Category: English

The harsh overhead glare of the surgical lights flickered off, and once again, the doctor stepped out to hand down another critical condition notice for my younger brother. “His heart went into sudden arrest,” the surgeon said, his voice flat with routine gravity. “We need to secure a donor immediately.” A single sheet of paper was passed across the corridor. My entire family turned their heads in unison, their eyes heavy with expectant silence, locking onto me. I nodded. Without a word, I turned and followed the nurse down the tiled hallway to begin the tissue matching process. This was the third time. I was already used to it. The first time was three years ago, when my brother was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder. For months, I sat in cold clinical chairs, letting them drain my blood weekly just to keep him stable. The second time, post-operative complications led to acute renal failure. Out of the entire family, I was the only matching donor for his kidney transplant. And the third time was today. I climbed onto the narrow prep table with effortless composure, my movements devoid of the slightest hesitation. They thought I was blindly devoted. But they didn’t know that yesterday afternoon, right after my latest blood draw, I had stood outside the consultation room and overheard my father weeping behind the closed door. “You know Toby isn’t actually sick!” my father’s voice had cracked, raw and trembling. “Are you really going to let them harvest Jesse’s heart too? That will kill him! He’s my son, Morgan!” “We’ve spent years lying to Jesse—tricking him into giving his blood, coaxing him into giving up a kidney—and he never pushed back once. Look at him now! His hair is falling out in handfuls. He doesn’t have a speck of color left in his face!” My older sister, Morgan, had placed a steady hand on Dad’s shaking shoulders, her tone smooth, pragmatic, and chillingly composed. “Dad, calm down. The surgery is a setup. Toby was born fragile; even if he looks healthy now, who’s to say he won’t fall ill down the line?” “If we don’t test Jesse’s loyalty now—if we don’t prove how far he’s willing to go for his brother—who is going to look after Toby when we’re gone? As the elder brother, this is his responsibility. Tomorrow is the final test. If he passes, I’ll personally make sure he gets access to the best medical care and resources money can buy.” It was all a lie. Toby was perfectly healthy. What Morgan and Dad didn’t realize, however, was that years of forced, frequent blood extractions and losing a organ had driven my remaining systems into rapid, irreversible failure. I didn’t need a fake surgery to end me. I genuinely only had a few days left to live. … I took the donor consent form from the clipboard and breathed in slowly, the sterile scent of rubbing alcohol stinging the back of my throat. When I glanced back over my shoulder, Dad, Mom, and Morgan were standing in a tight cluster. Their faces were stretched tight with anxiety, their mouths opening slightly as if on the verge of speaking. I waited. I stood there on the linoleum floor, waiting for a single word of comfort, a hesitation, a plea for me to stay. Nothing came. Morgan’s thumb rested on her phone screen. The stopwatch app was open, the small digital numbers ticking upward. She was timing me. She was measuring how many seconds it would take for me to sign away my heart for Toby. “I’m ready, nurse,” I said softly, handing the signed document back. Behind me, an audible sigh of relief rippled through my family. Dad looked almost proud, leaning over to whisper to Morgan in a hushed, emotional voice, “I knew Jesse wouldn’t let Toby down. You can call off the experiment now, right?” Morgan’s brow furrowed in sharp disapproval. “No.” “Jesse is smart,” she insisted under her breath. “He knows a signature isn’t legally binding once he’s on the table. The heart is inside his body; if he refuses at the last minute, no one can force him.” “What more do you want?!” Dad whispered harshly. “Do you actually want to kill your brother?!” “Dad, I’m doing this for Toby’s future!” Morgan shot back, her tone clipped. “Jesse has always been quiet, secretive, and calculating. We’ve made it this far—he needs to go into the operating room and be put under anesthesia.” “Only when he’s lying unconscious on that table will I truly believe he’s doing this willingly.” In the end, Dad conceded. He shifted his weight, half-stepping forward as if to reach out to me, but forcibly checked his own movement and stayed put. The nurse led me down to the prep room for a pre-op blood draw, telling me it was a mandatory check for cardiac cross-matching. I reached out, gently tugging at the edge of her scrubs, and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from my coat pocket. “Can we skip the draw?” My voice was barely a raspy murmur, trembling slightly at the edges. “I have my lab results from last week. Will this do?” The paper was from an evaluation I had done at another clinic after giving blood for Toby last Tuesday. Severe chronic anemia had left my vital organs starved of oxygen, my immune system had utterly collapsed, and my hemoglobin levels had plummeted far past the critical line. Simply put, my body was giving up. The nurse paused, finally taking a proper look at me. I was twenty-two years old, but I weighed less than eighty pounds. My shoulders caved inward, hunched over because I no longer possessed the back strength to stand up straight. She reached out, pulling my hand toward her to roll up my sleeve. Beneath the cotton fabric, my skin was a mottled canvas of deep violet bruises and dense, overlapping needle puncture marks. It looked horrifying. “Oh my god…” she gasped, her eyes wide with shock. “In this condition? And your parents are letting you go through with a heart transplant?!” “No, this is wrong. I’m going to get the attending physician right now.” I wanted to tell her not to waste her breath. If Morgan had the power to fabricate medical records and orchestrate fake surgical prep teams inside this private wing, she clearly had people on the inside. Before I could speak, a grip clamped down on my forearm like a steel vice. Morgan had rushed over, her fingers digging so violently into my bruised tissue that I felt the bone beneath ache. I caught my breath, wincing as a sharp spike of pain shot up my shoulder. “Dad, look! See what I mean?” Morgan yelled, turning back toward the hallway. “He doesn’t want to save Toby at all!” “Now he’s trying to convince the nurse to help him orchestrate an escape! Jesse, I can’t believe you!” The flicker of sympathy in Dad’s eyes instantly withered, replaced by a dark, heavy disappointment. “Jesse… I never thought you could be so heartless toward your own brother,” Dad said, his voice dropping into a hollow register. “If you weren’t willing to donate, why didn’t you just say so from the beginning?” “You gave Toby hope, only to snatch it away at the last second. How could you be so cruel?” In my state, I didn’t even have the physical leverage to twist out of Morgan’s grip. It was Nurse Rachel who stepped between us, physically pushing Morgan back. “Let go of him! Look at his clinical markers—he is in no physical condition to enter an operating room, let alone survive a major procedure!” Morgan didn’t hear a word. In her mind, I had already been tried, convicted, and branded a coward and a liar. Anything coming out of my mouth—or the nurse’s—was just a pathetic excuse. “Morgan, please… let go of Jesse!” A small, raspy voice called out from the end of the corridor. Toby stood there in oversized hospital pajamas, looking impossibly small and frail. He shuffled toward us, clutching his chest, coughing with every few steps. He reached us and gently tried to pry Morgan’s fingers off my arm, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “It’s okay, Jesse,” Toby sobbed quietly, looking up at me with profound innocence. “If you don’t want to donate, you don’t have to. Nobody should force you.” “I don’t have much time left anyway. I just want our family to be together, peacefully, to walk me through my final days.” His tone was soft, sweet, and entirely protective of me on the surface. But a cold, sickening shiver ran down my spine. Toby knew. He knew the whole time. He wasn’t just a beneficiary of this sick test; he was an active participant. Toby was only a year younger than me. Because he was born prematurely, he spent his infancy sick, crying in dark rooms. Our parents were constantly working to build their business, and Morgan was away at prep school, so I was the one who raised him. I changed his diapers. I warmed his bottles, measuring the formula more meticulously than any hired nanny. When he couldn’t sleep, I strapped him to my chest and paced the floor for hours. The first word he ever uttered wasn’t “Mama” or “Dada”—it was my name. When he went to preschool, he’d save half of his candy, wrap it in a napkin, and shove it into his tiny pocket to bring home to me. He used to take the blame when I broke a glass; he used to sit beside me when I was grounded. I genuinely believed I had the sweetest, most loving younger brother in the world. That was why, when they told me he had a terminal condition, I offered up my body without a second thought. I was his older brother. I wanted to bear the weight for him. …… Perhaps my gaze was too raw, too transparent, because Toby flinched slightly and leaned back into Morgan’s side. “You don’t need to glare at your brother like that,” Morgan sneered, pulling Toby close. “Testing your match was my idea. You’re full biological brothers—you were the only viable option.” “Toby has suffered his entire life. He’s lived in and out of hospitals, and now he has three months left. His only chance at a future is sitting right inside your chest. As his brother, can you really stand there and feel nothing?” “Jesse, he is younger than you. He actually has a life ahead of him.” “A one-year difference.” Did a one-year difference mean my life had no value? And besides—who was actually dying here? Despite his exaggerated wheezing, Toby’s skin was supple, his cheeks carried a healthy flushed undertone, and his voice, though pitched to sound faint, lacked the dry, rattling resonance of true pulmonary distress. He didn’t look like someone on the brink of death at all. I raised my eyes and surveyed the three of them. Dad looked broken and disgusted, as if staring at a stranger he regretted raising. Morgan stood like an impenetrable shield in front of Toby, her sharp eyes cutting through me with cold fury. And Mom stood a few paces back, her arms crossed over her chest, watching the drama unfold with detached indifference. Me. Jesse Mitchell. I had given my blood for nearly two years. I had given up a kidney. Half an hour ago, I had signed away my own heart. And now, I was the villain of the family. “Morgan,” I whispered, my voice sounding like rusted metal dragging across pavement. “If I told you that I only have a few days left to live… would you still push me onto that table?” Nurse Rachel couldn’t hold back anymore. She stepped forward, her voice echoing down the hall. “I don’t understand what is wrong with you people! He is your son! He is your brother!” “You’re asking to trade one life for another!” With a quick, decisive movement, Nurse Rachel unzipped my oversized winter coat and pulled it off my shoulders, exposing the truth to the hallway. A heavy silence fell over the corridor. I was nothing more than a cage of bones draped in pale, translucent skin. But worse than the emaciation were my arms: from my wrists to my inner elbows, the skin was a jagged map of dark purple hematomas, scarred vein tracks, and fresh needle marks. Dad gasped, the color draining from his face. “Jesse… my God, what happened to you?” “Tell Dad… does it hurt?” His lips trembled. He reached out and struck Morgan’s back with a frustrated, heavy hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words to stop everything. The test wasn’t over. I hadn’t passed the final hurdle yet. I didn’t answer him. I just quietly took my coat back from the nurse and pulled it back on, zipping it up to my chin. Morgan stared at my covered frame, stunned into a long, suffocating silence. How could this be? It was just routine blood draws—once a week. And didn’t the doctors say a person could function completely fine with just one kidney? “I… I’m sorry,” Morgan stammered, her composure cracking for the very first time. “I didn’t realize… You should have told me.” “But—but even so, you can’t just throw a fit and make up absurd lies! “‘A few days left to live’”? That’s ridiculous, Jesse.” “You’ve become so comfortable lying to our faces. How are you supposed to set an example for Toby when you act like this?” She spoke faster and faster, her voice rising as she anchored herself back to her righteous indignation. I cut her off. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not backing out.” “Let’s go, Nurse Rachel.” I took the nurse’s hand. My thin, frail shadow flickered under the fluorescent lights as we turned the corner, fading like a gust of wind that no one could hold onto. “A family of absolute bloodsuckers! What the hell is wrong with them?!” Nurse Rachel fumed as she walked me down the hall to the prep room. “That little brother of yours looks healthier than I do! Are they all completely blind?!” She cursed under her breath the entire way. I looked at her, finding a strange, quiet sense of warmth in the middle of it all. This was the first time in years anyone had ever taken my side. Ever since Toby fell “sick,” my family went from visiting once a month to moving back into the family house permanently. Back then, I was thrilled. I thought we were finally going to be a real family again. I remember proudly leading Toby out to the living room to show them how well I had been taking care of him while they were gone. But Morgan hadn’t even looked at me. She had immediately snatched Toby’s wrist, her face tight with distress. “Why is Toby so thin? Jesse, have you even been feeding him properly?” “Forget it, I knew I couldn’t rely on you to do anything right. From now on, Toby comes with me. Toby, sweetie, do you want to come live with big sister?” Toby had looked up at her with bright, curious eyes, slowly slipping his small hand out of mine. Looking back, I suppose that was where everything truly broke. Dad had noticed my silence back then and tried to smooth things over later that night. “Don’t be mad at your sister, Jesse. Toby’s always been delicate, and we were away for so long. Morgan just feels guilty for not being around.” Dad had stared at Toby’s bedroom door, his eyes misty. I had wanted so badly to ask him: “What about me? Don’t you feel guilty about leaving me behind too? I’m only one year older than him…” After Toby was admitted to the hospital, he claimed he couldn’t stomach the hospital food and would only eat meals I cooked. So I spent my days sprinting between high school classes and the hospital ward. I had no friends, no hobbies, no life of my own. It wasn’t until I blindly passed Morgan’s first two “loyalty tests” that my family finally started seeing me again. After every major blood donation, Dad would make chicken soup for me. Morgan would bring me little gifts—sometimes a cute hair clip, sometimes a stuffed animal. Desperate to keep that warmth, I tried to copy the way Toby talked to them. I softened my voice, trying to act sweet and dependent. “Thank you, Dad. Thank you, Morgan. I love it so much.” Morgan’s smile had instantly frozen. Dad’s hand, holding the soup ladle, hovered in mid-air. “Jesse, that doesn’t suit you,” Morgan had said flatly. “Stop trying to compete with Toby for attention. You’re the older brother. Act like it.” “Your sister is right,” Dad added quietly. “Toby is a child. You’re practically an adult now. Be composed.” Standing near the staircase, Toby had watched the whole interaction. I stood frozen in the center of the living room, feeling like a pathetic, embarrassment of a person trying to perform a script I hadn’t been cast in. I was quiet because they told me I was too loud; I tried to open up, only to be pushed back into the dark. Late that night, Toby had knocked on my bedroom door, stepping inside and looking at me with a cool, unnerving clarity. “Jesse, why are you always trying to copy me?” “When Morgan buys me toys, you ask for them too. When I cuddle with Dad, you start talking in that weird voice. My teacher says that kind of behavior is called envy.” He spoke with matter-of-fact precision, yet he placed his favorite stuffed bear gently on my pillow before leaving the room. I hadn’t understood him at all. A burning shame had crawled up my skin, consuming me from head to toe. Toby was wrong. It wasn’t envy. It was desperation. But no matter how desperate I was, Jesse Mitchell was never going to be Toby Mitchell. The cold sting of iodine on my inner arm pulled me out of the memory. Nurse Rachel looked down at me, her hands hovering over the IV tray, her eyes filled with deep hesitation. “Sweetheart… I really shouldn’t take any more blood. If I do, your body is going to give out before you even reach an operating table.” “And honestly, with your vitals, you aren’t even qualified to be on a donor match list.” It didn’t matter whether I was qualified. Morgan’s rules were simple: she wanted absolute, unquestioning submission. She wanted me to sacrifice myself willingly for Toby, because I had been born healthy and he hadn’t. In her mind, my health was an offense I owed the family for. “It’s fine,” I murmured gently. “Draw it. I’m at the end of the line anyway.” “Nurse Rachel… could you bring me a different form instead? The whole-body and organ donation consent form?” “I’d like to give what’s left of me to people who actually need it. I heard that after you die, they carve your name onto a memorial wall, and volunteers come to leave flowers. That sounds really nice.” My lighthearted tone made Nurse Rachel force a watery smile, though her eyes glinted with tears. Maybe it was true. Maybe the dead version of Jesse Mitchell would be much easier to love than the living one. …… They wheeled me into the surgical suite under a fog of sedative haze. According to Morgan’s script, as soon as the anesthesia took hold, the procedure would be halted, and I’d be wheeled right back out unharmed. The three tests would be complete. Afterward, she planned to hire top specialists to rehabilitate my health, hand over my share of the family trust, and grant me a ten percent stake in the family business. The things I had to strip my own flesh and blood away to earn were things Toby had been given at birth. The day our parents returned home, they took sixteen-year-old Toby straight to a lawyer to finalize his trust fund. Morgan had already assigned the dividends of a subsidiary company directly to his account. To this day, I had nothing. Just this absurd, degrading obstacle course designed to prove my worth. In the end, Morgan was going to be disappointed. My body was a engine running on fumes. The moment the general anesthetic entered my bloodstream, my vessels dilated violently, and my blood pressure plummeted off a cliff. A healthy heart could adapt and fight back. But my heart had been stretched paper-thin over years of abuse. It simply stopped beating. …… Outside the surgical suite. Dad stood by the waiting room chairs, a sudden, suffocating panic gripping his chest. He reached out, grabbing Morgan’s arm. “Morgan… you’re sure Jesse will be fine, right? I can’t get the image of his arm out of my head. He was so thin… those needle marks…” Dad’s eyes began to fill with tears again. Morgan tapped her fingers against her thigh, using her free arm to lightly pat Toby’s shoulder. “Dad, stop it, you’re scaring Toby,” she snapped quietly. “What could possibly go wrong? It’s just mild anesthesia. They’ll push him out in a few minutes.” “He barely passed these three tests, but at least it’s over. I’ll make it up to him afterward.” “You see how many siblings turn on each other for money these days? Jesse is smart—if I didn’t test him now, how could I trust him to take care of Toby when we’re gone?” She paused, the image of my hollow face briefly flashing through her mind, softening her voice slightly. “Toby, promise me something. When Jesse comes out, treat him well. He’s gone through a lot for you.” Toby nodded dutifully. Yet, deep down, an uncharacteristic dread was clawing at his throat, mimicking the panic in Dad’s chest. The quiet, hollow look in my eyes earlier had unsettled him far more than he cared to admit. Initially, Morgan had presented this to him as a simple family game. But as the game escalated, Toby had considered telling me the truth. The terrible reality was that Toby had wanted to know the answer too. He had wanted to see just how much Jesse Mitchell would break himself to keep his little brother alive. Over the past few weeks, seeing everything I had endured for him, it was impossible not to feel moved. Toby had already made up his mind: the moment I woke up, he would hand over every cent of the property and trust funds Dad and Morgan had set aside for him. He trusted me completely now. Less than thirty minutes later, the red light above the operating room doors went dark. Morgan released a long breath, a triumphant smirk touching her lips as she turned to Dad. “See? I told you. Everything is fine. Now we just wait for him to wake up so we can tell him the truth.” “Jesse Mitchell, congratulations. You finally passed.” “Waiting for you out here is a real future, full family support, and more money than you can ever spend.” Dad and Toby stepped forward, relief washing over their faces. Then the double doors swung open, and the medical team pushed the gurney out. The three of them froze in their tracks. A thick white sheet was pulled completely over my head. My hand hung limply off the side of the metal frame, pale, waxen, and utterly lifeless. The lead surgeon pulled off his mask, his face heavy with solemn grief. The entire surgical team lined up beside the gurney and bowed deeply toward my family. “We are deeply sorry. We did everything we could.” “Patient Jesse Mitchell was pronounced dead at 6:11 PM. Please accept our deepest condolences.”

