Category: English

The scent hit me first—that familiar, cloying perfume she always wore. It drifted into my senses without warning, a ghost of a memory I hadn’t summoned. Before I could even think, my hand moved. I slapped her. Hard. Mallory stumbled back, the force of the blow snapping her head to the side. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just looked at me with that same maddening indifference she’d perfected over the years. “So,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “I guess you heard.” Just an hour ago, I had been at a boutique downtown, helping my best friend, Gavin, pick out an engagement ring. We were standing under the harsh glow of the chandeliers when he suddenly let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Your wife is quite the charmer, Tom,” he’d said, his voice dripping with something foul. I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He tilted his head, pulling his collar down to reveal a jagged, dark red mark on his neck. “She did this in the car last night. You should tell her to be a little more careful. She’s got a bit of a bite.” The world turned into static. My throat tightened until I could barely breathe. “Gavin, what are you saying? Have you lost your mind?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his jacket and tossed a piece of paper onto the velvet jewelry counter. It was a sonogram. “She loves you, sure,” Gavin whispered, leaning in so close I could smell his cologne—the same scent that was now clinging to Mallory. “But let’s face it, Tom. You’re broken. You can’t satisfy her. All those years of… whatever happened to you… they ruined you. I can give her what she actually needs. I can give her a child. That’s why she’s choosing me.” I’d stumbled back then, the jewelry store spinning around me like a carousel from hell. … My entire body was shaking, a coldness seeping into my bones that no heater could touch. Mallory watched me, her tongue poking the inside of her cheek where my ring had probably cut her. “You’ve been Gavin’s best friend for twenty years, Tom. How is it you never learned a thing about his temperament? He’s much gentler than you.” Her tone was exactly the same as it had been yesterday. Calm. Rational. It was the tone she used when discussing the grocery list or the weather. Every word was a scalpel, peeling back my skin. “Doesn’t this disgust you?” I choked out, my voice thin and brittle. She paused, then smiled. It wasn’t a cruel smile; it was worse. It was pitying. “You’re the one who’s inadequate, Tom. Every time we… finished… I felt empty. And let’s not forget your history. You were basically a plaything for that woman, weren’t you?” A wave of nausea hit me. The disgust in her eyes was unmistakable. “I could never let my child have a father with a history as filthy as yours,” she added. I froze. My ears were ringing so loudly I could barely hear my own heartbeat. I looked at her, searching for the woman who, only twenty-four hours ago, had curled into my chest and whispered that she loved me more than life itself. The woman who had promised that my past didn’t matter, that she would be my sanctuary. “Do you even hear yourself?” My voice broke, the back of my eyes burning with a stinging heat. She reached out, her fingers grazing my cheek with a phantom tenderness before she sighed. “I know. It’s not that I don’t love you, Tom. But I wanted to see what a ‘clean’ man felt like. And honestly? You’re the one who lied to me first. You never told me the full extent of your… damage.” She stepped over to Gavin, who had just walked through the door, and looped her arm through his. “Gavin is your brother in every way that counts,” she said. “He’s not trying to take your place. He even said the baby could call you ‘Dad’ eventually. You should be thanking him.” I watched their fingers intertwine—the gold band I’d bought her glinting in the light. My vision blurred. Yesterday, I’d found that sonogram in her purse. I’d been so ecstatic that I’d called for a celebratory dinner with Gavin. I wanted to share the greatest joy of my life with my best friend. But when they arrived, they ignored me. They spent the whole night bickering. Gavin complained that Mallory wasn’t “domestic” enough; Mallory snapped at him for being overbearing. I’d laughed it off, used to their “sibling-like” friction. I’d spent the whole night playing mediator, forgetting all about the pregnancy announcement I’d planned. And now, they stood together, telling me that the child I had been praying for—the one I thought was a miracle given my health issues—was a betrayal in physical form. I was gasping for air, my lungs refusing to expand. Mallory stepped forward, a look of faux-concern on her face. “Just don’t make a scene, and things can go back to how they were,” she said. “Last night, after Gavin and I had that ‘fight,’ I told you I had to go back to the office. I didn’t. I was in his car. I bought this red lace set… I wanted to see if he could do what you couldn’t. It turns out, he could.” The hole in my chest felt like it was being blasted by an arctic wind. My teeth were literally chattering. “He’s my best friend, Gavin! Why?” Gavin took a step toward me, clapping a hand on my shoulder with the same casualness he’d used a thousand times before. “Tom, man, because we’re brothers, I’m not a threat to you. This? This was just for the thrill. A little excitement for me and Val. In our hearts, you’re still the most important person.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails drew blood. The air was thick with the scent of their shared secret. Mallory leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Cheer up. You always wanted to know what kind of woman Gavin would finally marry, didn’t you? Well, you’re going to be the best man at our wedding.” The diamond on her finger caught the light, stabbing at my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I swung my hand again, catching her across the other cheek. “You’re both sick,” I spat. “You’re disgusting.” Before the words had even left my mouth, Gavin lunged. He shoved me hard, my back slamming into the edge of the marble table. Pain exploded through my spine. “We’re disgusting?” Gavin barked, his voice dropping an octave. “You’re the one who spent months in bed with my sister, Tom. You’re the one who crawled into her sheets like a dog. Don’t you dare talk to us about ‘dirty.’” Mallory looked down at me, her expression cold. “Get a grip on yourself, Tom.” Then, they walked out. They left me there, collapsing into the dark abyss of my own memory. Gavin and I had been inseparable since we were kids. When he was seventeen, his life fell apart. His father died, and his mother remarried a man with a teenage daughter named Lydia. Gavin used to cry to me, telling me how Lydia would hit him, how she bullied him in that house. I felt for him. I went over there constantly to stand up for him. On his eighteenth birthday, I’d saved up every cent I had to buy him the gaming console he’d wanted for years. I went to his house to surprise him. He gave me a glass of juice. When I woke up, the world was a blur of blood and searing, agonizing pain. I remember Gavin standing over me, shouting at Lydia, pretending to defend me while I lay there, broken. Fate wasn’t done with me. Lydia ended up pregnant. Her father—Gavin’s stepfather—burst into our house with a knife, demanding I “take responsibility” for his daughter. My parents, desperate to save my life, emptied their life savings to pay them off. We moved to another city, fleeing the shame and the trauma. But the pain never left. By the time I met Mallory, I was a shell of a person, drowning in depression and self-loathing. She was the light. She looked at me with those soft, brown eyes and leaned her head on my shoulder. “Why are you always so sad, Thomas?” I was terrified to let her in. But she stayed. She held my hand through the night terrors and whispered, “It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. I’ll wait for you to get better.” On the day we got engaged, she promised she would spend her life healing me. And now… The pain was so intense I felt like my organs were shutting down. I thought I had started over. I thought I was safe. But the two people I loved most had just reached back into my past, ripped open the scars, and poured salt into the wounds. I cried until I couldn’t breathe. I cried until my eyes were swollen shut. When my phone finally buzzed, it was a text from Mallory. [Tom, go to the pharmacy and pick up some prenatal vitamins and some spotting medication. Things got a little too heated just now, and I’m worried about the baby.] Then a message from Gavin: a photo of him and Mallory, her head on his bare chest. I stared at the screen, my breath hitching. The phone rang, shattering the silence. Mallory’s voice came through, sounding satisfied and drowsy. “Tom? Did you see the message?” I forced the words out, my voice trembling with a murderous edge. “Mallory, how can you be this pathetic? Aren’t you afraid I’ll snap and kill you both?” There was a pause. Then, Gavin’s laugh echoed in the background. “Tom, buddy, you’re too weak. You’re a coward. You shake when someone raises their voice. You don’t have the stomach for murder. Well, except for that time you killed my sister’s ‘baby’ by leaving, right? But this kid? You love this kid too much to hurt it.” He told me to hurry up with the medicine and hung up. I started laughing. A jagged, broken sound. I was afraid of loud noises because of the way Lydia used to scream while she hurt me. It was a physical response to trauma, not a lack of courage. But I wasn’t afraid of dying anymore. And I was going to make sure they felt every ounce of the hell I was living in. I drove to Gavin’s place. I pushed the door open to find a trail of clothes leading to the living room. They were on the sofa, locked in a heated, desperate kiss. The wet, rhythmic sound of it turned my stomach. I gripped my phone, recording them as I walked closer. Gavin saw me. Instead of stopping, he pulled Mallory closer, a provocative smirk on his face. He wanted me to watch. “You know, Val,” Gavin whispered, his voice loud enough for the camera to catch, “when I found Tom in my bed with Lydia all those years ago, they were kissing just like this.” The lie—the absolute, monstrous lie—burned through the last of my sanity. He had set me up. He had handed me over to his sister, and now he was using that violation as a weapon. I held the phone steady, my voice cold and dead. “This is a live stream of my wife and my best friend. Please, don’t stop on my account. Give the audience a show.” Mallory froze, burying her face in Gavin’s chest. A moment later, she lunged out and slapped the phone from my hand. “Thomas! Have you lost your damn mind?” I didn’t move. My eyes were fixed on her wrist. On the pale skin, there was a new tattoo—a string of obscure, gothic letters. The room began to tilt. My vision tunneled until all I saw was that tattoo. It was identical to the one Lydia had. I remembered those letters. I remembered that wrist holding the rope around my neck. I remembered those sharp nails carving those same letters into my skin. “Mallory,” I whispered, my voice shaking violently. “What is that?” She glanced at her wrist, her voice turning soft again. “Gavin said you had a thing for women with tattoos on their wrists. I did it for you.” I looked up and caught Gavin’s eye. He was gloating. He’d done it on purpose. He’d marked her with the symbol of my rapist just to see if he could break me. The final string snapped. I grabbed the paring knife from the fruit bowl on the coffee table and pressed it against Gavin’s throat. My hand was shaking, tears streaming down my face. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You wanted to remind me.” Gavin’s face paled for a split second, but then he tilted his chin up, daring me. “It’s just a tattoo, Tom. Get over it.” I broke. I pressed the blade harder. Blood began to bead on the steel. Gavin’s eyes widened. Then, a heavy blow struck me in the back. A hand slammed across my face, sending me reeling. “Thomas, stop it! You’re insane!” Mallory screamed. I rolled onto my back, laughing through the tears. “I’m insane? Do you even know why he made you get that tattoo, Mallory?” Before I could say another word, Mallory doubled over, clutching her stomach. “God… it hurts. Gavin, something’s wrong.” Blood began to bloom through her light-colored skirt. Gavin’s face transformed into a mask of pure terror. He didn’t care about my words anymore. He scooped Mallory up, his elbow slamming into my chest to shove me out of the way. Mallory leaned into him, her eyes fixed on me with a chilling hatred. “If anything happens to this baby, Tom, I will destroy you.” They ran out, leaving me hollowed out on the floor. I couldn’t even cry anymore. I wandered out of the house, the world turning grey and fuzzy. Everything went black. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. A nurse told me I was sick—that the stress had triggered a physical collapse and I needed surgery. She asked for my emergency contact. No one had answered. “I have no one,” I whispered, the pillow soaking up my tears. My parents were hundreds of miles away. In this city, I had only two people I called family. And they were busy with each other. Gavin sent me a photo. They were in another wing of the hospital, holding each other, smiling. I stared at it, letting the jealousy and the hate burn me alive. How could they be happy on the ruins of my life? I sent a photo of my medical chart to Mallory. She didn’t reply. It wasn’t until dusk that she finally walked into my room. She looked tired, her eyes dark. “How long have you been sick?” she asked. I smiled, a jagged, bitter thing. “I tried to tell you the day Gavin picked out the ring.” She didn’t say anything. she just twisted the ring on her finger. She stood there for a long time, her head bowed. Finally, she spoke, her voice cold as a winter morning. “You need to postpone the surgery.” “What?” “The baby is the priority right now. Gavin and I… we need support. Your condition isn’t life-threatening this second. You can wait a few weeks. Besides, we talked about it. The baby will still call you ‘Dad.’ Isn’t that enough?” My blood turned to ice. I looked at her, truly seeing her for the first time. She walked to the bed and squeezed my hand. “Isn’t this good, Tom? We both still love you.” I felt my stomach turn over. I shoved her away and vomited over the side of the bed. She narrowed her eyes, her voice hardening. “I’ve already told the doctors to switch you to conservative treatment. No surgery for now.” The door opened, and two orderlies walked in. They grabbed my arms. I was too weak to fight, but I found the strength to scream. “Mallory! I am asking you one last time—are you really going to sacrifice my life for that mistake?” She looked like she might hesitate for a second, but then her face set into stone. “Tom, stop being dramatic.” I started laughing—a wild, hysterical sound. I broke free from the orderlies’ grip with a sudden burst of adrenaline. Before anyone could stop me, I threw myself toward the open window. In that split second of weightlessness, I saw Mallory’s face. Pure, unadulterated horror. I smiled. I wanted her to see me break. I wanted her and Gavin to see my blood on the pavement and never have a night of sleep again. But it was only the third floor. I didn’t die. I just broke. My ribs shattered, puncturing my lungs. The pain was astronomical—a physical agony that matched the one in my soul. After I was stabilized, Mallory sat by my bed. “Was it worth it?” she asked, her voice dripping with irritation. “Jumping out a window to scare me? It’s pathetic, Thomas.” I let out a wet, wheezing laugh. “Scare you? Mallory, you’re a monster. You’d kill your husband for a child that was born out of a lie. You’re a beast.” The last of her patience vanished. “Maybe you’re the one who’s ‘filthy,’ Tom. No matter how much she forced you, you’re the one who had a physical reaction back then, aren’t you?” With those words, she erased everything. She blamed the victim. She justified the trauma. I was done. “I want a divorce. Go to Gavin. I’m done.” She froze, staring at me in silence for a long time. I didn’t look at her. I reached for my phone and called Gavin. He arrived minutes later. “Val, wait outside. I need to talk to him.” She left without a word. “Are you happy now?” I whispered. “You ruined me then. You ruined me now.” He smiled, but there were tears in his eyes. “I didn’t want to do it, Tom. But back then, the only way I could get Lydia to stop hitting me was to give her you. I had to survive.” I closed my eyes. My heart was a graveyard. “I’ve always felt like I owed you,” Gavin continued. “That’s why I won’t take Val away completely. We’ll just have our fun, and when I’m bored, I’ll give her back to you.” The hate I’d been suppressed for a decade finally erupted. I didn’t hesitate. I lunged from the bed, grabbing a scalpel the nurse had left on the tray. I drove it into Gavin’s abdomen. He screamed. Mallory burst in as he collapsed. The color drained from her face. She kicked me away and fell to her knees beside him. “Thomas! This is attempted murder! Are you insane?” I wiped the blood from my face. “He owed me that.” Mallory’s eyes were dark with rage as she called for the doctors. She looked at me, her voice trembling. “This isn’t over.” I tossed the signed divorce papers at her feet. “It is for me. We’re even.” She stared at the signature, her hands shaking. “Are you serious, Tom?” Gavin groaned in her arms. “It hurts… Val, am I going to die? I want to see the baby…” Her panic returned. “I’ll deal with you later,” she snapped at me, and they rushed him away. I laughed, a hollow, broken sound. There wouldn’t be a “later.” I wiped my eyes and dragged myself out of the hospital, heading for the airport. But as I reached the exit, I ran into someone. My body began to shake, and I nearly fell. … Gavin survived. But Mallory couldn’t stop thinking about those divorce papers. As she watched Gavin sleep, a gnawing unease took root in her chest. She hurried back to my room, but when she pushed the door open, the sight that met her eyes shattered her world.

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I let Virginia hold my hand up to the light, my expression perfectly entirely neutral. Instantly, the eyes of half a dozen college friends sitting around the café table zeroed in on us. She let out a soft, breathy laugh, tilting my hand so the overhead bulbs caught the metal. “This ring… what, maybe a couple hundred bucks? Tops?” The sudden chill of the band against my skin made me instinctively rub my thumb over the metal. “Does your guy just not know how to shop?” Virginia’s voice was laced with a thin, sugary venom. “The setting is so… basic. Come on, Nic, you deserve better than this.” I took my hand back, my voice completely steady. “I think it’s perfect.” Virginia blinked, visibly thrown. She hadn’t expected me to be so unbothered. 1. “Nic, don’t be mad.” Virginia leaned in, adopting that cloying, I’m-only-looking-out-for-you tone she’d perfected over the years. “I just don’t want you getting played. You’re too naive.” “I’m not mad.” Sitting next to me, Gemma watched the exchange, her mouth opening and closing as if she wanted to intervene but didn’t know how. “Jon told me he picked it out himself.” I picked up my latte. “And I love it.” “Picked it out himself?” Virginia let out a sharp laugh. “When a guy says he ‘picked it out himself,’ it means he couldn’t be bothered to actually put in the effort. Let me tell you, when Bradley bought my ring, he dragged me to three different jewelers in Manhattan. Finally went with a custom cut. Fifteen grand.” She fluttered her left hand over the table. The diamond was huge, aggressive, and blinding. “Fifteen grand. And that was after his corporate discount.” Right on cue, one of the girls across the table chimed in. “Virginia, your ring is gorgeous, seriously.” “Obviously.” Virginia shot me a sidelong glance. “Look, Nic, I’m just being real with you. Your boyfriend runs some tiny startup, right? How much money could he possibly have? Don’t set your expectations too high.” I didn’t answer. Just then, the bell above the café door jingled, and a man in a sharply tailored suit walked in. “Bradley!” Virginia practically leaped out of her chair, looping her arm through his. “What are you doing here?” Bradley offered a polished smile. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d come pick you up.” His gaze swept over the table, lingering on my face for a fraction of a second. “And this is…?” “Nicole. My roommate from college,” Virginia supplied smoothly. “The one I was telling you about? She just got engaged. The ring is very… um, minimalist.” Bradley’s eyes dropped to the ring on my finger. There was a microscopic pause. A slight shift in his posture. “Congratulations, Nicole.” His tone was remarkably respectful—somehow even more polite than the way he spoke to Virginia. I gave him a brief nod. “Thank you.” Virginia entirely missed the nuance. “Bradley, look at it. It’s mall jewelry, right? A couple hundred at best. Doesn’t it just scream ‘lack of commitment’?” Bradley offered a tight, noncommittal smile. “Everyone has different tastes, Virginia.” “You’re always so diplomatic.” She swatted his arm playfully. “Whatever. I just think a man’s budget shows his devotion.” She turned back to me. “Don’t hate me for being blunt, Nic. We’ve been best friends for a decade. If I don’t tell you the hard truth, who will?” “Right.” I offered a faint smile and took a sip of my coffee. Under the table, Gemma gently nudged my foot with hers. As the group was splitting up outside, Virginia pulled me aside, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Nic, are you really sure about this? The guy is a small-time freelancer. What can he actually offer you?” “Offer me?” I looked her dead in the eye. “He gives me exactly what I want. I’m happy.” “You…” Virginia let out a heavy sigh, shaking her head. “You settle too easily. Whatever. It’s your life.” She hooked her arm through Bradley’s and walked away, the sharp click-clack of her stilettos echoing against the pavement. Gemma stood beside me, hesitating. “What is it?” I asked. “Nothing.” She shook her head. “It’s just… Virginia is being Virginia. Just don’t let her get in your head, okay?” I watched Virginia get into a sleek black car. I didn’t say a word. Ten years. We had known each other for exactly ten years, from freshman dorms to now. When I got back to our apartment that evening, Jon was in the kitchen. He had an apron tied around his waist, flipping something in a pan. When he heard my keys drop, he turned and gave me that slow, easy smile of his. “Hey. How was the reunion?” “It was alright.” I walked over and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my cheek against his back. He went still for a second, then reached back to gently pat my hands. “Everything okay?” “Yeah.” I breathed in the scent of garlic, olive oil, and the clean, cedar smell of him. “Just wanted to hold you.” He didn’t push for details. He just turned off the burner, turned around, and took my hands in his, his thumb tracing the thin metal of my ring. “Do you really like it?” “I do.” “Honestly?” His voice dropped an octave. “I know the setting isn’t exactly flashy, but…” “I love that you picked it.” I looked up at him, cutting him off. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” He went quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was fierce, almost a vow. “Nicole, I promise you. One day, I’m going to give you everything.” I just smiled. He didn’t know that, as far as I was concerned, I already had it. 2. The next morning, I was scrolling through Instagram when Virginia’s newest post popped up. It was a perfectly filtered selfie of her and Bradley. The caption read: Some people spend their whole lives settling for cheap knock-offs. Others find the real thing without even trying. So blessed. The comments were a flood of heart-eyes and fire emojis. Couple goals! Bradley spoils you! This is the kind of love I’m holding out for. I kept scrolling. Halfway down, I saw a comment from one of the girls who had been at the café: Didn’t your friend just get engaged? Let’s see the ring! Virginia had replied: Don’t even ask. Literal bargain bin. Her guy is basically a starving artist. The girl replied: Oof. Tragic. Virginia: Honestly, I’m embarrassed for her. But you can’t buy taste. I stared at the screen. My thumb hovered over the glass for five, maybe ten seconds. Then I closed the app and locked my phone. Jon came out of the bedroom, buttoning his cuffs. “Everything good?” “Yeah.” I forced a smile. “You’re wearing that one today?” He looked down at his charcoal dress shirt. “Why? Does it look bad?” “No. It looks great.” His clothes were always like this. Impeccably clean, perfectly fitted, but totally devoid of logos. If you didn’t know anything about textiles, they looked like basic department store finds. I remembered the first time Virginia had met him, years ago. She had pulled me into the bathroom and whispered, Nic, he dresses like a substitute teacher. Are you sure he’s not totally broke? I hadn’t defended him then. Five years. We had been together for five years, and Jon never flaunted a single