal. Until the performance ends. Or until I no longer need you.” At last, I understood. I wasn’t really his wife. I wasn’t even a decorative tool. I was a highly paid actress. He had hired me to hold the outside world in place and distract his enemies. Strangely, the realization calmed me. Being an employee was safer than being a disposable wife. As long as I had value, I could survive. I tightened my grip on the card and gave him a polite, professional smile. “Understood, Mr. Gray.” The change in title came naturally. Something approving flickered in his eyes. He set down the napkin and signaled the butler to wheel him out. Just before he reached the door, he tossed one last bomb over his shoulder. “Nine tomorrow morning. Be at Gray Group headquarters. Human Resources will process your onboarding.” My hand jerked so hard I nearly dropped the spoon. “For what position?” The wheelchair stopped. His answer came from the doorway, cool and final. “My personal assistant.”

At 8:50 the next morning, I stood in front of the revolving doors of Gray Group’s headquarters. The glass tower rose eighty-eight stories into the financial district skyline like a blade. It was the kind of building that didn’t just show power. It enforced it. I stepped inside. And instantly became the rare animal everyone wanted to stare at. Executives in custom suits. Security guards with radios. Junior staff with coffee cups in their hands. Every single one of them looked me up and down with the same feverish curiosity. Pity. Disdain. Glee. And above all, gossip. “That’s her. The Blake girl they sent to please the Gray family.” “She looks so cheap. The whole outfit probably costs less than two hundred bucks.” “Didn’t you hear? After the accident, Mr. Gray couldn’t walk and got violent. The Blakes sent her in as a sacrifice.” “Why is she even here? To fight for inheritance?” “Who knows? Maybe she’s here to show off. She’s technically Mrs. Gray, after all.” Their voices swarmed around me like flies. I lowered my head and gripped the worn strap of my canvas bag so tightly my nails dug into my palm. I regretted coming. I’d rather deal with the icy servants at the estate than stand here and get stared at like a sideshow. “Excuse me. Are you Miss Ava Blake?” A bright voice cut through the whispers. I looked up and saw a young receptionist with a round face, big eyes, and a neat little bun. Her name tag read Maya Riley. She was the only person in the lobby who wasn’t looking at me for entertainment. “I am.” “Mr. Gray left instructions. Please wait in the VIP lounge. Serena Holt will be down shortly to get you.” She pointed toward a quiet, luxurious seating area half hidden by tall plants. I nodded and hurried over, grateful for the chance to disappear. A few minutes later, Maya brought me a steaming cup of tea and set it on the table in front of me. She glanced around to make sure no one was near enough to hear, then leaned closer. “Miss Blake…” she whispered. “Were you really forced into this? Everyone says you’re the family’s scapegoat.” My fingers tightened around the tea cup. Something in me softened at the concern in her eyes. In this steel-and-glass jungle, she was the first warm thing I had seen. I didn’t answer directly. I only smiled at her in thanks. But from that moment on, I filed Maya Riley away under one category in my head. Safe. Then the private elevator chimed. The first thing to step out was a pair of custom high heels covered in crystals and easily four inches tall. Their sharp clicks on marble were elegant and aggressive at once. Then came the woman wearing them. Tall. Stunning. Flawlessly made up. Wrapped in a perfectly fitted Armani suit that looked less like clothing and more like armor. I recognized her immediately. Serena Holt. Ethan Gray’s chief secretary. The real power behind his executive office. I had searched the core leadership team the night before. Serena Holt was widely known as Ethan’s right hand. She walked toward me in a cloud of expensive perfume and stopped just in front of my chair. “Mrs. Gray,” she said with a polished smile that held no warmth at all. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” She put deliberate pressure on the title. I rose to my feet and met her gaze. “Not long, Ms. Holt.” “No need to be formal.” Her smile only sharpened. Her eyes skimmed over my cheap clothes like a knife. “Mr. Gray has decided you’ll be joining the executive office. That makes us coworkers now. Come on. I’ll take you upstairs. And along the way…” She paused. “I’ll teach you the rules.” I followed her into the private elevator. In that tight space, the perfume almost suffocated me. As the elevator climbed, Serena looked at my reflection in the mirrored doors. “That position as Mrs. Gray was never really meant for you.” My stomach dropped. She turned to look at me directly. “When your sister Isabella Blake used to come to the office, Mr. Gray spoiled her. He let her near major projects. Too bad she had standards. She had no interest in a man in a wheelchair. Lucky for you, I guess. You ended up with what she threw away.” The pity in her voice was pure poison. The elevator doors opened on the top floor. Under the bright lights, I could see the contempt in Serena Holt’s eyes perfectly clearly. That wasn’t just a warning. It was a declaration of war.