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Ten days before I was supposed to move into my college dorm, I finally broke down and texted the family group chat. “So, when are we leaving for that Miami graduation trip we talked about?” A full day passed. Silence. Then, at six in the evening, my sister’s profile picture flashed on the screen. “Emergency! Need cash for concert tickets right NOW!” The family chat, dead for twenty-four hours, exploded instantly, burying my message beneath a avalanche of notifications. Within seconds, Mom and Dad sent a thousand-dollar Zelle transfer. “Get four tickets, sweetie. Take your brother too. Whole family goes.” Tony immediately chimed in with a whine. “Who wants to go to some stupid pop concert?! I want a new iPhone!” “Besides, when her high school entrance exam scores came out, I already had to drag myself to Miami with her! Why do we have to compromise for her again?!” I stared at the glowing screen, my mind going completely blank. All summer—for two agonizing months—I had been waiting, counting down the days for our family trip. And they had already gone? Without me? “When did you go?” I typed, my fingers trembling. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” The moment I pressed send, my text was swallowed by Mom’s reply to Tony. “Fine, fine, we’ll upgrade your phone tomorrow, but you’re still coming to the concert.” “We do things as a family. Everyone stays together. No one gets left behind.” No one left behind. Except me. Again. My message was filtered out like spam, pushed up the screen until it disappeared entirely into the abyss of their plans. A small, quiet laugh bubbled up from my chest. If their world had no room for me, I was done trying to squeeze through the cracks. I opened a travel app and bought a one-way Amtrak ticket to Boston. When the trip was over, I would go straight to campus and check into my dorm. For the rest of my life, the road back to this house would no longer feature me. … The screen flashed with a confirmation: “Ticket Booked Successfully.” I tapped back to the family group chat. In less than two minutes, the unread count had surged past ninety-nine. Piper had proudly posted a screenshot of her confirmation email. “Got the tickets! All four of them!” “I don’t care what anyone has going on that night, you clear your schedules for me!” Mom and Dad replied immediately. “Aye, aye, Cap! Schedules cleared. Just waiting on orders from our little princess.” Even Tony dropped a dutiful “1” in agreement. In this chat, no matter who spoke, everyone responded instantly. Except when it was me. My eyes drifted to the title at the top of the screen: “Welcome Home, Cathy.” Dad had created the group three years ago, the day they brought me back from my grandmother’s house in the countryside. He told me that if I ever needed anything, I just had to ask in the chat, and the family would be there for me. Yet, whenever I texted to ask for the Wi-Fi password, or which bus line took me to my new high school, the chat remained dead silent. When I finally confronted them, Mom offered a smooth, practiced explanation: they were used to being a family of four. Adding a fifth person took time. They needed to adapt. But wasn’t I the one who had to adapt? Three years. The “family of four” they kept on the tip of their tongues never expanded to include me. Even my legal name—Cathy Payne—was something my high school guidance counselor had forced my parents to register at the town hall during freshman orientation. My grandmother had been illiterate and registered me under my childhood nickname, “Birdie.” To save time, my parents tossed together syllables from my siblings’ names—Tony and Piper—to forge “Cathy.” It felt less like a name and more like an afterthought. I almost preferred “Birdie.” A text popped up from Tony. “Chick-fil-A for dinner?” Three “1”s flooded the screen in under five seconds. The fast-food place was right at the entrance of our gated community, less than a ten-minute walk. My stomach let out a hollow growl. I stood up, preparing to head out with them. Then Mom’s private text popped up. “Dad and I are taking Tony and Piper out for burgers. There are leftovers in the fridge. Heat them up for yourself.” I opened the fridge. The only thing inside was a small bowl of vegetable soup that had been sitting there for three days, covered in a thin, greenish film. I took a picture and sent it to her. I waited half an hour. No reply. An hour later, the front door clicked open. They were home. Tony walked in, his nose glued to his shiny new iPhone, heading straight for his room without looking up. Piper followed, both hands laden with colorful boutique shopping bags, humming as she went to try on her new clothes. I stayed on the couch, staring blankly at the TV, unmoving. Mom glanced at me, her brow furrowing in instant irritation. “What’s wrong with you? Your brother and sister come home, and you can’t even say hello?” My eyes fell to her phone, sitting casually on the coffee table. My throat felt like it was coated in dust. “You guys went to Miami. You didn’t say hello to me either.” Mom’s expression froze. A flash of genuine confusion flickered across her eyes. She turned to Dad, exchange a bewildered look. “Didn’t you tell her?” Mom asked. Dad frowned, scratching his chin as if trying to pull a vague memory from thin air. “Wait… she didn’t come with us that weekend?” My knuckles turned white around my phone, then slowly loosened. All summer, I had waited. Every time I brought up our graduation trip, Mom and Dad would say work was too crazy, that we needed to wait a little longer. They waited until they left without me. I picked up my phone and sent Mom an emoji on WeChat. A few seconds passed. Her phone screen on the coffee table stayed pitch black, silent as a grave. For Tony and Piper, my parents had enabled emergency notifications. Whenever the two of them texted, Mom’s phone would chime repeatedly and vibrate like an alarm until she picked it up. Mom waved her hand in front of her face, exasperated. “So you didn’t go. Big deal. There’s plenty of time for trips in the future.” Dad chimed in, stepping closer to point a scolding finger at me. “Cathy, you’re the older sister. Stop competing with Tony and Piper over every little thing. You’re making things difficult for no reason.” I looked up at them, my voice flat. “I wasn’t competing. You promised me a trip if I scored above a 1500 on my SATs.” “If I hit that goal, we’d go together. As a whole family. No one left out.” Mom picked up Piper’s jacket, which had been tossed carelessly onto the floor, and carefully brushed off a specks of lint. She didn’t look at me. “And what did you score, exactly?” The words caught in my throat. The very second my test results came out, I had posted a screenshot in the family chat. Fearing they had missed it, I had even sent it to them individually in private messages. Dad caught my silence and scoffed. “Too ashamed to say it out loud? Look, with those terrible grades of yours, the family didn’t bring it up to protect your self-esteem.” My eyes wandered over to the wall in the dining room, covered in Piper’s academic ribbons and certificates. Yes, I had failed a test once. It was my very first practice exam after moving back here—a new city, a elite private school, a blistering curriculum I couldn’t keep up with. I failed before I even learned where the cafeteria was. At the parent-teacher conference, the look of sheer embarrassment on my parents’ faces became the fuel that drove my desperate, relentless studying for the next three years. I thought that if I became as exceptional as Piper, my messages would finally be answered. It wasn’t until Tony brought home an F on his algebra mid-term—and Dad simply laughed, signed the paper, and took him out for ice cream—that I finally understood. There are a thousand excuses for neglect, but they all boil down to the same brutal truth: you simply aren’t loved. I didn’t bother defending my SAT score. Silently, I turned and walked back into my room—a narrow, windowless space that used to be the house’s storage closet—and began packing my life into a suitcase. My train was the day after tomorrow. I hadn’t managed to get a sleeper car; it would be a grueling twenty-hour ride in a standard seat. The next afternoon, I went out to buy travel toiletries and sunscreen. When I returned, Mom was coming out of my room, pushing my duffel bag and hard-shell suitcase onto the balcony. “Great, you’ve already packed your stuff. That saves us a ton of work,” she said, dusting off her hands. “Cathy, you’ll just have to sleep on the couch for the next few days.” I stared at her, stunned. “Why?” “Because I’m turning your room into a gaming suite for Tony!” Tony poked his head out of his doorway, a triumphant grin plastered on his face. “Come on, Cathy, you’re moving into a college dorm anyway. Leaving the room empty is a total waste.” My fingers tightened around the plastic bag in my hand. My throat burned. “And where am I supposed to stay when I come home for holidays?” Mom carried my comforter out and tossed it onto the balcony floor alongside my bags. “For short breaks, you can just crash on the couch or use an air mattress. For winter break, we’ll just book you a room at a hotel nearby.” She let out a small, relieved sigh, as if she had finally managed to check off a tedious item on her to-do list. “Don’t worry, we won’t abandon you.” She sounded like a landlord finally clearing out a squatter. I bent down and picked up my acceptance letter, which had slipped out of my backpack onto the floor. Once, this piece of heavy cardstock was my ultimate bargaining chip, my desperate plea for their pride and affection. Now, it was the only lifeboat I had left. The doorbell chimed. Delivery workers swept in and out of the foyer, stacking large cardboard boxes in the living room. Dad called out enthusiastically, “Piper! Tony! Come here, quick! The frames and photo albums are here!” The largest package was unboxed to reveal a massive, gallery-wrapped canvas portrait of the family, designed to hang in the center of the living room. I wasn’t in it. It was just like when I was a child living with my grandmother. My parents would print the prettiest photo of Tony and Piper to hang in their living room, updating it every single year. During my first year back, when I heard they were booking a family photo shoot, I was so excited I couldn’t sleep all night. But the next morning, they told me the package had been pre-booked for four people and couldn’t be altered, telling me to wait until next year. The second year, I finally stood in the studio with them. But when the physical album arrived, I was missing again. Only later did I find out that after I left the studio that day, they had taken a second set of photos without me. When picking the final edits, they simply discarded every frame I was in. And this year’s shoot? I hadn’t even known it happened. Noticing me staring silently at the massive frame, Mom pulled a small, loose print from an envelope and shoved it into my hand. “Alright, don’t look so sour. Look, you’re in this one.” I looked down at the photo. There were indeed five people. But the girl standing on the edge was wearing a faded school uniform, completely out of place against the crisp, color-coordinated beige outfits the other four wore. They had taken my senior class photo from the school portal, cropped my head out, and photoshopped me in. I looked at the grand family portrait on the wall, and then at the Frankenstein photo in my palm. It was suddenly so absurd, so utterly pathetic, that I felt nothing at all. I turned, walked into the kitchen, tore the photo into tiny, irrecoverable shreds, and dropped them into the trash can. After dinner, I gathered my comforter and prepared to lay down on the couch for the night. Piper suddenly stepped in front of me, crossing her arms. “My friend is coming over to stay for two nights. How is it going to look if she sees you sleeping on the couch like a beggar?” I stared at her. “She’s your friend. Why would it matter to me?” Piper pursed her lips, sneering. “Because people will talk! They’ll think my family abuses you or something!” “So you “know” it’s unfair,” I said quietly. Piper choked on her words. Her face flushed red with rage, and she turned around to call for backup. “Mom! Dad!” My parents rushed out of the master bedroom, immediately laying into me without asking a single question. “Piper is just thinking about this family’s reputation! Why do you always have to be so confrontational?!” “Cathy, are you even a part of this family or not?!” For three years, I had been an outsider in this house. Now, when they needed me to compromise and swallow my pride, suddenly I was family. I looked at Piper calmly. “Where is your friend sleeping?” “In my room, obviously!” she snapped. “And where am I supposed to sleep?” Mom and Dad answered in unison: “We’ll get you a hotel room.” That was my true weight in their minds. Less than a guest. Less than a stranger. This time, I didn’t argue. “Okay.” I turned toward the balcony, packed my comforter into my duffel bag, and slung my backpack over my shoulder. My train was tomorrow afternoon. Once I checked out of the hotel, I could go straight to the station. I would never have to step foot in this house again. Mom forwarded the hotel reservation details to my phone, her eyes lingering on my heavy luggage. “It’s just two nights. Why are you dragging all your bags with you?” “It was making the balcony look cluttered,” I said casually. Dad opened his mouth to ask something else, but Tony burst out of his room, grabbing their arms. “The interior designer sent over two different concepts for my gaming room! Come help me pick!” I watched the four of them huddle tightly around Tony’s phone screen. I turned and walked out the door. As the front door clicked shut behind me, a strange wave of vertigo washed over me. It felt like three years ago, when I first left my grandmother’s house, holding a suitcase and wearing a backpack. Back then, I was terrified, yet full of fragile hope for the new life awaiting me. Now, all I wanted was to get as far away from them as humanly possible. The roadside motel was located right outside our subdivision. The moment I swiped the keycard and opened the door, a thick, suffocating smell of damp mildew hit my nostrils. I rushed to open all the windows, but the stench lingered, heavy and stale. Looking at the peeling wallpaper and the stained carpet, an uneasy anxiety began to twist in my gut. I remembered the horror stories I’d read online about cheap motels. Following a guide I had seen on social media, I turned off the lights and began checking the room with my phone camera. In the bathroom, behind the plastic vent cover directly above the shower, I saw a tiny, reflective glass lens. A hidden camera. A cold sweat broke out across my back, and a paralyzing terror instantly swallowed me whole. My hands shook violently as I pulled out my phone and instinctively dialed Mom. No answer. I dialed again. Nothing. On the third try, she finally picked up. “Mom…” my voice trembled, raw with panic. “This motel isn’t safe. I found a hidden camera in the bathroom…” The background noise on her end was deafening—music, laughter, chatter. I wasn’t even sure if she could hear me over the noise. Before I could repeat myself, Mom cut me off, her tone dripping with annoyance. “Then call the police! Piper’s throwing a welcome party for her friend right now, and I am up to my neck in host duties.” “Cathy, you’re an adult now. Learn to handle your own problems instead of dumping them on us.” “Click.” The line went dead. The rhythmic “beeep-beeep-beeep” of the disconnected call sounded like a dull blade, severing the very last thread of delusion I held toward them. It took me a long moment to gather my breathing. Then, I dialed 911. I didn’t dare stay in the room. I unlocked the door and stood out in the dimly lit hallway, trembling. Those ten minutes waiting for the officers felt like an eternity. The police arrived, inspected the scene, gathered evidence, and took me to the station to file a report. By the time I finished signing the paperwork, it was nearly midnight. I stepped out of the precinct into the pitch-black night, the terror still clinging to my chest. Seeing my pale face and trembling hands, the officer on duty asked if I needed a ride home. I shook my head. That place was no longer my home. “Officer… could you drop me off at the train station instead?” I spent that night sleeping on a hard metal chair in the station’s waiting hall. It was loud, cold, and uncomfortable. Screaming toddlers, loud snorers, and the smell of stale instant noodles filled the air. Yet, strangely, I slept deeper than I ever had in three years. When I woke up, I bought a bottle of water and a snack from a vending machine. There were two hours left before my train. I pulled up the family group chat: “Welcome Home, Cathy.” The unread count was back to 99+. They were chatting casually about things that had nothing to do with me. This time, I didn’t scroll up to read. I didn’t try to decipher their moods or search for a gap to join in. I tapped “Settings”, scrolled to the bottom, and permanently left the group chat. Then, one by one, I pulled up the contact profiles for Mom, Dad, Tony, and Piper, and added every single one of them to my block list. It felt as though a massive boulder, weighing on my chest for three long years, had finally tumbled into the sea. A middle-aged woman sitting beside me offered a warm smile. “Heading out on vacation, sweetie?” “Something like that,” I smiled back. “Are you local? How long are you going to be away?” I looked toward the boarding gates as the announcement chimed over the speakers. “I’m not coming back.” Never again. Five days later, at the Payne residence. Piper’s friend had left, and Tony’s new gaming room was completely finished. Mom smoothed out the throw pillows on the living room sofa. “Alright, tell Cathy she can come back home now. She actually has a place to sleep this time.” Dad pulled out his phone and dialed my number. “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable…” He blinked, confused. He tried again. The same automated message played. Mom huffed, opening her messaging app to type out a text. “Cathy, have you completely lost your mind out there? Answer your phone!” She hit send. A harsh red exclamation mark popped up next to the bubble. “Message failed to send. You are no longer in this user’s contact list…” The shock on Mom’s face instantly twisted into pure rage. “She blocked me?! How dare she!” Tony, lounging on the recliner, smirked. “Told you. She’s throwing a tantrum because Piper wouldn’t let her sleep on the couch.” Piper glared at him. “If she’s mad, it’s because you stole her room and kicked her out!” “I didn’t steal anything! Before she came back, that room was supposed to be mine anyway! I just let her stay there as a guest!” “Enough! Both of you, shut up!” Dad shouted, rubbing his temples to soothe a pounding headache. He turned to Mom, his tone surprisingly dismissive. “Cathy has always been sensible. She won’t hold a petty grudge over something like this. Besides, the hotel she’s staying at is right at the neighborhood entrance. Let’s just walk over and see what’s going on.” The two of them walked down to the main street. When they arrived at the motel, they froze. The glass doors were sealed shut with heavy police tape, stamped with an official government seal. Mom stood frozen on the sidewalk for several seconds before frantically grabbing the owner of the flower shop next door. “What happened here? Why is this place shut down?” The shopkeeper eyed her up and down. “Shut down? The owner is going to prison for a long time.” “You haven’t heard? That scumbag installed hidden cameras in every single room. Heard he was selling the footage on dark web sites. Pure evil…” Mom stopped hearing the words. Her body went completely rigid as she stared at Dad, her eyes wide with terror. Her throat choked up, and her voice came out as a raspy, trembling whisper. “I… I think I got a call from Cathy the other night… saying she was in danger…”

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Summer break. My parents, both high school teachers with far too much free time on their hands, struck gold and snagged discounted tickets to London. They counted down the days on their fingers, systematically going around the circle—my older sister was working, my younger brother had sports camp—deliberately ignoring me, who had just finished high school exams and was idling around the house with nothing to do. And just like that, they were gone for seven days. Seven days later, when they rolled back through the front door looking polished and glowing, the three of us were hunched over the kitchen island, sharing a pot of cheap instant ramen. Mom handed a life-sized Spider-Man collectible statue to my brother. “Todd, sweetie, I know how much you’ve loved superheroes since you were little. Your dad and I went to seven different stores just to find this in stock.” Dad reached into his shopping bag, pulling out two sleek boxes for my sister. “A Burberry silk scarf and Jo Malone perfume, Chloe. I hope you can put these to good use when you need to make an impression.” Chloe and Todd squealed with joy, clutching their gifts like sacred treasures. When it came to my turn, Mom fished two identical, squashed airplane meal boxes out of her canvas tote and tossed them casually onto the floor. “Here’s yours. Your dad and I couldn’t even bear to eat them on the flight.” The flattened bread popped out of its flimsy wrapper with a dull thud, sticking firmly to the linoleum. I said nothing. I just turned on my heel and walked back to my bedroom. Luckily, just one second before the college application portal locked forever, I had secretly changed my top choice to a university a thousand miles away. … 1 The moment my bedroom door clicked shut, the loud chatter outside instantly fell dead silent. But it lasted for only a breath. A second later, the house erupted into laughter again. My brother gushed repeatedly about how Mom and Dad’s gift was literally the coolest thing he’d ever owned. Chloe couldn’t wait to tear open the fancy packaging, spraying perfume into the air and spinning beneath the scented mist. Only I was curled up in the cramped study, feeling like a thief peeking at someone else’s happiness through a keyhole. Mom’s voice drifted through the thin wooden panel. “Unbelievable! We leave the house for a week, and Josie lets you two eat instant noodles? I wasted my time teaching her how to cook!” “Hold on, I’ll make you a real dinner right now.” The kitchen door creaked open, and within moments, the stove was roaring. A single wall separated us, but it couldn’t block the deafening rumble of the exhaust fan, nor could it filter out the thick smell of grease wafting through the cracks. What my mother called “teaching” was really her forcing me into the kitchen at six years old under the guise of “building character.” At an age when my peers couldn’t even hold a kitchen knife safely, I had already learned how to slice potatoes, braise short ribs, and simmer complex broths. Ever since I mastered cooking, whenever the family gathered, I was the one permanently trapped in the kitchen. Chloe would lounge on the sofa watching TV, while Todd glued his eyes to his phone, playing games. By the time I carried the last dish to the table, the food had already gone lukewarm, and the best cuts of meat had been picked clean from the platters. They complained that I was too slow, that my seasoning was too bland, that I didn’t know how to control portions for soup or pasta. Ten years of this made me an extraordinary cook. But no one ever asked me if I actually wanted to learn. Outside, the laughter continued. Mom whipped up a full table of food in record time and called everyone to eat. Chloe hesitated. “Josie is still in her room…” Dad cut her off sharply. “Why bother with her? If she doesn’t come out, she isn’t hungry. Todd is growing—saving that extra portion means more fuel for him.” As for the instant ramen from earlier, I hadn’t even been allowed to eat the noodles. If I hadn’t snuck two hasty sips of the boiling broth right after pouring the hot water while they complained it was too hot, I wouldn’t have tasted a thing. Smelling the savory food outside, my stomach growled painfully. Out of the four people sitting around that dinner table, not a single one came to check if I was hungry or if I wanted a bite. I let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. I had long accepted the fact that I was an invisible ghost in this house. Why did I still harbor these pathetic, foolish fantasies? I pulled out my phone, masochistically tapping into the college portal to view my secretly altered choice. “University of Michigan, Department of Mechanical Engineering.” When my test scores had first come back, my parents insisted I choose a pre-med track, claiming under the guise of wisdom that having a doctor in the family would save everyone a lot of hassle down the road. Yet Chloe’s graphic design major was her passion, and Todd’s athletic training was his prized talent. When it came to me, the only consideration was “saving them hassle.” They didn’t care about what I loved; they only cared about what utility I could bring to this family. If I hadn’t seen my own birth certificate with my own eyes, I would have genuinely doubted whether I was adopted. So in the final minute before the submission portal locked, a quiet defiance took hold of me, and I selected the field I actually cared about: mechanical engineering. “Buzz. Buzz.” My phone vibrated violently under my pillow. I pulled out the beat-up, hand-me-down flip phone and clicked open the message. “Congratulations! You have been accepted to your top-choice program: University of Michigan.” Tracing the small screen with my thumb, a fierce, blooming warmth flared in my chest. For the very first time in my life, I had made a choice for myself. It was the first time, but it would certainly not be the last. BANG! The front door of my room was kicked open, the brass latch snapping off and flying across the room. Startled, I sat up abruptly on the bed, staring into my father’s thunderous face. He glared down at me, his eyes dark with fury. “Josie! Your mother and I just walk through the door and you give us attitude? Now you lock yourself in here to throw a hunger strike? What is the meaning of this? Are you trying to threaten us?” 2 I sat on the edge of the bed, my mouth parting slightly, but no words came out. They had handed one child a collector’s statue worth hundreds and another a closet full of luxury goods, while I was thrown cold airline trash. What “attitude” did I even have the right to show? Dad took a heavy step forward, grabbing my shirt collar and yanking me out into the hallway. Todd, his mouth stuffed full of pot roast, mumbled around his food, “What else could it mean? She’s throwing a fit because Chloe and I got real presents. You guys didn’t buy her anything expensive, so her precious feelings are hurt. Am I right, Josie?” Chloe daintily wiped her mouth with a napkin, raising an eyebrow at me. “Josie, this is really on you. Whatever Mom and Dad bring back is a gesture of love. How could you throw a tantrum over price tags?” Mom pressed her lips together, her eyes sharp and unforgiving. “Who we buy gifts for and what we choose to buy is OUR freedom! Who gave you the right to point fingers? Take it or leave it, or get out!” With a sharp flick of her foot, she kicked the squashed airline meal box right toward me. The heavy plastic box slammed hard against my shin, sending a jolt of sharp pain through my leg that made my face twist. Look at that. I hadn’t said a single word, yet in just a few sentences, they had already tried, convicted, and sentenced me. In the past, I would have swallowed it down, endured it in silence, and waited for a new day to reset the clock. But this time, the acceptance notification flashed wildly in my mind. For the very first time in my life, I stood up straight in front of them. “Why?” I asked, my voice steady. They froze, caught off guard. I looked them dead in the eye. “I am your child, too. Why do their gifts cost hundreds of dollars while mine is free airline trash?” “I would rather you brought me nothing at all than use garbage to humiliate me.” Whether from rage or sheer humiliation, Mom’s face flushed red. She marched over, shoving her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose with a trembling finger. “Humiliate? You are getting more out of line by the second! Josie! On your knees!” Here it came again. Whenever I “erred,” she would put on her authoritative teacher persona and use forced kneeling as her weapon of discipline. It started inside our house, then moved to the hallway outside, and eventually, no matter where we were, she used the exact same method to “educate” me. Malls, public sidewalks, school playgrounds, amusement parks… I had measured practically every square inch of this town with my bare knees. I stood my ground, staring at her coldly. She pointed a finger directly at my nose, screaming, “Josie! Did you forget the family rules? “Respect your elders!” I say one word and you have a hundred talk-backs waiting for me! Is this how a child speaks to her parents?” My parents and Chloe were “elders,” so naturally, the rules didn’t apply to them. Todd was young, male, had a strong sense of pride, and was destined for “great things,” so he was exempt from following them, too. Her so-called “family rules” were created solely to shackle one person: me. The atmosphere locked into a suffocating stalemate. No one spoke. Suddenly, Todd stood up, deliberately stepping right on the squashed airplane bread scattered on the floor. He walked into his bedroom, grabbed his aluminum baseball bat, and handed it to Mom. “Mom, you always say spare the rod and spoil the child. Looks like Josie needs another round of discipline.” Enraged and seeing that I remained entirely unmoved, Mom actually gripped the bat and swung it straight toward my head. I dodged to the side, instinctively raising my arm to block the impact. Just as the bat sliced through the air, whistling inches from my face, Dad shouted at the top of his lungs: “Enough! Stop it!” The bat halted abruptly, hovering a mere two inches from my temple. Todd and Chloe looked at him in total shock. Even I was stunned. Whenever Mom punished me in the past, Dad was always the cold spectator enjoying the show. Yet today, he had actually stepped in to stop her? 3 Dad rubbed his temples, his brow deeply furrowed. “She already submitted her application for pre-med. She’s going to be a surgeon. If you break her arm over a petty fight, what happens to her future? Do you know how hard it is for a middle-class family to produce a doctor? If she can’t hold a scalpel later, how are we supposed to recoup our investment?” Mom’s grip loosened, and she carefully carried the bat back into Todd’s room. Dad tightened his lips, his voice dropping into a stern tone. “Besides, her high school called me two days ago. Local press wants to do a feature interview on our family next month. Even if she only placed third in her class, we are going to use the platform to showcase our parenting philosophy. If you break her arm, she’ll be sitting in front of the cameras wrapped in a cast! How would that look?” I froze. I had never heard a single word about this. Todd’s eyes lit up with instant excitement. “What? Does that mean I’m going to be on TV? I want to go!” Chloe also looked at Dad, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. Dad waved a dismissive hand, a proud smirk touching his lips. “Of course. The whole family goes. If we go viral from this interview, it’ll do wonders for Todd’s college applications later. After all, with a high-achieving sister, people will assume the brother is just as brilliant.” In an instant, the entire family was swept up in the excitement of their upcoming television appearance. The cruel farce ended just like that—forgotten, dismissed, and buried. …… After that day, the house shifted into a strict prep routine. Mom and Chloe visited spa clinics every few days, dieting and pampering their skin to ensure they looked immaculate on camera. Even Dad and Todd started paying meticulous attention to their grooming. Yet no one paid any attention to me. It never crossed their minds that without my test scores, they wouldn’t have had this spotlight in the first place. Of course, I was long used to being invisible. While they were busy preening themselves, I snuck out every day, working grueling summer jobs from dawn to dusk to save up for my travel expenses and deposit. I knew with absolute certainty that the moment my true university choice was revealed, they wouldn’t give me a single dime. I had to pave my own way out. A month flew by in the blink of an eye. On the day of the interview, our whole family arrived at the local media studio in full gear. Chloe and Mom had gotten their hair styled and wore tailored silk dresses, determined to capture their best angles for the camera. Dad was unusually nervous, pacing back and forth while rehearsing his speech. I had overheard his talking points earlier—it was nothing more than a fiction of how much sweat and blood they had poured into raising me, how supportive the family environment had been, and how my success was built entirely on their sacrifices. Not a single word of truth. I wore my faded high school hoodie—the one with worn-out cuffs—and stood behind them, looking like an ugly duckling shoved into a flock of swans. After two other top-scoring students finished their segments, it was my turn. The moment the camera lens swung toward me, Chloe threw her shoulder out, shoving me violently out of the frame. “Yes! Hi, I’m Josie’s older sister, Chloe! Josie’s incredible score has everything to do with our home environment. Both of our parents are dedicated high school teachers…” The reporter’s eyes lit up. “Both parents are educators? What a wonderful background! What was your family’s core educational philosophy while raising Josie?” Chloe spoke smoothly to the camera, her tone dripping with polished grace. The monitor occasionally cut to Mom and Dad, who were beaming with warm, loving smiles. Anyone watching would think we were the most harmonious, picture-perfect family in the country. After a few general questions, the camera finally focused on me. Todd tried to squeeze into the frame to speak, but the cameraman politely blocked him. “Josie,” the reporter said, smiling warmly, “we heard your official acceptance came through today. When you opened that letter, who was the person you wanted to thank the most?” I looked up. Mom and Dad were desperately mouthing “Us” from behind the lights. Chloe and Todd pointed blatantly at themselves. Facing the expectant eyes of those four people, I pressed my lips into a thin line. “Myself.” “I want to thank myself—for saving my own life again and again, and for refusing to give up.” “I have always believed that you have to carve your own path. You can’t let other people write your script.” Mom and Dad’s smiles shattered instantly. My veiled jab made their expressions turn dark and treacherous. But with the rolling camera recording every second, they desperately suppressed their rage, forcing stiff, unnatural grins back onto their faces. As the segment wrapped up, a reporter in the back suddenly raised his microphone. “Finally, a question for Josie’s parents—how do you feel about letting your daughter travel all the way across the country to attend the University of Michigan? Did you consider the extreme distance and harsh winters when helping her select her school?” Hearing those words, the smiles on my parents’ faces froze completely solid.

