Category: English

My mother spent her life performing sainthood, a portrait of untouchable grace who never fought and never demanded. When a well-educated gold digger got pregnant and tried to usurp her place, I secretly ended the mistress’s pregnancy and destroyed her reputation. My mother only reprimanded me for being ruthless. She claimed the girl had a difficult past and quietly wired her a million dollars in compensation. When my father’s first love returned from abroad demanding a divorce, I used the tech empire I built from scratch as leverage. After weighing his options, my father abandoned the idea. Yet at our family gathering, my mother publicly shamed me, calling my methods extreme and unladylike. When my deadbeat uncle was sold to a South American cartel over gambling debts, Mother wept before me every day. I fought my father tooth and nail until I screamed he was cold-blooded and unworthy. He slapped me, threw me from the car into the pouring rain, and a truck shattered every bone in my body. Watching me die broke my father. Grief-stricken, he spent a fortune rescuing my uncle, cut ties with his mistresses, and swore to be a devoted husband. At my funeral, Mother held my brother’s hand, her voice serene as she looked at my casket. She sighed that my ambition and cutthroat nature brought this fate upon me. I called it poetic justice. I bled in the trenches while she reaped every benefit with clean hands. It was utterly pathetic. When I opened my eyes again, I was reborn to the day my father’s mistress first appeared at our door. 1 “Lydia, let’s have a little chat.” A stunningly beautiful woman with immaculate makeup steps into the private parlor. She walks right in and makes herself comfortable on the velvet sofa. Resting her left hand on her waist, she gently strokes her slightly swollen belly with her right. She looks at my mother with a sugary smile and drops the bomb. She tells her she is pregnant, and the baby belongs to Richard. Her voice is remarkably calm, yet dripping with a ruthless ambition. Watching this familiar scene play out feels entirely surreal. The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water. I have come back from the dead. I am right back at the exact moment Lily, my father’s mistress, came to stake her claim. The agonizing memories of my past life flash through my mind like a silent movie stuck on fast forward. Lily pulled this exact same stunt back then. I easily deflected every dirty trick she threw our way. I set a trap that caused her to lose the baby, dug up enough corporate dirt on her to ruin her career, and ensured she could never show her face in Manhattan high society ever again. I handled the threat cleanly and perfectly. But my mother just looked at me with eyes full of holy compassion. She sighed, saying the poor girl came from nothing, got blinded by the Winston family’s wealth, and took a wrong turn. She actually called the homewrecker a victim of circumstance. Then, she turned her judgmental gaze on me. She criticized my heavy-handed tactics. She called me a murderer for harming an innocent life. She told me she had already booked a retreat for me at a secluded monastery so I could cleanse my soul of its heavy sins. To top it all off, she secretly wired that mistress a million dollars to ease her guilt. I was left completely powerless and exhausted. For as long as I can remember, my mother has always been like this. Playing the untouchable ice queen. Never fighting. Never showing greed. She would always look at me with that serene, infuriating calmness. She would say the world isn’t always about winning or losing. Sometimes, not fighting is the ultimate victory. Those who understand you need no explanation, and those who don’t will never believe you anyway. My heart used to ache for her. I begged her to divorce my father, promising I would build an empire and take care of her myself. She refused. She fed me some nonsense about how loving a man means accepting every broken piece of him. So, I became her shield. I stood on the front lines, taking the bullets, scheming and plotting in the shadows just to keep her safe. She got to play the saint. I played the villain. She scooped up all the rewards without lifting a single manicured finger. And in the end, it was because of her worthless brother that I picked a fight with my father and ended up dead on the asphalt. But her? She used my bloody corpse as a teaching moment for my little brother. I can still hear her light, breezy tone at my funeral, telling him my death was the natural consequence of my own toxic ambition. Great. Absolutely fantastic. I fed my bleeding heart to a stray dog. In this life, I will not lift a single finger to fight her battles. 2 My mother stares at Lily’s belly for a long moment, then slowly shifts her gaze up to the younger woman’s face. A flicker of shock breaks through her composed expression. The color drains from her cheeks, leaving her looking fragile and pale. Seeing my mother look like a ghost, Lily rests her chin on her hand and smiles brightly. She asks if her face looks familiar. She casually mentions that twenty years ago, Richard only settled for Lydia because he was forced to break up with Seraphina. Seraphina Dupont. The golden girl of the Dupont dynasty. My father’s untouchable first love. Back then, my father was just a nobody from the wrong side of the tracks. The Dupont family despised him. They forced Seraphina to dump him and shipped her off to Europe. During his darkest days, my mother quietly stayed by his side. When my father finally built his fortune, he married her out of obligation. But Seraphina’s memory has always been a poisoned thorn buried deep in my mother’s heart. Against an opponent like my mother, who only knows how to strike pretty poses, Lily holds all the cards. Lily leans forward, her voice dripping with venom. She tells my mother she is nothing but a second-rate substitute. But Lily? Lily is the mirror image of Richard’s one true love. “Between a substitute and a replica,” Lily purrs, “I think the replica holds a little more weight, don’t you?” “Because we really do look alike. Don’t we?” The moment the words leave her mouth, my mother sways on her feet. She grips the edge of the mahogany table so hard her knuckles turn bone white, yet she desperately tries to keep her face entirely blank. Someone is rubbing her nose in the dirt, and she is still trying to maintain her zen, above-it-all persona. In my past life, I never understood her. After dying once, everything makes perfect sense. My father chose her back then specifically because of that quiet, submissive energy. He used to praise her for being gentle, generous, and completely undemanding. From that moment on, my mother carved that persona directly into her bones. When you wear a mask for twenty years, it fuses to your skin. She truly believes this fake purity is the only advantage she has over Seraphina. Besides, why should she ruin her image? Any dirty work, any vicious fighting, would always be handled by her loyal attack dog. Me. She just needs to look pretty, act innocent, and let the world believe she is an angel. 3 My mother is losing ground by the second, and Lily refuses to let up. “Let’s talk credentials,” Lily smirks. “I graduated top of my class from Yale. I am Richard’s executive assistant. And you?” She pauses, letting out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You are just a useless housewife.” My mother’s eyes turn raw and red. She bites her lower lip, looking the picture of absolute misery. But true to form, she doesn’t argue. She doesn’t defend herself. Lily scoffs at the theatrical display. She leans back, confidently declaring she is younger, smarter, and far more loved by Richard. She tells my mother she has already lost the war. Panicking, my mother shoots a desperate, pleading look in my direction. I don’t even blink. I casually pick up my phone and start drafting a reply to a work email. If this were my previous life, I would have already flipped the table. I would have torn Lily to shreds with a vicious smirk, humiliated her, and kicked her out onto the street. Afterward, I would have hugged my mother, promising her she didn’t need to worry about street trash like that. I would have sworn to fix everything. Not anymore. Clean up your own messes. You are a grown woman. Stand on your own two feet. Seeing my absolute indifference, a flash of pure disappointment crosses my mother’s eyes. Makes sense. She is so used to treating me like a loaded gun. But today, the gun has jammed, and it must be terribly frustrating for her. Because of my mother’s desperate glance, Lily finally acknowledges the silent girl sitting in the corner. She flashes me a sickly sweet smile. She introduces herself and promises that once she becomes my new stepmother, she will make sure I am taken care of. She clearly has no idea who I am. After graduating, I refused to join my father’s empire. I built my own tech company from the ground up, and right now, my firm is making serious waves in the industry. Lily is severely underestimating me. Her tone is arrogant, practically begging for a fight. That arrogant spark ignites a fresh wave of hope in my mother’s eyes. She knows exactly what I am capable of. She knows I have a zero-tolerance policy for disrespect. Lily serving up this kind of blatant insult is practically a death wish. As long as I go to war, my mother can fade into the background and keep her hands perfectly clean. Too bad I am about to disappoint her again. I completely ignore Lily. I turn to my mother, my voice flat and professional. I tell her they should continue their chat. I mention a critical issue with a project at my firm and say I need to head to the office immediately. I grab my designer bag and stand up. A workaholic in both lives, my excuse is completely bulletproof. Realizing I am actually leaving her to face the wolves alone, my mother’s mute act finally shatters. She grabs my wrist. Her eyes glaze over with genuine tears, her voice trembling. She asks how I could possibly abandon her here. I frown slightly, gently peeling her fingers off my arm. I speak to her the way one speaks to a toddler having a tantrum. I tell her not to be dramatic and reiterate that I have an emergency at work. I pat her shoulder, telling her I believe she can handle this minor hiccup and that I fully support whatever choice she makes. My mother’s face turns a sickening shade of gray. Beside us, Lily actually bursts into laughter. I turn on my heel and walk out. Without me leading the charge this time, I can’t wait to see how Lydia, the untouchable saint, manages to win back her cheating husband and defend her throne from a ruthless gold digger. 4 For the next few days, I practically live at my office. Between late-night meetings and out-of-state conferences, I don’t step foot in the Winston mansion. Word through the grapevine is that my father hasn’t been home for days either. That is incredibly rare. Richard has plenty of toys on the side, but unless he is on a business trip, he never spends the night outside his own house. I once called him out on it, mocking him for trying to act like a family man while sleeping around. My mother was actually pleased by his behavior. She used her holier-than-thou voice to lecture me, saying my father knew his boundaries. She said it was normal for powerful men to play around, but as long as he came home to her, those other women were just cheap motel distractions. Over the decades, not a single one of those distractions ever dared to cross my mother. She genuinely believed being the official wife gave her some sort of divine dignity. A classic case of delusional self-comfort. But now, Lily has ripped that pathetic illusion to shreds. Even my zen mother can’t sit still anymore. She stood outside in a torrential downpour for two hours, successfully catching a brutal fever. Using the ultimate damsel-in-distress tactic, she finally forced my father to come home. My car pulls up to the estate right behind Richard’s. Walking into the master bedroom, I see my mother lying under the heavy silk covers. Her cheeks burn with an unnatural, feverish red, while her lips are deathly pale. She looks like a fragile, broken porcelain doll. It takes me one second to realize she used makeup to enhance the sickly look. For someone who claims not to care, she certainly puts on a hell of a production to keep my father’s attention. She is in her forties and has birthed two children, yet she starves herself to keep the figure of a teenager. Her expensive skincare routine ensures she barely looks thirty. Right on cue, Richard’s heart melts. He rushes over, pulling her into his arms, asking how she got so terribly sick. Lydia keeps her voice barely above a whisper. She tells him it’s just a minor cold. She says she explicitly told the maid, Martha, not to bother him because he works so hard and she doesn’t want to be a burden. Martha stands in the corner, her head bowed, looking incredibly wronged but too terrified to speak. Anyone with half a brain can see Martha is the designated scapegoat. That used to be my permanent job. Now that I am out of the picture, Martha is taking the heat. As a fellow victim of my mother’s collateral damage, I deeply sympathize. I have to bail Martha out. I cross my arms, putting on a terrifying scowl. I snap at Martha, asking how she could be so incompetent. I accuse her of ignoring my mother’s direct orders and letting her health deteriorate. I point at the door and yell at her to pack her bags, screaming that she is fired. Terrified of losing her livelihood, Martha completely snaps. She waves her hands frantically, swearing she is innocent. She cries out that it was Lydia who ordered her to call both me and Richard. Martha sobs, spilling everything. She tells us the storm was raging, but Lydia insisted on standing in the freezing rain. Martha begged to give her an umbrella, but Lydia refused, doing it all on purpose just to get sick. When you push someone into a corner, they talk. And Martha just sang like a canary. 5 The massive bedroom falls into a suffocating, dead silence for several seconds. Lydia looks like she is about to suffer a genuine stroke. Richard stares at her in absolute disbelief. His gaze turns ice-cold. He asks her why she would intentionally stand in the freezing rain. He reminds her he canceled a million-dollar board meeting just to rush home. “You are forty years old, Lydia, not fourteen. Grow the hell up,” he spits. Lydia’s eyes brim with tears. She puts on her classic wounded expression, silently telegraphing that if he truly thinks so lowly of her, she won’t even bother defending herself. This is the exact moment I am supposed to jump in. In my past life, I would have aggressively attacked Richard. I would have screamed at him for neglecting his wife and told him to look in the mirror before judging her. But now? I flash a bright, innocent smile and play the peacemaker. I tell my dad to go easy on her. I casually mention the old saying about people getting more childish as they age, noting that since she is getting older, it’s totally normal for her to throw a toddler’s tantrum. Lydia is absolutely terrified of aging. What does aging mean to her? It means losing her looks, her youth, and ultimately, her husband’s favor. Women always show their years faster than men in this brutal society. Richard is three years older than her, yet he doesn’t have a single deep wrinkle. He is still strikingly handsome, radiating the silver-fox billionaire charm. I drove a knife right into her deepest insecurity. Lydia clutches her chest, her face turning from flushed red to a furious, sickening purple. Smoke is practically coming out of her ears. Just as the tension reaches a breaking point, Richard’s phone buzzes. Lily’s voice practically echoes through the quiet room, sobbing hysterically. She calls him ‘Daddy’ and cries about a horrific nightmare where she was bleeding out and lost the baby. She begs him to come save her because she is so scared in the dark. She calls him Daddy? Gross. It’s truly a match made in hell. Richard looks momentarily embarrassed, but that quickly shifts into brazen justification. His voice drops into a sickeningly soft register as he promises to be right there. Hanging up, he turns his back on his feverish wife to go comfort his pregnant mistress. Panic finally shatters Lydia’s zen facade. She lunges forward, grabbing his sleeve, her voice cracking as she begs him to stay. Richard looks down at her with zero remorse. He recites the ultimate cheater’s playbook. He tells her Lily has had a miserable life, grew up in poverty, and is just a frightened young girl carrying his child. He says she needs his protection. He looks at Lydia with utter disgust, asking if a woman of her age is seriously going to be jealous of a helpless kid. It is true. Lily’s life is a mess. Disabled father, sick mother, gambling-addict brother. In my past life, when Lydia ultimately won the war, she used those exact same words to make me pity the mistress. Now, the boomerang has swung right back to smash into Lydia’s face.