Ethan Gray’s office took up half the top floor. His side of the space was all authority and glass. The city spread out behind his desk. The black ebony surface looked like a throne disguised as furniture. My side was a joke. In a cramped corner near the entrance, someone had shoved a narrow white desk against the wall. No window. No plant. No view. Not even a decent chair. It looked like a station for temporary help. The hierarchy was obvious. Ethan sat at his desk with a file open in front of him. He wore a black shirt with the collar loose at the throat. Even in the wheelchair, he gave off enough controlled pressure to make breathing difficult. Serena marched me over to my little desk and dropped a stack of files so hard the wood shook. “Miss Blake, this is Mr. Gray’s schedule for the next two weeks and the files for several key projects currently in progress.” She spoke fast, like she was trying to drown me in information on purpose. “Your task this morning is to memorize all of it.” Before I could even respond, she glided to Ethan’s desk and transformed. The sharpness she used on me vanished. Her voice turned sweet and soft. “Mr. Gray, I’ve revised the South District development proposal based on your notes.” She bent down slightly as she handed him a file. “Would you like me to change anything else?” He didn’t even look up. “Leave it. Go.” Four words. Ice cold. The smile on her face froze. But she recovered almost instantly. “Of course, Mr. Gray. I won’t disturb you and… Mrs. Gray.” She emphasized the title again before leaving. When the doors shut behind her, the office went silent except for the rustle of paper and the faint hum of the air system. I stood there awkwardly, not even sure where to put my hands. “Bring me the blue file.” His voice cut through the stillness. Relieved to finally have something to do, I pulled the blue folder from the stack and brought it over. He took it and tossed it back onto the desk in front of me without opening it. “By three this afternoon, I want a risk assessment report I can actually read.” I opened the file. It was a contract renewal for an overseas supplier Gray Group had worked with for years. My degree was technically in business administration, but my college had been mediocre, and I had spent most of those years working side jobs just to survive. Still, after reading the first few pages, even I could see something was wrong. The figures contradicted each other. Important liability clauses were worded vaguely enough to hide almost anything. Worst of all, the financial statements in the appendix showed an obvious hole in the cash flow. Someone was cooking the books. This wasn’t a normal file. It was a trap. A carefully prepared one. Serena had dug it, covered it with fake numbers, and left it there for the clueless new girl to fall into. I looked up at Ethan. He was already reading another set of documents, calm and detached, as if none of this concerned him. Anger rushed up so fast it made my vision blur. Of course he knew. He was Ethan Gray. He had seen right through this file the moment it touched his desk. Which meant he had let it happen. He had let Serena set me up because he wanted to watch me fail. He wanted me humiliated. He wanted me sent packing. My fingers tightened around the file until the edges bent. I was seconds away from throwing it back on his desk and walking out. Then something else rose up inside me. That old, stubborn thing I had built in the Blake household just to survive. Fine. If he was paying me, then I was going to make him regret underestimating me. I said nothing. I went back to the tiny desk, turned on the computer, and got to work. I dug through industry data. Pulled legal references. Rebuilt the cash flow line by line on scratch paper. Highlighted every suspicious clause in red. Made notes beside every contradiction. I forgot to drink water. Forgot to breathe normally. Forgot everything except the numbers in front of me. At 2:59 p.m., I dropped a marked-up report on Ethan’s desk. It was color-coded, blunt, and attached to three core questions and two alternative solutions. It was probably crude by professional standards. But it was everything I had. I stood there, chest heaving from exhaustion and nerves, and waited for judgment. He didn’t even glance at the report. He looked straight at my face instead. At my bloodshot eyes. At my trembling mouth. And then, in a tone that had nothing to do with the file in front of him, he asked: “What exactly did you major in?”

