Category: English

Twenty years after my husband, Chris, supposedly had a vasectomy to support our child-free lifestyle, I found myself staring at a positive pregnancy test. I thought it was a miracle—a late-blooming gift from the universe. But then I found the truth. Chris didn’t just have a secret; he had an entire second life. He had a family on the other side of town, and a son with leukemia who desperately needed a bone marrow match. My “miracle” pregnancy wasn’t a gift to me; it was a biological harvest Chris had planned to save his other woman’s child. The shock sent me into a physical collapse. When I woke up in the hospital, my world felt like it had been razed to the ground. “I’m terminating it,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash. “I want this out of me. Now.” Chris didn’t yell. He didn’t even look me in the eye. He simply had the nurses restrain me to the bed “for my own safety.” Then came the vultures. My mother-in-law and the doctor stood over me, their voices a synchronized drone of manipulation. “It’s a life, Evelyn! Think of the karma,” his mother pleaded, her eyes cold despite the tears she forced. “Chris’s son is your son, too! This baby is already here; how can you be so heartless? If you hadn’t been so stubborn about your ‘career’ and your ‘independence’ all these years, none of this would have happened. Chris was backed into a corner…” I stopped fighting the restraints. I looked at Chris, whose eyes were red-rimmed. I thought it was guilt. I was wrong. “Go have another child with her then,” I said, my voice dead. “I’ll pay for it. Whatever the treatment costs, I’ll sign the check. Just let me go.” A flicker of disappointment, then something sharper—pity—crossed his face. “I tried,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “Jade… she’s had several miscarriages trying to give me a son. She can’t carry anymore. Her body is spent.” He leaned in closer, his shadow swallowing me. “The doctors say a half-sibling has a twenty-five percent chance of a perfect match. Evelyn, please. If you save my son, I’ll give you anything. Anything you want.” I turned my face toward the sterile white wall. The chill in my bones felt permanent. “I want a divorce. I’m leaving this hospital in a week, and I expect you to meet me at the lawyer’s office.” … My mother-in-law’s blood pressure must have hit the ceiling. she lunged forward as if to strike me, but Chris caught her arm. His brow furrowed, his jaw setting into that stubborn line I used to mistake for strength. “No,” he said firmly. “I won’t divorce you. Don’t even dream of it.” I let out a jagged laugh. We had been married for two decades; he knew that look on my face. He knew I was done. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed, his tone softening into that patronizing “reasonable man” voice he used in boardrooms. “Evie, we’ve spent half our lives together. Imagine the scandal. Do you really want to be the woman who blows up her life at forty-five?” “I know you feel slighted,” he continued. “But Jade… she’s not like you. She didn’t grow up with a silver spoon. She didn’t have your education or your family’s connections. She’s just a girl who gave me a son. It wasn’t easy for her. If you need someone to blame, blame me. But the boy is innocent. Don’t you see how cruel you’re being by holding this over me?” Cruel. The word felt like a slap. I touched my stomach, my mind drifting back twenty years. Back then, Chris was the one talking about the unfairness of fate. He was the brilliant, broke scholarship student my father had sponsored. I remember the day he lost a major contract—he had been standing in the pouring rain, begging for a chance to pitch. I was the one who held the umbrella over him and brought him home. A fallen genius. A man of integrity. Unyielding will. To the heiress of the Montgomery estate, he was a romantic tragedy I was desperate to rewrite. Naturally, he became the Montgomery son-in-law. His life became a series of wins. Back then, I never wanted to be child-free. I was obsessed with him; I wanted a little piece of us to carry on. When I first got pregnant, Chris cried with joy. “But Chris,” I had told him, “my parents want the first child to carry the Montgomery name. After that, we can have as many as you want. What do you think?” A shadow had passed over his face, so brief I thought I imagined it. “Evie, are you sure you’re ready to be a mother?” he had asked, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “I just… I don’t want to see you suffer. It would break my heart.” I was so moved. I told him I wasn’t afraid. But the pregnancy was a nightmare. I couldn’t keep anything down. Two weeks later, I was doubled over in pain. Chris went frantic, rushing me to the ER, but we lost the baby anyway. He stayed by my side all night. The next morning, he was sobbing, hitting his own forehead. “It’s my fault. I put you through this. No more, Evie. Let’s just be us. We’ll be ‘DINKs.’ I can’t lose you.” I insisted I was willing to try again, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He said I had already given him enough, that I was his whole world. To prove his devotion, he told me he went to the clinic for a vasectomy that same week. For twenty years, he was the model husband, always “careful,” always protecting my health. Even his parents seemed to accept it, never pressuring me for an heir. They even bought us a Border Collie, Lucky, telling us to treat him like our son. I was so naive. I thought he had fought his traditional parents for me. Hearing his mother’s vitriol now, I finally understood. He didn’t want no children; he just didn’t want my children. Being the “sponsored” son-in-law was the thorn in his side. Letting a child carry my family name was the ultimate emasculation to him. He had orchestrated everything. I was the engine that drove his career, the bank that funded his lifestyle. And Jade? She was the quiet harbor where he could be the “provider,” the man whose name would be passed down. Now that my parents were dead and I had no family left to protect me, he was ready to use me one last time. He wanted me to endure a high-risk pregnancy just to provide spare parts for his “real” legacy. The humilation burned like acid. “The boy is innocent?” I spat. “To save your secret son, you’re willing to risk my life and the life of this baby. Tell me, Chris—who’s the cruel one here?” Chris flinched. “It’s not like that. I’ll hire the best doctors in the country. You always wanted a child, didn’t you? Why can’t you look at the bright side? You’ll both be fine, and then we can all be a family.” I looked at him, truly seeing the stranger he had become. “A family? You mean a harem? You expect me to live in some twisted sister-wife arrangement?” Chris walked toward the door, his voice heavy with a self-righteous burden. “Jade has never wanted to take anything from you. I still love you, Evelyn. You will always be my wife. But you need to be the bigger person here. This baby stays.” He left the room, posting two private security guards at my door. They weren’t there to protect me; they were there to ensure I didn’t find a way to a clinic. I didn’t waste another second. I picked up the phone and dialed my lawyer. “Lee, if he refuses to sign, what are my options?” He gave me a direct answer. There was a way out, but I had to wait a week for the paperwork to be ironed out. The next day, Chris didn’t show up. Lee, who has a reach as long as his career, sent me photos. Chris was with Jade. He must have told her the news. In the video clip, Jade was weeping with joy, throwing her arms around Chris in a crowded cafe. I shut the screen, unable to watch. I tried to distract myself with social media, but then I saw my mother-in-law’s profile. The “sweet, traditional” woman had undergone a personality transplant. She had posted a flood of videos featuring a young boy—her “beloved grandson.” I realized then that every holiday Chris was “working late,” he was actually with them. Her latest post was a video of her crying to the camera, calling me the “most wicked daughter-in-law in history.” She had even photoshopped my face onto a funeral portrait. She told her followers that I was an ungrateful woman who was refusing to save her dying grandson out of spite. The comments were a bloodbath. Strangers were calling for my head, calling me a monster, a “barren ice queen.” Thinking of my late parents—who had loved Chris like a son—my rage boiled over. I commented directly: “He isn’t my son. Why is his life my responsibility?” She replied instantly: “How heartless! Is this what a mother says?” My DMs exploded. I threw the phone across the room, shaking. But she wasn’t done. She sent me a voice note, her voice a shrill hiss: “You’re evil! I said nothing but the truth! A husband is your king, and his child is yours! It’s your duty to save him! If you hadn’t nagged Chris into that surgery, he wouldn’t have had to go elsewhere for a family! This is your fault! My poor grandson is suffering because of your ego!” I couldn’t listen anymore. The pregnancy hormones made it impossible to stop the tears. The whole world was telling me I was a criminal for not wanting to be a human incubator for a mistress’s child. A bowl of chicken soup appeared in my field of vision. Chris was back, looking disheveled. He reached out to wipe a tear from my cheek. “You’re still the same,” he murmured. “Always crying when you’re pregnant.” The memory hit me like a physical blow. Twenty years ago, when I was throwing up everything, he had learned to make this exact soup. I had forced myself to eat it, touched by his devotion. I remembered the night before my miscarriage. He had looked at me with such hesitation. I had asked him what was wrong, and he had just pulled me into his arms and sobbed, “I’m so sorry I’m making you suffer. We don’t need a baby. Just you and me.” I thought he was a fool who loved me too much. But I was the fool. His “devotion” was guilt. He hadn’t been worried about my health; he had been struggling with the fact that he was actively sabotaging our child because of a bruised ego over a surname. I looked at the man I had loved for two decades and realized I had never known him at all. “Chris,” I whispered, “why didn’t you just talk to me? My parents just wanted the first one to have our name. We could have had three more. I gave you everything—my life, my money, my family’s legacy. And you couldn’t even give me the truth?” I slapped the bowl of soup out of his hand. It shattered against the floor. “I’m going to make you lose everything, Chris. Just wait a week.” His face darkened. “What the hell is wrong with you?” A slender woman rushed into the room, frantically trying to clean up the mess. “Chris, don’t be angry. It’s my fault. The soup probably didn’t smell right to Evelyn.” I froze. It wasn’t Chris coming to see me. It was the two of them, putting on a show of “kindness.” Jade was beautiful in a fragile, wilted sort of way. Looking at her, I felt ancient. My youth had been spent building an empire Chris now sat upon. I didn’t have that “damsel in distress” look. Chris didn’t even look at me. He was too busy checking Jade’s hands for burns. When she winced, he looked like someone had stabbed him. “I’m fine, Chris,” she whispered, her eyes darting toward me. “Evelyn’s health is what matters.” She gestured toward the door. A small, pale boy with a shaved head walked in. “Noah, come here. Say hello to Mrs. Bennett.” The boy looked sullen. Jade led him to my bedside and, before I could react, she took his small, cold hand and pressed it against my stomach. “Noah, feel that? There’s a little brother in there. He’s going to save you. Just a few more months, and the pain will go away.” Her words were like poisoned needles. Even if I kept this baby, you can’t take bone marrow from a newborn. She was talking about an experimental cord blood procedure—or worse. She was looking at my child as a medical resource. I looked at Chris. He was smiling at them, a look of pure paternal pride on his face. He didn’t see anything wrong with what she said. “Chris… are you planning an eye for an eye?” I asked. “What if the match fails? What if I refuse to go through with it?” Chris’s expression turned to stone. “There is no ‘if.’ This is happening.” “I have a heart condition, Chris! A high-risk pregnancy at my age could kill me! And I will never let my child be a sacrifice for anyone!” “This child,” I pointed at the boy, “is not my problem. His illness is the result of your lies!” “Shut up!” Chris roared, slamming a glass against the nightstand. His eyes were wild. He immediately turned back to Jade, pulling her and the boy into a protective embrace. Jade sobbed into his shoulder, covering the boy’s ears. “Chris, it’s my fault,” she wailed. “I’m useless. I couldn’t give you a healthy son. Evelyn has every right to hate me, but Noah is just a child! If I could take his place, I would… I just wanted her to have some nutrients. I see now… you were just trying to spare my feelings because she said no. It’s okay, Chris. This is just our fate…” The “soft” attack worked instantly. Chris looked more panicked than I’d ever seen him. “Jade, listen to me. I won’t let anything happen to Noah. I promise. I love you both. We’re going to Europe after this, remember? I have the money, I have the power. Not even God is taking my son from me!” He had forgotten one thing. The money and the power? They were mine. “Let’s stop the theater, Chris,” I said, my voice cold as a grave. “Sign the papers and let’s end this.” Chris ignored me. He moved Jade and Noah into a VIP suite down the hall and came back to my room. “Don’t ever speak like that in front of Jade again,” he warned. “She blames herself enough. And for the last time, I am not divorcing you. Everyone knows I am where I am because of your father. I’m grateful for that. But look at any man in my position—we all have someone on the side. I’m telling you, you will always be my wife. Isn’t that enough?” “A seat at the table you stole from me?” I mocked. The boy I loved was gone. In his place was a narcissist who thought he was doing me a favor by letting me keep my title. From the moment my parents died, he had dropped the mask. He had cried louder than me at the funeral, posing for the cameras. A month later, he had maneuvered through my father’s old connections and diluted my shares in the company before I could even process my grief. He told me it was to “protect me from the stress.” The next day, I stood by the window, clutching the divorce papers Lee had smuggled in. I was rehearsing my final words. A tug on my sleeve broke my concentration. It was Noah. “Ma’am? Dad took Mom out for a walk. He said you were supposed to stay with me while I did my treatment.” I looked out the window. Chris was leading Jade toward the garden. The boy looked so small, so fragile. I felt a flicker of pity. Back in the ward, Noah whimpered in pain, begging for some candy from the gift shop downstairs. My heart softened. I told him I’d be right back. But when I returned five minutes later, the bathroom door was open. Noah was standing under a freezing cold shower, fully clothed, sobbing into a video call with Jade. “Mom, I’m so cold! Mrs. Bennett told me the cold water would make me stronger, but it hurts!” I dropped the candy. I rushed in to wrap him in a towel, but it was too late. Within minutes, Chris and Jade burst in. Noah threw himself into Jade’s arms, shivering. “Mom, I was brave! Mrs. Bennett gave me candy for doing it!” He looked at me with those wide, innocent-looking eyes. “Dad, don’t be mad at her. I’m a big boy.” Jade dropped to her knees, sobbing and banging her head on the floor. “Evelyn, I’m sorry! Hit me instead! The boy is innocent! If you don’t want to save him, fine, but please don’t hurt him! He has no immune system; the cold will kill him!” I reached out to pull her up, but Chris lunged forward. He shoved me back so hard I hit the wall, and then he backhanded me across the face. The world went silent. My ears rang. “I told you it was my fault!” Chris screamed. “Why would you take it out on a child? You want to end my bloodline that badly?” I held my burning cheek, my stomach tightening in a cramp. “He did it himself. I didn’t touch him!” “I don’t want to hear your lies! Apologize to Jade and Noah. Now!” He gathered his “real” family. There was no room for me in that circle. I started to laugh. It was a jagged, hysterical sound. I pulled out a document—the one Chris had left for me to sign regarding the bone marrow compatibility tests. I flipped to the last page. “Fine. You want the tests done the second this baby is viable? I agree. Sign it.” Chris, blinded by rage and disgust, didn’t even look at the header. He scribbled his name and threw the pen at me. “You should have done this from the start! If anything happens to Noah, I’m done with you!” I walked out of the room, clutching the paper. It wasn’t a medical consent form. Lee had swapped it. It was a binding, no-contest divorce settlement and a full transfer of the remaining Montgomery assets Chris had tried to hide. “Chris,” I said, stopping at the door. “Do you remember how I haven’t touched cold water since the miscarriage?” He didn’t look up. He didn’t follow me. I left a copy of the actual divorce papers on my hospital bed and went straight to the airport. As the plane took off, my phone lit up with dozens of missed calls. A flight attendant kindly helped me answer one. Chris’s voice came through, sounding like a terrified child. “Evie? Evie, I’m sorry. Where are you…”