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1 My wife is a world renowned chief neurosurgeon. Yet, in our eight years of marriage, she has never once written me a prescription or ordered a scan, even when my head felt like it was splitting open. Last week, her department hosted a symposium on the latest minimally invasive surgical techniques, and I attended as her spouse. Right in the center of the massive projector screen was a detailed slide analyzing a highly complex meningioma resection. My heart warmed, foolishly thinking she was finally preparing to operate on my own brain tumor. But a resident standing nearby whispered to another, “Dr. Rachel worked on this surgical plan for five long years. She oversaw every single simulation herself, staying up until dawn.” “I heard that for Lucas, she even handpicked every single layer of surgical gauze herself.” I stood frozen. Lucas. He was Rachel’s protégé, and ironically, the underprivileged medical student I had been personally sponsoring for the past three years. When we got home that night, I could not help but ask her, “Could you perform my tumor resection yourself?” She was busy scanning Lucas’s medical files and did not even bother to look up. “It is just a minor procedure. I have already booked the associate chief for you.” She was willing to spend five years perfecting a surgery for another man, while I could not even get ten minutes of her time for a proper consultation. That very night, I booked the earliest flight out. Since she chose to fight tooth and nail for her darling boy, I would grant her wish and fade away forever into the endless snow of Switzerland. … “Is it really alright for the next of kin signature line on this organ donation consent form to be left blank?” the coordinator’s voice on the phone was gentle. I opened my desk drawer and slipped the signed consent form into the hidden compartment of my suitcase. “My family is very busy. They do not have time to worry about whether I live or die.” “Mr. Scott, the tumor is pressing hard against your brainstem. You could suffer a fatal hemorrhage at any moment.” I stared calmly at the first winter snow drifting past the window. “It is fine. Let it be.” Hanging up, I pulled out the one way ticket to Switzerland. There were only four days left before my flight. At half past eleven that night, Rachel returned. She wrapped her arms around me from behind, resting her chin in the crook of my neck. “You bought your ticket so early?” she murmured. “Once his surgery is over next week, I will take you to Switzerland to see the snow.” The sterile scent of hospital disinfectant clinging to her was laced with the rich, woody cologne Lucas always wore. I stared at the study wall, which was covered in CT scans of Lucas’s brain, and remained silent. Rachel let out a soft laugh, her warm breath brushing against my ear. “Why so tense? You barely even get a cold. Do not scare yourself. Lucas already looked at your scans, and he said it is just a tiny benign growth. You will be back on your feet three days after the surgery.” I froze. My wife was one of the top neurosurgeons in the country, yet she had let an unlicensed intern decide whether I lived or died. My voice felt dry and thick. “Is that what Dr. Bennett said too?” Rachel let go of me and walked over to the water dispenser. “Dr. Bennett has been swamped with his research team lately. I have not had the chance to show him your scans yet. But Lucas is incredibly sharp. He has a real gift for this.” Looking at her casual, uncaring expression, a wave of intense nausea hit me. Without warning, a sharp, white hot agony exploded deep inside my skull. I began to tremble violently, cold sweat instantly soaking through my pajamas. Rachel frowned, grabbing her coat and throwing it over my shoulders. “Are you cold even with the heater on full blast? Your health is really going downhill lately.” She did not even bother to look down at my deathly pale face. Suddenly, the phone on the desk rang. It was the custom ringtone she had set for Lucas. Rachel instantly put down her glass and swiped the screen. “Dr. Rachel, my head hurts so much, is the tumor pressing on my nerves again?” Lucas’s tearful, panicked voice drifted through the line. Hearing him cry, Rachel’s expression shifted instantly to sheer panic. “Don’t move. Take deep breaths. I am on my way.” The desperation in her voice made it sound as if she were facing the most critical exam of her life. She spun around and bolted for the door, not even pausing to button her coat. I reached out, my trembling fingers gripping her sleeve. “Rachel, tonight is our anniversary. Can you please stay?” She paused, looking back at me with a sigh. “Lucas is critically ill, Scott. You need to show some maturity as his sponsor.” I did not say a word, but my grip on her sleeve did not loosen. Rachel gently but firmly pried my fingers away. “I am just going to check his vitals. I will be right back.” The door slammed shut behind her. The moment she left, my legs gave out. I collapsed onto the floor as a metallic, copper taste flooded my mouth. I coughed violently, splattering a dark pool of blood onto the pristine white rug. It was a terrifying, stark contrast. Yet, all I could hear was the echo of her marriage proposal eight years ago. “Scott, these hands of mine can hold a scalpel steady, and they will protect you for the rest of your life.” Back then, if I so much as nicked my finger slicing vegetables, she would panic and spend half an hour carefully dressing the tiny wound. My mind drifted to the medical report buried under a stack of magazines in the corner of the drawer. It was my official diagnosis: a malignant glioblastoma of the brainstem. But Rachel had never once looked inside that folder. I quietly wiped the blood from my lips and dragged my suitcase out from under the bed. The closet was packed with expensive clothes Rachel had bought me over the years: row after row of bespoke, high end suits. She had forgotten that I only wore casual clothes. But she remembered perfectly that Lucas loved tailored suits. I ripped the suits off their hangers, stuffing them ruthlessly into a trash bag. As I cleared out the drawers, a receipt fluttered to the floor. It was for a custom Patek Philippe watch. The engraving request read: “S & L”, Rachel and Lucas. I stared at the slip of paper. My eyes burned, but my heart remained uncannily quiet. I took a quick photo, crumpled the receipt into a tight ball, and tossed it into the trash. My phone lit up with a text from Rachel: “Lucas is highly unstable tonight. I need to stay at the hospital to monitor him. Go to sleep early.” It was not until the morning sun began to pierce through the curtains that I realized I had been sitting in the dark all night. I washed my face, splashed cold water over my tired eyes, and hailed a cab to the hospital. As I walked past the courtyard outside the inpatient ward, I stopped. The winter sun was bright and crisp. Rachel was gently pushing Lucas in his wheelchair, letting him soak in the morning warmth. Over his hospital gown, Lucas was wearing Rachel’s expensive, custom made woolen coat. “Scott, hey! What brings you to the hospital?” Lucas looked up at me, his smile radiating pure, simulated innocence. “Dr. Rachel stayed by my side all night. She even insisted on feeding me water herself, even though I told her I could manage.” Passing nurses cast curious glances our way. Rachel did not correct him. She simply leaned down to tuck the coat closer around his shoulders. “I told you, Scott, Lucas should not be under any stress right now,” she said, her voice cool. “Please do not bring your drama here and pressure him.” I stared at the woman I had loved with every fiber of my being for eight years. Her immediate, instinctive reaction was to assume I was here to pick a fight. I pointed toward the main building. “I am just here for a follow up.” Lucas gasped, covering his mouth. “A follow up for a tiny benign tumor? Is not that overkill?” As he spoke, he casually lifted his wrist to adjust his sleeve. In the bright morning light, the gold face of the custom watch gleamed, the engravings “S & L” clearly visible. “Do you like it? Dr. Rachel said since I have a major surgery coming up, she wanted to buy me a little something to keep my spirits up.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black credit card, twirling it between his fingers. “She has been covering all my tuition and living expenses these past few years. You do not mind, do you?” I recognized that card instantly. It was the joint account card I had set up specifically for charity. Three years ago, Rachel had introduced Lucas to me, calling him a brilliant but impoverished medical student. Seeing a shadow of Rachel’s younger self in his features, I had not hesitated to finance his entire education. I took a step forward, grabbed Lucas’s wrist, and unclasped the watch strap. I let the expensive timepiece slide off his arm and smash onto the concrete. A crisp, sharp crack echoed through the quiet courtyard. Rachel’s face hardened, but for once, her tone softened slightly. “Why are you acting out like this today? I already spoke to Dr. Bennett about your procedure. Stop making a scene. Or, if you can wait a little longer, I will perform the surgery myself after I am finished with Lucas’s.” Looking at her pitying, patronizing expression, a bitter pang struck my chest. “Wait? Why is it always me who has to wait?” Rachel offered her usual, clinical justification. “His condition is far more urgent. Besides, yours is just a minor growth. A few days’ delay will not kill you.” I nodded slowly and turned on my heel. “Alright. Remember what you said today.” “Scott! Stop right there!” Rachel called out, but I did not slow down. In the consultation room, Dr. Bennett looked thoroughly uncomfortable. “Rachel only mentioned in passing that you had a tiny cyst and asked me to take a quick look when I had a moment. She has not actually sent me your scans yet.” She had not even booked an appointment for me. It was just a casual afterthought. I nodded and pushed the refusal of treatment form across his desk. “There is no need to look at them anymore. Could you please export my electronic medical files to a flash drive?” Dr. Bennett’s eyes widened as he read the document, his face turning pale. “Scott, this is no joking matter! Do you have any idea…” “I have already signed it. It is legally binding,” I interrupted softly, packing the documents into my bag. Leaving the hospital, I drove straight to a law firm. “Mr. Scott, are you absolutely certain you want to liquidate all your assets, including the estate, and donate everything to charity?” the attorney asked, seeking confirmation for the third time. That estate was the house Rachel had gifted me when she proposed. It had been our home for seven years. “I am certain.” I signed my name with a steady hand. Back home, I pulled out several large cardboard boxes and began erasing every trace of my existence. My easel, my paints, and the oil landscapes that lined the walls, memories of our once happy life, were packed up and shipped to local charities. The house emptied out piece by piece, mirroring the growing void in my chest. I sat on the bare living room floor, quietly watching the snow begin to fall outside. “Rachel, I will not be waiting for your surgery after all.” Three days remained before my flight. Perhaps Rachel had finally sensed something was wrong. Breaking her usual routine, she came home early, holding a bouquet of white bellflowers, my favorite. She stopped in her tracks, staring at the half empty living room. “Where did all our furniture go?” I sat on the remaining sofa, motionless. “Just clearing out some old clutter. I donated it.” Rachel did not press further. She walked over and handed me the flowers, her voice softening into the gentle tone she used to have during our early years of marriage. “I am sorry about my attitude the other day. I was out of line.” She sat beside me, reaching out to wrap an arm around my shoulder. “Lucas’s surgical plan is finally locked in. I can finally breathe a sigh of relief.” “Once his operation is done, I will take you to Switzerland for that ski trip you have always wanted.” I subtly leaned away from her touch and took the bouquet. The petals were fresh, dotted with morning dew. But as I adjusted the stems, a gold embossed card slipped out and fell onto the floor. Written in elegant, flowing script was a single line: “Wishing you a speedy recovery, Lucas. Love, Rachel.” The room fell into a heavy silence. Rachel’s expression faltered, and she snatched the card off the floor. “The florist must have mixed them up. I ordered two bouquets,” she muttered, her explanation thin and unconvincing. “One was for you, and the other was from the department for Lucas.” I did not call her out on her lies. I just watched her perform. “Would a department card be signed ‘Love, Rachel’?” Rachel snapped, standing up abruptly. “Scott, I swallowed my pride to come home and apologize. What more do you want from me?” I did not have the energy to argue. I pulled a document from the drawer and handed it to her. “Since you are here, sign this.” She frowned as she took it. “Marital Asset Transfer Agreement?” I offered a casual lie. “I am looking into a new venture and need to mitigate some financial risks.” Without reading a single line, she flipped to the back page and scribbled her signature. She tossed the pen onto the coffee table, her tone shifting back to dismissive ease. “You need to grow up, Scott. Operating all day is exhausting. Home is supposed to be a sanctuary, not a battleground. You really need to learn how to be a supportive partner.” A supportive partner? The words felt like a cruel joke. Before I could reply, her phone rang. It was an urgent call from the hospital. She answered, and her face went instantly pale. “What do you mean his pre op vitals are unstable? His blood pressure is dropping? I am on my way!” Without a second thought, she grabbed her car keys and headed for the door. I sat there, calling her name one last time. “Rachel.” She stopped at the entryway, turning back with a look of pure exasperation. “What now?” “If I were to die tonight, would you still leave?” Rachel stared at me, her eyes flashing with disbelief and anger. “Have you lost your mind? I spend every day saving lives, fighting for seconds. Do you really have to resort to faking an illness just to get my attention?” Right then, the agony in my skull flared up with monstrous force. The pain dragged me off the couch, sending me crashing onto the hardwood floor. Rachel looked down at me coldly. “This act again? Fine, play act all you want.” The door slammed shut. The pain made it impossible to breathe. Cold sweat instantly drenched my clothes as I lay there, enduring the agonizing torment for three endless hours in the dark. I did not call for help. I knew the only person who could save me was currently cradling another man at his bedside. When the pain finally subsided into a dull throb, I dragged myself up and texted my lawyer: “She signed the papers. Proceed with the transfer tomorrow.” Then, I picked up the bouquet of white flowers and the romantic card, throwing them both into the trash. “Rachel,” I whispered into the quiet room, “you better pray he is actually dying. Otherwise, my life is a terribly high price to pay for your little game.” The next morning, my screen lit up with an incoming image from Lucas. It showed Rachel curled up on the hospital room sofa, fast asleep under Lucas’s blue blanket. The caption read: “Dr. Rachel wore herself out helping me prep for surgery last night. Do not be mad, Scott.” Looking at the photo, even the lingering trace of heartache vanished. I slipped the wedding band off my finger, walked into the study, and placed it beneath her prized “Outstanding Young Physician” trophy. Beside it, I laid the divorce papers she had unknowingly signed the night before. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out the front door, leaving behind the house that had been my prison for seven years. I did not look back. The snow fell thicker on my way to the airport. Today was the day Rachel would perform her career defining surgery on Lucas. She had spent five years prepping for this moment, and the entire medical community was watching. I sat alone in the departure terminal. I was so weak that standing was an ordeal, so I leaned back in an airport provided wheelchair. “Sir, your flight begins boarding in thirty minutes. Would you like me to wheel you over?” an attendant asked. “Thank you, but I would like to wait a bit longer.” I watched the ground crew clear the snow off the runway as planes took off into the gray sky. Thirty minutes left. Across town at the medical center, Rachel would already be scrubbing in. I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. It was the first time in seven years I had ever disturbed her during work. It rang so long I thought she would ignore it, but then the line clicked open. “What is it?” Rachel hissed, her voice hushed but dripping with annoyance. “I am scrubbing in. Whatever it is, it can wait until tonight.” In the background, a nurse called out, “Dr. Rachel, anesthesia is ready.” I listened quietly. For once, I did not apologize or hang up. “Rachel,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. There was a brief pause on the other end. “Scott, what is wrong with you today? Lucas’s surgery requires absolute focus. Do you have any idea how critical this is for my career?” Yes, I knew. If this succeeded, she would become the youngest prominent neurosurgeon in the country. “I know,” I murmured, watching the snow blanket the tarmac. “I only called to tell you one thing.” Rachel exhaled sharply, clearly at the limit of her patience. “Make it quick.” I closed my eyes as a single tear escaped, instantly chilled by the air. “I hope the surgery goes well.” The line went dead with a sharp click. I smiled faintly, wrapping my coat tighter around my shoulders. “You can take me to the gate now,” I told the attendant. The wheelchair glided forward, moving toward the gate, and toward the quiet end of my journey.

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1 Late at night, an email landed in my inbox. The sender address was my own, but the digital timestamp read ten years into the future. I unzipped the attached folder. Inside was a collection of explicit, degrading photos. The face in those photos was mine, but the eyes were hollow, stripped of any life. The body of the email dripped with absolute despair. “Do not touch the sweet almond stew tonight.” “Grace drugged it. She needs to clear Tyler’s debt with the loan sharks, and she is selling you tonight to pay for it.” “By the time you die from internal bleeding in some backroom, they will be happily using the fifty thousand dollars they got for your body to put a down payment on a brand-new house for Tyler.” My fingertips went numb. I stared at the screen, my chest tightening as a cold sweat broke out across my neck. I had spent years working myself to the bone, sending every spare dime home, hoping for just a shred of maternal love. It turned out that in their eyes, I was worse than livestock. A soft knock rattled my bedroom door. Grace stood outside, holding a steaming white porcelain bowl, her face twisted into an unnaturally sweet smile. “Ava, sweetheart, you are working too hard. Have some stew and get some rest.” When I didn’t answer immediately, the knocking grew louder, the wood rattling under her palms. “Ava, open up.” “I spent two hours simmering this sweet almond stew for you. Drink it while it is hot.” Her voice carried a rare tenderness, a gentle maternal warmth she almost never showed me. If this had happened thirty minutes ago, I probably would have wept with gratitude. I shut my laptop, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Grace stood there with a beaming smile, holding the bowl. Steam rose from the liquid, dotted with red dates and sweet cherries. It was a miracle. Usually, these expensive ingredients were locked away in her pantry, reserved strictly for my younger brother, Tyler. “Drink up,” she urged, pushing the bowl closer to my face. “You have lost so much weight from all that overtime. It breaks my heart.” I looked at the sweet liquid, and my stomach churned. “I am not really thirsty, Mom,” I said, taking half a step back. “Just leave it on the desk. I will drink it after I finish this report.” The warmth vanished from her face instantly. Her brows furrowed, and her eyes turned cold. “What?” she snapped. “I made this with my own hands, and you are turning your nose up at it? These almond flakes are the premium kind from the organic market. I wouldn’t even let Tyler touch them. You are drinking this tonight, or you don’t care about your mother at all.” Seeing the frantic desperation in her eyes, I stopped resisting. I took the bowl and forced myself to gulp it down right in front of her. The warm, thick liquid slid down my throat, sickeningly sweet. Grace let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. The greedy grin returned, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. It was the face of a woman who knew fifty thousand dollars was finally within her grasp. “That is my good girl. Go to bed right after. Don’t ruin your health.” She snatched the empty bowl and locked the door behind her as she left. The moment the latch clicked, I bolted to the bathroom. I turned the faucet on high to drown out the noise, shoved two fingers deep down my throat, and gagged myself. The sweet, heavy broth came rushing back up along with my lunch. Tears and sweat poured down my face. I kept pushing, scratching the back of my throat until nothing was left but bitter, yellow bile. Splashing cold water on my face, I stared at my ghostly reflection in the mirror. What had I been clinging to for the past twenty-four years? Every payday, I kept barely enough for groceries and transferred the rest to her account. I bought them expensive gifts while I survived on stale bread and instant noodles. I thought blood was thicker than water. I thought if I just poured my soul into this family, I could finally warm their frozen hearts. Instead, I was just a walking ATM. A slab of meat to be sold by the pound. Even a pig gets a decent meal before the slaughter. I got a bowl of poison. When I was five, we had a rare treat of homemade chicken pot pies. Grace carefully picked out every single piece of chicken, placing them all into Tyler’s plate. When I looked at the food longingly, she slapped me across the face. “What are you staring at, you greedy brat? This is for your brother’s growth. You only deserve the scraps.” Tyler sat beside her, shielding his plate and sticking his tongue out at me. I kept quiet, thinking I just wasn’t being good enough. To please her, I stood on a wooden stool every weekend, washing the family’s laundry until my hands cracked and bled from the winter cold. My reward was another beating. “You useless child, look how much laundry detergent you wasted! Water doesn’t grow on trees!” When I was fifteen, I scored the highest marks in the entire school district. The acceptance letter from a prestigious regional academy arrived at our doorstep. I thought she would finally be proud. But when I got home, she was merrily counting a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. It was a dowry from creepy old Harlan, a bitter neighbor with a permanent limp. Grace didn’t even look at my acceptance letter. She flicked her lighter, threatening to burn it. “School is useless for girls. Harlan offered ten thousand dollars and two breeding pigs. You are marrying him next month to pay for Tyler’s wedding fund.” That night, I climbed over the fence barefoot. I walked ten miles in the pitch black, my feet bleeding, until I reached my teacher’s house and begged her to help me secure a scholarship. During college, I worked three jobs, waitressing, delivering flyers, and washing dishes. I paid my own tuition, but Grace still demanded five hundred dollars every month. I tolerated it all, foolishly hoping that one day, she would hand me a plate at the dinner table and say she was proud of me. Last month, Tyler got his leg broken by loan sharks over gambling debts. Grace ran to my apartment, screaming and rolling on the floor, holding a bottle of bleach to her mouth. “If you don’t save your brother, I will drink this right here! I raised you, and you won’t even help your own family? You are trying to kill your mother!” Under the judgmental stares of my neighbors, I handed over my entire savings of thirty thousand dollars. I thought that would finally pay my debt of birth. I was wrong. That money only whetted their appetite. I wiped my face dry, pulled a dusty duffel bag from under my bed, and packed a few clothes. My ID and bank cards went into my backpack. I muted my phone and lowered its screen brightness to the absolute minimum. The apartment was deathly silent, except for the ticking clock. Suddenly, the front door lock creaked. The heavy door groaned on its ungreased hinges. Then came a flurry of hurried footsteps, accompanied by the sharp, rhythmic click of wooden crutches. Tyler, with his broken leg, was already out of bed to act as a pimp for his own sister. “Mom, is it done?” Tyler whispered, his voice trembling with excitement. “She drank it all. A whole packet of the powder. She should be completely out by now,” Grace replied, her voice eager. “Gavin, right this way. Watch your step,” Tyler said, his voice dripping with sycophancy. A gravelly, rough voice cut through the quiet house. “Is she really in there? Don’t screw with me. If she is ugly, I will break your other leg.” “I wouldn’t dare, Gavin!” Tyler stuttered. “The drug you gave me is incredibly potent. She is completely helpless. Just write off the fifty grand I owe you, and she is yours. She is beautiful, a virgin. Once you are done, you can put her in your club to work off the rest.” Grace chimed in, “She is strong, used to hard labor. She can handle it. We will keep watch outside. If she wakes up and struggles, just hit her. I can get you some duct tape to seal her mouth.” I pressed my ear against the bedroom door, my stomach twisting in raw disgust. These were my blood relatives. They had branded a price tag of fifty thousand dollars on my body and my future. “Just don’t kill her,” Grace added quietly. “Don’t worry, ma’am. We are here for profit, not a corpse,” Gavin laughed. The footsteps approached my door. I moved quickly to the window. We lived on the third floor of an old brick building. Outside the window was a rusted iron fire escape. The emergency latch on the metal grate was unlocked. I pushed the heavy metal open, feeling the cold night air rush against my face. I stepped onto the shaky air conditioning unit outside, my shoes slipping slightly on the dust. Behind me, the bedroom doorknob rattled violently. “Why is it locked?” Gavin grunted. “She must have locked it out of habit. Let me kick it open,” Tyler offered. The wooden door began to splinter. I squeezed into the narrow gap between the AC unit and the wall, gripping the cold brickwork. If I fell, I would die or be paralyzed. If I survived the fall, Grace would just sell my broken body to the highest bidder anyway. The door gave way with a loud crash. “Where the hell is she?!” Gavin roared. Flashlights cut through the darkness of my room. “She was supposed to be asleep! The bowl is in the kitchen!” Grace panicked. They tore the room apart, throwing open the closet and flipping the mattress. “My fifty grand! If she is gone, Gavin will ruin me!” Tyler screamed, his crutches thudding angrily. “We should have tied her up!” “That ungrateful bitch! I should have drowned her at birth!” Grace shrieked. “We fed her and clothed her, and she won’t even help her brother? It is her duty to sell herself for this family!” Footsteps approached the window. Tyler ripped the curtain aside. He leaned out, shining his bright flashlight down into the dark courtyard. The beam swept over the brickwork, brushing past the rusted metal grate. I curled into a tight ball, holding my breath, my bloody fingernails digging into the rough concrete wall. The pain kept me focused. The light hovered barely a foot above my head. I could hear Tyler’s ragged, angry breathing just inches away.