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The moment the first session of the SATs ended, everyone in our class headed to a nearby diner for lunch. Amber, the most popular girl in our grade, walked in holding a greasy brown paper bag she bought from some cheap roadside food truck. “Hey guys! I got these smoked turkey legs for everyone!” she announced with a sweet, angelic smile. Having grown up in a family that ran a famous three-generation Texas-style BBQ Smokehouse, my eyes instantly locked onto the meat. One look, and I knew. These weren’t turkey legs. They were expired, heavily chemically-treated pork and duck meat, loaded with food coloring and toxic artificial smoke flavors to mask the rot. Without hesitation, I slapped the tray out of her hand, stopping everyone from taking a bite. But Amber couldn’t handle the public embarrassment. She felt I was targeting her. She burst into tears, ran out of the diner, and was immediately crushed to death by a speeding semi-truck. My boyfriend, Tyler, grabbed me by the neck, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “This is on you! If you hadn’t humiliated her, Amber would still be alive!” “She’s dead! Now you pay!” Even the classmates I had just saved turned on me. “They were just some turkey legs! Did you have to be so malicious?” “Look what you did! You literally killed her!” In the end, Tyler and the others locked me in a room and force-fed me ninety-nine of those rotten, toxic turkey legs until I choked and died from severe food poisoning and ruptured stomach. Meanwhile, because I had stopped them from eating the rotten meat, they remained perfectly healthy, aced their exams the next day, and all got into Ivy League universities. When I opened my eyes again, the smell of woodsmoke and cheap grease filled my nose. I was back on the day of the lunch.

The private dining room door was pushed open. Amber walked in, carrying a greasy paper bag, her face glowing with a sweet smile. “Sorry I’m late, guys! I brought a peace offering!” She placed the bag in the center of the table and opened it carefully. “I stood in line forever to get these smoked turkey legs for us!” Instantly, she became the center of attention. “Oh my god, Amber! You’re literally the best!” “My mouth is watering just looking at them!” I sat in the corner, a wave of nausea hitting me. My family has run a BBQ smokehouse for three generations. I grew up in the kitchen watching my grandfather smoke meats. I could tell with a single glance what was real and what was fake. This garbage wasn’t turkey. It was expired duck legs wrapped in heavy artificial spices and chemical red dye, double-baked to look edible. In my past life, this very tray of meat had ruined my entire existence. I had warned them loudly that the meat was rotten, that it would put them in the hospital and ruin their exams the next day. But Amber had burst into tears right there, covering her face. “Chloe, I know your family runs a famous BBQ joint… but you don’t have to humiliate me like this…” Tyler, my boyfriend, had immediately jumped to her defense and slapped me hard across the face. “Chloe, are you out of your mind?!” he had yelled. “We all know you’ve been jealous of Amber, but did you have to ruin her moment like this?” Amber had run out of the restaurant crying, only to be hit by a semi-truck and die instantly. “Chloe? Earth to Chloe. What are you staring at?” Tyler’s voice snapped me back to reality. He was sitting right next to me, looking at me with a soft, affectionate expression. He reached toward the table. “You must be exhausted after the test. Let me grab the biggest one for you.” “No, thanks,” I said coldly. “What’s wrong?” Tyler asked, confused. Amber looked over too. She picked up a turkey leg and offered it to me with a sugary sweet smile. “Come on, Chloe. Your family is the expert here. Try it first and tell me if it’s authentic!” I leaned back slightly, my voice flat. “No. I’m watching what I eat.” “Watching what you eat?” Amber froze, then laughed softly. “But Chloe, you’re already so skinny! Don’t be like this. I bought these for everyone to share. If you’re the only one who won’t eat, it feels like you’re rejecting me.” The moment she said that, Tyler’s brows furrowed. “Chloe, Amber is just being nice. Don’t start drama.” I kept my eyes down. “I said, I’m not eating it.” I repeated, clear and firm. Tyler’s face darkened completely. “Chloe, what is your problem?” Tyler’s voice rose, drawing everyone’s attention to our corner. “No problem. I just don’t want to eat it.” I leaned back against my chair, not even bothering to look at him. He slammed his hands on the table and stood up, glaring at me. “Chloe, do you think you’re better than everyone else just because your family owns a famous smokehouse? Are you seriously looking down on street food bought by Amber?”

