Category: English

After realizing I was nothing but a disposable background character in someone else’s grand romance, I pivoted. I became the female lead’s absolute best friend, and when she inevitably left the country, I gladly took her brooding, wealthy, hopelessly devoted runner-up of a suitor off her hands, ensuring she and her bad-boy soulmate could ride off into the sunset. But ten years later, she returned. She announced her newly single status to the world, and in our long-dormant college alumni group chat, she dropped two simple texts. [I’m back. Let’s all get together soon.] [@Colin, you’ll be there, won’t you?] The group chat instantly exploded. Everyone remembered Vanessa. She was the radiant, untouchable IT girl of our graduating class. The fact that she had walked away from Colin—the brilliant, ice-cold valedictorian who had spent four years worshipping the ground she walked on—was a tragedy our classmates still gossiped about. I looked down at Colin sleeping soundly beside me. I raised a single eyebrow. I felt a little tragic about it too. After all, his assets weren’t entirely in my name yet. 1. [Colin has to go, right? The man waited ten years for Vanessa. That’s some Gatsby-level devotion!] [Seriously! The guy hasn’t even been spotted with another woman. He’s the ultimate romantic.] [I could obsess over this dynamic forever. It’s too good.] I stared at the screen as the notifications rolled in, my fingers unconsciously tightening around my phone. My gaze drifted back to Colin. He slept so peacefully. His breathing was steady, the sharp, handsome lines of his profile softened by the amber glow of the nightstand lamp. Fifteen years. It had been exactly fifteen years since my senior year of high school, when I had that sudden, shattering epiphany. I realized I was living in a world where I was a nameless extra, a girl destined to fade into the wallpaper of Vanessa’s spectacular life. The moment I got to college, the first thing I did was orchestrate a way into her orbit. Vanessa. The dazzling protagonist of our universe. Relying on my uncanny intuition of how “her story” was supposed to go, I appeared exactly when she needed someone. I said the exact words she craved when she was crying. Seamlessly, inevitably, I became her absolute best friend. Everyone used to say, Claire, you’re so lucky to be in Vanessa’s inner circle. Only I knew the truth. I was just basking in her main-character aura, using her blinding light to carve out a slightly easier path for my own life. For four years, I shadowed Vanessa to every exclusive party and elite networking event. That was how I met everyone in her world. Including Colin. He came from old money. He had a razor-sharp intellect. But his eyes only ever saw Vanessa. Until graduation year, when Vanessa chose Tristan, the notoriously wealthy, rebellious trust-fund kid, and moved to Europe with him. Before she left, she took my hands in hers. Her smile was as blinding as ever. “Claire,” she said, “Colin is a truly good man. You two should be together. I’d feel so much better knowing you’re with him.” I looked at her radiant face, knowing the truth better than anyone. Colin only loved her. And I knew that according to the invisible script of our lives, ten years from now, Vanessa would return, and Colin would scoop up our child and run straight back into her arms. But so what? Colin’s family pedigree, his Ivy League credentials, his relentless capability—these were stepping stones a girl from a blue-collar background like me could never reach on my own. Marrying him meant I could climb. I could access a higher echelon of society, build my own wealth, and secure my future. As for love? I never expected it. I never even asked for it. So when Vanessa played matchmaker, I accepted Colin’s proposal without a second thought. At the time, I was as cold and calculating as a corporate merger. I had mapped out every single step. I would use Colin’s resources to launch my own startup. I would build my capital. And when Vanessa finally came back and Colin inevitably cheated, I would file for a very public, very lucrative divorce, take half of everything, and walk away a queen. But I had calculated everything except the treacherous, softening nature of the human heart over time. By our third year of marriage, my company was taking off, largely due to the quiet, subtle ways Colin funneled industry contacts my way. By our fifth year, our son, Noah, was born. Colin was the one clumsily learning to change diapers. He was the one waking up at 3:00 AM to warm bottles. He memorized my coffee order, remembered I hated cilantro, and always knew to keep a heating pad ready when my cramps were bad. By our eighth year, when my company faced a brutal financial crisis, he liquidated his own personal portfolios without a word to pull me back from the brink. Ten years. Everyone told me, Claire, you married a saint. And God help me, I almost fooled myself into believing it. I almost believed that living like this forever wouldn’t be so bad. But now, Vanessa was back. The plot was finally snapping back into place. Watching the alumni chat light up, the last, pathetic remnants of my hesitation were ruthlessly crushed by my own logic. Fine. I would give him one last chance. If he chose me, if he chose this family, I would pretend none of this ever happened and we would carry on. But if he chose Vanessa… Then it was time to execute the exit strategy. 2. The next morning, pale sunlight spilled through the gap in the curtains. Colin was already awake. He was lying on his side, watching me. When my eyes fluttered open, he reached out, his fingers gently brushing the hair from my face. His voice carried that deep, gravelly rasp of sleep. “Morning.” “Morning,” I murmured. I stretched, feigning a casual yawn. “Oh, by the way, the college group chat was losing its mind last night. Vanessa is back in the States. She’s talking about a reunion this weekend. Are you going?” His hand paused in my hair. Just for a fraction of a second. Then he rolled onto his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. His tone was perfectly flat. “No.” “Why not?” I propped myself up on one elbow, studying his profile. “I mean, back in the day, you guys—” “There’s no point,” he cut in, turning his head to meet my eyes. His gaze was steady, unblinking. “It’s all in the past. Besides, those things are exhausting. A bunch of people pretending to still be close, inflating their resumes. I’m not interested.” I didn’t say anything. I just waited. He reached out, pulling me down by the waist until my head rested on his chest. He pressed his chin against the crown of my head. His voice vibrated against my ear, sounding slightly muffled. “You shouldn’t go either.” “Why?” “Noah has his ballet evaluation this weekend. He needs one of us there. If you go play catch-up, who’s going to take care of him?” I lay against his chest, listening to the rhythmic, steady thud of his heart. I let the silence stretch for a few heavy seconds before I spoke. “You’re right. I’ll skip it.” Colin pulled me tighter, pressing a long kiss to my forehead. “Good girl.” Friday night, Colin came home earlier than usual. At dinner, he plated a piece of salmon for me, his voice light and affectionate. “By the way, I’m going to have to go into the office this weekend. We’ve got a massive push for the new acquisition.” My fork hovered over my plate. I looked up at him. “Both days?” “Yeah. It’s going to be a late one, too,” he nodded, pouring himself a glass of water. “I’m going to drop Noah off at my parents’ place tomorrow morning. Let them spoil him for the weekend. You should just rest. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends lately.” I looked at his face. It was the same gentle, trustworthy face I had woken up to for a decade. I forced a soft smile and nodded. Deep inside my chest, the last glowing ember of hope hissed and went dead. “Okay. Don’t work yourself to the bone. Make sure you actually eat something.” Colin looked at me, his eyes softening with what looked incredibly like love. “What would I do without you?” Saturday morning, Colin slipped out of bed with the practiced silence of a considerate husband. I kept my eyes shut, breathing deeply. I felt the mattress shift as he leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. He tucked the duvet securely around my shoulders, then tiptoed out of the room. The moment I heard the heavy thud of the front door closing, my eyes snapped open. Ten minutes later, dressed in a nondescript trench coat, a baseball cap, and oversized sunglasses, I was sitting in the back of an Uber, trailing Colin’s Audi. He didn’t take the highway toward the financial district. Instead, the car wound its way toward the east side of the city, pulling into the manicured driveway of a highly exclusive, private country club. I told my driver to idle across the street. Through the tinted window, I watched my husband step out of his car. And then, I saw her. Vanessa. She was wearing a striking crimson dress, her dark hair cascading in perfect waves over her shoulders. She stood near the ivy-covered entrance, laughing. A bright, intoxicating laugh. Ten years hadn’t touched her. She was still the breathtaking, radiant girl who owned every room she walked into. Colin walked toward her. Vanessa met him halfway, seamlessly slipping her arm through his. She tilted her head back, smiling up at him, her lips moving as she whispered something meant only for him. Colin looked down at her. The sharp angle of his jaw caught the morning light—the exact, tender expression I knew so intimately. Then, Vanessa unspooled her arm from his, stepping fully into his space, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Colin froze. His whole body went rigid. But he didn’t push her away. They stood there, wrapped in each other in front of the club, like two star-crossed lovers reuniting after a lifetime apart. I sat in the back of the idling Uber, perfectly still. My heart wasn’t racing. I didn’t feel the urge to cry. There was only a cold, sweeping expanse of clarity. That pathetic, fragile expectation I had harbored? Extinguished. Gone. I pulled out my phone, zoomed in on the two figures, framed the shot perfectly, and tapped the shutter button. “Sir,” I said to the driver, my voice steady. “Take me to the financial district. I need to see a lawyer.” 3. The air conditioning in the law firm’s conference room was running too high. The air was frigid. I slid my phone across the polished mahogany table. On the screen was the crisp, high-resolution photo of Colin and Vanessa embracing outside the club. My lawyer, Diane, was a sharp, pragmatic woman in her late forties. She adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses, examining the photo with professional detachment before looking up at me. “Claire, a single photograph of a hug is circumstantial at best. If you’re looking to leverage adultery for a heavily skewed asset split, the court requires a much higher burden of proof. We’re talking explicit photos, undeniable text threads, or—even better—a paper trail of marital assets being spent on the affair.” I smiled faintly and took my phone back. “The evidence will come. Diane, I want you to start drafting the paperwork. My terms are very simple: I am surrendering primary physical custody to him. In exchange, I want every single cent of my rightful half of the marital estate. No negotiations.” Diane raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the sheer lack of emotion in my voice, but she nodded sharply. “Understood. I’ll get the initial drafts moving. But honestly, if you can secure harder evidence of infidelity, especially financial infidelity, it puts us in a much stronger negotiating position.” “I know.” I stood up, smoothing the front of my coat. “Email me the drafts when they’re ready. I’ll be waiting to sign.” By the time I left the firm, it was early afternoon. I didn’t go home. Instead, I went to Newbury Street. I spent an hour browsing a high-end boutique and bought a beautiful, ridiculously expensive silk dress. Then I treated myself to a two-hour facial. It was past four when I finally walked through my front door, shopping bags in hand. The house was dead quiet. Predictably, Colin wasn’t home. I made myself a simple bowl of pasta. I had just taken the last bite when my phone buzzed on the counter. An incoming multimedia message. From an unknown number. I opened it. It was a ten-second video. The lighting was dim, clearly a private booth in a lounge. Colin had Vanessa pressed against his chest. His head was bowed, his lips moving against hers with a desperate, reverent kind of hunger. The resolution was sharp. You could see the exact contours of his face. You could see the faint trembling of his eyelashes as he kept his eyes squeezed shut. As soon as the video ended, a text bubbled up from the same number. Claire. I really think a marriage only works when a man actually loves his wife. Don’t you agree? I saved the video to a secure cloud folder. Then I took a screenshot of the text message and saved that, too. At 7:00 PM, my phone rang. It was Colin. “Hey, honey,” his voice filtered through the speaker. The background was strangely quiet. No clinking glasses, no restaurant chatter. “I got dragged into a vendor dinner. It’s going to run late. Don’t wait up for me.” “Okay,” I said, my voice smooth and perfectly pleasant. “Don’t drink too much on an empty stomach.” I hung up. I moved to the living room, curled up on the sofa, and turned on a random movie. It was a terrible movie. I fell asleep halfway through. Sometime in the middle of the night, I felt the mattress dip. Someone was slipping into bed, moving with agonizing slowness. He smelled faintly of expensive gin and someone else’s perfume. Colin reached out in the dark, pulling my back flush against his chest. He buried his face into the crook of my neck, breathing in my scent. Then, barely louder than a whisper, he murmured: “I’m sorry…” I didn’t move a muscle. I kept my breathing deep and even, playing the part of the sleeping wife. But in the dark, my mouth twisted into a bitter, silent laugh. What was this? A sudden strike of conscience after sleeping with his true love? Or did the guilt just make him want to throw me a crumb of counterfeit tenderness so he could sleep better at night? Colin held onto me for a long time. Eventually, his breathing leveled out, and he fell asleep. I opened my eyes, staring at the moonlight cutting across the bedroom floor. My chest felt completely, utterly hollow. 4. Over the next few weeks, Colin’s “late nights at the office” multiplied exponentially. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays—he always found a flawless excuse not to walk through the front door until well past 10:00 PM. “We’re pushing to meet the Q3 deadline.” “Client dinner ran long.” “Mandatory team-building drinks.” The excuses were varied, but the outcome was always the same. He was gone. And Noah, who usually only spent one night a week at his grandparents’ house, was suddenly spending three or four nights there. Every time Noah came back home, the way he looked at me shifted. The coldness in his little eyes grew sharper, the disdain more pronounced. “Mom, why are you always in such a bad mood? You look crazy.” “Mom, why are you never home? Is it because you don’t love me?” “I hate you! You’re a bad lady! Go away, I don’t want you here!” …I knew exactly what was happening. Vanessa had started spending time with him. The plot of the book was unfolding, practically word for word. Colin was going to take our son, and together, they would run into Vanessa’s waiting arms to form their perfect, fated family. And me? The stepping-stone wife? It was my cue to exit stage left. But I refused to leave this stage without taking every single prop I was owed. I hired a private investigator to do a deep forensic dive into Colin’s assets. The results made my blood run cold. In the span of just one month, the deeds to three of our investment properties, shares from two shell companies he operated, and the bulk of our liquid savings had been quietly siphoned offshore. The name on the receiving account? Vanessa. But the final nail in the coffin was the corporate account. Colin had diverted over three million dollars in company funds—embezzlement, plain and simple—directly into Vanessa’s offshore trust. I methodically took photos, downloaded PDFs, and archived every single wire transfer, deed transfer, and falsified invoice. I compiled it all into a massive, encrypted dossier. I sent the file to Diane. Thirty minutes later, my phone rang. Her voice was pure, lethal professionalism. “Claire. Your husband isn’t just breaching his fiduciary duty by dissipating marital assets. The corporate embezzlement is a federal crime. This is wire fraud territory. The evidence you’ve provided is enough to strip him of everything in civil court, and practically guarantees he’ll be facing criminal prosecution.” “I strongly advise we file for divorce immediately and file an emergency injunction to freeze all his accounts.” “I know.” I stared at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen. My voice was a calm, steady hum. “Diane, draft the final injunctions. I have a specific date in mind. I’ll tell you when to pull the trigger.” “When are you planning to serve him?” I paused, a specific chapter from the original novel floating into my mind. Vanessa’s birthday was coming up. In the book, she throws a massive, opulent gala at a country estate. And during that party, overcome by the sheer magnetism of their fated love, she and Colin sleep together in one of the VIP suites. In the novel, that gala is the climax of their reunion arc. It’s where she publicly announces her divorce, her return to high society, and her rekindled romance with Colin. “Give it a few days,” I told Diane. “Right after her birthday party.” I hung up the phone. I pulled up my desk calendar and stared at the date circled in red ink—three days from now. Vanessa’s birthday. I traced the red circle with my fingertip, a slow, freezing smile pulling at my lips. Vanessa. I really hope you like the gift I got you.