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When the man who was supposed to be the “protagonist” of her life finally appeared, Madeline and I already had a child. I couldn’t fight the script. Once, she had been willing to burn her entire world down—breaking off a high-society engagement—just to be with me. But then the shift happened. Suddenly, she looked at me with a soul-deep loathing, as if my very existence was a stain on her life. Eventually, I just broke. I let go of the love that had become a noose, walked away from the wreckage, and even left our daughter behind. Until a Tuesday evening, six years later. A small, solemn girl knocked on my door. She stood there with her face set in a mimicry of adult stoicism and said: “My mom doesn’t want me anymore. Can I stay with you?” 1 I froze, the words dying in my throat. Sophie pouted, her brow furrowing with impatient displeasure. She tilted her beautiful little face up and spoke with the precision of someone reciting a textbook. “My teacher said that parents have a legal and moral obligation to provide for their children…” I opened the door the rest of the way, cutting off her prepared speech. Stepping aside, I said quietly, “Come in.” The amber glow of the hallway lamp caught the slight widening of her eyes. They shimmered with an emotion I couldn’t name. She lifted her chin, let out a tiny, haughty “Hmph,” and marched inside. As I closed the door, I watched her. She was trying to look casual, but her eyes were darting everywhere, taking in my modest apartment. When she caught me watching, she gripped the straps of her backpack until her knuckles turned white. “My name is Sophie,” she said. It sounded like an introduction, but it felt like a reminder. A reminder that she was the daughter I had shared with Madeline. I knew. I had known the second I saw her. She was a carbon copy of the woman who had shattered my heart. Sophie seemed disappointed by my lack of a grand reaction. She looked away, her little shoulders tensing. I took her small backpack, set it on the bench in the entryway, and led her to the sink. “Let’s eat first,” I said. She gave a quiet “Okay.” By the time I brought the food out, she had already scrambled onto a chair. I asked her why she had suddenly decided to find me. Sophie poked at a piece of broccoli in her bowl, her head bowed. Her hair was dark and thick, just like her mother’s. Her voice came out muffled. “We had a fight. She started breaking things and told me to get out. She said she never wanted me to come back.” A childhood tantrum, then. A runaway. Madeline would probably be here to collect her within the hour. It made sense. Six years ago, the prestigious Jackson family—her family—had fought me tooth and nail for custody. They wouldn’t just throw her away now. My fork paused halfway to my mouth. I didn’t know what I was feeling. I hadn’t expected a guest, so dinner was just simple stir-fry and soup. Sophie, it turned out, was a surgical eater. She spent ten minutes picking out every trace of onion and carrot until there was nothing left on her plate but white rice. She stared at the mangled vegetables with a look of profound betrayal, stole a glance at me, and then guiltily swallowed a mouthful of rice. She had arrived with a shield of arrogance and pride, but seeing her struggle with a piece of broccoli made me realize she had likely been raised in a world where every whim was met. She hadn’t been mistreated. I felt a small, bitter relief. After finishing the dishes, I sat down to wait for the car Madeline would inevitably send. I waited until nine-thirty. A six-year-old’s internal clock is relentless. She pulled a pair of pajamas out of her bag, looked around the one-bedroom apartment, and pressed her lips together. “There’s only one bed,” she noted. “Am I supposed to squeeze in with you?” I looked at the clock. For some reason, the black SUVs hadn’t arrived. “Yeah,” I sighed. “You’re with me tonight.” I expected a meltdown. This cramped apartment was a far cry from the sprawling estate she was used to. But Sophie just bit her lip, her eyes flickering. She washed her face, grunted as she struggled into her pajamas, and climbed onto the bed herself. She had complained about the vegetables, too, but she’d eaten them in the end. Now, she burrowed into the duvet until she was a small mound of fabric. She produced a book of fairy tales from somewhere, peeked out from the covers, and whispered, “Aren’t you going to read to me?” She actually looked… happy. 2 After Sophie fell asleep, I pulled up a contact in my phone I hadn’t touched in years. I stared at Madeline’s name for a long time. I didn’t call. We had been apart for six years. In the beginning, we thought we could outrun destiny. My family had gone bankrupt overnight; hers had immediately moved to marry her off to a man named Victor. She had fought them. She had broken her engagement to Victor for me. I thought we were going to be the exception. I thought the bankruptcy would pass, that we would be okay. We got married in secret. We were happy, for a while. Then, on the eve of Sophie’s birth, everything changed. Madeline was rushed to a different hospital by her family. When she woke up, the woman I loved was gone. In her place was a stranger—cold, indifferent, and eventually, cruel. I didn’t understand how someone could change so fundamentally between sunsets. The way she looked at me went from adoration to a visceral disgust. Victor came to see me once. He was the one who told me the “truth” of our world. He spoke about “narrative corrections” and “protagonists.” He told me that because the intended “Male Lead”—him—had arrived late, the world had to fix the mistake. The price of that fix was the reversal of the heroine’s feelings. The more she had loved me, the more she was now forced to hate me. Victor looked at me with a sickening kind of pity. Before he left, he asked, “Have you thought about what will happen to your child in a world that doesn’t want you?” I went numb. I didn’t know who to hate. Madeline? She didn’t even seem to own her own mind anymore. Fate? Hate is useless against a force you can’t touch. Around that time, my parents were in a catastrophic car accident. They were left in comas, likely brain-dead. I was spiraling, Victor’s words echoing in my head like a death knell. The world felt like a sick joke I was tired of playing. One afternoon, I opened a high window in the hospital and looked down. Behind me, the baby in the crib started to wail. A dark, intrusive thought took hold: If I leave, what happens to her? Will the world allow her to exist? Will Victor hurt her? Or will she be like me—discarded by Madeline, left to wither away in silence until she dies just to satisfy the plot? I started shaking. I walked back to the crib, my hands trembling as I reached for her small neck. I wanted to take her with me. I wanted to save her from the life ahead. But then, she stopped crying. She stared at me with those big, watery eyes, looking at me as if I were her entire universe. The door burst open. Nurses and bodyguards swarmed in, shoving me away. I looked at my hands, horrified by what Victor’s poisonous whispers had almost driven me to do. The news reached the Jackson family immediately. The patriarch demanded a meeting. They wanted the child. I gave them everything. I signed the papers. I let go of the woman who hated me, and I gave up the daughter I was too broken to protect. I took two million dollars—just enough to cover my parents’ medical bills for the rest of their lives—and I disappeared. Madeline never showed up to the mediation. She couldn’t even bear to look at me. So, I accepted my role. I stayed in the shadows. I let her go, and I let myself go. I was pulled back to the present by a soft weight pressing into my side. Sophie had rolled over in her sleep, tucking herself into my chest. She was snoring softly, her tiny hand clutching my shirt as if she were afraid I’d vanish if she let go. I looked at her innocent face and let out a long, jagged breath. If she knew her father had almost ended her life the day she was born, would she still be here? She’d be running for the hills. 3 Morning came, and Madeline was still a no-show. I couldn’t figure out the angle. They had fought so hard for her, and now she was just… here. I woke Sophie up, got her dressed, and hailed a cab to take her to school. Her preschool was an hour away in the city, a place for the children of the elite. Before getting out of the car, she made me promise ten times that I’d be there to pick her up. She was clingy, rambling about nothing, until she saw a specific car parked near the school gates. Her eyes lit up. she dragged me out of the cab, but as we got closer to the gates, she slowed down. She purposefully marched over to a chubby little boy who had just stepped out of a luxury SUV. She held my hand tightly, swinging our joined arms so he couldn’t miss it. “Daddy,” she said, her voice loud enough for the entire sidewalk to hear. “You’ll be here to pick me up later, right?” It was the first time she had called me “Daddy.” Even when she’d shown up at my door, she hadn’t used the word. The little boy stared at me, skeptical. “If you have a dad, why hasn’t he ever brought you to school before?” Sophie lifted her chin, her expression one of pure disdain. “My dad is an executive. He’s incredibly busy, but he took special time off today just for me.” She put a heavy emphasis on “special.” She paraded me to the entrance like I was a trophy. Before she went inside, her bravado flickered. She leaned in and whispered, “You… you are coming, right?” When I didn’t answer immediately, she glared at me, her voice trembling. “You promised in the car! Adults aren’t allowed to lie!” I knelt down, adjusted her crooked collar, and ruffled her hair. It was soft, just like I remembered. “I’ll be here. I promise.” A smile tugged at her lips before she forced her face back into a mask of regal indifference. “Fine. I’ll be waiting.” I watched her until she disappeared inside. Then, I found her teacher. I wanted to know how she was doing. The teacher hesitated, then sighed. “Look, I know the Jackson family is powerful, and maybe it’s not my place… but Sophie’s father? Even if you’re busy, you can’t just ignore her.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Nobody has ever come to a parent-teacher conference. Not once since she enrolled. The other kids have started saying she doesn’t have a father. It’s affecting her, Mr. Sterling.” My heart sank. Not even an assistant? Madeline couldn’t even be bothered to send a proxy? I felt a surge of regret. Maybe I shouldn’t have signed those papers. But back then, I was a bankrupt ghost with two dying parents. How could I have raised a child? I pulled out my phone and dialed Madeline’s number. I needed to talk to her. If she didn’t want Sophie, I would take her. I wasn’t rich, but I could give her a life. As the phone started ringing, a ringtone sounded right behind me. I turned around. Madeline was stepping out of a sleek black sedan. Six years had passed. She looked different, yet exactly the same. She was looking down at her buzzing phone, then she looked up and met my eyes. “You’ve been hiding from me for a long time,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s time we talked?” Unlike my haggard, worn-down self, Madeline was the picture of composed power. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. I’d heard rumors—that she’d taken over the entire Jackson empire, that her brand was a global powerhouse, that she lived a quiet, solitary life. Seeing her felt like a physical blow. The memories I had tried to starve out came rushing back, filling my chest with a dull, aching heat. I thought I was over her. I wasn’t. This was the girl who used to make me rings out of twisted grass. This was the girl who pushed my bullies into the pool. How did we end up as strangers in a parking lot? She hadn’t changed. She just didn’t care about me anymore. “Long time no see, Madeline.” 4 We went to a quiet coffee shop nearby. Neither of us spoke until the lattes arrived. I didn’t want to play games. “Do you still want the child?” I asked bluntly. I had rehearsed this confrontation in my head a thousand times over the years. I was finally numb enough to sound indifferent. Madeline looked at me, her gaze unreadable. “Of course I do.” I looked out the window at the street signs. “Then make sure you pick her up. If you’re too busy for the conferences, let me know. I won’t get in the way of you and—” I couldn’t say Victor’s name. The sting was still too sharp. “—your life.” I stood up to leave. As I passed her, she spoke. “Is that all you want to talk to me about? Sophie?” I paused. “What else is there? We settled everything six years ago. You moved on, I took the money. What’s left?” Madeline let out a slow breath, her dark eyes locked on mine. “Fine. Then I don’t want her anymore.” The casualness of it floored me. “What are you talking about?” She gestured for me to sit back down. “Exactly what I said. You want her? Fine. She’s yours. But for the sake of her mental health, I will be coming to your place every Friday night to spend the weekend with her. I’ll leave Monday mornings for the office.” It was absurd. It was irrational. “Madeline, we’re divorced.” She let out a dry, sharp laugh. “Are we? I never signed the papers.” I felt the blood drain from my face. Six years ago, her grandfather had handed me the papers. I assumed she was too disgusted to see me, so I signed them and left. She was saying she never finished the process. But why wait six years to find me? I wasn’t deluded enough to think she still loved me. Maybe the papers got lost. Maybe she needed a formal settlement for tax reasons. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll sign new ones.” “No,” she said. “Madeline, let’s just finish this. It’s better for everyone.” “It’s not.” “What is it? Money? Stocks? You can keep it all. I want nothing.” “No.” Three ‘no’s. It made me angry, but it also felt hauntingly familiar. This was the Madeline I knew as a teenager. I remembered her eighteenth birthday. A rival of mine had been mocking me, humiliating me in front of the elite crowd. Madeline had walked up and shoved him into the pool without a word. It was a scandal. The elders were furious. Madeline refused to apologize. Her grandfather had her locked in a study for three days as punishment. I had sat outside that locked door. “I’m sorry,” I whispered through the wood. There was a silence, then the sound of her shifting, sitting on the other side of the door. “Go away,” she’d mumbled. “You should have just let him talk,” I said. “It didn’t matter.” “No.” “Don’t be guilty,” she’d added, tapping on the door. “I did it because I wanted to. It has nothing to do with you. Don’t you dare feel guilty.” Coming back to the present, I felt like I was hearing those words again. Madeline smiled, the light from the window catching the faint dust motes in the air. “Miles,” she said, using my name for the first time. “We are never going to be ‘even.’”