“Dude, that’s so uncalled for!” “Yeah, Amber stood in line for this. If you don’t want it, fine, but lose the attitude!” “She’s totally doing this on purpose. She’s just jealous that everyone loves Amber.” The classmates around us immediately started taking sides. Just like my past life. No matter what I did, I was always the villain. Amber’s eyes welled up with tears instantly. She grabbed Tyler’s sleeve, her voice trembling. “Tyler, please don’t yell at Chloe. Maybe the food really isn’t good. Chloe is the expert, so it’s normal she doesn’t like it… It’s all my fault…” Her playing the victim immediately turned the whole room against me. “Amber, don’t cry! This has nothing to do with you!” “Yeah, forget her! More for us. It’s her loss anyway!” A guy named Hunter took the lead, grabbing a leg and taking a massive bite to show his support for Amber. “Oh my god! This is amazing! So flavorful!” he mumbled through a full mouth. “Better than any five-star restaurant!” With the first follower, the rest quickly joined in. “Let me try!” “Give me one! Amber, you’re a lifesaver!” Within seconds, the tray was nearly empty. They stuffed their faces while throwing dirty looks at me. Tyler sneered, picked up a piece, and held it to Amber’s lips with a tender smile. “Here, Amber. You eat too. Don’t let irrelevant people ruin your day.” Amber smiled through her tears, took a bite from his hand, and closed her eyes happily. “Mm, so good!” The surrounding classmates started chanting and cheering. “Oh! Get a room, you two!” “Tyler, you’re so biased, only feeding Amber!” I sneered inwardly. *Since you all love it so much, eat up. Eat all of it.* I pulled out my phone, checked the time for the afternoon exams, and started reviewing my study guides. “Chloe, are you really not going to eat?” My desk mate, Sarah, leaned in and whispered to me. She was the only person in the room who hadn’t joined the mob. In my past life, she was also the only one who had secretly handed me a tissue when everyone was screaming at me. I glanced at her and kept my voice barely audible. “Don’t eat it either.” Sarah blinked, looking at my dead-serious expression, and then at our classmates who were happily devouring the meat. She looked incredibly confused. “Why?” “If you want to be able to sit through the exam this afternoon, trust me just this once.” I didn’t explain further. Sarah hesitated for a few seconds, but looking at my eyes, she finally nodded and slowly put down the turkey leg she had just picked up. Just then, Tyler stormed over, ripped my phone out of my hands, and slammed it onto the table. “Chloe! I’m talking to you! Are you deaf?!” The phone hit the wooden table with a loud, violent crack.

The room went dead silent. Everyone stopped chewing and stared at us. “What is your deal today?” Tyler roared. “Amber brought this out of the goodness of her heart, and not only are you ungrateful, but you’re also acting like a total bitch! Everyone is watching. You will stand up and apologize to Amber. Right. Now.” His voice was dripping with venom. Amber quickly ran over, grabbing Tyler’s arm, her eyes swimming with tears. “Tyler, please stop… It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have bought them… Chloe, please don’t be mad. I’ll apologize for Tyler, okay? Just don’t let this ruin your afternoon exam.” She claimed she was apologizing, but she leaned her body heavily against Tyler’s chest. The classmates chimed in again. “Seriously, Chloe, you’re crossing the line today.” “Tyler is just defending Amber. Just apologize and let it go.” “We’re all classmates. Don’t make it weird.” Apologize? I looked at them, finding the entire situation hysterical. In my past life, I saved all of them. Yet Tyler hit me, verbally abused me, and watched me die. In this life, I did absolutely nothing, and I was still the bad guy. I realized then that no matter what choice I made, the outcome for them didn’t matter. Because in Tyler’s heart, I would never be as important as Amber. I slowly stood up, meeting his furious gaze calmly. “Tyler,” I said softly. “We’re done.” The rage on Tyler’s face instantly froze. “What… what did you say?” “I said, we are breaking up.” I repeated, enunciating every single word. “From this moment on, you, Amber, and whatever drama you guys have are none of my business.” “Chloe!” Tyler raised his hand, the exact same scene from my past life flashing before my eyes. I didn’t flinch. I just stared at him coldly. “Hit me,” I whispered. “Do it, and we are completely through.” His hand froze in mid-air. It shook violently, but he couldn’t bring himself to swing it down. “Fine! Great!” He pulled his hand back, trembling