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The high school alumni group chat started pinging in the dead of night. Someone, probably bored and nursing a drink, threw out a prompt: “Three keywords to describe your high school experience. Go.” The chat, which had been dormant for years, suddenly saw a name pop up that made my heart skip a beat. It was Camille—Camille Sterling—the undisputed prom queen of our graduating class. “Vibrant,” she wrote. “Passionate.” Then, after a deliberate pause, she added one more: “And Nate.” The chat exploded. Even after a decade, they were still the “it” couple of our high school’s tragic lore. The rebellious, wealthy bad boy and the ethereal, gentle honor student. They had loved each other with a raw, burning intensity that everyone envied, only for it to end in a messy, rain-soaked heartbreak the summer after graduation. Every person in that chat had been a witness to their epic saga. Including me. I shifted my gaze to Nate, who was sleeping soundly beside me. The jagged edges of the boy I once knew had been smoothed over by time and tailoring. Nathaniel Vance was no longer the leather-jacket-wearing delinquent; he was my husband. Distinguished. Composed. And completely, utterly indifferent to me. That old thorn, the one I’d pushed deep into my skin years ago, began to throb with a dull, familiar ache. 1 It seemed the onlookers were more invested in the ghost of their relationship than the actual people involved. “Camille’s Instagram says she’s single. But Nate… does anyone actually know?” “He went dark after the breakup. Dropped out of the loop completely. Now the only place I see him is on Bloomberg.” “Please, the man is a machine. No scandals, no tabloid shots, just work. There’s no way he has a girlfriend.” “Makes sense. When you lose the love of your life that young, everyone else is just… noise.” “Why did they actually break up, anyway?” “Classic ego. She wanted to head to the Sorbonne, he was being a prick about it. They both leaned into the drama instead of the compromise.” “Ugh, it’s like a second-chance romance novel waiting to happen. I’m obsessed.” They kept spinning the fantasy, and I kept my mouth shut. I stared at the ceiling, wondering if I was the “noise.” Was I just the compromise he made when he realized he couldn’t have the real thing? I reached over to turn off the lamp, but Nate’s phone lit up on the nightstand. [Unknown]: I’m back, Nate. There was no contact name. But I didn’t need one. Only Camille called him “Nate” with that specific, casual intimacy. He was out cold, his hand resting instinctively over my stomach as it often did in his sleep. His wedding ring, cold against my skin through my silk nightgown, felt heavier than usual tonight. A wave of nausea hit me. My thumb hovered over his screen, wanting to delete the message before he could see it. I knew his passcode—579579. It was a pattern on the keypad, a sequence I’d long convinced myself was a code for their names or some anniversary. I stared at the lock screen for two full minutes, my heart hammering against my ribs, before I finally set it down. Going through his phone felt beneath me. Besides, Nate didn’t indulge me the way he’d indulged her. I remembered a day in tenth grade when Camille had been fuming because a freshman girl wouldn’t stop texting him. Nate had just laughed, sliding his phone across the desk to her. “You jealous, babe?” he’d whispered, his eyes dancing. “I already blocked her. But go ahead. Check the logs. Delete anyone you don’t like. I’m all yours.” Thinking about it now kept the sleep away. I stayed awake until seven, when the light finally started to bleed through the curtains. 2 Nate’s internal clock was usually surgical. He was a man of routines—gym, shower, black coffee, office. But today, he stayed in bed. He stared at his phone for a long time, his thumbs moving slowly as he typed. He didn’t get up until eight. “Nate,” I called out as he stood by the dresser. “Yeah?” “The high school centennial is this weekend. Are you going?” We weren’t the kind of couple that shared everything. We shared a bed, a mortgage, and a quiet life, yet I had to find out about the biggest event of the year from a group chat while he slept inches away. He paused, adjusting his cufflinks. “Yeah. Are you?” I shook my head. High school wasn’t a highlight reel for me. For most people, it was a place to visit old haunts and mentors. For me, it was a museum of humiliations. He didn’t push. He probably didn’t want me there anyway. I glanced at my own phone. The group chat was at 100+ notifications. Camille had finally emerged from the shadows. “Just woke up! Can’t wait to see everyone next week.” The replies were instantaneous. “The Queen has returned!” “Did you see all the stuff we were saying last night? I thought you’d muted us!” “I feel like a fan caught stalking a celebrity…” Camille sent a playful winking emoji. “It’s fine. I found it… interesting.” That word felt like a weight in my gut. Interesting. “So, is Nate actually coming? He’s always flying off to Tokyo or London. Does he even remember us mere mortals?” “I can’t believe the guy who used to set off illegal fireworks for Camille is now a boring CEO.” “Is he even coming? Can anyone confirm the legend will be there?” Camille’s reply popped up a second later: “Don’t worry. He just texted me. He’ll be there.” 3 “Claire.” Nate was standing in the doorway, checking his watch. “Aren’t you getting up? You’re going to be late.” Eight-thirty. I scrambled out of bed, forcing the phone out of my mind. I had a nine o’clock appointment to play chess with Mr. Jackson at the retirement villa. I’m a stickler for time. I hate being late. It’s a habit born from a lifetime of trying to be invisible. Except for that one time in junior year. A massive pile-up on the highway had stalled the bus. I’d jumped out and ran the last half-mile, gasping for air as I reached the school gates. I had one minute left before the bell. Nate was there, too. He was leaning against the brick wall, leisurely eating a breakfast burrito. He could have made it easily, but he just stood there. He even bent down to slowly tie his shoe, watching the clock tick down. He waited until he saw Camille jogging up from the parking lot, breathless and beautiful. He hadn’t been late because of the traffic. He’d stayed outside to be late with her. I looked at him now, sitting at our breakfast table, sipping his coffee and reading the Journal. On a whim, I decided to test the waters. “Nate, I’m running behind. Do you think you could drop me off?” He didn’t look up from the paper. “I have a meeting at ten. I’ll have my driver take you.” I blinked. “Right. Thanks.” “No problem.” “Thank you” and “No problem.” That was the vocabulary of our marriage. We were polite. We were considerate. We were strangers who knew how each other liked their eggs. The driver got me there on time. Mr. Jackson was already waiting in the gazebo, his eyes twinkling. He was a grumpy old man who cheated at chess and talked too much, which was why no one else would play with him. We’d become unlikely friends over the years. At the time, I hadn’t known he was Nate’s grandfather. To me, he was just Arthur, the man who complained about his “stubborn, blockhead grandson.” “Claire, dear,” Arthur said, waving a hand in front of my face. “You’re miles away today. You just walked right into a scholar’s mate.” I looked down. The board was a disaster. I forced a smile. “You got me, Arthur. I’m off my game.” He studied me, his eyes sharp. “Did you and Nate have a fight?” I shook my head. We didn’t fight. We didn’t have enough friction to spark a flame, let alone a fire. “That boy,” Arthur sighed. “He’s always been emotionally stunted. I’ll have a word with him.” The idea of Nate being “stunted” was almost funny. In high school, he was the definition of “soulful.” He was a romantic extremist. He’d bought roses for every girl in the senior class just so Camille wouldn’t feel singled out by her strict parents. He’d braved a suspension to light up the sky with her name. I’d seen the roses. I’d seen the fireworks. I was just the girl in the background, benefitting from the fallout of his love for someone else. The realization hit me then, sharp and cold. I was afraid. 4 I have spent my life waiting. Waiting for the 50% off stickers at the grocery store. Waiting for the last bus in the rain. Waiting in the foster system for a family that never came. I was falling into the old habit again. I was waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for Nate to realize he still loved her. Waiting for the “we need to talk” conversation. Waiting to be discarded. Usually, the waiting was a numb, dull thing. But this time, it hurt. I decided, for the first time in my life, to be brave. I went to Nate’s office. I rehearsed the questions in my head the whole way there. Do you still love her? Are we over? I didn’t even make it past the lobby. The receptionist gave me a polished, pitying smile. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Vance, but Nate is in a closed-door session. Unless it’s an emergency?” I wasn’t even sure if Nate wanted his employees to know he was married to someone like me. I hadn’t pushed for a public profile. “It’s fine,” I said. I pulled out my phone to call him, just as the elevator dinged. Nate walked out, surrounded by a phalanx of VPs. He looked at his phone, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, but he didn’t answer. I hung up instinctively. He was walking slower than usual, leaning back to listen to someone behind him. As they cleared the corner, I saw her. Camille. She looked exactly the same—the kind of timeless beauty that didn’t need filters. She was walking beside him, her hand occasionally brushing his arm. “Is that the same ringtone?” she asked, her voice carrying across the lobby. “I can’t believe you still use that piano track. It was my favorite.” Seventeen-year-old Nate listened to nothing but grunge and heavy metal. But Camille loved Chopin. Nate had changed his entire world for her. Apparently, he’d never changed it back. The receptionist cleared her throat. “See? I told you he was busy.” “Right,” I whispered. “Thank you.” I went home and crawled into bed. I just wanted to sleep it off, but the group chat was a wildfire. “OMG guess who I just saw at Le Bernardin? Nate and Camille!” “It’s happening. The endgame is finally here.” “@Camille, give us the tea! Is the flame back on?” Camille posted a photo. A view of the city, a glass of expensive red, and a man’s forearm resting on the table. You couldn’t see his face, but I knew those veins, that watch, those fingers. “The food here is still incredible,” she captioned it. I zoomed in on his hand. The hand I’d held every night for two years. His wedding ring was gone. 5 Nate came home early. He didn’t come to the bedroom. He went out to the balcony and lit a cigarette. He’d quit the day we got married. Seeing her had clearly broken his resolve. When he finally came inside and showered, he climbed into bed and pulled me against him. It was a rare gesture of affection outside of our sex life. “Claire,” he whispered into my hair. “We should talk.” About what? The divorce? The fact that you’re moving her into my spot? My breath hitched. I felt my body go rigid. “Never mind,” he sighed, sensing my tension. “Why did you call me today? You never call the office.” “It was an accident,” I lied. “A pocket dial.” “Oh. I figured.” That night, he was different. He kissed me with a slow, agonizing tenderness that felt like a goodbye. I’d always preferred it when he was a little rough, a little wild. In those moments, I could see the ghost of the boy he used to be. I knew he was capable of passion—I’d seen him fight for her, seen him laugh until he couldn’t breathe. With me, he was always so… quiet. I realized then that I couldn’t do this anymore. I didn’t have a family to turn to. I only had Arthur. The next afternoon, I sat with Arthur at the chessboard. I stared at the pieces, unable to see a way out. The first rule of chess: if you’re in a losing position, don’t play for a draw. Fold. “Arthur,” I said softly. “I don’t think I can solve this one.” He looked at the board, then at me. He reached out and swept the pieces into a messy pile. “Then start over,” he said. He was right. The seasons were changing. I didn’t bother swapping my summer clothes for winter ones. I didn’t restock the pantry. I started packing my books into cardboard boxes. Nate found me in the study, looking at the half-empty shelves. “Where are your books?” “I’m donating them,” I said. Another lie. I just didn’t want to be scrambling when the time came. I’d rehearsed my speech a hundred times. I walked to his home office that night and stood outside the door, taking three deep breaths. I turned the handle. Nate was at his desk, one hand over his eyes, the other holding his phone. “Camille, I can handle the logistics on this end,” he was saying, his voice weary but soft. “It’s been too long. I don’t want to wait anymore.” I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I backed away and closed the door. He was in more of a hurry than I was. He was just waiting for the right moment to “handle” me. That night, I didn’t wait for the perfect moment. I chose the most abrupt one. As he leaned in to kiss my neck, I pulled away. “Nate,” I said, my voice steady. “I want a divorce.”

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I was known across the internet as the ugliest daughter of Hollywood royalty, the grotesque shadow standing behind my universally adored, drop-dead gorgeous younger sister. When my parents first brought my sister home—born with a severe facial deformity—they wept over her suffering and begged me to step back from the spotlight, to hand over my modeling contracts and acting roles so they could build her up. I did. But slowly, terrifyingly, my own skin began to break out in weeping, cystic pustules. Meanwhile, my sister’s birthmarks faded. Her features sharpened into something breathtaking. She even snatched the exclusive global beauty campaign right out from under my fiancé’s nose. In the dressing room before a major gala, my makeup artist looked at the surgical mask hiding the lower half of my face and sighed. “It’s just the genetic lottery, honey. Your sister has a perfect canvas. Try not to let it eat at you.” I forced a smile, my voice muffled by the fabric, trying to explain that we shared the exact same genetics. The makeup artist’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Then how on earth did your face end up rotting like that?” The words were a physical blow. I thought I just wasn’t trying hard enough. I went home and subjected my skin to brutal chemical peels, aggressive anti-aging lasers, and even rigorously applied a bespoke, holistic poultice my sister had sworn by. Now, fresh off the operating table from a desperate jaw-shaving surgery, my face swathed in bloody bandages and my body trembling from the anesthesia, I looked up at the television in the recovery room. There was my sister—the girl doctors once said would never have a normal face—clutching the trophy for a massive, televised international beauty pageant, smiling with practiced, flawless grace. 1 I slumped against the sterile leather of the recovery room chair, feeling the warm, metallic seep of blood against my bandages. I pressed a trembling hand to my jawline, gasping as a sharp, electric pain shot through the fresh incisions where the surgeon had shaved down the bone. My eyes were glued to the flat-screen mounted on the wall. Blair Montgomery stood center stage, bathed in the blinding glare of the pageant’s spotlights, a diamond crown nestled in her hair. She was my biological sister. When our parents finally tracked her down and brought her into the Montgomery estate two years ago, her face had been a map of twisted cartilage and deep, sprawling discoloration. The Blair on the screen today possessed a complexion like poured cream and features carved by an absolute master. The camera cut to the judges, their microphones picking up breathless whispers. “Utterly flawless. That right there is a generational beauty, given straight from God.” A live feed of social media reactions scrolled rapidly across the bottom of the screen. [Oh my god who is this absolute goddess!!!] [Blair Montgomery is the IT GIRL! The real Montgomery heiress hits different!] [Where’s her sister though? Heard she botched her face trying to keep up lmaooo] I gripped the edge of my hospital gown, my knuckles bleeding of color. Two years ago, when Blair first stepped foot into our Bel-Air mansion, a dark, bruised-purple port-wine stain had consumed the entire left side of her face, dragging from her temple down to her jaw. Her nasal bridge was collapsed, her eyes spaced unnervingly far apart. I still remembered the top Beverly Hills plastic surgeon sliding the scans across his mahogany desk, his voice laced with pity. “It’s a congenital bone and vascular malformation. The probability of surgical correction is next to zero.” Slowly, I raised my hand, my fingertips grazing the swollen, throbbing mass of flesh beneath my bandages. I used to be the beautiful one. The golden child. By eighteen, I had locked down three international luxury campaigns. The tabloids called me the undisputed muse of young Hollywood. Then, a year ago, the nightmare started. My skin erupted. Deep, painful cysts colonized my forehead and cheeks. I flew to the top dermatologists in New York, underwent the most excruciatingly expensive laser treatments, and took every experimental pill they threw at me. Nothing worked. My face decayed a little more every day. And every day, Blair’s face healed. My phone buzzed against my thigh. A text from my mother, Evelyn. [Blair won the crown! She is the pride of this family! Stay at the clinic and rest, Camilla. Don’t come out and make a scene.] I stared at the glowing pixels until they blurred, rubbing the heel of my hand against my eyes. I let my head fall back against the wall, the memories from a year ago rushing in to fill the quiet, sterile room. It was shortly after Blair had moved in. My father, Richard, had sat across from me in his study, staring at his scotch glass. “Camilla, your sister has survived a lifetime of cruelty out in the real world,” he had said, his voice heavy. “That face of hers… people stare. They point.” He looked up, his eyes pleading. “I’m asking you for a favor. Step out of the limelight for a bit. Hand your current PR resources and brand contacts over to her. Let her build some confidence. Once she finds her footing, I swear to you, I’ll make it up to you tenfold.” My mother had been sitting on the velvet sofa, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “Your sister is so broken, Camilla. You’re the older sister. Is it really so hard to share?” I had caved. I thought bleeding myself dry was the price of a whole, happy family. The moment I stepped back, Blair consumed it all. She took my agents, my campaigns, and eventually, she even moved into the master suite that had been mine since childhood. I opened my eyes and pulled up Blair’s Instagram on my phone. Her latest post was a candid shot of her with Tristan Croft. Tristan’s arm was wrapped possessively around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The caption read: [My Blair. The most beautiful girl in the world.] Tristan was my fiancé. A tremor started in my fingers and quickly hijacked my entire hand. I remembered the first time Tristan had met Blair. He hadn’t even bothered to shake her hand. Later, in the privacy of my car, he had shuddered. “Your sister,” he had muttered, adjusting his Rolex. “Christ, she’s hard to look at.” Now, he couldn’t take his hands off her. Another notification slid down my screen. A text from Blair. [Cam! I won! I’m still shaking! Btw, are you still applying that botanical poultice I gave you?] [My holistic guru just gave me an upgraded formula, I’ll overnight it to you. You HAVE to keep applying it every night! Love u ~ ] I stared at the little pink heart, biting the inside of my lip so hard I tasted copper. The door to the recovery room clicked open. My surgeon walked in, holding a manila folder, his expression grim. He pulled off his reading glasses. “Camilla… I’m incredibly sorry,” he started, his voice adopting that quiet, devastating professional tone. “The post-op tissue rejection from the jaw-contouring is much more aggressive than we modeled.” He hesitated. “We are seeing signs of localized nerve necrosis in your lower face.” “Meaning?” I whispered, my voice scraping like sandpaper. “Meaning, if the necrosis spreads… your face will never return to a baseline state of normalcy. The damage is permanent.” I didn’t move. I just sat perfectly still against the leather chair, while on the screen in my hand, my sister continued to smile. 2 Three days later, I walked into the hospital lobby to pick up my pathology reports. I kept my head down, the oversized sunglasses and medical mask hiding the fact that the skin around my jaw was peeling in angry, red flakes. I hadn’t looked in a mirror since the surgery. I was just turning the corner toward the elevators when I heard a familiar voice echoing off the marble. “Hey, slow down. You’re going to twist an ankle in those heels.” I froze. It was Tristan. I glanced over my shoulder. Blair was walking down the sunlit corridor, her arm threaded through Tristan’s. He had one hand hovering protectively over the small of her back, the other carrying her Chanel bag. This was the man who used to let heavy glass doors slam in my face because he was too busy checking his emails. “Are you tired, B?” Tristan murmured, leaning in close. “Want me to carry you to the car?” “Stop it, Tristan, you’re being embarrassing,” Blair giggled, shoving his shoulder playfully. Then, she looked up. Her eyes locked onto me, standing like a ghost in the shadows of the alcove. The flirtatious smile vanished, instantly replaced by wide-eyed, theatrical concern. “Camilla!” She let go of Tristan and practically sprinted over, her eyes raking up and down my form. “Are you here for your follow-up? How is the healing going?” She leaned in, her gaze dropping to the visible edges of my ruined skin, her pupils dilating with something that looked sickeningly like hunger. I quickly shoved the manila folder containing my necrosis diagnosis behind my back. “…Fine.” “Oh, thank god! I’ve been making myself sick worrying about you.” She reached out and grabbed my free hand, squeezing it tight. Tristan strolled over, his gaze sweeping over me with barely concealed pity, before his lips pressed into a tight, strained line. “Camilla,” he said, giving me a stiff nod. The elevator pinged. The steel doors slid open, revealing my parents. My mother’s face immediately soured the second she saw me. “What are you doing out of the house?” she snapped. “I told you to stay out of sight until you healed.” But the moment her eyes shifted to Blair, her entire posture softened into mush. She pushed past me and grabbed Blair’s hands. “Blair, darling! Oh, look at that dress on you. You could wear a trash bag and make the cover of Vogue!” “Mom, I just came for a routine check-up,” Blair said, resting her head on Evelyn’s shoulder. Tristan chimed in, practically preening. “Evelyn, Blair has a global shoot for LUMINE next month. They’re flying her to Paris. The creative director personally requested her.” He offered my mother a deferential, charming smile. “It’s going to be massive for the Montgomery name.” Evelyn beamed, showing all her teeth. “Well, obviously! Blair is the face of this family now. She’s our little miracle.” My father stood a step behind them, nodding emphatically. “Damn right. She’s doing us proud.” I stood three feet away, entirely invisible, listening to them build a world I was no longer a part of. After a long moment, Evelyn finally turned back to me, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “Camilla, have those disgusting cysts cleared up yet?” A few nurses walking by turned their heads at the volume of her voice. I swallowed a thick knot of humiliation. “…No. Not yet.” Evelyn’s brow furrowed, her mouth pulling down into a harsh scowl. “Do you know how much money we’ve burned on your dermatologists? Does any of it actually work? It’s like you’re not even trying—” My father sighed, adjusting his golf polo. “Tristan has that charity gala next week. He’s expecting you to be on his arm. You can’t go looking like… that.” I gripped the edge of my medical file so hard the paper tore. I didn’t say a word. Blair tugged gently on our mother’s sleeve. “Mom, leave her alone. She’s trying.” She turned to me, tilting her head with an innocent blink. “Speaking of trying, Cam… have you been using that bespoke botanical poultice I sent you? The one from the apothecary?” I opened my mouth, the memory of that thick, foul-smelling paste rising in my throat. I had been slathering it on twice a day, exactly as she instructed. “…Yes. I use it.” “But it doesn’t work. If anything, the breakouts are spreading, and my skin feels like it’s burning.” Blair’s eyes widened to comical proportions. She looked down at her own porcelain, flawless hands, and then back up at the raw, angry skin peeking out from my bandages. “Really? That is so weird…” she murmured. “Whenever I use it, my skin feels like silk.” She tilted her head, her gaze locked onto mine. “Maybe your genetics just… reject it? I’ll ask my guru if there’s a modified batch he can make—” “Don’t bother.” I cut her off, taking a step backward. “I need to go.” I turned on my heel and power-walked toward the lobby doors. Behind me, I heard my mother’s voice, sharp and embarrassed. “Look at her attitude! You try to help her, Blair, and she acts like a petulant child.” Blair let out a soft, forgiving sigh. “She’s just hurting, Mom. Don’t be mad at her…” Just before the heavy glass doors swung shut, I caught a glimpse of Blair in the reflection. She wasn’t sighing. The corners of her mouth were curled up in a triumphant, razor-sharp smirk. 