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For as long as I could remember, the four heirs of New York’s most prominent dynasties had treated me as their most fiercely guarded possession. But the night a fresh-faced, lively girl stepped into the ballroom, the air in my world fractured. Suddenly, glowing lines of text began scrolling across my field of vision like a neon ticker tape: [The darling female lead and the male leads have finally met! Throwing confetti!] [They can’t help but be drawn to her. They’re finally learning what true love is. Watch them distance themselves from the side-character!] [The jealous best friend is going to hurt our precious girl, and the boys are going to destroy her family for it!] At first, I scoffed at the bizarre, floating hallucinations. That was until they all skipped my birthday gala, abandoning me just to take that girl to see the fireworks. Only then did it hit me: the boys who had clung to my side since childhood were truly gone. Fine. It was about time I found a real boyfriend anyway. 1 The ballroom was suffocatingly opulent, the air thick with the scent of expensive orchids and old money. Tristan Vanderbilt pressed his hand over my eyes, his chest warm against my back, deliberately blocking my view of the older, sophisticated Harrington heir across the room. I sighed, prying his heavy fingers away, only to have a small mother-of-pearl spoon pressed to my lips. Beluga caviar. Kieran Astor held the spoon, his dark eyes shimmering with pure, puppy-dog expectation. “Good?” It was rich, melting instantly on my tongue. I nodded. “Have another bite, Caro.” He tipped another spoonful toward me. Before I could swallow, Nathaniel Montgomery had already produced a pristine, monogrammed linen handkerchief, leaning in to dab at the corner of my mouth. I took the handkerchief from his elegant fingers, offering a faint, tolerant smile as I wiped my own mouth. “Dance with me next, Caro,” Kieran whined, tugging at the silk of my gown like a neglected child. “For God’s sake, Kieran, crying gets you nowhere. You’re suffocating her.” Tristan slapped Kieran’s hand away with a scowl, pulling me closer by the waist, staring down at me with those intense, hungry eyes. “Enough, both of you. You’re wrinkling her dress.” Harrison Dupont—the steady, authoritative anchor of our chaotic quintet—stepped in. He crouched smoothly, his broad shoulders shifting under his tailored tuxedo as he adjusted the hem of my gown. Beside him, Nathaniel gently tucked a stray wisp of hair behind my ear, restoring my composure to picture-perfect elegance. The rest of the elite guests in the room barely batted an eye. The sight of these four untouchable scions revolving around me like planets around a sun was an old, tired Manhattan legend. Then, she walked in. There were dozens of stunning women at this gala, draped in couture and diamonds. She was in a simple evening gown, looking around with wide, curious eyes. She shouldn’t have commanded the room. But as her gaze swept toward our corner, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew heavy. Slowly, as if pulled by an invisible, gravitational force, the four men beside me turned their heads. They froze. It was as if time had stopped, their eyes locked onto her, entirely unblinking. That was when the glowing text began scrolling frantically before my eyes: [Ahhhh! The female lead and the male leads have met! Love! Heart emojis!] [The boys are totally captivated! Is this the magic of love at first sight?] [The childhood friend must be so dumbfounded! From now on, they belong to the female lead. No one’s going to revolve around her anymore!] [When the wicked friend gets jealous and tries to hurt our baby, she’s finished! The boys will make her die a miserable death, haha!] I didn’t need a dictionary to know the “wicked friend” was me. I didn’t care about the psychotic floating words, but the physical reaction of the men beside me made my stomach drop. A cold, sharp hollow opened in my chest. The girl stared right back at them. She didn’t look intimidated. She didn’t look at me and shrink back in self-doubt or envy, the way other girls usually did when they saw the fortress these men built around me. Instead, she offered them a bright, unabashed smile. A silent, magnetic greeting. Beside me, the men shifted their weight. One by one, they stepped away from me, moving toward her. They didn’t even glance back. This had never happened. Never. They were ignoring me. They were walking toward someone else. Was this the “magic of love at first sight” the text had screamed about? I was witnessing it firsthand. 2 The heirs of New York’s four ruling families possessed notoriously short tempers with everyone—except me, Caroline Sinclair. A single furrow of their brows was usually enough to send people scrambling away in terror. Now, they stood in a semi-circle around this strange girl, laughing. Conversing. She smiled like a blooming flower; their eyes burned with an intense, heated focus. Murmurs rippled through the ballroom. People were staring, their eyes darting between the picturesque group and where I stood, suddenly, glaringly alone. The girl began walking toward me. The four men flanked her like devoted bodyguards. She extended a hand, her posture dripping with a casual, terrifying confidence. “Hi. I’m Maddie. Maddie Foster.” I met her grip. “Caroline Sinclair.” “I saw them standing with you earlier,” she said, her smile utterly flawless. “I didn’t want you to feel left out because of me, so I thought I’d come say hi.” I gave a polite, measured smile. “I’m perfectly fine.” “Maddie, you still haven’t picked which one of us gets to drive you home tonight,” Tristan murmured, the corner of his mouth curving in a way that used to be reserved only for me. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat while you decide. You can’t starve.” Kieran gently guided her by the elbow toward the sprawling buffet. Harrison and Nathaniel followed without a moment’s hesitation. A tidal wave of unfamiliar sensations washed over me—humiliation, confusion, and a bizarre, quiet grief. Whispers drifted from the champagne tables: “My God, did the Sinclair girl just get benched?” “The tectonic plates are shifting. Who is that girl?” The neon text danced in my vision: [Ugh, our girl’s charm is unmatched! She just stood there and completely defeated the side-character!] [This is the kind of pampered, center-of-attention trope I love! No angst for the female lead! The boys just spoil her!] [Exactly! Spoil the lead, torture the side-chick! Sweet and satisfying!] Meeting the barrage of sympathetic and calculating stares from the crowd, I calmly took a sip of my champagne. [Look at her acting so calm, she must be dying of rage inside! Haha!] [Oh, don’t worry, there’s plenty of days like this ahead. Once she overestimates herself and tries to fight for the men, they’ll ruin her family and she’ll finally learn her place!] …Did I really look like the kind of person who would resort to something so pathetic? Across the room, they seemed to have reached a verdict. Under the collective, breathless gaze of Manhattan’s elite, the four of them escorted Maddie Foster out of the ballroom. I went home alone. Late that night, the buzzer to my penthouse rang. I checked the monitor and unlocked the elevator. Tristan, who owned the penthouse across the street, stepped in. He held out a bundle of silk. “You left your wrap in my car. Brought it over.” “Thank you.” I took it from his hands. It was a wrap he had playfully hidden from me days ago, demanding I stay longer if I wanted it back. Now, he was voluntarily returning it. “What happened to your arm?” he asked suddenly. I glanced down at the small bandage near my elbow. “I must have scraped it on something.” He gave a curt nod. “Be careful then. I’m taking off.” He turned and walked back to the elevator. Just like that. In the past, a paper cut would have drained the color from his face. He would have dragged me to the sink, sterilized it himself, and fretted over it for an hour. Now, he couldn’t care less. A bitter, dry laugh escaped my lips as the doors slid shut. I suppose I really needed to get used to this new reality. [Haha, the boys are drawing boundaries!] [The side-chick doesn’t even know how panicked they were earlier when our girl almost tripped!] 3 Half a month bled by. I didn’t see a single one of them. The socialites in my circle were all too eager to feed me the gossip, and the floating ticker tape filled in the agonizing details. Where they took Maddie. How fiercely they competed for her attention. Exactly how they used to be with me. Maddie stubbed her toe, and they practically called in a medevac. They guarded her like she was the rarest diamond on earth. The rumor mill was brutal: The four princes of New York have discarded the Sinclair heiress for a middle-class Cinderella. Treasured. Worshipped. Caroline Sinclair was officially yesterday’s news. Amidst the noise, I buried myself in my work at my father’s firm. Before, they were a constant, disruptive presence. If I worked an hour of overtime, one of them would march into the boardroom and drag me out. If I had a dinner with a male client, they would lurk at the bar, claiming they were “making sure no one took advantage.” Now, the silence in my office was profound. I could finally just work. We eventually crossed paths at a high-profile charity auction at Sotheby’s. They sat in the front row, Maddie nestled like a queen among them. I sat several rows back with my friend, Harper. Lot after lot went to the front row. They bought Maddie millions in vintage jewels, drawing breathless sighs of envy from the women in the room. When a stunning pair of antique emerald drop earrings appeared on the screen, I raised my paddle. “Oh, those are beautiful. I love them,” Maddie said, her voice carrying just enough to be heard. Instantly, four paddles shot up from her row. I raised my paddle three more times. Finally, Harrison Dupont threw out a number so astronomically high it effectively silenced the room. A blank check. Auction over. Harper shot me a look of deep, painful pity. The text hovered, glowing mockingly: [Hahaha, who can compete with the male leads’ bank accounts? They’re going to give our girl the moon and the stars!] [Think about how good they used to treat the side-character. Now she’s nothing. Once you meet the one, your past means nothing!] [This is the pure, romantic satisfaction I crave!] During the intermission, the champagne flowed. Harper clicked her tongue. “I still can’t believe the four of them are doing this to you. How did it happen so fast?” I just shook my head, offering a small smile, and took a sip of my drink. “Miss Sinclair.” Maddie’s voice was sickeningly sweet. She approached our table, beaming. “I saw you bidding on those earrings. Since the boys have already bought me so much tonight, why don’t I just gift them to you? I’d hate for you to feel sad because of how well they treat me.” She held out the velvet box, her smile masking a sharp, arrogant provocation. [Our girl is so kind. Truly a pure, angelic soul!] Harper bristled. “If they bought them for you, keep them. It’s not like Caroline can’t afford her own jewelry.” I placed a restraining hand on Harper’s arm, turning back to Maddie. “No thank you. Keep them, Miss Foster.” “Oh my, your friend is so angry. Is she upset because Harrison and the others are treating me so well? Is she fighting your battles?” Maddie pouted, ignoring the dark look on Harper’s face. “Well, now I feel terrible. You must take these as an apology.” She thrust the box closer, practically shoving it into my chest. Frowning, I raised my hand to gently push the box away. “Ah!” Without my applying any pressure at all, Maddie threw her body backward, stumbling as if violently shoved. Tristan and the others, who had been watching like hawks, surged forward in a panic. Tristan caught her before she hit the carpet. “Are you okay?” Nathaniel, usually so composed, asked, his voice threaded with raw anxiety. All four of them hovered over her, their faces etched with absolute devotion and fear. Harper let out a breath of disbelief. She couldn’t fathom that these men—our men—were obsessing over someone else to this degree. Maddie leaned into Tristan’s chest, looking frail and flushed. “I’m okay. Thank God you caught me, Tris.” Then, she looked up at me, her eyes brimming with calculated tears. “Miss Sinclair, I know you’re upset that they favor me now, but you didn’t have to push me in front of everyone just to embarrass me!” The surrounding crowd turned toward us, eyes hungry for drama. The Sinclair-Vanderbilt-Astor-Montgomery-Dupont fallout was the only thing anyone cared about. “What the hell are you talking about?” Harper snapped. [Wait? Did the side-character actually push her? I didn’t see her move!] [You just weren’t paying attention! If our girl says she pushed her, she pushed her!] [This girl is so vicious! But whatever, with the boys here, she can’t hurt our baby. She’s just going to embarrass herself!] [Keep acting up, you wicked witch. They’re going to exile you to the middle of nowhere!] 4 I glanced at the floating text, took a slow, grounding breath, and let my voice drop to a freezing calm. “Aren’t you being a little ridiculous, Miss Foster? I barely moved my arm. Did I push you over with my mind?” Maddie stiffened, then her eyes narrowed in a fleeting, contemptuous sneer, confident she held all the cards. Kieran stepped up, his face flushed with anger. “Caro, Maddie was standing right in front of you and suddenly fell backward. If you didn’t push her, who did?” “We know this transition is hard for you, Caro,” he continued, his tone patronizing. “But we just find Maddie incredibly charming. She hasn’t done anything wrong. You can’t just attack her because you’re jealous.” Harper looked at Kieran like he had grown a second head. Maddie hid a triumphant smirk behind her hand. “He’s right, Caroline. That was uncalled for,” Tristan added, his voice low and cold. My expression turned to stone. I looked at the four of them, letting my gaze linger before settling on Kieran. “So you’re deciding, without question, that I pushed her?” Kieran scoffed. “Isn’t it obvious? Look, just apologize to Maddie, Caro. I’m sure she won’t hold it against you.” Maddie gave a theatrical sigh. “I suppose since Miss Sinclair is feeling so insecure lately, if she apologizes, I’ll be the bigger person and forgive her.” [Jealousy is so ugly. Look at the male leads defending their wife! So satisfying!] [Our girl is so generous!] “You people are out of your goddamn minds—” Harper started, but a single, glacial look from Harrison Dupont silenced her. No one crossed these men. And right now, all that immense, terrifying power was positioned behind Maddie Foster. Harper looked at me, her eyes wide with real fear. The whispers grew louder. Everyone was watching the mighty Caroline Sinclair be reduced to dirt beneath their shoes. “Just apologize, Caroline,” Harrison said softly, the disappointment in his voice heavy. Kieran smiled, a cruel, boyish twist of his lips. “You used to teach us to take responsibility for our actions, Caro. We get it. We’re great catches. You can’t bear to let us go, so you take it out on Maddie. But she belongs to us now, and we’re not going to let you bully her—” Smack. The sound of my hand striking Kieran’s cheek echoed like a gunshot through the silent room.

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For three years with Bennett, I was the legendary “Saint of Manhattan”—the most chillingly perfect girlfriend his social circle had ever seen. I never tracked his location. I never blinked when he flirted with other women. No matter how late he stayed out or how many suggestive photos ended up on his Instagram, I never started a fight. Bennett wore my compliance like a trophy. He loved to brag to his friends about how much I worshipped him, how he’d finally found a woman who “knew her place.” That was until he accidentally found the old cloud account I shared with my first love. In those old videos, I was anything but stable. I was petty, prone to jealousy, and temperamental. I was a lightning storm of emotions. In one video, my first love laughed helplessly as he pulled me into a hug. “Why is your fuse so short, Jo?” he teased. I looked into the camera, chin tilted defiantly. “I only get angry because I love you. If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t give a damn what you did.” I saw Bennett’s face as he watched it. He went completely still. 1 When I walked into the dimly lit lounge, Bennett had a girl in a silk slip dress perched on his lap. Her thin, pale arms were draped around his neck, and her lips—glossed to a high, sticky shine—were inches from his. The married men in the booth were already standing up, offering sheepish smiles to Bennett. “Sorry, B. My wife’s been blowing up my phone for twenty minutes. If I’m not home by midnight, I’m sleeping on the sofa.” Bennett didn’t even look up. He let the girl pluck the cigarette from his mouth and take a drag herself. He let out a sharp, mocking huff. “You guys are pathetic. Letting a woman keep you on a leash.” The single guys in the group cheered. “That’s our Bennett. Doesn’t matter if he rolls in at 4:00 AM, Jo never says a word. Come on, man, give us the secret. How did you train her?” The girl on his lap giggled, pressing her chest against his blazer. “Seriously, Bennett. You’re doing this right in front of me—aren’t you afraid your girlfriend will walk in and lose it?” Bennett smirked, a flicker of performative arrogance crossing his handsome face. “She’s obsessed with me. She does whatever I say. In three years, we haven’t had a single argument. She doesn’t have it in her to be angry.” “Incredible,” someone muttered with genuine envy. “The guy spends three years playing the field and she stays silent. That’s a real man’s life right there—” The man’s voice died in his throat. He had spotted me standing by the velvet curtain, expressionless. Bennett turned. There wasn’t a trace of guilt on his face. He simply nudged the girl off his lap and beckoned me over with a flick of his wrist. “What are you doing here?” I paused for a second, then walked over. My voice was level, polite. “I’m out with some friends.” The girl he’d pushed aside looked annoyed. She sized me up, her eyes lingering on my modest coat before offering a tight, forced smile. “Hi, Jo.” Up close, I recognized her. She was the new intern at Bennett’s firm—Crystal. She’d graduated from a mid-tier state school; Bennett had personally insisted on hiring her after seeing her headshot in the HR pile. I didn’t realize he’d moved this fast. I ignored her. Bennett had clearly been drinking. His dark eyes were hooded and hazy, looking unfairly beautiful under the amber lights. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward him. “You should’ve told me you were coming out. Give me a kiss.” He leaned in toward my mouth. I instinctively tilted my head away. I didn’t know if he’d just tasted Crystal’s lip gloss, and the thought made my skin crawl. Bennett’s expression shifted instantly. The smug smile evaporated. Even though he was sitting and I was standing, the way he looked at me felt like he was peering down from a great height. “Joanna. What the hell was that?” I looked away and said softly, “You’ve had too much to drink.” “You’re disgusted by me?” He sensed the eyes of his friends on him. He felt his ego bruising. Suddenly, he reached out, grabbed Crystal by the waist, and pulled her back onto his lap. He cupped the back of her head firmly. Crystal’s eyes lit up. She surrendered to the kiss immediately. They shared a long, wet, performative kiss right in front of me. When Crystal finally pulled away, breathless, a thin silver thread of saliva connected their lips. She looked at me, her mouth curling into a triumphant smirk. Bennett watched me, his eyes a challenge. The table went silent. Every man there knew that no woman should be able to stomach this. They were all waiting for the explosion, for the drink to be thrown, for the screaming to start. I just met Bennett’s gaze and said calmly, “You’re drunk. I’m going home.” As I turned to leave, I heard one of his friends whisper in awe. “Damn. Her ’emotional stability’ is terrifying. She didn’t even flinch.” “Bennett’s got her under a spell,” another laughed. “She’s probably terrified he’ll dump her if she makes a scene.”