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My boyfriend, Elvis, suffered from severe social anxiety. Or at least, that was his excuse for hating lines. He couldn’t stand waiting for anything. On May 20th—the date every couple in the city rushed to turn into a wedding anniversary—I dragged him down to City Hall to pull our marriage license. He took one look at the queue stretching down the marble steps, turned on his heel, and walked away. Then came the night my appendix almost burst. By the time we reached the emergency room, I was doubled over, cold sweat soaking my collar. Elvis scanned the overcrowded triage desk, his handsome face contorted in disgust. “Do you pick peak hours to get sick and get married on purpose?” he sneered. “Or are you just trying to torture me?” I squeezed my eyes shut against the searing pain in my abdomen, forcing a faint, placating smile. “I’m sorry… the timing is terrible. It’s okay. Go wait in the car. I’ll queue up myself.” Elvis gave a stiff, arrogant nod, turned, and left without looking back. For five years, I convinced myself that I had grown accustomed to standing alone in endless, suffocating lines. I told myself it was just who he was—a deeply private, introverted man who couldn’t handle crowds. Until the day before my best friend Cecilia’s birthday. Cecilia had been obsessed with a limited-edition designer vinyl figure for months, incessantly dropping hints about the secret chase version. Hoping to surprise her, I headed downtown to the boutique toy store early in the morning—only to freeze when I reached the block. There, shuffling slowly near the front of a three-block-long line, was Elvis. Strangers jostled his shoulders in the muggy heat. Strands of dark hair clung to his damp forehead. Yet there was no scowl on his face, no restless shift of his feet, no trace of the frantic panic he always claimed suffocated him in crowds. He just stood there, patiently waiting. In that quiet, terrible moment, the truth slammed into my chest like a physical blow. He didn’t hate waiting in lines. He just hated waiting in line for me. I pulled out my phone with trembling hands. I opened my notes app, scrolled to the top, and located a pinned note I had edited a hundred times over the years—a curated list of quiet, off-peak dates for City Hall, carefully cross-referenced with quiet coffee shops and low-key venues that wouldn’t set off his anxiety. Slowly, deliberately, I hit delete. I didn’t need that list anymore. … The midday sun beat down relentlessly, twisting the faces of everyone in line into masks of misery. A middle-aged man nearby spat on the pavement, a tiny drop splashing onto the crisp white leather of Elvis’s sneakers. Elvis was a ruthless germaphobe. Once, on a date with me, a passing car splashed dirty puddle water onto his hem, and he immediately canceled lunch and went straight home to shower. Now, he merely knit his brows slightly, wiped his shoe against the back of his jeans, and returned his focused gaze to the store’s glass doors. Yesterday, Cecilia had posted in our group chat: “I am begging on my knees! I need this secret chase figure. Whoever gets it for me, I will love you forever!” One of our mutual friends had joked: “Good luck. That line is ninety percent scalpers. You could stand there all day and still come up empty.” I had planned to braving the crowd for my best friend. But why was Elvis here? I stepped back into the shadow of a nearby awning, watching him with a sickening, self-flagellating obsession. It felt as though by standing here in the shade, I could somehow rewrite the narrative of the last five years—the years I had spent standing alone in queues while he waited comfortably in the car or stayed home entirely. Two hours passed. Elvis finally reached the counter. Store policy capped purchases at two blind boxes per customer. He bought his pair and unboxed them right at the register. Neither was the chase figure. Without a second of hesitation, he turned around, walked past the dozens of waiting people, and rejoined the very back of the line. Four hours later, he emerged into the heat again, his shirt drenched in sweat, his skin flushed pink from sunburn. He unboxed the third attempt. This time, he pulled out the golden figure Cecilia had been crying for. A rare, triumphant smile curved Elvis’s lips. My chest caved in. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number, digging my thumb nail into the meat of my palm, using the tiny, sharp pain to anchor myself against the tremor in my voice. “Elvis? Are you out right now?” “What is it?” His tone was clipped, impatient. “I’m having a massive craving for those warm guava tarts from Porto’s,” I said, trying out the high-pitched, exaggeratedly sweet tone Cecilia always used when she wanted something. “Could you pick up a box for me? Please? I really, really want them right now.” There was a sharp pause on the line before Elvis’s icy voice cut through. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you talking like Cecilia all of a sudden? It’s disgusting.” My blood ran cold. Not because he called me disgusting. But because he had recognized Cecilia’s tone instantly. Porto’s was only two blocks away from where I stood. I could see the shop window from the corner. The line outside was practically nonexistent—just five or six people waiting under the patio umbrella. Elvis paused outside the bakery, cast a dismissive glance at the small queue, and didn’t slow his stride for a second. “There’s a line,” he said coldly. “Maybe next time.” “Next time.” In five years, I had heard those two words more times than I could count. “We’ll get the marriage license next time.” “I’ll come to your wedding dress fitting next time.” “We’ll set up a dinner with your parents next time.” Before I could speak, the call went dead. I watched his tall, lean figure disappear down the street. Then, I walked over to Porto’s and stepped into the queue. It took less than two minutes to reach the register. I held the warm box of pastries in my hands—a treat I had been looking forward to all week—and realized I didn’t have an ounce of appetite left. I turned around and handed the box to the startled girl behind me in line. For the rest of the afternoon, I made the rounds. The wedding planner’s office. The travel agency for our Mediterranean honeymoon. The boutique photography studio where we had placed a deposit for our engagement portraits. One by one, I canceled every single reservation in person. I was just stepping out of the photography studio when my phone buzzed frantically. It was Cecilia. “Bridget! Where the hell are you?!” she shrieked the moment I answered. “Elvis collapsed from heatstroke! He’s in the ER! Get over here right now!” My heart instinctively leaped into my throat. Forgetting everything for a second, I sprinted to the curb and hailed a cab. When I burst into the urgent care waiting room, Cecilia met me at the door, her face contorted in anger as she launched into a barrage of accusations. “What kind of girlfriend are you?! It’s a hundred degrees outside—how could you let him wander around in the heat for so long?!” On the ride over, I had checked my phone multiple times. Elvis hadn’t sent me a single text, hadn’t missed a single call. Now was not the time to argue. “Where is he?” Cecilia pointed toward the intake desk line, looking suddenly sheepish. “Over there. My period just started and my cramps are killer, so after he rested for a few minutes, he insisted on standing in line to get my intake paperwork sorted.” My voice rose, sharp and incredulous. “He has heatstroke, and you’re letting him wait in line for you?!” I pushed past her and marched toward the desk, instantly spotting Elvis’s pale, stooped frame. His spine was curved, his lips tinged with an unhealthy bluish hue, looking as though he might pass out at any second. A sudden memory flashed through my mind—a heavy blizzard three years ago, when the city was entirely shut down and cabs were nonexistent. I had developed a terrifyingly high fever, and Elvis had carried me on his back, trudging through two miles of knee-deep snow to get me to a clinic. When he finally set me down on the examination table, his inner thermal shirt was completely soaked through with sweat. My heart softened despite itself. I walked up beside him. “Let me take your place.” Elvis’s dark brows pulled together into a harsh scowl. His tone was laced with raw irritation. “What were you shouting at Cecilia for? She’s in pain. How is she supposed to stand here? I told her to sit down.” He swayed precariously as he spoke. I reflexively grabbed his arm to steady him, swallowing down the bitter taste of betrayal in my throat. “Go sit down, Elvis. We’ll talk about this later.” I stepped into his spot as he stumbled toward the plastic chairs. The queue moved at a painful crawl. The air was thick with the suffocating stench of rubbing alcohol, stale sweat, and sickness. My stomach churned, a sudden wave of nausea hitting me so hard I felt dizzy. In that moment, I understood Elvis better than I ever had before. Waiting in line was awful. I hated it, too. In my periphery, I watched Elvis walk over to the water cooler. He poured a cup of warm water, tested the temperature against his palm, and gently handed it to Cecilia. He hovered over her, his eyes filled with quiet, protective concern. As if she were the fragile one. As if she were the patient. I forced myself to look away, staring fixedly at the back of the person ahead of me as the line slowly crept forward. When I finally reached the glass partition, the administrative assistant tapped her desk impatiently. “ID and insurance card.” I froze. I turned around and realized Elvis hadn’t given me any of his cards. The man behind me groaned loudly, giving my shoulder a rough shove. “Hey, lady, if you don’t have your stuff ready, get out of the way! People are sick here!” “Sorry,” I muttered, stumbling out of the queue. I walked over to where Elvis and Cecilia were sitting. “Where’s your ID?” Elvis looked up at me coldly, then reached into his pocket and handed over his wallet. He had a photographic memory; he never forgot anything. Except for me. A bitter, mocking smile touched my lips. This was his punishment. His quiet little way of getting back at me for raising my voice at Cecilia earlier. … Elvis spent the night hooked up to an IV drip for severe dehydration and exhaustion. I didn’t bring up the breakup that night. Looking at his pale, hollow face, I told myself that five years deserved a civilized, decent farewell. I would wait until he recovered. The next afternoon, as the nurse discharged him, I kept my tone light and neutral. “You’re still weak. Why don’t you go home and rest? I’ll go to Cecilia’s birthday party at the lounge by myself tonight.” Elvis didn’t say a word. He just nodded and closed his eyes in the back of the Uber. Yet when I pushed open the door to the VIP lounge that evening, the first thing I saw was Elvis sitting on the velvet plush couch, right beside Cecilia. Oddly enough, I didn’t feel a sting of shock. My heart remained dead silent. Elvis’s friends called out my name, moving over to make room for me. I declined with a soft wave and pulled up a chair at the outer edge of the booth—only realizing after I sat down that the guy next to me was an old college acquaintance who had confessed his feelings to me years ago. Elvis’s eyes swept over us, his expression darkening instantly. Without a word, he picked up a sleek gift bag from the table and slid it toward Cecilia. When Cecilia pulled out the limited-edition golden figure, she let out an ear-splitting shriek, throwing her arms around Elvis’s neck in a breathless hug. “Oh my god! Elvis! If you weren’t my best friend’s man, I would kiss you right on the mouth!” I saw a subtle, rare curve touch the corner of Elvis’s lips. “Just got lucky,” he murmured casually. Elvis had always been cold, aloof, and painfully distant. I had spent three exhausting years chasing him before he finally let me into his life. He used to tell me he liked quiet, sensible, low-maintenance women. So, whenever I was around him, I muted myself. I shrank my personality, careful never to be too loud, too demanding, or too much. When Cecilia first found out about our dynamic, she had slammed her drink on the table and yelled at me: “Why are you bowing down to him like that? He’s literally conditioning you! It’s textbook emotional manipulation!” And Elvis had pulled me aside more than once, saying: “You should keep your distance from Cecilia. She’s messy, loud, and constantly hanging out in trashy places. Don’t let her rub off on you.” Yet somewhere along the way, the rules had shifted. Whenever Cecilia threw a tantrum, acted reckless, or whined, Elvis would put his phone down and listen to her with endless, brooding patience. Just like he was doing right now. Nobody in the flashing neon room noticed my flushed face or the silent tears stinging the backs of my eyes. After the unboxing hype settled down, the group moved on to drinks and cake. Eventually, the topic drifted toward marriage. “Hey, Elvis,” one of his old fraternity brothers leaned in, sloshing his whiskey. “When are you and Bridget finally locking it down? You’ve been together forever.” Elvis’s jaw clenched, his eyes turning arctic cold. Not wanting to create an embarrassing scene in front of our entire social circle, I took the initiative to cut in. “We’re not getting married.” I forced a tight, cheerful smile. “Elvis thinks weddings are like circus shows—just two monkeys performing for a crowd. It’s tedious, and honestly, I agree.” The room went quiet for a beat before another friend scoffed loudly. “Not getting married? Man, Elvis, that’s harsh. After everything she did for you? What about those dozen final letters she wrote you back in grad school?” When Elvis got accepted into MIT on a full ride, I had deferred my life to follow him to the East Coast, taking an administrative job at a low-tier college in California just to maintain a US visa. Every weekend, I would make the brutal eight-hour drive along terrifying, fog-slick mountain passes just to spend thirty-six hours with him in Cambridge. Before every single drive, terrified I might crash on the cliffside roads, I would write a final letter—a makeshift last will and testament—and leave it in my glove box. One day, Elvis rode in my car and discovered the stack of letters tucked beneath the registration papers. He read them in silence. Then, he looked at me and said: “Bridget, let’s give us a real try.” The memory hung heavy in the air, thick with awkward tension. Elvis stared directly at me, his knuckles turning white around his glass. Suddenly, he snapped, “Who said we’re not having a wedding?” He turned to Cecilia, his voice loud enough for the entire booth to hear. “You two promised to be each other’s maids of honor years ago, didn’t you? I’m not going to be the reason Bridget breaks her promise to you.” Cecilia squealed, jumping up from the couch. “Yes! I’ve had three different bridesmaid dresses saved on Pinterest forever! Finally!” She beamed at me. “Bridget, did you hear that? You owe me big time!” I looked at Elvis in absolute, dizzying disbelief. I had written a fifty-page planning binder for our wedding—venues, florals, modest budgets—and he had vetoed every single page with cold disdain. I had chased him for three years. I had given him five years of my life. Yet I couldn’t earn a simple ceremony. And now, simply because Cecilia wanted to play dress-up as a bridesmaid, he casually agreed to it. A wave of overwhelming absurdity washed over me, rendering me breathless. My quiet murmur—”Elvis, we’re never having a wedding”—was completely swallowed by the deafening bass of the lounge music. Up on the small karaoke stage, Cecilia was already pulling Elvis toward the microphones, forcing a duet headset into his hand. I picked up a glass of bourbon from the table and swallowed it in one sharp, burning gulp. A week ago, a tech startup in San Francisco where I had interned during college reached out to offer me a senior operations role—with double my current salary. I had hesitated, torn between my life here with Elvis and my own career. Right now, in the middle of the thumping bass and flashing lights, the choice was blindingly clear. I unlocked my phone, opened my email draft, and hit send. “I accept the offer. I can start immediately.” … The hangover the next morning hit me like a sledgehammer. I was jolted awake by my phone ringing off the hook. It was Cecilia. “Bridget! Elvis and I are going viral!” she screamed into the receiver. “What?” I rubbed my aching temples, trying to clear the fog from my brain. “The duet video I posted of us at the lounge last night! It hit half a million views overnight!” Cecilia’s voice was breathlessly euphoric. “I already have brands DMing me for couple-sponsorships! Eight hundred bucks for a thirty-second feature! Bridget, please, can I borrow Elvis for a few weeks? Just for content! Please!” Cecilia came from a struggling family and had been trying to make it as a lifestyle influencer for two years with zero traction. I sat up in bed, my tone solemn as I tried to reason with her. “Cecilia, building a fake couple persona is dangerous. If your followers find out it’s staged, the backlash will destroy you.” “Ugh, Bridget, don’t be so stingy!” she snapped, her tone instantly flipping from begging to hostile. “You’re just using some high-and-mighty excuse because you don’t want to share him. Are we even real friends?!” I bit back my anger. “It doesn’t matter what I say. Elvis will never agree to it anyway.” Elvis was obsessive about his privacy. Once, I had posted a picture of our dinner where the blurred reflection of his back was visible in a wine glass, and he had thrown a furious tantrum, forcing me to delete the post immediately. Cecilia chuckled triumphantly. “Hehe, actually? Elvis already said yes.” I suddenly realized she was on a video call. The camera flipped around. Elvis was sitting at the tiny laminate desk in Cecilia’s cramped studio apartment, focused intently on a laptop screen as he drafted a script. He didn’t even glance up as he spoke into her speakerphone. “Cecilia’s going through a tough time financially. As a friend, helping her out is the right thing to do.” He paused, his voice dropping an octave, laced with a bite. “Besides, Bridget, didn’t you pose intimately with other guys for those college promotional videos back in the day?” “That was an official university recruitment campaign!” I shot back, my chest heaving. Cecilia giggled in the background. “Double standards, much? Rules for thee, but not for me!” In that instant, a cold realization settled deep in my bones. They were an alliance now. Standing on the exact same side, united against me. No matter what I said, I would always be the villain, the outsider, the killjoy. The urge to argue vanished completely. I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Do whatever you want.” An hour later, Cecilia dropped the link to their first official promo video in our group chat. In the video, Cecilia and Elvis were sitting side-by-side on her narrow twin bed, wearing matching silk pajamas. They were reviewing an adult intimacy toy. Halfway through the sponsored script, Cecilia feigned embarrassment, hiding her blushing face against Elvis’s chest. The comment section was exploding: [They are so gorgeous together!] [I’m obsessed!] [The chemistry is insanely sweet!] In our usually rowdy group chat, however, nobody replied. The silence was deafening. To break the awkward air, Cecilia posted a follow-up text: “It’s all just acting for the algorithm, guys! Acting! Bridget, don’t be jealous, okay?” Elvis replied instantly: “She won’t be. She’s used to it.” I stared at the glowing blue light of the screen for a long time, waiting for the surge of agony, the humiliation, the heartbreak. Instead, there was only a profound, weightless calm. The storm inside me had finally burned itself out. I stood up, pulled my large red suitcase out of the closet, and began packing. My start date in San Francisco was confirmed for Monday. On the evening before my flight, the front door clicked open. Elvis walked in, carrying a pink hardshell suitcase in one hand. Cecilia trailed behind him. “Her apartment is too cramped to set up lighting for livestreams,” Elvis explained casually, setting her bag by the entryway. “She’s going to crash in our guest room for a few weeks.” He glanced around the living room, a subtle frown tugging at his brows. “Why is the place so bare? Did you clean early?” I offered a faint smile. “Yeah. Clearing out space for you two.” Elvis didn’t probe further. He turned to me. “Give Cecilia your house slippers.” I blinked. “What?” “We don’t have guest slippers,” he said, his tone commanding and unbothered. “She has a cold right now and shouldn’t walk on the hardwood floor. Go run down to the store and buy yourself a new pair.” Cecilia tugged at his sleeve, putting on a show of hesitation. “Oh, Elvis, don’t be so dramatic! I’m wearing socks, it’s fine… though for our live night stream later, we do need to wear matching couple slippers. Bridget, can I just borrow yours for a bit? We’ll buy new ones tomorrow and give them back!” Without a second of hesitation, I slipped my feet out of the plush shearling slippers I had spent hours searching for online to match Elvis’s, and kicked them directly to her feet. “No need to return them,” I said evenly. “They’re yours.” The matching slippers. The apartment. And Elvis. She could have all of it. … My flight was scheduled for early the next morning. I had intended to sit Elvis down tonight and have a final, clean break. Instead, he spent the entire evening locked in the guest room with Cecilia, launching their first joint livestream. Their voices were muffled behind the closed door, but snippets of words floated through the hall: “selling fish,” “smell,” “donations.” A cold knot twisted in my gut. I opened TikTok and found her stream. Cecilia was sitting close to Elvis in front of a ring light, dabbing at her eyes as she addressed over ten thousand live viewers. “After my parents divorced, my mom ran a filthy fish stall at the wet market to raise me,” Cecilia sobbed softly into the mic. “I grew up smelling like raw fish. No matter how many times I showered, the scent never went away. Kids at school bullied me relentlessly… except for Elvis. He was the only one who stood up to protect me. I thought he was the coolest guy in the world.” She stole a shy glance at Elvis. “When my mom was dying of cancer in my senior year of high school, our school set up a charity drive. Elvis secretly donated fifteen thousand dollars—his entire college fund—and thought he hid it so well.” Cecilia leaned her head on his shoulder, her voice dripping with playful affection. “Be honest, Elvis… did you fall in love with me back then?” Elvis looked at her, his voice soft, indulgent. “Maybe a little. But I was afraid of the drama.” Cecilia giggled, her eyes shining with triumph. “He’s just so stubborn! He wouldn’t admit it, so I had to chase him all the way across the country! I wrote him dozens of love letters, and when those didn’t work, I literally wrote him last wills and testaments every time I drove to see him!” I stared at the screen, my hands trembling so violently I could barely hold the phone. They had stolen my childhood. It was “my” mother who had sold fish to put food on the table. It was “my” mother who had died of cancer in my senior year. It was “my” fifteen thousand dollars in hard-earned scholarships that I had used to support myself, and “my” terrifying drives through the mountains, “my” letters in the glove box. They took my grief, my sacrifices, my painful past, and rewrapped it as their epic romance to farm clout on the internet. The comment section was scrolling so fast it was a blur: [I’m crying! This is true love!] [You are so brave, girl!] [Please never let each other go!] Suddenly, a top donor dropped a two-thousand-dollar digital gift on the stream, flashing a banner across the screen: [KISS ON CAMERA NOW!] Elvis hesitated, glancing nervously toward the bedroom door. “Thank you, boss!” Cecilia squealed, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his face down toward hers. I slammed the app shut, my breathing ragged. As I backed out of her profile, my thumb accidentally brushed her grid. The cover of her newest video popped up—and my heart stopped. It was a clip she had filmed in my hallway yesterday. In the background, caught in the wide-angle lens, was me. I had been hauling boxes; my hair was a rat’s nest, my clothes oversized and faded, my face distorted by the camera angle into something grotesque and exhausted. The top comment under the video had thousands of likes: “Who’s the ugly goblin in the back?” Cecilia had replied with two words: “The maid.” And she had pinned the comment to the top. A cold, terrifying calm settled over me. I got out of bed, walked across the hall, and began pounding on the guest room door. A minute later, the door swung open. Elvis stepped out, snapping it shut behind him. His voice was a harsh whisper. “What is your problem?! Don’t you know we’re live?!” I squeezed my hands into fists, forcing my voice to remain steady. “You can play happy house on camera all you want,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “But you do not use my mother’s death for your content. And tell her to take that video of me down right now.” Elvis glanced at his phone, his tone softening slightly into a dismissive compromise. “Bridget, that video already cleared three brand sponsorships. Do you have any idea how much money Cecilia would have to pay in penalties if she deletes it now?” I turned my back on him. “That’s your problem.” Perhaps the ice in my voice frightened him. Elvis suddenly reached out, grabbing my wrist. “Bridget… wait. Tomorrow afternoon, let me take you to the bridal boutique. You’ve been waiting to try on wedding dresses for years, haven’t you?” I turned slowly to face him. He cleared his throat, adding awkwardly, “Cecilia wants to shoot a bridal-themed vlog anyway. We can kill two birds with one stone.” A dry, bitter laugh escaped my throat. “You guys go ahead,” I whispered. “Have fun.” I pulled my wrist out of his grip and walked back into my room. Elvis stepped forward to follow me, but Cecilia’s sweet voice called out from behind the door. “Elvis! Come back! The chat is calling for you!” Elvis paused, exhaled sharply, and turned back to the guest room. “Stop throwing a tantrum, Bridget! The appointment is set for two tomorrow afternoon. Be ready!” The stream finally ended in the dead of night. At 4:00 AM, the apartment was shrouded in pitch-black silence. Elvis was asleep on the living room sofa, his brow furrowed even in his dreams. I rolled my red suitcase quietly out of the bedroom. On the coffee table next to his phone, I laid down a single, white envelope. I had written Elvis dozens of love letters in my youth. I had written him dozens of final wills on mountain passes. This was my last letter to him—a simple, one-line farewell. At the airport gate, as the morning sun broke over the horizon, I opened TikTok one last time. Under Cecilia’s pinned video, I posted a single, detailed comment: “I am not the maid. I am the ex-best friend whose life story was stolen for this script, and the ex-girlfriend of the guy in your videos. As of today, we are officially done.” Within minutes, the comment gained thousands of likes. I didn’t stay to read the replies. I turned off my phone, popped out the SIM card, and dropped it into a trash bin before walking down the jetway. From this moment on, whatever storms raged in his world were no longer my concern.