3 I walked into the ground floor of a high-end luxury department store. My doctor had prescribed a specialized neuro-repair serum to slow down the nerve death, and the only place that stocked it was the clinical beauty counter here. As I approached the cosmetic aisles, a massive, backlit billboard caught my eye. It was Blair. Printed in elegant, minimalist font in the bottom right corner were the words: [LUMINE Global Ambassador: Blair Montgomery.] That contract had been mine a year ago. I tore my eyes away, ducking my head and walking faster toward the pharmacy section. I barely made it two steps before someone screamed. “THAT’S HER!!!” A teenage girl, clutching a glossy magazine with Blair’s face on it, lunged out from behind a display counter. Before my brain could even register the movement, the girl reached out and violently ripped the mask off my face. I let out a choked gasp, throwing my hands up to cover my cheeks. The cool, air-conditioned air hit the raw surgical incisions and weeping pustules. It burned like battery acid. The girl blocked the aisle, putting her hands on her hips, and screamed at the top of her lungs. “HEY EVERYONE! Look! It’s Camilla Montgomery!” “Blair’s psychotic older sister! The one who’s trying to sabotage her contracts and steal her campaigns!” All the color drained from my face. “What are you talking about—” “Don’t play dumb! We know everything!” The girl spat, her eyes wild. “We know you’ve been calling the brand reps behind Blair’s back, trying to tell them you deserve the LUMINE deal! You’re so jealous you’re actually sick. It’s pathetic!” “I never did that! I’m just here to pick up a prescription!” The girl sneered, her eyes dropping to the manila folder I had instinctively tucked against my stomach. “Medicine? What kind of medicine does a botched plastic surgery freak need? What’s in the folder? Show us!” “No—” I tried to twist away, but she was faster. She yanked the pathology report right out of my hands. Her eyes scanned the bold text at the top of the page, and a malicious bark of laughter erupted from her throat. She waved the paper in the air, turning to the crowd of shoppers that had started to gather. “Oh my god, you guys, she’s actually trying to surgically copy her sister’s face! She got her jaw shaved and the surgery failed!” “She’s got facial nerve necrosis! She’s literally a rotting, stitched-together Frankenstein!!!” The crowd closed in. Phones were whipped out, camera lenses pointing at my face like the barrels of guns. I heard the rapid-fire click-click-click of shutters. “Jesus, that’s her sister? The genetic drop-off is insane…” “Trying to look like her little sister? That is profoundly unhinged.” “Karma, honestly. Blair is a natural beauty, and this girl is just butchering herself.” The whispers hit me like physical blows. I clenched my fists so hard my fingernails broke the skin of my palms. “It’s not true! I wasn’t trying to look like her! I—” The girl took a step closer, shoving her phone camera right into my face. “You’re what?” she sneered. “If my face looked like roadkill, I’d blow my brains out. Do us all a favor and drop off the grid. You’re disgusting.” I curled my shoulders inward, a violent tremor wracking my body. “That is quite enough!” I was about to scream when a hand clamped down hard on my shoulder. It was Evelyn. She pulled me behind her, her face dark with fury, though not at the crowd. At me. “Stop making a scene!” she hissed in my ear. “Are you trying to humiliate us? Get in the car, now!” “Mom—” “Do not call me Mom right now!” Evelyn stepped into my personal space, her voice a venomous whisper. “Look at you! Everywhere you go, you drag drama behind you like a stray dog! Your sister is finally at the peak of her career, and you’re out here getting photographed looking like a leper! Are you trying to drag her down with you?” I bit down on my trembling lip, the metallic taste of blood returning. Suddenly, Blair appeared from the crowd, looking like a distressed angel. she reached out and gently gripped my arm. “Cam, it’s okay. Ignore them.” She turned to face the mob of onlookers, offering them a deeply apologetic, sorrowful look. “Please, everyone, stop taking photos. My sister… she’s struggling right now.” She paused, letting a perfect tear well up in her eye. “She’s had a really hard time processing some… cosmetic procedures that didn’t go as planned. Her mental health hasn’t been stable. Please, just give her some grace, okay?” She pressed her palms together, bowing her head in a gesture of pure, saintly humility. Someone in the crowd murmured, “Blair has such a big heart… having a toxic sister like that must be exhausting.” The fight drained out of me completely. My arms fell limp at my sides. I shook Blair’s hand off my arm, turned around, and walked away. I made it all the way to the underground parking garage before my legs gave out. I collapsed into a crouch behind a concrete pillar, pressing my face into my hands, choking on my own tears. Then, a voice echoed from the stairwell. “Yeah? Hey B, it’s done. I did exactly what you said…” I froze. “Yeah, tore the mask off, grabbed the medical records. She was literally sobbing in the middle of the store…” “Mhm, don’t worry about it, B. The crowd was mostly the extras I hired off Craigslist…” “Two grand, right? Perfect. I’ll text you my Venmo.” It was the girl from the department store. I knelt there in the oily darkness of the garage, holding my breath. I did exactly what you said. Extras I hired. Slowly, I lowered my hands. I wiped the tears from my ruined face, my fingers curling into tight, cold fists. 4 I pushed the heavy oak door of the house open, my face completely blank. The foyer was dark, save for the ambient light bleeding in from the street. A figure rose from the living room sofa and walked toward me. “Camilla?” Damon Royce frowned as he took in my appearance, his hands coming up to gently grasp my arms. “What happened? You look like you’re going to pass out.” Damon was my husband. To the world—and to my family—he was just a nobody. A guy with no money and no pedigree who married into the Montgomery wealth because I had insisted. Nobody knew he was actually the sole heir to the Royce conglomerate, an empire that could buy and sell my father’s company ten times over. He kept his identity hidden and endured my family’s constant belittling because of a promise he made to me years ago. But right now, I didn’t have the mental capacity to think about his secret billions. “It’s nothing,” I lied, dropping my gaze. “Just came from the doctor. He said healing takes time.” Damon studied me for a long moment, seeing right through the lie. Without a word, he pulled me flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around me. “Whatever it is,” he murmured into my hair, “I’ve got you.” I leaned my weight against him, burying my face in his shirt, and finally let out a long, shaky breath. Hours later, fresh out of the shower and lying in the dark, I stared at the ceiling. I mentally rewound the tape of the last twelve months. That bespoke botanical poultice Blair sent me. The smell was vile—like iron, rotting flowers, and old copper. Every time I put it on, it felt like my skin was in a frying pan. When I told Blair, she assured me it was “cellular purging” and that the toxins had to come out before the skin could heal. I had religiously applied it for three months. For three months, my face decayed at an accelerated rate. But the morning after I applied it, Blair would always wake up looking positively radiant. Glowing. Buzzing with energy. None of it made sense. Blair survived on a diet of vodka, sugar, and late-night Taco Bell runs. She slept three hours a night, never washed her makeup off before bed, and baked in the sun without a drop of SPF. With a lifestyle like that, her skin should have been a wrecked, inflamed mess. But she didn’t have a single pore out of place. Meanwhile, I lived like a monk. No dairy, no sugar, gallons of water, sleeping by ten PM, slathering on the most expensive barrier-repair creams money could buy. And my face was literally rotting off my skull. I sat up slowly in the dark, my heart hammering against my ribs. A terrifying, impossible thought clawed its way into my brain. What if her beauty wasn’t hers? What if she was stealing it from me? I turned my head. Sitting on my nightstand was the fresh jar of the poultice Blair had just overnighted to me. The thick, black paste sat behind the glass, radiating that faint, sickeningly sweet, metallic smell. My phone lit up. A text from Blair. [Cam! Did the new batch arrive? You HAVE to put it on tonight! This one is ten times stronger than the last! Put on a thick layer! Sweet dreams ~] Followed by three pink heart emojis. A year ago, that text would have made me smile, grateful that my sister cared. Tonight, it made the blood in my veins run cold. I threw the blankets off, marched over to my vanity, and grabbed a heavy-duty trash bag. I swept every single glass bottle, serum, prescription cream, and chemical exfoliant off the marble into the bag. Then, I picked up the jar of the ancient poultice, unscrewed the lid, and dumped the foul, black sludge directly into the trash can. I didn’t even flinch at the stench. I picked up my phone, opened Postmates, and ordered eighty dollars’ worth of greasy fried chicken, loaded fries, and a massive chocolate milkshake. Damon, who had been leaning against the bedroom doorframe watching my manic purge, raised a single, dark eyebrow. “Going scorched earth, I see?” “If my face is going to rot, I might as well enjoy the ride,” I mumbled around a mouthful of a crispy chicken thigh twenty minutes later. “I haven’t eaten a carb in three years. This is so f*cking good.” After I ate, I stayed up until 4 AM playing Call of Duty, eventually passing out and sleeping until noon. For the next seven days, I abandoned everything. I threw away my diet. I ate jalapeño poppers and drank cheap wine. I stayed out late with Damon at dive bars. I stopped washing my face. I stopped moisturizing. I stopped avoiding the sun. On the night of the seventh day, my phone began to vibrate violently. The screen flashed Blair’s name. Over and over. I ignored the first three calls. On the fourth, I hit accept. “CAMILLA! What the hell have you been doing for the past week?!” Blair’s voice was frantic, breathless. I took a bite of a spicy barbecue wing, dragging out my chew before answering. “Eating ribs. Why?” “No—what about your poultice?! Mom told me she saw you throw all your skincare away! Have you lost your mind? Your face is literally falling apart and you’re just going to give up?!” Her voice hit a shrill, hysterical pitch that I had never heard from her before. Hearing the absolute, naked panic in her tone, I smiled. I finally had her.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407030”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In this life, I made a conscious effort to let her pass me by. When she left the Pentagon through the front entrance, I slipped out the back. When she took her “soulmate” to the movies, I stayed home alone, organizing case files. In my previous life, I had been a fool. I knew her heart belonged to him, yet I used every ounce of leverage I had to make her marry me. The result? A lifetime of sleeping in separate rooms. We became the military’s most infamous “unhappy couple.” She hated me for the schemes I used to have her true love transferred to a remote border outpost. I hated her for marrying me while remaining utterly cold for a decade. Ten years of marriage, and we had carved each other into hollow shells through endless cycles of resentment. It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer that she finally softened. She became gentle, attentive, a devoted wife at last. I allowed myself to believe—to hope—that she had finally learned to love me. But as the final round of chemo failed and my vision began to blur into the dark, she leaned in and whispered the truth. “The debt I owed your father… I’ve paid it in full now, Nate.” She looked at me with a weary, clinical pity. “In the next life, I won’t marry you. I won’t need you or your father to save me. Let’s just let each other go.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back. It was the day of the inter-district personnel transfers. Without hesitation, I walked into the Chief of Personnel’s office. “Sir, I believe my skill set is better suited for a deployment to the High Ridge frontier outpost.” Charlotte West, this time, I’m leaving your soulmate by your side. I’m giving you back your life. … 1 Colonel Miller looked up from a stack of files, his brow furrowed. “Last month, you filed three separate requests insisting on a post at HQ because your fiancée was stationed here. That’s why we swapped you with Brody.” He tapped a pen against the desk. “The ink is barely dry on the orders, Nate. You want to change it again?” I pushed the new application across his desk and stood at a sharp, perfect attention. “Reporting for duty, Colonel. I’ve thought it over. I’m volunteering for the High Ridge outpost.” Miller stared at me for a long beat, eventually waving a hand in dismissal. “Fine. Suit yourself. But keep in mind, that’s twelve thousand feet up. It’s brutal. The last guy we sent up there? His girlfriend waited two years before she ran off with a guy from the USO.” I saluted, my face a mask of iron, and walked out. In the hallway, a group of officers gathered around the bulletin board. Brody’s name was at the top of the list for the HQ staff position. He stood there with his head down, his eyes rimmed with red. A few junior officers were whispering nearby, their voices laced with sympathy. “He’s got the highest marks in clinical psychology. If someone hadn’t pulled strings…” “I know, right? He and General West were practically ready to file their marriage intent, and then suddenly—” The voices cut off abruptly as I approached. A dozen pairs of eyes stabbed at me like serrated blades. I walked through them without a word. In their eyes, I was the pathetic snake who had stolen another man’s future. But it didn’t matter. Soon enough, I would be handing Charlotte West back to him. In my last life, Charlotte had been ambushed during a tactical mission on the border. My father, defying direct orders, led a rescue team into the hot zone to save her. He took a bullet to the chest and died in the extraction bird. I used her crushing guilt to force a ring onto her finger. I knew she loved Brody, her childhood sweetheart, so I used my connections to have him shipped to the harshest outpost in the country. I thought if I just gave enough, if I loved her hard enough, I could earn her heart. I woke up two hours early every morning to prep her briefing materials. I stayed up all night running combat simulations for her. I stocked every drawer in her office with her favorite snacks and the specific ointment she needed for her winter skin. Slowly, she started letting me straighten her uniform. She stopped pulling away when I reached for her hand. She even agreed to midnight movies. I was convinced she was finally falling for me. Until the night I collapsed during a training exercise. Charlotte rushed me to the hospital. She spent the entire night outside the OR, and in doing so, she missed Brody’s emergency distress call from the border. The news hit the next day: Brody’s recon team had been ambushed. He was killed during the retreat. Charlotte spent three days at the National Cemetery, standing like a statue in front of his headstone. After that, she never spoke his name again. When my cancer was found after the surgery, she requested a transfer out of active command to care for me for five years. To any outsider, she was the perfect, grieving, devoted wife. Only I knew the truth. The look in her eyes whenever she held my hand wasn’t love. It was a ledger. She was simply paying back a debt, cent by agonizing cent. The bitterness rose in my throat, and I took a long, steadying breath. Not this time. This time, I would give them their happy ending. And in doing so, I would finally save myself. 2 After work, Charlotte’s black SUV was idling in front of the building, just like always. We drove in a heavy, suffocating silence. I knew she’d seen the transfer announcement. I opened my mouth to explain, but she cut me off before I could speak. “Brody leaves for the Ridge next month,” she said, her voice clipped. “A few of the old team are getting drinks tonight. Since you’re the one who took his spot at HQ, it’s only right that you show up.” I didn’t argue. I followed her into the private room of a high-end steakhouse downtown. Brody was the center of attention, his eyes still puffy. Someone vacated the seat next to him when Charlotte walked in, and she took it naturally, as if that was where she belonged. I didn’t care. I found an empty chair near the door. The moment we sat, Brody raised a glass. “Charlotte, you’ve looked after me for years. This one’s for you.” Out of habit, I reached out to stop her. “She’s got a sensitive stomach, she shouldn’t be drinking—” In my past life, I went to every one of these dinners just to be her designated driver and her shield against the alcohol she couldn’t handle. But this time, Charlotte didn’t even look at me. She picked up the glass and drained it in one go. Brody laughed, a little spark returning to his eyes. “See? I knew she could handle it.” Someone down the table smirked. “Major Montgomery, I think you just don’t know the General as well as you think. Whether she drinks or not depends entirely on who she’s drinking with.” A ripple of knowing laughter went around the table. Charlotte didn’t contradict them. The conversation quickly shifted to their shared history—basic training together, weekends away during the Academy, inside jokes I could never understand. They were building a world I had no part in. I ate my meal in silence. In my previous life, I would have fought so hard to wedge myself into the conversation, forgetting that to them, I was nothing more than an unwanted guest. When dinner ended, someone suggested a movie. Charlotte finally looked at me, but her expression was cold. “Take an Uber home, Nate. I’m going with them.” By the time I got back to the officers’ quarters, my phone was buzzing. It was Mrs. Gable, the mother of a fallen soldier I’d been helping. Her daughter’s housing benefits had been stalled for months due to red tape. I’d spent all week getting the paperwork in order. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Gable,” I said into the phone. “I’ve got the file. I’ll walk it through Finance tomorrow morning.” I went to my home office to grab the blue folder, but it was gone. Charlotte didn’t return until nine-thirty. The moment she walked in, I asked, “Have you seen the Gable file? The housing materials?” She hung her hat up, her tone indifferent. “I gave them to Brody.” I froze. “What?” “I spoke to your Chief. I told him to transfer the case to Brody. He needs the credit.” I felt a surge of cold fury. I headed for the door. “No. I’m getting it back.” Charlotte blocked my path, her brow knitting into a familiar look of annoyance. “It’s a housing dispute, Nate. A few hundred dollars in back pay. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” “I gave my word to Mrs. Gable.” “Brody is heading to the border soon. He needs a high-profile win for his year-end evaluation. This case is a perfect example of veteran advocacy.” I was about to tell her that I was the one going to the border, not Brody, when her phone chimed. It was a text from Brody. He had questions about the file. Charlotte turned and walked into the office, her voice softening into a tone she never used with me. “Look at Article 28 of the Benefits Code… Yeah, start there. Compare it to that case in the Western Command last year. I’ll send you the link.” I stood in the hallway, paralyzed. I remembered when I first started in the Political Department. I’d gone to her—a General—to ask for advice on a complex family dispute. She hadn’t even looked up from her laptop. “It’s a policy issue, Nate. Can’t you look up the regulations yourself?” “I did, but the wartime disability standard is—” “I don’t have time. I have a live-fire exercise tomorrow.” I had stayed up for three nights straight to figure it out on my own. When I finally won the case, I told her, hoping for a shred of pride. She had just given me a distracted “Mhm.” I used to think she was just too busy. That my work was too small for her. Now I knew the truth. She just didn’t want to waste her time on me. The conversation in the office went on for over an hour. I walked back to the bedroom and felt my phone vibrate. It was a photo from Sarah, one of Charlotte’s colleagues. The photo was taken in the dark of a movie theater. Brody was holding Charlotte’s hand. She wasn’t pulling away. The text underneath read: Some things can’t be stolen, Nate. Give it up. I looked at the photo and let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. I scrolled up through my chat history with Sarah. It was a pathetic record of my own desperation. “Hey Sarah, it’s Charlotte’s birthday. Any idea what she’s been wanting lately?” “You mentioned your kid likes model planes—I found a limited edition one, I’ll drop it off…” Every message was a bribe, a plea for a crumb of information that might make Charlotte love me. Every reply from her was polite, short, and clinical. I had been so small. I clicked on Sarah’s profile and hit Delete. I turned off the light and lay down. For the first time since the “rebirth,” I didn’t feel the phantom pain of cancer or the crushing weight of anxiety. I fell into the deepest sleep I’d had in years. 