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1 During the World Cup Final night, I went into the kitchen to grab some snacks and drinks. When I returned, Beckett and Brooke were already sitting side by side in the center of the sofa. The television screen was playing a slow-motion replay of a goal. Their faces were flushed with excitement as they clung to each other, laughing and cheering in celebration. I stood behind the sofa, holding the tray, suddenly feeling like an absolute intruder in my own home. Back in our school days, Beckett and Brooke were the legendary golden duo of the varsity soccer team. After graduation, they both went into aviation, one becoming a captain and the other a flight attendant. Everyone in our social circle envied them as the industry’s perfect couple. I had spent months trying to memorize the complex rules of the sport just to have something to talk about with them. But when I finally gathered the courage to join their conversation, Beckett had simply smiled, patted my head, and dismissed my efforts. “You don’t need to stress over these details, Serena. Just enjoy the game and celebrate when we win.” Then, he had turned right back to Brooke, diving deep into a passionate discussion about tactical shifts and player positioning. Watching the two of them now, completely lost in their self-proclaimed soul connection, an overwhelming exhaustion settled deep in my bones. On the screen, a player fell to the turf and struggled to get back up. I felt a painful wave of empathy. I suppose when you are injured enough times, it is finally time to walk off the field. … By the time the match ended, they were still eagerly dissecting the performance. “What a missed opportunity! That shot absolutely should have gone in!” Brooke slapped the armrest, her entire body leaning heavily into Beckett’s side. Beckett caught her naturally, pulling up a replay on his phone to show her. “Look at this run. If she had started her sprint just two seconds earlier…” “Exactly! Just a split second too slow. You really have an eye for this, Beckett.” They shared a knowing, intimate smile, completely oblivious to how inappropriate their posture had become. Today was my birthday. I had explicitly asked him, begged him even, not to ignore me for the game tonight. I had asked him not to leave me sitting on the sidelines. And Beckett had promised. Yet, throughout the entire match, they laughed and joked, and neither of them had uttered a single word of congratulations to me. Just as I was about to speak, the apartment plunged into darkness. A power outage? I fumbled around in the dark until I found a candle and lit it. In the dim, flickering glow, Brooke immediately clung to Beckett, trembling. “Why did the lights go out? You know I hate the dark.” “You little coward. Still afraid of the dark? You should learn from my Serena. She’s the brave one.” Beckett spoke of my bravery, yet his hands were busy rubbing Brooke’s back, whispering soft reassurances to soothe her fear. But was I really brave? In middle school, I had been accidentally locked in a dark equipment shed for hours. For years afterward, I couldn’t sleep without a lamp on. Beckett knew this. He had once cared enough to place small nightlights along the hallway from our bedroom to the bathroom. He had even lined the stairwell with adhesive strip lights so I would never have to face the dark alone. But whenever Brooke was in the picture, all his care and affection shifted entirely to her. When the lights went out, my legs were shaking so hard I could barely stand. I had instinctively whispered his name, but he still chose to comfort Brooke first. Suddenly, Brooke gasped in mock surprise. “Serena! It’s your birthday!” She looked at her phone. “It’s past midnight already. Why didn’t you ask Beckett to help you blow out your candles?” Had I not asked? I cleared my throat, which felt dry and painful from the hours of silence, and remained quiet. Seeing my reaction, Beckett frowned. “What is with that miserable face? I promised I would spend your birthday with you, and here I am, sitting in this living room, aren’t I?” He turned his gaze to Brooke. “You know, birthday wishes are the most powerful. Didn’t you say yesterday that you wanted that designer necklace, Brooke? Go ahead and blow out the candle for your wish.” I quietly pulled out my phone and paid the outstanding electric bill online. The lights flickered back on. Brooke walked over to the table with a sweet smile. “Serena is always the nicest to me, even letting me blow out her birthday candles.” “Beckett, you really need to learn from her. You’ll never understand how thoughtful girls can be.” A sudden draft swept through the room. Before Brooke could even reach the table, the candle flickered and went out on its own. This year marked my tenth year with Beckett. It was also the tenth time I had intended to wish for a long, happy marriage with him. I let out a quiet, bitter laugh. Even the universe seemed to agree that this wish was never going to come true. Beckett’s expression darkened. “Serena, we just watched a soccer match at home. Do you really have to be this cold toward Brooke?” Brooke. Serena. I repeated the names in my mind, noting the difference in his tone, and chose to say nothing. Sensing the mounting tension, Brooke quickly stepped in, linking her arm through mine. She glared playfully at Beckett. “What are you saying, Beckett? How dare you speak to my Serena like that? She’s always so good to me. She didn’t mean anything by it.” She raised her glass high. “Let me propose a toast. Happy birthday, Serena!” Beckett’s scowl softened into a smile as he looked at her. “Alright, my little princess, my mistake. Let me drink this to make it up to you.” He drained his glass in one gulp. I watched him apologize so easily just because Brooke had prompted him to. In all our years together, he never cared to understand why I was truly upset. But the moment Brooke offered a casual mediation, he listened without question. Wishing to ignore the heavy weight in my chest, I picked up the knife to cut the cake. Suddenly, Brooke let out a soft groan, clutching her stomach. Beckett was at her side in an instant. “What’s wrong?” “It’s nothing. Just my period, and I think that iced water I drank earlier made the cramps worse.” Beckett snapped his head toward me, his eyes cold and accusing. “Serena, did you do this on purpose? Don’t you know girls shouldn’t have iced drinks during their cycle?” I stared at him. So he did know that. Yet, during a company gathering last summer when my cramps were so severe I could barely stand, I had begged him for a cup of warm water. He had only snapped at me impatiently. “You’re an adult, Serena. Where am I supposed to find hot water in the middle of summer? Other women deal with their periods just fine. Why do you always have to be so difficult?” The memory rushed back, flooding my chest with a familiar, suffocating ache. I wanted to scream, to demand answers, but my mind suddenly drifted back to the boy he used to be. The boy who had reached out to grab my hand when I was down. “Can you stand up? Don’t worry about what they think. From now on, I’ve got your back, Serena. If anyone laughs at you again, I’ll take care of them.” It had taken me three long years to transition from an insecure, overweight girl to the girlfriend of the school’s most popular guy. To be worthy of him, I had lost over sixty pounds and studied day and night, defying everyone’s expectations to get into the same university. Only I knew how much pain and effort that journey had cost me. But the Beckett I loved, the Beckett who once cherished me, when did he turn into this stranger? Seeing me stand frozen with tears welling in my eyes, the coldness on Beckett’s face vanished. He stepped forward, looking flustered as he reached out to wipe my tears. “Alright, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have raised my voice. You’re still such a child, crying the moment someone says something to you.” I gently pushed his hand away, my voice carrying a quiet, heavy finality. “I won’t cry anymore.” Beckett assumed the matter was resolved, just like it always was. For the past five years, my own insecurities had made me hide my anger, always terrified that he would actually leave me. But I was done holding it in. “Beckett, let’s break—” Before I could finish the sentence, Beckett was already lifting Brooke into his arms. “Serena, my stomach is absolutely killing me,” Brooke whimpered, looking over Beckett’s shoulder. “Since he spent the evening celebrating your birthday, do you mind if I borrow your man to drive me to the clinic?” Only then did Beckett seem to remember my existence. He glanced back at the untouched cake on the table. “Happy birthday, Serena. I have to get Brooke to the hospital for a checkup. I won’t be back tonight.” After they left, I took a small bite of the cake. It was from the most highly recommended bakery in the city, but it didn’t taste sweet at all. But his absence was a relief. It gave me the quiet I needed to book my ticket out of here. Once the apartment was completely silent, I opened my phone and sent a message to my chief flight attendant. “Ma’am, I would like to submit my resignation.” The reply came back almost instantly, filled with surprise. “Are you sure, Serena? Weren’t you waiting for the airline’s special sky wedding package with Beckett? Your turn on the registry is coming up very soon.” The sky wedding. It was the dream that had kept me in this industry. Beckett had promised me years ago that the moment he became a captain, we would have our wedding in the clouds. But on the day of his promotion, the only recognition I received was a group photo he posted on social media. It featured him, Brooke, and me, with him leaning noticeably closer to Brooke. And just today, a video had gone viral on the local news showing a Seattle couple pulling off a breathtaking sky wedding. The couple in the video was Beckett and Brooke. He had already given her the dream he promised me. I let out a breathless, hollow laugh. “No need,” I typed back. “There was a change of plans. We won’t be needing the reservation anymore.” Beckett was gone for three days. During that time, he sent only two messages. The first was a complaint: “This is all because of that iced water you served. Brooke ended up with acute gastroenteritis.” The second was a brief notification: “She needs to stay in the hospital for a few more days. I’ve taken a week off to care for her. I won’t be coming home.” I didn’t reply to either of them. The next day, I went into the airline headquarters to finalize my transition paperwork. In the breakroom, a few colleagues were huddled together, whispering excitedly. “Did you hear? Captain Beckett and Brooke finally made it official.” “Honestly, it’s not like it was a secret. Everyone in the company knew they were the ultimate dream team. Have you seen Brooke’s latest post? Beckett looks so whipped cooking for her.” I stepped closer and glanced at the screen. The image showed Brooke flashing a peace sign close to the camera, while in the background, Beckett stood in an apron, preparing a elaborate meal. Her caption read: Having someone who remembers every single ingredient you dislike is enough for a lifetime. I hadn’t seen this post on my own feed. She had blocked me from viewing it. An elaborate home-cooked meal. In all our years together, Beckett had never lifted a finger in the kitchen, always insisting that he only loved the food I prepared. The few times he did cook, it was nothing more than a bowl of plain instant noodles with an egg. He would often throw in a handful of cilantro, which I absolutely despised, but I had always forced myself to eat it without complaining, just to keep him happy. Looking at the photo now, seeing how carefully he had prepared her favorite dishes, I realized he hadn’t forgotten my preferences. He was simply too accustomed to catering to Brooke’s. “Serena,” a young intern whispered, stepping up beside me. “Isn’t Beckett your boyfriend? Why is everyone calling Brooke his perfect match?” Before I could answer, an older flight attendant nudged her. “You’re way behind on the gossip. Serena and Beckett are just distant cousins.” I froze. I remembered the time Beckett had introduced me to his colleagues as his cousin. When I had confronted him, demanding to know why we couldn’t just tell people the truth, he had wrapped his arms around me and sighed. “The company has strict policies about workplace relationships, Serena. If word gets out, it will hurt my chances of promotion. Please, just try to understand.” And so, I understood. I understood for three long years. The first year, he said, “We just started, let’s keep things professional.” The second year, he said, “I’m up for captain, we need to avoid any rumors.” The third year, he pleaded, “Just do this for me, please?” He was always avoiding rumors, yet those rules never seemed to apply to Brooke. The entire airline knew them as the golden duo. They sat together in the cafeteria, and Brooke always took the seat next to him on the crew shuttle. No one ever asked about me. Compared to Brooke’s striking, polished beauty, my plain appearance made me entirely invisible. To everyone else, I was just “his cousin, Serena,” or “a childhood neighbor.” Ten years. We had known each other for a decade, and had been together for seven years, yet I had never once been granted a proper place in his life. After completing my resignation process, I returned to the apartment to pack. Beckett had called earlier to let me know Brooke was being discharged, and that he would be returning tomorrow. I pulled out my suitcase, only to realize how little of my presence actually existed in this apartment. Because Brooke visited so frequently, more than half of the closet was filled with her spare clothes. While other couples shared jewelry and keepsakes, the only piece of gold I owned was a small, hollow pendant. Yet, for Brooke’s birthday last month, Beckett had spent his entire monthly bonus to buy her a solid gold bracelet, complaining to me afterward, “She’s your best friend too. Why are you making me feel guilty about buying her a nice gift?” When I finished packing, my things didn’t even fill a single carry-on suitcase. As I sat on the floor, staring blankly at the small bag, my phone rang. The panicked voice of our neighbor, Mrs. Gable, came through the line. “Serena! Your father was in a terrible car accident! He’s in the emergency room at General Hospital, and they are desperately low on RH-negative blood! You need to get here right away!” My mind went completely blank. RH-negative is an extremely rare blood type. My father possessed it, but I had inherited my mother’s common blood type. In a panic, I remembered that Beckett shared my father’s rare blood type. I dialed his number immediately. “Beckett, my dad was in a bad accident. He needs a blood transfusion right now, and your blood type matches. Can you please come to the hospital?” Without waiting for me to finish, Beckett cut in. “Don’t panic, Serena. I’ll be right there.” I rushed to the hospital. But after twenty minutes of waiting, the nurse came out for the third time asking for a donor, and Beckett was still nowhere to be seen. My chest tightened with dread. I called him again. “Where are you? The doctors are asking for the blood.” “I’m almost there. Brooke’s dog suddenly collapsed, and it looks really bad. I’m helping her take it to the veterinary clinic, and then I’ll head straight to you. Just hold on.” “What?” I gasped, unable to believe what I was hearing. “It will only take twenty minutes. She’s hysterical right now. Just tell your dad to hang in there for a little bit, I’m almost—” “Beckett, you—” The line went dead before I could finish. When I tried to call back, he declined the call. The operating room doors swung open, and the nurse’s voice was sharp with urgency. “Have you found a donor yet? Your father’s blood pressure is dropping rapidly. If we don’t get the blood soon…” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, my heart hammering against my ribs. What was I supposed to do? Just as despair began to consume me, a face flashed in my mind. Nolan, our high school class president. During our school physicals, everyone had joked about how rare his blood type was. With trembling hands, I sent him a desperate message, though I felt a pang of guilt. Years ago, I had flatly rejected his feelings to be with Beckett. Why would he help me now? But ten minutes later, Nolan appeared at the end of the hallway, looking disheveled and completely out of breath. “Don’t cry,” he said softly, his voice steady and reassuring. “Take my blood. Everything is going to be okay.” After a tense few hours, the red light above the operating room finally switched off. “We got the blood in just in time,” the doctor said, smiling tiredly. “A few minutes later, and we would have lost him.” Nolan sat on a bench nearby, his face pale from the significant blood loss. I turned to thank him, but the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. “Serena! How is your dad?” Beckett walked up, looking slightly breathless. I looked at him, my expression entirely blank. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking uneasy. “The dog was in really bad shape, Serena. You know how Brooke is. She almost threw herself from her balcony when her last pet passed away. I couldn’t just leave her like that.” “Beckett.” I interrupted him. He blinked. “What?” “Let’s break up.”