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560134”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The big three campus heartthrobs were currently putting a notorious “cheater” on blast on the student forum—a girl who had supposedly been two-timing all three of them simultaneously. I was sitting in the dining hall, casually sipping my iced latte and enjoying the spectacle, when a stream of glowing, transparent bullet comments suddenly began floating right across my field of vision. [The female lead is so delightfully real! Who else would think to steal her three childhood besties’ forum accounts just to prank her annoying roommate?] [I mean, yeah, the roommate ends up getting expelled later when things blow out of proportion, but it’s not like Ivy did it on purpose!] [Whatever, let Ivy baby have her fun for now! In a few weeks, when she realizes all three of her childhood friends fell in love with the roommate at first sight, she’s going to cry her eyes out.] [Can you blame them? It’s a classic angst-fest novel. The guys are going to suffer so bad during the groveling arc later. At least the roommate didn’t give them the time of day, so our girl’s men are still totally pure.] The very “Ivy baby” those comments were crying over was currently standing right in front of me, thrusting her phone directly into my face. “Shirley,” Ivy sneered, her voice dripping with artificial outrage. “This shameless slut on the forum… it’s you, isn’t it?” On her phone screen was a collage: three ridiculously handsome male faces surrounding a single, candid photo of a girl from behind. I blinked, contemplating my options for a brief second. I’d always considered myself a quiet, law-abiding student. But if three literal golden retrievers—or rather, three well-trained attack dogs—were walking right up to my porch, it would be a shame not to break out the leash. 01 Ivy had intentionally raised her voice. It was peak lunch hour, and half the dining hall paused, their eyes swiveling toward our table. Meeting Ivy’s malice-filled glare, I kept my expression entirely placid. “It’s a picture of the back of someone’s head, Ivy. What on earth makes you so sure it’s me?” I paused, letting a cool smile touch my lips. “Unless, of course, your own conscience is dirty, and you’re just trying to frame me first.” [Ivy is just young and mischievous, she doesn’t actually mean any harm to her roommate!] [Right? She only posted a blurry side-profile photo later on! If people recognized the roommate, it’s only because the girl dresses way too flashily.] [Ivy was so heartbroken when the three male leads scolded her for this the first time… Poor baby.] Ivy offered me a triumphant, nasty little grin. “Oh, so you think the back of your head isn’t enough proof? Fine. I’ll just have the three of them post the slut’s full-face photo right now, and we’ll see who the real shameless liar is!” Sensing immediate drama, the surrounding crowd started hooting, chanting for her to do it. Under the table, my hands clenched into tight fists. A flash of annoyance washed over me. I shouldn’t have let those stupid floating text boxes rile me up into calling Ivy out without a backup plan. If I stood up right now and accidentally “knocked” her phone out of her hand, would it look too deliberate? 02 I had barely shifted my weight to stand when I froze, settling right back into my seat. [Wait, what’s happening?! Why did the guys change all their account passwords? Ivy can’t log in!] I leaned back, resting my chin on my palm as I watched her with cool amusement. “Well? What’s the hold-up, Ivy? Did the thief get cold feet?” Ivy shot me a furious glare, snapping her head away as she pulled up her contacts. She dialed the first number. Hung up. She swallowed hard, forcing a bright, strained smile toward the crowd. “He’s… probably just in a lecture.” Second call. Hung up. Third call. Declined instantly. The color slowly drained from her face. She glared at me with pure hatred, her shoulders tense as she turned awkwardly to make a quick exit. Suddenly, a guy at the adjacent table shouted, “Holy crap, who’s got fingers that fast?! Someone just posted a video of this whole cafeteria confrontation on the forum!” Within two minutes, the campus forum exploded. Ivy had spent her entire freshman year broadcasting the fact that she grew up with the university’s top three golden boys—Matt, Denis, and Conrad. Because of that established narrative, the angry pitchforks on the thread immediately swung toward me. Seeing the tide turn, Ivy stopped retreating. She sauntered back, taking her seat with an air of delicate, high-nosed disgust. “Looks like everyone else can see right through you,” she said, crossing her arms. “Girls who rely on a pretty face never know how to stay in line. I know you come from some backward, dirt-poor town in the middle of nowhere, Shirley, but being broke doesn’t give you an excuse to be a two-timing parasite.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping into a faux-sympathetic purr. “If you’re really that desperate for cash, I know plenty of wealthy older gentlemen. Sure, they’re a bit up there in age, but they know how to take care of a young girl.” A few gullible bystanders in the cafeteria began snickering, whispering and pointing at me. The commentary grew uglier by the second. Ivy sat back like a prize-winning rooster, her chin tilted high. I glanced down at my phone screen, which had just lit up with a notification. Moments ago, the three private messages I’d dispatched through the forum’s back-end system had received their replies. 03 I held my phone up, flashing the screen toward Ivy. “Maybe you should take a look at the forum again,” I said softly, “before you start drafting your apology to me.” Ivy gave a dismissive scoff, scanning her own screen with casual disdain. In a fraction of a second, her smug expression shattered into pure, unadulterated shock. The screech that tore from her throat nearly cracked the dining hall windows. “That’s impossible!” The original thread outing the “cheater” had been wiped clean. In its place were three identical, newly pinned posts from the university’s three most elite accounts: [The previous post was the result of a lost dare. Please do not harass or speculate about innocent students. I offer my sincere apologies to Shirley Walsh for dragging her into this mess.] Ivy’s face turned an ugly shade of bruised purple. She scraped her chair back, desperate to flee. I moved faster. Before she could take a step, my hand came down firmly on her shoulder, pinning her in place. “For the slander you just spewed in front of everyone,” I said, my voice quiet and absolute, “I want a public apology. Right now. Otherwise, I’m taking this straight to the board.” Ivy shoved my hand off, her voice shrill. “I was making a reasonable assumption! What slander? You think this is primary school where you can run crying to the Dean? Go ahead and snitch! See if anyone actually gives a damn about you!” Our two other roommates, who hadn’t uttered a single word during the entire spectacle, crept over only after Ivy had stormed off. They offered me timid, guilty apologies for not backing me up, followed by well-meaning advice. “It’s just an apology, Shirley… let it go,” one of them whispered softly. “Kids like us, from normal families… we can’t afford to mess with people like Ivy.” 04 Matt was the first one to corner me. He posted up right at the classroom doorway after my afternoon lecture. Recognizing the high-profile heir to the Harrington Logistics empire, the rest of the students hurriedly scattered like frightened quail. Before I could reach the exit, Ivy pushed past me, throwing herself in front of Matt. Her voice instantly shifted into a sickeningly sweet whine. “Matt… You said you were busy today! How come you had time to come pick me up?” Without waiting for his response, she pouted, tugging at his jacket. “You didn’t pick up my calls yesterday and made me look so foolish! Hmph. I’m not talking to you anymore.” I reached out, coldly brushing Ivy aside. “Excuse me. You’re blocking the door.” Ivy flinched as if I’d struck her, instinctively reaching out to wrap her arm around Matt’s to assert her dominance. Matt, however, flicked a glance at me—and stepped back. Ivy’s hand caught empty air. Ignoring the subtle dynamic, I took a step forward to leave. Matt immediately raised an arm, blocking my path, before turning his head toward Ivy. “I need to talk to Shirley about something,” Matt said, his voice flat. “Go find Denis.” Ivy’s smile completely collapsed. Then, as if realizing something, she cast a triumphant, knowing look in my direction, her tone instantly dripping with theatrical concern. “Oh, Matt… it’s totally fine! Just make sure you talk things through with Shirley gently, okay? Don’t be too mean and scare her.” [Ugh, even though Matt hasn’t realized his true feelings yet and still treats Ivy like a little sister, he was ALWAYS the first to jump into the ring whenever anyone made Ivy feel bad!] [Matt might be obsessed with the roommate’s face right now, but Ivy is the one who actually holds his heart. The roommate made Ivy lose face—Matt is definitely going to make her pay!] 05 It was almost hilarious how wildly delusional both Ivy and those floating text boxes were. Matt hadn’t come to intimidate me. He had come to apologize on Ivy’s behalf. I let out a low, cold laugh. “Don’t bother. Whoever commits the crime makes the apology.” Before Matt could even respond, the floating text stream exploded in righteous fury. [Matt is literally lowering himself to apologize to her, and she’s still giving him attitude?! Who does this background extra think she is!] [So naive! Ivy literally saved Matt’s life when they were kids! She’s his soul savior, not some random stray you can compare her to!] God, reading those comments was giving me an aneurysm. Were the people behind those texts clinically brain-dead? Glaring at Matt with newfound irritation, I stepped around his arm and tried to push past him. His fingers clamped firmly around my wrist. “If you don’t want to hear an apology for her,” Matt said quietly, his grip firm but careful, “then I won’t mention it.” He smoothly shifted the topic, his dark eyes searching mine. “What did you mean by that message you sent my forum account yesterday?” The message I’d sent to all three of Ivy’s golden boys had been identical: [This is Shirley Walsh. If you don’t want your secrets leaked, delete the post.] I raised my eyebrow, holding out my hands. “If I hadn’t sent that, would any of you have shown up?” Matt lifted a brow. “Any of us?” To be fair, my interaction with the trio was practically non-existent. Aside from a polite nod when they dropped Ivy off at our dorm on move-in day, we were complete strangers. “You three framed me for two-timing the three of you online,” I said smoothly. “All three of you had a hand in it. Naturally, I had to notify the whole set.” Matt pressed two fingers to his temple, letting out a heavy sigh. He admitted the whole ordeal was a massive misunderstanding, though he couldn’t elaborate on the details. He asked me to withdraw the threats I’d sent to Denis and Conrad, promising he would personally compensate me for any damages. Looking at his deadly serious expression, I tilted my head. Suddenly, I changed my mind. Forcing a public apology out of a girl like Ivy was amateur hour. Watching her precious childhood protectors turn into my personal playthings? Now “that” sounded like a much more exquisite punishment. “Fine,” I agreed easily. Matt’s shoulders visibly dropped in relief. “What do you want as compensation?” I raised a finger, crooking it toward him with a playful, dangerous smirk. “Simple. You can be my dog.” 06 The floating comment section broke into a storm of question marks. [What is wrong with this NPC roommate?! How dare she insult Matt like that? Does she want to get expelled?!] [Wait… is it an insult? Why does it sound so much like flirty banter?] [Isn’t the roommate supposed to be completely indifferent to the male leads?!] [She dares touch Ivy’s man?! I’m going to crawl through the screen and murder her!] [Oh my god, Ivy is watching from around the corner right now… I can’t bear to imagine how heartbroken she is!] I flicked a subtle glance toward the stairwell landing. Sure enough, a small shadow was ducking behind the wall. I let out a soft hum, stepping closer to Matt, closing the distance until our clothes almost touched. “What? Unwilling?” Matt froze for a beat. Then, his lips curved into a slow, dazzling grin, showing off a row of straight, bright white teeth. “Deal,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m all yours.” After exchanging contacts, a banking notification chimed on my phone. Matt had just transferred an eye-watering sum into my account. I spun the screen toward him. “If this is compensation on Ivy’s behalf, I’m sending it back. If it’s a voluntary gift to your master… I’ll keep it.” Matt hesitated for a second. Then he reached out, his thumb gently pressing the ‘Accept’ button on my screen. As he walked me back to my residence hall, the reality of those floating comments hit me: Matt really “had” fallen for me at first sight. Or, more accurately, he was entirely entranced by my face. For half the walk, his eyes barely left my profile. Near the dorm entrance, his phone vibrated. He glanced at the caller ID, looking back at me with a conflicted expression. “Go ahead,” I said, entirely magnanimous. “If it’s urgent, don’t let me keep you.” Once Matt turned and hurried away, I walked over to a nearby stone planter and sat on the concrete ledge. Looking up at the dense oak tree nearby, I called out toward the branches. “If you don’t come down right now, I’m going inside.” 07 Denis stepped out from behind the trunk of a massive oak. Unbothered by the dirt, he walked over and slid onto the stone ledge right beside me, completely at ease. He looked at me with open curiosity. “How’d you catch me?” I glanced vaguely up at the sky. “Because I have cheat codes, obviously.” I turned my head, meeting a pair of bedroom eyes that could make a stray dog feel like the love of his life. Among campus rumors regarding the elite trio, Denis’s were the most colorful. Ivy was insanely possessive of her three childhood friends. Being a year ahead of us, Denis’s playboy reputation had been a frequent topic of gossip among my former roommates. Ivy would always throw icy, passive-aggressive remarks whenever his name came up, forcing the girls to gossip behind her back instead. And Denis was the undisputed star of those rumors. Whether it was his jawline or his trust fund, girls threw themselves at him in waves. Though he rejected them all, he never said a harsh word, leaving a trail of broken hearts convinced they still had a chance. Up close, I had to admit: the guy certainly had the capital to be a menace. [Even if Denis struts around campus like a flashy peacock every day, the roommate hasn’t given him a single glance!] [Ivy is still the sweetest girl. She’s always complimenting him, giving him confidence!] I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Ivy? Giving “Denis” confidence? Careful, or his ego might actually burst through the stratosphere. Denis stared at me, his gaze so heavy it practically felt liquid. “I’m guessing Matt came to apologize for Ivy.” I gestured for him to continue. “Don’t let Matt’s dark, brooding act fool you,” Denis murmured, leaning in slightly. “Deep down, the guy is indecisive as hell. You can’t rely on him to back you up. Next time you and Ivy clash, he’s going to swing right back into his conflicted little shell.” He flashed a breathtaking, dimpled smile. “So… why not give me a shot instead?” 08 I shifted an inch away, creating some space as I looked at him with exaggerated suspicion. “Aren’t you and Ivy childhood sweethearts too? What makes you think you’re any different from Matt?” Denis looked as if I’d just told the funniest joke in the world, leaning back and throwing his head back in laughter. When he finally sobered up, his eyes darkened. “I only gave a damn about Ivy in the beginning because Matt gave a damn about her.” Matt had been the golden standard pushed onto their peer group since childhood. Deep down, Denis carried a petty, competitive itch he could never quite scratch. Whatever Matt wanted, Denis wanted to steal. “Later on,” Denis added casually, “taking care of her just became a habit.” I hit him with a sharp question. “Are you sure this isn’t just your pathetic rivalry with Matt acting up again?” Denis reached out, framing my jaw with his warm fingers to force me to look directly into his eyes. “Even if it started with falling for a pretty face,” he purred, “I was the one who walked into your dorm room first that day. And today, I beat Matt to you.” I remained noncommittal. Panicking slightly at my cold response, Denis added hastily, “At least there’s one thing I have over Matt.” I stopped shaking my head against his grip, posing as an attentive listener. “Oh?” “Between a girlfriend and a childhood friend,” he whispered, his eyes gleaming, “the girlfriend comes first. Every single time.” Words were cheap, of course. “If you can get Ivy to publicly apologize to me,” I murmured, “I’ll think about it.” Denis looked like he’d just won the lottery. Meanwhile, the floating text comments were losing their collective minds. [The plot has derailed so hard I can’t even watch this anymore! I’m dropping this book!] [If Denis actually forces Ivy to apologize, he is officially REVOKED from the male lead lineup! He can forget about ever winning her back in the groveling arc!] [Ivy was right all along! This roommate is nothing but a calculating, manipulative snake!] [Can a bolt of lightning just strike this woman dead already?!] Denis asked for three days. Naturally, I agreed. It wasn’t that I lacked the means to make Ivy apologize myself. But watching her beloved, precious childhood “brother” force her onto her knees to apologize to me? That sounded infinitely more entertaining. 09 The moment I stepped through my dormitory door, my instincts screamed danger. I ducked instinctively, covering my head. A heavy glass mug slammed into the doorframe behind me, shattering violently. Sharp shards rained down, slicing across my exposed calves. Thin lines of bright red blood welled up instantly. Having missed her target, Ivy grabbed a heavy hardback textbook from her desk, ready to hurl it at my head. In two quick strides, I closed the gap and grabbed her wrist, twisting it sharply upward. Ivy let out a shrill scream of pain. Tears spilled from her red-rimmed eyes as she glared at me with wild hatred. “You bitch! You shameless whore! How dare you try to seduce Matt?!” [Ugh! My heart breaks for Ivy! Seeing both Matt and Denis getting close to the roommate made her realize she actually loves them!] [She called both of them crying, but in her desperation, when she confessed… Matt told her he only ever saw her as a little sister, and Denis literally told her she was delusional!] Ivy was burning with rage, so naturally, I decided to pour gasoline on the fire. “You really ought to thank yourself, Ivy,” I purred, leaning down to her ear. “If you hadn’t pulled that stunt on the forum, I wouldn’t have had the chance to get so close to them.” Ivy bit her lip until it almost bled. “Matt’s life belongs to me! One word from me, and he’ll see you for the trash you really are!” “Go ahead then,” I smiled coldly. “I’ll be waiting.” I pulled out my chair and sat down, completely ignoring her meltdown. Our two roommates hurried over with a broom, intending to clean up the shattered glass around my feet. I immediately reached out, blocking them. “Whoever broke it cleans it up,” I said firmly. Ivy crossed her arms, finally finding a point of leverage to sneer at me. “I’m not a dirt-poor peasant like you, Shirley. Money solves everything. I’ll pay you two two hundred dollars each to sweep this up.” Though the two roommates were usually terrified of crossing Ivy, everyone has a breaking point. Faced with such blatant, arrogant humiliation, both girls set their brooms down and walked away. In the end, a girl from down the hall filed a noise complaint with the resident advisor. Ivy was forced to bend her precious, spoiled waist and clean up every single piece of glass under the RA’s stern supervision. I kicked my legs up, enjoying the view of the “heiress” doing manual labor, while taking a crisp, high-res photo of the blood dripping down my calf. I posted it to my close-friends story on social media. Targeted audience: Conrad—and Conrad only.

