Category: English

Eight boyfriends. Eight sudden, panicked exits. Every single time a relationship crept toward something real, my cousin Courtney would quietly slip them a single text: “Just a heads-up about my cousin—she has a history of severe mental instability. Be careful.” I was completely in the dark. Until the ninth guy didn’t run. He sat me down and told me himself. I still had all eight of my exes on my contact list. After calling each one to confirm the devastating truth, I demanded they send me screenshots of the message Courtney had sent them. Now, at Courtney’s engagement party, she was gliding through the room, her arm looped tightly through Dustin’s—my eighth ex. Our relatives were practically swooning over him. My aunt Sharon patted Courtney’s hand, then turned her sharp eyes on me. “Quanna, you really need to start taking notes. Look at your cousin. She actually knows how to choose a man.” I forced a tight, empty smile. “You’re right, Aunt Sharon. I should definitely learn a thing or two.” I stood up, picked up my champagne glass, and walked straight toward Courtney. “Hey, Courtney,” I said, my voice cutting through the chatter. “There’s something I’ve been dying to ask. When you sent them that text, what exactly was going through your head?” 1 “Quanna, what on earth are you talking about?” Courtney’s perfect smile faltered, her eyes darting to my hands. I turned my phone screen toward the crowd, displaying the screenshots. “You really have a gift, Courtney,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the roar in my ears. “Sifting through my boyfriends to find the best of the bunch. Dustin is a great guy. Congratulations.” Whispers erupted around the table. Courtney squinted at the screen, her expression instantly shifting from surprise to deep, solemn concern. “Quanna, we tolerated your outbursts when we were kids, but this is my engagement party. How could you try to ruin this for us?” She turned to the rest of the family, her voice dripping with pity. “Honestly, AI deepfakes are getting so realistic these days. If you don’t look closely, you’d actually think this was real.” Aunt Sharon’s face darkened instantly. She turned a glare toward my mother. “Helen, look at what you’ve raised. Is this a joke? How could she pull a stunt like this on today of all days?” The room turned on me in a heartbeat. “She’s just bitter because Dustin chose Courtney over her.” “So petty.” “It’s not just petty. It’s a character flaw.” I ignored them and looked directly at Dustin, my chest tightening. “Dustin. Tell them. Is that screenshot fake?” Before Dustin could open his mouth, Courtney leaned in close to him, her voice a stage whisper. “Dustin, just say whatever keeps her calm. We don’t want her to relapse.” Dustin looked at me, then took a distinct step backward, closer to Courtney. “Quanna… look, if you say it’s real, then it’s real. Just… please don’t get upset.” A cold rage washed over me. “Dustin, what is that supposed to mean? Tell them the truth!” “Quanna,” Courtney interrupted, stepping in front of him. “Dustin just realized the two of you weren’t a match. He didn’t want to force it. Why are you doing this?” She turned back to the family, sighs of exasperation rippling through the room. “You all know how she is. Ever since we were little, if she couldn’t win, she’d find a way to tear everything down. It’s happening again.” She looked back at me, her tone gently patronizing. “You can’t keep acting out like this, Quanna. I’m only letting this go because you’re my sister. Anyone else would have thrown you out by now.” The relatives shook their heads, murmuring in agreement. “So immature.” “Thank goodness Courtney is the bigger person.” “I don’t know how Helen puts up with her.” My mother’s face was pale, her hands trembling. Seeing her like that made my head spin with anger. Without another word, I pulled up the other seven screenshots and forwarded them directly to the family group chat. “It wasn’t just Dustin!” I cried, my voice cracking. “Courtney sent the exact same message to every single one of them!” Courtney’s eyes widened slightly as her phone buzzed. But as she scrolled through the images, a slow, mocking smile crept onto her lips. “Quanna, if you’re going to forge evidence, at least try to make it believable. Look at this. Every single message is identical. Not a single word changed, not even a punctuation mark.” My heart sank. She was incredibly calculating. She must have anticipated a day like this and used a standardized template for every single one of them, knowing the identical texts would make them look like a repetitive, poorly made copy. She let out a soft laugh, her eyes glinting with malice. “Honestly, Quanna… eight men, and you couldn’t keep a single one of them. Maybe it’s time to stop blaming me and look at yourself.” She patted my arm. “Don’t lose hope, though. Work on your personality, and I’m sure you’ll find someone eventually.” I had never been good with quick comebacks, and under the weight of her systematic gaslighting, the words choked in my throat. I stood there, mute and shaking. Within minutes, several older uncles escorted me out of the private dining room. Behind the heavy double doors, the sounds of laughter and warm toasts started up again. Outside, in the dimly lit hallway of the