with pure rage. “Chloe, don’t you dare regret this! Breaking up over something so petty? Who do you think you are? Trust me, I will do just fine without you!” “I wish you the best of luck with that.” I picked up my phone from the table. Thank god, the screen wasn’t cracked. I slid it into my bag, checked my test permit, and turned to leave. “Stop right there!” Tyler yelled. “Did I say you could leave? You haven’t apologized, and a breakup is a two-way street. I don’t agree to it!” Hunter and a few other guys immediately stood up, blocking the door. “Chloe, don’t just run away. Talk it out.” “Yeah, nobody leaves until you apologize to Amber.” I took a deep breath, the last ounce of warmth in my heart completely evaporating. “Move.” “No way! Not unless you get on your knees and apologize to Amber!” Hunter barked. On my knees? I almost laughed. Just then, Amber’s voice trembled from behind. “Oh… wait…” She suddenly clutched her stomach, her face turning pale. “My stomach… it hurts so bad…” Tyler immediately spun around, panicked. “Amber, what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine…” Amber forced a weak smile, but cold sweat was already beads on her forehead. “Maybe… maybe it’s just the iced soda I drank earlier. My stomach is just acting up. I’ll be fine after using the restroom.” Clutching her stomach, she hurried out of the dining room. “Hurry back!” Tyler called out anxiously. Once she left, he turned his glare back to me, his frustration peaking. “Chloe, are you happy now? You literally stressed Amber out so much she has a stomachache!” “If she messes up her exam this afternoon, I swear I will make you pay!” I was so amused I almost laughed out loud. Stressed into a stomachache? Or did she just eat rotten meat? “What are you looking at? Apologize!” With Amber gone, Hunter got even more aggressive, reaching out to shove my shoulder. I took a step back. “If I were you, I wouldn’t touch me,” I said calmly. “And I’d stop eating that garbage on the table. In fact, you should all go to the ER to get your stomachs pumped right now. Maybe then you’ll make it to your exams tomorrow.” Hunter froze, and then burst into hysterical laughter as if he had just heard the funniest joke in the world. “Did you guys hear her? She wants us to get our stomachs pumped! Chloe, did studying dry your brain out? Do you think you’re some kind of psychic doctor?” “She literally wants us to fail! She’s so toxic!” “Exactly! She didn’t eat, so now she’s cursing us!” They mocked me as they picked up the remaining meat and stuffed it into their mouths. “So delicious! Too bad some people don’t have the taste buds for it!” “Right? How could something this good be bad? What a joke.” Tyler looked at me with pure disgust in his eyes. “Chloe, I never realized how vile you could be. Just because I defended Amber, you’re resorting to this pathetic way to curse us?” He shoved me into the corner, his arms pinning me against the wall. “I’m saying this for the last time. Get on your knees and apologize to Amber. Otherwise, this isn’t over.” He whispered threateningly. I looked up at his face, so close to mine. This was the boy I had loved for three years, the one who had brought me nothing but agony across two lifetimes. I spoke, my voice chillingly calm. “Tyler, aren’t you even a little curious? Why didn’t I take a single bite, yet I knew something was wrong with it?” He blinked, taken aback. “Because my family does this for a living,” I said, holding his gaze. “I know meat better than any of you. That is not turkey. It’s spoiled duck meat masked with industrial chemical dye. If you eat it, you’ll end up with severe food poisoning. At best, you’ll be vomiting blood. At worst…” “Shut up! Amber literally said she bought it from a popular street vendor!” “So?” I countered. “Just because she said it, it’s true? You’d rather believe a pathological liar than me?” “Shut your mouth! Don’t you dare talk about Amber like that!” “Then why isn’t your precious Amber back yet?” I asked. I glanced at my watch. There was only one hour left before the afternoon SAT session. The incubation period for that bacteria was about thirty minutes to an hour. It was about time. Tyler froze. Suddenly, the door to the dining room was kicked open. A guy ran in, clutching his mouth. Before he could even reach the trash can, he threw up violently all over the floor. Immediately after, classmate after classmate turned ghostly pale, clutching their stomachs. Like rockets launching, they scrambled and fought to get out the door to the bathrooms. “My stomach… oh god, it feels like I’m being stabbed!” “Me too… I can’t… I think I’m gonna throw up!”