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The day Vicky’s company went public, she used the national press conference to announce her engagement to her assistant, Kyle. I had been her husband for four years, standing quietly in the shadows while she built her empire. From the audience, I watched Kyle step onto the flower-draped stage, beaming under the warm lights. “Our company wouldn’t be where it is today without Kyle’s unwavering support,” Vicky said into the microphone, her voice echoing through the glass auditorium. “Thank you all for believing in us. Going forward, Kyle and I will be running our premier tech division together.” The room erupted into applause. Flashbulbs strove to capture the happy couple. Looking at their glowing faces, the tight knot in my jaw slowly loosened, and the fists I had been clenching at my sides finally relaxed. Four years of devotion. Four years of quiet sacrifice. It was time to let go. 1. When I got home, I pulled out my phone and dialed a private number. “I honestly didn’t think you’d say yes,” CEO Enoch’s voice boomed softly over the line. “If you join us, Joel, I’ll offer you the highest tier package in the entire firm.” “I’m in, Mr. Enoch,” I said quietly. “As soon as I wrap up my transition here, I’ll be over.” I had just hung up when the front door clicked open. Vicky walked in, setting her designer handbag on the marble console. “Who were you talking to?” she asked, kicking off her heels. “Just someone from engineering,” I lied smoothly. “Clarifying a few technical specs.” My eyes caught the heavy, light-catching diamond ring sitting on her left ring finger—the one Kyle had slipped onto her hand on live television. In our four years of marriage, Vicky had never worn the wedding band I bought her. She had always claimed she was allergic to metals, insisting that jewelry broke her skin out in rashes. Yet here she was, proudly sporting a flashily cheap engagement ring from her assistant. “Why did you leave the launch early?” she asked, stepping into the living room, her voice laced with sharp accusation. “A dozen major investors were asking me deep-dive technical questions about the microchips. Were you trying to humiliate me?” “You handled the press just fine,” I replied flatly. “You didn’t need me.” A flicker of guilt crossed her face, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “And what about that tone?” I asked, meeting her gaze head-on. “You announced an engagement to Kyle on national television. What does that make me, Vicky? What am I to you—your legal husband?” She let out an irritated sigh. “The market demands drama, Joel. An executive romance drives publicity, and publicity drives initial venture funding. If we frame it as a power-couple merger, we pull in double the capital for the new rollout.” I stayed silent. I knew for a fact that three top-tier institutional investors had already locked in their term sheets a month ago. The market excuse was a lie. She was simply hiding behind the proprietary chip architecture I had spent years pouring my soul into, knowing I cared too much about the technology to make a scene. Seeing my silence, Vicky assumed I was merely sulking. She walked over and sat beside me on the leather sofa. As she leaned in, a soft wave of cedarwood cologne hit my nose. It was Kyle’s signature scent. My eyes drifted to her neck. Beneath her soft turtleneck, a faint, mottled bruise—a fresh hickey—peeked out from under her collar. Noticing where I was looking, she pulled the sweater up higher, her posture stiffening. “Look at these,” she said quickly, pulling out a stack of term sheets from her tote bag and placing them on the coffee table. “Investors are practically throwing money at us. Kyle is exceptionally good at client relations, so I’m putting him in charge of managing the overall project. You just stick to the backend coding and hardware engineering like you usually do.” She expected me to be thrilled by the sheer volume of contracts. “If Kyle is so exceptionally capable,” I said, my voice dangerously calm, “why don’t you let him handle the engineering side, too?” Vicky’s expression turned sour instantly. “Joel Callahan, learn to separate your personal feelings from business! Have some self-respect! You’re asking a non-technical manager to take over core engineering just to set him up to fail! Since when did you become so ridiculously petty?” She genuinely believed I was acting out of jealous spite, playing the same old passive-aggressive games she thought I always played. She rolled her eyes, shifting back into her authoritative executive tone. “Go draw my bath. And get the essential oils ready—my shoulders are tight from standing all day.” In the past, whenever she returned home late from networking dinners, I would draw her a warm lavender bath and spend an hour massaging her aching neck and back. To her, I wasn’t an innovator or a partner; I was a glorified live-in butler who happened to build her company’s intellectual property. Four years of unconditional love had been outmatched by a boyish assistant who had joined her team three months ago. “I’m tired,” I said, standing up. “If you want a bath, the tub is in the bathroom.” Vicky stared at me, a flash of pure bewilderment breaking through her composed facade. “Joel? You’re throwing a tantrum over something this small? Everything I do is for this company! It’s for our future!” As I walked away, her voice pitched higher behind me. “Joel! Are you deaf?! I’m talking to you!” I walked straight into the master bedroom, closed the door, and turned off the light. 2. Vicky spent the night on the couch in a fit of silent fury. The next morning, I cooked breakfast for two out of sheer habit. To my surprise, Vicky actually came down early, dressed for work, and offered to drive me to the office. Ever since we married, she had insisted on keeping our relationship strictly secret at the firm, claiming we needed to maintain professional boundaries. We had never once commuted together; she wouldn’t even let me be seen stepping out of her car within three blocks of the building. I didn’t bother refusing. I almost thought her sudden change of heart meant she was trying to extend an olive branch after my coldness last night. Ten minutes into the drive, she pulled the sedan up to a leafy curb. Kyle was standing under a streetlamp, waving down at us with a familiar smirk. She unlocked the doors, and Kyle smoothly opened the front passenger door, sliding into the seat beside her. “Oh,” Kyle said, turning around to look at me in the backseat, his eyes gleaming with clear provocation. “Joel! What a surprise. I’ve been taking Vicky’s car every morning for weeks, but this is the first time I’ve seen you in it.” Every morning. My mind flashed back to a month ago during the heavy summer downpours. The rain had flooded the streets, and every ride-hailing app was completely jammed. I had gone to Vicky’s office, asking if she could give me a lift home. She had berated me viciously in front of her door, warning me never to mix personal favors with work, and told me to walk if I couldn’t get a cab. Later that evening, from the lobby window, I had watched Kyle get into her passenger seat. She had been more than willing to drive twenty miles out of her way in a torrential storm for him, while telling her husband to walk home in the dark. “Kyle lives far out in the east end and doesn’t have a vehicle yet,” Vicky said glibly, checking her rear-view mirror. “It’s just convenient.” “Right,” I said softly. “A star manager like Kyle deserves premium executive perks.” Kyle turned his head further, giving me a gloating grin. “Vicky actually offered to buy me a company car, but my driving isn’t great. You’re not upset that she picks me up every day, are you, Joel?” Before I could answer, Vicky cut in sharply. “It’s just a ride, Kyle. Joel isn’t that fragile.” I looked out the side window, watching the blur of morning traffic. “I’m fine,” I murmured. Vicky frowned at my detached response. As the glass-and-steel façade of our corporate headquarters materialized in the distance, her voice turned sharp again. “Pull over at the next corner,” she ordered, tapping the dashboard. “Joel, you can get out there. It’s a short walk, and I don’t want people gossiping if they see us arriving together.” Even after breaking her own rule to bring me along, she was still terrified of being associated with me. “Oh, come on, Vicky,” Kyle purred, placing a hand gently over hers on the gear shift. “We’re almost at the underground garage. Just let Joel ride down with us.” Vicky’s stiff demeanor melted instantly. “Alright. If you say so.” She would listen to a casual suggestion from him over a direct plea from me any day. Besides, if colleagues saw all three of us stepping out of the same elevator, no one would suspect a marriage; they would simply assume the executives were being generous to a senior developer. I didn’t care anymore. My only goal today was to get human resources to sign off on my resignation without causing an uproar. In the underground parking structure, Kyle and Vicky walked ahead, their hands naturally interlacing as they headed toward the private executive elevator. Upstairs, the office was buzzing with post-IPO tension. The company had hired a batch of senior tech interns the previous month, and today was the deadline to process their end-of-term evaluations. Out of seven, only two were being retained. I took my resignation letter, slid it inside the thick stack of intern termination forms, and walked straight into the HR manager’s office. The manager glanced at the top sheet, assumed I was simply dropping off the department paperwork, and signed the bottom of the stack without flipping through the back pages. Handing the folder back, he smiled warmly. “You and Kyle are truly Vicky’s left and right hands, Joel. The company couldn’t run without you guys.” I offered a small, polite smile and said nothing. 3. At 2:00 PM, my phone buzzed with an incoming text from Vicky. It was a screenshot of two premium seat reservations for a romantic drama playing at the downtown theater tonight. It was her standard apology gesture. Deep down, she knew that the firm’s upcoming product roadmap relied entirely on the next-generation microchip design sitting locked inside my private server. “We haven’t seen a movie together in ages,” her text read. “Let’s go tonight after work.” I stared at the screen for a moment, then typed back: “Engineering is light tonight. I’ll head over straight from the office and wait for you near the theater.” I needed a neutral, public venue to hand her the divorce papers. When 6:00 PM rolled around, I stood near the glass doors of the building and watched Vicky walk out to the parking lot. Kyle walked beside her, sliding comfortably into her passenger seat once again. A minute later, my phone pinged. “Something urgent came up at the office. Go ahead to the theater and wait for me inside.” I didn’t bother going to the theater. Instead, I took a cab straight to a family law firm downtown, met with a senior partner, and spent an hour finalizing the draft of our divorce petition. By the time I walked back toward the cinema district, the movie Vicky had picked was already halfway over. She always dragged me to melodramatics I hated, forcing me to sit through two hours of contrived angst just to keep her company. I bought a single ticket for a sci-fi indie playing in the adjacent screen, watched it in peaceful solitude, ate a quiet dinner at a noodle bar, and headed home. While taking off my coat in the hallway, I opened my social feed. Kyle had posted a photo half an hour ago. The background was an upscale candlelit steakhouse. High-end ribeyes, two glasses of vintage Pinot Noir, and two hands clasped tightly across the white linen tablecloth. Though only the hands were visible, I recognized her manicured fingers instantly, along with the thin gold bracelet I had bought her for our first anniversary—the one she usually kept hidden in her jewelry box. Caption: “Real love goes both ways. Thank you, baby, for the incredible surprise gift tonight.” A few minutes later, the front door unlocked. Vicky walked in, carrying a crisp, glossy shopping bag. “I bought you a designer necktie while I was out,” she said, tossing the bag onto the entry table with a practiced smile. “See if you like it.” Whenever she canceled plans or stepped over a boundary, she bought me a random gift to smooth it over. In the past, I would pretend to be overwhelmed with gratitude, carefully storing the item away like a prized trophy, eager to prove that her breadcrumbs were enough to keep me happy. She was used to the routine. “Just leave it in the closet,” I said calmly, stepping past her. Her smile vanished, replaced by an instant flash of heat. “Joel! I know I had to raincheck on the movie, but I went out of my way to buy you something nice! What is with this cold attitude?” I stopped, turning back to look at the bag. “Vicky, did that tie come free with a minimum purchase at the boutique?” Her face flushed crimson. Her eyes widened in sharp, defensive anger. “What the hell are you talking about?!” In the past, I never cared about the price tag of her gifts because I treated every gesture as proof that she cared. But my phone had just buzzed with an email from my attorney containing the final PDF of the divorce settlement. I didn’t even look up as I unlocked my screen. “The tag on the silk lining says “GIFT WITH PURCHASE – NOT FOR RESALE”,” I said evenly. “You can keep Kyle’s leftover freebies. I don’t want them.” “Joel Callahan! Who do you think you are?!” she hissed, her voice rising to a sharp pitch. “You spend all day rotting in that dim laboratory—what do you know about luxury? I was nice enough to bring you back a luxury accessory, and you’re turning your nose up at it? If you don’t want it, fine!” I didn’t argue. I turned on my heel and walked into the guest study, shutting the door behind me. Once you decide to leave a marriage, the words that used to tear your heart apart lose every bit of their power. I stayed in the study all night. Vicky never came to knock on the door. 4. Vicky left the house early the next morning without a word. I drove to the law firm, picked up the printed physical copies of the divorce agreement, and tucked them neatly inside my leather briefcase before heading to the office. My morning was spent doing quiet handovers with my core engineering team. Vicky was deliberately avoiding my floor, trying to use her old silent-treatment tactic to make me feel isolated so I would come groveling back to her. At noon, I walked down to the executive cafeteria for a quick bite. I had no intention of causing a scene, but as fate would have it, Vicky and Kyle were already sitting at the center booth. “Eat more, sweetie,” Kyle purred loudly, peeling a steamed prawn and pressing it directly to Vicky’s lips. “You’ve been working way too hard.” Vicky blushed softly, taking the bite while several junior staff members at adjacent tables watched with exaggerated swoons. “Vicky and Kyle are honestly couple goals,” a young analyst near me whispered loudly. “They’re so affectionate, even in the middle of the office!” Vicky caught the remark and gave a self-conscious laugh. “Kyle just knows my stomach gets sensitive when I’m stressed. He makes sure I actually eat.” When we first got married, Vicky was drinking heavily to win over early angel investors. Every night she came home sick, I would stay up until 2:00 AM preparing hot ginger broth and soothing rice porridge to heal her lining. Later, after my patents secured our first major institutional funding, she didn’t have to drink anymore. But I still cooked tailored, gut-friendly meals for her every single day. I ate my salad in complete silence, my eyes fixed on my plate. Kyle wasn’t satisfied with my lack of drama. He turned his head and called out with an overly bright smile, “Oh, hey, Joel! I didn’t see you sitting there!” The table’s attention snapped to me. The analyst who had been swooning earlier gave me an awkward grin. “Joel! You’re pretty much the last single guy left in senior management. What’s your type? What kind of girl are you looking for?” I set my fork down, matching her cheerful tone. “Honestly? I’m open. Do you have any nice, single friends you could introduce me to?” The analyst beamed. “Definitively! I have a few great friends from business school—I’ll send you their profiles tonight!” Across the table, Vicky’s face turned instantly thunderous. Her knuckles turned white around her glass of water as she glared at me. I stood up, cleared my tray, and walked out without looking back. … By mid-afternoon, a crucial cross-departmental compliance file needed Vicky’s signature. I took the folder and walked up to the executive suite. I knocked firmly on her door. No response. The heavy oak door was resting slightly ajar. Assuming she had stepped out for a meeting, I pushed it open to leave the folder on her desk. The sight inside made my blood run cold. Vicky was sitting directly on Kyle’s lap on the leather sofa behind her desk. Her skirt was pulled high above her thighs, her neck flushed red, her blouse half-unbuttoned. Even though I had already checked out of this marriage emotionally, the sheer, visceral indignity of the visual hit me like a physical punch to the chest. “Vicky,” I said, my voice shaking slightly with disgust. “You are truly vile.” I slammed the heavy compliance folder onto the floor. The loud crack echoed through the room as I turned to leave. “Joel! Wait! It’s not what it looks like!” Vicky scrambled up, her hands wildly trying to adjust her clothes. “Not what it looks like?” I turned back, staring at her with cold contempt. “Then enlighten me, Vicky. What exactly are you two doing on your office sofa during market hours?” She flushed, stammering for an explanation, but Kyle smoothed down his tie and cut in with a sneering grin. “Why are you acting so high and mighty, Joel?” Kyle said, stepping in front of her. “If you were actually capable of satisfying her in bed, do you really think Vicky would be coming to me?” Kyle had been at this company for three months. For those exact three months, Vicky had used every excuse in the book—stress, migraines, late-night deck prep—to keep me from touching her. I had thought she was exhausted. I had tried to be gentle, patient, and understanding. My patience had simply given her the room to mess around with her assistant behind my back. I reached into my briefcase, pulled out the thick stack of legal paper, and slapped it onto her desk. “Vicky,” I said cleanly. “We’re getting a divorce.”