restaurant, I stood alone, shivering. My mother walked out a moment later, her eyes red. “Quanna,” she whispered, pulling me into a hug. “You’re my daughter. I know you’d never do something like that. Your cousin has always had a hundred different schemes running at once. Just stay away from her.” “Mom, I can’t just let this go,” I said, tears finally spilling over. “If I let her walk all over me, she wins. And you and Dad will never be able to hold your heads up around the family again.” “But what can you do?” “I’ll find a way.” The next morning, I began reaching out to my exes one by one. If I could get just one of them to stand up and tell the truth, Courtney’s entire facade would crumble. But to my horror, my messages wouldn’t go through. One by one, they had blocked me. The last ex, right before he blocked me, sent a single image. It was a photo of me at the engagement party, standing wildly on top of one of the banquet tables, my arms flailing, looking like a literal madwoman. My blood ran cold. Courtney had beaten me to it. She was a master of manipulation; in the photo, the surrounding relatives had expressions of sheer horror and alarm painted on their faces. To anyone looking at it, the narrative was clear: the unstable cousin had finally snapped. I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my keys, intending to drive straight to my aunt’s house to confront Courtney, but my mother caught me at the door. “I know my sister, Quanna,” she said, her voice tight with worry. “And Courtney is just like her. You can’t beat her at this game.” “She’s destroying my life, Mom! I can’t just sit here!” A dark shadow fell over my mother’s face. “Do you know what Courtney whispered to me right before we left the restaurant yesterday? She said she and Dustin are meant to be, and she won’t let anyone ruin her happiness. The look in her eyes… it terrified me. I’m scared of what she’ll do next.” I let out a bitter, hollow laugh. “I’m the one who should be doing something to her! What else can she possibly do?” The answer came much faster than I expected. When I walked into the office the next morning, my department manager called me into his room. “Quanna, we’re going to have to let you go.” I stared at him, stunned. “What? Why?” “Your role is client-facing, Quanna,” he said, his tone entirely devoid of empathy. “We can’t risk you frightening our accounts. You shouldn’t have hidden your medical history from us.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve already found a replacement.” Before I could even process the words, the door opened. Courtney stepped into the room, wearing a sleek, professional blazer. “Don’t worry, Quanna. I’ll take good care of your accounts.” The room spun. My hands clenched into fists, and for a split second, I wanted nothing more than to lung across the desk and tear her apart. But I forced myself to freeze. If I lost control now, a new photo would emerge. One far worse than the table incident. She wanted me to go crazy. She was baiting me. I turned on my heel and walked out, feeling like a bomb ticking down to zero. When I got back to my apartment building, the nightmare followed me. My neighbors—people I had exchanged pleasantries with for years—guiltily avoided my gaze, stepping back into their apartments when they saw me coming. Then I saw the local community forum online. The photo of me on the table had been uploaded, alongside a thread that was rapidly gaining traction. Look at this girl. Dumped so many times she finally lost her mind at her cousin’s engagement party. Her name is Quanna Lin. Apparently, every guy she dates runs for the hills. Why? Word is she has a history of severe psychiatric issues. Well, that explains it. Who’d want to deal with that? I immediately went to the local precinct. “Officer, my cousin Courtney is defaming me online. I want to press charges.” But Courtney had covered her tracks perfectly. After a brief, superficial investigation, the police informed me that there was no digital paper trail linking the upload to her. They closed the case due to lack of evidence. Just as the walls felt like they were completely closing in, Courtney came to find me. She stood on my doorstep with a mysterious, satisfied smirk. “Quanna, I’m giving Dustin back to you. He’s all yours now.” I stared at her, immediately on guard. “What kind of game are you playing now?” “Honestly, I only got close to Dustin to test him for you,” she said, her voice smooth and dripping with mock sisterly love. “You’ve always been so naive about men. Now that the test is over, I’m returning him. You don’t have to thank me. That’s just what family does.” I was speechless. I looked at the woman standing in front of me, wondering how someone could be so utterly devoid of a soul. “Dustin will call you soon. Don’t let him slip away this time.” With that, Courtney turned and walked down the hall. As I watched her retreating back, trying to figure out what her real angle was, my phone buzzed. It was Jared. My ninth boyfriend. “Quanna,” he said, walking up the apartment stairs toward me, his phone in hand. “Look at what your cousin just sent me.” I took the phone. On the screen was a fresh message from Courtney: [You’re incredibly brave. I already told you my cousin is unstable, and yet you’re still seeing her?]