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I stood in my own living room, watching my wife hold another man’s baby, while my son, Theo, called a complete stranger “Daddy.” Nobody knew that I had only gone out to take out the trash, got dragged onto a spaceship by aliens, and spent what felt like sixteen minutes there. But when I came back, six years had passed on Earth. When Catherine saw me, she looked like she had seen a ghost. Then, she put her hands on her hips and tried to kick me out. “George, do you have any conscience left?” she shrieked. “You vanished for six years without a single word! Now that I’ve finally rebuilt my life and started a new family, you come back to ruin it?” “Theo doesn’t even remember you. This house has nothing to do with you anymore. Get the hell out!” I didn’t say a word. I just raised my hand, showing her the glowing dark stone resting in my palm. It was an Obsidian Wishing Stone, given to me by the aliens to make up for their “time-dilation error.” It had the power to grant wishes. I looked at the lovey-dovey couple in front of me, and then at Theo, who was hiding timidly behind the man. Calmly, I made my wish in my heart: I want everything I lost back, with interest.

Three hours. That was all it took for me to figure out what had happened during the sixteen minutes I was gone. The disgust on Catherine’s face hadn’t even faded yet when I asked the question burning in my chest. “I was only gone for sixteen minutes. How do you already have a new family?” “Sixteen minutes?” Catherine grabbed my arm and dragged me over to the calendar on the wall. “Open your eyes and look! It’s 2032. You weren’t gone for sixteen minutes. You were gone for six freaking years!” My head spun. Only then did I understand what the aliens meant when they said “everything will have changed.” But Catherine didn’t give me a second to process. She pointed at the man next to her. “This is my husband, Donald.” Then she pointed to the baby girl in his arms. “And this is my seven-year-old daughter.” “During the six years you were gone, I married the love of my life and had a beautiful daughter. This is the life I always wanted.” Her cold eyes made my heart ache. This woman had once sworn to love me forever. Yet now, she didn’t have a single word of concern for me. She just wanted me to know she had married her “true love” the moment I disappeared. And the funniest part? The kid was already almost seven. The math didn’t even add up. I took a deep breath to swallow the bitterness in my throat. “Since you have a new family now, then give me back my house.” Catherine blinked, and then she let out a mocking laugh. “Your house? What house do you have?” Her snide look pissed me off. “Theo is my son. And this house was bought by my dad. How is this not my house?” Catherine pulled a death certificate out of the drawer and threw it in my face. “Look closely, George. You were declared dead six years ago.” “For the past six years, Donald has been the one taking care of our son. In Theo’s heart, Donald is his only dad…” “That’s impossible!” I snapped, cutting her off. “Theo was eight when I left! I homeschooled him, tutored him, and took care of him every single day for eight years!” “When he had pneumonia, I stayed up for three days straight in the hospital room holding his hand. I am his father!” “I don’t have a father who abandons his family for another woman!” Suddenly, a small figure rushed over and shoved me hard. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. It was Theo. He glared at me with pure hatred. “You ran away with some side-chick and left us. You should have died out there! How dare you show your face here again?” Looking at the boy who looked seventy percent like me, my hands shook as I reached out to touch his arm. “Theo, I didn’t abandon you. I was taken by aliens. It was a mistake.” Theo slapped my hand away. “Aliens? Do you think I’m three years old?” He turned to Donald. “Donald told me everything.” “You’re just a serial cheater. We still have the photos of you with those other women. Someone like you doesn’t deserve to be my dad!” “Photos? What photos?”