thing. He was the quietest person I knew. When I asked about work, he’d just say he was “handling some investments” or “running a project.” I never pushed. I figured when he wanted to talk about it, he would. I wasn’t going to drag it out of him. That night, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Gemma. Nic, Virginia is going off in the group chat again. I opened the college chat. Sure enough, Virginia was holding court. Ladies, tell me I’m not crazy. If a man proposes with a ring that costs less than a month’s rent, doesn’t that just mean he doesn’t value you? I was sitting there watching her show it off, and I physically cringed. I’m telling you, her guy’s little ‘business’ is probably going to fold by Christmas. A few people sent awkward emojis. One girl wrote: Idk Virginia, maybe it’s the thought that counts? Virginia fired back immediately: The thought? Can you pay a mortgage with ‘thoughts’? A man’s worth is directly tied to what he’s willing to spend on you. Period. I watched the text bubbles pop up, one after another. Eventually, I just swiped out of the chat. I didn’t type a single word. Gemma texted me privately: Are you seriously not going to say anything? Doesn’t this make you furious? I thought about it. Why would I be? Let her exhaust herself. But she’s humiliating you… Let her. I tossed my phone onto the sofa just as Jon walked out of his home office. “What were you reading?” “Nothing.” He crossed the room and sat down next to me, his eyes studying my face. He had a terrifying ability to read the micro-shifts in my mood. “Who upset you?” “Nobody.” He didn’t interrogate me. He just reached out and took my left hand. “Nicole. No matter what anyone is saying out there, I am always in your corner.” A sudden, sharp warmth bloomed in my chest. “I know.” He looked down at my ring, his thumb slowly brushing against the small, brilliant stone. “I sourced this diamond myself,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “It took me a long time.” “How long?” “Six months.” I blinked. Six months? “I wanted to find the exact right stone for you.” He looked up, his eyes locking onto mine with a startling intensity. “Not the biggest. Not the loudest. But the one that belonged on your hand.” Looking at him, my throat suddenly felt tight. My eyes stung. “You’re an idiot,” I whispered. “Yeah.” A soft smile touched the corners of his mouth. “But you’re worth it.” 3. That weekend, Gemma practically dragged me out for matcha lattes. We found a quiet corner in a minimalist café in Brooklyn. The second she sat down, she exhaled a heavy sigh. “Nic. Don’t shoot the messenger, okay?” “What now?” “It’s Virginia.” Gemma hesitated, twisting her straw. “She’s not just talking trash in the group chat. She’s taking it on tour.” I took a slow sip of my drink, letting the earthy warmth settle in my stomach. “She was telling the girls from the sorority that you’re getting scammed. That Jon is some deadbeat loser who’s using you, that you have terrible taste…” Gemma was getting flushed just repeating it. “Who does she think she is?” “She is who she’s always been.” “And you’re just… okay with this?” I offered a small, tired smile. “What does getting angry accomplish?” Gemma stopped, stunned. “Nic, you…” “It’s been ten years, Gem.” I looked down at the pale green liquid in my cup. “Since graduation, when has she ever been different?” Gemma fell silent. Because she knew exactly what I meant. The year we graduated, I landed a junior role at a major tech firm. Virginia’s reaction? You’re way too introverted for corporate. You’ll burn out in six months. Three years later, I was leading my department. A year ago, I bought my first apartment in Queens. Virginia came to the housewarming, looked around, and said, This neighborhood is dead. Terrible investment. Six months later, the city announced a new subway extension three blocks away. My property value shot up thirty percent. And last month, Jon proposed. And right on schedule, she told me the ring was cheap and my fiancé was a joke. Every single milestone of my life, she had to find a way to step on it. And every single time, I had chosen not to fight back. “Why don’t you ever defend yourself, Nic?” Gemma asked softly. “Defend myself to who?” I looked up at her. “Would she listen?” Gemma opened her mouth, then closed it. “Ten years,” I repeated, the weight of the decade suddenly feeling incredibly heavy. “I thought she was just… difficult. But a real friend doesn’t constantly try to make you feel small so they can feel big. A real friend doesn’t hate seeing you win.” “So what are you going to do?” “Nothing.” I picked up my cup again. “She can live her life, and I’ll live mine.” Gemma watched me for a long moment, biting her lip like she was debating whether to jump off a cliff. “Spit it out, Gem.” “It’s just…” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “I heard a rumor. That she’s not just talking behind your back.” “Meaning?” “She’s…” Gemma grimaced. “Look, it’s just a rumor. Just… keep your guard up, okay?” I didn’t press her. When we stepped out of the café, the afternoon sun was blindingly bright. I stood on the edge of the sidewalk, watching the swarm of New Yorkers rushing past, and felt an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. A ten-year friendship. I couldn’t believe how fragile it actually was. I used to justify it. I used to tell myself Virginia was just insecure, that she had a sharp tongue but a good heart. But looking back at the mosaic of our history… was she actually a good person? My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Jon. Done with coffee? I’m five minutes away. I typed back: Yeah. Exactly five minutes later, a sleek, unmarked black town car pulled up to the curb. Jon pushed the door open from the inside. He took one look at my face as I slid in. “You look drained.” “I’m fine.” He didn’t call my bluff. He just reached across the center console and threaded his fingers through mine. “What do you want for dinner?” “Whatever. I don’t care.” “Then I’m cooking.” I turned my head and looked at his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the quiet focus in his eyes. The exhaustion that had been sitting on my chest suddenly began to lift. Whatever was happening out there, in the noise of the world, I had this. I had him. 4. The real turning point came the following week. Virginia dropped a message in the group chat: Drinks this Friday! Private room at The Soho Club. Everyone has to come! I had planned on ignoring it, until my phone pinged with a direct message from her. Nic, you HAVE to come. I’ve got some high-tier guys coming. Need to introduce you. I stared at the screen, my brain glitching. High-tier guys? I was engaged. Why the hell was she trying to set me up? Gemma texted me a second later: Are you going to this thing? Are you? I replied. Virginia is demanding I come because there are ‘single guys.’ Gemma attached a confused emoji. But you literally have a ring on your finger. What is she playing at? I didn’t reply to Gemma. But on Friday night, I put on a dress and took a cab to Soho. The private room at the club was dimly lit and humming with aggressive networking energy. There were about eight people already there. The second I walked in, Virginia practically sprinted over. “Nic! You made it!” She latched onto my arm and physically dragged me across the room, planting me in front of a guy wearing a flashy Rolex and too much cologne. “Nic, meet Kyle. He’s in private equity, went to Wharton, owns three properties in the city.” She leaned in, not bothering to lower her voice enough. “Major upgrade from your little freelancer, right?” I stared at the guy in the suit. A cold, dead calm washed over me. “Nice to meet you, Nicole.” Kyle held out a hand, flashing a rehearsed, predatory smile. I didn’t take it. I just gave him a blank nod. “Hi.” Virginia pinched my arm. “Nic, don’t be a snob. Kyle is quite the catch.” “Virginia. I’m engaged.” “Engaged isn’t married.” Virginia waved her hand dismissively. “Besides, we both know your guy can’t provide for you. Why not just upgrade while you still have your youth?” I looked at her. All the years of making excuses for her just evaporated. I felt utterly, entirely done. “I’m not upgrading.” “God, why are you so stubborn—” The heavy oak door of the private room swung open. Bradley stepped inside. “Bradley!” Virginia instantly dropped my arm and glided over to him. “What are you doing here?” “Had a dinner meeting downstairs.” Bradley’s eyes scanned the room, stopping abruptly when they landed on me. “Nicole. You’re here?” “Yeah, I insisted she come.” Virginia looped her arms around Bradley’s neck. “Her fiancé is a dead end, so I’m doing her a favor. Showing her what else is out there.” I watched Bradley’s face. A distinct shadow of panic flickered across his eyes. His jaw tightened. “Virginia. She’s engaged.” “So? They haven’t signed papers.” Virginia rolled her eyes. “Besides, you’ve seen the guy. He’s nobody.” I stood there, watching the performance, the ice in my veins solidifying. So this was it. To her, my five-year relationship was nothing but a punchline. She hadn’t invited me here to catch up. She had invited me here to be the prop in her own ego trip. To publicly humiliate me and prove, once again, that she was better. “Virginia,” I said. My voice was low, cutting through the ambient noise of the room. “I’m leaving.” “What? No!” She lunged forward and grabbed my wrist. “I went through all this trouble to get you out here! Just stay for one drink.” “No.” I yanked my arm out of her grip, grabbed my clutch, and turned toward the door. “Nic, don’t be a bitch about this!” Virginia’s voice turned shrill behind me. “I’m literally trying to save your life!” I didn’t look back. Stepping out onto the cobblestone streets of Soho, the night air hit my face like a splash of ice water. I stopped at the corner, closed my eyes, and took a massive breath. Ten years. I finally saw her clearly. She was never my friend. I was just the designated loser in her personal reality show. The stepping stone she used to boost herself up. 5. When I unlocked the apartment door, Jon was still awake. He was sitting in the dark on the living room sofa, the blue light of his phone illuminating his face. When he heard the deadbolt click, he stood up instantly. “Hey.” “Hey.” I dropped my keys in the bowl, walked over, and collapsed onto the sofa next to him, burying my face in the crook of his neck. “What happened?” His arm came around my shoulders, his hand smoothing my hair. “You okay?” “Just exhausted.” “Tell me.” I stayed quiet for a minute, then let it out. “Virginia invited me out. It was a setup. She was trying to pawn me off on some finance bro.” I felt Jon’s muscles go rigid against me. “She told me…” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. “She told me you were a dead end. That I needed an upgrade.” Silence hung in the apartment. When Jon finally spoke, his voice was terrifyingly calm. Dangerously quiet. “What else did she say?” “Nothing.” I didn’t want him to carry my hurt. “I just walked out.” “Nicole.” He shifted, forcing me to look up at him. His eyes were dark, serious in a way I rarely saw. “I want you to stay far away from Virginia from now on.” I blinked, surprised. He never inserted himself into my friendships. He was usually the ultimate diplomat. “Why? Do you know something?” He didn’t answer the question directly. He just took my face in both his hands. “She is not a safe person for you. You deserve better.” I leaned my forehead against his chest, closing my eyes. I didn’t ask anything else. That night, I had a fractured, restless dream. I was back in my tiny freshman dorm room. Virginia was sitting cross-legged on my bed, laughing. Nic, we’re going to be best friends forever, right? I smiled and nodded. Of course. Then the room spun, the lights went harsh, and she was standing in a crowded room, pointing at me. She’s such a pathetic idiot. She’ll take whatever scraps I throw her. I woke up with a gasp. Pale gray morning light was bleeding through the blinds. Jon was beside me, breathing slow and steady in his sleep. I slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, a weird detail from the night before suddenly clicked into place. At the Soho club, the way Bradley had looked at me. It wasn’t the way you look at your fiancée’s random college roommate. It was a look of… suppressed panic. Of intense calculation. He knew something. I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs, and walked back out to the kitchen. My phone vibrated on the counter. A text from Gemma. Nic, I need to tell you something crazy. What? It’s Virginia… I think she tried to slide into Jon’s DMs.