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Eight years in the shadows, and Freda went Instagram official with someone else. In the video, she was wrapping her arms around her handsome new designer, her smile warm and completely open. It was a look she had never given me. The entire internet seemed to be shedding tears over their beautiful love story. Even a simple photo of them watching the sunset together had already gone viral, turning the location into the ultimate “relationship goals” travel spot. Every top comment under the post felt like a eulogy for the eight years I had quietly given her: “I still remember when Damien lifted her up with one hand to let her make that shot on the court. I’ve been dreaming of a love like that for years.” “She loves him so much. Even when things were tough for her, she still made sure to set up a charity toy drive in his name.” A few friends who actually knew about us sent cautious texts, telling me to hang in there. I could only reply with a smiling emoji, just like I always did. For an entire week, she ignored my messages. As the sun was finally dipping below the horizon, she sent a single character back: ‘K’. The delivery guy arrived with my dinner. My throat tightened, and I choked out over the phone to the restaurant, “You… you forgot the marinara sauce.” The guy on the line panicked. “Hey, man, don’t cry. It’s okay. I’ll drive a new one over to you right now, okay?” In that moment, I realized a total stranger was terrified of my tears. Yet she had watched me suffer in the dark for eight years without a single shred of pity. Eight years, and I still hadn’t earned the right to stand beside her. So, I decided to stop trying. … Freda walked into the apartment carrying the crisp, sharp chill of early winter. Seeing me packing my things, she didn’t react. She simply held out a bundle of roses. “Last ones at the florist,” she said. “I remembered you liked roses, so I grabbed them.” The outer petals were already brown and curling at the edges. The thorns hadn’t even been stripped, and they were wrapped carelessly in a few sheets of old newspaper. I stared at the flowers for a long moment. My mind drifted to the Instagram photos I had seen yesterday, posted by a mutual friend. Freda had been in Paris, accompanying Damien to a fashion show. At the auction, she had bid on every painting he wanted. At a Michelin-starred sushi bar, she had lovingly peeled his sweet shrimp for him. That same day, I was at home fixing a burst pipe under our sink. I ended up spending six hours alone in the ER, hooked up to an IV. She hadn’t called. She hadn’t texted. Without a word, I tossed the roses into the trash can. Freda’s expression stiffened for a second, but she kept her voice gentle. “I really was busy this week, Jude. I didn’t mean to make you wait.” “And those trending articles… you know how the tabloids love to twist things. It’s not the first time. Don’t be mad at me, okay?” I looked at her face and suddenly let out a soft laugh. “Fine. Let’s go public tonight. Post it on your feed right now.” She sighed, stepping forward to wrap her arms around me. “Jude, don’t do this. I told you, it’s just not the right time.” I had heard that phrase for eight years. When her company needed a plus-one for their gala, she chose someone else—because it wasn’t the right time. When she was asked about her relationship status at the annual company party, she claimed she was single—because it wasn’t the right time. Now, she was hard-launching another man with a radiant, shameless smile, and it still wasn’t the right time for me. When would it be the right time? An overwhelming exhaustion washed over me. “Give me your phone.” She hesitated, but handed it over anyway. The lock screen was clean. On her messaging app, the only pinned chats were work groups and a few business partners. I opened her contacts. My finger froze. His contact name was My Boy. My contact name was Jude. Before I could even ask, she quickly explained, “We were playing a game at the afterparty. I lost a dare and had to change it.” I didn’t say a word. I opened her cloud storage drive. There was a password-protected folder. I tried my birthday. Access denied. I tried hers. Access denied. My mind went blank for a second. I typed in his birthday, and the folder opened. Over ten thousand photos. All of him. His profile as he bent over his sketchpad. A close-up of his fingers wrapping around a coffee mug. The way he squinted in the bright sunlight. Every single shot was taken with immense care, like a secret confession of devotion. I looked up at her. “Is this for work, too?” She stood frozen, completely silent. Then, she snatched the phone back and deleted the entire folder right in front of my face. She stared at me, her expression hardening. “Are you happy now? Is that enough? What else do you want me to do?” Her voice trembled at the end. I knew she was angry. Before I could say anything, she turned and marched into the bathroom. When she came out, she was holding a spare duvet, heading straight for the guest bedroom. “I’m sleeping in here tonight,” she said coldly. “Your snoring is too loud. I can’t get any rest.” Right before she closed the door, her phone rang. Even through the heavy wood, I could hear her voice—soft, sweet, cooing as she comforted whoever was on the other end. I used to actually believe I snored. I used to feel so guilty about it. For an entire month, I recorded my sleep every night, desperate to find the cause so I could see a doctor. There was no snoring on those tapes. Only the occasional rustle of me turning over in bed. And her, murmuring in her sleep: “I miss you so much, Damien.” What was the exact moment things had started to change? Maybe it was when she began coming home later and later, staring at her phone with a lingering smile. Or when she stopped drinking the herbal tea I brewed for her, switching instead to a sweet, cloying perfume I didn’t recognize. Maybe it was when she stopped sharing her day with me, reducing our conversations to cold, one-word replies. Or perhaps it was that one night when she stared at me for a long, quiet moment, and said, “Why don’t you have any ambition? You’re so ordinary. You’re nothing like…” She never finished that sentence. To say it didn’t hurt would be a lie. But as I packed, I realized how little of myself actually existed in this apartment. Everything I owned barely