I looked at Theo in sheer disbelief. Catherine smirked, pulling out a stack of photos and holding them in front of my face. “These are photos of you grinding on girls at a nightclub. Do you have no shame?” “And this one is even worse. Walking down a hotel hallway half-naked with a stripper. If that’s not cheating, what is?” Slap! I didn’t hesitate. I slapped Catherine right across the face. “These photos are so poorly Photoshopped. How could you use these fake pictures to poison Theo’s mind against me?” Catherine clearly didn’t expect me to hit her. She stared at me, completely stunned. Theo screamed and threw himself at me, kicking and punching. “You bad man! Don’t you dare touch my mom!” I knelt down, grabbed Theo by his shoulders, and said in a deep, serious voice, “Theo, I am telling you the truth.” “I was taken by aliens for sixteen minutes, but six years passed here. I never left you.” I checked my watch and quickly pulled out the Obsidian Wishing Stone. “Look, the aliens gave me this. In two hours, everyone who harmed me will get their karma.” Theo looked at the stone with disgust and kicked it out of my hand. “Donald was right. You’re not just a cheating scumbag, you’re a psycho.” He turned to Donald. “Daddy, you’re the best doctor in the city. Give him some medicine. Better yet, poison him so he leaves us alone!” Hearing Theo’s words made my entire body go numb. This was the child I had poured my heart and soul into raising for eight years. And now, he wanted me dead. I closed my eyes, forcing down the overwhelming pain. “Theo, I loved you for eight years. Do you really believe a man you’ve known for six years over your own father?” “Yes,” Theo said without a second of hesitation. “I believe him. And he is the only father I will ever have.” My throat tightened. Theo didn’t even want to look at me anymore. He grabbed Donald’s hand. “Daddy, I’ve cut ties with this man. He’s not my dad anymore.” Donald smiled triumphantly. “Go upstairs first, buddy. I’ll have a quick word with him and make sure he never bothers our family again.” I watched Theo walk upstairs. Once the boy was out of sight, Donald stepped right up to me. Before I could even react, he slammed a syringe into my shoulder. A sharp, stinging pain instantly spread through my veins. Donald’s smirk widened. “Does it hurt, George?” “That’s just a little taste of what happens when you try to take my woman and my son.” He grabbed me by my hair and slammed my face onto the dining table. “You lost a long time ago, George. Even before you went missing, Catherine was already pregnant with my baby.” “As for your precious Theo? The only reason he’s still alive is because his grandfather left him a huge trust fund.” Donald sneered. “Since I couldn’t kill the brat without losing the money, I had to play the good dad.” “I bought him every toy he wanted, just to make him forget how good you were to him.” “I even told him bedtime stories every night. But in those stories, you were the villain who abandoned him.” “Right now, you’re worse than trash to him.” Rage boiled in my blood. I forced myself up, spun around, and landed a hard punch right on Donald’s jaw. “You son of a bitch! I’ll make sure you rot in hell!”

Donald stumbled back a few steps. Instantly, Catherine rushed over. She kicked me hard in the shin. “George, you bastard!” “I actually felt bad for you because of our eight years together. I was going to ask Donald to let you stay here as a live-in housekeeper and my secret side-piece! How dare you lay a hand on him?” She pinned me against the floor. “Apologize to Donald right now! If you behave, you can still live here, be close to me, and see Theo!” Her words made me want to throw up. I spat on the floor. “In your dreams! I’m not serving either of you. I’m throwing you both out of my house!” “Your house?” Catherine’s eyes turned malicious. She grabbed my collar and shoved me against the wall. “Those photos might be fake, but I didn’t just show them to Theo. I showed them to your dad, too.” A cold smile crept onto her lips. “Do you want to know how your dad reacted?” Without waiting for me to answer, she continued, “Your dad said he didn’t have a son so shameless. He said Donald and I were saints for taking care of Theo. So, he left all his money and this house to us in his will.” “You’re lying! My dad would never believe your garbage!” I roared. “Of course he wouldn’t believe it easily. But I had a great accomplice.” Catherine looked at Donald lovingly. “After you went missing, your dad got paralyzed from a stroke. Donald got hired as his personal doctor.” “He spent two long years playing the perfect, caring doctor to win the old man’s trust.” She laughed. “And I did my part, too. At night, Donald and I were hooking up in your bed. During the day, I was the grieving, perfect daughter-in-law.” “We worked like a charm. Thanks to our hard work, your dad finally believed you were a cheating scumbag who ran away. He cried as he signed the company and this house over to me.” I glared at her with pure hatred. “Catherine, karma is going to get you.” Catherine was one of the first students my father had sponsored through his charity foundation. Before my dad paid her tuition, Catherine had to work as a dishwasher at our family restaurant, eating leftovers from customers. Once, she fainted from malnutrition. My dad saw