3 The next morning, I went to the base hospital for a full physical. In my last life, the doctor told me that if we had caught the cancer even a few months earlier, my odds would have been vastly better. In this life, my health was my only real currency. I had just pulled my ticket for the lab when Charlotte called. “Come to my office. Now. It’s urgent.” “I’m at the hospital for a check-up.” “The check-up can wait,” she said, her voice brooking no argument. “I just got orders. I’m heading to a joint operations seminar this afternoon. You need to take the Special Ops cadets through the simulation training. You know the drills.” In my past life, this was our routine. I was her shadow. I edited her students’ reports, I coordinated her logistics, I even drove sick cadets to the ER in the middle of the night. When she’d return, she’d give me a curt “Good job,” as if it were my duty to do her work for her. “They’re your cadets,” I said. “Figure it out.” The line went silent for two seconds. Her voice dropped an octave, dangerous. “I don’t have time—” I hung up. The results came back quickly. The doctor pointed at the CT scan. “No signs of malignancy. However, a few of your blood markers are elevated. I want to start you on a preventative regimen and see you back here every three months.” I took the paperwork, my fingers trembling slightly. The weight on my chest finally lifted. As I walked out of the hospital, I saw a social media notification. One of Charlotte’s cadets had posted a video. Brody was on the simulation field, leading the team. The camera panned to see Charlotte rushing onto the field to join him. In the background, the cadets were cheering. “Brody is a natural! Look at them, the General and Brody look so good together.” In the last few seconds of the video, Charlotte suddenly stumbled. She clutched her stomach, her face turning ashen, and she collapsed. “General!” Brody screamed. The video cut to black. I realized then—it had been two days since I’d reminded her to take her medication. My phone rang. It was Brody, his voice cracking. “Get to the Base Hospital! Charlotte has a gastric bleed! She’s in emergency surgery and I don’t have her ID or medical records—I can’t sign the paperwork!” When I arrived, the “Surgery in Progress” light was red. Brody and a handful of cadets were huddled by the doors. One of the male cadets spotted me and marched over, his face red with anger. “You knew the General had a stomach condition! Why didn’t you make sure she took her meds?” A female cadet whispered, “If you had just helped with the drills like she asked, she wouldn’t have had to rush back and trigger an attack.” Brody pulled at her sleeve. “Stop it. The only thing that matters is that she’s okay.” I ignored them. I walked to the nurse’s station, pulled out my military ID, and signed the authorization forms. An hour later, the surgeon emerged. He walked straight to Brody. “Family?” “Yes,” Brody said quickly. “How is she?” “Acute gastric hemorrhage. We’ve stopped the bleeding. She needs a strict diet and consistent medication. Keep her stress low.” As the doctor spoke, Brody nodded fervently, the cadets hanging on every word. No one noticed me standing in the corner. I waited for the doctor to finish, then walked over and handed the payment receipt and the medical history folder to Brody. “I’m leaving.” As I walked away, their voices faded into the hum of the hospital. I spent the next few days buried in work, finalizing my transfer and writing my handover reports. It wasn’t until a week later that I returned to the officers’ quarters. I pushed the door open and stopped. Charlotte was on the sofa, still pale. Brody was sitting next to her, peeling an apple. Charlotte’s parents were there too. Her mother glanced at me, her tone flat. “You’re back?” I nodded and started toward my room. Her father called out, “Wait. Your wife has been in the hospital for a week and you haven’t shown your face once. Now that she’s home, you don’t even have a question for her?” Her mother chimed in. “You were the one who insisted on getting married. Now that you have her, you treat her like an afterthought?” I turned around. “Actually, I—” “Don’t be mad at him, Mrs. West,” Brody interrupted gently. “Nate’s been busy with work. I’m sure he’s been worried in his own way.” Her mother’s expression softened as she patted Brody’s hand. “You’re always so thoughtful, Brody.” Charlotte glanced at me, but she said nothing. They went back to their conversation, looking for all the world like a happy family. I didn’t bother explaining. I walked into my room and closed the door. 4 On my last day at HQ, I cleared out my office early. I gave my plants to the colleague next door, archived my files, and emptied the drawers. Everything I owned fit into a single tactical backpack. As I stepped out of the building, a group of people swarmed me. Some were holding cameras. “Major Montgomery? What’s your response to the loss of Mrs. Gable’s veteran benefit records?” “As the officer in charge, do you admit to professional negligence?” A microphone was shoved inches from my face. I backed away, the edge of a camera lens catching my forehead, a sharp sting of pain blossoming there. Realizing this was a setup, I turned and retreated into the building. The guards at the gate held the crowd back. My heart was racing. My phone buzzed with a news link sent by a colleague. Title: Officer Loses Critical Records; Martyr’s Mother Denied Emergency Funds for Six Months! The report detailed how Mrs. Gable’s son had died in combat and how she was waiting on the money for her husband’s emergency surgery. At the bottom of the article was a screenshot of the task assignment log. The name under “Lead Officer” had been changed to Nate Montgomery. A text followed from a coworker: I thought Brody was handling that? Why is your name on it now? I logged into the internal system. Two days ago, the name on the Gable file had been changed from “Brody” to “Nate.” I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. I messaged the Chief. Colonel, why was the Gable file transferred to me? I never accepted this case. The reply was instant. Brody told me two days ago that you’d discussed it and you agreed to handle the final filing. Why are you denying it now that there’s a problem? I called Brody. Busy signal. I called ten times. No answer. I waited until dark for the crowd to disperse. Finally, Brody picked up. “Where are you?” I growled. “We need to talk. Now.” I heard the clink of silverware, then Brody’s cheerful voice. “I’m at your place, Nate. Charlotte just got out of the hospital and needs looking after. Since you’re so busy with work, I thought I’d come over and cook dinner.” I hung up and sprinted home. I burst through the door. Brody was sitting next to Charlotte, holding a bowl of soup. He stood up, smiling. “Hey, Nate, you’re back! I made—” I stepped forward and slapped him across the face. Hard. The bowl shattered on the floor, soup splashing everywhere. Brody stumbled back, clutching his cheek, eyes wide with shock. Charlotte jumped up, grabbing my wrist. “Are you insane?” I shook her off and glared at Brody. “Where are the original documents? You’re coming with me right now to clear this up.” Brody’s eyes instantly filled with tears. “Nate, I’m so sorry… I was at the hospital looking after Charlotte, I just got distracted… I’ll go explain!” Charlotte grabbed his shoulder. “No. If you go now, it’ll only make it worse. This will go on your permanent record as a major failure. You could be discharged.” She turned to me, her voice cold and calculating. “Let Brody say there was a communication error during the handover. You write the statement and take the primary responsibility. That way, we control the fallout.” I laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. “So I’m the scapegoat? Not a chance.” Charlotte was silent for a moment. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If you don’t take the fall for this, I will find the tactical report from the night your father died. I’ll make sure the investigation into his ‘unauthorized actions’ is reopened.” I froze. I looked at her as if I were seeing a stranger. My father had died saving her. And now, she was using his sacrifice as a weapon against me. The room was deathly quiet. After a long time, I finally spoke. My voice sounded like it was coming from a great distance. “Fine. I’ll do it.” 5 That night, the internal memo went live. The news of my “admission” spread through the base like wildfire. My phone was a constant stream of vitriol. People called me a disgrace to the uniform. Someone even photoshopped my service portrait into a black funeral frame. I shut off my terminal, but the words still echoed in my head. At 4:00 AM, I opened my encrypted military laptop. I began compiling every scrap of evidence regarding Mrs. Gable—the initial application logs, the scanned copies of the martyr certificates, the hospital invoices. By dawn, I had it all backed up in three separate locations. At 9:00 AM, the doorbell rang. Brody was there, holding a military-grade recorder and a small tripod. “Nate, the Ethics Committee needs you to record a video statement.” Charlotte had left for the training grounds early. The red light on the camera blinked on. I sat in front of the lens. “I am Major Nate Montgomery. Regarding the loss of the Gable records, I am here to formally apologize…” Suddenly, there was a commotion outside. Voices were shouting, “He’s in there! Montgomery, come out!” The door began to rattle under heavy pounding. I realized something was wrong and looked at Brody. He was looking down at his tablet, a small, triumphant smirk playing on his lips before he could hide it. I lunged forward and snatched the tablet from his hands. It wasn’t a recording. It was a live stream. There were 178,000 people watching. The chat was moving too fast to read. “There he is, the coward!” “Look how robotic he is, he doesn’t even care!” “He shouldn’t be allowed to wear the uniform!” I looked at Brody. He didn’t look scared anymore. He looked satisfied. “A live apology carries more weight, doesn’t it, Nate?” The pounding on the door grew louder. I went to the drawer and grabbed a tactical multi-tool—one Charlotte had used for survival training. Then, I called Base Security. I walked to the front door, took a deep breath, and threw it open. I held up Brody’s tablet, the camera pointed directly at the faces of the people on my doorstep. “You’re trespassing on a restricted military residential area. Go ahead, get your faces on camera. I’ve already alerted Base Security. Address: Unit 7, Block 3.” I held the multi-tool in my other hand, the blade pointed down. The crowd went silent. The man in the front looked at the camera, then back at Brody, who had retreated into the shadows of the hallway. “You… you wouldn’t,” the man stammered, backing away. I pointed the camera at the dented lock. “This is self-defense. Security is two minutes out. Trespassing on a federal installation carries a heavy sentence. You want to stay and find out?” They scrambled. Within minutes, the hallway was empty. By the time Security arrived and took the report, it was over. I closed the door and went to my bedroom. I pulled out my tactical rucksack. I packed my ID, my passport, my bank cards, a few changes of fatigues, and my medical records. Everything else—the photos, the souvenirs, the watch Charlotte had given me—I left behind. Thirty minutes later, I was downstairs. I waited at the gate for twenty minutes until a transport bus for the military airfield pulled up. The driver was a veteran in his late forties. “Headed to the Ridge?” he asked, glancing at my bag. “Going home for the holidays?” I blinked. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Major,” the driver said, starting the engine. “Your family isn’t waiting for you?” Outside, the sun was setting. The distant lights of the base were beginning to flicker on. “Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m going home.” The bus hit the highway. The city lights faded, replaced by the dark silhouette of the mountains. Three hours later, we pulled up to the airfield. The engines of a C-130 transport plane roared in the freezing wind. Under the dim, amber lights of the cargo bay, I realized for the first time: I was actually free of her.

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During dinner, Jordan suddenly set her fork down. She looked me straight in the eye and asked, “Who is Clementine Frost?” My hand froze, mid-air. My heart skipped a beat, then hammered against my ribs. Clementine Frost. That was a name Chase and I had invented during a bender one night, a fictional person born from a bottle of cheap bourbon. We’d made a pact: if one of us ever got into trouble—real trouble—and couldn’t be reached, we’d use “Clementine Frost” as a distress signal. Apart from the two of us, no one in the world knew that name existed. And Chase had been missing for exactly thirty days. He had gone to Tulum for a solo “soul-searching” trip. He never came back. I looked at Jordan’s face. She looked perfectly composed, almost bored. My stomach began to sink, a cold, heavy weight settling in my gut. How did she know that name? … We came up with the name Clementine Frost the night we graduated from college. We were sitting on the bleachers of the football field, halfway through a case of beer, watching the moonlight hit the empty turf. Chase had his arm around my shoulder, his speech slurred and thick. “Miles,” he’d said, “we need a code. A failsafe.” “A code for what, man?” “Just… life. If one of us goes off the grid, or if things get dark. If you hear that name, you know I’m in over my head. You know it’s time to move.” I’d laughed at him, calling him a paranoid action-movie junkie. But we spent an hour brainstorming anyway. We settled on Clementine Frost because it sounded like the heroine of a trashy airport romance novel—the exact opposite of our aesthetic. The only two people who knew the weight of those three syllables were me and Chase. And Chase had been gone for thirty-one days. Before he left for Mexico, he’d FaceTimed me from the airport lounge, shouting over the terminal noise. “Miles! What do you want? I’m bringing you back something ridiculous!” That was the last time I saw his face. After that, his texts went grey. The calls went straight to voicemail. His Instagram feed froze on a picture of a sunset over the Caribbean. I’d called the police. His parents had called the embassy. The Mexican authorities were “investigating.” But there was no body. No trace. Chase had simply evaporated. And now, my wife, Jordan—a woman who technically moved in different circles than Chase, a woman who rarely even liked his photos—had just dropped that name into the middle of a Tuesday night dinner. “What’s with the face?” Jordan asked, a small, playful smile touching her lips. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “It’s nothing,” I said, forced myself to look down, and shoved a piece of steak into my mouth. It tasted like cardboard. “Just never heard the name before. Where’d you get it?” “Oh, just something a colleague mentioned,” she said, taking a casual sip of her wine. “Just curious.” She pivoted the conversation to her office politics, her voice smooth and melodic. I didn’t hear a word of it. My mind was screaming. How does she know? How the hell does she know? After dinner, Jordan went to take a shower. I sat on the sofa, my palms slick with sweat. I listened to the sound of the water hitting the tiles, then stood up and walked toward her phone on the dining table. I knew her passcode. Our wedding anniversary. My fingers trembled as I scrolled through her messages, her call logs, her notes. Nothing. It was too clean. It was unnervingly clinical. No one’s phone is that pristine. I moved to her laptop in the study. She never kept it from me; our lives were supposedly an open book. I went through her browsing history, her downloads, her cache. Then, I opened a travel booking app. My heart stopped. A month ago, Jordan had told me she was going to Chicago for a three-day corporate retreat. I’d even driven her to the airport. But the booking record showed she hadn’t gone to Chicago. She had booked a flight to Cancun. She’d departed one day before Chase. She’d returned two days after he went missing. The shower stopped. I slammed the laptop shut, retreated to the living room, and pretended to scroll through TikTok. Jordan walked out, towel-drying her hair, glancing at me. “Still up?” “Yeah, just unwinding,” I said, flashing a smile that felt like it was cracking my face. She went into the bedroom and turned off the light. I stared at the dark doorway, my fingers digging into the upholstery of the sofa until my knuckles turned white. Jordan. What were you doing in Mexico? The next morning, I told Jordan a “fire” had broken out at a project site and I had to head out of town for a few days. She was putting on her earrings, not even turning around. “Where to?” “Atlanta.” “When will you be back?” “Three, maybe four days. It’s a mess.” She caught my eye in the mirror and smiled. “Be safe, Miles.” “You too,” I said. I didn’t go to Atlanta. I caught the noon flight to Cancun. When I landed, the air was a wall of heat and humidity that made my head spin. Chase’s last photo was taken in this city. A vibrant market, neon lights, the press of the crowd. He’d been standing in front of a taco stand, giving a thumbs-up, grinning like an idiot. I didn’t have time for grief. I went straight to his hotel. I’d seen the booking confirmation Chase had sent me before he left—a boutique place called The Lotus Courtyard on the edge of the jungle. At the front desk, I pulled out a photo of Chase and spoke to the clerk in hurried English. “This man stayed here a month ago. Do you remember him?” The clerk shook his head. “His name is Chase Reed,” I added. He checked the system and nodded slowly. “Yes. He stayed three nights. He never checked out. His luggage is still in our storage room.” My chest tightened. He never checked out. His life was still sitting in a suitcase in a basement. I swallowed hard and asked the question I was terrified to voice. “A month ago, was there a woman staying here? An American woman?” I handed him a photo of Jordan. The clerk looked at the screen, his expression shifting to something hesitant. “Yes. She stayed five nights.” Five nights. Longer than Chase. “What room?” “312.” “And Chase?” “315.” Same floor. Two doors apart. I stood there, the world tilting on its axis. My first thought was the most clichéd one imaginable: They were having an affair. They were in Mexico together, in adjoining rooms. But as soon as the thought formed, I rejected it. Chase hated Jordan. Not a polite, “I don’t really get her” kind of hate, but a vocal, visceral dislike. We’d had dinner once, the three of us, and Chase had gotten a few drinks in him and told me straight to my face: “Miles, your wife is a black box. There’s too much happening behind those eyes. Watch yourself.” Jordan’s face had turned to stone. They hadn’t looked at each other since. They weren’t here for an affair. So why was she in the room next to him? What was she doing? “I need to see your security footage,” I told the clerk. He looked uneasy. “Sir, I would need to ask the manager… and perhaps the police.” “My best friend is missing,” I interrupted, my voice low but vibrating with a terrifying intensity. “He’s been gone for a month. This is the last place he was seen. Do you want the police involved? Because I can make that happen very quickly.” The clerk went quiet. Then he picked up the phone. Twenty minutes later, the security head led me to a cramped room filled with monitors. He pulled up the footage from a month ago, starting with the day Chase arrived. I watched the screen, my heart in my throat. Day one: Chase walks in, dragging his battered duffel bag, chatting with the girl at the desk. Seeing him move, seeing the back of his head, made my throat ache. Then, in the bottom corner of the frame: A woman enters. White linen shirt, baseball cap, oversized sunglasses. It was Jordan. She didn’t go to the desk. She sat in the lounge, holding a magazine up to her face. But her eyes never left him. She watched him check in. She watched him take his key. She watched him enter the elevator. A cold shiver raced down my spine. “Fast forward,” I said. Day one, afternoon: Chase leaves the hotel to go for a walk. Two minutes later, Jordan follows. Same hat, same glasses. Keeping a steady twenty-yard distance. Day one, evening: Chase is eating at the hotel restaurant. Jordan is in the corner with a drink, positioned so she can see his every move. Chase never notices her. Day two: Chase goes to a local ruin. Jordan is there. Chase goes to the night market. Jordan is there. Chase stops to pet a stray dog; Jordan is across the street, pretending to check her phone. In every shot, every frame, she was a shadow. My hands started to shake. This wasn’t an affair. People having affairs don’t wear masks and stalk each other from twenty yards away. They hold hands. They share meals. She hadn’t spoken a single word to him. Chase had no idea she was even in the country. This wasn’t infidelity. This was hunting. “What about day three?” I asked, my voice cracking. The security guard pulled it up. Day three, morning: Chase leaves the hotel. He has a map in his hand and looks energized. He heads east, away from the beach. Two minutes later, Jordan exits through a side door, following the same path. And then, the footage ends. The hotel cameras only covered the perimeter. Beyond that fifty-yard radius, they vanished into the world. “Is there more?” I asked. The guard shook his head. “Only the street cameras, but you’d need the local police for that.” I stood there in the silence of the room. I opened the maps app on my phone. Chase had headed east. Following that road led through a small market, past a gas station, and finally to the coast. A cliffside overlooking the ocean. I stared at the map, my fingers ice-cold. He went there. She followed him. And then he was gone. I rented a scooter and drove the route. The road ended at a rugged stretch of coastline. The cliffs were high, the waves crashing against jagged rocks below. The wind was fierce, threatening to knock me off my feet. It wasn’t a tourist spot. There were no railings, just a dirt path overgrown with weeds leading to the edge. I looked down at the rocks and the thick brush below. If someone fell from here… I couldn’t finish the thought. I started asking around. There was a small fishing village nearby, just a few scattered huts. I showed Chase’s photo to anyone I could find. No one recognized him. I was about to leave when I saw a boy, maybe seven or eight, sitting under a large tree playing in the dirt. He was holding something. A phone. It had a black case with a tiny, faded sticker on the back. It was a photo-booth sticker Chase and I had taken the night of our graduation. Two idiots, squished together, grinning like morons. I had stuck it on his phone myself as a joke. My brain went numb. I walked over, trying to keep my voice steady. “Hey, kid. Where did you get that phone?” The boy looked up, instinctively hiding the phone behind his back. “Is it yours?” I asked softly, kneeling to his level. “No…” he whispered. “I’m not a bad guy,” I said, looking him in the eye. “That phone belongs to my brother. He’s lost, and I’m looking for him. Can you tell me where you found it?” The boy bit his lip. There was something in his eyes that shouldn’t be in a child’s—fear. Not of me, but of a memory. “Did you see something scary?” I asked. His lip trembled. He stayed silent. I pulled out a handful of pesos and held them out. “Tell me, and I’ll buy you something good to eat, okay?” He looked at the money, then at me. He hesitated for a long time. Then he whispered, “I found it at the bottom of the hill.” “Which hill?” He pointed toward the cliffs. My heart dropped into my stomach. “Did you find anything else?” The boy didn’t answer. He looked away. “You found something else, didn’t you?”