filled a single suitcase. As I stood in the entryway, she walked out of the study to grab a glass of water. She glanced at me. “Going somewhere?” “Yeah.” She nodded slowly, then turned and went back to her office. In the back of the Uber, I opened our chat history. I scrolled up. It was a graveyard of one-sided effort: “It’s getting cold today. Wrap up warm.” “What do you want for dinner?” “When will you be home?” Her replies never exceeded three words. I typed out a final text: It’s over. I hope you get everything you ever wanted. The moment I got out of the car, my best friend, Zack, threw his arms around me. I couldn’t speak. My eyes burned with a fierce, hot pressure. Once we settled into his apartment, we sat across from each other. He started counting on his fingers, his anger boiling over. “I haven’t forgotten how toxic she is,” Zack said. “How many fires did you put out for her? And what did you get? She literally stood in front of a crowd of people and pretended she didn’t even know you.” “Or what about that time you spent an entire month pulling all-nighters for that design proposal? She handed it over to someone else because she claimed your degree ‘wasn’t prestigious enough.’” “And the most ridiculous part? You brewed custom remedies for her insomnia every single day, and she had the nerve to complain that you were ‘lazy’ and ‘had too much free time’ just because you took care of the house.” He grew red-faced, finally looking at me with a heavy sigh. “For years, every time you brought up marriage, she dodged. Jude, she was never your person.” “It’s over, and that’s a good thing. Cut your losses. I just… I genuinely don’t get what you ever saw in her.” I forced a small, tired smile. The truth was, I had fallen first. Back then, I saw her kneeling on a rainy sidewalk to feed a stray dog, always willing to give her last dollar to help a friend. When I finally confessed my feelings, she stayed up all night thinking about it. “I want to try,” she had told me. “Give me a chance, and I’ll build a better life for us.” I knew there was someone else in her heart, but neither of us ever spoke his name. Maybe she wasn’t a good partner, but there was a time when her love felt real. Zack pulled out his phone, scrolling through Damien’s social media. Damien’s posts were mundane: what he ate, a sketch he drew, a cute florist shop he passed. And under every single post, Freda’s handle sat at the very top of the likes. “He’s a master manipulator,” Zack muttered. “Who can compete with that kind of calculated innocence?” Seeing the look on my face, he softened. “You know what? Forget it. Let’s get out of here. I’m taking you out.” The bar was dark, the bass vibrating deep in my chest. I looked up, and my heart seized. Freda was walking in from the VIP entrance, guiding Damien through the crowd with her hand resting lightly on the small of his back, shielding him from the drunken patrons. As they reached their booth, their circle of friends erupted: “Look at that! Freda finally grew up!” “I knew you two would end up together. Congrats, guys!” Freda, unusually, remained quiet. But Damien offered a shy, modest smile. “Stop teasing us. She just saw I was bored and brought me out to clear my head.” I watched them, feeling an odd, hollow calm. All night, Freda sat close to him. When he lost a drinking game, she immediately reached over and downed his shot without a second thought. When people joked about them, she didn’t get defensive; she just laughed along. I remembered a night when I had worked late, past eleven. I had texted her, keeping my tone as polite and small as possible: Do you think you could pick me up? I waited an hour in the cold before she showed up. Her face was tight with irritation. “Can’t you just call an Uber next time? I’m incredibly busy, Jude. I don’t have time to be your personal chauffeur.” Just then, my coworker walked out of the office lobby, spotting her and asking with a warm smile if this was my girlfriend. I had looked at her, hoping. She had offered a polite, distant smile. “No, just a friend.” When the night ended, Zack’s girlfriend came to pick him up. I sat alone on a bench, waiting for my ride. A few minutes later, Freda walked out, supporting a tipsy Damien. She didn’t notice me at first. She leaned down to button his overcoat, her movements so tender she might have been handling glass. Then, as if remembering something, she pulled out her phone to call someone. She turned, and our eyes met. Her brow instantly furrowed. “Going out to bars to find a replacement the very night we split? Is that why you wanted to break up, Jude?” So that was how she saw me. I didn’t answer. I just sat there. My Uber pulled up. Freda carefully tucked Damien into the backseat of her car, then marched over and grabbed my arm. “Get in. We’ll drop you off.” I pulled my arm back. “No thanks. My ride is here. Go ahead.” Her impatience flared. “Just get in, Jude. I’m not leaving you out here.” The Uber driver honked, and to avoid a scene, I finally got into her passenger seat. The ride was agonizing. She asked the driver to adjust the AC, then reached into the back to drape a soft throw blanket over Damien. Damien stirred, blinking sleepily. “Freda… do you remember that Italian place near campus? You saved up for six months just to take me there.” Freda murmured softly in response. They talked about their shared past the entire ride. I watched the neon lights of the city blur against the window, hearing nothing. When we reached my complex, I got out. Freda followed me onto the sidewalk. Under the dim yellow streetlamp, she looked slightly uncomfortable. “I know I’ve been distant lately. But Damien and I… it’s not what you think.” “Throw a tantrum if you need to. But when you’re done acting out, you can come home. I won’t pressure you.” I let out a soft laugh. “There’s no need. Do whatever makes you happy, Freda. Goodbye.” As I turned away, her voice cut through the cold air. “Don’t regret this, Jude. Because when you come crawling back crying for me to take you back, I won’t.” I didn’t look back. Inside my new apartment, I pulled out my phone and found my dad’s contact. I hesitated for three seconds. I typed: That blind date you mentioned… I’ll go. Two weeks later, I met Ella Crawford. My father had described her as stiff and overly analytical, but she was the exact opposite. She was incredibly warm and attentive. She arrived twenty