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To pull the campus golden boy off his pedestal, I created three separate burner accounts to date him online. My plan was simple: make him fall head over heels, then shatter his heart into a million pieces. Account No. 1 was the “Sweetheart” — high-pitched, needy, and constantly whining about her “tummy rumbling” until he’d Venmo me for UberEats. Account No. 2 was the “Pro-Gamer” — a cold-blooded assassin in League of Legends who carried his sorry ass through matches while teasing him for being a “cute little noob.” Account No. 3 was the “Sugar Mommy” — an older, wealthy woman who threw money at him just to coax out spicy voice notes and shirtless gym selfies. And then, one night, the floor fell out from under me. To prove to a room full of people that he actually had a girlfriend, the “golden boy” put his phone on speaker and dialed. A second later, my pocket erupted. “Honey-bunny is calling! Honey-bunny is calling!” The ringtone blared, relentless and shrill. The entire room went deathly silent. I stood there, frozen: Well, shit. I played myself. 1 The referee’s whistle cut through the air, signaling the end of the game. Our varsity team had sunk a buzzer-beater three-pointer in the final second. As the crowd erupted in a deafening roar, I was still sitting in the bleachers, staring into space. “Wren, aren’t you going to go give Bradley his water? Move it!” My best friend, Piper, nudged me with a wicked grin. “That last shot was Nate Miller’s. God, he’s hot, right? I saw you staring. Admit it—is he hotter than your ‘God of Basketball’ Bradley or what?” “Not even close,” I shot back instinctively, grabbing the chilled bottle of Fiji water and heading down the stairs. Today was a scrimmage against a rival college. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal, and I’d only shown up to support Bradley. But for some reason, Nate Miller—the department’s resident heartthrob—had signed up for this game too. The second the girls in our year heard Nate was playing, they organized a cheering squad like it was the NBA Finals. From the moment he stepped onto the court, the screaming hadn’t stopped. It was terrifying, honestly. I sighed, feeling a pang of pity for my “God.” In every academic competition in our department, Bradley always seemed to fall just a hair behind Nate, forever relegated to second place. Now, Nate wouldn’t even let him have the spotlight in a measly scrimmage. Does the guy have a Main Character syndrome or something? Down on the court, Nate was already swamped by a mob of girls begging for selfies. Bradley stood in the corner, laughing and chatting with his teammates, looking heartbreakingly sidelined. Piper was still buzzing in my ear. “I seriously don’t get why you have such a massive chip on your shoulder when it comes to Nate. And this ‘Evil Catfishing Scheme’ of yours? It’s unhinged, Wren.” I clamped my hand over her mouth. If Nate Miller ever found out I was running three different personas just to mess with him, I’d be the lead story on the campus news by morning. Bradley spotted me and looked surprised. “Wren! You actually came to watch?” I gave him my best shy smile. “I came specifically to see you play, Bradley.” He chuckled, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. “I didn’t think anyone was watching me today.” Poor guy. Nate had sucked the confidence right out of him. I looked at Bradley with soft eyes, completely oblivious to the world, and held out the water. “Bradley, I got this for—” Before I could finish, a pale, long-fingered hand reached out and snatched the bottle right out of my grasp. Me: “?” 2 The crisp, sharp scent of peppermint swirled around me. Nate Miller stepped directly between Bradley and me. He had one hand buried in his gym shorts pocket while he tossed the water bottle up and down with the other. He leaned in, his eyes curving into a brilliant, predatory smile. “Wow, Wren. How’d you know I was dying for a drink? You’re a lifesaver.” I stared at him, flat-eyed. If you’re thirsty, go to a vending machine, you prick. The damp strands of hair on Nate’s forehead were soaked with sweat. Almost as if he knew exactly what he was doing, he brushed them back, revealing the sharp, perfect lines of his brow and eyes. The fangirls nearby let out a collective, strangled gasp. Even I had to admit, the man was offensively attractive. But where the hell did he even come from? I was fuming. That water was for my guy. Nate turned to Bradley, his tone light but edged. “You don’t mind if I take this, do you, Brad? You’re not that stingy, right?” Bradley blinked, then shook his head. “No, it’s fine.” Nate grinned, looking like he hadn’t tasted water in a century. He twisted the cap and chugged half the bottle in one go, his Adam’s apple bobbing rhythmically. I heard the girls whispering behind us. “Who is she? She’s so lucky Nate’s drinking her water! I’m literally dying.” “I think she’s a junior in his department. They say he’s got a soft spot for her.” I watched Nate finish the water with a completely blank expression. When he looked down at me with those “soulful” eyes, I simply held out my phone, screen glowing with my Venmo QR code. “Nate, I’m sorry, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m actually selling these. That’ll be four dollars.” Nate: “?” The Crowd: “…” The air went dead. I watched as the color rushed to Nate’s face, turning him a magnificent shade of crimson. He stared at me like I’d just grown a second head. What? You’ve never seen a girl run a business? Pay up. 3 To celebrate the win, the student union threw a small victory dinner at a local bistro. I was invited along with the rest of the support staff. When it was time to sit, I saw Bradley take a seat by the window. The chair across from him was empty. Jackpot. I kept my face neutral, moving with practiced ease to pull out the chair. “Bradley, what a coincidence! Looks like we’re table buddies.” Bradley smiled back, looking genuinely pleased. Suddenly, Nate, who was standing a few feet away, stopped mid-motion. He looked troubled, his brow furrowing as he scanned the room. The student union president asked, “Nate? Something wrong? Take a seat, man.” Nate bit his lip, looking embarrassed. “I… I have this weird thing. I can only eat if I’m sitting by a window. It’s a claustrophobia thing. If I’m not by the glass, I lose my appetite.” I stopped unwrapping my silverware. You lying sack of garbage. I’d seen him eat in the middle of a crowded, windowless cafeteria back in high school a thousand times. The president immediately turned to Bradley. “Brad, would you mind swapping with Nate? Just for the night?” No! Bradley, stay strong! I sat there, looking at Bradley with pleading eyes. But of course, being the “nice guy” he was, Bradley stood up and swapped places without a second thought. Nate slid into the chair directly across from me. He met my gaze and smiled like a harmless, fluffy golden retriever. “Wren, what a coincidence,” he purred, echoing my exact words back to me. “Looks like we’re table buddies.” The smirk he gave me made the hair on my arms stand up. 4 I was now eighty percent certain he was doing this on purpose. But I had no proof. I stabbed a piece of steak and chewed it with unnecessary violence. Just you wait, Nate. You have no idea what’s coming for you. Around us, the conversation was loud and cheerful. Nate, however, ignored the crowd, resting his chin on his hand as he watched me eat. His gaze was so intense it made my skin prickle. It was the kind of look that made you want to scream at someone to stop. But in real life, I was a chronic introvert with a touch of social anxiety. All I could do was bury my face deeper into my plate. Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me. Suddenly, Nate leaned in. “You know, Wren, you’re actually really cute when you eat.” “Pffft—” I choked, spraying a bit of rice across the table. My face felt like it was on fire. I glared at him, mortified. Nate didn’t even flinch. He just kept smiling that innocent, devastating smile. Ugh, such a player! I had three different personas currently blowing up his phone with “I miss you” texts, and here he was, flirting with the real me in broad daylight. Scum. Absolute scum. I pretended the steak was Nate’s heart and sliced into it again. 5 I had known Nate Miller was a two-faced playboy long before college. We went to the same high school. Back then, I was obsessed with this one specific Otome game. I was head over heels for a 2D character, calling him “husband” every five minutes. Piper used to say that if anyone ever talked trash about my 2D man, I’d haunt them like a Victorian ghost for the rest of their lives. Then, one day, I saw a video Nate posted on Instagram. He was already the school’s resident heartthrob. In the video, under moody purple lighting, he showed off his sharp profile, radiating a sort of “brooding loner” energy. But then he turned his screen to reveal… a photo of my 2D husband. The caption read: “On a snowy winter night, I wish I could be the one standing by your side, just like him.” The comment section was a disaster zone of thirsty girls. “OMG! My two favorite husbands in one frame!” “Nate, I’ll be your winter girl!” I felt my blood pressure skyrocket. I scrolled through Nate’s other posts. Nearly every single one featured a tag or a reference to my game. He even posted clips of himself playing it. To me, no matter how attractive a 3D guy is, “cosplaying” or trying to skin-walk a 2D character is a capital offense. That night, Piper witnessed the true terrifying power of a woman scorned. She watched me scroll through Nate’s feed, cursing him with every insult I could conjure. From that day on, Nate Miller was on my permanent blacklist. Then we got to college, and I met Bradley. I quickly realized that Nate was still overshadowing everyone—including Bradley. Even the girl Bradley had a crush on had once confessed to Nate, only to be rejected. That was the breaking point. To expose Nate’s true, manipulative nature, I launched the “Evil Catfishing Plan.” I would make him fall in love, drain his bank account (ironically, of course), and then dump him so hard he’d never look at a 2D character again. 6 Piper was scrolling through her phone next to me when she let out a quiet “Oh, wow.” She turned her screen to show me a post on the campus forum. Someone had snapped a photo of Nate taking the water bottle from me today. In the shot, my back was a blurry mess of pixels, but Nate looked like he’d been professionally airbrushed, drinking the water with cinematic grace. Me: “…” The injustice was staggering. I looked at Nate, who was currently charming the table, and a wicked idea took root. I ducked my head and switched my phone to the “Sweetheart” account. My thumbs flew across the keyboard. Bunny: [Sent a photo of the forum post] Bunny: Nate! Bunny is going to cry! Who is this girl at the game? People are saying you drank her water! Hmph!! Nate’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced down, and I watched his expression from across the table. He froze for a second, but then a slow, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He typed back immediately. Nate: Bunny, baby, it was just water. She’s just a girl in my department. Nothing more. Bunny: Liar! Bunny doesn’t believe you. You’re surrounded by pretty girls every day. You’ve probably already replaced me, you big meanie! Typing that out took every ounce of my self-control not to burst out laughing. Nate looked genuinely distressed. Nate: How can I prove my heart only belongs to you? Just then, the student union president noticed Nate’s distraction. He stood up with a glass. “Nate! You were the MVP today. We couldn’t have won without you. Let’s have a toast!” Nate set his phone down and stood up with a glass of orange juice. “It was a team effort,” he said, sounding modest and perfectly composed. “I just helped get us over the finish line.” Piper sighed beside me. “God, he’s so well-spoken. It’s hard not to like him…” “Wait, are you even listening?” I was staring at my phone, imagining the look on Nate’s face when he read my next demand. Piper nudged my shoulder. “Wren, do you realize how creepy you look right now?” “What?” “You look like a thirsty fanfic writer who just saw their ‘ship’ go canon. It’s a bit much.” “…” Hehe. I can’t help it. Nate sat back down and checked his phone. His face went pale. Bunny: If you mean it, send me a voice note right now. Tell me you love your wittle Bunny-wunny the most in the whole wide world. Nate: Baby, I’m out at dinner with a bunch of people. Bunny: I don’t care! I want it now! Or we’re through! I was shaking with suppressed laughter. Nate suddenly bolted upright, nearly knocking his chair over. The whole table went quiet, staring at him. “Something wrong?” someone asked. Nate’s face was as red as a lobster. He stammered, “I… I have to go to the bathroom. Keep eating.” He practically fled the room. I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned away, burying my face in my hands as my entire body shook with silent, hysterical laughter. 7 Nate was gone for a long time. The table continued to chatter, while I sat in the corner, refreshing my screen. Given Nate’s flair for the dramatic, he was probably in a stall right now trying to find the perfect “seductive” tone of voice. Bunny: Nate? Why aren’t you responding? Bunny is getting really mad now! You want to break up, don’t you? A second later, a 23-second voice note appeared. My heart actually skipped a beat. Twenty-three seconds? What did he say? I moved away from the group, pressed the phone to my ear, and turned the volume down to the lowest setting. His voice was low, melodic, and held a trace of genuine embarrassment: “I love Bunny the most… Bunny is my sweetest little baby girl. I’m sorry for making you wait, princess. Don’t be mad, okay? Daddy’s coming home soon…” He had lowered his register until it was a husky, intimate murmur. It sounded like a lover whispering in the dark. My brain actually short-circuited for a moment. Even though I hated him, I had to admit—the man was a professional. When he “dated” my alt accounts, he was never stingy with his affection. Being pampered by him—even if it was all a lie—made me feel a strange, momentary dizziness. I slammed the “stop” button on the audio. Nate returned to his seat at the same time. My phone buzzed again. Nate: Did you hear it? Do you believe me now? Bunny: Teehee. You’re the best. I typed it out with cold, clinical precision. Hahaha. You don’t have a sincere bone in your body, Nate Miller. 8 Back at the dorm, I applied a face mask and pulled out my other two phones. Nate had been busy. Nate: Rogue, baby. I missed you tonight. Nate: Madeline, I’m thinking about you. What a dog. If there were an Olympic event for time management, this guy would take the gold every year. I decided to reply as Account No. 2, “Rogue,” the gamer girl. Rogue: Get online, kid. There’s a guild war. I’m carrying you. Nate replied instantly. Nate: Rogue! Where have you been? I checked the server, you weren’t even logged in. Are you ignoring me? Ah, the classic “guilt trip” play. Too bad “Rogue” was a stone-cold ice queen. Rogue: Don’t get clingy, little man. We’re here to play. If you’re going to whine, I’ll find another support to carry. Nate sent back a crying cat emoji. Nate: T^T No, don’t leave. I’ll play. But I’m still trash, so don’t let them bully me. Protect me, okay? It was honestly fascinating. He was a total chameleon. With “Bunny,” he was the doting older boyfriend. With “Rogue,” he was the submissive, clingy “soft boy.” And when I switched to “Madeline,” the rich older woman… he became the charming, flirtatious young puppy. He really put in the work. I logged into the game. My character was a fierce warrior in green robes, wielding a massive broadsword. Standing next to me was Nate’s character… a walking disco ball. He had spent a fortune on the gaudiest, most expensive gear. He wore a glowing crown, a shimmering cape, and rings that pulsed with golden light. He was a mobile loot drop. Nate was famous on the server for being the “No. 1 Pay-to-Win Noob.” A rival guild member typed in the world chat: “Is that the server’s richest loser again? Bringing out the shiny toys for us to break?” Nate’s character leaned against mine. Nate: Baby, they’re being mean to me! Honestly, the rival guy has a point, I thought, laughing as I swung my massive sword. The guild war erupted into a chaos of light and steel. 9 Nate’s voice kept crackling through my headset. “Rogue! My health bar is halfway gone! It hurts!” “God, you look so hot when you swing that sword. My heart is actually pounding.” I glanced at the screen where I had just used Nate’s character as a human shield to block a fireball. I smirked. Your heart is pounding? Let’s turn up the heat. I kept playing with one hand and used the other to switch to Account No. 3. Madeline: Sorry, sweetie. I had a long day at the office. What are you up to? The voice chat went dead for a second. Then, a message popped up. Nate: Just got out of the shower, Madeline. Liar. Madeline: Oh? Show me those abs. I’m exhausted and could use a little eye candy to wake me up. At the same time, I spoke into the headset as “Rogue.” “What’s wrong? Why are you quiet all of a sudden?” Nate didn’t answer in the game. Instead, my “Madeline” phone buzzed with a photo. It was Nate, leaning against a bathroom mirror, a towel slung low on his hips. His hair was damp, water droplets still clinging to his chest and tracing the lines of his V-cut. Jesus, have some decency. I cursed under my breath, feeling a flush creep up my neck. I typed back: Madeline: You really are my favorite little man. I think I need to hear your voice. I’m calling you now. Madeline: [Sent a screenshot of a “busy” signal] Madeline: Wait, why is your line busy, Nate? Who are you talking to? Nate: I’m… uh, I’m on a work call, Madeline! Meanwhile, in the headset, Nate’s voice finally returned. “Sorry, Rogue! I’m back.” I looked at the “Death” screen for Nate’s character. “You weren’t paying attention,” I said coldly. “You died so fast it was pathetic. I’m done for the night.” Nate panicked. “I didn’t mean it! I’m just… a little slow sometimes. Don’t be mad!” I ignored him on the headset and kept blowing up his “Madeline” phone. Madeline: I want to hear your voice right now, or I’m going to be very upset. Are you going to be a good boy for me? Nate: Okay… anything for you. Then, over the headset, I heard Nate say in a fake-sweet voice: “Rogue, honey, I have to take this. I’ll be back in a bit to make it up to you.” Rogue: “Who is it?” Nate: “It’s… my aunt. Family emergency.” “…” Unbelievable. I didn’t realize I’d been added to the family tree. I gritted my teeth. Just wait, Nate Miller. There’s going to be a day when you’re on your knees begging for my mercy.