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Three months ago, during a live-streamed reality show, my rival decided to set my career on fire. He leaked a photo of me—a candid, blurry shot of a kiss that I’d tried to bury in the deepest recesses of my mind. It instantly dragged me back to that first snowfall in Manhattan, the night Beatrice Lancaster told me she was getting married. I had been with her for seven years. I knew the rules of her world better than anyone. In the eyes of the elite, I was just a “pretty face,” a screen idol for the masses, a performer. I was never meant to step over the threshold of her family’s Upper East Side estate as anything more than a guest. The night we ended things, the atmosphere was hauntingly still. She told me she was leaving me the penthouse and the vintage Porsche. The career connections she’d promised would remain intact. Then she pushed a check across the marble counter. It was for thirty million, but there was an extra zero tacked onto the end—a parting gift for seven years of discretion. Then she asked me if there was anything else I wanted. I told her no. I took the money with the grace of a man who knew his place, and then I scrubbed myself from her life completely. Or so I thought. … “Damian Chester, that’s you in the photo, isn’t it?” The moment Tyler dropped the bombshell, the set went dead silent before the internet absolutely exploded. The live comments were a blurred frenzy on the monitor. [???] [Wait, did Tyler actually just do that? Did the Botox seep into his brain? You don’t ask that on a live feed!] [Our Tyler is just ‘authentic.’ He’s speaking truth to power.] [Am I the only one who wants to know who the woman is?] [Who else? It’s obviously his sugar mommy.] [Tyler is a dead man walking. Damian’s ‘sponsor’ is powerful enough to erase him from existence.] I sat there, staring at the screen, watching the vitriol pour in. The host was sweating through his suit, trying to play it off. “Tyler, you must be mistaken. It’s probably a still from a movie, right?” Tyler grinned, smelling blood. “No way. I had it authenticated. It’s real. Taken exactly three months ago.” He turned his gaze to me, eyes glinting with malice. “Am I right, Damian?” Three months ago. Exactly the night before Beatrice and I called it quits. Over the last seven years, we had an unspoken agreement: total secrecy. We were never seen together in public. We never touched where someone might see. But that night, perhaps knowing it was the end, she couldn’t help herself. She had pinned me against the wall of the darkened parking garage and kissed me with a desperation that tasted like grief. I hadn’t realized we were being watched. Across from me, Tyler waited for an answer. I didn’t give him one. With my current standing in the industry, I didn’t owe him the breath it took to lie. The host laughed nervously, forcing the conversation toward a different topic. The second the cameras cut, I was whisked away into my SUV. My manager, Marcus, shoved his phone into my face. The top three trending topics on Twitter were: #DamianChesterKiss #WhoIsDamianChesterSponsoring #TheLancasterHeiress Beatrice Lancaster was usually a ghost in the tabloids. She moved in circles too high for the paparazzi to reach. But when it came to my career, she had been loud. She wanted the world to know I had a shadow—a powerful, untouchable force at my back. She was my foundation. It started during my first year in the business. I was a nobody, and a well-connected nepo-baby actor had used a “fight scene” as an excuse to slap me eighteen times across the face. I was so naive back then; I thought I was just failing at the craft. I didn’t feel like a victim; I just thought I was a bad actor. Beatrice had been furious. She called me a fool while she iced my bruised jaw, her eyes burning with a protective fire. The next day, that actor was blacklisted. Permanently. “His family is powerful,” I had whispered to her. “Won’t you get in trouble?” She didn’t even look up from her tablet. “His family should be the ones worrying about offending me.” For seven years, she poured resources into me like water. I had Oscar winners as my supporting cast; I had first pick of every script from the top directors in Hollywood. When I walked the red carpet, industry titans stepped aside to let me through. “My darling deserves the spotlight,” she used to say. I worked hard. I didn’t want to waste her investment. I became a household name, an A-lister. But that meant my influence was now a double-edged sword. This “kiss” scandal wouldn’t just hurt me; it would hit Beatrice. It would hit her upcoming merger—her “royal” wedding. Sure enough, as soon as I reached my office, my phone buzzed. Her name flashed on the screen. I stared at the number I knew by heart. I didn’t pick up. Once it went to voicemail, I sent her three short texts: [I’ll handle this as quickly as possible.] [If it can’t be buried, I’ll announce my retirement.] [Don’t worry. I won’t be a burden to you.] It was March, but the snow was still falling over Manhattan. This kind of heavy, swirling white always made me think of the first time I met her. I was nineteen, a sophomore at NYU’s Tisch School. She was the billionaire investor even the dean bowed to. I had been selected to attend a high-stakes dinner—the prize was a supporting role in a major indie film. After a few rounds of expensive scotch, the masks slipped. The “gentlemen” at the table began pressured me into drinking heavy liquor until I was dizzy. Beatrice sat at the head of the table, her fingers idly tapping the rim of her crystal glass. “That’s enough,” she said, her voice cool and sharp. “Stop bullying the boy.” A single sentence, and the pressure vanished. No one dared to push further. I looked up, dazed, and our eyes met. In that room full of sycophants and forced laughter, we held a gaze for exactly one second. It was a small act of kindness, and I didn’t think much of it afterward. People like her didn’t inhabit the same universe as people like me. But after that night, she began appearing everywhere. Like a guardian angel. When a dean’s son tried to steal a role from me, she made sure it was returned with a phone call. On a night when the city was paralyzed by a blizzard and I couldn’t find a cab, she pulled up in her town car and drove me to my dorm herself. When my father needed a rare blood type for surgery, she—a woman whose time was worth thousands a minute—went to the hospital and sat in a chair to donate a pint herself. She was too good to me. So good that I was terrified. I was afraid I was just a whim, a temporary distraction for a woman who had everything. I was the one who finally broke the tension. “What do you want from me?” I had asked, my voice trembling as I ripped open my shirt buttons in her living room. I looked at her with cold, defensive eyes. “You want me in your bed? Fine. Let’s get it over with, and then we’re even.” She didn’t touch me. She stepped forward and buttoned my shirt back up, sighing softly. “Damian… what is it that you want?” My lashes fluttered. I forced myself to look into those deep, dark eyes and said, word for word: “I want the kind of love that can survive on nothing. Can you give me that?” Beatrice froze. Then, a ghost of a smile touched her lips. She kissed the tips of my fingers, her voice so tender it made my heart ache. “I can.” She didn’t lie. She gave me the love I asked for. But love isn’t a magic wand; it wasn’t strong enough to bridge the chasm between us. Class is a canyon you can’t jump over, no matter how high you climb. The day we broke up, New York saw its first snow of the season. The night before, we had been inseparable—from the living room to the shower to the study, clinging to each other as if we could fuse our souls. She had cooked dinner herself. When I finished eating, she said, “I’m getting married.” I froze for a few seconds. Then I laid down my fork and said, “Okay.” The silence stretched. The food grew cold on the table. Finally, she spoke. “The penthouse and the car are yours. The career support stays. I’ve added an extra zero to the severance check.” “Anything else you want?” I said, “No.” Beatrice nodded, turned, and walked out into the snowy night. Watching her back disappear, I felt a sudden, sharp pang of regret. After all those years, I realized I had never actually told her “I love you” out loud. The seven years had gone by so fast. We had walked through so many winters together that I’d fooled myself into thinking we’d grow old together. I thought there would always be another chance to say the truth. How pathetic. The snow fell harder, erasing her footprints. My vision blurred, and I felt a sudden cold dampness on my cheeks. I reached up to wipe it away. It was tears. Unsurprisingly, the internet turned on me. The news of the merger between the Lancaster Group and the Winthrop banking empire had just gone public. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a star with a secret—I was a “homewrecker.” “Damian, are you alright?” My team was in a tailspin trying to draft a PR statement when Tyler actually had the nerve to strut into my office. We were under the same management, and I had mentored him when he first started. It was a classic tale of the snake biting the hand that fed it. His confidence didn’t come from his mediocre acting; it came from the fact that he’d clawed his way into the inner circle of the Winthrop family’s younger daughter—Freddie Winthrop’s sister. I didn’t know if this stunt was his own idea or a hit ordered by the Winthrops. If it was Tyler, I had a chance. If it was the Winthrops… I was finished. They were the only family in the city with enough weight to rival the Lancasters. With a powerful family backing him, Tyler was insufferable. He leaned down, whispering in my ear, “Did you really think your little princess would protect you forever?” “So what if she adored you once?” “Freddie Winthrop is the man who belongs at her side. A man of her status. And you…” “You’re just the side piece. The ‘other man.’” That phrase made me lift my eyes to meet his. Tyler smirked. “Freddie asked me to give you a message. He’s a generous man—he can tolerate a secret ex. But you…” “Being this sloppy? Exposing her like this? He won’t stand for it.” “He suggests you retire. Now. While you still have your dignity.” “Do me a favor and give him a message back,” I said. I looked at my nails, not even giving him the courtesy of a full glance. “Tell him his taste in lapdogs is absolute trash.” Tyler’s face contorted with rage. “You’re dead, Damian! You’re getting blacklisted!” “I’ll be waiting.” I acted unbothered, but internally, I was bracing for the end. I’d been in this world for seven years. I knew that no matter how bright a star shines, to the true dynasties, we are just jesters. Expensive toys. Beatrice wouldn’t fight her fiancé for me. She loved me, yes. But for a woman like her, love was a small percentage of life. Compared to a billion-dollar merger, love was an easy sacrifice. So when my manager told me the next morning that every single negative headline had been wiped clean—replaced by a flood of scandals involving Tyler’s drug use and workplace harassment—I was stunned. That cold, surgical efficiency… that was Beatrice. Was this my “retirement” gift? I looked down at the pixelated photo of our kiss. It looked like a grainy scene from an old movie. The mess my entire team had stayed up all night to fix had been solved by her with a single phone call. Like it never even happened. The next day, I went to the set as usual. But the moment I stepped out of the car, a swarm of “fans” who were clearly paparazzi in disguise surged forward. Cameras and mics were shoved into my face, the questions sharp and poisonous. “Mr. Chester, what is your true relationship with Beatrice Lancaster?” “Tyler was ruined this morning—is the Lancaster heiress cleaning up your messes?” “She’s engaged to Freddie Winthrop. How do you feel about being called a ‘homewrecker’?” The sidewalk was blocked. The flashbulbs made my head throb. I kept my voice flat. “I have no obligation to discuss my private life.” “Is it because you don’t want to, or because you’re actually ‘servicing’ more than just Miss Lancaster?” A masked paparazzo sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “We’ve heard how that circle plays. Is it true you participate in ‘The Carousel’?” “You know, one guy, a dozen wealthy women—” My stomach lurched. A wave of nausea hit me so hard I actually gagged. The cameras went wild, zooming in to capture every detail of my distress. “Have you played that game, Damian? How much do you charge for a night like that?” “Which other high-profile women have paid for a turn—” “AH!” A sickening thud cut him off.