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1 Everyone always said that marrying Sebastian Ward was a massive step up for a girl like me. They said it so often that, eventually, I started believing them. So, I kept Sebastian at a polite, respectful distance. I never asked where he was going, and I never spent a single dime of his money. We split our daily living expenses straight down the middle, calculated right to the last cent. Then Sebastian died. To my absolute shock, he left his entire estate to me, turning me into a very wealthy widow. But a widow gets lonely. After a year of grieving, I couldn’t help but slip into a secret relationship, hidden from Sebastian’s high-society friends and family. The new guy was perfect. He was attentive and incredibly sweet, constantly sending me money and gifts while never demanding any kind of official label. I thought this peaceful arrangement would last forever. Until last night, when I walked into a quiet bar and saw my dead husband sitting in a booth, very much alive. Sebastian was nursing a drink, complaining to his best friend. “What am I supposed to do? I think my wife is actually falling for another guy.” His friend rolled his eyes. “Bro, both of those guys are you. You’re the one who came up with this twisted scheme. Deal with it.” That was the exact moment I realized my perfect online boyfriend was actually my dead husband. I had always suffered from a severe lack of self-worth. When people tell you you’re not good enough your entire life, it eventually becomes your inner monologue. Sebastian and I had met through a completely normal matchmaking service. Yet, his wealthy social circle treated me like a gold-digging social climber who had hit the jackpot. They whispered that a plain, middle-class girl like me would be kicked to the curb the moment he grew bored. I was terrified of that happening. To protect my dignity, I insisted on a strict fifty-fifty split on everything after we got married. I couldn’t afford my half of his massive estate, so I made him move into a tiny apartment with me. I spent years scraping together every penny just to pay my half of the down payment. Sebastian had tried to stop me countless times. “Sasha, you don’t have to do this,” he would plead, running a hand through his hair. “What’s mine is yours. Let me take care of you.” I would only sigh. Men always say that when they are in love. But if things soured, he could easily turn into one of those nightmare exes you read about online, demanding his money back down to the cost of a cheap takeout dinner. I wasn’t going to let myself be humiliated. In the end, Sebastian couldn’t change my mind. He resigned himself to my strict financial boundaries. We split the utilities, the groceries, even the cost of toilet paper. If he bought me a gift, I made sure to buy him something of equal value. Eventually, he grew so frustrated with my stubbornness that he made a rule: “Fine. But whatever the husband wears, the wife has to buy. And whatever the wife wears, the husband has to buy. It’s for marital unity. You have to listen to me on this one.” I thought it made some sense, so I agreed. But the execution was disastrous. Because he was incredibly wealthy, he showered me with designer clothes and fine jewelry. Meanwhile, because my salary was modest, I could only afford cheap clothes for him. A billionaire heir was walking around in faded, worn-out shirts, and he refused to replace his underwear even when they had holes in them. I was constantly broke from trying to pay off my half of our mortgage. I couldn’t afford the thousand-dollar designer silk boxers he was used to. Instead, I bought him a three-pack of cotton briefs from a supermarket discount bin. Every time I handed them over, he would smile warmly and say, “It’s fine, sweetheart. When you get that big promotion, you can buy me the fancy ones.” A mix of guilt and affection would swell in my chest. Looking at his gentle, patient nature, I had to admit the gossips were right. I really had married up. His kindness motivated me to work myself to the bone. By the end of the year, my hard work paid off. I landed a major promotion and my salary tripled. Feeling rich for the first time in my life, I immediately went to a high-end boutique and splurged on a pair of thousand-dollar designer boxers. I wanted his pampered backside to finally get the luxury it deserved. But as I walked up the stairs to our apartment, a chorus of loud, agonizing wails echoed down the corridor. My heart sank as I realized the sound was coming from our door. The front door was wide open. Inside, white funeral flowers and ritual paper money were scattered across the floor. My in-laws were collapsed on the rug, weeping hysterically. The moment my mother-in-law saw me, she grabbed my hands, her voice cracking with grief. “Sasha, oh my god… Sebastian was in a horrific car crash! He’s gone!” My mind went completely blank. The expensive shopping bag slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor in slow motion. Sebastian’s funeral was a blur. Before I could even begin to process my grief, my in-laws dragged me to a lawyer’s office to sign some paperwork. My mother-in-law wiped her swollen eyes. “Sasha, Sebastian left a will. He signed over his entire fortune, his estates, his investments, everything to you. Please, sign the papers.” I stared at her, tears suddenly streaming down my cheeks even though my mind felt numb and detached. And just like that, I became an incredibly wealthy widow. Life moved on in a quiet, empty routine. The apartment felt massive with only one person in it. I only had to buy groceries for one, never having to worry about what anyone else wanted for dinner. But suddenly, my phone was blowing up with new friend requests. People I barely knew were suddenly eager to introduce me to eligible bachelors. Even though I was technically still grieving the Ward family’s heir, my new massive net worth made me the most desirable bachelorette in the city. When I hesitantly mentioned the matchmakers to my in-laws, they only smiled gently. “Sasha, life goes on,” his father said, patting my hand. “Sebastian is gone, but you are still young. If you find someone who treats you well, you should take the chance. We will always consider you our daughter.” I was stunned by their generosity. Sebastian was their only son, yet they were actively encouraging me to move on. I felt incredibly lucky to have them. I lowered my head, so lost in my thoughts that I missed the fleeting, awkward glances exchanged between my mother-in-law and father-in-law. Determined to honor their kindness, I resolved never to officially remarry. But as the months dragged on, the loneliness became a heavy, physical ache. I decided I would allow myself a quiet, secret relationship. If nobody found out, I could still be the faithful widow to the public, while keeping myself from going mad with isolation. After filtering through dozens of profiles, I finally selected one guy. The sheer volume of men pursuing me was overwhelming, and I knew deep down they were only interested in my inheritance. But this one seemed different. The moment we connected on the app, he sent three messages: Hi, I’m Ashton. You don’t need to feel pressured. It’s completely fine if you don’t like me. I don’t need a public label or any commitments. You can walk away whenever you want. Reading those words, my heart skipped a beat. He was offering the exact arrangement I needed without me even having to ask. I quickly typed out my reply: Are you sure? I’m not as perfect as you think. I’m a widow, and my loyalty lies with my late husband’s parents. They’ve been wonderful to me, and I can’t leave them behind. His reply came instantly: I understand. But to me, you are the absolute best. My chest tightened with warmth. Nobody had ever called me the best before. We started texting every day. Ashton was a master of emotional validation. If I told him I had managed to drink a full glass of water, he would find a way to make it sound like a heroic achievement. His constant, lavish praise made my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I constantly tried to downplay his compliments: Stop teasing me, I’m really not that special. But he refused to back down: Sasha, I mean every word. You are the strongest, most incredible woman I’ve ever met. I began to worry. Was Ashton a romance scammer? The only people who had ever flattered me this intensely were sales associates working on commission. It reminded me of the time I went to get a haircut, and the stylist insisted I would look like a runway model with rainbow hair. He used rainbow literally, dyeing my hair seven different colors. Being too polite to say no, I let them work their magic. The bill was a staggering five thousand dollars. Sebastian had paid it without a single complaint. “It’s normal for a husband to pay for his wife’s hair,” he’d smiled. “You can cover my next haircut to make it even.” I had kept that ridiculous seven-colored hair for less than thirty minutes before running to a different salon across the street to dye it back to dark brown. To test Ashton’s intentions, I sent him a transfer of three hundred dollars. Within a second, he rejected it. Before I could type a question mark, my phone began to buzz with notification after notification of cash transfers from him. I counted twenty transfers of five hundred dollars each. He texted: Buy yourself some flowers, Sasha. I don’t want your money. My jaw dropped. How had I managed to find a man who genuinely wanted nothing to do with my fortune? I continued our relationship with a mix of excitement and absolute terror. Exquisite, ridiculously expensive gifts began arriving at my doorstep almost daily. I felt a deep sense of guilt. Carrying on a secret relationship was already bad enough, but accepting these diamond necklaces and designer bags made me feel like a thief. When I tried to return them, he simply texted: Sasha, these jewels were made for a beautiful woman. They have no value if they aren’t draped over your skin. My fingers trembled as I read his words, my heart hammering against my ribs. For the first time in my life, I was experiencing the dizzying thrill of romance. But a quiet, ugly voice inside me kept whispering that I didn’t deserve it. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I wasn’t beautiful. I had a faint, reddish birthmark the size of a coin right near my temple. If you looked closely, it was impossible to miss. My biological parents had always claimed that birthmark was a curse, a financial black hole that kept our family in poverty. They blamed every misfortune on me. On Saturday morning, the doorbell rang. I was surprised to find my in-laws standing on the porch, holding a beautifully decorated cake. “Mom, Dad! What are you doing here? You should have called first.” My mother-in-law took my hands in hers. “Sasha, sweetheart, it’s your twenty-sixth birthday. Did you forget?” Staring at my name iced onto the cake, my throat tightened. It was the first time anyone had ever celebrated my birthday. His father smiled warmly. “Sasha, you were only married to our son for a year before he was taken from us. It’s not fair to keep you tied to a ghost. If you meet someone good, you have our blessing to marry. We want you to be happy.” Tears spilled over my eyelashes. I felt a crushing weight of guilt. Their son had been dead for barely a year, and I was already carrying on with another man. I felt like an absolute monster. My mother-in-law gently wiped my cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t cry. We mean it. You are gorgeous, hardworking, and kind. Any man would be lucky to have you.” I kept my mouth shut, too terrified to admit that I was already seeing someone. After my in-laws left, Ashton called. His deep voice filtered through the speaker. “Hey, beautiful. Did you miss me today?” Anxiety gripped my chest. “Ashton, I think we’re moving too fast. My husband hasn’t even been gone that long.” There was a brief silence on the other end. Then he said softly, “Sasha, you can’t let a ghost hold you back. You deserve to live your life. He’s gone, and the past is in the past. Let me take care of you now.” “But I don’t deserve this,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Everyone always said I was beneath Sebastian. They said I was lucky he even looked at me.” “Sasha, Sebastian married you because he adored you. I bet he thought he was the lucky one. You deserve everything this world has to offer, especially the love and gifts of someone who cares about you. Drawing lines and rejecting gifts only hurts the person trying to give them to you.” His words hit me like a physical blow. I suddenly remembered Sebastian’s face when I had insisted on splitting our bills fifty-fifty. Had I hurt him back then? “Okay,” I whispered. “I understand.” After we hung up, I sat in the quiet apartment, my mind spinning. The doorbell rang again, interrupting my thoughts. On the porch sat a massive bouquet of crimson roses with a small card: Happy Birthday, Sasha. Love, Ashton. I stared at the velvety petals, that familiar, suffocating feeling of unworthiness creeping back in. But then Ashton’s words echoed in my head: Rejecting gifts only hurts the person trying to give them to you. I picked up the heavy vase, carried it inside, and shot him a text: Thank you. They are absolutely beautiful. From that day on, I forced myself to stop saying no. Every time a package arrived from Ashton, I accepted it gracefully, sending him sweet messages of gratitude. By our third month together, my spare bedroom was overflowing with designer clothes, jewelry boxes, and expensive silk scarves. One evening, as I walked past Sebastian’s portrait in the hallway, I stopped and gently touched the glass covering his smiling face. “I’m sorry, Sebastian,” I whispered. “But I think I’ve fallen in love with him. I want to try being happy.” My heart couldn’t lie to me anymore. I was genuinely happy when I talked to Ashton. I closed my eyes, making a decision. I had spent our entire marriage pushing Sebastian away out of fear. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake with Ashton. I opened my phone and sent him a message: Let’s meet tomorrow. A few agonizing minutes passed before his reply arrived: Okay. My chest tightened with nervous excitement. Meeting in person would change everything; he would become a real, permanent part of my life. I spun around in the empty living room, immediately rushing to my closet to try on outfits. Later that night, my friend Violet texted me, begging me to join her at a popular downtown lounge. I was about to type an excuse when she sent another message: Don’t you dare say no. You need to get out of that apartment. You can’t spend the rest of your youth mourning Sebastian. It’s time to meet some new guys! I sighed, smiling slightly. I actually wanted to find a quiet moment to tell her about Ashton. I put on a simple black dress and left the apartment, deciding to enjoy one last night of freedom before starting my new chapter tomorrow. The lounge was packed and deafeningly loud. I quickly navigated through the crowd and headed toward the second-floor VIP booths, where it was significantly quieter. As I pulled out my phone to check Violet’s room number, a familiar voice drifted from a semi-private alcove just around the corner. “Seriously, dude, what is your deal? You’re driving me insane. You’ve been moping around like a rejected lover for months.” It was Marcus, Sebastian’s childhood best friend. I instinctively stepped back against the wall, wanting to avoid an awkward conversation. But then, another voice answered him. “Marcus, what am I supposed to do? I think my wife is actually falling for another guy.” My heart stopped. My fingers went entirely numb, and my phone nearly slipped from my grasp. I knew that voice. I would know it anywhere, even in a crowded, noisy bar. I slowly peeked around the corner, my eyes widening in sheer disbelief. There, sitting in the dim light of the booth, was Sebastian. He was alive.

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1 As a defense attorney with an undefeated record, I was hired by the state’s wealthiest man. His only son, convicted of a brutal serial murder and dismemberment case, had been sentenced to life. That was not enough for the billionaire. He wanted an acquittal and was prepared to pay dearly for it. Opening the file, I looked up. His face, a mask of calculated hope, pulled me back eighteen years to when my father was framed, jailed, and driven to suicide. The auditor who forged the evidence was the man sitting before me. He had built his fortune on my father’s ruin, then played the philanthropist, funding my schooling under the guise of charity. I abandoned physics for law, consumed by the need to clear my father’s name. Today, he slid a ten-million-dollar check across my desk. I offered my warmest smile. “I’ll take the case.” “I guarantee the appeal succeeds.” “Counselor, they do not call you the undefeated queen of the courtroom for nothing. I appreciate your straightforwardness.” Flex Cross leaned back into the plush leather of my office sofa, tapping his expensive cigar against the armrest. His corporate legal director stepped forward from the shadows, sliding a thin manila folder toward me. “Mr. Cross, what is this?” I asked, eyeing the file. “Brandon is a good boy, just a bit sheltered. The environment in that prison has terrified him. It seems his mental state has taken a slight hit.” Flex exhaled a thick cloud of blue smoke, his eyes narrowing as he studied my reaction. “These are his psychiatric records from a few years back. Have a look. Tell me if they can be of any use to our case.” I flipped open the folder and scanned the pages. It was a vague, noncommittal diagnosis for generalized anxiety. There was no hard confirmation, no direct link to psychosis, and absolutely no definitive proof that could be flagged as a forgery by the prosecution. The man was an old fox. I closed the file, looking up with a perfectly crafted professional smile. “Mr. Cross, a standard anxiety diagnosis might buy a few tears from a jury.” “But if we can use this as a foundation, and have a top tier, authoritative medical board escalate this into a diagnosis of severe schizophrenia.” “Then our insanity defense for the appeal will be an absolute slam dunk.” Flex stared at me for a long moment before bursting into deep, booming laughter. “Excellent! God, it is so refreshing to work with someone who actually uses their brain.” He leaned forward, pointing a heavy finger at me. “You know, Valerie, eighteen years ago I saw you digging through the trash on the streets. My heart broke, and I paid for your schooling out of pure charity.” “I knew even back then that you were a smart girl. A girl who knows how the world works, and knows how to repay a favor.” I picked up my porcelain teacup. “If it were not for your incredible generosity back then, I would not be sitting in this chair today.” “Do not worry, Mr. Cross. I will make sure this case plays out exactly as it should.” Flex gathered his team and walked out of the office. The moment the heavy glass door clicked shut, my fingers tightened around the teacup until my knuckles turned stark white. Eighteen years ago, my father, Robert Davis, was a senior auditor. He uncovered Flex’s massive web of fraudulent accounts. Before he could blow the whistle, Flex planted dirty money in my father’s accounts and framed him for embezzlement. My father smashed his own head against the concrete wall of his cell until he died. Flex walked away with a clean record and a fortune. He only sponsored my education because the scandal had drawn too much heat. He needed to build a public persona of a merciful, forgiving saint to shut the media up. I took a deep, shaky breath, shoving the suffocating rage back down into my chest. I had waited eighteen long years. A few more days meant nothing. That afternoon, I took my legal assistant, Sarah, to the county jail to meet Brandon Cross. Sitting on the other side of the thick plexiglass, the kid who was accused of butchering multiple women looked completely bored. “You are the hotshot lawyer, right?” Brandon picked at his manicured fingernails. “Get me out of this hellhole. The slop they feed us here is not fit for a dog. I have already lost five pounds.” Sarah clenched her fists so hard her nails bit into her palms. I kept my face entirely neutral. “If you want to win this appeal, you need to cooperate.” I opened my legal pad. “Your father is pivoting to an insanity defense. Because of that, we need to go over the exact details of the nights in question to make sure our stories align.” “What is there to go over?” Brandon rolled his eyes dramatically. “My old man said this appeal was just a formality. He already cleaned up the only real mess out there. What else could possibly go wrong?” “The mess?” I paused my pen. “That stupid bitch, obviously.” Brandon grinned, showing his teeth. “She insisted on calling the cops. She was practically begging to die.” He leaned forward, pressing his face close to the glass, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “By the way, counselor. That delivery driver. Is he dead yet?” My fingers clamped down hard on my pen. The original case files stated that a food delivery driver, the sole eyewitness to one of the body dumps, had been in a hit and run. He was currently in a vegetative state. Brandon asking if he was dead proved that he knew exactly how his father was tying up loose ends on the outside. I did not take the bait. If I engaged with that line of questioning, I would be crossing the line into criminal conspiracy and witness tampering. “The driver’s medical status is a matter of police record. That is not our focus today.” I stared blankly into his eyes. “I need to verify the state of your memory during the events.” “For instance, the medical examiner’s report states that the victim’s left hand was missing the index and middle fingers. Do you recall that?” Brandon frowned in sheer irritation. “Bullshit! I chopped off her right hand! She had this incredibly tacky butterfly tattoo on her right wrist. It grossed me out just looking at it.” I looked down and made a note. The unpublished forensic files explicitly stated that the right hand was missing and had a tattoo. The police had intentionally fed the press false information about the left hand. Brandon blurting out the truth meant he was entirely lucid and possessed a crystal clear memory of the dismemberment. This completely shattered the legal requirements for a severe schizophrenic break and a lack of cognitive awareness. “Understood. That is very helpful.” I drew a small, coded star on the interview log. Back at the firm, Sarah marched right up to my desk, her face red with fury. “Valerie! Did you see his face when he talked about cutting her hand off?! He looked like he was talking about chopping vegetables! He is not insane!” Sarah slammed her palm flat against my desk. “You know he is faking the illness. You know the delivery driver’s accident was a targeted hit. And you are still going to help this monster walk free?” “Has your conscience been completely eaten by your greed?!” “Sarah, please manage your emotions.” I calmly sorted the files into neat stacks. “I was so wrong about you!” Sarah kicked an empty chair, sending it clattering to the floor. “You threw away every moral boundary you ever had for ten million dollars! I am done. I will not touch this case!” Sarah stormed out, slamming the heavy wooden door behind her. The office fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. I sat at my desk, organizing the Cross family documents into one pile. Then, I looked down at the locked bottom drawer of my filing cabinet. Inside that drawer was the weathered, eighteen year old case file belonging to my father. Being completely alone was for the best. When the explosion finally happened, nobody else would get caught in the blast radius. 