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My mother always said her best friend was the most graceful, most principled woman in the world. But there she was. The woman I’d called “Auntie” my whole life, the woman who supposedly knew everything about boundaries, was currently curled into my husband’s chest. Her hand was wandering, tracing the line of his jaw with a sickening familiarity. The moment I ripped the mask off her face, the air in the hotel room turned to lead. The slap I’d rehearsed in my head, the screaming match I’d prepared for—it all died in my throat. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting, a dull numbness spreading from my skull to my fingertips. “You’re family,” I whispered, my voice trembling so hard it barely sounded like mine. “How could you do something so… so subhuman?” She didn’t flinch. Instead, she let out a soft, melodic laugh. With a straight face and a voice full of unearned authority, she told me she was simply “testing” my husband for me. I looked at the two of them—this scene so absurd it bordered on the surreal—and I started to laugh. A jagged, hysterical sound. Fine. If one of you has no shame and the other is looking for a thrill, I’ll give you exactly what you deserve. 1 The hotel hallway was bathed in a dim, amber glow that felt like sticky syrup, coating the two of them in a sickly light. My stomach did a slow, violent roll. Nausea surged in the back of my throat. I thought I would scream. I thought I’d turn into a madwoman, clawing at their lying faces. But I didn’t. My body reacted faster than my mind. A bone-chilling cold raced up my spine, settling at the base of my brain. The rage didn’t vanish; it was just compressed, shoved deep into my chest where it simmered without an exit. I forced myself to breathe. I dug my nails into the soft meat of my palms until the sharp sting brought a flicker of clarity. I pulled out my phone. As the screen lit up, I saw Bradley’s face. My husband. He looked like a dog that had just been caught eating off the table—panicked, pathetic, desperate to hide the evidence of his sin. He lunged toward me. “Summer, wait! Let me explain. It’s not what it looks like!” His voice was thin, reeking of his usual cowardice. “Don’t move,” Victoria said, stopping him in his tracks. Victoria. My mother’s best friend of thirty years. The woman who had watched me grow up. She didn’t even fully untangle herself from Bradley’s arms. She just hooded her eyes, looking at me with a strange mix of excitement and provocation. She was wearing that perfume my mother always praised—something “soft and elegant.” Now, mixed with the stale, recycled air of a cheap hotel room, it made me want to gag. I hit the record button. The small red dot on the screen blinked like a cold, unblinking eye, witnessing everything. “Testing my husband?” I repeated her words. My voice was so flat it sounded like I was reading lines for a play I wasn’t even in. Victoria smiled. It was a light, feathery thing, but it cut like a razor. “Yes, Summer.” She finally stood up straight, smoothing out her dress with practiced elegance. “Men these days… they can’t be trusted. I was worried you were being played, so I decided to see what he was made of.” She took a step toward me, her tone shifting into that of a concerned elder. “And look. He failed instantly. A man like this? He’s not worth your time.” Bradley’s face went from pale to a bruised purple. He opened his mouth to protest, but one sharp look from Victoria silenced him. He looked like a marionette, his strings held by a woman twenty years his senior. Suddenly, it hit me. This wasn’t just an affair. This was a joke. A cruel, meticulously planned joke at my expense. I pointed the camera directly at Victoria’s perfectly maintained face. “So, how long has this ‘test’ been going on?” “Bradley was the one who came to me,” Victoria said, her voice dripping with faux-sympathy. “He said your marriage was suffocating. That he couldn’t breathe. He said living with you was like living with a piece of wood—boring, lifeless. He needed someone who understood him. Someone who could bring back the spark.” She sighed. “Summer, don’t be mad at me. I did this because I care about you. I wanted you to see his true colors before it was too late.” Bradley was sweating now, stammering over his words. “No! That’s not—she seduced me! Summer, you have to believe me!” His defense only served to complete her narrative. A perfect, closed loop of betrayal. I watched them through the screen—one smug, one frantic. Whatever was left of the thing I called “love” was ground into the carpet. I could almost hear the physical snap of my heart breaking. “Test passed,” I said. I stopped the recording and tucked the phone away, forcing a twisted smile. “You two deserve each other.” I looked at them—the executioner and the man-child—standing in the shadows of the hallway. They looked ridiculous. I saw the confusion in their eyes, maybe even a flicker of fear, as I turned my back on them. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t waste another word. My heels clicked softly against the plush hotel carpet. I walked away as quietly as I had arrived. One step. Two steps. Three. The moment I pushed through the revolving doors and hit the street, the icy night air slammed into me. My knees buckled. I collapsed onto the sidewalk, my body shaking with a violence I couldn’t control. The tears finally came—a flash flood that blurred the world into a smear of neon lights. So this was what it felt like to be hollowed out. 2 I don’t remember the Uber ride. I don’t remember walking up the steps to my mother’s house. My hands shook so badly I couldn’t get the key into the lock. Before I could try a third time, the door clicked open. My mother, Evelyn, stood there in her silk robe, her face etched with worry. “Summer? What are you doing here at this hour? You look like a ghost.” The moment I saw her, the wire I’d been walking on all night snapped. I fell into her arms, sobbing like a lost child. She was the only person left who felt like home. Evelyn gasped, patting my back rhythmically. “What happened? Did you and Bradley have a fight? Honey, it can’t be that bad.” I couldn’t catch my breath. The words came out in jagged, broken shards. “Mom… Bradley… he’s with Victoria. At a hotel.” The hand on my back stopped moving. Evelyn gripped my shoulders and pulled me back, her expression hardening into something I didn’t recognize. “Summer, think about what you’re saying. What do you mean, Bradley and Victoria?” I looked at her, desperate for her to hold me again, to tell me she’d handle it. I told her everything. Every sordid detail of what I saw in that hallway. Evelyn’s brow furrowed. But her first reaction wasn’t anger at them. It wasn’t comfort for me. It was a sharp, cold interrogation. “Are you sure? Maybe you saw it wrong. Maybe it was a misunderstanding.” Those words hurt worse than the hotel air. “A misunderstanding? Mom, I saw them with my own eyes. I was there.” I fumbled for my phone, my hands still trembling. “I recorded it. Look!” Evelyn flinched as if the phone were a hot coal. She turned her head away, covering her eyes. “I won’t look at that!” her voice rose, sharp and scolding. “Summer! How could you even think such things about Victoria?” “She’s been my best friend for thirty years! I know her better than I know myself. She treats you like her own daughter! She would never do something so disgusting.” I stood there, arm extended, phone in hand. My own mother was looking at me with a mixture of disbelief and disgust—not for the cheaters, but for me. She started listing Victoria’s virtues like a litany. “She stayed up all night with you when you were sick as a baby. She gave you the biggest check at your wedding. She’s the one who introduced you to Bradley! Why would she destroy your marriage?” “You’re just confused. You must have seen someone else.” I felt the blood in my veins turn to slush. Thirty years of being her daughter didn’t stand a chance against thirty years of “sisterhood.” My pain was just “immaturity” to her. My trauma was a “slander” against her friend. She didn’t even look at me again. She picked up her own phone and dialed Victoria’s number. The second the call connected, Evelyn’s voice softened into a coo of concern. “Victoria? Oh, did I wake you? I’m so sorry, but Summer just got here and she’s saying the most awful things…” I watched my mother’s face shift from confusion to a slow, nodding realization, and finally, to a burning anger directed at me. She hung up and looked at me like I was a stranger who had just insulted her honor. “I’ve heard enough,” she snapped. “Victoria told me everything. She was at that hotel for a business meeting with a client. She happened to see Bradley there—he was drunk, Summer. She was just helping him to his room because she’s a decent person. And you? You burst in and started screaming at her. She’s been crying on the phone, she’s so hurt!” Evelyn pointed a finger at my face, her voice shaking with indignation. “Summer, you are going to call her right now and apologize.” Apologize? To the woman who had just dismantled my life? To the woman who was currently gaslighting my mother? A sense of profound absurdity washed over me. I looked at this woman—my mother—who was so blinded by a toxic friendship that she was willing to sacrifice her own child. I realized then that you can’t wake someone who is pretending to be asleep. We screamed at each other. I used words I’d never used with her, and she looked at me with a coldness that froze my heart solid. “I am so disappointed in you,” she said. It was the last thing she told me before I walked out. I grabbed my bag and ran into the night. I didn’t cry this time. I was numb. True loneliness isn’t being alone. It’s realizing that the person you trusted most as your backup just stabbed you in the back. 3 I went back to the place we called “home.” The moment I opened the door, the smell of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey hit me. Bradley was curled on the sofa like a wounded animal, surrounded by empty bottles. He scrambled to his feet when he heard the door, his bloodshot eyes wide with terror. He tripped over his own feet and fell to his knees in front of me. “Summer, I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!” He grabbed my legs, sobbing like a child. “It was a mistake! I was stupid! I’m not a man, I’m a piece of trash!” He started slapping himself—hard. The sound of skin hitting skin echoed in the silent living room. I looked down at him. This was the man I’d shared a bed with for three years. His performance was top-tier; his face was already starting to swell. But I felt nothing. No pity, no anger. Just a vast, empty wasteland where my feelings used to be. “It was Victoria! She seduced me!” he cried when he saw I wasn’t reacting. “She told me you were too controlling, that you didn’t know how to take care of a man. She said she’d take care of me like… like a mother. I was just confused, Summer! I love you, only you!” He was weeping, painting himself as the victim of a predatory older woman. It was a pathetic, desperate attempt to shift the blame. I watched him like I was watching a bad movie. This man would never take responsibility. He would only kneel and bleed until he got what he wanted. In the past, I would have softened. I would have helped him up. Not today. He made a show of taking out his phone and deleting Victoria’s contact info, blocking her on everything. “See? I’m done with her! Just give me one more chance. Please.” He looked up at me, his face red and puffy, begging for the familiar comfort of my forgiveness. I knew he wasn’t sorry. He was just scared. Scared I’d post the video and ruin his reputation. Scared he’d lose his comfortable life. I looked at him, and a plan began to take shape. A cold, surgical plan. I let my expression soften, just a fraction. I pulled my leg away from his grasp and spoke in a raspy whisper. “I need time to think.” Bradley’s eyes lit up. He saw a crack in the door. He thought this was just like all our other fights—that if he groveled low enough, I’d eventually cave. “Yes, of course. Take all the time you need,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “But… don’t leave, okay? I’ll stay right here. I won’t leave your side.” I shook my head. “I’m staying at my mom’s for a while. I’ll contact you when I’ve cleared my head.” The light in his eyes dimmed, but he didn’t dare argue. “Okay. Whatever you need.” He thought “clearing my head” meant finding a way to forgive him. He had no idea that I was actually figuring out how to make him and Victoria pay for every single thing they’d taken from me. I started packing a bag. While he went to the kitchen to get me a glass of water, I grabbed his phone from the coffee table. No passcode. The irony was almost funny. I moved fast. I opened his messages, his bank apps, his call logs. I used a simple recovery tool I’d learned about for work to pull up the “deleted” chats. The filth I found was staggering. Explicit photos, high-frequency bank transfers, hotel bookings… every message was a fresh knife in my heart. I didn’t flinch. I backed everything up and sent it to a burner email address. When I was done, I zipped my suitcase and headed for the door. Bradley caught up to me, holding a glass of lukewarm water. “Summer, drink some water before you go.” He looked so small, so eager to please. I didn’t take the glass. I just looked at him and said, “Don’t follow me.” I shut the door on his desperate face. Outside, I took a long, deep breath. It tasted like copper. Summer, the girl who loved Bradley, died tonight. The woman who walked away is someone else entirely.