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In the seventh year of our long-distance marriage, I traveled three thousand miles across the country to see Sandy. Standing outside the door of her apartment, my key snapped inside the lock with a sharp, brittle crack. My stomach dropped. I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. “You probably grabbed the wrong key again, babe,” Sandy’s voice came through the speaker, smooth and soothing. “Why don’t you check into a hotel down the street and get some rest? I’ll come unlock the door as soon as I’m done.” I looked down at the brass stub remaining in my hand. The little blue label I’d stuck on it years ago was still there, faded at the edges. It wasn’t the wrong key. There was only one reason it didn’t turn: she had changed the locks. Before I could process the sudden knot tightening in my chest, my father’s call flashed on the screen. He answered on the first ring, his chuckle loud and lighthearted. “Sandy’s not at home, Eugene! She came over to my place first thing this morning with armfuls of groceries. She’s making us lunch right now.” A second later, a group text from my best friend, Mark, pinged on my screen, followed by a slurred voice memo: “Man, Sandy’s at the salon getting a manicure with my girlfriend. Women, I swear…” Then came a call from my older sister, Megan. “She’s such a busy bee today,” Megan said with a soft sigh. “She finally carved out an hour to help me review my portfolio.” My head throbbed, a dull roar echoing in my ears. None of them knew that five minutes ago, the building’s front desk concierge had greeted me at the lobby, casually mentioning that the homeowner had just walked upstairs moments earlier. I didn’t press any of them. Instead, I dialed an emergency locksmith. I suddenly desperately needed to know what secret my entire family was keeping from me behind that heavy oak door. … The door creaked open with a low groan. Sitting on the plush sectional in the living room, a young man holding a console controller whipped his head around. When our eyes met, the blood in my veins turned to ice. Justin. The illegitimate son my father had brought into our lives—the boy whose very existence had broken my mother’s heart and driven her to jump from the roof of our family home. Years ago, my father and sister had sworn they would destroy him for what he did to Mom. Mark had almost beaten him senseless with his bare hands. And now, here he was, brimming with youthful energy, lounging in the temperature-controlled luxury of Sandy’s living room, playing video games. “Is that Dad and the others?” A familiar female voice called out from inside. My heart took a violent, sickening plunge. A moment later, Sandy stepped out of the kitchen wearing a beige linen apron. When her eyes landed on me, her entire body went rigid. Her eyes widened in absolute terror. “Eugene… how… how did you get in?” I couldn’t speak. My gaze drifted past her, locking onto a fluffy white cat curled up asleep on a heated pet bed in the corner. It was my mother’s cat—the only tangible thing she had left me when she died. Three years ago, Sandy had called me crying, claiming the cat had passed away from an incurable kidney disease. It hadn’t died. It had been raised all this time by the bastard who killed my mother. Sandy tore off her apron, her hands trembling as she reached out to grab my wrist. “Eugene, please, let me explain. He was completely broke, he had nowhere else to go… I couldn’t just leave him on the street…” I slowly looked around the apartment. Matching silk slippers by the entryway. Two electric toothbrushes sitting side by side in the marble vanity holder. His-and-hers coffee mugs on the counter. Even the loungewear they were wearing matched. In this home where I had never been allowed to set foot, every square inch was filled with the quiet, suffocating evidence of their domestic bliss. The front door chimed. My father walked in, carrying a covered Dutch oven filled with braised beef—Justin’s favorite dish. Megan followed right behind him with a fresh bouquet of peonies, and Mark rounded out the rear, hauling a crate of vintage wine. The moment their eyes fell on me standing in the center of the room, the smiles vanished from their faces like dust in the wind. “Eugene…” The living room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. A ragged, hollow laugh tore from my throat. “So this is how you all work together? Helping the bastard child lie to me?” I pulled out my phone. My screen was still flooded with the texts they had sent me over the past twenty-four hours: [Come over tomorrow, son! Dad’s cooking a massive feast just for you!] [Hey man, let’s check out that auto show on Thursday. My treat!] [Eugene, come to the concert with me this weekend! I bought us VIP seats!] As a chief trauma surgeon, my hospital only gave me five days of paid leave a year. Every single year, I raced across the country to spend those precious few days with Sandy. And every single year, my family would crowd around me, dragging me to dinners, short trips, and outings, showering me with suffocating attention. I used to think it was because they missed me. Now I realized the sickening truth: they were just keeping me occupied, making sure I never came home unexpected, ensuring Sandy and Justin had all the space they needed for their quiet little life together. Justin immediately stepped toward me, his shoulders slumped, putting on his signature look of helpless innocence. “Eugene, please don’t be mad at them. They were just feeling sorry for me because I had no one else. They were just taking care of me in secret… Don’t blame them.” I used to believe my family hated Justin as much as I did. I thought we were standing together in the same dark trench of grief. Now I saw that I was the only one who had ever been locked outside. A tear finally escaped my eye, burning hot against my cold cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and looked at Sandy, who stood frozen in place. “I want a divorce.” The sentence dropped into the room like a heavy stone into deep water. Sandy blinked, stunned. Then, with a sudden, desperate surge, she threw her arms around my neck, wrapping her body around mine. “I can explain everything, Eugene. Let’s just go home. Let me talk to you once you’ve calmed down, okay?” She tried to push me toward the doorway, but my father’s sharp voice cut through the air. “Eugene! What right do you have to bring up divorce?” Sandy tried to gesture for him to stop, but my father stepped forward, his eyes blazing with self-righteous anger. “You’re always tied down at that damn hospital! It’s Justin who’s been stepping up to take care of me! It’s Justin who’s been taking care of your wife while you’re gone! You haven’t fulfilled a single duty as a son or a husband!” My chest squeezed so tight I could barely draw breath. My own father was standing in front of me, publicly condemning me for being unfilial—all to protect the illegitimate child who drove my mother to her death. Mark spoke up next, his voice tight. “Eugene, when those loan sharks came after my business, Justin was the one who stood up for me. You were stuck on some surgery table and didn’t even pick up my calls. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be ruined. You really don’t have the right to act like this toward him.” My best friend. The man I had known since high school, looking at me with cold indifference. Megan pulled on my sleeve. “Eugene, Justin has been taking care of us for years in your place. Can’t you just close one eye and let it go?” It was absurd. It was so agonizingly absurd it almost made me laugh out loud. So this was what it felt like to be gutted from the inside out by the people you loved most. “Enough! All of you, stop talking!” Sandy slammed her hands down on my shoulders, her eyes rimmed with red. “Don’t divorce me, Eugene. Stop saying such foolish things.” Her voice softened into a desperate whisper. “We only did this to keep the family whole. To keep the peace.” A bitter chuckle escaped my lips. “The family is whole. The peace is kept. It’s just that I was never part of it.” Sandy pressed on, her eyes searching mine. “Now that you know the truth, why can’t you just make peace with Justin? We can all finally be together in the open. Wouldn’t that be better?” I took a step back, staring at her as if she were a total stranger. Seven years ago, when my father brought his mistress and Justin into our house, my mother jumped off the roof in utter despair. Back then, Sandy had held my hands in the rain and sworn she would help me get justice. She swore she would never become a betrayer like my father. My father and sister had spent the night kneeling in the funeral home, crying until their eyes bled, whispering promises of repentance until dawn. It was all a performance. A long, elaborate play. I clenched my fists, my jaw tight. “You want to be a happy family with him? Go ahead. Just leave me out of it.” Without another word, I turned on my heel and walked out the door. “Eugene! Listen to me!” Sandy chased after me, reaching out to grab my coat. Just as her fingers brushed my sleeve, a sharp cry sounded from inside the living room. “Justin’s faint! His hypoglycemia is acting up again!” Sandy’s hand snapped back instantly. Without a second thought, she turned around and sprinted back inside. The force of her sudden pullback threw off my balance. My foot slipped on the top stair, and I tumbled down the hard concrete steps. An agonizing surge of pain tore through my right knee as it smashed against the sharp edge of the riser. The skin split open, exposing white bone beneath red tissue. Blood began to soak through my trousers, pooling on the cold floor. Above me, the heavy wooden door slammed shut. No one came out to look for me. I pulled myself up, leaning heavily against the handrail, and limped out of the building. I didn’t stop. I went straight to the airport, bought the first ticket back, and flew back to my city. The moment I stepped off the plane, I walked straight into the hospital’s HR office. “Ruth,” I said, stepping up to the director’s desk. “I’ll take the overseas surgical fellowship. Please initiate my transfer paperwork.” Ruth looked up from her computer, caught off guard. She let out a light laugh. “Are you serious, Dr. Eugene? Can you really bear to leave your wife? She loves you to death—the stories about you two are practically legend around here.” I let out a soft, hollow smile. Ruth picked up a pen and pulled out a fresh file. “Honestly, if that contract hadn’t expired this month, I wouldn’t even be able to process this for you.” My heart stalled. “What contract?” “The agreement your wife signed with the hospital board, of course,” Ruth said, stamping a document. “She arranged for the hospital director to keep you here on a permanent track, doubling your benefit package. The only stipulation was that the hospital could never approve your transfer to another city.” She chuckled softly. “If that five-year clause hadn’t reached its end date, you’d be stuck here forever.” Seeing the dead silence on my face, Ruth paused, realizing she might have said too much, and quickly shut her mouth. I looked at the thick stack of transfer applications sitting on the corner of her desk—dozens of forms I had submitted over the last seven years. Tears finally welled in my eyes, blurring my vision. For seven long years, I had nearly worked myself to the bone trying to get transferred to Sandy’s city. I wrote application after application, only to have every single one rejected without explanation. Because of the distance, I hadn’t made it back in time to hold my mother’s hand before she died. I couldn’t even visit her grave on her memorial days. I had always thought I wasn’t skilled enough, wasn’t senior enough to earn the transfer. It turned out it was my own wife who had pulled the strings behind my back, keeping me trapped three thousand miles away. Ruth held up the official seal, looking at me with concern. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Eugene? Once you sign, you’ll be stationed at the international research center for at least five years. You won’t be able to come back.” I took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m sure.” If three thousand miles wasn’t far enough to hide from them, I would go to the other side of the world. As I walked out of the administrative wing, I passed the OB-GYN clinic on the third floor. Two young nurses were leaning against the desk, whispering excitedly. “Isn’t that Dr. Eugene’s wife? The one who just tested positive for pregnancy?” “Yeah, but… who’s the guy holding her arm? That’s not Dr. Eugene, is it?” I stopped in my tracks and turned my head. Down the hallway, Justin was carefully holding Sandy by the waist. She was holding a fresh ultrasound report in her hand. When she caught sight of me standing nearby, she didn’t try to hide it. She didn’t even look guilty. “I just took the test,” Sandy said, her voice calm as she walked over, Justin trailing behind her. “It’s Justin’s.” My body turned completely cold. I stood there, unable to move a muscle. Sandy softened her tone, stepping closer, talking to me like she was soothing a threw-a-fit child. “You know your medical condition, Eugene… Since you can no longer father a child, Justin stepping in is the best option for us. His child carries your family’s blood anyway. It’s practically yours.” I stared at her slightly rounded stomach, my voice raspy. “How far along?” Justin turned his head away, looking down at his shoes, unable to meet my eyes. Sandy answered for him. “Three months.” “Three months…” I repeated, the words tasting like lead on my tongue. Three months ago, I was involved in a massive highway pileup during a torrential downpour. Bleeding heavily from a crushed pelvis, I called her phone dozens of times from the wreck. When she finally picked up, she cried helplessly over the line: “I’m tied up with something urgent, Eugene! Besides, if I drive over now, it’ll be too late anyway… I’ll call the police for you…” That was the accident that damaged my pelvic nerves. The doctors had gently broken the news to me a week later: I would never be able to father children. And while I was pinned under crushed metal, bleeding into the dark, they were creating a life together. I clenched my fists so hard my short nails bit into my palms, the sharp pain in my lower body flaring up, forcing me to bend slightly at the waist. Justin stepped forward, pretending to offer me a hand, his voice dripping with remorse. “Brother, that night was a complete accident. She drank too much and thought I was you… Please, don’t file for divorce because of this baby.” I leaned against the hallway wall and violently shoved his hand away. I didn’t use much strength, but Sandy snapped instantly. She grabbed my wrist with a tight, painful grip. “Eugene! Why are you taking it out on him? I’m the one who chose to carry his baby!” Her eyes were ablaze with fury. In all our seven years of marriage, she had never raised her voice at me once. And now, she was baring her teeth to protect the man I loathed most in this world. I let out a bitter, lifeless laugh. Reaching into my leather briefcase, I pulled out a freshly printed set of papers and slapped them into her hands. “If you care about him that much, sign it.” Sandy froze, her eyebrows pulling together as she scanned the bold header: “PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE”. Before she could speak, Justin suddenly snatched a small fruit knife from the refreshment tray nearby. He dropped to his knees right on the polished tile floor, tears streaming down his face. “Brother, if you really can’t accept me or this child, just take it out on me!” he sobbed, grabbing my hand and forcing it around the plastic handle of the knife. “The baby can be yours! Just don’t leave!” “Let go of me! Are you insane?!” I struggled to pull my hand back, but his grip was surprisingly vicious. In the next second, Justin drove my hand—and the blade—straight into his own abdomen. “Thwack.” “Eugene! How could you!” Sandy shrieked, shoving me back with all her strength. I hit the wall hard, the back of my head throbbing. Justin collapsed into a pool of deep red, clutching his stomach, his face twisted in performative agony. “I don’t… I don’t blame Brother for hating me… I know I shouldn’t exist… but I didn’t think he’d actually…” Sandy looked at me, her eyes filled with absolute disgust. “I was blind to marry a venomous monster like you! I must have been out of my mind!” She scooped Justin into her arms and screamed for medical staff, rushing him down the hall. The quiet lobby erupted. Onlookers stared at me, whispers turning into loud accusations. “A doctor trying to kill someone in broad daylight?!” “He took the Hippocratic Oath! Where’s his conscience?” I stood there, my hand still stiffly suspended in the air, my white coat splattered with dark red stains. Within fifteen minutes, my personal phone was flooded with thousands of hate messages. People online were calling the hospital desk. Someone even threw a bag of wet trash onto my desk in the staff room. When my father rushed into the hospital lobby, he didn’t even ask what happened. He walked straight up to me and threw a heavy, ringing slap across my face. “SNAP.” “How could I have a son like you?!” he roared, his finger trembling in my face. “He is your brother! How could you drive a knife into him?!” Megan stood behind him, her eyes red with fury. “Don’t you ever call me your sister again, Eugene. Justin is my only brother now!” Mark glared at me with pure contempt. “We’re done, man. Don’t ever call my phone again.” I dragged my feet back to my office. My desk and chair had been covered in bright red spray paint: “HOMEWRECKER.” “MURDERER.” My mother had spent her entire life suffering because of a homewrecker. My mind went completely numb. I pulled out my phone, logged onto my verified professional account, and posted a single sentence: [Justin and his mother are the homewreckers who destroyed my family. I am innocent.] Not five minutes later, my father replied directly under my post, attaching a photo of an official state marriage certificate between him and Justin’s mother. [Justin’s mother is my lawful wife. She was never a homewrecker.] I stared at the golden seal on the digitized document, my breath catching in my throat. The date on the certificate predated my parents’ wedding by two years. The marriage license my mother had held onto her entire life… had been a fake. She had been the unwitting “other woman” in his grand design all along. The last pillar of my reality collapsed into dust. Right then, my phone buzzed violently. It was the caretaker from the municipal cemetery. “Dr. Eugene! Something terrible is happening!” the man panicked over the line. “A demolition crew showed up with excavators! They’re smashing your mother’s headstone right now! Get down here!” I stumbled out of the building, taking a cab straight to the hillside cemetery. When I arrived, a yellow excavator was raising its heavy steel bucket, pounding down repeatedly onto my mother’s granite monument. “Stop! Stop it!” I screamed, running toward the site. The roar of the heavy diesel engine completely drowned out my voice. As I lunged forward to shield the remaining piece of stone, the excavator swung around. The massive rubber tire caught my leg, dragging me beneath the heavy frame. A sickening crunch echoed through the valley, followed by an agonizing scream that tore from my chest. Bleeding profusely on the dirt, I frantically dialed Sandy’s number with shaking fingers. No answer. I dialed again. “The phone you are trying to reach has been turned off.” My energy drained away, my body broken like a discarded rag doll in the mud. A notification popped up on my phone screen. It was a video message from Justin. In the clip, Sandy was leaning over a hospital bed, pressing a fierce, tearful kiss to Justin’s lips, her voice raw with emotion: “You’re going to be okay, Justin. I’ve already sent a team to tear down his mother’s grave. I won’t let you or your mother suffer any more humiliation.” The video replayed automatically, looping her promise over and over, freezing my heart into solid ice. A follow-up text from Justin appeared right beneath it: [Your mother was a filthy side piece, and so are you.] [Homewreckers deserve to rot in hell. Why don’t you go down there and keep her company?] In the growing darkness, my eyelids grew heavy, and my world faded to absolute black. Three hours later, Sandy led my father, Megan, and Mark into the hillside cemetery, intent on showing Justin that justice had been served. But the moment her designer heels stepped onto the muddy clearing, her body swayed violently, and she nearly collapsed onto the dirt.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560137”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

There is an unwritten rule in the underground circuit of Ironford. The last fight before you walk away is always a death match. If you lose, your life stays on the canvas. Almost everyone assumed I would walk out of the arena alive. For six straight months, my name had sat at the very top of the leaderboard, untouched. I never expected to see Maeve Chasel stepping through the ropes. She was the one who had taught me how to fight. Every jab, every pivot, every lethal counter—it all came from her. Against Maeve, I didn’t stand a chance. The moment the bell rang, a barrage of vicious, calculated strikes rained down on me. I didn’t even have time to set my stance. A sickening “crack” echoed through the cage as my ribs gave way under her fist, and I crashed heavily onto the bloody canvas. As the referee raised her hand and declared the match over, I heard Maeve’s soft, familiar sigh above the roaring crowd. “I’m sorry, Seth,” she whispered, bending down toward me. “Yesterday was Damon’s birthday. His only wish was to see me beat you in the ring just once.” She paused, brushing a streak of sweat from her forehead. “His health is deteriorating. The doctors said he might not live to see another birthday. I had to grant him this one last wish.” Below the ring, Damon Porter sat in his high-tech wheelchair. His cheeks were flushed with a healthy color, a subtle, triumphant smirk playing at the corners of his lips. I lay on the mat, my chest rising and falling in weak, agonized hitches. Every shallow breath felt like a blade sliding into my chest. I didn’t know if Damon would survive until next year. But I knew with terrifying certainty that I wouldn’t live to see the sun three days from now. 1 The deafening roars of the crowd suddenly faded into a dull, underwater hum. Uncle Mac, the pit referee who had watched me grow up in this arena, rested a hand gently on my shoulder. “Can you get up, kid?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly. I stayed flat on my back. My broken ribs felt like jagged splinters poking directly into my lung. When I tried to speak, my voice was barely a rattle in my throat. “Let it go, Mac. It’s over.” Losing to Maeve… I accepted it. After all, the only reason a street kid like me had managed to survive in a place that swallowed men whole was because of every strike and dodge she had drilled into me. Just last night, I had been too wired to sleep. I had climbed up to the highest rooftop above the gym, staring up at a sky full of stars while listening to her soft breath over the phone. My heart had hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird as I asked her, my voice laced with hesitant hope, “Tomorrow is my last fight. Are you coming to watch?” I had wanted Maeve to witness my final victory, to see me step out of the shadows for good. A light laugh had drifted through the receiver. “Of course I will.” She was a woman of her word. She had come. She had personally replaced my scheduled opponent, stepped onto the canvas, and personally ended my life. Maeve unlaced her fighting gloves. Her pale skin bore a few minor scratches from our clash. She extended a slender, well-manicured hand toward me. “Don’t be dramatic, Seth. Get up. The ring is no place to act weak.” I hesitated, my hand trembling as I reached up toward hers. But before my fingers could graze her skin, a sudden, wet cough echoed through the crowd. Damon was hunched over in his wheelchair, clutching his chest, his shoulders quivering like a dry leaf in a autumn gale. Maeve’s brow furrowed instantly. Without a second thought, she pulled her hand back, vaulted over the ring enclosure, and rushed to his side. She gathered the fleece blanket resting on his lap and pulled it tightly around his shoulders. “It smells like blood down here, Damon. You know your lungs can’t handle this,” she chided softly. “I told you I’d bring you home.” Her tone sounded like a reprimand, but if you listened closely, it was soaked in helpless devotion. “You just had to see it yourself, didn’t you? If you wanted to know the outcome, I would have told you. When have I ever broken a promise to you?” She kept a protective arm around Damon’s shoulders as she wheeled him toward the exit. Just as they reached the double doors, she paused and cast a glance back over her shoulder at me. “Stop playing dead on the floor, Seth. I pulled my punches—I know my own strength,” she said, her voice cool and practical. “I know you’re upset that I broke your streak. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night and take you to that diner downtown you like.” She spoke with the casual ease of someone who believed a hot meal could fix a shattered heart. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take over. She didn’t get it. This time, there was no fixing this. After the crowd dispersed, Uncle Mac helped me up and dragged me back to the locker room, begging me through choked tears to go to the emergency room. When I pulled off my blood-soaked fight gear, my torso was a landscape of violence. Deep purple and sickly green bruises bloomed across my pale skin, terrifying to look at. Maeve’s fists had carried extra weight tonight. I poured stinging liniment directly over the open abrasions and wrapped my chest tightly with medical binding tape. Only when the sharp pressure stabilized my ribs was I able to catch enough breath to speak. “I only have a few days left anyway, Mac. Don’t let me waste the money.” I offered a small, strained smile, keeping my gaze lowered. “I need every cent left in my account for Gran’s medical bills.” I mentally calculated my bank balance, wondering if it would cover another few rounds of dialyzing for her. My phone buzzed on the bench. A news push notification popped up on the screen. The cover photo showed Maeve pushing Damon out of the fight pit, her head bowed toward him, her expression tender in a way she rarely showed the world. The headline was bold and unapologetic: “CHASEL AND PORTER HEIRS SPOTTED TOGETHER: WEDDING BELLS IN THE NEAR FUTURE?” Whether intentionally or not, Damon had clicked ‘like’ on the article before quickly un-liking it moments later. Uncle Mac stood beside me, his voice cracking with sudden rage. “These damn paparazzi and their fake news! Ms. Chasel’s boyfriend is “you”! Who the hell does this Porter kid think he—” I reached out and flipped the phone face down onto the wooden bench. The bitter taste in my mouth tasted worse than blood. “They come from the same world, Mac,” I whispered. “They look good together.” 