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My soul floated, light as a dandelion seed, looking down at the girl collapsed on the cold, linoleum floor. Mom, I’m sorry. I really wasn’t lying this time. I just couldn’t hold on anymore. Despite knowing I suffered from severe chronic anemia, my mother had insisted I participate in the university’s campus-wide blood drive. She didn’t want the “optics” of her own daughter sitting out while she, the Dean of Students, presided over the event. She called it “leading by example.” At the 100-milliliter mark, the world began to tilt. My vision went grainy, like an old television losing its signal. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape a cage. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I tried to steady the tube, trying to tell the nurse I needed to stop. But she just clamped her hand over my wrist, pinning me down. Stacy, the phlebotomist, shot me a look of pure, unadulterated annoyance. She looked at my ghost-white face and scoffed. “Only a hundred mils and you’re already trying to tap out? Everyone else is doing the full four hundred. Don’t be a drama queen.” She leaned in closer, her voice a sharp whisper. “This is a charity drive, honey. Trying to fake a faint to get out of it is just selfish. Honestly, people like you should be forced to give double just for the attitude.” My mother stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, her eyes like chips of flint. She didn’t offer a hand or a kind word. She just looked disappointed. “Zoey, is this how I raised you?” she asked, her voice echoing in the sterile room. “Everyone else is doing their part. You don’t get to be the exception just because you’re mine.” Then came the words that felt like a death sentence: “You stay in that chair until you hit four hundred, Zoey. Even if it kills you, you are finishing what you started.” I gasped for air, but my lungs felt like they were filled with cotton. When the third bag began to fill, the light finally went out. My body felt heavy, like lead, and I felt myself slip away as I hit the floor. 1 A suffocating darkness grabbed me, and then—nothing. My physical body slumped over the donation table, the sudden movement jerking the needle. Blood began to backflow into the tube, a dark, rhythmic pulse. Stacy shoved my shoulder, her patience clearly gone. She ripped the needle out with a sharp, careless tug. “I’m trying to work here! Can you stop moving for five seconds? Now I have to re-stick you.” When I didn’t answer, she let out a huff of disgust. She grabbed my arm and drove the needle back in, hard. “Oops. Missed the vein. You won’t mind, right?” She did it again. And again. She dug the needle in with a sickening deliberate-ness until my inner elbow was a mess of bruised, purple skin. But I couldn’t feel the sting anymore. “Fine, play the silent treatment,” Stacy muttered, swapping the bags without looking up. “Zero school spirit. Everyone else is doing their part, and you’re here acting like it’s a Greek tragedy. It’s just blood, Zoey. You’re so entitled.” She glanced toward my mother. “I don’t know how Dean Mercer ended up with such a spineless, selfish daughter.” The students in line behind me started to whisper. “I heard she’s actually sick, like, really anemic,” one girl murmured. “What if she’s actually hurt?” “Please,” another boy replied, rolling his eyes. “The nurse said she’s faking. And look at Dean Mercer. She’s totally calm. If something was actually wrong, her own mom wouldn’t just be standing there, right?” I hovered above them, desperate, looking at my mother. Her brow was furrowed, her lips thinned into a line of pure resentment. “Zoey! Get up this instant! You’re making a scene in front of the entire department!” I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Stacy paused, her hand resting on my limp arm. She looked up at my mother and sighed. “Dean, she’s really committed to this act. Should I even bother continuing? She only hit the hundred-mark. Everyone else did the full draw, but she’s just… being difficult.” Stacy leaned in as if sharing a secret. “Actually, she just threatened me. She told me that because she’s the Dean’s daughter, I should just credit her for a full bag and let her go, or she’d have me fired. Maybe we should just let her go before she causes more trouble.” I tried to scream, to tell the truth, but I had no voice. My mother’s face darkened. A flash of pure rage crossed her features. She walked over and kicked me—hard—right in the small of my back. Because my body was already a dead weight, the force sent me sliding off the chair and onto the floor. “You are a disgrace,” she hissed. “When did you become so manipulative? I honestly don’t know who you are anymore.” 2 I lay there, a discarded doll on the tiles. My mother was shaking, her heels clicking as she stepped closer and pressed the toe of her shoe down on my wrist. “Is this fun for you, Zoey? Making me look like a fool in front of my colleagues? Do you think being my daughter means you get to hold everyone hostage with your tantrums?” She leaned down, her voice a cold, jagged blade. “The biggest mistake I ever made was fighting so hard to bring you into this world.” A few students behind us gasped. Stacy covered her mouth, but her eyes were dancing with a cruel sort of glee. My heart—the ghost of it—ached. I remembered the stories. My mother had gone through three rounds of IVF to have me. I’d seen the faint, faded marks on her skin from the hundreds of injections. I knew she had bled for me, cried for me, suffered for me. And I remembered being a child. I was born premature, the anemia a lingering shadow from my first breath. My mother used to stay up all night when I was sick, her notebooks filled with meal plans and massage techniques to keep me healthy. She used to be my protector. But everything changed when she became Dean. On my first day of college, she sat me down for a “professional” talk. We have to maintain boundaries, she had said. No special treatment. No favoritism. To “maintain boundaries,” she gave my merit scholarship to the runner-up. “If you take it, people will say I rigged it for you,” she explained. “You have to understand, Zoey.” To “maintain boundaries,” she gave my spot in the prestigious state internship to a student from a “troubled background.” “I have eyes on me, Zoey. I have to be seen as fair.” I understood. I swallowed the unfairness every single time. I did it for her. But this time, to prove her “fairness,” she had forced me into this room. “Because you’re my daughter, you should be the first one in line. If you don’t do it, how can I ask anyone else?” And now, she was telling me she regretted my existence. I looked down at my body. My arms were a map of bruises and needle holes. I wasn’t faking. I was gone. Stacy grabbed my arm, pretending to pull me up, but her grip was loose and mocking. “Come on, Zoey. Just two hundred more mils and we’re done.” She “slipped.” She stumbled back, letting out a small shriek as she fell to the floor. The blood bag she was holding flew out of her hand, hitting the floor and bursting. Deep, crimson blood splattered everywhere. My body was jerked upward for a second before slamming back down into the puddle of my own blood. My white shirt soaked it up instantly. Stacy bit her lip, her eyes suddenly brimming with fake tears. “Zoey! Why would you do that? I was just trying to help you up, and you pushed me!” She looked at my mother, her voice trembling. “She just threw the blood. All that work… wasted. Dean Mercer, I’m so sorry. I know how much you care about this drive.” Stacy started to sob, the picture of a victimized worker. “I’m so jealous of her, you know? She has a mother like you, she gets to go to this great school, and I’m just a nurse working double shifts. And she treats me like garbage.” I stood there, invisible, watching the absurdity. A dead girl can’t push anyone, Stacy. But my mother believed her. She walked over and pulled Stacy into a hug, rubbing her back. “It’s okay. Don’t cry. I won’t let her bully you anymore.” I felt a coldness that had nothing to do with death. My mother looked at my body on the floor with utter loathing. “Since she’s so determined to ‘play dead’ to get out of this, I’m not lifting a finger to help her.” She looked at Stacy. “Take the blood she wasted out of her other arm. Draw it all. I want to see exactly how long she can keep up this little performance.” The students in line started chiming in. “She’s totally faking. I can’t believe Dean Mercer has to deal with this.” “So entitled. She thinks she’s royalty just because of her mom.” “She’s literally wasting everyone’s time. Just pull the blood and move on.” Then, the University President walked into the room, alerted by the commotion. He saw me on the floor, surrounded by red, and his face went pale. “Dean Mercer, what happened? Do we need an ambulance?” My mother turned, a weary, practiced sigh escaping her lips. “Mr. President, please excuse my daughter. She’s having a bit of a tantrum because she didn’t want to donate. The blood on the floor? She threw it to get back at me.” She looked back at me with a hard, unforgiving glare. “Don’t worry about her. The more attention we give her, the worse she gets. She needs to learn that she can’t always get her way.” 3 The President hesitated, looking at me with concern. “Dean, blood donation is voluntary. If she’s really this resistant, maybe we should just let it go.” He shook his head and walked away to attend to other donors. My mother’s anger only intensified. “Still not moving? Fine. You can stay right there on the floor while they finish.” She looked at Stacy. “Finish the draw while she’s down there. When you’re done, leave her. If she wants to lay in the dirt, let her. Don’t let her hold up the line.” Without another glance, my mother walked out of the room. Stacy grabbed a fresh needle. She didn’t look for a vein this time; she just jammed it in. She drew the full four hundred milliliters—and then some. When she was finished, she kicked my leg. “Okay, the show’s over. Your mom’s gone. You can stop acting now.” When I didn’t move, Stacy rolled her eyes. She looked at the guys waiting in line. “Hey, can a couple of you carry this ‘princess’ outside? She’s taking up space.” I watched from above as two boys hauled my limp body out like a bag of trash and dumped it on the sidewalk under the blistering afternoon sun. Two hours passed. The drive ended. A few students walked by, glancing at me. One girl paused, biting her lip. “Is she okay? She’s been out here in the sun for a long time. She looks… blue.” Stacy, who was packing up her gear, walked by and snorted. “Don’t bother. She’s just trying to get someone to pity her so they’ll go tell her mom. It’s a total scam. Trust me, I’ve seen girls like her a million times.” Another student joined in. “Yeah, she’s the Dean’s daughter. She’s just a brat. She’s probably waiting for a camera crew.” The girl who had been worried looked embarrassed and quickly walked away. Stacy smirked, feeling triumphant, and headed toward my mother’s office to finish the paperwork. “Dean Mercer, here are the final logs. Everything’s accounted for. If you could just sign off…” My mother glanced at the log. When she saw my name next to the “400ml” mark, her expression softened slightly. “Where is she? I told her she was supposed to stay and help you volunteer as part of her ‘community service’ for the attitude she gave me.” Stacy lowered her head, looking hesitant. “Well… I tried to get her up, but she said she wouldn’t move unless you personally came out and apologized to her. She’s still lying on the sidewalk.” My mother’s face turned a violent shade of red. “Dean, she’s been out there a while,” Stacy added, her voice sugary and manipulative. “Maybe you should just go give her a little hug? Just to get her to stop embarrassing the school?” My mother slammed her hand on the desk. “I have spent my life indulging her! No more. If she wants to be stubborn, she can stay on that pavement until she rots.” 4 The sun climbed higher. The campus emptied as students retreated to air-conditioned dorms. My body began to change. The heat was unforgiving. A few stray cats, drawn by the metallic scent of the blood on my clothes, began to circle. It was a special kind of hell, watching them. My spirit drifted back to my mother’s office. She and Stacy were laughing now. Stacy was flipping through the old notebook my mother used to keep—the one with the recipes for my anemia. “Wow, Dean Mercer, you really did all this for her?” Stacy asked, her voice dripping with fake admiration. “Every meal, every vitamin… you must have spent years on this.” I saw my mother’s eyes flicker. For a second, she looked at the yellowed pages with a flash of genuine memory. A shadow of the mother she used to be crossed her face. She sighed, reaching out to pat Stacy’s hair. “If only she were half as appreciative and sensible as you are, Stacy.” Just then, the President knocked and hurried in. “Dean, is your daughter still outside? It’s ninety-five degrees out there. If she has a health condition, heatstroke is a real risk.” My mother’s hand froze for a second before she waved it off. “She’s fine. She’s too vain to let herself get a tan, let alone heatstroke. She’s just waiting for me to break. My daughter is a master of the long game, Mr. President. When she gets bored, she’ll come crawling back.” The President sighed and left, looking unsettled. A few minutes later, there was another knock. My mother straightened her posture, a look of “I told you so” blooming on her face. She thought it was me. But it was a group of students. They were there to pick up their certificates for the Dean’s List and the state competition awards. My mother forced a smile and handed them out. “Congratulations. You all worked very hard.” The students looked at each other, then at her. “Actually, Dean… we wanted to say thank you. We know Zoey stepped down so we could have these spots. We heard she did it to help the ‘school’s image.’” The smile on my mother’s face died. I watched the realization hit her like a physical blow. She had told everyone I was “disqualified” or “lazy.” She hadn’t realized the students knew the truth—that she had forced me to give up my hard-earned honors to prove she wasn’t playing favorites. She looked like she’d swallowed glass. “She didn’t ‘step down.’ She was caught cheating on the preliminary exam. You earned these. She didn’t.” The students looked uncomfortable and hurried out of the office. My mother’s heart was racing now. She was humiliated. The door knocked again. Stacy smirked. “That’s definitely her this time, Dean. Ready to beg.” My mother cleared her throat, assuming her most authoritative tone. “Come in, Zoey! I hope you’ve enjoyed your little nap on the sidewalk.” She didn’t wait for the person to enter. “If you’re here to apologize, don’t bother unless you’re ready to publicly apologize to Nurse Stacy tomorrow morning. And I want a five-thousand-word essay on ‘Accountability’ posted on the student portal by midnight, or don’t bother coming home!” The knocking became frantic. My mother stormed over and ripped the door open. She froze. Two police officers stood there, their faces grim and heavy. “Are you the mother of Zoey Mercer?” My mother blinked, her annoyance still simmering. “Yes. What did she do now? Did someone report her for loitering on the sidewalk? I’ve already told her to get up.” The lead officer didn’t answer. He looked at her with a profound, terrifying pity. “Ma’am, I need you to brace yourself. Your daughter, Zoey, has passed away.”