minutes early, and throughout dinner, she never asked a single invasive or awkward question. Every topic she brought up was tailored to my interests. As we were talking, I caught a movement at the edge of my vision. Freda and Damien were walking toward our table. Freda froze, her gaze darting between me and Ella. Before she could speak, Damien smiled and gently pulled her arm. “Oh, is this your little brother? Looks like he’s finally moving on.” Little brother. So that was the story she told the world. I expected them to leave, but Freda kept her eyes locked on me. “Mind if we join you?” I looked at Ella. She gave me a reassuring nod, so I agreed. The moment they sat down, Freda flagged the waiter down, rattling off a list of demands: “No onions, no garlic, no spicy elements in any of his dishes. And please make sure his water is room temperature. He has a sensitive stomach.” The waiter blinked, taking down the notes. The rest of the meal passed in excruciating silence. Freda kept piling food onto Damien’s plate. “Eat up. You’ve been working late on those designs, you’re practically skin and bones. Your health comes first.” Damien chuckled, patting her hand. “Alright, alright, I get it. We have company, Freda.” Freda seemed to suddenly remember I was there. Her smile faltered. After a moment of hesitation, she picked up a piece of shrimp with her chopsticks and placed it on my plate. “You should eat more, too. You look thin.” Before I could say a word, a hand reached across the table and pulled my plate away. Ella spoke, her voice quiet but razor-sharp. “Jude can’t eat shellfish. It’s a shame that after living with your ‘little brother’ for so long, you didn’t even know he has a severe allergy. I suppose you must have been terribly busy, Ms. Heather.” Freda’s face turned white. Just as she opened her mouth to argue, Damien’s eyes rolled back, and he slumped sideways, sliding out of his chair. “Damien!” Freda practically threw herself onto the floor to catch him, lifting him in her arms and rushing out of the restaurant without casting a single glance back at me. I stared at the empty plate where the shrimp had been, then looked up to meet Ella’s worried eyes. “You look pale. Do you need me to take you to the hospital?” I shook my head. After dinner, I declined Ella’s sweet offer to drive me home. I took a cab to the local clinic myself—my stomach had been acting up from stress. As I walked through the lobby, I overheard a couple of nurses gossiping, their voices thick with envy. “I’m serious! It was just a minor blood sugar drop, but his girlfriend was practically screaming at the attending doctor. She was so frantic!” “God, they look like a movie couple. I need a girlfriend who cares about me like that.” I followed their gaze down the corridor. At the end of the hall, Freda was standing by Damien’s hospital bed. She was a woman of few words, but right now, she was talking animatedly, her face flushed with concern. Damien suddenly reached up and wrapped his arms around her waist. She let out a helpless, affectionate laugh, running her fingers through his hair. I looked down, letting the scene fade. The nurse at the desk asked, “Are you here alone? What seems to be the problem?” “Nothing. I was just… checking on a friend.” For years, I had held onto the foolish hope that maybe Freda would turn around, that she would finally claim me in front of the world. But seeing her like that, the last embers of hope died. It was okay. I still had time to save myself. The next morning, I packed my resignation letter into my briefcase and went into the office. The elevator doors opened to a burst of laughter from the creative department. “Damien, man! Hard work pays off! I knew that design award had your name on it!” “You’re on a roll lately, man. Career, love… you’ve got it all.” “Are those flowers from Freda? Oh, look at that ring! Congratulations!” I walked straight past them and into Freda’s office, laying the letter on her desk. She pushed it back toward me. “You’re doing fine here. Even if you’re just an administrative assistant, it beats grinding it out in the cold.” I slid the letter back to her side. She let out a dry, mocking laugh. “What? Found a new sugar mama? You can’t wait to throw me away now?” “Freda, be reasonable. You’re the one who crossed the line. We broke up. What I do is none of your business.” She sneered. “Who am I to say anything? Before, you’d start a fight over going public, throw a tantrum and threaten to leave whenever you were unhappy. And now you don’t even have the decency to ask before you quit?” The office door suddenly burst open. Damien stood there, his eyes rimmed with red. “Jude, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you and Freda used to be together… Please don’t fight because of me.” In that split second, the blood rushed to my head. Before I could stop myself, I swung my hand and slapped him across the face. Freda’s reflexes were instantaneous. She shoved herself in front of him, shielding him with her body. She stared at me, cold and mechanical, as she threw my resignation letter back at my chest. “Get out. You’re fired. And before you leave, you will apologize to him.” I looked at her one last time, turned, and walked away. I stood outside the building I had worked in for five years, unable to believe this was how it ended. I walked aimlessly down the street, my mind spinning. Suddenly, a car swerved around the corner, heading straight for me. I tried to jump back, but the bumper clipped my leg. A sharp, white-hot agony flared up my right shin. I collapsed onto the cold pavement, my body shaking violently. With trembling fingers, I dialed Freda’s number. No answer. Just as I was about to give up, the call connected. Her voice was ice-cold. “Are you ready to admit you were wrong? Apologize to Damien, and you can have your job back.” The world turned black, and I passed out. When I opened my eyes, the doctor was standing over me, explaining the situation. “A fractured right tibia. You’ll need to rest and undergo physical therapy. Don’t take your youth for granted, young man.” I barely heard him. My eyes drifted through the half-open door of my hospital room. Freda was standing in the corridor, cradling Damien in her arms. Between them, Damien was holding a golden retriever puppy—a breed she had always refused to let me have. I had asked her a hundred times if we could get a dog. Every