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I died at forty-five, my body a hollowed-out shell of used-up parts. But when I opened my eyes, I was back in the mountain air of Montana, the sun biting at my skin. I was standing right outside the staff dorms. David was there, leaning against his truck, checking his watch. We were supposed to drive down to the county clerk’s office to sign our marriage license. In my past life, this was the day I chained myself to a ghost. Back then, David found out I was pregnant, and then he vanished. He stayed gone for twenty years, chasing a woman named Rose. He only came back when I was on my deathbed. He didn’t come for me, though. He sat by my side, staring at a faded photograph of Rose—who had died shortly before—and whispered, “If I’d just waited a little longer to sign those papers with you, would things have ended differently?” 1 The realization that I had traveled back hit me like a physical blow. David looked younger, his face unlined by the decades of guilt he’d eventually carry. “Ready, Nora?” he asked, flashing that easy, clean-cut smile that used to make my heart skip. “I forgot I have to drop off some blueprints at the site office,” I lied, my voice steadier than I felt. “Why don’t you head to the clerk’s office first? I’ll meet you there in an hour.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure. Don’t be late. They close at four.” The moment his truck kicked up dust down the trail, I turned and headed the opposite way. I climbed the ridge toward Mrs. Adler’s place. She was an old local who lived in a cabin overlooking the valley. I spent the morning in her weathered rocking chair, watching the mist roll over the pines. The sun felt different today—heavy, like it was trying to anchor me to this new reality. Mrs. Adler handed me a mug of hot cider. “Thought you were supposed to be eloping with that engineer today, Nora. What are you doing up here chasing clouds?” I took a slow sip, the warmth spreading through my chest. “I had a nightmare, Mrs. Adler. I woke up and realized I couldn’t breathe.” She patted my hand, her skin like parchment. “Dreams are just shadows, honey. Life is what’s in front of you. Once you’re Mrs. David Miller, you’ll have a house and a life. No use being scared of shadows.” I looked at her and forced a smile. “You’re right. I just needed a moment to think.” Marry David? Not in this lifetime. Not in any lifetime. 2 In the life I left behind, we signed the papers and walked out of that office as husband and wife. We hadn’t gone ten feet before he collided with a girl. Her name was Rose. She was a local girl, the kind with wild hair and eyes that looked like they held secrets the mountains hadn’t told anyone else. On the drive back to the site, David was silent. I thought he was just being respectful, settling into his new role as a married man. I thought he was being “proper.” I didn’t find out until the very end that he wasn’t being proper. He was mourning. That one collision had been lightning. He’d fallen in love with Rose at first sight, right there on the courthouse steps with our marriage license still damp in his pocket. He wasn’t avoiding other women for my sake; he was regretting me. He was cursing the fact that he hadn’t waited just one more day to be free. After that, the light in him went out whenever he looked at me. He spent hours staring toward the valley where Rose lived. When I asked him what was wrong, he’d snap at me or shut down. Eventually, I stopped asking. I threw myself into my work, thinking he just needed time to adjust to domestic life. When the Montana project ended, we were assigned to different states. Long distance. I thought it was a temporary sacrifice for our careers. But every time a new contract came up, he was in Maine while I was in Texas. He was in Oregon while I was in Florida. “It’s just how the firm assigned it, Nora,” he’d say over the phone, his voice flat. Years later, during a trip to the main office in Chicago, I overheard his colleagues talking. Every single “separation” had been requested by David. He was actively fleeing me. We had a screaming match that night. He held me, sobbing, apologizing for things he wouldn’t name. And then, the next morning, he was gone again. I thought our marriage was over then. But life is cruel—I found out I was pregnant. When I told him, he changed. He became the perfect husband. He moved back. He cooked for me, he pressed his ear to my stomach to listen to the baby, he walked me through the park every evening. I thought I’d finally won. Then, one Tuesday, he went out for milk and never came back. I spent twenty years looking for him. I raised our son alone. I worked two jobs. I buried my parents and his parents. I assumed he was dead. But when my heart started failing at forty-five, he appeared at my bedside. He’d been with Rose the whole time. They’d moved to a small town in Vermont and adopted a son. They gave that boy everything—all the love and presence he’d denied our biological son. The only reason he came back was that Rose had died of a broken heart, her only regret being that she was never legally his wife. David told me he was sorry, but he also said he resented me. He blamed me for being the “legal” obstacle that kept Rose from her dying wish. I wanted to scream. If you didn’t love me, why didn’t you just leave? Why didn’t you ask for a divorce? Why leave me to rot in the uncertainty of a “missing” husband while you played house with her? And the final twist of the knife? My own son, the one I’d sacrificed my health to raise, told me he envied the boy David had adopted. He told me he’d been in contact with his father for years. He’d kept David’s secret while I spent my nights weeping over old photos. 3 I stayed at Mrs. Adler’s for another hour. I didn’t rush. When I finally arrived at the county office, I saw it happening in real-time. Rose was on the ground. David was helping her up. He was staring at her with an expression I can only describe as “struck.” The irritation he’d felt waiting for me had vanished, replaced by a raw, hungry kind of awe. In my first life, I’d rushed over to help her. I’d been the one to strike up a conversation, being the “friendly wife.” I’d been so blind. Standing back now, as a spectator, it was so obvious it was sickening. “David,” I called out, my voice cool. “I’m here. Sorry I kept you waiting.” David stiffened. He looked at me, then back at Rose, his face a mask of panic and confusion. “Oh… Nora. You’re… you’re here. I was just… she fell.” I noticed Rose looking at me. In my last life, she’d been shy. This time? Her gaze was complicated. There was a flash of something sharp—was it jealousy? Or something else? I wondered: If they don’t have the marriage license to blame this time, what will they do? “Well, the clock is ticking,” I said, pointing at the office door. “Let’s go get this over with.” David’s face went pale. “Ow… my ankle,” Rose suddenly whimpered. In the first life, she hadn’t been hurt. This time, her timing was impeccable. A cold shiver went down my spine. Did she know? Was she “back,” too? I watched her closely, but her face was a mask of girlish pain. David didn’t even hesitate. He took her to the local clinic. The doctor told him there was nothing wrong—just a slight scrape that would have healed by the time they walked out the door. Rose looked embarrassed. David, however, looked relieved. As we walked back past the county office, David looked at his shoes. “Nora, they’re closed now. Maybe… maybe we should come back tomorrow?” I looked at the locked door. “We’ll see. You have to pick the right day for these things, don’t you?” There would never be a “right day” for us again. David sighed, his shoulders dropping. “Okay. I’ll tell Mrs. Adler we’re pushing it back.” 4 We had two bikes. On the ride back to the site, Rose didn’t even ask—she just hopped onto the back of David’s bike, her arms wrapping firmly around his waist. David looked at me, sheepish, but he didn’t pull away. I didn’t say a word. I pedaled ahead, the mountain wind whistling past my ears. I could hear them laughing behind me—low, intimate sounds. How long had it been since I’d heard David laugh like that? In my previous life, that sound died the moment he met her. Now, I realized it hadn’t died; it just wasn’t for me. When we reached the site dorms, the other engineers and locals watched them. They saw Rose clinging to him. They looked at me with pity or confusion, coughing and shaking their heads. I just smiled and went to my room. 5 David had already rented a small cottage near the site for our “honeymoon” phase. Most of my things were already there. I walked past the cottage on my way to the mess hall. It was a simple place—two bedrooms, a small porch. In my last life, I’d come back here and seen the red ribbons I’d hung up, feeling like the luckiest woman in the world. Nobody knew that on our wedding night, the “groom” had gone cold. We’d lain in that bed, side by side, two strangers in a room full of unspoken regrets. He hadn’t touched me. He’d just stared at the ceiling until dawn. 6 I didn’t wait for David to come back. I went to my old dorm room and pulled a manila envelope from the back of my desk. It was my transfer request back to the Chicago headquarters. It wasn’t just a transfer; it was a massive promotion. In my first life, I’d torn this paper up because I didn’t want to be away from my new husband. That choice cost me everything. My career stalled. I ended up in a dead-end administrative role because I was too busy being a single mother and a caretaker for his ungrateful parents. My son used to look at me with such disdain. “Why can’t you look like Rose?” he’d say. “Her clothes are always so nice. You’re just… tired.” Rose. He’d almost said her name back then, hadn’t he? The memory made my blood run cold. My son had been in on the betrayal for years. He’d hidden his father’s life from me while I worked myself into an early grave to buy him sneakers and pay for his college. 7 At dinner, David didn’t come by my room like he usually did. I went to the mess hall alone. I saw them immediately, tucked into a corner booth. They were sharing a plate, David leaning in close, murmuring something that made Rose giggle into her hand. When David saw me, he froze. He stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his water. “Nora! Hey. Uh, Rose just got back to town and she didn’t have any groceries. I figured I’d grab her a bite. I was going to bring you something later, I didn’t think you’d be here so early.” Early? The dinner service was almost over. The trays were nearly empty. I remembered the first life. The night we were supposed to celebrate our marriage. David said he’d go get food. He came back hours later, empty-handed, and said, “The kitchen ran out. Just go to sleep.” I’d gone to bed hungry on my wedding night while he was out feeding her. I didn’t say anything. I just grabbed a tray, took the leftovers, and went back to my room. Halfway through my meal, there was a knock. It was both of them. David looked awkward, clearing his throat. “Nora, I wanted to ask you a favor.” I looked at him, chewing slowly. He looked at Rose, who was standing there like a kicked puppy. His eyes softened—a look he never gave me. “See, Rose is back in her family’s old house, but it’s a mess. No heat, no water. And since we haven’t… you know, officially moved into the cottage yet… I thought maybe she could stay there for a few days?” I looked at Rose. She shivered, tucking herself behind David’s arm. The Rose I knew in my first life was a shadow. This Rose was a performer. I was almost certain now—she’d come back, too. She was playing the “damsel” role perfectly. “Sure,” I said. “It’s your lease, David. Do what you want.” David blinked. He’d expected a fight. He had a whole speech prepared about “Christian charity” and “neighborly duty.” “But,” I added, “I don’t like people touching my things. I’m going over there tonight to pack up my stuff.” “No need for that!” David said quickly. “I’ll just move your boxes into the spare room. She can have the main bedroom—it’s already made up.” The main bedroom. Our marriage bed. He wanted her to sleep in the bed I’d picked out for us. I saw the corner of Rose’s mouth twitch into a tiny, victorious smile. 8 After dinner, I took a flashlight and walked over to the cottage. When I arrived, David was already there, tucking Rose into bed. He was using the silk sheets I’d bought specially for our first night. “Nora,” he said, startled. “I put your boxes in the small room.” “Fine.” I went into the spare room and started dragging my boxes out. David followed me, his expression unreadable. “Nora… are you okay?” Rose drifted into the hallway. “David? Are those the sheets for your wedding? Oh, I feel terrible. Maybe I should just sleep on the floor on top of my old coat…” David’s heart clearly broke for her. He looked at me. “Nora, look, the sheets are already on the bed. It’s just for a few nights.” I saw the triumph in her eyes. She thought she was winning a prize. She didn’t realize I was handing her a ticking landmine. “The sheets were bought with your money, David,” I said flatly. “Use them however you like.” “Thank you, Nora! You’re so sweet,” Rose chirped. “I can’t believe I’m sleeping in David’s house. In his bed!” The implication hung heavy in the air. David looked at me, waiting for a reaction. A test of my boundaries. Rose realized she’d overplayed it and quickly covered her mouth. “Oh! I didn’t mean it like that! Nora, don’t be mad! I’m just a mess, I didn’t mean anything by it.” She made a move to grab her bags, pretending to leave. David stopped her, of course. I just smiled at her. “It’s fine, Rose. Really. Sleep tight. If you like the bed so much, maybe you should just keep it. I’m sure David wouldn’t mind if you stayed permanently.” Rose’s face fell. She couldn’t understand why the “dumb, jealous Nora” from her memories wasn’t showing up. I leaned in, whispering just loud enough for her to hear. “You want him so bad? He’s all yours. I just wonder if he’ll be as charming when you’re the one cleaning his parents’ toilets.” Rose’s eyes widened. She knew then. She definitely knew. 9 I hauled my boxes out to the porch. David ran after me, trying to take the heavy crate from my arms. I pulled away. “Nora, talk to me. Are you mad? I can explain.” Explain what? That he was already cheating emotionally? That he’d already moved his mistress into our home? “Help!” Rose screamed from inside. David didn’t even look back at me. He spun around and ran to her. I hitched the box higher on my shoulder and walked into the night. 10 In my last life, I died at forty-five. The doctor told me my heart gave out because of years of chronic stress and untreated complications from the birth of my son. I’d hemorrhaged during labor—David’s parents refused to pay for a private room or extra care, saying it was a “waste of money” for a woman’s problem. I’d spent my recovery cooking for them while they complained about the salt. I hadn’t slept a full night in twenty years. But tonight, in this new life, I was healthy. My heart was strong. And for the first time in two lifetimes, I slept like the dead.