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I was born with the kind of body that demands attention. Between the natural curves and my preference for tailored, form-fitting silhouettes, the internet had affectionately labeled me the “Ice Queen Mother.” Whenever I went out with my roommate, she’d joke that we looked like a stepmother taking her middle-schooler for a walk. Even the stray dogs on campus seemed to stop and stare a little too long. Before we ever met in person, the guy I was seeing online sent me a photo. My roommate, Gwen, recognized him instantly. She let out a piercing scream. “Shut up! Jenny, your mystery man is Hudson Christian? His dad is literally on the Board of Trustees. He’s the golden boy of the university. But there’s a catch—he’s got this ‘childhood friend,’ Daisy Vance, who’s obsessed with playing the eternal toddler.” Before I could even ask for details, Gwen had the student forums pulled up, giving me the full dossier on Daisy. “Look at this, Jenny. Daisy is a piece of work. She’s built her whole personality around being ‘tiny’ and ‘innocent.’ People call her the ‘Weaponized Toddler.’ If you two cross paths, it’s going to be a clash of the titans: the ultimate Femme Fatale versus the world’s oldest baby. I’d pay for a front-row seat to that.” I ran a hand through my long, dark waves, admiring my fresh manicure with a practiced indifference. “Let her play house,” I said, my voice smooth. “Tomorrow, when we meet, I’ll make sure she understands one thing: in the face of real femininity, ‘cute’ is just a consolation prize.” … To be honest, I have zero interest in “girl hate,” and I wasn’t exactly looking for love. But Hudson Christian was obscenely wealthy. We’d been “dating” online for a week without meeting, and he’d already “gifted” me ten thousand dollars—voluntarily. I was planning to go to Caltech for my PhD, and I was frantically saving for tuition. Hudson wasn’t just a boyfriend; he was a bridge to my future. The secret to maximizing your take in a relationship like this? Never be the one at fault. With a “baby-brained” childhood friend in the mix, walking away with a cool million seemed less like a dream and more like a business plan. We agreed to meet at 2:00 PM in the University Hall. I happened to have an award to pick up there anyway. A minor crisis in the lab held me up, and by the time I pushed through the heavy oak doors, I was twenty minutes late. I could hear voices drifting from the back of the hall. “Hudson, where is she? Maybe she’s too scared to show up.” The voice was high-pitched, syrupy, and cloyingly sweet. Every sentence ended with a little upward lilt, like a question from a toddler. That had to be Daisy. “Maybe she’s a three-hundred-pound catfish who’s just a pro at Photoshop,” another male voice chimed in, snickering. “Stop it,” Hudson’s voice was low, resonant, but carried a hint of hesitation. “I’ve heard her voice. She sounds… sophisticated.” Daisy let out a soft huff. “Voices can be faked, Hudson. There are so many girls online who use filters and voice changers. I’m just worried you’re being scammed. I just want to protect you.” “Exactly, man. You’ve got to be careful these days—” I chose that moment to push the door wide. Sunlight flooded in behind me, silhouetting my figure against the bright afternoon. I was wearing a charcoal-grey bandage dress that hit just above the knee, the neckline framing my collarbones perfectly. My hair fell in heavy waves over one shoulder, and my pearl earrings caught the light as I moved. The hall went silent. A guy who had been mid-sip of his water choked, coughing violently. I scanned the room, my gaze landing on Hudson in the back row. He was even better-looking than his photos—high brow bones, a sharp jawline, and an air of cool detachment. Right now, though, that detachment was gone. He was staring at me, his thumb frozen over his phone screen. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. I walked toward them, the rhythmic click of my heels echoing in the cavernous room. I took my time. “So sorry I’m late,” I said, stopping in front of Hudson and leaning in slightly. “Lab emergency.” He looked up at me, his voice a bit raspy. “You’re… Jenny?” “In the flesh.” I gave him a slow, knowing smile. “Why? Are you disappointed I’m not a three-hundred-pound catfish?” The tips of Hudson’s ears turned a vivid shade of red. A guy with glasses nearby theatrically clutched his chest. “Holy hell. Nice to meet you, Sister-in-law. I’m Mike. I wasn’t the one who said ‘catfish,’ it was this idiot—” He pointed shamelessly at the guy next to him, who looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards. I laughed, and the tension in the room broke. “Isn’t that dress a little… much for campus?” Daisy’s voice cut through the air, sharp and brittle. She was practically glued to Hudson’s side, clutching his sleeve like a security blanket. I took her in: pigtails, a Peter Pan collar, a pink bow, and a quilted purse. Wow. She really was leaning into the “Precious Moments” aesthetic. “Is it?” I sat down across from them, my movements deliberate and graceful. I looked her in the eye, my voice dripping with faux-kindness. “Sweetie, when you have a woman’s body, everything looks ‘much.’ But I actually love your look. It’s so… retro.” I paused, my eyes traveling from her pigtails down to her Mary Janes, then back up to her flat chest. “It’s a shame, really. Only a girl with a flat, childlike frame can pull off those doll dresses. On a woman like me, the buttons would probably become shrapnel.” Daisy’s face went from pale to beet-red in three seconds. “Who are you calling flat?!” she shrieked, her “baby” voice cracking into something much shriller. I widened my eyes, pulling a face more innocent than hers could ever be. “Oh, honey, I was just stating a fact. You aren’t upset, are you? I forgot how sensitive children can be.” “You—!” Daisy looked like she was about to have a full-blown tantrum. “Daisy,” Hudson interrupted, his brow furrowed. He gently pulled his sleeve out of her grip. “Sit down. Don’t make a scene.” Daisy looked at him in total betrayal, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “Hudson? You’re taking her side? She just insulted me!” “I didn’t insult you,” I said softly, my tone incredibly sincere. “I was calling you cute. Grown women envy that kind of youthfulness, Daisy. We can’t all be ‘babies’ forever.” Daisy’s lip trembled. She pointed a shaking finger at me. “So you have a chest! Big deal! Big boobs, no brains!” Before I could respond, the hall’s PA system crackled to life with a burst of static. Then, a booming male voice filled the room. “And now, please join me in welcoming our top honor recipient for the National Life Sciences Competition, Jenny Jiang, to the stage.” The room erupted in applause. Daisy’s words died in the air, making her look utterly ridiculous. She stood there with her mouth open, unable to find a comeback. Hudson’s gaze stayed on me, and this time, there was something more than just physical attraction in his eyes. There was genuine intrigue. I looked up at the stage and saw Richard Christian—Hudson’s father—holding a gold-embossed certificate and a medal. He was scanning the crowd. I stood up, smoothed my dress, and walked to the stage under the gaze of three hundred people. That night, Hudson wired twenty thousand dollars to my account as a “congratulatory gift.” Just as I was starting to think this would be easy, my advisor called. Her tone was grim. She told me to get to the department office immediately. There were five people waiting for me, all looking like they were at a funeral. The head of the ethics committee pushed a stack of papers toward me. “Jenny, we’ve received an anonymous tip accusing you of academic fraud. These are screenshots of your alleged chat logs.” I flipped through them. It was a fake account using my photo and name, chatting with someone labeled “Essay Ghostwriter.” The messages were blunt: payment details, prompts, deadlines. The tone was a decent imitation of mine. “This isn’t my account,” I said, sliding the papers back. “The whistleblower provided a photo of your student ID as proof of identity.” “My ID went missing last week.” The committee head adjusted his glasses. “We have to investigate. Until then, your fellowship and prize money are suspended.” I didn’t argue. The money wasn’t the point; a fraud charge would kill my chances at Caltech. I picked up the chat logs again and turned to the third page. “Professor, look at the timestamp on this message. 3:12 PM last Tuesday.” “And?” “At 3:10 PM, I was on stage in the University Hall receiving an award from Richard Christian. There were three hundred witnesses and a live stream. I wasn’t in the back of the room hiring a ghostwriter.” The professor’s expression shifted. I tapped the “Ghostwriter’s” profile picture in the screenshot. “And this account? They posted a selfie last night with a location tag at the South Dorms. If you look at the reflection in the mirror behind them, you can clearly see a girl with pigtails and a pink bow.” I turned my phone around to show them a photo of Daisy from the forum. “Should I call Daisy Vance in here to clarify, or should we just go straight to the Dean?” The office went silent. The professor took off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Jenny, we will handle this with the utmost seriousness—” I stood up, my voice cold. “I expect a formal apology, and I’ll be pursuing a defamation claim.” The moment I stepped out of the office, a text from Hudson popped up. How much will it take for you to drop this? I looked up and saw Hudson leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor. He looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “Jenny, can we talk?” He sounded hesitant. “Look, our families have been close forever. Our fathers are business partners. Daisy… she’s been spoiled her whole life. She has a temper, but she isn’t a bad person. She’s just… immature. Could you just let this one go? For me?” He said it softly, his voice like a caress. I smiled. “Sure, Hudson. If it’s that important to you.” He visibly relaxed. Five minutes later, another hundred thousand dollars hit my account. I stared at the zeroes, and my anger evaporated instantly. Let it go? For a hundred grand, I’d let her set my car on fire. But Daisy wasn’t done. That afternoon, I returned to my dorm to find my desk stripped bare. My three thick research journals—the culmination of months of lab work—were gone. “Where are my notes?” I asked Gwen. Gwen looked sick as she pointed toward the trash chute at the end of the hall. I walked over. My journals had been ripped to shreds, soaked in leftover ramen soup and coffee grounds, with a muddy footprint stamped on the cover. “I tried to stop her,” Gwen whispered. “But Daisy said she was ‘helping you clean’ and thought it was just scrap paper. When I told her it wasn’t, she started crying, saying she was ‘just trying to be a good girl’ and ran off.” I stared at the trash for a long time. Those notes contained three months of raw experimental data. My mid-term defense was next week. Without that data, my thesis was dead. I took a photo and sent it to Hudson. No text, no accusations. Just the image. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. Bank Notification: +$20,000. Memo: Don’t be mad. Buy something nice. I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then tucked my phone away and headed to the campus print shop. I pulled up my cloud drive and hit “Print” on a fresh set of data. Gwen stared at me, jaw dropped. “When did you scan those?” “The first day I started in the lab,” I said, watching the printer whir to life. “Anyone in research who doesn’t have a backup is asking for a disaster.” Gwen was silent for a moment. “Jenny… you’re so cold it’s almost scary.” I didn’t answer. Soon after, it was Daisy’s birthday. Hudson rented out the entire local theme park for her. The school forums were flooded with photos. “Golden Boy throws royal bash for his Princess.” “Hudson and Daisy: A Real-Life Fairy Tale.” Gwen looked at me with concern. “Jenny, he’s technically your boyfriend. Doesn’t this bother you?” I shrugged, sipping my tea. “It’s a business transaction, Gwen. You don’t catch feelings for your ATM.” Gwen nodded, then added, “You know, Hudson’s dad really likes you. You could actually marry into that family if you wanted to.