time, she told me they were too much work, too messy, that we didn’t have the time. Yet there she was, holding the puppy as if it were the most precious thing in the world. I stared at the display and let out a quiet, bitter laugh. Just then, a crowd of reporters flooded the hallway, their cameras flashing. “Mr. Enoch, is it true that you tried to insert yourself into Ms. Heather’s relationship?” “Freda Heather’s partner is Damien Ward. Were you aware of that?” “We heard you’ve been trying to sabotage their engagement. Is this a pattern of behavior for you?” I forced myself up, clutching the side of the bed, and limped toward the exit. As I brushed past Freda, her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something. But in the end, she turned to the cameras and said, “He and I have absolutely no connection.” After that, Freda never saw Jude again. She convinced herself he was just throwing a tantrum. He had done this before, she reasoned. He’d always come back in a few days. She called her housekeeper. “Make some of that restorative soup for Jude. He’s been looking pale lately.” The housekeeper paused on the other end. “Ms. Heather… Jude packed up everything and threw away the rest two days ago. He’s not coming back.” Freda’s fingers went cold. At that moment, a notification popped up on her phone. Jude had posted on social media. It was a single photo of us from the early days, when we were happy, his smile bright and unburdened. The caption read: [Eight years in the dark. In the end, her heart belonged to someone else, and I was nothing but a ghost in her story.]

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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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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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For the eighteenth time, Mom delivered a gift that was supposed to be mine straight to Hayden’s room. She shot me a guilty look, but immediately turned it around to blame me. “Why didn’t you remind me? Well, since things turned out this way, let’s just let Hayden have it.” I froze in place. Watching Hayden look so incredibly happy with my gift, I just nodded. I didn’t care anymore. Ever since Hayden was born, Mom always “accidentally” gave my things to him. She promised to take me to the theme park, but ended up giving my ticket to Hayden. I had a high fever in the middle of the night, but Mom rushed Hayden to the ER instead, frantically asking the doctors if he was going to catch whatever I had. Even on my birthday, my cake was delivered straight to his room. “Since things turned out this way, let Hayden go play.” “Since things turned out this way, we can’t let Hayden get sick.” “Since things turned out this way, it’s fine to let Hayden blow out the candles first.” Just like right now. Mom smiled as she carried my birthday cake over to Hayden. My lips twitched into a bitter smile. Mom had completely forgotten. I had terminal stomach cancer. The doctor said this would likely be my last birthday. So be it.

The sound of keys jingling came from the front door. Dad was home from work. I forced myself to ignore the sharp, stabbing pain in my stomach. Clutching the wall, I slowly dragged myself out of my room. Years ago, if I coughed even once, Dad would drive me to the urgent care clinic in the middle of the night. Now, I was standing in the living room, covered in cold sweat, but Dad didn’t even spare me a glance. He walked straight past me to Hayden, shoving a limited-edition Transformer into his arms. “Happy birthday, Hayden! Do you like the present Dad got you?” Hayden squealed with joy, jumping up to plant a big kiss on Dad’s cheek. Dad’s eyes crinkled with laughter. It was only when he turned around that he finally saw me, pale and swaying against the wall. His smile vanished instantly. His brows furrowed into a tight, angry knot. “What is up with that look on your face?” “Today is Hayden’s birthday. Do you have to ruin the mood with that miserable face?” “You’re getting more and more depressed every day. It’s exhausting just looking at you.” I bit my lower lip so hard it bled. My fingers tightened around the medical diagnosis sheet inside my pocket. “Today is my birthday, too,” my voice trembled. Dad froze for a second. A flash of guilt crossed his eyes. But that tiny sliver of regret was instantly swallowed by annoyance. “How old are you now? Why are you still throwing tantrums over Hayden’s birthday? Can’t we just buy you another cake in a couple of days?” Mom was slicing the cake nearby. She rolled her eyes. “Don’t buy her anything. She just can’t stand seeing Hayden happy.” “She loves throwing drama all day long. She’s just desperate for attention.” I slowly pulled the sweat-soaked diagnosis sheet out of my pocket. “The doctor said… this might be my last birthday.” “Stomach cancer…” Both Mom and Dad frowned. For a brief second, their eyes softened. But suddenly, Hayden pointed at me and started crying hysterically. “Mom! Audrey is being scary! I don’t want her to die! Make her stop!” Seeing Hayden cry, Mom rushed over, snatched the diagnosis sheet from my hand, and threw it right into the trash can. “Audrey, are you out of your mind?” “So what if you have stomach cancer? Do you have to scare Hayden to death just to feel satisfied?!” I stood there, completely numb. I shook my head frantically. “No, I didn’t…” SLAP! A heavy blow struck my face. The force knocked me straight to the floor. My ears rang loudly, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Dad stood over me, looking down with pure disgust. “You are absolutely toxic!” “How did we raise such a selfish loser who only knows how to bully her little brother!” Lying on the cold floor, I stared at the trash can. The diagnosis sheet was sitting right there, stamped in red by the hospital. But nobody wanted to look at it. Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion washed over me. All my urge to explain, all my hurt—it all died right there. I used the wall to push myself up and wiped the blood from my mouth with the back of my sleeve. I turned around and walked toward my room. Dad grabbed a glass from the table and shattered it right at my feet. “Always acting like a corpse!” “If you ever use death to threaten us again, get the hell out of this house and die outside!” “We don’t need your bad luck in this family!”