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My best friend set her sights on the most unattainable guy on the neighboring campus, stubbornly chasing him for weeks. He didn’t so much as spare her a single glance. Feeling the sting of fighting a one-sided battle, she decided she needed an accomplice. She shoved his equally intimidating best friend in my direction—me, the girl who spent more days navigating chronic illness than college parties. I pointed to my own bloodless, pale lips. “Betty, are you seriously asking me to chase a frat boy?” She pleaded with me, her eyes wide and desperate. “Consider it cardio. Flirting is good for your cardiovascular health.” Eventually, Betty decided to throw in the towel. Naturally, I dropped my end of the bargain, too. That was when the untouchable campus god sent Betty a frantic text, his usual icy demeanor entirely shattered: I’ll agree to go out with you. Just please, for the love of God, tell your best friend to unblock Jaxon. He’s crying so much my apartment is practically flooding. 01 Ever since my best friend, Betty, crashed a guest lecture at Northwood University last month, she had been thoroughly, hopelessly obsessed with Northwood’s resident golden boy, Cole. She made it her life’s mission to win him over. Weeks went by. She deployed every tactic in her arsenal, and the guy remained as impassive as a brick wall. Yet, rejection only seemed to fuel her fire. It was like a sickness. “This is exactly the kind of man I need, Harper,” she would declare, pacing our living room. “If he folded too easily, I’d lose interest. I need the chase.” Because of my precarious health, my parents refused to let me live in the dorms. They rented a quiet, ground-floor apartment for me off-campus, and Betty moved in to keep me company. It was past nine on a Tuesday, rain lashing against the windowpanes in relentless sheets. The front door burst open, and Betty trudged in, weighed down by shopping bags and radiating pure, unadulterated frustration. She kicked off her soaked boots, complaining the second she crossed the threshold. “Dammit all to hell. What is Cole made of? Teflon? I wore the revenge dress today, Harper. The red one. And he just sat there. I swear to God, the man is a monk.” I paused my movie, shifting my gaze to take in the sight of her. Even soaked in rainwater, shivering in a crimson strapless dress, Betty was stunning. “If he’s that impossible to crack, maybe look somewhere else?” I suggested softly, pulling my fleece blanket tighter around my shoulders. “It’s not like you have a shortage of guys lining up.” “No, no, no.” She marched to the fridge, yanked out a sparkling water, and threw herself onto the couch beside me, popping the tab. “Cole is different. When I look at him, my stomach actually drops. And…” She covered her mouth, a wicked, almost feral grin spreading across her face. “His body is insane. I went to his intramural basketball game last week. The v-line? The abs? It’s like he walked straight out of an Abercrombie catalog. Biting that man’s lip would be a religious experience.” I turned back to the TV. I would never understand the beautiful, agonizing mess of modern romance. “Hey!” She nudged my ribs, a sly glint in her eyes. “Look at this.” She unlocked her phone, tapped into her camera roll, and shoved the screen an inch from my nose. A guy stared back from the photo. His features were sharp, unapologetic, and aggressively handsome. He had the kind of dark, piercing eyes and sharp jawline that practically screamed trouble. Knowing Betty, she had definitely screenshotted this from Cole’s private Instagram. “What about him?” I asked. “Harper. Do you like him?” I had known Betty since we were in training bras. The moment her left eyebrow twitched, I knew exactly what kind of chaotic scheme was brewing in her head. I gestured to my own sickly complexion. “Betty, you want me to pursue him?” She grabbed my hands, her eyes sparkling with manic energy. “Harper, Cole and this guy are glued to each other. They’re a package deal. Someone needs to distract the best friend so I can get Cole alone. Besides, I’m dying out here playing a solo game.” She softened her voice, giving me her best puppy-dog eyes. “Just do it with me. Please? Plus, I read an article that said romantic adrenaline boosts the immune system.” On the screen, the heroine of my movie screamed, “I can’t believe I trusted your crazy ass!” It felt entirely too fitting. A second later, my phone buzzed. Betty had Airdropped me the guy’s contact info. “Trust me, Harper. You have to try. He… okay, he looks a little like he might punch a hole in a wall, but I hear he’s actually super nice!” I let out a long, exhausted sigh. “Fine.” “I could literally kiss you right now!” she shrieked, leaning in before freezing. “Wait, I have rain hair and I need a shower. But I’m kissing you on the mouth when I get out. Get to work, babe!” I just stared at her retreating back. While she was in the shower, I opened the contact to add him, only to pause. The screen told me I already had him in my contacts. Huh? I squinted at the guy’s profile picture. It was a vintage illustration of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes. My own profile was embarrassingly nerdy. My display name was simply Sleepy. My picture was Hobbes the tiger, curled up and napping. It was a manifestation of my deepest desire: to just sleep, eat, and exist without anxiety or pain. His display name was Chaos. My thumb hovered over the screen. I figured anyone who used a classic comic strip for their profile couldn’t be a total monster. By the time Betty emerged from the bathroom, enveloped in a cloud of vanilla steam and wearing a silk slip, I had abandoned my live-action movie for Spirited Away. I didn’t have many hobbies, but getting lost in animation and cinema was my safe haven. “Did you add him?” she asked, aggressively towel-drying her hair. “Mhm,” I murmured, my eyes fixed on Chihiro crossing the bridge. Suddenly, a thought struck me. I scratched my head. “Wait, am I supposed to announce that I’m hitting on him? Is there a protocol?” “Hmm.” Betty paused, tapping her chin. “Start by asking him if he’s seeing anyone. If he says no, hit him with: Would you mind if I added myself to your roster?” “Ew, what?” My face scrunched up in visceral disgust. “That is so incredibly cringe. Is that how you flirt?” “Listen to me, modern dating is all mind games. When you come at him with something that brutally honest, that painfully uncool, it loops right back around to being charming. It makes you look innocent. Just do it.” “This is psychological warfare,” I muttered. Despite my better judgment, I typed into the chat: Hi. Are you seeing anyone right now? I assumed it would take hours, maybe days, to get a reply from a guy like that. I tossed my phone onto the blanket. Less than two seconds later, the screen lit up. Jaxon: ? “He just sent a question mark,” I said to Betty, panic rising. “What do I do?” Before Betty could answer, another text came through. Jaxon: No. I physically cringed. Betty lunged across the couch, peering over my shoulder. “Send the line, Harper. Send it now. I’m going to blow-dry my hair.” “Okay.” Jaxon: Why? I closed my eyes, took a breath, and typed: Would you mind if I started having a crush on you, then? The moment I hit send, I threw the phone to the far end of the sofa like it was an explosive device. God, that was humiliating. The phone remained completely silent. Grateful for the reprieve, I turned my full attention back to the Miyazaki film. Fifteen minutes later, Betty flopped down beside me, her hair a sleek, blowout perfection. “Status report?” “He left me on read,” I said honestly. She bit her lip, looking genuinely stumped. I thought she was going to analyze her terrible advice, but instead she shrugged. “Whatever. Totally normal. Cole didn’t text me back for three days the first time.” I remained silent. I wanted to tell her that Cole probably didn’t text her back because he was emotionally unavailable, whereas Jaxon didn’t text me back because I sounded like an AI bot programmed by a desperate teenager. Betty opened her laptop to work on a group presentation, and I grabbed my phone just to check the time. The screen was flooded. “Oh, by the way,” Betty said without looking up, “his name is Jaxon.” I looked down at the notifications. Jaxon: Wait, what does that mean? I don’t just let anyone crush on me. Jaxon: I have standards. Jaxon: Are you saying you want to ask me out? (Timestamp: One minute later) Jaxon: Actually, my standards aren’t that high. Are you hitting on me? Jaxon: I’m really easy to hit on. (Timestamp: Another minute later) Jaxon: Okay, if you like me, let’s just date. Jaxon: Sorry, I was trying to play it cool up there. It backfired. Jaxon: Are you busy? Can you reply? Jaxon: It’s been ten seconds, are you still busy? Jaxon: I messed up. I should be the one asking you out. Please text me back. Jaxon: I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have acted tough. I just panicked and showed the text to my buddy, and he told me to act aloof. Jaxon: He said if I said yes too fast, you wouldn’t respect me. Jaxon: Baby, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad. Jaxon: The truth is, I’ve liked you for a really long time, I just didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know you liked me too. … I stared at the screen, entirely deadpan. “What’s wrong?” Betty asked. “Did he reply?” I pressed my lips together in a tight line, letting the silence stretch. “Betty,” I asked slowly. “When you pursue a guy, the whole point is that they initially reject you, right? Like, for the thrill of the chase?” “Exactly.” Then what on earth was happening right now? A spark of inspiration hit me. I typed back: Reject me. If he rejected me, I could fulfill my duty to Betty by “chasing” him, keeping him distracted without actually having to date him. It was foolproof. Jaxon: [Crying meme] No. I don’t want to reject you. Jaxon: I’m so sorry. I want to travel back in time five minutes and punch myself in the face for trying to act like a badass. Jaxon: I shouldn’t have listened to my idiot friend. I’m sorry. You can yell at me, just please don’t ghost me. I massaged my temples. Me: No. You need to reject me, so I can chase you. This time, the reply wasn’t instantaneous. The little typing bubble danced at the bottom of the screen for what felt like an eternity. Finally, a message popped up, cautious and hesitant: Jaxon: Baby, is this a kink thing? Jaxon: Promise me you won’t actually ghost me. Jaxon: How long are you planning to chase me? I need a timeline so I can emotionally prepare. I glanced over at Betty, who was fiercely typing away on her laptop. Me: Undetermined. Jaxon: Okay. Baby, I reject you. Jaxon: (For the record, that rejection only applies to the roleplay, not to my actual feelings for you). Seeing that, I finally turned to Betty. “Good news. He rejected me.” Betty leaned over, patting my knee in solidarity. “It’s fine, babes. We are modern women; we can handle a little resistance. I’ll teach you the advanced flirting techniques tomorrow.” I then watched in absolute horror as she cleared her throat, shifted her voice into an unnatural, breathy register, and sent a voice note to Cole: “Hey… could you maybe save two seats for me and my friend tomorrow? I really want to be close to the court to watch you play.” I discreetly opened Safari and googled: How to flirt with a guy without losing your dignity. The top article listed a few cardinal rules: a. Push and pull. Don’t be too available. b. Mirror his energy. If he runs hot, run hot. If he goes cold, freeze him out. c. Maintain an air of mystery. d. Do not, under any circumstances, act desperate. I looked up at Betty. “Did you get your flirting techniques from the internet?” “Ha.” She flipped her hair with unwarranted confidence. “Please. I don’t need to steal other people’s material.” No wonder she was getting nowhere. My master was a complete amateur. 02 The next afternoon, the moment our last lecture ended, Betty dragged me across the city limits to the Northwood University campus. By the time we walked into the basketball arena, the bleachers were already packed. The smell of floor wax and masculine sweat hit me like a wall. Betty’s eyes locked onto a target, her face lighting up. She waved frantically. “Cole!” I was still trying to get my bearings in the crowd when she grabbed my wrist and pulled me down the steps. Cole stood courtside, wearing a black and white sleeveless jersey, his expression aggressively neutral. I hadn’t actually seen him in person before, only in the blurry photos Betty obsessed over. Because of my chronic health issues, I rarely went to things like this. Crowds meant germs, exhaustion, and sensory overload. “Harper, if you feel faint or out of breath, you tell me immediately, okay?” Betty whispered fiercely, leaning down to my ear. “It’s stuffy in here. I’ll take you outside the second you need it.” “I’m fine,” I promised, giving her a reassuring squeeze. We were just about to walk over to the seats when I heard Cole call out to one of his teammates. “Where’s Jaxon?” “No clue, man. Haven’t seen him all day.” A second later, a guy near the entrance dropped his jaw and pointed. “Holy shit. Is that Jaxon?” The entire gym seemed to instinctively turn toward the doors. A tall guy was walking in. He had a fresh, sharp haircut—a modern fade that looked expensive—and a silver stud in his left ear. He walked with a loose, arrogant swagger that demanded attention. “What… what did he do to himself?” a guy near us muttered. “Did he skip practice just to get a blowout?” “Who the hell is he trying to impress?” From the moment Jaxon walked in, his eyes darted around the bleachers like a radar, before finally locking onto my pale pink sweater. I could practically see the gears turning in his head. Right, I have to play hard to get. His trajectory, which was initially aimed like a heat-seeking missile straight at me, aggressively veered off to the side. Betty was just about to pull me into our row when a girl stepped up from behind us and tapped Cole casually on the shoulder. “Hey, Cole. Where are the seats I asked you to save me?” The girl had a sleek, shoulder-length bob and an effortlessly cool, sporty vibe. A gaggle of her friends trailed behind her. “Who is that?” I murmured to Betty. The bright smile vanished from Betty’s face, replaced by a dark, stormy look. “Madison. They grew up together.” I didn’t socialize much, but I read an absurd amount of novels. It took me approximately two seconds to read the room. The casual shoulder tap. The proprietary tone. The implicit demand for priority seating. Ah, I thought. The ‘Pick-Me’ childhood friend. The ultimate female bro. “Hey…” Jaxon had clearly lost his internal battle and drifted over, desperate to talk to me. But before he could get a word out, Betty gripped my arm and yanked me down the aisle. “Out of sight, out of mind,” Betty muttered darkly, refusing to look back. I stumbled behind her, glancing over my shoulder. Jaxon was staring after me with the exact expression of a golden retriever who had just watched his owner leave for work. Pure, devastating betrayal. “Your seats are over there. Go sit,” Cole said, pointing Madison toward a row, completely oblivious to the tension. Jaxon, looking murderous, walked over and deliberately shoulder-checked Cole. Cole stumbled a step, looking bewildered. “What is your problem? Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” Jaxon didn’t answer. He ripped off his warm-up jacket in silence. A couple of girls nearby tried to catch his eye, but he shut them down with a glare so cold it could freeze water. … Once we were seated, I tentatively nudged Betty. “What’s the deal with him and that Madison girl?” Betty looked at me, her jaw tight. “I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s just… wherever Cole is, she’s there. Always.” Speak of the devil. Madison and her entourage drifted over to our section. Cole, the absolute idiot, had saved an entire row of premium seats right next to ours. I swallowed my words. Truly, the people involved in a crush are always entirely blind to the dynamics around them. Right before the referee blew the starting whistle, my phone buzzed with rapid-fire texts. Jaxon: Why didn’t you talk to me? I thought you were supposed to be chasing me? Jaxon: Are you giving up? Can we switch? Can I chase you now? Jaxon: The game’s starting. You have to watch me. Please watch me. I glanced up from my screen. Right on cue, Jaxon was staring dead at me from the court. The girls sitting directly behind Madison started whispering loudly. “Omg, Jaxon keeps looking over here. Madison, is he looking at you?” “I am so jealous of you,” another girl cooed. “Growing up with two guys who look like that.” Madison flushed, a coy, practiced modesty settling over her features. “Oh, stop. It’s not like that at all.” Beside me, Betty let out an audible, venomous scoff. I calmly lowered my gaze back to my phone. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jaxon’s hopeful smile instantly flatline into a pout. Once the game started, I quickly realized I was going to be painfully bored. I knew absolutely nothing about basketball. The air was thick with the squeak of sneakers, the roar of the crowd, and the relentless chatter of the girls behind us debating whether Cole or Jaxon had better arms. Suddenly, Jaxon sank a brutal three-pointer from halfway across the court, and the arena practically detonated. He landed gracefully, his face flushed from the exertion. The muscles in his shoulders and arms jumped beneath the harsh gym lights, sculpted and defined. Instinctively, he looked straight up at my seat. The crowd around me shrieked again. “His girlfriend has to be sitting in our section, right?” a girl muttered behind us. “He keeps checking this exact spot.” Then, a voice dripping with syrupy sweetness aimed a question at Madison. “Maddie, honestly, if Cole and Jaxon both confessed their undying love to you tomorrow, who would you pick?” “They’re both so hot! That’s an impossible choice.” “Oh my god, you guys, shut up and watch the game,” Madison deflected, though her voice was laced with pure satisfaction. Betty turned to me, mouthing the word: Pathological. When the final buzzer sounded, Betty grabbed her bag. “Harper, stay right here. Don’t move. I’m going down there, I’ll be right back.” Before I could protest, she had grabbed a bottle of Gatorade and was sprinting down the bleachers. I noticed Madison’s seat was already empty; she had beaten Betty to the floor. I sat quietly, watching the tide of students file out. Against the current, a guy in a black-and-white jersey was taking the steps two at a time, making a beeline for me. I didn’t blink as Jaxon reached my row, dropping his massive frame into the empty seat beside me. He looked at me, a breathless, cocky grin on his face. “I thought you were pursuing me. Where’s my post-game water?” “Sorry,” I said, my voice soft, my eyes completely devoid of remorse. “First time chasing a guy. I’m a little rusty on the protocols.” Jaxon, still chest-heaving from the game, let out a raspy laugh. He tilted his head back, taking a swig from his own water bottle. I watched his Adam’s apple bob. He was objectively devastating to look at. With the sweat glistening on his collarbones and the faint red flush high on his cheeks, the whole “bad boy” aesthetic was dangerously potent. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaned in close, and dropped his voice to a low murmur. “Stop torturing me, baby.” “Let’s just drop the act and go public. Please?” He smelled intensely of adrenaline and cedarwood. The sheer force of his proximity made me instinctively lean away. “Sit back,” I ordered, pressing a single index finger against his chest to push him away. I tilted my head, studying him. “So. You like me?” He sat up perfectly straight, nodding with aggressive sincerity. “But…” I dragged the word out, pointing down toward the court where Madison was currently hovering near the benches in a pleated tennis skirt. “What exactly is your relationship with her? Because the rumor mill says you two have history.” Jaxon’s dark amber eyes locked onto mine, suddenly incredibly serious. “Cole, Madison, and I grew up in the same neighborhood. Our moms are close. But I swear on my life, she is nothing more than an acquaintance I’m forced to acknowledge on holidays.” “Really?” I asked softly. I shifted my gaze to look just over his shoulder. Madison had marched up the bleachers and was standing right behind him, her face thunderous. “Jaxon!” she spat, her voice trembling with indignation. “Where the hell did you go? I was looking all over the court for you. Unbelievable. You ditch your real friends the second you see a pretty face?” I watched the two of them without saying a word. Jaxon’s jaw clenched. He turned his head just enough to look at her over his shoulder. “I told you downstairs. I don’t accept drinks from anyone unless it’s my girlfriend.” “I… I’m not just ‘anyone’!” Madison’s eyes instantly pooled with weaponized tears. She looked like a wounded doe. “We grew up together! What’s wrong with me bringing you water? Just because you get a girlfriend means we can’t be friends anymore?” Madison turned her tear-filled, doe-eyed gaze on me, her voice trembling perfectly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you sitting up here. I didn’t know you were his girlfriend. I hope I didn’t cause a fight between you two.” Wow. She threw the grenade, pulled the pin, and played the victim all in one breath. Spending my whole life sick indoors meant I had read an ungodly amount of historical romance and contemporary drama. I was practically a scholar in the art of dismantling manipulative women in literature. I had just never had the chance to deploy it in the field. Until now. I practically rolled up my mental sleeves. But before I could speak, Jaxon beat me to it. His brow furrowed in genuine disgust. “What are you talking about? She hasn’t even agreed to be my girlfriend yet, but the way you’re talking to her is seriously pissing me off.” Madison’s face froze. The manufactured tears literally halted in her eyes. Right then, my phone rang. It was Betty. “Harper. Let’s go.” I picked up Betty’s tote bag from the bleacher, standing up to leave. Jaxon looked up at me, absolute panic in his eyes. I smiled, reaching into Betty’s bag and pulling out an untouched bottle of Evian water. I let my gaze slide lazily over to Madison, making sure she was watching. I held the bottle out to Jaxon. “Here.” Jaxon’s amber eyes lit up like Christmas morning. His large hand, veins faintly tracing the back, practically snatched it from my grip. “Hey, we’re all going out to get food after this,” Jaxon said breathlessly. “Do you and Betty want to come?” I stepped around the seats, stopping directly in front of Madison. Jaxon shadowed my every move like a bodyguard. I gave her a sickeningly sweet smile. “Excuse me. You’re blocking the aisle.” Madison’s jaw locked. She stepped aside. I walked down a few steps, then paused and looked back over my shoulder. I gave Jaxon a bright, genuine smile. “See you around, Jaxon.” When I reached the ground floor, I grabbed Betty—who was staring at me like I had grown a second head—and pulled her toward the exit. She kept looking back at Jaxon, who was standing at the top of the bleachers staring after me like a man who had just seen God, and then looked at me. “Holy shit. What… what did you do to him? He looks like a domesticated wolf.” “Trade secret,” I whispered.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407047”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I’m a midnight driver. My business is… specific. My passengers even more so. It’s the kind of work that would break most people within a week. One evening, my mentor, Gus, told me to pick up an old friend of his. He described the man as a “heavyweight”—someone whose soul carried the weight of an empire. I didn’t take the assignment lightly. I’d prepared the traditional offerings—high-end spirits, artisanal cakes, the things that smooth the transition from this world to the next. I was driving through the quiet, wooded outskirts of Kingsport when I saw three figures waving frantically by the roadside. It was pitch black. No other cars, no streetlights. Against my better judgment, I felt a flicker of human pity. I thought I’d give them a lift to the nearest station. The second I pulled over, a man drenched in designer labels—from his Gucci loafers to his padded Moncler vest—shoved his way into the passenger seat. He didn’t say hello. He just slapped a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills against my cheek. “Downtown. The Royal Meridien,” he barked. “And stop at a CVS. I need a few boxes of Magnums.” His two friends piled into the back, trampling over the silk-wrapped gift boxes I’d placed carefully on the seat. “What is this junk?” one of them complained. “There’s no legroom with all these baskets.” Before I could protest, I heard the dull thud of my offerings hitting the asphalt. They’d tossed the expensive fruit and the hand-crafted cakes out into the dirt like common trash. My blood ran cold. The effort, the respect I’d put into this mission—discarded in a second. I felt my face tighten, my skin prickling with a heat that had nothing to do with the car’s heater. “Get out,” I said, my voice low. “I’m not taking you.” The man in the passenger seat barked out a laugh, as if I’d just told a hilarious joke. “You’re a cab driver, sweetheart. You don’t get to ‘not take’ us. One phone call and I’ll have your hack license shredded before sunrise. You’ll never work in this city again.” The two in the back joined in, their laughter sharp and jagged. “Do you even know who he is?” the girl, a blonde in a micro-skirt, sneered. “This is Barrett Huntington. You should be thanking him for the privilege of having his ass in your seat.” “He’s the guy who owns the skyline you’re driving toward, loser,” the other guy added. “Show some respect or start looking for a cardboard box to live in.” I gripped the steering wheel. I didn’t know much about the “Huntington” social circle, but I knew the Veil. And in my world, the living were the ones who didn’t belong. 