2 Before the silence in the locker room could settle, the heavy metal door was thrown open. A neighbor from our street burst in, panting heavily, his face pale with panic. “Seth! It’s bad—it’s really bad!” he gasped out. “Porter Enterprises brought in heavy machinery to demolish Mill Creek! They’re forcing everyone out tonight! They just dragged your grandmother out onto the street!” A cold shock shot through me. I bolted up from the bench, ignoring the agonizing fire that ripped through my chest, and ran out into the night. The sky outside hung low and bruised, heavy with the promise of snow. By the time I reached our narrow alley, the air was thick with yelling and the crunch of splintering wood. My grandmother was slumped against the frozen dirt of the courtyard, our few pieces of worn furniture smashed into kindling around her. Three men in tailored dark suits were pinning her fragile frame down, forcibly pressing her ink-stained thumb onto a stack of legal documents. “Get your hands off her!” I grabbed a discarded iron pipe from the debris and swung it wildly at them. They scattered with startled curses, allowing me to throw my body over Gran like a shield. The legal papers fluttered to the slushy ground, stamped with muddy boot prints. I glanced down. In the section marked “Relocation Compensation”, the payout figure was clearly printed: “$0.00”. Blood roared in my ears. I glared up at the suit-clad men, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. “This is robbery!” Next door, Old Man Miller cracked his front door open, his white hair messy in the wind. “Seth, son, just tell your poor grandmother to sign it!” he yelled nervously. “Five hundred thousand dollars is enough to pay for her hospital bills!” My brain went completely numb. “What five hundred thousand?” Miller looked confused. “The relocation payout! It’s the standard contract for the whole street—five hundred thousand per household!” I turned my head slowly, staring at the lead enforcer. “Why does ours say zero?” The man scoffed, dusting off his lapel with disdain. “You have yourself to blame for crossing people you shouldn’t have. Consider this a lesson in knowing your place. I suggest you sign, kid. A sickly old bird like your grandmother isn’t going to survive another week of us dropping by.” A heavy, suffocating dread settled in my gut. People I shouldn’t have crossed. Porter Enterprises. Damon. My mind flashed back to the night Maeve had asked me to be hers. Damon—who had always been in decent health—had suddenly suffered a rare, life-threatening relapse and was rushed to the ICU. The entire Porter family went into a frenzy. When the call came through, Maeve had been standing in my tiny bedroom, fastening her family’s heirloom silver medallion around my neck. “Damon’s in trouble,” she had said. And without another word, without looking back, she had walked out into the rain. When I saw her the next morning, that same silver medallion was resting against Damon’s collarbone. Maeve had stepped between us like a shield, treating me as if I were a threat. “Damon loved the piece,” she had said, her voice clipped. “I’m letting him wear it for a while. Don’t be petty, Seth. He’s sick.” Damon had smiled weakly at me from his bed, his hand reaching out to clasp mine. “I don’t have much time left in this world, Seth,” he had murmured, his voice soft as silk. “Please don’t hold it against me.” His tone was fragile, but the sharp nails of his thumb had dug deep into the back of my hand, cutting into my skin until I bled quietly into my sleeve. It was only then that I truly understood what Damon felt for Maeve—and how deeply he hated me for being the outsider who took his place. I just hadn’t realized he hated me enough to strip away everything I had left. After the men finally left with a parting threat, I gathered Gran into my arms and lifted her off the cold ground. As I carried her through the shattered doorway, a sudden “boom” reverberated across the city. High above the skyline, brilliant bursts of red and gold fireworks bloomed against the dark clouds. Splendid. Extravagant. I lifted my face to the sky and realized that white flakes had begun to drift down through the dark. Snow was falling. Back in late autumn, Maeve had held my hand as we walked through the park, her eyes bright. “When the first snow falls, Seth, I’m going to light up the whole city with fireworks for you,” she had promised. “I want everyone in Ironford to know you’re mine.” Now, the snow was falling. The fireworks were blinding. But the promises, and the woman who made them, no longer belonged to me. 3 The shock and exposure to the cold proved too much for Gran. By midnight, her skin was burning with a dangerously high fever. Desperate, my hands trembling violently, I dialed Maeve’s private line. The line rang for an eternity before it finally picked up. “Maeve, please… Gran is—” “Seth, don’t tell me your grandmother is sick again just to get me to come over,” she interrupted, her voice heavy with irritation and exhaustion. “This routine is getting old.” The words I had prepared froze in my throat. I couldn’t push a single sound past the tightness in my chest. “Damon just finished his physical therapy,” Maeve continued coldly. “He can’t sleep without me nearby. Try to show a little compassion for someone who is actually dying, Seth. Stop throwing these childish, jealous tantrums.” I lowered my head, staring at the floor as hot, bitter tears dripped onto the back of my hand. I remembered the very first time I had stepped into her underground gym. I had been beaten so badly my face was unrecognizable, cowering in a dark corner behind the dumpster. A pristine white handkerchief had appeared in front of my vision. Maeve had stood there, backlit by the gym’s harsh fluorescent lights, her voice softer than anything I had ever known. “Clean yourself up, kid.” Later, she bought me medicine. She visited Gran in our tiny rental. She showed me how to use my lean frame to generate power, how to strike with maximum efficiency. The night I won my first professional bout, she had wrapped her arms around my waist in front of the cheering crowd, her warm breath resting against my collarbone. “From now on, Seth, you lean on me.” I had believed her. I had truly, foolishly believed her. I wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve, walked out into the yard, and dragged out our old wooden handcart. I layered it with every extra blanket we owned. Then I went back inside, gritted my teeth against the searing agony in my ribs, and hoisted Gran onto my back. I didn’t let out a single sound as I carried her out and laid her down on the cart, securing her with straps. The snow was thick on the pavement now. Every step I took sank deep into the slush, my body lurching forward inch by torturous inch. By the time I pushed the cart up the ramp of the city hospital, I had lost all sensation in my fingers and toes. Nurses rushed out to grab the cart, and soon, the bright red light above the emergency operating room clicked on. I collapsed against the sterile wall, staring at those double doors without blinking. The snow melted off my thin coat, soaking through the fabric until I was shivering from the inside out. Hours later, the surgeon stepped out, pulling down his mask. His words felt like the first breath of air after drowning. “She’s stable for now. We managed to break the fever, but she needs to be admitted for follow-up care immediately.” My voice was tight with anxiety. “How much will the immediate treatment cost?” “Around ten thousand dollars to cover the specialty meds and the ICU stay.” I let out a shuddering breath. Ten thousand. I had pushed myself to the brink over the last two years, taking fight after fight without rest. My savings account had just enough to cover it. When I stepped into the room, Gran was awake, her eyes clouded with age and fatigue. “Seth… I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m just a burden to you…” “Don’t say that, Gran,” I whispered, tears spilling over as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my dark blue debit card, tucking it carefully under her thin pillow. “Use this for the hospital fees. If… if I’m not around for a few days, you take care of yourself, okay?” The next morning, I walked down to the hospital pharmacy to collect her prescriptions. As I turned the corner of the hallway, I ran straight into a sleek, customized wheelchair. “Seth! What a coincidence,” Damon said, offering a pleasant, polished smile. “I had a slight migraine last night, but Maeve insisted I come in for a full brain scan today.” I pulled my lips into a tight line, opting not to say a word. I turned on my heel and walked back toward Gran’s room. When I pushed the door open, my heart dropped into a bottomless pit. The bed was empty. Gran was lying on the cold linoleum floor. “Gran!” 4 Her hands were shaking hysterically. Before I could reach her, she lifted a trembling hand and slapped her own cheek with a wet, sharp “crack”. I dropped to my knees, catching her wrists in my hands, my blood running cold. “Gran, what happened?! What are you doing?!” Tears streamed down the deep wrinkles of her face. “Some men… three men in suits walked in just now…” she sobbed, her jaw trembling violently. “They took the card from under the pillow! I tried to hide it, Seth… I tried… I’m useless! I couldn’t stop them!” She beat her hands against her useless legs, consumed by grief and self-hatred. A terrible noise stuck in my throat. My vision flickered with dark spots, the air completely rushing out of my lungs. Gran gripped my forearm with surprising strength, her eyes burning with a sudden, wild fury. “It was them, Seth! The same men who smashed our home yesterday!” Damon. His sinister smile down in the lobby flashed through my mind like a stroke of lightning. It was him. I stood up like a man possessed and bolted out of the room. I spotted the wheelchair near the main glass entrance. “Damon!” I lunged forward, my eyes bloodshot, extending a trembling hand. “Give it back! Give me the card!” Damon tilted his head, his expression innocent and confused. “Seth? What are you talking about? I don’t understand.” “Stop playing games!” I grabbed the handles of his wheelchair, falling to my knees right there in the marble lobby, weeping openly. “Do whatever you want to me! I don’t care about Maeve anymore—you can have her! Just give me the money back! Please, I’m begging you! I just need the money for my grandmother!” Damon stared down at me for a long beat. Slowly, his eyes welled with tears, and his body began to tremble as if in terror. “Seth… please, you’re scaring me…” Before I could process his words, a violent force slammed into my side, throwing me off the wheelchair and crashing onto the hard floor. Maeve stood over me, her hand holding her wrist, her eyes blazing with fury. “You really are hopeless, aren’t you?” she spat, her voice laced with disgust. “Harassing Damon in public? I guess I went too easy on you in the ring yesterday!” I let out a broken, wheezing laugh that tore through my damaged chest. I looked up at her, my eyes hollow. “I just want him to give back what he stole.” Maeve’s brows pulled together into a tight, angry line. “You lost your money?” “If your money is gone, go earn it back! What right do you have to run over here and act like a wild animal in front of Damon?” I slapped her reaching hand away, breaking down completely. “There’s no time! I don’t have time to earn it back!” Maeve’s patience snapped. She stepped forward and delivered a sharp, stinging slap across my face. “SNAP.” “What do you mean, no time?!” she yelled. “I’ve spoiled you for too long, Seth! The laziness in your blood is finally showing! You really are nothing more than street trash that can’t be pulled out of the gutter!” Street trash. When she first met me, she used to call me wild grass—resilient, unbreakable, uniquely beautiful in my survival. She said that was what drew her to me. Now, I was just trash. My throat worked as I forced down a mouthful of metallic warmth. Maeve turned away, taking hold of Damon’s wheelchair handles. “I am so thoroughly disappointed in you, Seth.” I lay paralyzed on the cold tile, but I didn’t miss the cruel, triumphant flash in Damon’s eyes as she wheeled him away. And there, slipping slightly out of the cuff of his jacket, was the familiar dark blue corner of my debit card. “Give it back!” I roared, throwing my body forward to tackle him— A heavy leather boot kicked me square in the chest. Before I could rise, two large security guards pinned my arms behind my back, pressing my face hard against the lobby floor. “Seth, that’s enough!” Maeve shouted over her shoulder without stopping. The pain in my ribs exploded into a terrifying, blinding agony. Black dots swarmed across my field of vision, multiplying rapidly. Suddenly, a wave of commotion burst out near the elevators behind us. Nurses were sprinting toward the rear exit, their voices elevated and sharp with panic. “Someone just jumped from the sixth floor of the inpatient building! Dead on impact!” “Isn’t that the old woman admitted last night? The one whose savings got stolen?” The voices drifted away, sounding muffled and distant, as if coming from under deep water. All that remained was the harsh, ragged sound of my own failing lungs. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. A dark, thick wave of blood erupted from my throat, splashing across the white tiles beneath my face. As my consciousness faded, I felt hands hauling my limp body off the ground. Voices hovered above me. “Take him out the back.” “The boss said his life belongs to the Vault now.” Slowly, the noise faded, and I sank into absolute, silent darkness. … In the hospital’s underground parking garage, Maeve carefully lifted Damon out of his wheelchair, helping him settle into the leather backseat of her sedan. Just as she straightened up, a dark-suited assistant sprinted toward her, leaning in to whisper a few hurried sentences into her ear. In an instant, Maeve’s face drained of all color.

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In the quiet dark of our bedroom, right in the middle of a whispered promise from my husband, the door was slammed open. His non-biological sister stood in the doorway, tears spilling down her cheeks like shattered beads. “Trevor… my skin is on fire again. You’re the only one who can make it stop…” The hand Trevor had resting against my waist went rigid. A second later, he threw back the duvet, shifted away from me, and wrapped Jill in his arms. “It’s her touch starvation,” he said softly, keeping his eyes on her as he smoothed her hair. “When it flares up, her whole body aches. Don’t be upset with her, Naomi. She can’t control it.” He spoke in the low, crooning tone you’d use on a frightened toddler, holding a twenty-two-year-old woman against his chest. This wasn’t the first time. At our engagement party, she had announced to the entire room that her skin felt raw, insisting she couldn’t stand unless she was pressed against his arm. At the movie theater, she’d squeezed into his seat, resting her cheek against his knee and complaining that her body was burning up, and he had spent the whole film absentmindedly rubbing her calves. Every single time, I forced myself to be understanding. I told myself to be the bigger person, to empathize with someone struggling with a genuine psychological condition. But right now, in the faint amber light filtering from the hallway, I saw it. Buried against the crook of his neck, Jill’s mouth curved into a small, triumphant smile. A sudden, hollow exhaustion washed over me. If they enjoyed playing this devoted, co-dependent farce so much, then it was time for the third wheel to step out of the picture. … When I woke up the next morning, Trevor’s side of the mattress was cold and smooth. He had spent another night in the guest room, soothing Jill. She had moved in three months ago under the guise of taking a brief vacation. Within three days, her condition flared up—her skin turning blotchy and red, her arms crisscrossed with bloody scratch marks from her own fingernails. Trevor took her to the medical center downtown, and when they came back, his mind was made up. “The dermatology clinic here is one of the best in the state,” he had told me. “She needs to stay here for treatment. The care back home just doesn’t compare.” At first, Trevor set up a folding cot for her in the living room, claiming it was just for a few days. But on the third night, she had another episode. She curled up on the cot, trembling, sobbing out, “Trevor, my skin is so hungry, please touch me.” Trevor had practically leaped out of our bed and rushed to her side, holding her for hours. His hands had moved in slow, rhythmic strokes over her back and arms until she finally drifted off. The following morning, dark circles framed his tired eyes as he told me, “That cot is too small. I can’t comfort her properly when she’s having a severe episode. Let’s move her into the guest room. It’s closer to us.” He didn’t wait for my response. He had already turned toward the linen closet to pull out fresh sheets for her. Last week, during her follow-up appointment, the specialist indicated her therapy would take at least four more months. When Trevor brought it up with me that evening, he framed it as a conversation. “She’s been dealing with this flare-up for years without any real progress,” he murmured. “The doctor feels confident about this treatment plan. I want her to finish it before she goes back.” He paused, adding in a softer voice, “Don’t worry. The moment she’s healed, I’ll take her back home myself. Just bear with it a little longer, okay?” When he said “I’m sorry for putting you through this,” his eyes were soft, his tone tender. But when he said “I want her to finish it before she goes back,” it wasn’t a request. It was an announcement. I lay in bed for a long time before finally getting up to wash my face. A new line of products sat neatly on the marble bathroom counter. Medical-grade barrier creams, soothing ceramide sprays, prescription steroid ointments… all belonging to Jill. My night cream had been shoved into the furthest corner of the mirror cabinet, its lid askew. I applied my cream, then pulled out a small plastic bottle from the medicine cabinet and swallowed a single prenatal vitamin. We had been married for three years and actively trying to conceive for two, yet nothing had happened. Last night had fallen right in the middle of my ovulation window. I had tracked the dates carefully and mentioned it to Trevor days in advance. And then, right in the middle of our intimacy, Jill had opened the door. An ovulation window only lasts a few short days. Once missed, you have to wait another month. I exhaled slowly, gathering a manila folder from my desk. Inside was my recent fertility workup from the clinic. “Results: All metrics within normal parameters. Fallopian tubes clear, hormone levels balanced, follicle development healthy.” Everything was fine on my end. The day I picked up the report, I had texted him a picture of the summary page: “I’m completely healthy. Why don’t you schedule a visit to get checked, too?” It took him forty minutes to reply: “Sure. I’ll get to it one of these days.” Later that afternoon, while I was revising a proposal at work, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Trevor—a comparison grid of four different barrier repair creams. “Jill’s skin is acting up again. Which of these ingredients looks gentler to you?” He couldn’t find an hour to book a routine checkup, but he had plenty of time to research skin repair formulas for Jill. When I arrived home that evening, Trevor was sitting on the living room sofa, carefully dabbing ointment onto Jill’s inner arm. She was wearing a silk tank top, perched on the armrest, her fair skin splotched with patches of pink irritation. “Trevor, it stings,” she whimpered. “Hold still, honey. Just a little more.” His fingertips traced the edge of the flare-up, applying the cream with agonizing slowness. I walked over and sat down on the opposite armchair. “Trevor, my fertility window ends in two days.” His fingers paused for a fraction of a second. “Not tonight, Naomi. Jill’s skin is still burning.” “What about after you’re done?” He didn’t answer, resuming the gentle circles on her arm. Jill lifted her head, looking at me with small, bitten lips. “Naomi, I’m so sorry… I keep coming between you two.” “Don’t apologize, Jill. You didn’t ask for this flare-up,” Trevor interjected seamlessly, his voice completely natural. He finished applying the last dab of ointment before finally glancing up at me. “Tomorrow. I’ll come home early tomorrow, I promise.” He leaned down and whispered something to Jill. I didn’t bother listening. I simply stood up and walked back to the bedroom. Closing the door behind me, I leaned my back against the wood, staring blindly into the dim room. The truth was, over the past three months, it wasn’t that we hadn’t tried. Last month, Jill had a good week—three days in a row without an episode. That night, I put on a silk nightgown and sat beside Trevor on the bed. We were just beginning to kiss when a muffled thump echoed from the guest room. Then came Jill’s tearful voice calling his name. Trevor froze, whispering that he should go check on her. I waited in bed for an hour, listening to his low, rhythmic murmur coming from across the hall as he coaxed her back to sleep. Eventually, I realized it wasn’t just our intimacy that was being broken up. At dinner, Jill sat right next to him, her plate nudging his. Watching TV, she leaned her head against his shoulder, and his arm naturally slid around her. Over the weekend, when I suggested the two of us take a short walk just to get some air, Trevor glanced toward the guest room and said, “I don’t feel comfortable leaving her alone.” So the three of us went together. When we crossed the street, he held her hand to guide her over the curb, while I trailed a pace behind them. I wasn’t sure if Trevor even realized it. Our private life hadn’t just been interrupted. It had ceased to exist. I pulled the blanket up to my chin and closed my eyes. “Just wait a little longer,” I told myself. “Maybe her treatment will end next month. Maybe next month, it will just be the two of us again.” … My prenatal vitamins were running low, so I took half a day off work to pick up a refill from the hospital clinic. After leaving the obstetrics department, I paused outside the dermatology wing and knocked softly on the door of Consultation Room 3. Dr. Adler looked up from his desk, momentarily startled. “Mrs. Vaughn? Trevor’s wife?” “Yes,” I said, walking in. “I wanted to ask about Jill’s progress.” Dr. Adler gestured for me to sit down. “What specifically would you like to know?” “How much longer her program is going to take.” He flipped through her digital chart on his monitor. “Based on her current metrics, about four more months. Though that largely depends on whether physical contact can be systematically reduced.” I frowned. “What do you mean?” “Her primary treatment protocol clearly states that we recommend minimizing reliance on physical soothing from others. We’re supposed to be guiding her toward self-desensitization using tactile tools, like weighted pressure blankets.” I leaned forward, checking the date on the corner of his screen. “When was this protocol established?” “Three months ago. During her intake evaluation.” Three months ago. From her very first day here, the doctor had outlined this requirement. Dr. Adler hesitated slightly before continuing. “I’ve brought this up with Mr. Vaughn several times. But he insisted that the patient resists synthetic tools, and that direct physical soothing from family members yields better emotional stability.” He chose his words carefully. “From a clinical perspective, however, this approach creates an unhealthy tactile dependency. It’s actually prolonging her recovery.” Standing on the sidewalk outside the clinic, the afternoon sun felt strangely cold on my face. The doctor had advised reducing physical touch three months ago. Trevor hadn’t been ignorant of the medical advice; he had actively chosen to ignore it. At six that evening, Trevor walked through the front door. He reached out, wrapping an arm around my waist and resting his chin against the top of my head. “I’m all yours tonight, Naomi. No distractions. I’m making up for yesterday.” I didn’t lean into his touch, but I didn’t push him away either. “I went to the hospital today.” His arm stiffened slightly. “Why? Are you not feeling well?” “I went to get my prescription refilled. And while I was there, I spoke with Dr. Adler about Jill’s protocol.” Trevor’s arm slowly slid off my waist. He walked over to the kitchen island and picked up a glass of water. “Dr. Adler recommended minimizing physical soothing right from the start,” I said, my voice steady, almost detached. “He said he brought it up with you multiple times. He urged you to use weighted desensitization blankets instead, but you refused.” My fingers tightened around the edge of my purse. I waited for his answer. “Every patient is different,” he said, taking a sip without looking at me. “You’ve seen her flare-ups, Naomi. She scratches herself until she’s bleeding! If a weighted blanket actually worked, do you think I’d let her suffer like that?” His tone spiked with defensive irritation before he quickly forced it back down. I stared at the tight line of his jaw, and a quiet, bitter amusement washed over me. For three months, whenever Jill’s name was mentioned, every single nerve in his body coiled tight in defense of her. “You don’t understand her condition,” he murmured, glancing instinctively toward the hallway. “I’ve watched her struggle with this since we were kids.” He lowered his voice. “I know you feel neglected, and I’m sorry I haven’t been as present lately. Just hold on a little longer. Just four more months.” “Hold on a little longer.” The words sounded like a request. The look in his eyes made it clear it wasn’t. … At nine that night, Trevor and I went into the bedroom. He locked the door behind us and gathered me into his arms from behind. “No interruptions tonight.” I leaned back against his chest, remaining still. His fingers pulled gently at the hem of my silk top, his lips pressing against the sensitive skin beneath my ear. I didn’t want to talk, nor did I want to break the momentum. I just wanted to get this over with—to check off the box for the month. Just as things began to heighten, a light knock sounded against the wooden panel. “Trevor?” We both froze. “Trevor, are you awake?” He swallowed hard, exhaling a heavy breath. “What is it, Jill?” “I think the essential oil diffuser in my room is broken. It’s leaking water everywhere, and I don’t know how to turn off the valve…” Trevor looked down at me. I looked at the ceiling. His hands slid off my waist as he swung his legs out of bed. “Wait there. I’ll take a look.” The bedroom door opened and clicked shut. Through the panel, I heard Jill’s soft, apologetic voice. “I’m so sorry, Trevor… I just didn’t know what to do…” “It’s fine. Let me check the seal.” Then came the sound of rustling, water dripping onto the hardwood floor, and Trevor asking her to grab a towel from the bathroom. I lay flat on the mattress, staring up at the white plaster overhead. It wasn’t a major emergency. A leaking diffuser could easily be unplugged and wiped up with a rag. But she had knocked, and he had gone. Five minutes later, the door squeaked open, and he stepped back inside. “Fixed it. Just a loose valve.” He climbed back into bed, his hand reaching across the sheets toward me. I turned onto my side, facing away from him. “Not tonight.” “…Why?” “I’m not in the mood anymore.” A heavy silence settled over the dark room. “Tomorrow then?” I didn’t answer. He didn’t press further. He simply turned onto his side, facing the opposite wall. Before long, the rhythmic sound of his slow, steady breathing filled the room. I lay awake, staring at the dark ceiling, unable to close my eyes until dawn. … Early the next morning, my mother texted, inviting us over to my parents’ house for Sunday lunch. I handed the phone to Trevor. “Sounds good,” he said, checking the digital thermometer in his hand. Jill was sitting beside him at the breakfast bar. “36.5. Normal.” He paused, looking at me. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving Jill home alone for hours. Should we bring her along?” I stared at him. “To my parents’ house? For Sunday dinner?” “Well, what else are we supposed to do? What if she has an episode while we’re gone?” I opened my mouth to say that she would be perfectly fine on her own for a three-hour afternoon, but he had already turned away, telling Jill, “Go grab a sweater, sweetie. You’re coming with us.” I swallowed the words back down. As we gathered our things by the front door, a heavy, suffocating cloud of perfume struck me. I turned toward Jill, wincing slightly. “Jill, could you please go wash that off? My mother has severe, reactive asthma. Strong fragrance triggers her airways immediately.” Jill bit her lower lip, her eyes instantly brimming with unshed tears. She shrank back slightly behind Trevor’s broad frame. “I’m so sorry, Naomi… It’s my first time visiting your parents, and I just wanted to make a good impression. I didn’t know your mom was sick… I’ll go wash it right now.” Trevor’s forehead creased into a deep frown. He immediately stepped in front of her, his tone laced with sharp reprimand. “It’s just a light mist, Naomi. We’ll keep the car windows rolled down on the drive over, and the scent will dissipate in the air. Stop picking on her every chance you get.” Looking at the defensive, guarded stance he took against me, my throat felt as though it were stuffed with cotton. I turned away and said nothing. Forty minutes later, we arrived at my parents’ suburban home. The moment we walked through the foyer, the heavy, sweet scent Jill wore filled the hallway. Though my mother’s eyebrows twitched slightly, she smiled warmly and welcomed them inside. At the dining table, Jill took the seat right beside Trevor. Halfway through the meal, Jill suddenly set her fork down with a sharp clatter, leaning her entire body weight heavily against Trevor’s side. “Trevor… I feel terrible. My skin is burning,” she whimpered, her voice tiny and laced with panic. Without a second thought, Trevor dropped his utensils. Completely ignoring my mother and father sitting directly across from them, he turned in his chair and wrapped his arms firmly around her. “It’s okay. I’m right here,” he murmured into her hair. He stroked her back, his arms locked tight around her shoulders. Jill buried her face completely into the crook of his neck, her hands clutching at the waist of his shirt. My father’s face instantly darkened. He set his silver fork down onto his napkin with a heavy, deliberate thud. My mother froze, her expression a mix of shock and tightly suppressed outrage. A suffocating, unnatural silence blanketed the dining room. Trevor seemed to have completely forgotten whose house he was in. He seemed to forget that three other adults were sitting at the same table. I lowered my head, forcing small bites of roasted chicken into my mouth. It tasted like cardboard. As the two of us pulled and shifted against each other, the heavy perfume clung to the air in the enclosed dining room, growing thicker by the second. Suddenly, my mother broke into a violent, racking cough. In a matter of seconds, her face drained of color, turning a terrifying, ghostly white. A harsh, wheezing gasp echoed from her throat as she reached uselessly for her chest. An acute asthma attack. “Mom!” Panic surged through me as I threw my chair back and rushed to her side. “The… the inhaler… it’s in the bedroom nightstand…” My father’s hands were shaking so violently he could barely push himself up from his seat. I sprinted toward the master bedroom, frantically pulling open every drawer in the nightstand, but the spare inhaler wasn’t there. Tears of frustration and fear burst from my eyes. I ran back out to the hallway, shouting toward the living area: “Trevor! Help me search! Check the media console in the living room! Quickly!” But when I tore into the living room, Trevor was still sitting on the dining bench, his arms locked securely around Jill. Jill’s eyes were shut tight, her body trembling dramatically as she sobbed, “Trevor, I’m scared… please don’t leave me, it hurts so bad, hold me tighter…” Trevor kept his hands clamped tightly over her shoulders. He glanced up at me, his eyes filled with a helplessness that made me sick. “Naomi, your mom’s coughing terrified her—she’s spiraling right now. I literally can’t untangle her from me. Try searching the hallway closet, or just dial 911!” Looking at him—watching him wrap his arms tightly around another woman while claiming he couldn’t spare a single hand to help save my mother—my heart dropped into a dark, bottomless abyss. The woman suffocating on the dining room chair was my mother. And my husband refused to reach out a single finger to help because he was busy holding someone else. I didn’t utter another word to him. I tore through my mother’s purse, found her rescue inhaler, and pressed it to her lips before dialing emergency services with trembling fingers. When the paramedics arrived and wheeled my mother out on a gurney, Trevor did not come with us. Because Jill was “having a severe panic attack and couldn’t be left alone.” … In the quiet observation room at the hospital, after hours of monitoring and nebulizer treatments, my mother finally drifted off to sleep under a gentle flow of oxygen. By late afternoon, she woke up. Seeing me sitting by her bedside, my eyes bloodshot and swollen, a deep sorrow crossed her pale face. She reached out a fragile, trembling hand, pressing her cold palm against my cheek. “Naomi,” she whispered weakly, her voice thin. “Whenever you want to come back home… your room is always ready for you.” In that moment, the mountain of grief, indignity, and quiet suffering I had carried for three agonizing months shattered completely. I buried my face into the edge of her hospital mattress and wept until I had no tears left. … It was pitch black by the time I returned home. The apartment was cold and silent, not a single light turned on. My phone vibrated in my coat pocket. A text from Trevor. “Is your mom okay?” I stared at the glowing screen, my thumb hovering over the keypad. Before I could type a single letter, a second text popped up immediately after. “Jill’s in really bad shape tonight. I have to stay in here and soothe her until she falls asleep. Go ahead and get some rest without me.” Looking at those two lines, my eyes felt completely dry. I couldn’t even manage a single tear. It turned out that when disappointment accumulates to a certain threshold, even anger becomes entirely redundant. I didn’t text him back. I walked quietly into our master bedroom, opened the walk-in closet, and dragged out my large hard-shell suitcase from the back corner. The moment the zipper clicked closed around my packed clothes, an unimaginable wave of release washed over me. As I rolled the suitcase down the hallway, I passed the guest room. The heavy oak door was pulled ajar, leaving a crack of light. I paused, looking through the sliver of space. Jill was curled up peacefully in Trevor’s arms, sleeping deeply. Trevor’s eyes were closed, his chin resting gently on the crown of her head, his broad hand moving in slow, rhythmic strokes down her back. I pulled my gaze away, lifted my suitcase off the hardwood, and walked out of the apartment without looking back.