The next morning, I woke up from a stabbing pain in my stomach. I hadn’t eaten dinner last night, and nobody had come to check on me. Even though it was my birthday, I could only curl up in my room, listening to Hayden celebrate his birthday right outside my door. I struggled to open my eyes. Surprisingly, there was a glass of milk and two slices of toast on my nightstand. Mom was sitting on the edge of my bed. She had a rare, gentle smile on her face. “You’re awake? Come on, eat something.” I stared at her. My nose stung with tears. She did something she hadn’t done in years—she reached out and gently stroked my hair. “Your dad was just stressed yesterday. Don’t take it to heart.” “This weekend, I’ll take you to that theme park you’ve been begging to go to, okay?” My dry, cracked lips trembled. The dying embers of hope in my chest sparked back to life. The theme park. I had been waiting for this for three years. When I was little, Dad used to put me on his shoulders, laughing as we rode the carousel. Maybe… maybe they still loved me. As long as I behaved, as long as I didn’t make Hayden mad, they would still care about me. I swallowed the stomach pain and nodded quickly. “Okay. I’ll go.” “Thank you, Mom.” I held on until the weekend. I pulled my favorite white dress out of the closet. It was a bit too short for me now, but I couldn’t bear to throw it away. Since I got sick, I hadn’t gotten any new clothes. I stood in front of the mirror, splashing cold water on my face to make myself look a bit more alive. I didn’t want to ruin their mood. I leaned against the wall, taking slow steps out of my room. In the living room, Mom was on the phone. She was packing Hayden’s bright yellow backpack, her voice dripping with affection. “Yeah, taking Hayden to the theme park today. Already got the VIP passes.” “Oh, don’t worry about Audrey. She looks like a walking corpse anyway. Bringing her would just ruin the fun.” “Exactly. Hayden’s happiness is what matters. Who wants to drag a sick drag-along around?” I froze. It felt like my entire world had collapsed. Mom’s milk that morning, her promise, her gentle smile, and her comforting words… How did it all change so fast? I dragged my weak body into the center of the living room. “Mom…” My voice was incredibly hoarse. “You said… you were taking me.” Mom hung up the phone. The smile on her face vanished instantly. She knitted her brows in disgust. “Are you having another episode? Didn’t I tell you to stay in your room?” “But you promised me…” “Promised you what? Look at yourself in the mirror!” She looked me up and down with pure disdain. “Dressed like that… are you trying to embarrass us in public?” Hayden ran over and shoved me hard. “Get out of the way! Mom gave the tickets to me! They’re only taking me to the theme park, not you!” I was already running on empty. His shove threw me completely off balance. I reached out, trying to grab Mom’s sleeve to steady myself. But Mom flinched away as if I were a leper, shaking me off violently. “Don’t touch Hayden! Are you trying to fake a fall to blame him now?” My body slammed hard against the solid wooden coffee table. A sharp, agonizing pain shot through my lower back. The pain was so intense that I curled up on the floor, cold sweat instantly soaking through my dress. I gasped for air, unable to even scream. Mom watched me writhe on the floor with cold eyes. “Cut it out. Stop acting. I’m sick of your little guilt trips.” She took Hayden’s hand and walked toward the front door. Before stepping out, she stopped and threw one last icy look at me. “Look at you, acting like this. Why would we bring an embarrassment like you to the theme park?” “Don’t bother calling me today. Nobody is going to ruin Hayden’s weekend!” The front door slammed shut.