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. Since I started seeing Hudson, Richard Christian had already “invited” me for a private chat. “The Christian family needs a daughter-in-law who prioritizes the home,” he’d told me. “This research, these competitions… they’re nice hobbies. But after graduation, you’ll be expected to settle down and focus on supporting Hudson. Can you do that?” Like hell I can. My life plan was mine to write. I went back to my laptop, refining my final paper. Daisy burst into my dorm at 10:00 PM that night. When she saw me sitting calmly at my desk, she faltered. “Don’t you check the forums, Jenny?” “I saw the photos,” I said, not looking up from my screen. “The pink balloons really brought out your complexion.” Her smirk vanished. “You aren’t even mad?” I turned around and smiled at her. “Why would I be? Hudson told me all about it. Family obligations, social appearances… I understand perfectly.” Daisy’s expression twisted. She stared at my laptop screen. “Your screen looks so dusty, Jenny. Let me help you.” She picked up a bottle of industrial-strength bleach from my cleaning supply caddy and unscrewed the cap. “I’m just being a good little helper!” She poured the entire bottle directly onto my keyboard. The liquid seeped into the keys, the screen flickered violently, sizzled, and then went black. Daisy tilted her head, blinking those big, “innocent” eyes. “Oops! Did I do a bad thing again? Oh well. Hudson always fixes things for me anyway.” She skipped out of the room, looking triumphant. Gwen came back with coffee, saw the wreckage, and nearly dropped her mug. She started reaching for her shoes to go find Daisy. I caught her arm. “Relax. I have a plan.” I took a deep breath, photographed the dead laptop, and sent it to Hudson. Caption: She was “helping” me clean again. The reply came faster this time. Bank Notification: +$30,000. Memo: Don’t fight with her. Buy a new one. And then, a different notification popped up. An email from Caltech. We are pleased to inform you… I stared at the words for three full minutes. Then I turned off my phone, leaned back in my chair, and let out a long, slow breath. Every moment of patience, every time I “let it go,” every bit of swallowed pride—it was all worth it. My offer was here. Screw this. I’m done playing nice. That night, I tallied the balance in my accounts. Then a thought struck me. If I broke up with Hudson now, could he try to claw the money back? In the eyes of the law, “gifts” and “loans” can get messy when a relationship ends. If he felt cheated, he could claim I scammed him under the guise of romance. I needed the breakup to be his fault, not mine. The next day, I texted him. Are you free tonight? I want to grab a drink. He replied instantly. Where? I picked a dimly lit lounge just off-campus. When I arrived, he was already there, sitting in a velvet booth with his sleeves rolled up, a glass of scotch in his hand. I sat closer to him than usual. “What’s up?” he asked, looking at me. “Nothing.” I took his glass and took a sip. The scotch was harsh, and I winced. He took the glass back and pushed a glass of orange juice toward me. “Drink that instead.” I rested my chin on my hand, watching him. The low light hit the planes of his face, making him look devastatingly handsome. His Adam’s apple moved as he took a drink. “Jenny.” “Hmm?” “Don’t go back to the dorms tonight, okay?” Before he could finish the thought, his phone buzzed. The name Daisy flashed on the screen. Hudson went to silence it, but I caught his wrist. I took the phone, swiped to answer, and held it to my ear. “Hudson? Why aren’t you back yet? I’m scared being all by myself—” Daisy’s sugary voice filled the air. I smiled into the receiver. “Hey, Daisy.” The line went dead silent. “You? Where’s Hudson? Put him on!” “He’s a little busy right now.” “Why?!” I glanced at Hudson. He was watching me, his eyes dark and unreadable. I spoke into the phone, my voice low and playful. “Because Hudson and I are about to do ‘grown-up’ things. And there isn’t really room for a baby.” I hung up and tossed the phone onto the table. Hudson was stunned for a second, then he let out a short laugh, his ears turning pink. “You’re doing that just to spite her.” “Maybe. She’s been getting on my nerves lately.” Hudson didn’t argue. He took another drink, a smirk tugging at his lips. My phone buzzed in my lap. A text from Gwen: Everything is set. She’s on her way.

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The moment my husband crushed his third cigarette into the crystal ashtray and told me he wanted a divorce, the smell of bleach hit me like a physical blow. It was a phantom scent, a sensory ghost from a future that hadn’t happened yet—or rather, a past life that had already ended. It was the smell of the ten years I’d spent playing nurse to him in sterile hospital rooms. It was the smell of the air in my daughter’s lungs when she pointed a finger at me and called me a “sinner.” It was the suffocating, desperate smell trapped inside my oxygen mask as I lay dying, listening to the news that my ex-husband had just married the young girl who used to be our maid. Now, sitting across from me, Richard’s voice was strained, caught between guilt and a perverse kind of excitement. “I’ve fallen in love with her, Elena. One of Natalie’s classmates. It’s… it’s the real thing.” I stared at the unopened pack of nicotine gum on the coffee table. I’d bought it last year after the doctor warned him about his blood pressure. What a waste of money. “Okay,” I said. My voice sounded light, airy, as if I were discussing someone else’s weather. In my previous life, this was the moment I had shattered our wedding photos. I had screamed, wept, and demanded to know how he could do this to our daughter, to our twenty-five years of history. And what did that get me? The girl was sent abroad by her parents, Richard spiraled into a pit of whiskey and self-pity, and eventually, he collapsed from a stroke at a business dinner. I was the one who pushed his wheelchair through a decade of physical therapy. I wore through seven pairs of shoes walking him back to health, only for him to stand on his own two feet and immediately slap a divorce settlement in front of me. Even our daughter, Natalie, had turned on me then. “It’s your fault, Mom! If you’d just let go ten years ago, Dad wouldn’t have wasted a decade. You ruined my career, my future—everything!” The day they kicked me out of the house, I was coughing up blood at the gates of the subdivision, scrolling through their Instagram posts celebrating “the new family.” But now, the morning sun was filtering through the blinds, and Richard was waiting for my explosion. I picked up the pen and flipped to the last page of the agreement. “I want the old cottage in the valley. You can keep the rest.” Richard froze. The expression on his face was identical to the one he’d worn in my past life when I’d refused to sign. It was perfect. This time, I wasn’t saving him. I was saving myself. 1 He snapped his head up, eyes wide with disbelief. “What? Say that again.” I picked up a piece of the braised pork I’d made for lunch and chewed slowly. “I said fine. We’ll split the liquid assets fifty-fifty. You have a problem with that?” He narrowed his eyes, his mind clearly racing to find the trap. He remained silent. I scooped a large portion of rice into my bowl and started eating with an appetite I hadn’t felt in years. In my last life, I had starved myself for three days after he told me. I had withered away until the sickness took me. Not this time. This time, I was going to be well-fed. Richard let out a long, theatrical sigh, the “burdened intellectual” persona sliding back into place. “Elena, I’m being serious. I love Skye. And she loves me.” “Despite the twenty-five-year age gap, our souls are… intertwined. As my partner for the first half of my life, I expect you to respect my journey. I want your blessing.” I nodded, mouth full. “Sure. I’m pretty sick of your journey anyway.” He blinked. Then, a flicker of genuine surprise—and relief—crossed his face. “You’re… you’re not just saying that? You’re not planning to make a scene at the university?” I just kept eating. He began to rub his hands together, his excitement becoming palpable. “Good. I’m glad you’ve reached this level of maturity. You’ve spent twenty years by my side; I suppose some of my refinement was bound to rub off on you.” “Listen,” he continued, his voice dropping into that condescending ‘professor’ tone, “we’ll divide the assets into three. One for you, one for me, and one for Natalie. It’s more than fair.” “I’m staying with Dad,” Natalie said suddenly. She had been slumped on the sofa, scrolling through her phone, pretending not to listen. “He can manage my share of the money.” Richard let out a booming laugh. “See? That’s my girl! Honestly, Elena, this is a great deal for you. You’ve been a housewife for two decades. You haven’t exactly ‘contributed’ to the household income. You’ve lived off me for twenty years. You should be grateful for a third.” Natalie waved her phone at me, a cruel smirk on her face. “Mom, I just recorded you agreeing to the divorce. Don’t even think about backing out.” 2 I looked at my daughter. There was still a dull ache in my chest—a vestigial remain of maternal instinct. This was the girl I had raised. I used to think we were a team. In my first life, when Richard asked for the divorce, my first thought had been her. She was applying for grad school, and she needed her father’s connections and financial backing. I knew Richard. If I divorced him then, he would have cut her off to spend every cent on his new muse. So I endured. I stayed in a dead marriage, making myself small and pathetic just to ensure she had a bridge to her future. And how did she repay me? By leaving me to rot in a rural shack without so much as a bag of rice. By ignoring my calls when I was too sick to stand. When I finally reached her on the phone, she had said: “Just die already, Mom. People like you don’t contribute anything to society anyway. You’re just wasting oxygen.” Recalling those words, I smiled thinly at her. “Don’t worry, Natalie. I won’t fight your father for you. Even if you wanted to come with me, I wouldn’t take you.” Her face shifted, the smirk faltering for a microsecond before hardening into a sneer. “Please. As if I’d ever go with you. What could you possibly do for me?” “Skye is my best friend,” she continued, her voice rising in a defensive trill. “When she marries Dad, we’ll be closer than ever. She has a Master’s degree, she’s beautiful, she actually matches Dad’s intellect. When you stand next to him, you look like his housekeeper.” She stuck her tongue out at me, a childish gesture from a twenty-year-old woman. “I’m going to be surrounded by culture and sophistication now. I don’t need you.” She threw her fork onto the table and sauntered back to her room. I looked around the room. I looked at the half-eaten meal I’d cooked, the laundry drying on the balcony that I’d washed, the houseplants I watered because she forgot, the pet turtle she’d cried for and then never fed once. I had done everything for her. And in her eyes, it was worth nothing because it wasn’t ‘intellectual.’ Her father was a professor, so even when he did nothing, he was a giant. I was a mother, so even when I did everything, I was trash. Fine. I didn’t want this ungrateful ghost of a daughter anymore. 3 After lunch, I walked out the door. At the bottom of the stairs, I ran into Richard and Skye. They weren’t even trying to hide it anymore. They were walking up the path, fingers intertwined, looking like a sickeningly sweet couple in a jewelry commercial. I walked past them as if they were invisible. “Mrs. Miller!” Skye called out. She was beaming, that youthful, predatory glow radiating off her. “Are you heading out?” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You might want to stay out late. I’d hate for you to come home and see something… upsetting. You know, like this.” She pressed her lips to Richard’s in a bold, wet kiss. Richard looked slightly uncomfortable, his eyes darting around to see if any neighbors were watching, but he didn’t pull away. Skye pulled back, a glint of malice in her eyes. “Oh, and Mrs. Miller? Richard said he’s buying me a villa in the hills. Do you even know what a villa looks like? You’ve probably never stepped foot in one.” She winked. “Maybe after the divorce, you can come over and be our cleaning lady. At least then you’d get to see how the other half lives.” I remembered the first day I met Skye. She had seemed so sweet, so harmless. She told me she wanted to go into academia and asked if my husband could tutor her. By the third week of “tutoring,” I had heard her moans through the office door. “I just love mature men with authority,” she had whispered. In my last life, I fought to keep them apart. This time? I was going to help them find their “happily ever after.” After all, I had what I needed. I hailed a taxi and went straight to a local labor agency. I hired six strong men and drove two hours out to the countryside, to the old farmhouse my parents had left me. It was overgrown with weeds, abandoned for over a decade. It was the place where I had died in my previous life. In that life, Natalie had shoved me into the dirt here and laughed. “Guess what, Mom? Dad had eight million dollars stashed away in a private account the whole time. Bribes, ‘consulting fees,’ cash gifts from students’ parents… all of it. He hid the cash in the floorboards of this dump because he knew you’d never look here.” Eight million dollars. He hadn’t touched a cent of it when he was paralyzed. He’d let me work three jobs to pay for his medicine while Natalie spent his pension on designer shoes. And the moment he recovered, he’d dug it up to buy Skye a new life. He wouldn’t even give me ten thousand for my surgery. Well. This time, I was the one with the shovel. 