1 “Did you hear me? Drive,” Barrett snapped. He reached over and slammed his palm onto the horn, the blare echoing through the silent woods. The girl, Tinsley, giggled. I cursed my moment of empathy. I’d invited a curse into my car. I forced myself to take a breath, trying to stay professional. “Look, I’m sorry, but this car is pre-booked. I have a VIP pickup. I can drop you at the gas station two miles up—it’s well-lit and easy to catch an Uber from there.” Silence followed, then a hand reached from the back and whipped a stack of bills across my face. The edges of the paper stung like a series of tiny papercuts. “The car is booked by me now,” the guy in the back said. “How much? Name a price. Everyone has one.” I pushed the money away, my heart hammering. “It’s not about the money. I’m on a schedule. The city isn’t on my route.” Suddenly, a heavy boot slammed into the back of my driver’s seat, jolting my spine. “I could crush you like an ant and not even lose sleep over it,” Barrett hissed, leaning into my personal space. “Drive. Now.” They weren’t leaving. And I couldn’t exactly pull out my Sanctum ID and explain that I was a courier for the dead without making things worse. I decided to get them to the gas station and handle it there. Within minutes, the cabin was thick with the acrid stench of expensive cigars. I started to cough, the smoke stinging my eyes. “Could you please not smoke in here?” The guy in the back let out a plume of smoke. “This cigar costs more than your monthly rent, honey. You’re getting the secondhand high for free. You should be paying me.” “Exactly,” Tinsley added, grinding her cigarette out directly onto the leather upholstery. The smell of burning hide filled the car. “If our Maybach hadn’t broken down, we wouldn’t even be in this piece of junk.” My heart ached. This wasn’t just a car; it was a custom SSS-Class Shadow Vessel, enchanted and rare. “What are you doing? You have no idea what this car is worth!” They erupted in another round of shrill laughter. “Worth? My family has sixty cars in the garage,” Barrett said, checking his gold watch. “Any one of them could buy your life ten times over. This bucket of bolts is filthier than my dog’s kennel. Stop acting like it’s a Ferrari.” My knuckles were white on the wheel. I had a job to do. I couldn’t let these parasites derail me. When we reached the gas station, I pulled over firmly. “This is it. You have phones. Call a car, call a friend, I don’t care. I’m not charging you for the ride. Just get out.” They exchanged a look and, surprisingly, piled out. I let out a long, shaky breath, thinking the nightmare was over. I stepped out for a moment to see if I could salvage any of the fruit from the trunk to offer as a gesture of apology to the VIP. When I walked back toward the front of the car, my heart stopped. Every window had been shattered. My phone, which had been on the dashboard, was a mess of glass and plastic on the pavement. Barrett stood there, twirling my driver’s license between his fingers, a smirk plastered on his face. “Well, well. It turns out our little driver is a fraud,” he said. “A ‘Gold-Tier Veil Courier’? What kind of delusional psych-ward bullshit is this?” 2 Panic flared. That license was my only protection in the darker corners of the city. I lunged for it, but Barrett was faster. He shoved me back, and I stumbled, my palms scraping against the grit of the parking lot. “Using a fake ID to run an illegal taxi? That’s a felony, isn’t it?” he mused, leaning against the ruined door of my car. “Maybe we should call the cops. See how they feel about your ‘Veil’ business.” Dealing with the living was so much more exhausting than dealing with the dead. I bit my lip, tasting copper. “What do you want?” Barrett pulled Tinsley close, kissing her deeply before looking back at me with cold, bored eyes. “Nobody says no to me. Not in this city. You tried to play tough, and now you’re going to pay for it.” He stepped closer, his breath smelling of expensive bourbon and malice. “You’re going to be my dog tonight. You go where I say, when I say. Right now, Tinsley wants to see the moon over the river. Get in.” “I can’t,” I whispered. “Please. I have somewhere I have to be.” He tutted, reaching out to slap me. I flinched away, and the movement seemed to trigger something feral in him. “You dare move?” he roared. “In Kingsport, I’m the closest thing to a god you’ll ever see. You should be crawling on your knees for the chance to serve us.” Tinsley and the other guy drifted closer, their faces twisted in mockery. “Look at her,” the guy said. “Driving an illegal cab with a crazy-person ID. She’s probably a high-end hooker who lost her mind.” “I bet if we check the back, we’ll find used needles,” Tinsley added. I hated myself for stopping. I hated my own kindness. But Barrett’s expression suddenly shifted into something disturbingly calm. “Tell you what,” he said, flipping my ID like a coin. “I’ll give you a break. Drive us to one more spot—just one—and then you can go back to your ‘VIP.’ If you don’t, I call the police, hand them this ID, and tell them you tried to rob us.” The location he named was, by some miracle, on the way to my original destination. I didn’t know what he was planning, but I was running out of time. Punctuality wasn’t just a professional habit in my line of work; it was a matter of spiritual life and death. Gus had recruited me because of my “unfortunate” disposition—I was born with a “Thin Veil” constitution. I saw things I shouldn’t. I was a magnet for bad luck until Gus found me. “Working for the Sanctum builds merit,” he’d told me. “Do this, and maybe in the next life, you’ll be the one in the back of the Maybach. It’s a government job, kid. Just… a different branch of government.” He was right. Usually, the powers that be on both sides of the line gave me a wide berth. I drove them to the spot Barrett requested—a secluded stretch of road near the cliffs. The moment I put the car in park, the night was flooded with light. A dozen black SUVs switched on their high beams, surrounding us. Before I could even process the trap, my door was ripped open. A hand tangled in my hair and dragged me out onto the cold hard ground. Barrett’s voice was like ice. “Total the car. And then, break her legs.” 3 My scalp screamed in pain. I felt the sting of gravel on my face, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. “You gave me your word!” I choked out. Barrett stood over me, looking down like I was a bug he was considering stepping on. “I said I’d let you drive us here. I never said I’d let you walk away.” Several men in dark suits approached my car with sledgehammers. The first blow shattered the hood with a sickening, heavy thud. Again and again, they swung. The enchanted metal groaned, the interior being ripped into shreds of leather and wire. And then, they doused it in gasoline. That car was a masterpiece of the Other Side, a vessel for souls. Watching it burn was like watching a living thing die. I tried to scream, to run toward the flames, but my arms were pinned behind my back. In the flickering orange light, Tinsley clapped her hands. “It’s so much prettier this way, don’t you think?” I looked at her, my eyes burning. “You have no idea what you’ve done. That car was for a Guest. If he isn’t picked up on time, the shadow he leaves behind will tear this city apart.” Barrett just laughed and tossed a titanium credit card onto my chest. “It’s a car. I’ll buy you ten of them.” “I don’t want your money, Barrett. Some things can’t be fixed with a check.” He pulled out my license again, grinning. “In this town, there is nothing I can’t fix. But you, Riley? You’re a special kind of crazy.” He signaled to one of the men. “Check her file. I want to know who this ‘Veil Courier’ really is.” A man with a tablet stepped forward. “Riley St. Claire. Her grandmother was a ‘spiritualist’ in New Orleans. Classic nutcase. Riley was kicked out of boarding school for claiming she saw ‘shadow people.’ Spent two years in Saint Jude’s Psychiatric.” I remembered Saint Jude’s. That’s where I met Gus. He was the only one who didn’t try to medicate the ghosts away. Tinsley rolled her eyes. “Great. We got a ride from a literal psycho. No wonder the car smelled like a funeral home.” I looked at them, a cold dread settling in my gut. They didn’t understand the debt they were accruing. “You should leave,” I said softly. “The clock is ticking.” Barrett knelt beside me. “I want to see if your knees are as tough as your car.” He wasn’t joking. I felt a shiver of pure, primal terror. I was outnumbered and broken. “Barrett, please,” I whispered, my pride dissolving into a desperate need to survive. “I’ll apologize. I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me go.” I lowered my head to the dirt, the ultimate sign of submission. Barrett stayed silent for a moment, then grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “A little late for that, isn’t it? But fine. If you take us to this ‘Guest’ of yours, maybe I’ll reconsider.” I shook my head violently. The Guest was not for the living. To bring these people into his presence would be a death sentence for their entire bloodline. “I can’t. For your sake, I can’t.” Barrett’s face twisted. He stood up and signaled to the man with the sledgehammer. The heavy iron swung down. I heard the crack of my own bone before I felt the pain—an agonizing, white-hot explosion in my knee. I collapsed, howling, my world narrowing down to the pulsing rhythm of the trauma. 4 “Take us there. Now.” Barrett was obsessed. He thought this was a game of status, a secret club he was being excluded from. He didn’t realize he was banging on the door of a tomb. I gasped for air, bile rising in my throat. “You won’t… you won’t like what you find.” Tinsley tugged at Barrett’s arm. “Barrett, let’s just go. She’s pathetic. Look at her.” Barrett ignored her and kicked me hard in the ribs. The air left my lungs in a wet wheeze. I spat blood onto his shoes. “Fine,” I managed to choke out. “I’ll take you.” I had warned them. I had tried to save them. But the universe has a way of balancing the scales. If they wanted to walk into the abyss, I would be their guide. They dragged me into the back of one of the SUVs. My leg was a twisted mess of agony, but I forced myself to stay conscious. I gave them the coordinates. A private, high-security hospice tucked away in the hills—The Evergreens. As we wound higher into the mist, Barrett’s bravado began to flicker. “This… this is where my grandfather stays,” he muttered. “He doesn’t see anyone. Not even the board members.” He turned to me, his eyes wide and suspicious. “Who are you, Riley? How do you know this place?” I didn’t answer. Suddenly, Barrett’s phone buzzed. He answered it, his face turning the color of ash. “Sir?” a voice crackled through the speakers. “Where are you? Your grandfather… he just passed. Ten minutes ago. Your mother is frantic. You need to get here.” The car became deathly silent. Tinsley whispered, “It’s just a coincidence, Barrett. She’s a stalker. She must have known he was sick.” I clutched my shattered knee, staring out at the dark trees. I knew better. When we pulled up to the main gates, a woman in a black designer suit—Barrett’s mother—was waiting. She saw Barrett first, her face a mask of grief and fury. “Barrett! Your grandfather is gone, and you arrive smelling like a bar? Have you no shame?” Then she saw me being hauled out of the car, my leg dripping blood. Her jaw dropped. “Miss St. Claire? What… what happened? You were supposed to be here an hour ago. We had an arrangement.” I looked at Barrett’s horrified face and felt a cold, sharp satisfaction. “You should ask your son, Mrs. Huntington,” I rasped. And then, a wave of oppressive, freezing air rolled out from the hospice doors. A darkness so thick it swallowed the porch lights began to bleed into the night.

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My brother is gay. Normally, that wouldn’t be a tragedy. But his decision to drag a clueless girl to the altar just to bleed my parents dry for a $150,000 “wedding fund” and a luxury house? That was where I drew the line. In my past life, I couldn’t bear the sight of my aging parents working their fingers to the bone, desperately liquidating their meager retirement accounts to fund his lie. So, I ripped the band-aid off. I outed him. I told them the truth about his secret life. They didn’t believe me. Instead, they branded me a jealous, toxic spinster who was just trying to sabotage my brother’s happiness because I didn’t want to help him buy a house. They disowned me on the spot. But Hunter didn’t stop there. He took to the massive extended family group chat, dropping deepfaked photos of me, claiming I was a high-end escort bankrolled by married sugar daddies. Blinded by a cocktail of rage and betrayal, I stormed out of the house. I just wanted to get to the airport. I just wanted to go home. I never made it. An 18-wheeler ran a red light. As my soul lingered over the asphalt, tethered to my mangled body, I watched the aftermath. I watched Hunter answer the phone call from the police. I watched his eyes light up. He didn’t shed a tear. Instead, he used my literal blood to extort a massive wrongful death settlement from the trucking company. The last thing I heard before the darkness took me was the sound of my brother, flush with my death money, calling his secret boyfriend. “Babe, the bitch got hit by a truck. We’re rich. I love you so much. I’m giving it all to you, and we’re getting the hell out of this country to get married.” Absurd. Vile. Unforgivable. But then, I blinked. And I was breathing. The phantom pain of crushed ribs and shattered femurs still hummed in my nerve endings, but I was sitting upright. I was in the stifling, wallpapered dining room of my childhood home in Ohio. I was looking right at Hunter, who was leading a pretty, doe-eyed blonde through the front door. My mother lunged forward, grabbing Hunter’s hands with tears of religious fervor in her eyes. “My boy. My beautiful boy! A son is a blessing, bringing a bride home to carry on the Gallagher legacy.” 1. “Not like your sister,” my mother continued, her voice sharpening into that familiar, grating pitch as she shot a disdainful glare in my direction. “Over thirty, completely unmarried, and not bringing a dime of value into this house. Nothing but a bad investment.” The smell of pot roast and the heavy silence of the room crashed into me. I gripped the edge of the dining table, my knuckles turning white. I stared at the scene unfolding before me, the realization washing over my panic like a bucket of ice water. I was back. I had been reborn into the exact moment Hunter brought his beard, Madison, home for the first time. This was the day he would casually ask for a hundred and fifty grand in cash to “secure” her, plus the down payment on a four-bedroom colonial in the suburbs. My parents, entirely middle-class and barely scraping by, wouldn’t hesitate. Desperate to see their golden boy procreate, they would agree to bleed themselves dry. I knew the truth. I knew my brother was sleeping with two, maybe three different men in the city. Last time, my heart had ached for my parents’ naive devotion. I hadn’t wanted Madison to be collateral damage in his twisted, closeted masquerade. So, I had spoken up. And the moment the words left my mouth, my father had backhanded me so hard I hit the floor, screaming at me to go to hell for spreading such filth. My mother had thrown her hot tea in my face, telling me to get out, get married, and give my brother my dowry. I remembered the cruel, mocking glint in Hunter’s eyes as I scrambled up from the carpet. “Natalie, I didn’t even want to mention that you’re whoring yourself out to rich men in New York, and now you have the nerve to project your sick fantasies onto me? Have you no shame?” My father had chased me out the door with a wooden chair, screaming that I was a stain on the family name. Hunter had stood on the porch, recording the whole thing on his iPhone to send to the relatives. And Madison? She had just crossed her arms, taking a deliberate step back from me as if my presence was contagious. “Just because no man wants to invest in a decrepit spinster like you doesn’t mean you have to ruin Hunter’s big day,” she had sneered. “You’re pathetic.” The memory of the truck’s grill smashing into my spine made me nauseous. But that was then. This time? I wasn’t going to say a damn word. If they wanted to burn their lives to the ground for their precious son, I would hand them the matches. 2. “What is wrong with you? Sit down!” my father barked, his face darkening the moment I abruptly stood up from my chair. “No manners. No grace. It’s a miracle any man can even look at you without wincing.” Hunter pulled Madison tighter against his side, flashing me a brilliant, teeth-baring smile. “Nat! Maddie and I are making it official. You’re gonna pitch in for the wedding, right? You’re my big sister. My favorite sister.” Favorite sister. Right. Growing up in a house where the sun rose and set on the son, I was nothing more than an ATM. His allowance came from my high school minimum-wage jobs. His private college tuition and his frat dues were quietly siphoned from my corporate salary. For years, I had harbored this pathetic, hollow hope that if I just gave a little more, paid a little more, my parents might finally look at me with an ounce of the adoration they saved for him. But dying changes a person. Dying violently, unloved and betrayed, burns the last of that pathetic hope into ash. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, forcing my muscles to relax. I slowly lowered myself back into the chair. “Sure,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I’ll make sure to get you a very special gift.” If he wanted to play house, I was more than happy to help set the stage for the explosion. Hunter’s smile faltered. My easy agreement clearly wasn’t enough. He furrowed his brow, perfecting his pout. “Just a gift? Come on, Nat. We need a house.” “Exactly,” my mother chimed in, practically tripping over herself to advocate for him. “Hunter is the heir to this family. You’re the older sister. You’ve been living it up in New York City making six figures for years. What’s buying a starter home for your brother? You’re family. Why are you being so stingy?” I dug my fingernails into my palms. I met my father’s threatening glare and kept my voice perfectly level. “Okay. I’ll handle the house.” Words were just wind. I just needed to survive this dinner without being chased out like a rabid dog. The moment this awful charade of a meal was over, I was booking a one-way flight back to JFK. They could rot for all I cared. The tension in the room evaporated instantly. My promise of real estate acted like a magic spell. For the rest of the evening, my parents fawned over Madison, promising her diamond rings and loudly praying she would pop out at least three strong boys. As they were finally leaving, Madison hung back in the hallway. She looked me up and down, her eyes swimming with a smug, misplaced superiority. “Woman to woman,” she whispered, her tone dripping with pity. “Seeing me this cherished… it must be driving you crazy, huh?” 3. “Hunter treats me like a queen,” Madison went on, inspecting her manicured nails. “My family only asked for fifty grand to help with the wedding, and he voluntarily bumped it to a hundred and fifty. He’s putting it in a trust for me. He respects me so much, he even insisted we wait until the wedding night. No premarital sex. He’s old-fashioned like that.” She looked at me like I was something she scraped off her shoe. “Honestly, Natalie? You’ll probably never meet a real man like him in your entire life.” I smiled. It reached my eyes this time. “I wish you both a very speedy trip to the altar.” A hundred and fifty grand? That was going straight into his boyfriends’ pockets. A new house? That was his new bachelor pad for his late-night hookups. No premarital sex? Honey, he physically cannot get it up for you. Disappointed that I didn’t break down crying, Madison huffed, turned on her designer heel, and marched out the door. My parents drove the happy couple back to their hotel. They didn’t even bother to say goodbye to me. They forgot I was even in the house. I was used to it. I checked the time, packed my overnight bag in utter silence, and called an Uber to the airport. By the time my flight touched down in New York, my lock screen was a chaotic mess of notifications. Dozens of missed calls. A sea of angry red text messages from my mother. [Where the hell did you go? Maddie was here and you didn’t even take them out to the city to celebrate!] [Your brother is young and needs liquidity. Wire him $20,000 right now so he can take her shopping. Don’t make him look broke in front of his fiancée.] [Why aren’t you answering me?! Are you really throwing a fit over twenty grand? He is the only one who matters to this family’s legacy!] [Ungrateful bitch! Selfish! I should have drowned you. You’re not worth half the dirt on your brother’s shoes.] It went on and on, devolving into pure vitriol. Then came Hunter’s texts. [You’re literally just an ATM for this family. Act like it.] [I can introduce you to one of Maddie’s creepy uncles if you’re that desperate. He’s old, but he’s loaded. I need the cash flow right now, Nat.] [Stop being a drama queen and sell yourself to someone useful. Looking at your miserable face makes me sick.] I read them all. I didn’t type a single word in response. Instead, I opened my browser and dialed the number of a high-end private investigator based in Manhattan. I gave him Hunter’s name, his favorite haunts, and a hefty retainer. If my family wanted a spectacle of a wedding, I was going to give them the season finale they deserved. For years, I had paid the mortgage on that Ohio house. I paid their utility bills. When my parents were sick, Hunter was out partying, and I was the one burning my PTO to fly back and spoon-feed them soup. Yet, to the outside world, my parents bragged only about their brilliant, upstanding son. A college grad. A straight-edge, perfect gentleman. Meanwhile, I was the cautionary tale. The cold, ungrateful, aging career woman. Why? This time, I absolutely refused to let them play parasite to my life. I didn’t block their numbers. I just left them on read. Let them sweat. Hunter, impatient and greedy, couldn’t handle the silence. He took it to the extended family group chat—over a hundred aunts, uncles, and cousins. [Natalie, what is your problem? Mom’s blood pressure is spiking and you’re ignoring us. Are you even human?] [If you’re too broke to buy the house, just say it. But ignoring Mom? You’re dead to me.] 4. In the Gallagher clan, Hunter was the firstborn son of the new generation. He was the messiah. The moment he fired the first shot, the rest of the family eagerly joined the firing squad. Uncle Tom: Natalie, seriously? You’ve always been a rebel, but tearing the family apart over money? Grow up. Aunt Susan: Oh, little Nat thinks she’s too good for us now that she’s in New York. Typical. Great Aunt Martha: Wretched girl. She’s been wild for years. She’s the older sister! Her only job from birth was to pave the way for her brother! Uncle Greg: Told your dad years ago, having a girl first was a curse. Useless. I watched the vitriol roll down my screen, sipping my coffee. It was fascinating to see it all laid bare. They truly believed I was a monster for simply… existing. Finally, my father dropped his heavy hand into the chat. Dad: Enough. Natalie, do you really want to air our dirty laundry to everyone? You have that apartment in Brooklyn. Sell it. The equity is more than enough to buy your brother his house in the suburbs. Dad: It’s settled. You have ten days to get the funds in order. Hunter needs to get married. I almost laughed out loud. I typed out my response, slow and deliberate. Me: I am never buying Hunter a house. Hitting send felt like tossing a grenade into a hornets’ nest. The chat exploded. The language turned vile—calling me a whore, a slut, a traitor to my own blood. Finally, my father delivered his ultimate ultimatum. Dad: If you do this, you are no longer my daughter. We are cutting you off. You are dead to the Gallaghers. Never come back. In my past life, that threat would have sent me spiraling into an absolute panic attack. The fear of being an orphan, of being totally unloved, had kept me in chains. Now? It felt like someone had just handed me the key to my own cage. Me: Deal. Have a nice life. I locked my phone and went to sleep, sleeping more soundly than I had in a decade. I woke up the next morning to absolute chaos. Hunter, desperate to ruin me, had escalated. He dropped the AI-generated photos into the massive family chat. Deepfakes of my face superimposed onto explicit images with older men. Hunter: Keep your filthy whore money, Natalie! I wouldn’t touch it if my life depended on it! He played the righteous, wounded brother perfectly. The comments beneath it were disgusting, reducing me to something less than human. And my parents? They didn’t defend me. They took screenshots of the chat, proudly declaring that they had already disowned the “harlot.” My phone rang. Hunter. “Say you’ll buy the house, and I’ll tell them it was a prank,” he hissed into the receiver. “You’re a fucking idiot,” I said, and hung up. Minutes later, an AI-generated video hit the group. Hunter texted me, I am going to destroy your life. I didn’t panic. I just sent one final message to the group chat. Me: All files have been saved and timestamped. My lawyer is submitting them to the NYPD for distribution of revenge porn and defamation. Then, I hit ‘Leave Group’. 5. It didn’t take two minutes for my phone to ring again. It was my mother. Her voice sounded ragged, stripped of its usual bravado. “Natalie… what are you doing? You can’t sue your own brother.” “He distributed pornographic material with my face on it,” I said, my voice like ice. “It’s a felony. Why wouldn’t I?” “He knows he went too far! He’s just stressed about the wedding. He’ll apologize!” “I don’t care about his apology, Mom. I’m pressing charges.” Seeing that I was completely immovable, her mask slipped. She began to screech, her voice piercing the speaker. She called me a shameless bitch, screaming that with the money I made, I must be sleeping around anyway. “The cops don’t care about family drama! You’re bluffing!” she shrieked, and in the background, I could hear Hunter laughing. It was an ugly, grating sound. Even though my heart had already calcified toward them, a tiny, buried part of me still ached. I didn’t argue with her. I just hung up, forwarded everything to my attorney, and told him to go for the jugular. For the next few days, my phone was a barrage of unknown numbers. Relatives begging me to drop it, telling me I was ruining a young man’s life over a “joke.” A joke? I tossed my SIM card in the trash and bought a new one. The next time I saw my brother, it was inside a precinct in Manhattan. I had refused mediation. The NYPD didn’t take kindly to interstate cyber-harassment and revenge porn. Hunter was detained. As I walked out of the precinct doors, my mother materialized from the waiting area, hurling her heavy iced coffee right at my head. It grazed my shoulder, splattering against the wall. “You little slut!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “I should have strangled you in your crib!” A police officer immediately stepped between us. My parents glared at me with murderous intent, but they didn’t dare physically attack me with a cop standing right there. Madison was there, too. She was draped in a cashmere coat, a designer bag on her arm, and my grandmother’s vintage emerald necklace resting against her collarbone. She looked at me with pure disgust. “You’re so jealous you’re literally trying to put my fiancé in jail.” “I’m telling you right now,” she sneered, leaning in. “I don’t care what you do. We are still getting married. I’m going to live the dream life you’re too miserable to ever have.” “The second Hunter makes bail, we’re getting our marriage license. I hope you rot, Natalie.”