2 First thing the next morning, Flex’s corporate legal team invaded my firm. Three ruthless corporate lawyers essentially hijacked the core discovery process. “Counselor, the boss made it clear. We will handle the heavy lifting with the core evidence. You just need to focus on your courtroom theatrics.” Marcus, the legal director, offered a smile that did not reach his cold eyes. They were keeping a leash on me. I calmly pushed the peripheral case files across the desk. “Not a problem. Since we are building an insanity defense, the core of the argument is not the crime itself. It is the trigger.” I pulled out a requisition form and handed it over. “I need Brandon’s prescription logs for the last three years, his passport travel history, and the shift schedules for his personal driver.” Marcus frowned. “What do you need all that for?” “To prove a three year pattern of erratic behavior, chemical dependency, and geographical instability. We need to establish a verified history of a mental breakdown.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Juries do not just look at a doctor’s note. They look at a lifestyle.” Marcus snatched the list and walked out. I needed those schedules for a very different reason. I was going to map Brandon’s exact movements around the times of the murders to locate any hidden body dumping sites. My desk phone rang. It was Flex. “Valerie, how is the evidence collection going?” “Swimmingly. Your team is incredibly efficient.” “Glad to hear it.” Flex paused, his tone shifting into something far more sinister. “By the way, you do not need to bother visiting the victim’s family anymore.” “I heard their little noodle shop just had a run in with the fire marshal. And the IRS found some major discrepancies in their books.” “You know how people are. Once they are fighting tooth and nail just to survive, they lose the energy to make a fuss in court.” I gripped the phone so hard the plastic creaked. “You think of everything, Mr. Cross.” I kept my voice perfectly smooth. After hanging up, I grabbed my car keys and drove straight to the victim’s neighborhood. I parked at the end of the alley. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and burnt wood. The family’s noodle shop had been completely trashed. Bright red seizure tapes from the fire department and the tax authority were plastered across the shattered front door. The pavement was covered in broken porcelain, spilled broth, and crushed vegetables. The victim’s mother was sitting in the middle of the debris. She was clutching a framed photo of her dead daughter to her chest, wailing with a grief that shattered the quiet street. I stood in silence, watching from a distance. “That is her! That is the butcher’s lawyer!” someone screamed, pointing a finger right at my face. Seven or eight locals charged out of the alley toward me. “You heartless animal!” “Do you think rich people can just slaughter whoever they want?!” A bowl of lukewarm broth was hurled at my chest, soaking my silk blouse. Then came the rotten cabbage leaves and raw eggs. Someone threw a jagged piece of a broken bowl. It struck my forearm, slicing a deep, bleeding gash into my skin. I did not flinch. I did not move. I just let the garbage and the hatred hit me. If I was going to act as Flex’s attack dog, I had to absorb the consequences. The old woman was pulled up from the rubble by her neighbors. She glared at me with bloodshot eyes. “You go back and tell that monster…” the old woman screamed, her voice cracking. “My daughter will drag him to hell! We will never let this go!” I turned around, stepping carefully over the rotting vegetables, and opened my car door. Once inside, I gripped the steering wheel, my fingernails digging painfully into my palms until they bled. Patience. Let them enjoy their high ground for just a few more days. That night, the internet exploded. A local gossip blogger uploaded a video of me getting pelted with garbage in the alleyway. The headline was painted in bright red font: [Heartless Ten Million Dollar Lawyer Teams Up With Billionaire To Destroy Victim’s Family!] The comment section was an absolute bloodbath of death threats and insults aimed at me. Flex was using the public to cut off my escape routes. He wanted to make sure my reputation was so radioactive that I had no choice but to rely entirely on him. Back in the empty law firm that night, I booted up the files Marcus had delivered. Buried deep in a mountain of financial data, I found a single ledger receipt. The serial code was SZ-10928. It was the wire transfer Flex used to pay off a fake witness in Brandon’s case. The serial number format, the shell company structure, and the routing patterns were completely identical to the fake accounts used to frame my father eighteen years ago. Even the authorized signature at the bottom belonged to the exact same accountant. The bloody threads of the past and the present had finally tied themselves into a perfect knot. The next morning, I went back to the county jail. Brandon laughed through the glass. “Well, counselor, the whole world knows you are my personal lapdog now.” He kicked his boots up onto the metal table. “You have absolutely no way out except to win this case. You and me, we are chained to the same sinking ship.” I pulled out a tissue, carefully wiped the ink from my pen, and pushed the interview transcript through the slot for his signature. “You are absolutely right.” I looked up, meeting his arrogant eyes. “We are going to be chained together right up until the judge reads the final verdict.” 3 The night before the appeals trial, Flex rented out the entire penthouse of a luxury hotel for a private banquet. The room was packed with the city’s elite. Flex seated me right next to him at the head table. “Ladies and gentlemen, this case has been a thorn in my side. But with Valerie steering the ship, I can already taste the victory.” Flex raised his crystal champagne glass, beaming with pride. Halfway through the dinner, a wealthy developer brought up the old corporate restructuring era from nearly two decades ago. Flex took a sip of expensive liquor and chuckled. “Speaking of those days, do any of you remember that stubborn corporate auditor?” “The man was a complete boy scout. And how did that work out for him?” “I took a flawlessly clean audit report, tweaked the numbers, and sent him off to eat prison food for the rest of his life.” He turned to look at me, a vicious glint in his eye. “That is what you call true power, Valerie. As long as you own the rulebook, you can paint the sky green and the grass blue.” The entire table erupted into sycophantic laughter. That was my father he was talking about. I stared at the side of Flex’s face, forcing myself to keep breathing. I raised my own glass. “A brilliant strategy, Mr. Cross. A toast to your success.” I knocked the burning liquor back in one gulp. Beneath the heavy silk tablecloth, my left hand gripped the edge of the table so hard my joints popped. Not yet. The trap was not fully set. My phone vibrated in my purse. It was Richard, the senior partner at my firm. “Valerie, you have seen the news. The public backlash is apocalyptic. Our switchboards are crashing from the death threats.” Richard’s voice was tight and cold. “The board had an emergency meeting. Effective immediately, you are stripped of your right to represent this firm in any public capacity.” “Tomorrow, you step into that courtroom as an independent contractor. Every single ounce of liability falls squarely on your shoulders.” The firm was throwing me to the wolves. I hung up the phone, looking at the room full of laughing billionaires, and forced a smile. After the banquet, I drove back to my dark office. I pulled the blinds shut. I spread every single piece of evidence, every wire transfer, the driver schedules, and the interview transcripts across the massive glass desk. I divided the mountain of paper into three distinct stacks. Stack one: Proof that the schizophrenia diagnosis was a purchased forgery. Stack two: Proof of witness tampering, bribery, and the destruction of the noodle shop. Stack three: The shell company ledgers, perfectly linking the current bribery to the framing of my father eighteen years ago. I slid each stack into a heavy duty, tamper evident evidence bag. I placed them gently into my leather briefcase. I did not sleep a single second that night. Eight in the morning. Trial day. The courthouse steps were drowning in a sea of protestors and cameras. The victim’s mother was kneeling on the cold concrete steps, holding her daughter’s picture in total, crushing silence. The moment I stepped out of my car, the press swarmed me, shoving microphones into my face. “Valerie! Ten million dollars to set a butcher free! Do you have a price tag on your soul?!” “How do you sleep at night? Do you see the victim when you close your eyes?!” A protestor with a bullhorn screamed over the crowd. “Corporate lapdog! You are just as guilty as the killer!” The crowd surged, pushing against me. A stray elbow hit my injured arm, tearing the wound open. Fresh blood soaked through the sleeve of my suit. I kept walking, catching a glimpse of Sarah standing at the back of the mob. She looked at me with pure disgust, then turned and pushed her way out of the crowd. I stood at the top of the courthouse steps. I smoothed down the lapels of my jacket, took a breath, and walked through the heavy oak doors. Inside the courtroom, Flex sat dead center in the front row of the gallery. He gave me a confident, knowing nod as I walked down the aisle. I walked straight to the defense table and took my seat. “Court is now in session.” The judge slammed his wooden gavel. The prosecution was struggling. Because Flex had successfully bought off or intimidated their witnesses, their chain of evidence was falling apart. Brandon sat at the defendant’s table, bouncing his leg in absolute arrogance. He turned around, looked straight at the grieving mother in the gallery, and mouthed the words: “Deserved it.” A gasp of horror rippled through the spectators. Brandon turned back to me, raising a cocky eyebrow, signaling me to present the fake medical records and end the show. “Defense,” the judge’s voice echoed through the room. “Do you have any objections to the prosecution’s exhibits? You may now present your evidence.” Sitting in the row right behind the railing, Marcus caught my eye. He aggressively tapped his finger against the wooden barrier, demanding I submit the insanity plea. I stood up. I placed my hand flat on top of the fabricated psychiatric report. Flex smiled, leaning back in his seat. With a flick of my wrist, I pushed the fake report to the far edge of the table, abandoning it. I did not open it. The courtroom fell dead silent. Flex’s smile vanished. He sat up, his brow furrowing into a deep, dangerous scowl. I reached down, unlatched my leather briefcase, and pulled out the first sealed evidence bag. “Your Honor,” my voice rang out, clear and unwavering. “As defense counsel for Brandon Cross, in the course of reviewing the files and conducting supplementary investigations…” “I have discovered that the financial records and medical documents provided to this firm by the defendant’s family show undeniable evidence of malicious forgery!” The gallery erupted into chaos. “Valerie! What the hell are you talking about?!” Flex shot out of his seat, his face purple with rage. His entire legal team jumped up behind him, shouting objections. “Order! Order in the court! The gallery will remain silent!” The judge hammered his gavel violently. I did not stop. I raised my voice over the noise. “Furthermore! Based on legally obtained travel logs and financial wire transfers…” “I have uncovered that the defendant’s family recently engaged in the illegal detainment, violent intimidation, and bribery of key eyewitnesses!” “And the network of shell companies used to manufacture this perjury is the exact same network used to fabricate a massive corporate embezzlement case eighteen years ago!” Brandon lunged against the wooden barrier of the defendant’s box, screaming at the top of his lungs. “You crazy bitch! You took our ten million dollars! What are you doing?!” I looked at his pathetic, screaming face. I turned around, picked up all three sealed evidence bags, walked to the center of the courtroom, and slid them onto the judge’s bench. “Your Honor, I formally petition to withdraw as defense counsel.” “And I submit to the court a chain of evidence that is more than sufficient to send Brandon Cross directly to death row.”

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1 My arch-nemesis and I both suffer from highly specific, incredibly inconvenient disorders. I have skin hunger, a physical condition that leaves me desperately touch-deprived. He has episodic amnesia, and when his memory wipes, I am the only person he remembers. So, we made a deal. He said, “Let’s partner up. I’ll help ease your skin hunger, and you play along whenever my brain resets.” It sounded like a reasonable transaction. What I didn’t expect was for his amnesiac self to genuinely believe I was his girlfriend. He would kiss me, touch me, and make out with me until my lips were completely swollen. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I looked him dead in the eye during one of his episodes and lied, “Actually, I’m your sister.” His world shattered. But a second later, he looked at me with dead-serious eyes and asked: “So, are we doing the whole forbidden taboo thing?” 2 My touch starvation had flared up out of nowhere. I practically dragged myself across campus to find Owen, my childhood friend turned rival, only to find him cornered by a girl confessing her love. She was reading some cheesy love poem, holding out a bouquet of flowers, and dragging the whole thing out forever. I tried to hold it together, standing on the edge of the crowd. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and my eyes grew hot and watery from the sheer, agonizing itch under my skin. Owen’s best friend spotted me. Seeing my state, he muttered to the guy next to him, “Holy crap. Look at Nora. She hates Owen so much her eyes are literally bloodshot.” If it were any other girl, people would have assumed I was heartbroken over the campus golden boy getting taken. After all, Owen was the resident heartthrob, and the line of girls wanting to date him could easily wrap around the university twice. But I was Nora West. Owen’s sworn enemy. Sensing something, Owen glanced up. His eyes locked onto me through the crowd. His expression shifted instantly, and he shoved the bouquet back into the poor girl’s hands. “I’m sorry, but I’m not looking for a relationship. Thank you, though,” he said, blunt and final. The girl’s face went pale. She stood frozen in the middle of the whispering crowd, completely mortified. Owen’s buddy groaned. “Bro, come on. You didn’t have to humiliate her like that.” Owen shot him a dark look. “Shut up.” I was losing my mind. The proximity of all these random people was making my skin crawl. “Owen, get over here. We need to settle this,” I snapped. Giving him a sharp glare, I turned on my heel and walked away. If I stayed any longer, I was going to lose my composure. Owen trailed right behind me, his long strides easily keeping pace. Behind us, his friends watched in genuine concern. “Man, how deep does their grudge go? They’re totally going to throw hands.” We didn’t throw hands. Instead, the moment we were behind closed doors, we crashed into a tight, desperate embrace. “Better?” Owen muttered, his voice laced with his usual irritation. I swallowed a pathetic whimper, gripping him tighter. “Give me a second.” Seeing how bad my touch starvation was, Owen reached down, yanked his shirt over his head, and tossed it aside, leaving his chest bare. Then he pulled me onto his lap, wrapping his strong arms around me. To tease me, he bounced his leg slightly, causing me to jolt up and down against him. I glared at him, but he just smirked. “Your condition is seriously freaky, you know that?” I reached out and pinched his bare collarbone, twisting the skin until he winced. “What is your problem?” he hissed, baring his teeth. “Do you want me to drop you on the floor?” “Shut up,” I muttered, closing my eyes to focus on the soothing sensation of skin-on-skin contact. Owen took one look at my exhausted face and fell silent. I rested my cheek against the warm crook of his neck, and every single tense muscle in my body slowly began to unravel. “I didn’t mean to ruin your peacocking session out there,” I murmured. “You should probably go back and clear things up with that girl.” Owen’s public persona was always the polite gentleman. Even when he wasn’t interested, he usually had the decency to let a girl finish her speech. He would give a vague nod, then find a private moment later to let them down easy. Some people called him a player for it; others praised his high emotional intelligence. I, on the other hand, didn’t play those games. I shut guys down before they could even finish their first sentence. That directness almost cost me last month when a guy, driven mad by rejection, tried to throw acid at me. If my reflexes hadn’t been lightning-fast, my face would have been ruined. Just thinking about it made my blood boil. “Hey, Nora. If you’re in a bad mood, take it out on a punching bag, not my chest,” Owen grumbled. I blinked, realizing I had subconsciously balled my hand into a fist and thumped his bare skin. “Oh, please. A little tap won’t kill you.” Owen and I had known each other since we were in diapers. Since we shared the last name West, everyone in school used to assume we were siblings. I used that misconception to screw him over countless times. Whenever I picked a fight with someone outside of school, I’d leave them with his name: “You got a problem? Go talk to my brother, Owen West!” By middle school, he had been forced into the role of the local bad boy, constantly dealing with idiots trying to challenge him. In high school, our rivalry shifted to academics. We made a bet: whoever got the lower grade on any test had to call the other “Mom” or “Dad.” To two teenagers with pathologically inflated egos, failing a test was practically a death sentence. Over those three years, I had to call him “Dad” twenty-five times. He called me “Mom” forty-nine times. Every single time the words left our mouths, we wanted to strangle each other. God, he was infuriating. At least my GPA was slightly better, meaning I held the ultimate bragging rights. But after graduation, our dynamic took a sharp, bizarre turn. Out of nowhere, Owen developed a strange form of episodic amnesia. It was completely unpredictable, striking at any given moment without warning. The kicker? When the fog rolled into his brain, I was the only constant left. Not only did he remember me, but he was also utterly convinced we were dating. If I tried to deny it, he would spiral so violently he’d turn suicidal. The first time I told him the truth, he broke down, grabbed a blade, and slit his wrists, landing himself in the ICU. Honestly, I had never seen so much blood in my life. After a few terrifying episodes, I learned my lesson. Owen West was a certified psychopath when he lost his mind. Once he snapped back to his senses, the rational Owen proposed a truce. “Look,” he had said, rubbing his temples. “You have skin hunger, and I have this memory issue. Let’s make a deal. I’ll be your physical anchor when you need touch, and you play along whenever my brain resets.” It seemed like a fair trade. But I hadn’t factored in just how intensely the amnesiac Owen would commit to the boyfriend role. He would kiss me, touch me, and even try to drag me to bed. When his memory finally returned, I’d be sitting there with swollen, bitten lips. Owen would stare at my mouth, clear his throat, and mutter, “Sorry. I’ll tell myself to be gentler next time.” A surge of pure fury would wash over me, and I’d slap him across the face. He never fought back. He just took it. Naturally, to compensate for our bizarre private arrangement, our public hostility grew even more extreme. We acted like we wanted each other dead. Even the classmates who didn’t know us personally knew about the legendary feud between Nora and Owen. If I was invited to a party, Owen wouldn’t show up. If Owen was there, I was a no-show. It was a classic case of mutual exclusion. I let out a heavy sigh at the memory. Still holding me close, Owen smirked, his voice dripping with arrogance. “What’s with the sigh? Is my chest not comfortable enough for you? You should check around campus, girls would pay a fortune to be where you are right now.” My eye twitched. I reached up, grabbed a handful of his dark hair, and started shaking him. “Ow! Nora, you psycho!” Owen yelled, trying to swat my hands away. “This is why you’re single! No sane man would ever want you!” As if I gave a crap about what some hypothetical man wanted. We ended up wrestling on the floor. He pinned my wrists, and I wrapped my legs around his neck in a chokehold, both of us straining with every ounce of strength we had, refusing to back down. Suddenly, the classroom door flew open. A group of students froze on the threshold, staring at our tangled bodies. Owen and I scrambled apart, desperately trying to untangle ourselves and stand up. Owen, showing an infuriating amount of calm, casually grabbed his shirt from the floor and pulled it over his bare torso. “It’s not what it looks like!” I gasped, my face flushing scarlet. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to think there was anything romantic going on between us. “Holy shit!” one of the guys whispered loudly. “Nora just absolutely wrecked Owen! She literally tore his shirt off!” “That is brutal. How much does she hate him to literally rip his clothes?” It didn’t help that there was a fresh, angry red scratch on Owen’s pale cheek where my fingernail had caught him during our struggle. Against his fair skin, it looked like a major battle wound. Owen and I stood there in dead silence. Unbelievably, not a single person suspected anything other than sheer, unadulterated violence. Naturally, as the rumor mill spun, the story morphed into something legendary. A simple wrestling match turned into me viciously disfiguring the campus golden boy. To make matters worse, Owen had to take the next few days off due to family matters. His sudden absence practically confirmed the rumors. I didn’t bother correcting anyone. Once Owen showed up with an intact face, the rumors would die down on their own. Some people, however, couldn’t let it go. A group of girls cornered me near the library. The ringleader’s eyes were red and swollen, and she glared at me with pure venom. “Nora West,” she demanded, her voice trembling. “You need to go to the police station and turn yourself in right now.” I stared at her, wondering if I had temporarily lost my hearing. But she stepped closer, repeating her ridiculous demand. “Go turn yourself in! I know Owen is too sweet and gentlemanly to press charges against you, but you can’t just assault someone and ruin their face! That is a crime!” My expression didn’t flicker. Having dealt with insane situations my entire life, I had developed a remarkably thick skin. “First of all, his face is perfectly fine,” I said coolly. “Second, if you think I committed a felony, feel free to call the cops yourself.” I tried to push past them, but they blocked my path. “Nora, don’t you dare walk away!” I scoffed, losing my patience. “Look, who even are you? Do I know you? What is your connection to Owen? I know his entire social circle, and I’ve never seen your face. Who do you think you are?” The girl puffed out her chest. “My name is Gemma Harrington! I am Owen’s girlfriend. That gives me every right to stand up for him!” I burst out laughing. The claim was so absurd she might as well have claimed to be his long-lost mother. Gemma’s face turned red with rage. “You toxic, miserable girl! You think you’re so special just because your family has money? You’re going to get what’s coming to you!” “Please,” I sighed. “Owen’s family is just as wealthy as mine. If he wanted to sue me, he would have done it already. Speaking of which…” I gestured with my chin over her shoulder. Everyone turned around to see Owen walking toward us, looking thoroughly annoyed. “Nora, I’ve been waiting for you for four hours.” I immediately went on the offensive. “Hey, your ‘girlfriend’ here is cornering me with her squad.” Owen’s eyes swept over Gemma and her friends, his expression instantly darkening. Under his cold gaze, Gemma shrunk back, her confidence evaporating. Owen was clearly in a terrible mood and had zero intention of playing nice. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said, his voice flat. “And when I do date, it will only be with someone from a family of equal standing.” It was a harsh reality, but Owen and I had accepted it long ago. We had no desire to rebel against our families for some dramatic, doomed romance. Besides, who said you couldn’t find a genuine connection within your own social class? My parents had an arranged marriage and ended up madly in love. It worked out fine. Gemma gasped, looking deeply humiliated. “Owen! I’ve been chasing you for months! I literally saved up for weeks to buy you that two-thousand-dollar watch!” Her friends chimed in, glaring at him. “Seriously, Owen? Gemma sacrificed so much for you. The least you could do is respect her feelings!” “I never accepted the watch,” Owen countered coldly. “I’ve made it clear to everyone: don’t buy me things. If I had to date every girl who showed interest in me, I’d need a harem. Back off.” Tears finally spilled over Gemma’s cheeks. “You jerk!” she screamed, then turned and bolted down the path, sobbing hysterically. Her friends looked at each other, then ran after her. “Gemma! Wait up!” I crossed my arms and looked at Owen. “So, you waited four hours, and your fangirl wasted ten minutes of my life. Let’s call it even.” Owen scoffed, stepping closer. “She isn’t my girlfriend. And you definitely made me wait on purpose.” I absolutely had. Tonight was his mother’s birthday dinner, a joint celebration with our families. Owen had come to pick me up early. I figured making him wait was a perfectly reasonable way to keep him humble. He glared at me, his jaw clenching. “You are unbelievable, Nora. Just wait.” I smirked, thoroughly enjoying his irritation. But as it turned out, karma was a fast-moving beast. By the time we arrived at the West estate, the dining room was already full. No matter how much Owen and I tore at each other’s throats, our parents remained thick as thieves. During the main course, Owen’s mother looked over at me with a warm smile. “So, Nora, darling, when are you going to bring a boy home? You’re graduating soon. It’s about time you started dating.” Instantly, every eye at the table locked onto me. I opened my mouth to offer some polite, generic excuse, but before I could speak, Owen reached across the table, grabbed my hand, and announced, “Actually, we’re already dating.” My father dropped his fork with a loud clatter. My parents and his exchanged wild, bewildered glances. “Is this… a joke?” my mother managed to ask. At that exact moment, I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. Of all the times for his amnesia to flare up, he chose his mother’s formal birthday dinner. Before I could react, Owen grabbed my shoulders, pulled me toward him, and pressed his lips to mine. He didn’t just give me a polite kiss; he kissed me deeply, parting my lips and making a very audible, very embarrassing sound right in front of our parents. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Okay, we believe you! Stop!” his father yelled, shielding his eyes. “Owen! Get your hands off my daughter!” my dad roared, half-rising from his chair. My mom quickly grabbed his arm, pulling him back down. Needless to say, dinner ended abruptly. Since everyone knew we supposedly despised each other, I knew I was in for a brutal interrogation the second we got home. “Sweetheart,” my dad said gently once we were back in our living room. “You have to be mature about this. You can’t just pretend to date Owen as some twisted way to get back at him.” I sighed, rubbing my temples. “I know, Dad. I’ve got it handled.” But inside, panic was setting in. This had to stop. If people thought I was dating Owen, I’d never find a decent guy. Besides, the idea of being publicly linked to him was nauseating. The next morning, Owen met me on campus. For once, he looked genuinely apologetic. “I’m really sorry about last night,” he muttered. “When the amnesia hits, I can’t control my actions. You know that.” Seeing Owen swallow his pride was a rare sight. He practically had to drag his ego through the dirt to say those words. Seeing my cold expression, he quickly tried to justify himself. “Come on, Nora. I’ve bailed you out plenty of times when your touch starvation flared up. Remember last week? I was in the middle of a critical ranked match, and I abandoned my team because you called. My friends still think I have some secret, needy girlfriend.” He wasn’t wrong. We had a mutual arrangement, but his episodes were getting progressively worse. Now that our parents were involved, we were playing with fire. What we did in private was one thing, but letting it spill into our real lives was a recipe for disaster. As Owen kept talking, his voice suddenly trailed off. The frustration in his eyes faded, replaced by a blank, hazy look, which quickly morphed into pure, radiant joy. “Norie,” he whispered, a soft smile spreading across his face. “I love you so much. You’re my girl, right?” Oh, great. He was slipping under again. I took a deep, shuddering breath. Was this going to be my life? Constantly locking lips with my sworn enemy? I didn’t want this. His mother was right, I needed to find a real boyfriend. I shook my head, stepping back. “No, Owen. I’m not your girlfriend.” His brows furrowed. “That’s not true.” Terrified of triggering another self-harm episode, I scrambled to fabricate a convincing lie. “Listen to me, Owen. We can’t date. We’re siblings. I’m Nora West. We share the same last name because we’re brother and sister.” Owen’s eyes widened, his pupils trembling as he tried to process the information. I held my breath, praying this wouldn’t send him into a downward spiral. Instead of panicking, he just stared at me, his face a complicated map of disbelief and intense conflict. “Oh, god,” he whispered, looking utterly devastated. “I’m in love with my own sister.” Then, looking at me with absolute sincerity, he asked: “So, are we doing the whole forbidden taboo thing?” What was wrong with this guy? He had the nerve to call my skin hunger freaky, but his amnesiac brain was on a whole different level of twisted. Owen’s eyes were rimmed with red. “Nora, please. I don’t care about the rules. I love you. I can’t live without you.” Looking into his intense, desperate gaze, I felt a sudden wave of dizziness. He was so completely different from his usual self. The amnesiac Owen had no defenses. He only loved me, only remembered me, and his eyes followed me like I was his entire universe. And now, he was begging me to break the ultimate taboo. “Owen, we really are siblings,” I lied, trying to sound gentle. “If you don’t believe me, you can text our parents.” He frowned. “Who are our parents?” I sighed, pulling out my phone. I opened my chat with my mom and shot her a quick message: What’s the relationship between Owen and me?

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “519844”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 During the latter half of the Levitan Group’s online auction, my phone buzzed repeatedly with notifications from my smart vacuum. Gizmo is stuck. Please assist. My brow furrowed. My husband, Samm, was an extreme germaphobe with severe obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Everything from the alignment of the coasters to the exact angle of the bedsheets had to be precisely positioned. Even our intimate moments required a rigorous sanitization process beforehand. Every cleaning path of our robot vacuum, Gizmo, had been meticulously programmed by Samm himself. It was practically impossible for the machine to get stuck. I opened the vacuum’s camera feed while texting my husband back home. “Gizmo is sending distress signals. Check on him when you get back from work.” A few minutes later, his reply came through: “K.” Just as I was about to message the building manager, a pair of pale, bare feet appeared on the camera feed. In the next second, a familiar, soft giggle echoed through the speaker. “Let’s do it right here.” A pair of women’s slippers was carelessly kicked aside. I closed the feed, immediately backed up the video, and forwarded it to my assistant, Paige. “Compile a complete inventory of all marital assets. Book me a flight. I’m heading back to New York immediately.” … I strode out of the conference room. Paige hurried to catch up, flipping open her folder. “Ms. Ashford, I identified the woman in the video.” She handed me a photograph and briefed me as we walked. “Her name is Fiona. She’s an intern who joined through the youth recruitment program you established. She only has an associate degree and was assigned to clean and organize the executive suite.” I glanced at her resume. “She was given a rare opportunity in the executive offices, yet she chose to throw it away. Add her to the layoff list.” I handed the folder back, took a couple of steps, and paused. I tapped my finger on Fiona’s name. “Pull all her expense reports, corporate card transactions, and keycard access logs. Every single one.” “Understood, Ms. Ashford.” We waited in the elevator lobby for three minutes. With a soft chime, the elevator doors slid open. Before we could step in, the regional manager blocked the way, holding a massive bouquet of roses in one hand and a tablet in the other. “Congratulations on winning the bid, Ms. Ashford! Mr. Levitan rented out an entire restaurant floor. Tonight is a celebration for our overseas team!” The tablet screen lit up, showing a video call from Samm. “You’ve worked hard these past two months. I’ll make it up to you when you return.” His voice was deep and steady as he sat upright in his office chair. I didn’t say anything, gently pushing the roses aside. “What’s wrong? You look pale,” Samm’s face filled the screen, his expression intense and focused. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and forced a neutral expression. “Nothing. I’m allergic to roses.” The screen went quiet for a second before he let out a soft laugh. “I thought you liked them. I’ll remember that next time.” Next time? My chest tightened with a sharp, familiar pain. The first time he had ever sent me roses, my face swelled so badly I had to stay indoors for three days. Back then, Samm had been so guilt-ridden that he had the entire rose garden at our estate paved over overnight. But now, his memory only held the preferences of his intern. Samm glanced at his watch. “I only have a minute. I have an international board meeting.” I froze, my eyes landing on the vibrant checkered tie around his neck. It was loud, flashy, and completely unlike anything in his closet. “Samm, do you know what day it is?” He paused, rubbing his temple. “Right. I almost forgot. It’s your birthday.” He glanced up, scanning the flight information projected on his screen. “I’m sorry. The last flight out tonight has already departed. Let’s celebrate tomorrow instead.” Before I could speak, a pale, slender hand entered the frame. “Samm, can you zip me up?” The call was abruptly disconnected. The black screen of the tablet reflected my pale, hollow face. The manager beside me held his breath, while Paige asked softly, “Ms. Ashford, should I cancel your ticket?” “No. We fly tonight.” Three hours later, my flight landed. The arrivals gate was packed with people, each holding a bunch of red roses. The scent was suffocating. I pulled my coat collar up and hurried through the crowd, covering my nose. “Happy birthday, Fiona!” A familiar masculine voice cut through the noise, freezing me in my tracks. Looking up, I saw twenty-four rose-shaped fireworks bursting across the night sky, marking Fiona’s twenty-fourth birthday. In the center of the crowd, a girl in a white dress and a ponytail threw herself into Samm’s arms. He caught her, spinning her around. When they stopped, his usually cold, distant eyes held a tenderness I hadn’t seen in five years. “You are the best gift the universe has ever given me, Fiona.” A bystander whispered in envy, “Must be nice. She casually mentioned wanting to see the ocean, and her billionaire boyfriend flew her out overnight.” Another joined in. “When you have that kind of money, you can celebrate anywhere.” I stood in the crowd, pulling a pack of allergy medication from my purse and swallowing the pills dry. The bitterness lingered on my tongue. Taking my phone out, I dialed Samm’s number. A few yards away, the man pulled out his phone and switched it off. I gripped the phone so tightly my fingers throbbed with a sharp ache. As I suddenly loosened my grip, my diamond wedding ring slipped from my ring finger, rolling into the bustling crowd and vanishing from sight. For five years, I had memorized every single one of Samm’s triggers. Every time we shared a bed, I scrubbed myself raw, terrified of causing him even the slightest discomfort. Thinking back to the footage of Samm and Fiona, a wave of nausea washed over me. I dialed my mother-in-law’s number. “Eleanor, Samm is having an affair.” There was a long pause on the other end, followed by a soft, resigned sigh. “Victoria, you know how Samm is with his condition. It was a miracle he found a woman he could tolerate. Try to be understanding.” She already knew. Sensing my silence, she tried to soothe me. “Victoria, I promise you, the Levitan family only recognizes you as our daughter-in-law. Once you give us an heir, I will transfer the majority of my Levitan shares to you. With nearly forty percent of the company’s stock, you can live comfortably without worrying about Samm’s little distractions.” Her voice was dripping with sweet persuasion, offering a tempting fortune. But what she didn’t know was that on the day our families merged our business interests, my parents had already transferred all their Levitan shares to me. The last shred of warmth I felt for this family evaporated under her empty promises. Paige sent me a link to an online profile. “Ms. Ashford, this is Fiona’s private account.” I tapped the link. The pinned post was a grid of photos. Eight showed sweeping views of the city skyline, while the center photo was a selfie. The angle of the shot could only have been taken from Samm’s and my private penthouse suite. The pink diamond necklace my parents had gifted me for our wedding was draped around her neck. The caption read: The view from our private suite. It feels so good to have someone who remembers every little thing I like. I scrolled down. During a charity golf tournament last year, I had sprained my ankle. Samm had only helped me up before breaking into a cold sweat, visibly shaken by his severe germaphobia. Yet, on Fiona’s profile, the man who couldn’t bear human touch was kneeling on the floor, gently massaging her ankle. The caption: A little slip, and the big boss gets so worried. Although only his profile was visible, I had gazed at the small mole on his jawline too many times to mistake it for anyone else. I systematically compiled every image and forwarded them to my lawyer. It was only when my hands gripped the steering wheel that I realized I was shaking. I drove straight to the Levitan Hotel. Throwing the keys to the valet, I took the private elevator to the penthouse. When the doors opened, the place was a disaster. My custom-tailored gowns in the walk-in closet were covered in neon yellow stickers reading Trash and tacky. The silk nightgown from my wedding night lay crumpled on the floor, slapped with a label that read Desperate and cheap. Even the organic herbal remedies and therapeutic salves I had painstakingly prepared for Samm’s skin condition had been dumped into the trash can. I clenched my teeth, stepping back out of the closet. Taking deep breaths, I used my phone to document every piece of damage. I also took a photo of a white pill lying under the coffee table, texting Paige to have it collected and analyzed. Years of corporate experience had drilled one rule into my mind: always leave a paper trail. The next morning, Paige knocked on my door with a cup of coffee. “Ms. Ashford, I tried to pull the security footage, but the hotel staff said the penthouse cameras require authorization from either Mr. Levitan or Fiona. They refused to hand it over.” I let out a cold laugh. The Levitans might own the hotel chain, but the Ashfords were a legacy family of architects and builders with just as much leverage. Our marriage had been a merger of equals, though my feelings for Samm had been genuine. Knowing how protective he was of his personal space, I had managed the hotel’s interior operations without ever stepping on his private authority. Now, that respect was being used against me. I looked up and handed her a stack of financial reports. “Request the footage as a major shareholder of Levitan Enterprises. My personal property was damaged and stolen. Pulling those tapes is entirely within my legal rights. Also, publish the layoff notice we drafted yesterday immediately.” By afternoon, I was holding a team meeting in the hotel’s conference room when Fiona, dressed in a light summer outfit with a beach bag slung over her shoulder, burst in. “On what grounds are you firing me?!” she demanded, her eyes welling with tears as she looked around at the watching staff. “I was just doing my job for Mr. Levitan, and you’re throwing me out! I don’t have a wealthy family or a big background. I’m just trying to make a living! Just because you were born with a silver spoon, Ms. Ashford, doesn’t mean you have to ruin my life!” Faced with her performance, I slammed the folder containing the evidence onto the table. “Doing your job? You used Samm’s authority to embezzle high-end hotel vouchers and resell them for personal profit. The paper trail is right here. Do you want to review it?” Instead of backing down, Fiona let out a bitter laugh. “Ms. Ashford, I really don’t understand what you’re so afraid of.” She spread her hands, raising her voice so everyone could hear. “I’m just a cleaner. How could I possibly have the