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I was taking my wife’s car in for a routine service when a thick manila envelope slid out from the gap in the passenger seat. I assumed it was a stray invoice or a stray registration form, so I opened it without thinking. Inside were two plane tickets. First class. The Maldives. Departing next Wednesday. The first ticket: Claire Stanford. My wife. The second ticket: Sebastian Reed. I stared at those thirteen letters until they blurred. Sebastian Reed. Not me. I’ve memorized her company’s entire directory. That name isn’t on it. I searched the archives of my own memory, going back years. Nothing. I slid the tickets back into the envelope and tucked it exactly where I’d found it. My fingertips were like ice, but my head had never felt clearer. Four years of marriage, and for the first time, I realized that the passenger seat had never really belonged to me. 01 The mechanic at the dealership was waiting for me. I stepped out of the car, brushed a speck of non-existent dust off my slacks, and handed him the keys. “Just the standard synthetic oil change,” I said, my voice steady. “Use the high-end stuff.” “You got it, Miles. Have it ready for you by four.” I nodded, stepped out onto the curb, and hailed a cab back to the office. The leather seat of the taxi was scorching from the midday sun. I sat there, knees pressed together, clutching my phone. The screen was still glowing with the photo I’d just surreptitiously snapped of those tickets. Flight 402. First Class. Outbound December 18th. Return December 25th. A full week. They’d be coming back on Christmas Day. In the four years Claire and I have been married, she’s never spent a single Christmas with me. “It’s a commercialized Hallmark trap,” she’d always say. “Too much fuss for a Tuesday.” Back at the office, I went through the motions. I led the afternoon product meeting, reviewed the quotes for our new Southeast Asia luxury tours, and confirmed the block seating for the Lunar New Year charters. A colleague asked if I was feeling alright. I looked pale, they said. “Just something I ate at lunch,” I lied. Ten minutes before the end of the day, I texted Claire. Car’s done. You’ll have to pick it up yourself tonight. I’m pulling an evening shift. She replied instantly: Okay. Three seconds later, a follow-up: Don’t stay too late. I stared at the period at the end of that sentence. She used to be a fan of exclamation points, or at least a trailing ellipsis. When did she start sounding like a formal deposition? I flipped my phone face down, opened my laptop, and logged into the company’s GDS—the Global Distribution System for flights. I’m a senior product manager for a luxury travel firm; I spend eight hours a day in this system. I typed in the ticket numbers. Hit enter. When the order details populated, my throat went tight. Payment Method: Frequent Flyer Miles Redemption. More than half of those miles were mine. I’d spent three years flying for business, racking up over a hundred and fifty thousand miles. Last year, on my birthday, Claire suggested we merge our accounts to make it easier to book a “big trip” together. I hadn’t hesitated. I’d handed her the login. Since the merger, we hadn’t gone anywhere. But she had used my sweat and jet lag to buy a first-class seat for another man. I scrolled down to the remarks section. Four words were typed there in the “Special Requests” field. Honeymoon trip. Ocean suite. The office AC was humming, but a chill crawled up my spine. Honeymoon. Our honeymoon had been a long weekend in a budget hotel in Florida. She’d told me we needed to save every penny while she was launching her startup. I’d agreed. I’d been happy to. Four years later, it turns out she owed me a honeymoon. She was just giving it to someone else. 02 When I got home that night, Claire was on the sofa with her iPad. A glass of lukewarm water—my glass—sat on the coffee table. She looked up briefly. “You’re back. There’s some beef stew in the fridge. I warmed it up for you.” I kicked off my shoes and sat down beside her. “Are you traveling next week?” Her fingers faltered on the screen. It was subtle—less than a second—but I saw it. “Yeah. A client in San Francisco. Needs some hand-holding.” “When do you leave?” “Wednesday.” “Back when?” “The weekend, probably. Depends on how the meetings go.” I took a sip of the stew. The meat was tender, simmered with carrots and potatoes. She wasn’t much of a cook; this was almost certainly a high-end meal kit. But she had remembered to skim the fat off the top because she knew I hated greasy broth. The absurdity hit me like a physical blow. A woman planning a honeymoon with another man still remembered to skim the fat off her husband’s soup. “What’s the client’s name in SF?” She locked her iPad and set it down, her tone casual. “A project for the Reed account. You wouldn’t know them.” Reed. I set the bowl down. Claire’s company has three partners. She owns thirty-five percent. Two smaller shareholders own fifteen each. The remaining thirty-five percent belongs to a woman named Victoria Reed. Victoria Reed. Sebastian Reed. I put the names together for the first time. My heart hammered against my ribs. I didn’t dare ask anything else. I wasn’t sure my face would hold. “I’m going to shower and head to bed,” I said. Behind the closed bathroom door, the sound of the shower masked the world. I pulled out my phone and opened LinkedIn. Search: Sebastian Reed. Nothing. I tried Instagram. Private. The man was a ghost. Either he was incredibly low-profile, or he was being hidden. Neither was a good sign. The water scalded my scalp, but I didn’t turn it down. I made a decision then. I wouldn’t ask her. I would find out myself. 03 The next morning, the breakroom smelled of burnt espresso. My assistant, Ben, leaned against the counter. “Miles, you look like hell. You seeing a doctor?” “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.” That was an understatement. I’d spent the night haunted by those thirteen letters. I retreated to my office and locked the door. Once the morning emails were cleared, I pulled up the photo of the ticket again. Next to the ticket number was a small string of digits: the Frequent Flyer ID. I logged into the airline’s member portal using the credentials I knew. Member Name: Claire Stanford. Balance: 3,200 miles. The account had been gutted. I clicked on the redemption history. In the last twelve months, this account had booked four trips. First: March. Two tickets to Chiang Mai. Second: June. Two tickets to Bali. Third: September. Two tickets to Hokkaido. Fourth: Next week. The Maldives. Four trips. Always two tickets. The companion passenger for every single one: Sebastian Reed. Four international vacations in a year. I hadn’t even had a weekend getaway. She told me the company was in a “growth phase.” I believed her. She said she had to work weekends. I believed her. She said her business trips were about securing investors. I believed every word. I’d spent 365 days being a supportive husband while she was busy being a girlfriend to someone else. I took a deep breath and dialed a number. “Elena, it’s Miles.” Elena was a contact I’d worked with for six years. She ran a high-end ground handling agency in the Maldives. “Miles! It’s been too long. What can I do for you?” “I need a favor. A discreet one.” I sent her the hotel name and the passport details for Sebastian Reed that I’d pulled from the flight booking. “Can you check the guest history?” “Give me thirty minutes.” Twenty-three minutes later, a PDF landed in my inbox. I opened it. My hands didn’t shake. But after I finished reading, I turned the phone face down and closed my eyes for a long time. Over the past year, Claire and Sebastian had stayed at that same resort three times. Always the same ocean suite. Every charge—the champagne, the private dinners, the spa treatments—was billed to the same corporate credit card. A company card. She wasn’t just cheating on me; she was using her company’s capital to fund her affair. I opened my eyes, saved the PDF to an encrypted folder, and named it 2024 Tax Receipts. No one ever looks at something that boring. I didn’t eat lunch. All afternoon, one question looped in my mind: Who exactly is Sebastian Reed? The hotel records had his passport number. It was a standard US passport, issued recently. I wrote down the sequence. I needed one more person to help me. 04 “Sebastian Reed. Born 1994. Registered address in Seattle.” My friend Daniel, a lawyer with a knack for finding things people want buried, paused on the other end of the line. “Miles, are you sure you want the rest of this? Once you know, there’s no going back.” “Keep going.” “He has a sister.” My grip on the phone tightened. “Name?” “Victoria Reed.” The name hit me like a physical weight. Victoria Reed. Claire’s business partner. The thirty-five percent shareholder. Her sister-in-law. Or, rather, the sister of the man my wife was sleeping with. “There’s more,” Daniel continued. “Sebastian owns a boutique trading firm. Five million in seed capital. He’s the face of it, but the ‘Beneficial Owner’ listed in the private filings…” Daniel hesitated. “It’s Claire, Miles. It’s your wife.” The silence on the line stretched out. “Miles, do you see the play here? This isn’t just a fling.” I saw it perfectly. Victoria wanted more control of the company. If Claire and Sebastian were “linked,” the Reeds could effectively control Claire’s thirty-five percent. Combined with Victoria’s thirty-five, they’d have seventy percent. Absolute power. And I, the legal spouse, was the only obstacle. In our state, the appreciation of her company shares during the marriage was considered marital property. If Claire wanted to funnel the value of the company to the Reeds, she had to get rid of me first. Divorce me, or make me want to leave. The beef stew, the “don’t stay too late”—it was all just smoke and mirrors to keep me docile until the trap was set. She was waiting for the perfect moment to cut me loose. Probably right after they got back from the Maldives. I hung up and sat in my office until the city lights flickered on outside. Four years. Was any of it real? I didn’t know. But I knew one thing for certain. She wanted me to walk away with nothing. I wasn’t going to let that happen. 05 That weekend, Claire told me there was a “company retreat” and she wouldn’t be home. “Have fun,” I said. Thirty minutes after she left, I went out. I didn’t follow her—that was beneath me. Instead, I went to a public records office and pulled the filings for every entity Claire was associated with. Three companies. The first was the tech firm she started with Victoria. I knew that one.

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My mother is a titan of industry, a permanent fixture on the Forbes list, and a ghost in my actual life. My father was the “supportive” one, the man who stayed behind to raise me while she conquered the world. He always told me she looked down on us—that to her, we were just “small-town trash.” He claimed she only sent eight hundred dollars a month for our living expenses, calling us “stray dogs that could never be fed enough.” I hated her with every fiber of my being for that. Until the day she made a surprise appearance at my university, looked at the sad tray of cafeteria food in front of me, and frowned. “I wire twenty thousand dollars to your account every single month,” she said, her voice cold and confused. “Is this really what you’re choosing to eat?” … 1 My phone screen buzzed on the library table. A notification from the bank. [Arthur Miller has transferred $800.00 to your account ending in XXXX.] Eight hundred. The number felt like a needle pricking a raw nerve. I put the phone down, a dull, hollow ache blooming in my stomach. To save money, I’d only eaten one meal yesterday. Now, I had to make this eight hundred last for thirty days in one of the most expensive cities in the country. My roommate, Sophie, leaned over and caught a glimpse of the screen. She immediately bristled on my behalf. “Rose, is your mom actually made of stone? What is eight hundred dollars supposed to do in Chicago? I spent forty bucks on a Uber and a latte yesterday! This isn’t an allowance; it’s an insult.” She reached for a small bottle of imported serum on her desk—a tiny glass vial that cost more than my entire month’s budget. I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. She didn’t get it. She couldn’t. To my mother, the Great Diana Montgomery, we probably were just beggars. My father’s face flashed in my mind—that look of weary resignation he always wore. Since I was a child, he’d whispered the same poison into my ear. “Rose, your mother is a creature of the city. She despises where we come from. She looks down on me, she looks down on you, and she certainly doesn’t care about your sick uncle or your grandparents.” “I go to her,” he’d say, his voice cracking. “I beg her to give you a better life, and do you know what she calls us? She says the Miller family is a pack of ungrateful leeches. She says we’re just parasites trying to bleed her dry.” Those words had taken root in me, growing into a thicket of resentment. My phone buzzed again. It was him. “Rose…” His voice sounded exhausted. “It’s… it’s eight hundred again this month.” “I asked her. I swear, I practically got on my knees, but she said not a penny more.” He paused, a heavy sigh rattling through the line. “It’s my fault. I’m a failure of a father for letting you live like this.” Anger and pity surged through me. It wasn’t his fault. He was the one who had endured her cruelty for years just to stay by my side. The thought of a grown man having to beg his ex-wife for his daughter’s grocery money broke my heart. “Dad, stop,” I interrupted, my voice thick. “I’ll find a part-time job on campus. I can take care of myself.” “Good girl,” he whispered, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. “Just… don’t go hungry, okay?” I hung up. The dorm room felt suffocatingly quiet. I pulled a bag of two-day-old bagels from my drawer, tore off a piece, and forced myself to chew. It was dry, hard, and tasted like cardboard. My phone lit up again. The class group chat was exploding. [Birthday drinks for the class president tonight! Karaoke then late-night sushi. See you all at the usual spot!] [I heard that new Omakase place is $150 per person minimum. Let’s go big!] [Split the bill, obviously! But for Ben, it’s worth it!] The “it-girl” of our major tagged everyone. [@Rose Miller, you’re coming, right? Don’t be a hermit! It’s Ben’s 21st, no excuses!] I turned the phone face down, trying to shut out their world. $150. To them, it was a Tuesday night. To me, it was two weeks of survival. I picked up the phone, my fingers hovering over the glass. I typed and deleted, typed and deleted. Finally: [Sorry guys, I’ve got a shift at work tonight. Have a drink for me! Happy Birthday, Ben!] A lie. But I had no choice. I was too poor to have friends. I curled up on my bed, retreating into the dark. The joy of being a normal college student was a luxury I couldn’t afford. That night, I dreamed of the woman I only saw in business magazines. She was standing over my father, who was collapsed on the floor. “Arthur,” she sneered in my dream, “you and that hillbilly daughter of yours are nothing but dogs begging for scraps.” 2 A few days later, a glossy poster appeared on the campus bulletin boards. GUEST LECTURE: DIANA MONTGOMERY. Her name was printed in bold, authoritative serif right in the center. My heart did a violent somersault. I turned to bolt, but Sophie grabbed my arm, squealing with excitement. “Rose, look! It’s Diana Montgomery! An actual billionaire on our campus!” “Oh my god, can you imagine being her? I heard she cleared three billion in acquisitions last year alone.” “My mom literally has her autobiography on her nightstand like it’s the Bible!” I was dragged, kicking and screaming internally, into the packed auditorium. Diana stood on the stage. She was wearing a suit that probably cost more than my father’s house, speaking with a precision and clarity that commanded the room. She looked nothing like the screeching, bitter woman my father described. She looked… powerful. And terrifyingly calm. My chest tightened. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. When the lecture ended, the university deans swarmed her like moths to a flame. I kept my head down, trying to melt into the crowd of students heading for the exit. “Rose Miller.” The hall went silent. A hundred heads turned in unison. I froze, the blood draining from my face. She didn’t acknowledge the deans. She walked straight through the parting crowd until she was standing directly in front of me. “With me. Now.” She led me out of the hall. I could hear the whispers rising behind us like a tide. “Wait, is she Montgomery’s daughter?” “No way. Look at her clothes. She looks like she shops at a thrift bin.” “If that’s her daughter, why does she look so… tragic?” The words cut deeper than any knife. I clenched my fists, saying nothing. She led me to the student union cafeteria. It was the lunch rush. I felt her eyes on me as I reflexively went for the cheapest option—a side of steamed broccoli and a scoop of white rice. Four dollars and fifty cents. She looked at my tray, her brow furrowing into a sharp V. “I wire twenty thousand dollars to your account every single month,” she said. “Is this really what you’re choosing to eat?” Twenty thousand? The number exploded in my brain. “What… what are you talking about? Twenty thousand?” My voice was trembling so hard I could barely get the words out. I only ever saw eight hundred. She blinked, looking genuinely confused. “On the 15th of every month, a transfer goes out. Twenty thousand dollars.” She pulled out her phone and turned the screen toward me. There it was. A long, unbroken list of transfers. $20,000.00. Every single month. The recipient’s name: Arthur Miller. My world tilted on its axis. My hands went cold; my mind went blank. Where was the money? “Your father… he didn’t give it to you?” she asked, her eyes searching mine. I forced myself to stay upright. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and plastered on a stiff, fake smile. “Oh. Right. Dad mentioned it. I… I just put it all into a long-term savings account. I forgot.” The moment the lie left my lips, I saw the tension leave her shoulders. “Rose,” she said, her voice softening just a fraction. “I know I haven’t been around. I’ve been… busy. I thought the money would at least make things easier for you.” “It does,” I lied again. “By the way,” she added casually, “why don’t I ever see you driving the Porsche I bought for your eighteenth? Your father said you hated it, so I didn’t push, but it seems a waste.” A car? Another thing I had never heard of. I gripped the fabric of my pockets, trying to stay grounded. “The city… parking is a nightmare. I didn’t want the hassle.” I made some more excuses and practically ran back to my dorm. I slammed the door and slid down against it, my body shaking uncontrollably. I pulled out my phone and found the contact I had never dared to call. Mom. She picked up on the second ring. “Rose?” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. “Mom… I… I need some money. An emergency.” There wasn’t a second of hesitation. “Of course. How much?” “Fifty… fifty thousand,” I said, a number that felt astronomical. “I’ll send it now.” “Mom, wait. Send it to a new account. I’ll text you the details.” “Done.” Ten seconds after I sent the info, my phone buzzed. $50,000.00. Instant. The memo read: Don’t ever hesitate to ask. Take care of yourself. I stared at the screen until the words blurred. This was the woman I had hated for eighteen years? I wiped my eyes and opened a different chat. I took a deep breath and typed to my father: [Dad, I have a huge emergency. Can you please, please ask Mom for some extra money?] His reply came back almost instantly. [You know how she is, Rose. She’ll just use it as an excuse to insult us. You have to learn to handle your own problems. Asking her only makes her despise us more. I’m sorry, honey. My hands are tied.] I stared at those words. My blood turned to ice. For eighteen years, I had been a pawn in his sick, twisted game. I took the money my mother had just sent and used it to hire the most expensive private investigator in the city. My goal was simple: I wanted every single bank statement associated with my father, Arthur Miller. 3 At 2:00 AM, I opened the encrypted file the PI sent over. Every month on the 15th, $20,000 arrived from my mother’s corporate account. And every month on the 16th, exactly $19,200 was transferred out. The recipient? Robert Miller. My “sick, bedridden” uncle. Eight hundred. My entire life—my meals, my clothes, my dignity—had been calculated down to the last cent. My father and his brother were tossing me the scraps of my own life like I was a dog under the table. No wonder my cousin Tyler was driving a brand-new car and wearing designer clothes. No wonder my grandparents looked at me with such pitying contempt every time I went home. They thought I was a charity case, a failure who couldn’t even get her “rich bitch” mother to love her. And my father? He was the hero. The martyr who “endured” his wicked ex-wife to provide for the family. I stared at the ledger until my eyes burned. I dragged the file into the trash and emptied it. The next day was the 16th. My father called right on schedule. “Rose, did the money hit? Make it last, okay? Don’t go wasting it on frivolous things.” “I got it, Dad,” I said, my voice perfectly level. “Thank you for begging her for me. I know how much it hurts your pride.” I could practically hear his smug satisfaction through the phone. “As long as you’re okay, it’s worth any humiliation.” I hung up and opened Instagram. I went straight to my cousin Tyler’s profile. His latest post was him sitting in a white Porsche Cayenne, grinning like a shark. The caption: Shoutout to my Uncle Artie for closing another “big deal”! Family first! The comments were a cesspool of Miller relatives. Aunt Sarah: Artie is the backbone of this family! So proud! Uncle Robert: We’d be nothing without your sacrifice, brother! A volcano of cold, hard rage erupted in my chest. I dialed my father back immediately. “Dad,” I said, making my voice tremble. “There’s an exchange program in London. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance, but I need a thirty-thousand-dollar deposit by tomorrow.” “Thirty thousand?!” he barked. “Rose, have you lost your mind? Where am I supposed to get that kind of money? That woman would kill me! She won’t give us a dime!” I squeezed my eyes shut, leaning into the performance. “But Dad… I heard some students say that for things like this, moms usually want to help. Actually, when she was here, she gave me her private number. She said I could call her if it was urgent.” I paused for effect. “Maybe I should just call her myself? Maybe if I explain it, she’ll say yes?” Silence. Absolute, dead silence on the other end. I could hear his breathing turn shallow and panicked. “No! Rose! Don’t you dare!” he hissed, his voice cracking. “Don’t humiliate yourself! You don’t know her like I do. She’ll tear you apart!” “Don’t worry about the money! I’ll figure it out! I’ll sell the house if I have to! I’ll go crawl to her on my hands and knees! Just… stay away from her. Do not call her!” I listened to his frantic rambling until he hung up. Thirty minutes later, a text arrived: [Rose, I found the money. I’m transferring it now. Just please, for the love of god, stay away from your mother. If she finds out we’re asking for more, we’re both finished.] I looked at the word “finished” and smiled. No, Dad. You’re done.