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The day I graduated, my parents handed me their primary debit card. “Maren, honey,” my mom said, her voice thick with that practiced fragility she wore like a shawl. “You’re out there on your own now. We can’t do much, but this is our life savings. It’s our retirement fund—our safety net. We want you to have it.” I looked at that thin piece of plastic, feeling a weight in my chest that didn’t feel like gratitude. It felt like a debt. I knew how hard they’d worked, so I made a silent vow. Every month, I’d transfer fifteen hundred dollars back to them from my salary, just to make sure they were taken care of. That lasted until my younger brother, Tyler, decided it was time for him to get married. He didn’t ask. He demanded. “Maren, Mom and Dad gave you the entire family nest egg. I’m trying to put a down payment on a house and I’ve got nothing. You owe me sixty thousand dollars. Now.” I stood in their kitchen, drying a dish, and didn’t even turn around. “I don’t have it,” I said flatly. “Not a dime.” 1 Tyler exploded. He slammed his fork onto the table, the silver clattering against the porcelain. “Do you even have a soul, Maren? There was over a hundred and fifty grand in that account! I’m asking for sixty, and you’re acting like I’m robbing you!” “Don’t be greedy, Tyler,” I replied, finally turning to face him. My dad snapped then, glaring at Tyler. “Sit down! Who do you think you’re talking to? Your sister is a single woman living in a brutal city. That money was meant to be her protection.” “Dad, you’re being ridiculous! You’re totally playing favorites!” My mom reached over and swatted Tyler’s arm, though there was no sting in it. “Hush! A man provides for his own wife. Besides, didn’t we try to help you talk to the bank about a loan?” “Nobody’s lending right now!” Tyler shouted, pacing the linoleum. “I don’t care. Maren, you have the card. Give it to me.” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. “You want money? You’ll have to cut it out of me. Go ahead, Tyler. Give it your best shot.” “You—!” Tyler lunged forward, but Mom caught him by the waist. “Stop it! She’s your sister!” “She’s a hoarder! She’s sitting on our family assets while I can’t even start a life. That money belongs to me just as much as her.” My dad slammed his fist on the table, making the water glasses jump. “That money belongs to me until the day I’m in the ground! And while I’m breathing, I’ll give it to whoever I damn well please!” Tyler shrunk back, muttering under his breath. “Fine. But at least give me fifteen. For the earnest money. The good listings don’t stay on Zillow for more than a day.” I shrugged. “Like I said. Not a dime.” “You’ve changed, Maren. You’re obsessed with money. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars… five years of interest alone should be twenty grand. You’re crying poverty? No one believes you.” I smirked. “You don’t believe me? Fine. Let’s go to the bank tomorrow. We’ll pull the full statement.” “Fine! Let’s go!” Mom suddenly looked panicked. She grabbed Tyler’s arm and then reached for my hand, her palm sweaty. “Oh, stop it, both of you. Fighting over money like this… it’s embarrassing. What would the neighbors think?” I pulled my hand away. Dad stood up and grabbed Tyler by the ear, hauling him toward the back bedroom like he was ten years old again. I could hear Tyler’s muffled protests as the door slammed. I didn’t stick around. My apartment in the city was only a forty-minute train ride away. Within the hour, I was staring at my ceiling, the silence of my own space finally wrapping around me. Then, the phone rang. Mom. “Maren, don’t be hard on him. He’s just stressed about the wedding. His fiancée, Brittany… she won’t walk down the aisle without a deed in her hand.” “Sounds like a Tyler problem,” I said. “Maybe I should just give the card back to you and Dad.” “No!” Mom’s voice spiked, nearly a shriek. She caught herself quickly. “I mean… no, honey. We gave it to you. It’s yours.” I felt a chill go down my spine. “Well, it’s a shame,” I said, my voice dripping with irony. “Uncle Pete and the rest of the family aren’t exactly flush with cash either, or I’m sure they’d lend to you.” “Money is tight everywhere,” she sighed. “I hate that you’re being put in this position.” “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice steady. “Actually, I can help. I’ll text you the numbers for a few private lenders and some personal loan officers I know. They can get Tyler the cash.” “Maybe you could even take out a second mortgage on your house. You’d get the sixty thousand easily.” There was a long, suffocating silence on the other end. “I… I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she finally whispered. 2 “Why not? If the family won’t help, that’s the only way. Unless… you want the card back?” “No! Goodnight, Maren!” She hung up abruptly. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled up the family group chat and dropped the contact info for three high-interest lenders. @Dad @Mom, check these out. They’re legitimate lenders for quick cash. My dad replied almost immediately: What loans? Mom said you guys were struggling to find the down payment for Tyler. These guys are fast. The chat went silent for ten minutes. Then Dad: Forget about it. Just focus on your job. Your mother and I will figure it out. Mom added: I was just venting, Maren. Don’t worry. We would never touch your money. Then Tyler entered the chat like a wrecking ball. Maren, you’re a piece of work. Mom asks for help and you send her to a loan shark? Who does that? I typed back with a smile: You’ve got a clean credit score, Tyler. You could probably pull a hundred grand on your own. Then you wouldn’t even need a down payment; you could buy in cash. Try it. Tyler’s response was a sixty-second voice note. I didn’t even play it. I knew the tone: the high-pitched vitriol of a boy who had been told ‘no’ for the first time in his life. I silenced my phone and went back to my laptop. My coworker, Ben, looked over from the next cubicle. “Everything okay? You look like you’ve been in a war zone.” “My family wants sixty thousand dollars for my brother’s house,” I said, not looking up from my spreadsheet. “Sixty? God. I know you make good money, Maren, but that’s insane. Do they think you’re a bank?” I just shrugged. I let the information sit there. I wanted the people around me to know the situation—a preemptive strike in case Tyler decided to show up at my office and make a scene. I’d worked hard for my life. I had a condo, no husband, a six-figure salary, and a reputation for being untouchable. That made me a target for people like Tyler. I knew he wouldn’t let it go. I just didn’t expect them to show up so soon. That Friday, as I walked out of the glass lobby of my office building, there they were. Mom, Dad, and Tyler. Standing by the fountain like a welcoming committee from hell. “Must be nice,” Tyler sneered the moment he saw me. “Designer suit, corner office, playing the big-shot executive while your family rots.” I nodded. “It is nice. I worked sixty hours a week for four years to get that annual bonus. It was fifteen thousand this year. And you’re not seeing a cent of it.” Tyler looked like he was about to vibrate out of his skin. Dad grabbed his shoulder. “Knock it off. We just came to see your place, Maren. Tyler, if you can’t behave, get back in the car.” Tyler fumed but stayed quiet. I led them to my condo—a spacious, sun-drenched loft with floor-to-ceiling windows. Mom’s jaw practically hit the hardwood. “Maren… this is… how much does a place like this even cost?” “With the current market? Around eight hundred thousand,” I said casually. “Between my salary and the savings I’ve built up, the mortgage is manageable.” Tyler was spiraling. “Eight hundred thousand? You’re living in a million-dollar palace and you won’t give me sixty grand? You used Mom and Dad’s retirement to buy this, didn’t you? You thief!” 3 I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “You think so? Fine. You want the card? Take it.” I reached into my purse, pulled out the “nest egg” card, and tossed it at his chest. “Here. The PIN is your birthday. Go ahead. Go to the bank and see what’s in there. Get the full transaction history while you’re at it.” Tyler caught the card, stunned. “You’re… you’re serious?” “Dead serious.” The grin started to spread across his face, but Mom lunged forward and snatched the card out of his hand. “What is wrong with you?” she hissed at me. She tried to shove the card back into my purse. “Don’t listen to him, Maren. We just came to visit.” Tyler’s eyes went red. “Mom, stop it! You’re being so biased it’s sick! Brittany said if I don’t have a house, the wedding is off. She’s pregnant, Mom! Do you want your grandkid living in a rental? Do you want me to be a loser forever?” He actually sat down on my designer rug, looking like a broken child. Dad sighed, looking exhausted. “If we can’t afford a house, we can’t afford a house. People rent all the time.” Mom turned on Dad, then on me. “It’s because he isn’t like you, Maren. You were always the smart one, the capable one. Look at this place! Look at your life! And look at your brother…” Dad waved a hand dismissively. “Enough. Let’s not fight. Diane, go in the kitchen and start some dinner. We’re all hungry.” As Mom headed into the kitchen, I followed her to “help.” Outside in the living room, I could hear Dad trying to talk sense into a sobbing Tyler. In the kitchen, Mom leaned over the island, her voice a low, desperate whisper. “Maren, I know you’ve worked hard. But he’s your only brother. I’ve been thinking… I can scrape together ten thousand. If you could just find another fifty… maybe ask your boss for an advance? You said you got that bonus…” I looked at her. Really looked at her. I saw the desperation, but I also saw the calculation. “You want me to go into debt for him, Mom? I have a mortgage. I have bills.” “But you’re so successful! Please, Maren. For me?” I stayed silent for a heartbeat. “I’ll think about it.” Mom visibly deflated with relief. After dinner, while my parents were “napping” in the guest room, I pulled Tyler aside. I slid the debit card back into his hand. “While they’re asleep, grab their IDs from Mom’s purse. I’ll drive you to the bank right now.” “You mean it?” “Yeah. Let’s settle this.” Tyler didn’t hesitate. He was a greedy moth flying straight into a blowtorch. He swiped the IDs, and we were at the bank branch the moment it opened the next morning. He shoved the card into the ATM, his fingers trembling as he punched in his birthday. The screen flashed. Balance: $0.00. He whirled around, shouting in the quiet lobby. “Maren, you bitch! You played me! There’s nothing in here!” I feigned a gasp. “What? That’s impossible. I never touched that money. Get a printed statement, Tyler. We need to see where it went.” “You’re lying! You spent it on that condo!” He was screaming now. “The card was with you! Where else would it go?” “I didn’t take it,” I said, my voice calm and loud enough for the bank manager to look over. “Get the receipts.” He stomped over to the teller desk, demanding a printout. While the printer hummed, my phone vibrated. Mom. “Maren? Where are you? My ID is gone!” “We’re at the bank, Mom. Tyler wanted to check the balance. We’re getting the statements now.” A sharp, choked gasp came from the other end. “Who told you to do that? Stop! Stay right there, I’m coming!” I didn’t stop. I took the stapled pages from the teller and tucked them into my bag. Tyler sneered at me. “Acting’s over, Maren. Give me the papers.” “No. The money isn’t with me. If you think I stole it, call the cops.” “Fine! You think I won’t? I’m doing it!” He pulled out his phone, his face contorted with rage. “911? I want to report a theft. My sister stole a hundred and fifty thousand dollars from my parents’ retirement fund.” 4 He was howling in the middle of the lobby. Saturday morning customers were everywhere, their necks craning, their eyes wide with the kind of voyeuristic glee that only comes from watching a family fall apart in public. I just crossed my legs, leaned back on the velvet bench, and waited. A few minutes later, my parents burst through the doors, breathless and pale. They saw Tyler, then they saw me. Mom looked like she was about to faint. She grabbed Tyler’s arm. “What are you doing? Stop this madness!” Tyler’s eyes were bloodshot. “Mom, she took it! It’s all gone! Every cent of your retirement! She bought that luxury loft with your blood and sweat, and now she’s letting me rot! She’s a monster!” Mom’s hand flew out. Slap. The sound echoed through the bank. Tyler froze, his cheek blooming red. Mom’s lips trembled; she couldn’t find the words. She looked at me, and for the first time, I saw the sheer, unadulterated terror in her eyes. She knew. The crowd began to murmur. You could hear the judgment in their whispers. “Can you believe her? Stealing from her own parents like that.” “Look at that bag she’s carrying. Probably costs three grand.” “Typical. The successful child thinks they’re entitled to everything while the brother gets nothing.” I didn’t move. I just watched Tyler. Tyler, sensing the crowd was on his side, played it up. “They worked their whole lives for that money! They sacrificed everything so she could go to college, so she could have a career! And this is how she pays them back? By leaving them with nothing?” Mom grabbed his arm again, her voice a panicked hiss. “Tyler, shut up! This is family business! Let’s just go home!” “No! I want everyone to see what she is!” Dad tried to grab my arm to pull me up. “Maren, get up. We’re leaving.” I shook him off. “Why are you in such a hurry, Dad? Afraid of what the police will find?” “You’re being a brat! Your brother is emotional, but you—you should know better!” “I know exactly what’s going on,” I said. “And I’m not going anywhere.” Across the lobby, a teenager had his phone out, livestreaming the whole thing. I looked directly into his camera and gave a small, chilling smile. The comments on his screen were flying by: Toxic sister! Absolute gold-digger! Justice for the parents! One comment caught my eye. It was from a profile I recognized. A guy from my office. I know her. She’s a total ice queen. Always acting like she’s better than everyone. Figures she’s a thief. I pulled out my own phone, found the stream, and replied: I know you too, Dave. You’re the guy who asked me out, tried to make me pay for your $12 avocado toast, and then complained to HR when I said no. Keep talking. My phone buzzed. A text from my boss: Maren, what is happening? Fix this. Do not let the company’s name get dragged into a family spat. I replied: Don’t worry, sir. The truth is about to come out. Finally, two police officers walked in. Tyler ran to them like they were his saviors. “Officers! She did it! She stole the money! A hundred and fifty thousand!” The officers looked at me—the woman in the expensive suit looking perfectly composed—and then at the disheveled, screaming brother and the trembling parents. “Is this true, ma’am?” the officer asked. I stood up slowly. “No, Officer. I didn’t take a cent. But I do have the bank statements right here.” I reached into my bag and pulled out the stapled packet.