Once the door closed, the house fell deathly quiet. The stabbing pain in my back and the violent cramps in my stomach twisted together. Every breath I took tasted like blood. After lying there for hours, my condition took a sudden, violent turn for the worse. A warm, thick rush of liquid erupted from my throat. Bright red blood instantly stained my favorite white dress, pooling onto the hardwood floor. I convulsed violently, my body locking up in pain. I reached my hand out, desperately trying to grab onto anything. Staring at the growing pool of dark blood on the floor, my survival instinct kicked in. I didn’t want to die. I really didn’t. I grit my teeth and started crawling toward the landline phone in the corner of the living room. It was only a few feet, but it took me ten agonizing minutes. I dragged myself forward, leaving a horrifying trail of blood behind me. Memories of when I was seven flashed through my mind. That year, I was hit by a car and broke my leg. Mom and Dad had rushed to the hospital so fast they didn’t even put their shoes on properly. Mom had held me, crying her eyes out, while Dad begged the doctors with teary eyes to save me. I thought, even if they hated me now, even if they preferred Hayden… If they knew I was actually dying, if they knew I was bleeding this much… They would run back to save me without a second thought, just like they used to. With trembling fingers, I dialed Dad’s number. It rang for a long, long time before he finally picked up. Through the receiver, I could hear the roar of a roller coaster and Hayden’s cheerful laughter. “What do you want now?!” Dad’s voice was filled with extreme impatience. I gasped for air, crying into the phone with the last of my strength. “Dad… it hurts so bad…” “I’m bleeding so much… my stomach… please, come back and save me…” There was a brief second of silence on the other end. Then, Mom’s mocking voice drifted over. “I knew she’d pull something! Listen to her, she’s faking her death again!” “She just can’t stand us having a good time!” Dad hesitated. “What if… what if it’s real?” Mom sneered. “Real? She’s just trying to ruin our day because we took Hayden out and left her behind.” Dad let out a sigh of relief. Then, he let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Audrey, you’ll really use any cheap trick just to compete with Hayden, won’t you?” “You think we’ll run back just because you claim you’re bleeding? Do you think I’m a gullible idiot?” I clutched the phone cord in despair, my tears mixing with the blood on the floor. “I’m not lying… it really hurts… please…” In the background, Hayden screamed, “Dad! I want that giant strawberry ice cream!” Dad’s voice instantly softened into a gentle tone. “Okay, buddy. Dad will buy it for you right now.” But when he spoke back into the receiver, his voice was pure ice. “Do you hear that? Hayden is happy right now.” “If you want to die, go do it somewhere else. Stop calling to ruin our day!” I opened my mouth, but another surge of blood rushed up my throat. I coughed up a huge splash of blood right onto the phone receiver. I couldn’t make a sound. Dad roared angrily on the other end. “I’m warning you! If you dare call again, I’ll come back and break your legs!” Click. The line went dead.

Listening to the dial tone, the pain suddenly faded. The agonizing cramps that felt like they were tearing my stomach apart seemed to disappear with that beep. I thought, maybe this is for the best. I really was a bad kid. Even getting sick was just me “demanding attention.” I shouldn’t have done that. I slowly put down the bloody receiver and wiped the tears from my face with my sleeve. I looked at the long, horrifying streak of blood on the floor. It was so dirty. Mom loved a clean house. If she came back and saw the floor ruined, she would scream at me. Leaning against the wall, I used the very last of my strength to crawl to the bathroom and grab a rag. On my hands and knees, inch by inch, I wiped up every single drop of my blood until the floor was spotless. The water in the bucket turned a deep, dark red. I poured it into the toilet and flushed it five times until the water ran clear. Hayden’s Transformers and building blocks were scattered all over the sofa. I picked them up, piece by piece, and neatly arranged them back into his toy chest. After doing all this, I went back to my room. I pulled a dusty metal box from under my bed and took out a stack of crumpled bills. It was exactly three hundred dollars. It was the money I saved by secretly stopping my expensive cancer meds, sneaking out to hand out flyers behind their backs. I found a clean sheet of paper and grabbed a pen. “Mom, Dad, please don’t be angry anymore.” “I secretly stopped taking my medication. Since things are already like this, and it’s terminal anyway, let’s not waste any more money.” “Please use this three hundred dollars to buy Hayden’s school supplies or get him some new toys.” “As long as you guys had fun at the theme park today, I am happy.” “I won’t call to annoy you or ruin your mood ever again.” “I hope you are always happy.” I wrapped the money inside the letter and walked slowly to my parents’ bedroom. I carefully tucked it right under their soft pillows. After that, I returned to my dark, tiny bedroom. I took off the stained white dress and put on my faded school hoodie. It was the only piece of clothing they had bought me in the last few years. I climbed onto my hard little bed and curled up in the corner against the wall. I pulled my knees to my chest, tucking myself into a fetal position. Slowly, my breathing grew shallower and shallower, until my chest stopped moving entirely. My soul felt light as it floated up, drifting to the ceiling. I looked down at the tiny, stiff body on the bed that would never cry in pain again. It was nice. I would never get screamed at again. At eight in the evening, the sound of keys jingling came from the front door. My parents, holding a giant colorful balloon for Hayden, walked into the house full of laughter. The living room was spotless. There was no trace of blood, as if nothing had ever happened. Mom kicked off her shoes and walked habitually to my closed bedroom door. She put her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes. “Locking yourself in your room to play dead all day! You don’t even know enough to come out and get Hayden a glass of water!” “Do I seriously have to invite you out? Get your butt out here!” Hearing no response, her anger flared. She grabbed the doorknob and shoved the door open violently. The bright light from the hallway spilled into my dark room. The room was silent. So silent that it made her heart skip a beat. Her eyes fell upon my body on the bed. The phone in Mom’s hand slipped through her fingers, hitting the floor with a loud thud.

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