power to do all that? If my presence bothers you so much, I’ll leave! But the rest of you better watch your backs. Our dear Ms. Ashford doesn’t tolerate anyone she doesn’t like!” Giving me a venomous look, she leaned in and whispered, “If you push me, you’ll be the one who ends up humiliated. Just watch.” With that, she ran out of the room, crying hysterically. A few employees looked as though they wanted to speak up for her, but none dared to. Not even five minutes passed before Samm’s name flashed on my screen. I ignored it. Seconds later, whispers of “Mr. Levitan” echoed outside the room. Samm strode in, wearing his signature white gloves to avoid direct contact with the door, keeping a careful distance from me. “Did you issue Fiona’s termination?” “Yes.” “Victoria, you’re letting your personal feelings interfere with business again.” Looking at his cold, dismissive eyes, my remaining respect for him crumbled further. “Have you been up to the penthouse lately?” Samm frowned, adjusting his cuffs. “What does that have to do with Fiona’s termination?” I held up a flash drive. “She vandalized and stole my personal property, and she embezzled hotel assets. It’s all on this drive.” Samm interrupted me impatiently. “I authorized her access to the penthouse. She’s just a young girl who got curious. There’s no need to make a mountain out of a molehill.” “A molehill?” I let out a sharp laugh and tossed the flash drive at him. “Take a look for yourself and tell me if it doesn’t meet the threshold for grand larceny.” Samm’s face darkened. He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the spot on his suit where the drive had hit him. “Whatever is damaged, I’ll pay for it. I’ll have her apologize to you. But you will withdraw the termination. Fiona did nothing wrong, and she shouldn’t have to endure this kind of humiliation.” I stared at the white gloves he wore. I was the one who had them custom-made by hand from Europe every month, keeping spares in our home, his car, and his office. Yet, he had never once tried to see things from my perspective. He only stood on his moral high ground, correcting me. My voice turned entirely cold. “The notice stands. Samm, I want a divorce.” Samm fell silent for a moment, then scoffed. “So that’s what this is about. You’re upset because I can touch Fiona without any issues, aren’t you?” He tossed his handkerchief into the trash can, a lie slipping easily from his lips. “Victoria, my relationship with Fiona is purely professional. I am simply looking out for an employee.” I lost every ounce of my patience. Stepping closer, I held up my phone. “Looking out for her? Samm, is this how you look out for your employees?!” As I drew near, Samm instinctively slapped my hand away. A sharp, burning pain flared across my skin. “I’m sorry,” Samm muttered, his brow furrowing as he stared at the red mark on my hand, hesitating to reach out. “You got too close.” I put my hand behind my back. “Leave.” The remaining staff members exchanged uneasy glances, keeping silent for the rest of the meeting. By evening, a heavily edited video of Fiona’s confrontation in the lobby was circulating online. It showed only her weeping about being bullied, while I sat there looking cold and unbothered. Public opinion flared up instantly. People began twisting the operational guidelines and standard auditing policies I had established, claiming I was exploiting lower-income workers. Within hours, I was painted as a bitter, insecure heiress abusing her power. I stared at the toxic comments flooding my screen. “Find out who leaked the video and who is driving this narrative,” I told Paige. I had seen this kind of online smear campaign since I was a child. Later that night, Fiona’s account updated. She posted a photo of two hands clasped together, showing off matching diamond bands. Samm’s back was turned to the camera. The caption read: He said once I wear this ring, I’m his forever. Someone commented: Why is his face always hidden? Is he married? Fiona replied immediately: What do you know? He’s a prominent businessman. He has to maintain his privacy. I scoffed and typed a reply: I know quite a few prominent businessmen, but I don’t seem to recognize this one. A few seconds after posting, a text from an unknown number popped up. It was Fiona: Delete that comment right now, or I’ll make sure you regret it! I didn’t bother replying. By nightfall, my comment had climbed to the top of the thread. Thousands of users began questioning Fiona’s role in Samm’s life, calling her out as a homewrecker. Panicking, she made a grand announcement: her boyfriend would be proposing to her at a luxury hotel the following day, and the entire event would be livestreamed. I opened the livestream link and watched the waiting viewer count climb past one hundred thousand. The next morning, I met with my lawyer to finalize the divorce agreement, ensuring every asset division was precise and documented. On my way back to the hotel, Paige called. “Ms. Ashford, we traced the source of the leaked video. It was Fiona herself. Should we file a defamation lawsuit?” “No. Keep the evidence. We’ll settle everything at once.” The moment I stepped into the hotel lobby, a group of beauty influencers holding phones blocked my path. The woman at the front raised her voice. “Are you Victoria Ashford? What kind of fake vouchers are you selling? The hotel refuses to let us check in!” She reached out to shove me, but I caught her wrist firmly, stopping her in her tracks. “First, did you verify the identity of the person who sold you those vouchers? As a major shareholder and design consultant, I have no reason to sell fraudulent vouchers. Second, all legitimate hotel vouchers are registered with the buyer’s name. Yours have no registration numbers, meaning they are counterfeit.” A few people in the crowd began to hesitate. “She has a point. And her voice doesn’t sound like the person we spoke to online.” The leader wasn’t convinced, thrusting her phone near my face. “You’re just making excuses! The girl who sold them to us said her name was Victoria Ashford! I don’t care, you’re the one pocketing our money!” I smiled calmly. “If I were the seller, there would be transaction records. You are welcome to check. However, if you can provide the contact information and payment details of the person who sold them to you, I will personally arrange for you to stay in an executive suite for free today.” The group wavered, whispering among themselves as they sat down in the lobby to look up their purchase history. Right then, the lobby manager entered, accompanied by several police officers. The lead officer stepped forward, showing his badge. “Are you Victoria Ashford?” I nodded calmly. “We received your report regarding stolen property. Please accompany us to the scene to identify the items.” I glanced at the influencers, my lips curving slightly. “Of course. Everyone, please follow me.” At the end of the top-floor hallway, the penthouse door was slightly ajar. Romantic music drifted out into the corridor. Inside, Samm was down on one knee. Fiona, wearing my pink diamond wedding necklace, was crying tears of joy. A phone was set up nearby, broadcasting the scene live, carefully framing only the side of Samm’s face. Just as Fiona was about to say yes, I pushed the door wide open. In the dead silence that followed, only the rapid clicking of camera shutters filled the room. I covered my mouth in mock surprise, looking at them. “Samm, why are you proposing to our cleaning lady in our hotel?”

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1 Five years after I cut ties with my mother, the Chief of Homicide, I live-streamed a murder on the dark web. The very woman who once swore she wouldn’t care if I died in a ditch had personally extradited me, locking the heavy steel cuffs around my wrists. In the interrogation room, my mother looked as if she had aged a lifetime overnight. Her hair was shot with gray, and her hands shook so violently she could barely point her finger at me. “Zachary, how did you turn into this?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “A total disregard for human life, three cold-blooded murders, and a live broadcast to mock the law. I wish I had never brought you into this world.” Watching her chest heave with righteous anger, I curled my lips into a mocking smile. “You never liked me much when I was obedient anyway,” I said, leaning back. “Your heart has always belonged to your precious adopted son, hasn’t it?” I pulled a blood-stained commendation medal from my pocket and tossed it onto the metal table between us. “You always said he was better than me, that he was the one destined to inherit your legacy. So how come he couldn’t even beat a failure like me?” My mother’s pupils dilated. She lunged across the table, grabbing me by the collar. “What did you do to Dominic?!” I didn’t answer. I just stared into her eyes and smiled. Just as the air was leaving my lungs, she abruptly let go of me, stumbling backward. With trembling fingers, she pulled out her phone. “No, it’s not possible, it can’t be,” she mumbled to herself, desperately dialing Dominic’s number. The words My Baby Boy flashed on the screen in bold letters. But there was no answer. And there I sat, her biological son, right in front of her, lacking even the right to be in her contacts list. After her fifth call went straight to voicemail, she snapped. “It was you!” she screamed. “Dominic told me he won a vacation voucher. You lured him out of the country!” If the deputy hadn’t held her back, she would have torn me apart with her bare hands. “Dominic just graduated from college, Zachary! How could you do this to him?” At the thought of the other three young victims who had died on my live stream, my mother looked as if she might faint. The deputy grabbed his radio, his voice urgent. “We have a fourth victim. All units, initiate an immediate search for Dominic’s location!” My mother carefully picked up the blood-stained medal from the floor, clutching it to her chest as if it were a holy relic. When I was a child, she wouldn’t even let me look at her medals; yet she had let Dominic wear this one as a lucky charm every single day. “Zachary, where did you hide him?” I shrugged. “Find him yourself. You never believed a word I said when we lived together, so why start believing me now?” My mother clutched her chest, her face pale with fury. The look she gave me was filled with pure hatred. “When I adopted Dominic, I only wanted to give you some company,” she hissed. “I never blamed you for being less capable than him, but your mind was always twisted. When he got top marks, you chose to cheat on your exams instead of studying harder.” She took a ragged breath. “When you wanted to drop out, I found you a decent job at the factory, but you couldn’t even keep your head down. You ran around with thugs. Dominic went to convince you to return to school, and you hired people to beat him up!” Her eyes were bloodshot, her knuckles white. “Dominic was the one who cried and begged me not to lock you up. He didn’t want you to have a criminal record. I gave you money for a prep school, and you took it and ran off to some lawless border town to make quick cash.” She slammed her palm onto the table. “I have spent thirty years in force, putting monsters behind bars, and I end up raising a murderer for a son!” The deputy and the recording officer stared at me with undisguised disgust. Ever since Dominic had entered our home, everyone had looked at me with those exact same eyes. I was used to it. I let out a cold snort, closed my eyes, and met her anger with absolute silence. My silence only enraged her further. She pulled a small, tarnished gold locket from her pocket and threw it at me. “When your father was alive, we had nothing. He worked extra shifts assembling cheap holiday lights until he nearly went blind just to buy you this locket. He said you deserved to have what other kids had. After he died in that crash, this was the only thing you had left of him, and you pawned it for a pack of cigarettes!” Her voice trembled with disgust. “It was Dominic who used his own allowance and scholarship money to buy it back for you! And just because I wouldn’t let him hand it back to you until you sorted your life out, you went around telling everyone Dominic was my secret bastard!” At the mention of my father, my breathing caught. I stared fixedly at the little gold locket resting on the metal table. Seeing that her words had finally pierced my armor, my mother softened her tone. Her hands, which used to swing me high into the air when I was a little boy, now pressed flat against the cold table. “Zachary, tell me where Dominic is,” she pleaded. “You’re still young. If you cooperate, we can still ask for a lighter sentence.” I let out a loud, mocking laugh. “Are you kidding me, Mom? I’ve killed people. What kind of lighter sentence are you talking about?” I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You just want to wrap this up quickly so you can send me to the gallows and get back to your precious adopted son.” “You!” My mother choked on her words, her face turning crimson. The deputy quickly stepped in, handing her a bottle of blood pressure medication. When he turned back to me, his eyes were filled with disgust. “Zachary, you’ve gone too far,” the deputy said, his voice cold. “I’ve been to your mother’s house. The walls are still covered in your elementary school certificates. They’re yellowed with age, but she never had the heart to tear them down.” He took a step closer. “Dominic lived in a small, curtained-off corner of the living room for years, while your bedroom was kept exactly as you left it. Your mother dusted it every single day, keeping it spotless. Whenever colleagues praised Dominic, she always made sure to clarify he was her adopted son, never once speaking ill of you. She didn’t even change his last name to hers. Her love was silent, and you warped it into this?” My mother wept quietly into her hands. “Zachary, do you know why Dominic worked so hard to get into the police academy?” she sobbed, throwing the medal onto the table. “He felt guilty. He thought his presence in our home divided my love and brought you unnecessary pressure. He gave up his own dreams to inherit my badge so you could live your life without any burden.” She covered her face, crying like a lost child. “He was disqualified during the background check because of his biological mother’s record, and he wept for days. You had the chance, and you threw it away. I failed as a parent. Why did I ever adopt him? If I hadn’t, none of this would have happened.” This was the first time I had ever seen my mother cry. To me, she had always been an invincible shield, a guardian of justice. I stared at the medal on the table, a bitter smile playing on my lips. She claimed to love me, yet she had forgotten that my dream, my very first dream, had also been to wear that uniform. She had forgotten how she used to ruffle my hair, teaching me self-defense moves, playing cops and robbers with me in our tiny backyard. The person who had systematically destroyed that dream, ensuring I could never wear the badge, was the very boy she was mourning. “Zachary, if you still consider me your mother, tell me where he is,” she pleaded, looking up. “Is he alive?” I stared at my silver handcuffs. Once, I had worn a silver bracelet she had made for me. It had been lost so long ago I couldn’t even remember what it looked like. Just like I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be loved. “Susan, if you still consider me your son, go to my father’s grave,” I said quietly. “The clue you want is there.” The moment the words left my mouth, my mother bolted out of the room. The station mobilized every available officer, rushing to seal off the local cemetery. But there was no sign of Dominic there. Inside the columbarium, right beside my father’s urn, they found only a small, dusty digital voice recorder. My mother returned to the interrogation room, her face pale, holding the recorder in her hand. “This is your clue?” she asked, her voice tight. “This device has been sitting in that grave for five years. What does this have to do with Dominic?” The technician spent a grueling hour restoring the corrupted audio files from the dusty recorder. The file was two hours long. When the audio began to play, a heavy, suffocating silence fell over the room. The sound of a teenager crying and begging for mercy echoed through the speakers, desperate and raw. My mother slammed her fist against the wall. “Zachary! You recorded yourself bullying Dominic five years ago? Were you trying to drive him to suicide?!” I laughed so hard tears began to stream down my face. “Susan, everyone says you’re a brilliant detective, that you love me so much. Have you managed to brainwash yourself too? If you actually cared about me, how can you not even recognize my voice?” I stood up, the chains of my handcuffs rattling against the metal table. “That’s me, Susan! That was me being tormented, begging for mercy, and being ignored! It was me! It was me!” My mother’s eyes widened in horror. The audio continued to play. Then, Dominic’s voice came through the speaker, light and dripping with malice. “Scream, Zach. Scream louder. Let your dead dad hear how his precious little boy is being broken, haha.” My voice on the tape was raw from screaming. “You’ll pay for this, Dominic! My mother is going to lock you up!” A sharp, violent slap echoed through the recording. “Your mother?” Dominic sneered. “Are you still living in a fairy tale, Zach? It’s survival of the fittest. You think she’s going to choose you? A failure who cheated on his exams and can’t even get into a community college, or a straight-A student on a scholarship? Who do you think Susan will believe?” Even though I had known the answer back then, my younger self on the tape kept screaming, stubborn and desperate. “My mother is the Chief of Homicide! She won’t be fooled by a monster like you! Your mother was a murderer she caught! She took you in out of pity, but you’re rotten to the core! You framed me for cheating, you stole my locket, you paid those thugs to violate me!” The audio suddenly glitched, looping on the words violate me over and over again, like a curse echoing in the small room. My mother stood frozen, turning into stone. Everyone in that room knew who Susan had chosen to believe five years ago. And even now, she struggled to accept the truth. “This… this isn’t real,” she whispered, her lips turning blue. “You forged this, didn’t you? You made this up to frame Dominic!” The technician looked down, his voice barely audible. “Captain Beckett, the audio is completely genuine. There are no signs of editing or digital manipulation.” My mother collapsed into her chair, her face completely blank. Looking at the tiny recorder, my mind drifted back to that cold afternoon five years ago. After months of being framed by Dominic, I had bought that cheap recorder to gather proof. I had gone to my father’s grave to cry and tell him what was happening, only to be cornered by Dominic and three older thugs he had hired. As they dragged me down, I managed to slip the recorder into the gap beside my father’s urn. It had stayed there for five years, waiting for the light of day. “How could this happen?” my mother murmured. Just then, the door was kicked open. “Captain! We found the fourth victim!” The officer handed a stack of photos to my mother. In the pictures, Dominic was kneeling, his arms stretched out and pinned to a wooden cross in a decaying offshore warehouse. His head hung low, frozen in a posture of eternal repentance. His body was pale and cold, having been dead for days. My mother’s chest heaved, and before she could take another breath, her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the floor. The next time I saw her was the day before my trial. She wore civilian clothes, her shoulders slumped, her spirit completely broken. In the visitation room, she slowly picked up the receiver. “Zachie.” The nickname felt as if it belonged to another lifetime. “Why didn’t you tell me Dominic was hurting you?” I toyed with the black telephone cord. “I did tell you. You just chose not to believe me.” Tears spilled from her eyes. “I taught you to use the law to protect yourself. Why did you have to kill them?” I stopped playing with the cord and looked her straight in the eyes. “Susan, even now, you still don’t believe me.” I let out a soft sigh. “But it doesn’t matter. After tomorrow, your wish will finally come true.” “What do you mean?” The guard tapped my shoulder, signaling that my time was up. I hung up the phone and walked away, ignoring her hand slamming against the glass partition. The next day, the courtroom was packed to the brim. “The defendant, Zachary Beckett, committed four counts of homicide in an offshore territory, three of which were broadcasted live on the internet with extreme cruelty, causing severe social harm…” The gallery erupted into shouting. The families of the victims wept and screamed for justice. “My daughter was so young! He stabbed her to death!” “My wife had a heart attack watching that stream! He destroyed our family! He deserves the death penalty!” I remained silent, looking toward the back row. My mother sat with her face buried in her hands, refusing to look at me. “I have nothing to say,” I told the judge. The gavel fell. Death penalty. The courtroom erupted into cheers. I closed my eyes and whispered in my heart: Mom, your wish has finally come true. Susan walked out of the courtroom in a daze. When she finally came to, she found herself sitting on her old sofa, staring at a faded photograph in her wallet. It was a picture of me when I was seven, missing a front tooth. I had lost that tooth in a schoolyard fight. She remembered holding me that day, telling me: “When you are bullied, tell Mom. But while you are waiting for me to get there, you must protect yourself. Strike back if you have to.” Strike back? Susan’s face turned white. She grabbed her keys and bolted back to the police station. “Pull up the live stream of Zachary’s murders! There is something wrong with this case!”