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The day Cole Bradley won the Grand Prix championship, I found a pair of black lace underwear wedged between the leather seats of his Aston Martin. That same night, I tipped off the tabloids and kicked down the door of a five-star penthouse at the Ritz, catching the golden boy of American motorsports in bed with his newest protégée. Amidst the blinding flash of cameras and my own hysterical screaming, Cole looked utterly panicked. Yet, in the chaos, his first instinct was to pull the duvet up, using his own body to shield Madison from the lenses. “It was a momentary lapse in judgment,” he pleaded later, his voice cracking. “She means nothing to me, Nat. Nothing.” It wasn’t until the internet ripped Madison to shreds, until the cyberbullying drove her into a manic frenzy that ended with her accelerating her car straight into me—killing the child growing in my womb—that I finally gave Cole an ultimatum. Send her to prison, or sign the divorce papers. Cole had stared at my flat, empty stomach, his eyes bloodshot. The very next morning, he handed over the dashcam and telemetry data to the district attorney. The evidence of Madison’s vehicular assault was irrefutable. After that, Cole walked away from the track. He transitioned to a background role in team management, dedicating every waking hour to pulling me out of the suffocating, pitch-black well of clinical depression. Years passed. We healed, or so I thought. When I finally saw the two pink lines on a pregnancy test again, my heart swelled with a cautious, desperate hope. I wanted to surprise him. But on my way home, passing an exclusive maternity boutique on Rodeo Drive, I stopped dead in my tracks. Inside, a young woman with a pronounced baby bump was casually pointing at displays, buying out half the store. “My husband knows I’m terribly indecisive,” she giggled to the clerk, “so he just told me to put the whole collection on his card.” “You guys deliver, right? Have it sent to the gated estate in Bel-Air.” The girl turned her head, catching the afternoon sun. I froze, the breath knocked entirely from my lungs. It was Madison. The girl who was supposed to be rotting in a state penitentiary. … The blood in my veins turned to ice water. The sales associate looked at Madison with starry-eyed envy. “Your husband must love you so much.” Madison rested a manicured hand delicately on her belly, a saccharine smile playing on her lips. “He really does. He was my mentor first, actually. A genius on the track. He’s been taking care of me since day one.” She sighed, playing with a lock of her hair. “When I first joined the racing circuit, I was so green. He was terrified the older guys would take advantage of me, so he taught me everything himself. Hand-over-hand on the steering wheel. He even had a custom blush-pink Porsche wrapped just for me.” Early in our marriage, I used to go to the paddock. I would stand in the deafening roar of the pit lane, waving his team colors, my throat raw from cheering. But eventually, he started meeting me after races with a cold, distant expression. He told me to stop coming. When I asked why, he simply said, “The track is too dangerous, Nat. It’s not a place for a wife.” It wasn’t that it was too dangerous. It was just that he couldn’t be bothered to waste his energy pretending I belonged in his world. “The other day, I just coughed a little from walking too fast,” Madison continued, her voice dripping with mock exasperation. “And he completely panicked. Had his private concierge doctor come to the house for a full workup!” Half a month ago, the morning sickness had hit me so hard I couldn’t stand. Cole had initially promised to drive me to my OB-GYN appointment. But as I was grabbing my purse, his phone buzzed. He told me an urgent sponsor crisis had come up. Go ahead without me, he’d said, kissing my forehead. I’ll come pick you up after. I sat in that sterile waiting room alone. I got my blood drawn alone. I waited in the hospital corridor for six hours. The only thing that came was a Venmo notification from Cole with a quick text: Caught up in meetings. Take an Uber Black home on me. Love you. Madison looked radiant. Suddenly, her phone chimed. “Oh, my husband is pulling up. Don’t forget the delivery instructions!” I shrank back against the corner of the brick storefront, my eyes locked on the curb. A sleek, black Maybach silently rolled to a stop. When the heavy door opened and Cole stepped onto the pavement, the world around me ceased to exist. He caught Madison as she threw herself into his arms, his voice laced with an affectionate reprimand. “You’re about to be a mother, Maddie. Why are you still running around like a teenager? What if you trip and hurt the baby?” Madison pouted, looking up at him through her lashes. “Are you getting tired of me? Do you think I’m just not as good as your boring, washed-up wife?” Cole’s tone softened into something I hadn’t heard in years. Pure, unadulterated devotion. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one could ever touch your place in my heart.” A physical agony ripped through my chest, sharp and breathless. When Madison hit me with her car, I was twenty-eight weeks pregnant. I had to deliver him. He was a fully formed little boy, a tiny, perfect, lifeless weight placed on my chest before being taken away forever. For months, I woke up screaming. I dreamt of a little voice crying out in the dark, begging me to save him. The grief mutated into a severe depressive episode. I tried to end my life more than once, and every time, Cole was the one who pulled me back from the ledge. To stay by my side, he retired at the peak of his career, walking away from millions in endorsements and the only life he knew. When his fans took to Twitter, blaming me for ruining his legacy, saying I was a psycho who didn’t deserve him, Cole issued his first and only public cease-and-desist. [My wife is my entire world,] his statement had read. [Caring for her is not a burden; it is the greatest privilege of my life. Anyone who speaks ill of her will hear from my legal team.] A wave of bitter acid rose in my throat. As if sensing the sheer weight of my stare, Cole abruptly turned his head toward the alleyway. I instinctively flattened myself against the brick wall, my heart hammering against my ribs. “What are you looking at?” I heard Madison ask. “Don’t ignore me! If you don’t tell me exactly why I’m better than that old woman, I’m going to make you sleep on the couch!” Cole chuckled, a low, helpless sound as he smoothed her hair. “You’re better than her in every way.” “I should start recording you when you throw these tantrums,” he teased gently. “Show the kids one day just how childish their mother really is.” Madison’s face flushed. “You want me to ruin my body having multiple kids for you? Keep dreaming!” Every syllable was a serrated blade, sawing slowly through the last remaining tethers of my sanity. A cold California wind swept down the street, and I shivered uncontrollably. Cole immediately guided Madison toward the open car door. “You shouldn’t be out in the wind in your condition. Let’s go home.” Watching the Maybach merge into traffic, a desperate, hysterical impulse took over. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. In the past, even if he was halfway across the world in Monaco, Cole answered my calls on the first ring. First attempt. Sent to voicemail. Second attempt. Sent to voicemail. By the third, the phone was turned off completely. I raised a trembling hand to my face, only then realizing my cheeks were entirely slick with tears. I floated back to our house like a ghost. When I pushed the heavy oak front door open, Cole was already sitting on the living room sofa, his jacket tossed over a chair. The moment he saw me, he stood up, crossing the room to pull me into his chest. His brow furrowed with familiar, practiced concern. “Nat? Are you okay? Is it the depression again?” I didn’t lean into his touch. I didn’t answer his question. I just stared straight into his dark eyes. “Do you want a child, Cole?” A microscopic flicker of unease crossed his face. “Your body… the doctors said your condition isn’t suited for pregnancy right now.” Was my body not suited for it, or did Cole just not want me to be the one carrying his child? I shoved hard against his chest, breaking his hold. Reaching into my purse, I pulled out the glossy photos I’d printed at a pharmacy kiosk on the way home—pictures I’d snapped of them outside the boutique—and slammed them onto the glass coffee table. Tears spilled over my lashes, my teeth grinding together so hard my jaw ached. “You and Madison. Don’t you think I deserve a goddamn explanation?” Cole froze. For a second, he looked at the photos, and then the warmth bled out of his face, replaced by a glacial, defensive anger. “You’re stalking me?” He scoffed, a cruel twist of his lips altering his entire demeanor. “Is this why you were blowing up my phone today?” “What exactly do you want me to explain, Natalie? Yes, I cheated. I fell for my protégé. What happened back then… the crash, it was a tragic accident. She was so young, Nat. I couldn’t just let her rot in a cell and destroy her entire future over a mistake.” “I’ve kept her set up quietly. She knows her place. She has never bothered you. You’re the one forcing this out into the open, making a mess out of nothing.” His calm, calculated blame felt like a physical blow. He was rewriting history. Rewriting the murder of my child as a “mistake.” A visceral cramp seized my stomach, and I doubled over slightly, gasping in pain. Seeing me wince, muscle memory kicked in; Cole instinctively reached out to support me. I slapped his hand away with everything I had. “Don’t touch me! Keep your filthy, hypocritical hands off me. You make me sick!” Cole’s face darkened, his jaw ticking. He opened his mouth to snap back, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered it instantly, his eyes locked coldly on mine. “I’m leaving,” he said to me, pocketing the phone. “Take a pill and calm down.” He walked out with hurried, urgent strides. Driven by a morbid need to twist the knife in my own chest, I followed him in my own car. I watched from a distance as he stopped at a high-end grocer. He came out carrying a massive bouquet of imported Juliet roses and a small, delicate clamshell of organic strawberries. I remembered my first pregnancy. The morning sickness had been unrelenting, and one afternoon, I had an overwhelming, desperate craving for fresh lychees. Cole had been deep in prep for the Le Mans race, surrounded by engineers and press. He had his assistant send a massive, expensive fruit basket to the house. It was filled with exotic melons and berries, but not a single lychee. Now, I sat in my idling car and watched the man who couldn’t be bothered to leave the track for me step into a sprawling Bel-Air estate. Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, I watched him carefully wash the strawberries by hand, cut off the stems, and feed them, one by one, to Madison. The dam inside me finally broke. I got out of the car, ran up the driveway, shoved open the unlocked front door, and marched straight into the kitchen. Before either of them could react, I swung my arm back and slapped Cole across the face with a sickening crack. “Natalie, have you lost your mind?!” He instantly pulled Madison behind him, shielding her just like he had in that hotel room years ago. His eyes blazed with unchecked hostility. “Take your crazy out on me! Maddie has nothing to do with this!” I stumbled backward, the floor swaying beneath my feet. I couldn’t reconcile the monster standing in front of me with the man I loved. When I first told him I was pregnant all those years ago, Cole hadn’t cared that we were in the middle of a crowded restaurant. He picked me up and spun me around, tears in his eyes. Nat! I’m gonna be a dad! Before we even knew the gender, he had cleared out a room, filling it with model cars and tiny racing helmets, bragging to the press that he was raising the next generation of motorsport royalty. And now. “What do you want, Natalie? Do you want her to pay with her life?!” Cole’s voice boomed through the kitchen, but as he took in my bloodshot eyes and trembling frame, he lowered his tone, attempting a twisted sort of negotiation. “Once Maddie’s baby is born, you can be its godmother. We can all move past this.” Staring at the man who was bargaining away my grief to protect the woman who killed our child, my heart didn’t just break—it shattered into dust. Madison peeked out from behind him, stepping forward to grab my forearm. Her perfectly manicured acrylic nails dug viciously into my skin, pinching the flesh hard enough to draw blood, even as she put on a terrified, trembling voice. “I’ve always felt so guilty about what happened back then, Natalie… I just hope, one day, you can find it in your heart to forgive me—” “Get off me!” I yanked my arm back violently. I hadn’t pushed her, but Madison threw herself backward, collapsing onto the marble floor with a theatrical shriek. “My baby…!” She clutched her swollen stomach, her face contorting in faux agony, before letting her eyes roll back as she “fainted.” Cole’s face drained of color. He turned to me, a look of pure, unadulterated hatred in his eyes. “You know exactly what the pain of losing a child feels like, and you’re trying to do the exact same thing to Maddie?!” He shoved me. Hard. He didn’t look back as he scooped Madison into his arms and sprinted toward the door. I staggered backward, my heel catching on the edge of the luxury rug. I fell hard, my tailbone slamming against the unforgiving marble. But a second later, a deep, tearing agony ripped through my lower abdomen. “Cole… wait. Help me, I’m preg—” He paused in the doorway. Those dark eyes that used to look at me like I hung the moon were now cold and dead. “The doctors were very clear, Natalie. You can hardly get pregnant.” “Don’t try to manipulate me with cheap lies. You’re draining whatever love I have left for you.” He walked out. I lay on the floor, paralyzed by the pain, until a delivery driver found me through the open door and called an ambulance. At the hospital, the ER doctor’s voice was gentle but grave. Threatened miscarriage. I squeezed my eyes shut, the tears leaking down my temples and into my mouth, tasting of salt and copper. Behind my eyelids, all I could see was Cole’s broad back as he walked away from me. My phone buzzed on the bedside table. A photo message illuminated the screen. It was Madison, her maternity blouse unbuttoned, slipping off her shoulder. And there was Cole, his head bent over her chest, his lips approaching her breast. An audio file followed. I pressed play with shaking, icy fingers. Madison’s voice drifted out, breathless and cloyingly sweet: “It’s my first time pregnant, so my body is just so sensitive… Cole couldn’t bear the thought of me hurting myself with a mechanical breast pump, so… he offered to help clear the ducts himself…” A wave of pure nausea violently hit the back of my throat. My hands trembled so hard I could barely type, but I opened the Reddit app. I bypassed the racing forums and went straight to a major pop-culture subreddit. [IndyCar Golden Boy Cole Bradley knocked up the protégé he swore he dropped. The same protégé who killed his wife’s unborn baby. He’s housing her in Bel-Air.] I attached the photo she had just sent me, along with the ones from the boutique, and hit post. Within an hour, it was trending on X and TikTok. The internet exploded, tearing Madison apart, calling her a homewrecking sociopath. But the victory was short-lived. A massive PR firm stepped in. The hashtags were scrubbed, the posts shadow-banned, and in their place, a polished, official press release from Cole’s agency took over the trending page. [My former wife, Natalie Bradley, has long suffered from severe psychiatric delusions. We legally separated some time ago. The fabricated narratives circulating online are the tragic result of her declining mental health.] I slid down the hospital wall, collapsing onto the cold floor. When he proposed, Cole had gotten down on one knee in the rain, swearing to God he would never let a tear fall from my eyes. When I lost our baby, he swore he would never touch a steering wheel again, dedicating his life to doing penance by my side. Now, he told the world I was crazy. The vows of our youth were nothing but a punchline. My phone rang. It was Cole. When I answered, his voice dripped with exhaustion and profound disappointment. “Nat. Do you have any idea how hard Maddie has worked to get her life back on track? Do you really have to destroy her?” “She’s locking herself in the bathroom, threatening to end it. She’s young and hormonal, and I’m terrified she’s going to do something irreversible.” “Take down the posts, issue a retraction, and come here to apologize to her in person.” A jagged lump formed in my throat, choking off my air. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, forcing the tears back. “Me? Apologize? Who the hell is going to apologize to my dead son?!” “Cole Bradley, you are bending over backward to protect a murderer! How do you sleep at night?!” The child inside me seemed to contract, as if feeling the toxic rush of my despair. Despite my best efforts to hold onto my dignity, a ragged, animalistic scream tore from my throat. It was the sound of years of suffocated grief and betrayal finally clawing its way out. My breakdown seemed to shock him. The line went silent for a long, heavy moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. “If that’s how you want to play it, fine. Don’t blame me for what happens next.” “You hurt Maddie. Actions have consequences.” He hung up. The next morning, an anonymous whistleblower post went viral across my university’s forums and local news outlets. [Tenured by Day, Escort by Night: The Truth About Professor Bradley.] The three-thousand-word expose was allegedly written by a former classmate. It claimed that to secure my coveted tenure-track position at the university, I had slept with my fifty-year-old department chair. Attached was a grainy photo from years ago. I was standing in a cramped office, and an older man’s wrinkled hand was resting inappropriately low on my waist. My brain short-circuited. I was a scholarship kid who clawed my way out of a dead-end town. I had no money, no connections. In grad school, my advisor had weaponized my vulnerability, assuming I’d be too terrified to report him, and subjected me to relentless sexual harassment. Even though I eventually fought back and he was quietly forced into early retirement for “academic misconduct,” the trauma had left deep, lasting scars. The only person in the world I had ever confided in about that was Cole. And now, Madison was on Instagram Live, crying to thousands of viewers. “Cole and I have known each other for years. He promised we’d be together. But Natalie trapped him… she spiked his drink at a party years ago and used a pregnancy to force him into a miserable marriage!” The internet turned its rabid attention toward me. [They let this whore teach college kids? Homewreckers should kill themselves!] [No wonder her baby died. Karma doing its job!] The sheer volume of the hatred was a physical weight, pressing the air from my lungs. A sharp, pulling ache radiated through my lower pelvis. Within an hour, I received an email from the Dean’s office. I was suspended, pending a full investigation. The sensation of drowning was total. I was still sitting numbly on the floor when my phone rang. It was my mother. “Natalie, what the hell is happening on the news?! Get over here right now and explain this mess to me!” Her voice was strained, breathless. She had a severe heart condition; any spike in her blood pressure was a death sentence. I dragged myself to her house. The second I walked through the door, a hand struck my cheek with blinding force. I stood there, ears ringing, holding my face. It was only then that I realized Cole was sitting calmly in her armchair. My mother was shaking violently, her face pale. “Get on your knees! Natalie, I did not work my fingers to the bone raising you just for you to become some cheap mistress destroying another woman’s home!” I opened my mouth, desperate to explain, but she cut me off. “Cole already told me everything! He told me how you’ve been blackmailing him, how you’ve been sleeping around behind his back!” I snapped my head toward Cole. He met my gaze, a faint, mocking smirk playing on his lips. Before I could form a word, my mother lunged, grabbing a handful of my hair. “Apologize! You apologize to Cole and Miss Madison right now! Or so help me God, you are no longer my daughter!” The crushing injustice of it all snapped whatever fragile thread was holding me together. I gritted my teeth against the pain in my scalp, refusing to break. “I didn’t do it! I am the victim here! Why should I apologize to the woman who ruined my life?!” “You… you want to put me in the ground, is that it?!” My mother gasped, her chest heaving. Suddenly, her eyes rolled back. She clutched her heart and collapsed onto the hardwood floor like a puppet with its strings cut. “Mom!” I threw myself toward her. Her lips were already turning a terrifying shade of blue, her breathing reduced to wet, rattling gasps. My hands shook violently as I fumbled for my phone to dial 911, but a hand shot out and snatched the device from my grip. “You can call the ambulance,” Cole said, his voice terrifyingly calm, “right after you apologize to Maddie.” I was hovering over the abyss of total madness. I screamed at him, my voice shredding my throat. “I’ll apologize! I’ll do whatever she wants! Just let me call the paramedics, please!” Cole frowned, looking slightly displeased by my volume, but he tossed the phone back onto the floor. The moment the ambulance arrived at the emergency room doors, Cole stepped in front of me, physically blocking my path to the sliding glass doors. “Kneel down and apologize to Maddie. Until you do, my private medical team won’t so much as look at your mother.” Madison had just arrived, chauffeured in one of Cole’s SUVs. Seeing me panic-stricken and covered in sweat, a flash of triumphant glee crossed her face. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted a rush of warm blood. Swallowing my pride, my dignity, and the last remnants of my soul, I dropped to my knees on the dirty concrete in front of Madison. “I’m sorry. I am the homewrecker.” “You stop when Maddie says she forgives you,” Cole dictated, his arms crossed. I bent forward, pressing my forehead against the pavement. One time. Two times. Three times. The concrete scraped my skin raw. Blood began to trickle down my brow, blinding my vision. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Cole’s brow furrowed, a flicker of something like discomfort crossing his face. “Enough. Go check on your mother.” He turned to walk inside. As he did, Madison leaned down, her lips brushing my ear. Her voice was pure venom. “I showed her the deepfake videos of you sleeping with those older men before she collapsed. She really didn’t take it well, did she?” My mother couldn’t take any more stress. My fragile grip on reality disintegrated entirely. I scrambled up, practically crawling through the ER doors toward the resuscitation bay. The attending physician walked out, slowly pulling off his surgical mask. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. The patient suffered a massive cardiac event. Given the delay in getting her here… there was nothing we could do.” The world went silent. My heart didn’t just break; it ceased to exist. My body began to convulse uncontrollably. A sudden, blinding agony tore through my abdomen, twisting my insides like barbwire. I looked down to see dark, crimson blood pooling around my legs, staining the sterile linoleum. They rushed me into emergency surgery. When the doctors initiated the D&C to remove what was left of my pregnancy, the physical agony was nothing compared to the violent severing of my spirit. I felt every scrape, every pull. My soul was being hollowed out, piece by bloody piece. “Your uterus has suffered significant trauma from the fall,” the surgeon murmured later, her eyes full of pity. “Coupled with the history of your previous loss… the scarring is severe. It is highly unlikely you will ever be able to carry a child to term. I am so deeply sorry.” I stared at the ceiling tiles, entirely numb. Dead inside. I arranged my mother’s cremation alone. I dragged my hollowed-out, broken body back to the house. This house was supposed to be our forever home. When we bought it, Cole had insisted on putting the deed solely in my name, a grand romantic gesture to prove I would always have a safe harbor. Looking around at the sprawling, empty rooms, I let out a dry, rattling laugh that quickly turned into sobbing. I signed the paperwork, slipped the medical documents into a manila envelope, and paid a courier for immediate, expedited delivery to Cole’s office. Then, I turned around, flicked open Cole’s silver Zippo lighter, and tossed it into the heavy velvet drapes. I stood by the second-story window, watching the flames lick the ceiling, turning the beautiful cage he built for me into an inferno. Closing my eyes against the heat, I whispered into the smoke. Cole Bradley, if there is a next life, I pray to God I never meet you. I stepped out into the empty air. … Meanwhile, miles away in a glass-walled corner office, Cole’s assistant burst through the heavy oak doors, breathless. “Mr. Bradley! A priority courier just dropped this off—” “It’s a medical diagnostic report… and a signed divorce agreement!”

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