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Every time Alex and I were intimate, my consciousness was violently ripped from my skin and forced into his body for exactly thirty minutes. For three years, Alex assumed I was just exhausted after sex, drifting into a heavy, post-coital sleep. He had no idea that while my body lay limp on the mattress, my mind was riding behind his eyes, trapped inside his skull. Until that night on the balcony. My consciousness floated with Alex as he stepped outside into the cool night air, flicking open his lighter to ignite a cigarette. He took a slow, deep drag. Then his phone buzzed. It was my best friend, Chloe. Alex’s brow furrowed in a brief flicker of annoyance. He hesitated before pressing answer. “Didn’t we agree?” he murmured, his voice low and cautious. “You were supposed to call Kallie first. Make sure we weren’t together before you dialed me.” Chloe’s soft, fragile whimper bled through the speaker. “I did call her, Alex. She didn’t pick up. I thought…” Alex let out a long, heavy sigh, the tension melting from his shoulders into a tone of sickening indulgence. “You silly girl. I’m not mad at you. It’s just… she and I haven’t parted ways for the night yet.” He paused, taking another drag of smoke. “I’ll buy our baby that new designer bag tomorrow to make it up to you, okay?” Listening to their conversation from inside his head, my mind went dead quiet. A cold, blinding void expanded in my chest. I had always thought Chloe was just obsessed with catching up over brunch or dinner. Every time she called me, it was always under the guise of inviting us both out to some new bistro downtown, asking me to check if Alex was free to join. She wasn’t inviting us out. She was verifying whether Alex was lying in my bed. Three years. Over two hundred phone calls. It wasn’t me and my best friend. It was the two of them, all along. … The thirty minutes expired, and the invisible tether snapped. My consciousness was yanked backward through the dark, slamming back into my own flesh. I opened my eyes on the bed. A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open. Alex slipped inside, smelling faintly of tobacco and expensive cologne. “Exhausted, sweetheart?” he asked softly, stepping toward the bed. For three years, every time he said those words, I thought he was being tender. I thought he was caring for me. I stared straight into his dark eyes, refusing to play my part. Without a word, I rolled over, grabbed my phone from the nightstand, and dialed Chloe on speaker. It didn’t even ring twice before she picked up. “Hey! Kallie?” Chloe’s voice was bright, bubbly, completely devoid of the fragile, pathetic tone she had used just minutes ago on the balcony. “Chloe,” I said, keeping my tone perfectly flat while locking eyes with Alex. “I was so tired earlier, I fell asleep. I just woke up and saw Alex was getting ready for work, and I saw your missed call. What’s up?” There was a distinct, microscopic beat of silence on the line. Then came her sharp, cheerful laugh. “Oh, it’s nothing! I was just craving that upscale Italian bistro down on 5th. Wanted to see if you guys were free tomorrow night.” “Sure,” I said smoothly. “See you tomorrow.” I hung up and didn’t look at Alex. Instead, I began counting silently in my head. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five.” Five seconds later, Alex’s phone chimed on the nightstand. “Chloe.” His eyebrow gave a microscopic twitch. He let out a light, charming chuckle. “She probably wants to change the reservation time already. You know how she is.” I sat up, resting my back against the headboard. “Answer it. Put it on speaker. I want to hear what time we’re meeting.” Alex looked at me. For a fraction of a second, I caught it—a razor-thin sliver of panic in his gaze. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual gentle, indulgent smile. “Sure. Whatever you want.” He answered and tapped the speaker button. Chloe’s voice filled the quiet bedroom, but she didn’t mention dinner, or a restaurant, or a time. She asked: “Has the rain stopped over there?” I turned my head to look out the window. The night sky was crystal clear. It hadn’t rained all week, and the forecast promised sun for the next three days. Alex didn’t look at the window. He kept his eyes locked on mine, his voice smooth and steady. “It stopped. The roads are completely dry.” On the other end, Chloe let out a relieved breath. “Good to know. Goodnight!” The line went dead. Silence settled over the bedroom like heavy dust. I kept my eyes on Alex as he set his phone back on the nightstand, his expression entirely unbothered. It was a code. A sick, private language designed to communicate in front of my face. “Why is she asking about rain?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Alex reached out, his hand gently smoothing my hair, soothing me as if I were a paranoid child. “Kallie, baby, are you just overwhelmed? She’s been so anxious about work lately. You know how she gets—she rambles about nonsense when she’s stressed.” I pulled my head back, dodging his touch. “Are the two of you keeping something from me?” Alex’s hand hovered in mid-air before he dropped it naturally back to his side. His expression hardened just a fraction. “Don’t overcomplicate things with Chloe. She’s your “best friend”.” He emphasized those two words as if delivering a warning. Alex turned and walked into the bathroom. Moments later, the shower turned on. I picked up his phone from the nightstand. I didn’t need to guess his passcode; I knew it by heart. I opened Instagram and pulled up Chloe’s profile. Her latest post had been uploaded twenty minutes ago. It was a photo of a sleek, black luxury handbag resting on a marble table. Hanging from the strap was a custom, hand-carved silver key ring. It was identical to the key ring Alex carried on his hip every single day. I refreshed her profile from my own phone. Nothing. She had customized her privacy settings to hide the post strictly from me. The next evening, Chloe booked a private booth at the bistro downtown. The moment I pushed open the door, Chloe bounced up from her seat and threw her arms around me. “Kallie! You finally made it! I swear, I woke up this morning dreaming about their truffle risotto.” Alex stepped up behind me, casually pulling out the chair beside him for Chloe to sit. Then he flagged down the waiter. “Could you swap her starter?” Alex instructed the waiter attentively. “Make sure there are absolutely zero pine nuts in hers. None at all.” I lowered my eyes to the artisanal arugula salad sitting directly in front of me. It was buried under a thick, generous layer of shaved walnuts and crushed pine nuts. I have a severe, violent tree nut allergy. It causes my throat to constrict within minutes. Alex had known this since the very first week we started dating. Yet tonight, he didn’t even notice what was sitting on my plate. His eyes were entirely on Chloe. Chloe set her new black handbag against the back of her chair, making a deliberate, showy movement so the silver key ring clinked loudly against the wood. I stared at the metal charm for two full seconds. Chloe immediately snatched the bag into her lap, covering the charm with her small hands, her expression suddenly filled with flustered innocence. “Kallie, please don’t get the wrong idea,” she squeaked, her voice dripping with quiet injury. “I bought this key ring myself. I just thought it was pretty. It’s just a coincidence that it looks a little like Alex’s.” Before I could even open my mouth, Alex cut in from the side. “It’s completely normal for girls to have matching accessories,” he said, carving a piece of his filet mignon with a steak knife. “Don’t look at her like you’re conducting an interrogation, Kallie. You’re scaring her.” During the meal, Chloe’s phone screen lit up multiple times. Calls were coming in, but she merely glanced at the screen, ignored them, and looked up at Alex instead. “Is the sauce going to be too rich tonight?” she asked softly. Alex laid his fork down, picked up his wine glass, and took a slow sip. His tone was utterly comforting. “It won’t be. I’m right here.” My fork froze in mid-air. “Last night it was rain.” “Tonight it was sauce.” Phrases that sounded like mundane table talk to an outsider, but every single word was a codified reassurance. “I’ve got you. I’ll protect you.” I set my silverware down on the linen napkin and looked directly at Alex. “Did you buy her that bag?” Alex didn’t even flinch. He casually sliced off a tender piece of steak and placed it gently on my bread plate with absolute composure. “She’s been having a terrible month with her boss,” he said, looking at me with eyes that seemed entirely sincere. “I bought a little gift to cheer her up. You’ve always said she acts like a helpless kid, haven’t you? It’s just a gift between friends. There’s no need to be petty about it.” I stared down at the isolated piece of meat on my plate. “And what about me?” He let out a short, quiet laugh, grabbing a napkin to wipe his fingers. “You’re different, Kallie. You’re mature. You’re grounded. You don’t need material bribes to feel secure.” Halfway through dinner, Chloe suddenly gasped, clutching her upper abdomen as her features contorted in pain. “Ow… my stomach. It hurts so bad. I think I drank that iced water too fast…” Alex bolted up from his chair instantly. “A stomach spasm? I’ll go buy you medication right now.” He didn’t even grab his jacket. He snatched his wallet off the table and sprinted out of the restaurant. I sat alone in the quiet booth, staring silently across the table at Chloe. The pain on her face melted away in seconds. She casually pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her feeds, utterly unfazed. Alex’s jacket was still draped over the back of his chair, his phone resting inside the pocket. The screen lit up with a text notification. I cast a sideways glance at it. It was from Chloe: “Babe, did Kallie notice the key ring? She looked so mean. I’m scared.” A minute later, the door slammed open. Alex rushed back in, breathless. He didn’t look at me for a single second. He grabbed his coat, pulled Chloe gently up by her arm, and draped his shoulder around her. “Kallie, Chloe’s in really bad shape,” he said hurriedly. “The pharmacy downstairs is closed. I need to drive her back to her place right now so she can rest.” He steered her out the door. I sat alone at the table, watching their retreating backs. A bitter, empty smile pulled at my lips. “It’s time to leave.” …… By the time I managed to get back to our apartment, an agonizing, tearing pain gripped my lower abdomen. Cold sweat burst from my pores, soaking my hair and dampening the pillow as I crumpled onto the bed. I forced myself to crawl up, feeling a sudden, terrifying rush of warm fluid between my thighs. I pulled myself into an Uber and rode all the way to the emergency room, clutching my stomach the entire time. The attending physician was a young doctor whose nametag read “Dr. Jonah Kelly”. He walked back into the triage room holding a sheaf of lab results, his face dark with concern. “Did you know you’re six weeks pregnant?” he asked bluntly. I went entirely rigid. “You’re showing severe signs of a threatened miscarriage,” Dr. Kelly continued firmly. “We need to admit you immediately to try and save the pregnancy. But this is critical—we need a family member or partner here to sign the emergency consent forms. Call him now.” My hands shook violently as I pulled my phone from my bag and dialed Alex. First call. It rang until it hit voicemail. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, and dialed a second time. He picked up. The background was dead quiet. “Alex,” I choked out, unable to suppress the sob tearing through my throat. “I’m at the hospital… my stomach hurts so bad… I’m bleeding…” A heavy sigh echoed through the receiver. His voice was soft, but laced with icy, unmistakable irritation. “Kallie, can you please not do this right now?” I froze. “Chloe just took her prescription and finally fell asleep,” Alex continued coldly. “If I leave right now, she’s going to wake up terrified in the middle of the night.” I gripped the edges of my phone case so hard my fingernails nearly bent backward. “I am telling you I am at the hospital! I might be losing our baby! Can you please just come here?!” There was a two-second pause. When Alex spoke again, his voice had gone entirely dead. “You’re really resorting to making up a fake pregnancy just to force me to come home?” He let out a breath of disgust. “Grow up, Kallie. You’re exhausting me. I’ll come back early tomorrow to talk.” “Click.” The line went dead. The harsh, rhythmic dial tone echoed brutally through the sterile room. Dr. Kelly stood on the other side of the desk, having overheard every word. He slowly pushed the consent form and a pen across the table toward me. “Can you sign it yourself?” he asked quietly. I unclasped my teeth from my bloody lip, took the pen, and signed my name—stroke by stroke—on the line. …… By midnight, I was lying in a hospital bed with an IV dripping into my vein. The cramping in my abdomen still hit in agonizing waves, and the saline felt ice-cold as it seeped into my bloodstream. My phone illuminated on the mattress beside me. A short video notification from Chloe. I tapped play. The background was the modern, high-end kitchen of her luxury penthouse apartment. Alex was standing at the gas stove wearing a loose bathrobe, stirring a small saucepan of organic bone broth. Chloe’s sickly sweet voice floated from behind the camera: “Alex… if my stomach never gets better, will you stay and take care of me forever?” Alex turned toward the camera holding a wooden spoon. His eyes were overflowing with a soft, devotional warmth I hadn’t seen in years. “Of course,” he murmured. “Who else is going to look after my helpless girl?” In the dark hours of the early morning, a blinding, razor-sharp tear ripped through my lower body. Warm blood gushed down my legs. I couldn’t even reach the call button before the pain blacked out my consciousness entirely. When I opened my eyes again, the morning sun was cutting through the blinds. Dr. Kelly was standing at my bedside, the dark circles under his eyes heavy with exhaustion. “I’m so sorry, Kallie,” he whispered. “We did everything we could. We couldn’t save the baby.” I stared blankly at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. I couldn’t even squeeze out a single tear. Dr. Kelly gently tucked the blanket around my shoulders, his voice barely audible. “We called your partner thirteen times last night.” He hesitated. “He finally picked up on the thirteenth call. He told us your friend had severe stomach bleeding and was in the ER, and that he couldn’t leave her side.” I closed my eyes. While my child was dying inside me, he was holding her hand. Suddenly, frantic footsteps rushed down the hallway outside. A nurse pushed open the door, her voice urgent. “Dr. Kelly, Miss Marsh’s condition is deteriorating! The blood bank doesn’t have enough units of her type—she’s Rh-negative, it’s extremely rare!” Another nurse flipped through a chart on a clipboard, hesitant. “Wait… Miss Morrison’s chart says she has the exact same rare blood type.” My eyelashes fluttered. A second later, the door was slammed wide open. Alex stepped into the room. For one absurd, pathetic second, a piece of me thought he had finally come to ask if I was okay. If I was in pain. “Kallie,” he said, walking straight to my bed. His voice was tender, like he was soothing a child after a minor misunderstanding. “Chloe’s in bad shape right now.” I looked at him, my throat so raw it burned to speak. “So?” Alex sat on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “The doctors said you two share the same rare blood type.” He leaned in closer. “Help her out just this once, okay? As soon as Chloe is out of danger, I promise I’ll stay right here and help you recover from whatever illness you’ve got.” A horrific, silent laugh welled up in my throat, causing my lower abdomen to spasm in agony. He spoke so softly. As if this were all just a tiny mistake we could smoothly move past later. “I won’t donate.” Alex let out a soft, disappointed sigh. “Kallie, don’t be selfish.” Outside the doorway, a nurse was pushing Chloe past in a wheelchair. Chloe was deathly pale, her eyes red-rimmed, looking up at Alex with delicate vulnerability. “Alex, it’s fine…” she whimpered. “Don’t force her. I don’t want to make things hard for you…” Alex turned to look at her, his expression melting with pity. “It’s fine. Kallie has always been reasonable.” Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice. He turned back to me, his gaze demanding compliance. “It’s only two hundred milliliters. The doctors will monitor you. Nothing bad is going to happen.” Every word was a quiet blade to my heart. “Alex, back off!” Dr. Kelly suddenly shoved his way between Alex and the bed, blocking him. “She just had a traumatic miscarriage! Her body cannot handle blood draw right now!” Alex lifted his eyes to Dr. Kelly. No rage, no loss of control. Just a cold, superior smile. “Dr. Kelly, I respect your medical opinion,” Alex said calmly. “But Chloe cannot wait.” In the next second, Alex reached down and forcefully hauled my weak body up out of the hospital bed. The sudden movement tore through my fresh internal wounds. A blinding flare of agony exploded behind my eyes as fresh blood soaked instantly through my hospital gown. Dr. Kelly lunged forward to stop him. “Alex! Are you out of your mind?! Put her down!” Alex held me tightly, his posture unyielding as he turned his shoulder away. “Dr. Kelly, get out of my way.” “You need to let me go, Alex!” I screamed, thrashing with every ounce of strength I had left, desperate to escape his grasp. My violent struggling knocked into an iron medical cart parked beside the bed. The cart overturned with a deafening crash. Glass medication vials shattered across the floor. Alex lost his footing, and I slipped from his arms, my body crashing violently onto the linoleum floor. My bare hands slammed directly into the pile of jagged, broken glass. Alex’s face twisted in shock. “Kallie!” He dropped to his knees to pull me up. A sharp piece of glass sliced deep into his palm. His blood welled up instantly, spilling into the cuts on my own open hands. My blood rushed into his palm, fusing together where our flesh met. The instant our blood mixed, a violent, blinding surge of electricity shot directly through my brain. My vision snapped to total blackness. My physical body went completely limp, collapsing onto the bloody floor. But right before the darkness swallowed me entirely—I opened my eyes again. My perspective was unnaturally high. I looked down and saw a pair of large, broad, masculine hands. It was that familiar, terrifying pull. The exact sensation I felt after intimacy. Chloe was clinging tightly to “my” arm, weeping hysterically. “Alex! Your hand is bleeding! Oh my god, are you okay…?” And lying on the cold floor right at “my” feet… Was the pale, motionless body of Kallie Morrison, blood dripping from her nose and pooling beneath her hospital gown. “It was never about intimacy.” “It was about the exchange of bodily fluids.”

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