her, felt sorry for her, and started paying for her college. After graduation, she literally begged my dad for a job, saying she wanted to work for free to pay back his kindness. My dad thought she was a grateful, sweet girl. He mentored her and introduced her to me. How could she be such a monster? Donald grabbed my chin, forcing me to look him in the eye. “George, only fools believe in karma.” “Catherine and I were tired of being poor. We started planning this ten years ago just to get rich.” “Ten years?!” I gasped. “So her working at the restaurant, begging for the job, marrying me… it was all a setup?” “Duh!” Donald raised his chin proudly. “Your dad was our golden goose. Working for free was just the hook. Marrying you was our ticket to the wealthy life.” He shoved me back. “Watching Catherine walk down the aisle to you in that white dress… I hated you so much.” “But to make it up to me, Catherine gave me your wedding ring. She even let me prescribe her some ‘special meds’ when she was pregnant with Theo.” “So that’s why she was constantly bleeding and almost died during labor?” My eyes widened in horror. Donald laughed coldly. “Too bad she was tough. She survived.” Catherine looked a little guilty for a split second. “I did care about you and your dad at first, George. But you guys were always so guarded. You wouldn’t hand over the company to me early. I had no choice!” I looked at my watch. Another hour had passed. I stared at them. Keep talking. Keep bragging about your secrets. I want to see how painful it is when your karma hits you a hundred times harder. “Now you know everything, George. But what can you do about it?” “We have the legally binding will. And Theo only loves me,” Donald taunted. “You were only special because of your daddy’s money. In the end, you still lost to me…” Before he could finish his sentence, his face suddenly went pale. He grabbed my wrist, checking my pulse. A second later, his brow furrowed. “Your… your body…”

Donald examined me closely, and a dark, vicious look crossed his eyes. “Catherine, his physical condition is exactly the same as it was six years ago. If six years really passed, his body shouldn’t be like this.” Catherine’s face fell. She glared at me. “What kind of game are you playing, George?” She balled her fists and punched me hard in the chest. “And here I was feeling guilty, trying to offer you a place to stay! You made up this ridiculous lie to trick us!” I gritted my teeth through the pain. “It’s the truth. I was only gone for sixteen minutes.” “Sixteen minutes!” Catherine laughed hysterically. “Do you think the whole world is stupid?” She raised her hand to hit me again, but Donald stopped her. “Wait, Catherine. Didn’t George say he was abducted by aliens?” “Let’s prove he’s a liar and have him committed to a psych ward forever.” Catherine grabbed my arm and dragged me up. “Fine. You want to play the alien card? Let’s get you tested.” They threw me into the back of their car and drove straight to the hospital where Donald worked. They dumped me onto a bed in a private room. A second later, a nurse stuck a needle into my arm, pumping a cold fluid into my veins. Donald whispered in Catherine’s ear, “I already spoke to the lab director. He’s going to write up a fake report saying George is severely schizophrenic. The asylum transport is already on the way.” I clenched my fists. Catherine grabbed me by the collar and dragged me off the bed, holding her phone camera right in my face. “Alright, cheater. Tell the camera. Where did you run off to with your little mistress six years ago? Why are you back now pretending to be a victim?” Her eyes were filled with venom. “Do you know how worried I was when you first disappeared?” “I was so stressed that I ignored Donald for days…” Donald’s voice coldly cut her off. “And because of that stress, she had a miscarriage. We lost our second baby.” Catherine went quiet for a second, her gaze turning even colder. “You owe me for the last six years, George. Today, you pay.” I stared at her. “Catherine, I am telling the truth. You can’t do this to me.” “Are you scared now?” Catherine mocked. “Can’t keep up with your own lie?” “Instead of waiting for the psych evaluation, I think I’ll just make sure you shut up permanently.” She grabbed a sedative syringe from Donald and stabbed it into my arm. I stumbled back, hitting the wall. The drug worked fast. My vision started to blur. Donald chuckled. “Don’t worry, George. It’s my own special mix. It hurts like hell, but it gets the job done.” As I slid down the wall, the Obsidian Wishing Stone fell out of my pocket. I stared at it and whispered, “Make them feel a hundred times the pain they caused me.” Right then, a nurse ran into the room, panting. “Dr. Carter! The lab results are back. His physical indicators are completely normal. The psychological evaluation is perfectly fine, too!” “What… what did you say?” Catherine’s hands shook as she grabbed the report from the nurse. “Does this mean… George was telling the truth?” Donald’s eyes widened in horror. “The aliens… the wishing stone… it’s all real? We…” Before he could finish, Catherine’s phone rang loudly. She picked it up, and her assistant’s panicked scream echoed through the room. “Ms. Catherine! Oh my god, the company is crashing!”

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