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1 Seven years into my relationship with Tina, I realized I was trapped in a slow, silent punishment. Every time she chose her childhood friend, Lucas, over me, a piece of the evidence that I had loved her was stripped from my mind. The first time it happened, she left to spend Lucas’s birthday with him, and I woke up unable to recall the first time she and I had ever held hands. The second time, she put his name on a project proposal I had pulled all-nighters to write. When I woke up the next morning, the memory of the pouring rain on the night she confessed her love to me was gone. For our seventh anniversary, she booked a private fireworks display by the waterfront, plastering it all over social media for everyone to see. But when her call came through, urging me to hurry, I was sitting alone in the office breakroom, staring blankly at the unsaved number flashing on my screen. “Stop playing around,” she said, her voice sharp. “You know exactly what day it is.” Beside her, someone chuckled. “Tina, is your boyfriend throwing a fit again?” She sighed, her impatience cutting through the receiver. “He’s always like this. The more important the day, the harder he tries to make a scene.” I watched the fireworks burst against the night sky outside the window. There was no jealousy in my chest, no dull ache of betrayal. I simply asked, quite sincerely, “I’m sorry, but who is this?” … When the phone rang a second time, I handed it to the receptionist, asking politely, “Do you know whose number this is?” The receptionist blinked, staring at the screen that read Tina. “Uh, Thomas, that’s Tina. Your girlfriend.” I stared at the name. My fingers pressed against the rim of my mug, the heat from the coffee barely registering. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” I said. The call connected, and Tina’s voice came through, sharp and hushed. “Thomas, cut it out. The fireworks are almost over. Get down here.” In the background, a man offered a soft, mocking chuckle. “Don’t be so hard on him, Tina. Thomas is probably just jealous.” Tina sounded as if she had pulled the phone slightly away, though she made no effort to hide her words from me. “He always does this. The more you humor him, the more entitled he gets.” I brought the phone back to my ear. “Ms. Shen, if you’re a client, please go through the proper channels. If not, please stop calling me.” There was a cold, heavy silence on the other end. Then, a sharp laugh. “You still remember my last name, yet you’re pretending you don’t know who I am?” I didn’t answer. I hung up and blocked the number. The receptionist stared at me, bewildered. “Thomas, haven’t you two been together for seven years?” That number, seven, echoed in my mind, but it brought nothing with it. It was as if someone had pulled every photograph out of an album, leaving behind nothing but empty plastic sleeves. On my desk sat a blank leather album I had uncovered from my locker earlier that afternoon. The cover was worn, but the pages inside were painfully clean. Each sleeve had a tiny numbered sticker in the corner, from one to seven. I had asked my colleagues if it belonged to me. They laughed, saying of course it did, and reminded me that I put a new photo in it every single anniversary. Yet, when I searched my phone, I couldn’t find a single photograph of Tina. When I left the building, Tina was waiting by the entrance, holding a sleek silver gift box. Her tense expression softened slightly when she saw me, and she reached out, grabbing my wrist. “Alright, let’s go. I’m here to pick you up.” I looked down at her hand. “Let go of me.” She didn’t. Instead, she pushed the silver box into my arms. “This is for you. Happy seventh anniversary. Lucas said the watch from this fireworks collection was stunning, so I had them reserve a set for us.” I didn’t hold onto it. The box slipped from my grip, hitting the concrete with a dull thud. A delicate silver necklace slid out, its pendant shaped like a tiny, intricate firework. The receptionist, who was walking out behind me, gasped softly. Tina’s face darkened instantly. “Thomas, do you really have to humiliate me in public?” I bent down, picked up the box, and handed it back to her. “This isn’t mine.” She stared at me for several seconds, then let out a dry laugh. “You’re getting really good at this act. Before, when I was an hour late, you’d ignore me for two days at most. How long are you planning to stretch it this time?” Lucas stepped out of her car, wrapped in her gray scarf. “Thomas, I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice laced with practiced fragility. “I wasn’t feeling well today, so Tina took me to the clinic first. She only put together the fireworks show because she was worried you’d be upset.” I looked at the scarf around his neck. It was a deep charcoal gray, with a crooked, hand-stitched ‘T’ in the corner. He noticed my gaze and touched the wool lightly. “Oh, this? Tina said it was just sitting in her car collecting dust, so she told me to wear it.” Tina stepped closer, pulling the scarf tighter around his neck. “He has a cold, Thomas. Stop staring at him.” I asked quietly, “What does that letter mean?” Tina froze for a fraction of a second before recovering her cold composure. “Nothing. Just an old rag.” An old rag. My fingertips brushed the cover of the empty photo album in my bag, and a fleeting, disjointed image flickered in my mind. A cold winter night, someone clumsily threading a needle, promising that we would fill this album with a new photo every year, and on the seventh, we’d finally get married. But before the face in the memory could clear, Lucas let out a soft, dry cough. Tina immediately let go of my wrist, turning to support him. “Get in the car first,” she murmured. Then she looked back at me, her voice commanding. “Thomas, stop making a scene. Bring the album tomorrow. I’ll help you remember everything.” Before the car door clicked shut, Lucas caught my eye through the window, his fingers resting deliberately over the stitched ‘T’. When I brought the empty album into the conference room the next morning, Tina was busy adjusting the projector height for Lucas. Lucas, cradling his laptop, smiled up at me. “Thomas, you’re here. Tina mentioned you were originally running this project. I was worried I wouldn’t present it well, so I was hoping you could back me up today.” I slipped the album into my bag and pulled out a chair. “Why is his name on my proposal?” Tina’s finger paused on the remote control. Her voice was flat. “Lucas is up for a promotion, and he needs a strong portfolio piece to show the board. Your position is secure, Thomas. You don’t need this one victory.” I stared at the title slide. The strategy was the result of seven straight nights of my life, but the footer now read: Presented by Lucas. The department head tried to smooth things over. “Come on, Thomas, you and Tina are practically family. Don’t sweat the small stuff. The kid needs a break.” Lucas quickly pushed his laptop toward me. “How about I do the opening, Thomas, and you handle the core strategy? You’ll still get all the credit.” Tina frowned slightly. “He claims he can’t even remember who I am. What is he going to present?” A few people in the room snickered. The sound was soft, but it felt like a needle pricking the back of my neck. I stood up and unplugged the projector cable. “If I’m not fit to present it, then this proposal isn’t fit to be used.” Tina grabbed my wrist, her grip firm enough to keep me from moving the cable. “Thomas, professional meetings are not the place to vent your personal frustrations.” I looked down at her hand. “You said last night you’d help me remember.” Her eyes softened a fraction. “Let’s get through the meeting first. This afternoon, I’ll take you to the old art studio where we had our first date.” Lucas’s laser pointer slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the table. He leaned down to retrieve it, his voice dropping to a fragile whisper. “Tina, my stomach is acting up again. I think I forgot to take my medication this morning.” Tina immediately let go of my wrist. “Where is it?” “Probably in the car,” Lucas murmured. “I can go get it myself.” But she was already grabbing her coat. “I’ll go with you.” I stood in front of the door, holding out the printed copies of the proposal. “Before you leave, change the name back.” Tina looked at the papers, refusing to take them. “Thomas, don’t force me to say things that will embarrass you in front of everyone.” “You already have,” I said. She brushed past me, her shoulder clipping my bag. The empty photo album tumbled out, hitting the floor and sprawling open. A yellowed sticky note slipped out from the first page. It was her handwriting: Year One. Under the fireworks, I promise: Tina will always choose Thomas first. The room fell dead silent. Lucas picked up the note, his eyes instantly welling with tears. “Oh… so this was yours, Thomas? I’m so sorry. I thought Tina wrote this for me years ago. No wonder she told me yesterday that the old promise didn’t count anymore.” Tina’s expression shifted. “Lucas.” He quickly covered his mouth, looking horrified. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” I took the note back from him. “What does that mean?” Tina avoided my gaze. “It was just a silly joke.” “Was the scarf a joke too?” I asked. Her patience finally snapped. “Thomas, an old scarf, a dusty note, do you really have to cross-examine me over every little piece of the past?” The department head cleared his throat. “The clients will be here any minute. Thomas, maybe you should step outside and cool off.” I looked at the faces around the table. They all knew whose work that proposal was. They knew Tina and I had been together for seven years. Yet every single one of them was waiting for me to back down. Lucas hovered by the doorway, offering a soft, conciliatory murmur. “Thomas, why don’t we put both our names on it? Having you as the co-author still looks great.” I let out a quiet laugh and closed the album. “No need.” Tina’s shoulders relaxed slightly, as if she believed I had finally come to my senses. She reached out to smooth my lapel. “I’ll see you this afternoon at the studio. I’ll help you remember.” I stepped back, avoiding her touch. “Ms. Shen, your clients have arrived. You should get on stage with Lucas.” The clients walked in, and Lucas immediately took his place at the podium. Tina cast one last look at me before stepping up beside him, clicking the remote to display the first slide. A text from an unknown number buzzed on my phone: Want to know the third thing you forgot? Go to the old art studio. Don’t bring Tina. When I walked into the dusty studio, the elderly owner looked up, surprised. “You’re finally here to pick up the painting,” he said. I hesitated. “What painting?” He dragged a long cardboard tube from beneath the counter, blowing the dust off it. “The fireworks landscape you and Tina painted seven years ago. You told me you were saving it for your proposal on your anniversary. Actually, Tina was here a few weeks ago. She wanted to alter the signature.” My grip on the tube tightened. “Altered to what?” The owner glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. “To some young fellow named Lucas. He said those fireworks were where his and Tina’s story began.” The bell above the door chimed. Tina pushed her way in, followed by Lucas and a few colleagues from the firm. She frowned when she saw the tube in my hand. “Who told you to come here alone?” Lucas stepped forward, his eyes bright with false excitement. “Oh, the painting is here! Tina has been looking for this everywhere. She wanted to display it at my promotion party.” I looked at Tina. “Is this painting not mine?” She remained silent for a long moment before reaching out and taking the tube from my hand. “It’s just a silly college sketch, Thomas. It doesn’t matter who uses it.” The studio owner spoke up, indignant. “How does it not matter? Thomas painted the entire skyline back then. Tina only painted that tiny silhouette at the bottom.” The colleagues began whispering among themselves. Lucas’s face paled, and he stammered, “I… I didn’t know. Tina just told me this painting meant a lot to her. I thought she wanted me to have it.” Tina pulled the yellowed canvas from the tube. In the corner of the painting, under the bursting colors, were two small figures, one in a white dress, the other holding a camera. In the signature block, the name Thomas had been lightly rubbed away with an eraser, and the name Lucas had been faintly penciled over it. I stared at the smudged canvas. A sudden image flashed in my mind: a hand covered in bright acrylic paint, holding mine, a warm voice whispering, We’re using this when we propose. Nobody else gets to touch it. Sensing my silence, Tina’s voice softened. “Thomas, you forgot anyway, didn’t you? If it’s gone, let it go. We’re trying to start over here, but you have to give me a way to reach you.” I looked up at her. “And starting over means erasing my name?” Lucas’s eyes filled with tears again. “Thomas, please don’t misunderstand. The party is starting soon, and Tina just didn’t want me to go up there empty-handed. I never wanted to steal what’s yours.” The department head chimed in. “Thomas, you’re not in the right headspace. Don’t make a scene in front of the clients. Lucas just landed a massive account. He needs this night to go smoothly.” Tina handed the canvas to her assistant. “Get this framed.” I reached out to stop him, but Tina caught my hand. Her voice was a low, urgent whisper that only I could hear. “Don’t do this to me, Thomas. Lucas cannot afford any mistakes tonight.” Lucas was always the one who couldn’t afford to make mistakes. I pulled my hand back, my fingernail dragging across the edge of the canvas, leaving a thin, white scratch. Tina’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Thomas, this childish behavior has to stop.” The celebration was held in the small hall right next to the studio. Lucas stood before the framed painting, giving a speech about how the fireworks symbolized his journey and the deep trust Tina had placed in him. As the room erupted into applause, Tina stood right behind him, adjusting his microphone with an encouraging smile. Two guests near me whispered, “Tina really treats Lucas differently. Even with Thomas losing his memory, she still puts Lucas first.” The other laughed quietly. “Seven years doesn’t mean a thing. At the end of the day, the one who gets chosen is the winner.” I sat in the corner, holding the empty album, turning the pages one by one. The second page was empty, but on the third, there was a torn piece of an old medical receipt from three years ago. The clinic’s name was listed, and the department read: Cognitive Evaluation, Initial Consultation. Before I could read the doctor’s name, Tina walked over and snatched the paper from my hand. “This is garbage,” she said coldly. I looked up. “I was going to the hospital three years ago?” She folded the receipt into her palm. “You were under a lot of stress back then. I took you for a check-up, and the doctor said you were fine.” Lucas strolled over, holding a glass of juice. His eyes lingered on her closed hand as he murmured, “Tina, Dr. Harris just asked if you were still planning to bring Thomas in for his follow-up tomorrow.” Tina’s expression hardened. “Lucas.” He instantly shut his mouth. A cold sensation crept up my spine as I looked at the two of them. Dr. Harris. Follow-up. Original plan. The gallery lights illuminated the stolen painting. As I looked down, I saw a slip of paper peeking out from Tina’s coat pocket. It was an appointment card. The patient’s name was mine, but the notes section had only three words: Stimulus-Induced Recall. When I slid the appointment card back into Tina’s pocket, Lucas was kneeling on the carpet, carefully tying the delicate leather straps of her heels. She sat on the sofa, her emerald dress brushing his wrist. Lucas looked up, his voice barely a whisper. “Tina, what if Thomas sees us? Won’t he be upset?” Tina didn’t look away from me as I approached, though her foot remained in his hands. “He doesn’t remember anything anyway. Why would he care?” I stood by the door. “I’m coming to the appointment tomorrow.” Her hand paused on her cufflink, then she stood up, smoothing her skirt. “I was planning on taking you anyway, Thomas. I told you, I’m going to help you remember us.” Lucas bit his lip. “But the doctor said we need familiar faces and settings. Shouldn’t I come too? I’ve been there for almost everything these past few years.” I looked at Tina. “Why was he there?” She avoided my eyes, picking up my album. “Because you’ve forgotten too much. I can’t explain it all on my own. Lucas is observant. He can fill in the blanks.” The next day in the consultation room, Dr. Harris flipped through my files, his expression grave. “Thomas’s memory loss isn’t just a simple case of stubbornness. Severe emotional distress will only worsen these blackouts. Ms. Shen, I warned you before: do not use substitute stimuli.” I looked at Tina. “What is a substitute stimulus?” Tina cut in, her voice clipped. “Doctor, his mood has been highly unstable lately. Please just get to the point.” Dr. Harris sighed. “It refers to taking his personal milestones or keepsakes, handing them to someone else, and making him watch. It forces his brain to actively shut down to avoid the pain of betrayal.” Lucas, sitting on the adjacent chair, clutched the edge of his shirt. “Doctor, isn’t that a bit dramatic? Tina was just trying to show him what he was missing.” Show me. The memories of the gray scarf, the fireworks painting, the stolen proposal, none of it had been an accident. Tina reached out and took my wrist, her voice softening. “Thomas, don’t look at me like that. You were becoming so hypersensitive back then. I only did it to help you accept reality, to stop treating everyone around me like an enemy.” I looked at her. “So you knew I would forget?” She was silent for a beat. “I knew you’d be hurt. I didn’t think you’d actually forget.” Dr. Harris pushed a consent form across the desk. “I do not recommend proceeding today. Unless Thomas consents, we cannot perform the situational stimulus.” Tina reached for the pen. “I’ll sign for him.” I pressed my hand flat against the paper. “No.” Her brow furrowed. “Thomas, don’t you want to remember me?” Lucas chimed in, his eyes red. “Thomas, Tina canceled two board meetings and went to so much trouble to gather all these things for you. Don’t throw her effort back in her face.” I stared at Tina. Her eyes held exhaustion, but beneath it lay a deep, unwavering certainty. She was absolutely certain that I was just throwing a tantrum. She believed that once the past was laid out before me, I would crawl right back into my place. Outside the office, her assistant knocked gently on the glass. “Ms. Shen, the waterfront venue is ready. The pyrotechnics team wants to know if they should proceed with the seven-year proposal script.” The proposal script. My fingertips went numb. It felt as if a heavy velvet curtain had been violently ripped away inside my mind. The rain from seven years ago, the smell of acrylic paint in the studio, the clumsy stitch on the charcoal-gray wool, and her voice whispering under a canopy of light: On our seventh year, you’re going to marry me. The memories rushed back. But as they flooded my mind, they brought no warmth, only a profound, chilling detachment. The woman standing in front of me had taken every promise she ever made me, stripped them down, handed the pieces to another man, and then brought me the ruins to prove she still cared. Tina didn’t notice the shift in my eyes. She let out a long breath, looking as though she had finally won. “Perfect. Thomas, let’s go to the waterfront. I’ll give you the proposal we missed. Once you see the fireworks, I know you’ll remember.” Lucas’s face drained of color, his fingers desperately clutching her sleeve. “Tina, let me come too. Just in case Thomas gets overwhelmed, I can help explain the details.” Tina hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Alright. Come with us.” I looked down, letting out a quiet, humorless laugh. I reached into my bag, tore the very last page out of the photo album, and slipped it into my coat pocket. The wind off the river was freezing. In the middle of the decorated deck stood the stolen fireworks painting, flanked by the gray scarf, the silver necklace, and seven empty photo frames. Tina handed a small velvet box to Lucas. “Hold onto this. Give it to me when the first firework goes off.” Lucas took the box, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Of course.” She turned back to me, holding her hand out. “Thomas, enough. Walk with me to the painting.” I looked at her open palm, then at the ring box in Lucas’s hand, and finally at the sky where the first launch was about to ignite. Tina finally sensed the eerie stillness in my demeanor. Her brow furrowed. “Thomas? Did you… did you remember something?” I didn’t answer her. Instead, I reached out, took the velvet box from Lucas’s hands, and clicked it open. Engraved on the inner band of the platinum ring were two letters. They weren’t S & T. They were S & L. Lucas lunged forward to grab it, his voice trembling. “Thomas, don’t touch that! It’s just a prop for the ceremony!” I snapped the box shut and handed it back to Tina. “Here is your prop. And here is your co-star.”

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