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My boyfriend told me his company was doing a week-long “dark period” retreat—no phones, no outside contact, just intensive leadership training. He was supposed to be back tomorrow. I decided to head over to his place a night early, wanting to surprise him with dinner and a bottle of the good bourbon he liked. But when I reached the door, I heard noise coming from inside. He’d lived alone for the three years we’d been in this city. He made a point of telling me how much he valued his “bachelor sanctuary” until we finally moved in together. A girl’s voice drifted through the wood, playful and teasing. “Stop it, let me see your phone.” My hand froze an inch from the keypad. Then came his voice, thick with a laugh I knew too well. “Not a chance. I didn’t even get your good side in those photos.” My body went cold, a sharp, localized frost spreading from my chest to my fingertips. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. Inside, the laughter stopped. A few seconds later, he picked up. “Hey, babe? Everything okay?” His voice was smooth, practiced. “I’m at your front door,” I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. “Open up.” The silence that followed was absolute. 1 I hung up. I reached into my bag and pulled out my spare key. He’d given it to me two years ago, pressing it into my palm with a look of practiced sincerity. “Keep it,” he’d said. “Come over whenever. It’s going to be your house eventually anyway.” I had never once used it without calling first. I believed in boundaries. I believed in him. I slid the key into the lock. It turned with a sickeningly familiar click. The door swung open. The entryway light was on. His Nikes were kicked off by the shoe rack, sitting right next to a pair of strappy white heels I’d never seen before. I didn’t move past the foyer. I just stood there, rooted to the hardwood. From the living room came the frantic sounds of movement—the rustle of fabric, the friction of skin against cushions, hushed, panicked whispers. I took two steps forward. A lilac sundress was draped over the arm of the sofa. It was tiny, made of a flimsy material that looked like it would dissolve in the rain. A single white no-show sock lay on the rug. On the coffee table sat two half-empty wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet. Then I saw them. He was scrambling up from the couch, fumbling with his jeans. His button-down was half-open, the buttons misaligned, his hair a bird’s nest of guilt. The woman was shrinking behind him, trying to use his frame as a shield. I could see a faint, angry red mark on the curve of her shoulder. I stopped in the middle of the room. A stray thought flickered through my mind: I’m glad I called first. If I hadn’t, what would I have walked in on? Would it have been more visceral? More disgusting than this? “Nydia.” His voice was tight, strained. “How… why are you here?” “I thought you were at a retreat,” I said, cutting through his stammer. He blinked, finally getting his fly zipped, but his shirt was still a mess. He looked down at himself, then back at me, his expression a pathetic cocktail of a caught thief and a man trying to pretend the house wasn’t on fire. “I, uh… I got out early,” he said. “Right,” I nodded slowly. “Got out early to continue the training here?” He went quiet. The woman stepped out from behind him. She kept her head down, snatching her dress off the sofa and pulling it over her head in one jagged motion. She looked young—maybe twenty-two, twenty-three. Her hair was a trendy honey-blonde, her face flushed with a wine-soaked glow. Her hands shook so violently she had to tug at her zipper three times before it caught. I watched her. She risked a glance at me, then looked away just as fast. “And who is she?” I asked. His mouth opened, a few hollow syllables dying in his throat. He stood there, hands hovering uselessly before he finally balled them into fists at his sides. The silence in the room was suffocating. The woman finished dressing and stepped into those white heels. The clack-clack of the plastic tips against the floor sounded like gunshots. She looked at him, then at me, then bolted for the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Thud. I stared at the closed door, then turned my gaze back to him. “Talk,” I said. “Nydia, I…” He took a step toward me, then stopped. “I messed up.” “I asked you who she is.” “Just a friend. Someone from work.” “A friend?” He looked at the floor. I let out a short, sharp laugh. I didn’t know if I was laughing at him or at the sheer stupidity of my own life. Eight years. I had known him for eight years. We’d gone from high school proms to college midterms to our first real jobs. I thought I knew every mole on his back, every fear in his head. I had never seen this version of him. “It won’t happen again,” he said suddenly. He looked up, his eyes swimming with a desperate, manipulative kind of pleading. “I swear, Nydia. Never again.” I said nothing. He suddenly turned and began rummaging through the living room. He checked the drawers under the TV, the side tables, shoved his hand under the sofa cushions. I watched him, bewildered. After a minute, he pulled out a small, velvet red box. He walked over and held it out to me. “I got this for you,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. “I was going to give it to you in a few days. For our anniversary.” I looked down. It was a jeweler’s box. I opened it. Inside was a silver necklace with a small, diamond-chip star pendant. It was beautiful. It was also a bribe. I held the box for a few seconds, feeling the weight of it. Then I walked over to the kitchen trash can and dropped the box, necklace and all, right on top of the discarded takeout containers. “Nydia!” he barked. “I don’t want your guilt-offerings,” I said. I turned to face him. The light hit his face, and for the first time, he looked like a stranger. A poorly rendered imitation of the man I loved. “Eight years,” I said. “This is how you treat eight years?” He ducked his head, silent. “Eight years, Jason. Since we were seventeen. I moved to this city for you. I stayed up late making you dinner when you worked overtime. I took care of your mom when she was in the hospital so you wouldn’t have to miss meetings. I thought we were waiting for the right time. Waiting to save enough for the house, waiting for the promotion, waiting for life to be ‘ready.’ What were you waiting for?” 2 He still wouldn’t speak. “Were you waiting for her?” “No!” He looked up, his voice frantic. “It’s not what you think, Nydia. It was a mistake. I was drunk, I wasn’t thinking—” “Drunk?” “Yeah, we just had some wine, and things got out of hand…” The bedroom door opened. The woman walked out. She had changed into a white button-down and jeans, her hair pulled back into a messy knot. She looked more composed now. But she couldn’t hide the mark on her neck. A hickey. Fresh, purplish-red, sitting right above her collarbone. She walked over to his side and stood there. She didn’t look down this time. She stared straight at me, her lips set in a stubborn, defiant line. “I love him,” she said. I looked at her, unimpressed. “I love him more than you do,” she added, her voice small but clear. “We’re actually happy together.” “Shut up!” Jason snapped, spinning toward her. “Don’t say another word!” She flinched, then reached out and grabbed his arm, looking up at him with wide, watery eyes. “That’s not what you said ten minutes ago. You said you were going to leave her. You said you’d marry me.” He wrenched his arm away, stepping back as if she were radioactive. She stood there, her arm still hanging in mid-air, her face freezing into a mask of shock. I looked from her to him. He avoided my eyes, staring at the floorboards, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. She stood there biting her lip, her eyes welling up. “Do you even know who he is?” I asked her. “Do you know he has a girlfriend of eight years? That we have a joint savings account for a down payment?” “I know,” she said, lifting her chin. I blinked. “He told me. He said you’d been together forever.” She paused, glancing at him. He remained silent. “But he said the spark died years ago. He said you’re suffocating. That you track his every move, that he has to check in every hour, that he can’t breathe around you. He said being with me is the only time he feels like himself.” I stood perfectly still. So, asking if he wanted me to pick up Thai food on the way home was “suffocating.” Waiting up for him to make sure he got home safe from a late shift was “tracking his every move.” Caring about his life was a “burden.” I thought I was being a partner. He thought I was a jailer. “He said you’re too much work,” she continued, a hint of triumph creeping into her tone. “Always nagging him to eat better, to sleep more, asking why he didn’t text back. He said he couldn’t take it anymore.” I looked at Jason. He was a statue of cowardice. “Is that right?” I asked him. His lips moved, but no sound came out. “Jason,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He finally looked at me. Just for a second. And in that second, I saw it. The resentment. The truth. Everything she said was true. He had turned my love into a list of grievances to tell a twenty-two-year-old in the dark. I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me, starting from my heels and rising to my throat. My legs felt heavy, but I refused to sit. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me collapse. I took a deep breath. “Fine. We’re done.” 3 He snapped his head up. “Nydia—” “Don’t say my name.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tapped the screen. “I recorded everything.” He froze. The girl froze. “Everything you both just said,” I said, looking at her. “The part where you admitted you knew about me. The part where he admitted he cheated. It’s all on tape.” Her face went pale. “You recorded us? When?” I didn’t answer. I just slid the phone back into my pocket and turned toward the door. “Wait!” she screamed behind me. “You have to delete that! You can’t take that! What are you going to do with it? Are you going to post it? You’ll ruin my life!” I didn’t stop. I kept walking. “Jason!” she shrieked. “Make her delete it! Don’t let her leave with that! Do something!” I heard a scuffle behind me. Footsteps thudded on the hardwood. Before I could reach the handle, she lunged forward and grabbed my arm. Her skin was cold, her nails digging into my bicep. “Give me the phone!” she yelled. I shoved her off, stepping back. She lunged again, reaching for my pocket. I held the phone high above my head. She was shorter than me; she jumped, her nails raking across the back of my hand. A sharp, stinging heat flared up where she broke the skin. “Jason! Help me!” I shoved her harder this time. She stumbled back, her heels catching on the edge of the rug, and she landed hard on her backside. She let out a pathetic little yelp, sitting there on the floor, looking up at me with big, tearful eyes. Jason rushed over, kneeling beside her. “Are you okay?” He checked her shoulders, her head, his touch frantic. “Did you hit anything?” She leaned into him, sobbing, shaking her head. I stood there, watching the tableau. He looked up at me, his face darkening. “Nydia. What the hell? Why did you push her?” I said nothing. He helped her up. She clung to him, weeping softly, whispering that she was fine, it was her fault—the classic “damsel” routine that made him hold her even tighter. “Delete the recording,” he said, his voice hardening. “I messed up, I get it. But you don’t get to get physical with her.” I wanted to laugh, but the air in my lungs felt like lead. “Delete it?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. He hesitated, then added, “I’ll give you money. Just delete it and walk away.” “How much?” He blinked, clearly not expecting me to negotiate. He thought for a moment. “Two thousand dollars.” I looked at the woman. She was leaning against him, her tears dried up, watching me with a mix of anxiety and predatory hope. “Not a chance,” I said. “I’m keeping it.” His face twisted. “Nydia, don’t be a bitch about this.” “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’m trying to be civil.” “Civil?” I repeated. I turned back to the door. “Jason!” the girl cried. “You can’t let her go! If my parents hear that… they’ll kill me! You said you’d protect me!” He stood there, his face cycling through a dozen different shades of panic. My hand was on the doorknob. “Wait,” he called out. I didn’t turn around. “Nydia, please.” His voice went soft, pleading. “Just delete it. This is on me, not her. She’s young, she didn’t know any better. I’m the one who couldn’t keep it in my pants. Blame me, just don’t ruin her.” I turned back. They were standing there, hand in hand. “She didn’t know any better?” I asked. “She seemed pretty ‘aware’ a minute ago when she was telling me how much better she is for you.” He went silent. The girl looked at her shoes. “She’s a child, but you’re a man, right?” I looked at him. “And you still did it.” He wouldn’t look at me. “Jason,” she whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “Make her do it. Please. How much time is left?” He looked at me, his eyes suddenly cold, like a stranger’s. “Nydia,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Delete the recording. If you don’t, I’ll have to take the phone from you.” I didn’t move. He took a step forward. I reached into my pocket and gripped the phone. “Try it,” I said. “It won’t matter.” He stopped. “I set a scheduled upload,” I lied. “In two hours, if I don’t enter a deactivation code, the audio file gets sent to every one of our mutual friends, your boss, and your mother.” His face went white. The girl looked like she was about to faint. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “You’re insane.” I said nothing. The room was silent for a long, heavy beat. “A hundred thousand,” he said suddenly. I stared at him. “A hundred thousand dollars,” he repeated. “You delete the recording, right now, and I’ll transfer it.” I remained silent. “I don’t have it all in cash, but I can get it,” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “I have eighty thousand in our ‘house fund’ account. I’ll borrow the rest from my brother tonight. A hundred thousand, and we call it even. You walk away, and this never happened. Deal?” The girl pulled at his sleeve, looking like she wanted to protest the amount, but she kept her mouth shut. “A hundred thousand. Transfer it now.” He hesitated, then pulled out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen. I pulled out mine and opened my banking app. His hands were shaking so badly he had to scan his face three times for the ID check. He tapped the screen, then looked up at me. “Sent,” he said. “Check it.” I looked down. A notification popped up. Transfer Pending: $100,000.00. “Now,” I said. “Write it down.” “Write what?” “A statement. Stating that this hundred thousand is a voluntary settlement for the dissolution of our relationship. Acknowledge the eight years. Acknowledge the infidelity. Sign it.”

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