4 After securing the “inheritance,” I took a week-long solo trip to the coast. I spent money on things I’d always denied myself—expensive wine, silk sheets, a spa treatment that made my skin feel like a human’s again. Richard sent me a barrage of texts every day. [I’m sick of seeing your junk in the hallway. Get back here and move your stuff out!] [How long are you going to hide? We need to sign the final papers.] When I finally returned, the neighbors stared. I looked rested. I looked younger. “Going through a divorce suits you, Elena!” one of them joked. I laughed. “It turns out not taking care of a grown man is the best skincare routine there is.” We lived on the second floor. I looked up and saw Skye on the balcony, looking down at us with a scowl. I walked into the apartment and realized my slippers were gone. Whatever. I didn’t need them. The place was transformed. Every piece of furniture I’d picked out was gone. Even the curtains had been replaced with something tacky and over-the-top. Skye walked out of the kitchen, looking smug. “I threw your stuff out, Elena. Your taste was… depressing. I hope you don’t mind. You’re leaving anyway, right?” I remained calm. “Actually, I like it. It saves me the trouble of looking at things I’m tired of.” Her smile faltered. Young girls are so impatient; they expect you to crumble. “Listen to me, you old hag! Richard doesn’t want you! Look at these!” She pointed to the walls. Our wedding photos had been replaced by glossy shots of her and Richard. There was a “family” portrait of Richard, Skye, and Natalie. “There’s no room for you here anymore,” she hissed. I glanced at the photos. “Technically, we haven’t finalized the paperwork. Legally, I’m still his wife. And legally, this is still my home.” “So what? He doesn’t love you! You’re nothing!” she screamed, her voice echoing through the apartment building. Just then, the front door—which I’d left ajar—was pushed open. A middle-aged couple rushed in, faces flushed with rage. “Skye!” the man roared. Skye turned white. “Mom? Dad? What are you doing here?” She looked at me, realization dawning. “You! You called them!” Before she could finish, her father stepped forward and slapped her across the face. “We worked ourselves to the bone to put you through school, and you spend your time breaking up a marriage? You’re coming home right now!” Richard walked in from work at that exact moment. He tried to play the ‘distinguished professor,’ tried to “reason” with them. Skye’s father didn’t want to talk. He chased Richard around the living room, swinging his briefcase until Richard was cowering behind the sofa with a bloody nose. After they dragged a screaming Skye out of the apartment, Richard wiped his face and looked at me with pure hatred. “We’re going to the courthouse this afternoon. I am giving Skye the life she deserves, and you are not going to stop me!” I smiled. “You think you can handle her parents?” “That’s my business! Just sign the papers!” I shook my head slowly. “I’ve been thinking. I don’t think I want a divorce anymore.” 5 Richard’s face contorted. “What did you say?” I shrugged. “You were right, Richard. I’m just a housewife. Skye said I’d end up as a cleaning lady. Why would I want that? I’ll just stay here. You can do whatever you want with whoever you want, but I’m keeping the title of Mrs. Miller.” He slammed his hand on the table, his face turning a dark, dangerous purple. “You will sign!” It was the same look he’d given me in the other life. The same entitlement. “Richard,” I said quietly, “You’re a professor. You’re supposed to be good at logic. Tell me, what have I gained from this marriage?” “Have I gained wealth? Jewels? A life of ease? No. I’ve gained the labor of raising your child, the stress of managing your home on a pittance, and a daughter who treats me like dirt.” He stared at me, his bravado leaking away. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “I… I offered you a third of the money,” he muttered. I set my tea down. “You have eighteen thousand dollars in your savings account. A third is six thousand. How long is that supposed to last me? I don’t even have a place to live.” “This apartment is my pre-marital property!” he shouted. “Exactly,” I replied. “Divorce is a bad deal for me. So, I’ve decided I don’t care. Go play with your student. I’m staying.” “You’re being unreasonable! Greedy! You’re a small-minded, petty woman! Marrying you was the greatest mistake of my life!” I didn’t blink. “Get her things out of my house. If I have to do it, I’m throwing them off the balcony.” I walked into the master bedroom and started hushing Skye’s designer bags into the hallway. Natalie came home and screamed at me, calling me every name in the book. I put on my noise-canceling headphones and started a movie. At dinner, the two of them sat at the table, staring at me with thunderous expressions. “Where’s dinner?” Richard demanded. I arched an eyebrow. “Are you joking? After the way you’ve treated me, you think I’m cooking for you?” I picked up my takeout and went into my room, locking the door. This went on for three days. Finally, Natalie snapped. “I can’t take it anymore, Dad! Just give her what she wants!” “The house is old anyway, and the savings are nothing! Let her have them! I’m sick of her cooking, and I’m sick of her face!” “Skye will cook for us once we move into the villa! Just do it, Dad! Her parents are trying to marry her off to someone in another state!” Five minutes later, there was a knock on my door. “Fine,” Richard spat through the wood. “The house, the savings—you can have it all. Just sign the damn papers.”

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The security footage from two in the morning cleared the sleep from my brain like a shot of pure adrenaline. There, on the glowing screen of the property manager’s tablet, was my brand-new, eighty-five-thousand-dollar Winnebago RV. And there was my neighbor, Penny, sitting in the driver’s seat. Behind her, loading into the cabin like they were boarding a tour bus, were her husband, her daughter, and her elderly parents. The brake lights flared in the grainy black-and-white video. And then, my RV pulled out of the complex, heading straight for the interstate. The fuse for this entire nightmare had been lit a few days prior. I had just dropped a small fortune on that custom Class C motorhome. My plan for the Fourth of July weekend was simple: drive down the coast, park by the ocean, and embrace the absolute, unbroken quiet of solitude. I hadn’t accounted for Gary. Gary lived next door. When he saw the rig parked in my spot, he showed up on my porch with his wife, his eight-year-old kid, and his in-laws, pitching the idea that they should “tag along” to save on travel expenses. I had politely, but firmly, shut the door on that idea. It wasn’t until the following morning that I walked outside and found a rectangular patch of empty asphalt where my sanctuary used to be. When I finally got Gary on the phone, the sheer entitlement vibrating through the receiver made the blood roar in my ears. “Look, man, you’re flying solo. You can crash at any cheap motel,” he’d yelled over the highway wind. “This thing is perfect for a family. We’re finally comfortable.” I didn’t hesitate. The second the call disconnected, my thumb tapped 9-1-1. You want to steal my rig? You want to be comfortable? Get comfortable with the idea of a holding cell. 1 “Hey, Jack! Heard you got yourself a land yacht!” I had been lying on my couch, endlessly scrolling through my phone, when the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Gary from next door standing on my welcome mat, grinning like he’d just scratched a winning lotto ticket. He hadn’t come alone. He’d brought the whole circus. His wife, Penny. His daughter, Mia. His father-in-law, Frank. His mother-in-law, Helen. Five of them, packed onto my porch, radiating expectant energy. “Hey, Gary,” I said, keeping my hand on the doorknob. “What’s up?” “Word on the street is you’re taking that new RV out for the Fourth of July weekend,” Gary said, clapping his hands together. “That’s fantastic. We’re coming with you. Saves you from being all by your lonesome!” I blinked, waiting for the punchline. When none came, I shifted my weight. “I’m driving down the coast by myself. That’s kind of the point.” Gary waved his hand, dismissing my reality entirely. “Ah, come on. Road trips suck when you’re alone. No one to talk to, no one to pass the time with. We’ll keep you company. It’ll be a blast.” “Gary,” I said slowly, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “The RV is just for me.” “I know, I know,” Gary pushed on, entirely unfazed. “But that thing is huge! You can’t possibly need all that space. The five of us can just squeeze into the back. We won’t be in your way at all.” Down around my knees, little Mia started jumping. “I wanna ride in the big car! I wanna ride in the big car!” I let a heavy, uncomfortable silence fall over the porch. Penny finally chimed in, offering a tight, appeasing smile. “Jack, look, we aren’t trying to take advantage. You can just drop us off at the first national park on your route, and we’ll get out and do our own thing. It just saves us the gas money. We’re neighbors. It’s what neighbors do.” “No,” I said. “I can’t do that.” Helen, the mother-in-law, instantly soured. Her face pinched together. “Well, aren’t you a stingy young man? We live right next door. What does it cost you to do a simple favor?” “Helen,” I kept my voice flat. “It cost me eighty-five thousand dollars. I literally haven’t even driven it off the lot for a trip yet.” Frank cleared his throat, adjusting his baseball cap. “Son, don’t be so selfish. Put some good karma into the world. It comes back to you.” A dry laugh scraped the back of my throat. “So, let me get this straight. I buy a vehicle with my own money, I don’t want to chauffeur five people I barely know, and I’m the selfish one?” Gary quickly held up his hands, playing the peacemaker for the fire he’d started. “Alright, alright. If Jack doesn’t want to help out, we’ll leave it. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” He corralled his family, turning them back toward their unit. But just before he stepped off my porch, Gary glanced back over his shoulder. It wasn’t a look of disappointment. It wasn’t anger. It was a look that said, We’ll see about that. I locked my door, brushing it off as suburban absurdity. Sometime around midnight, floating in that heavy space between waking and sleeping, I thought I heard a faint rustling outside my front door. A quiet clinking, like metal on metal. But the exhaustion of the workweek pulled me under before I could investigate. The next morning, I walked out with my coffee mug. The parking pad was empty. My RV was gone. I stood there, the warm morning air suddenly feeling like ice against my skin. A high-pitched ringing started in my ears. Impossible. I rubbed my eyes. The concrete was still bare. A small oil stain from my old sedan was the only thing left. I pulled out my phone, opening my camera roll to the picture I’d taken yesterday. The pristine white Winnebago, the sleek awning. It had been right there. Now, there wasn’t so much as a tire mark left behind. My first, frantic thought: Did the HOA tow it? I jogged down to the community clubhouse, pushing open the glass doors. Barb, the property manager, looked up from her desk. “Barb,” I said, a little breathless. “My RV is gone from my spot. Did the association have it towed?” Barb frowned, adjusting her glasses. “No, Jack. We don’t tow unless there’s a written violation first. You’re fully registered.” “Can we check the security cameras?” “Sure,” she said, her voice softening at the panic in my eyes. “Come back here.” She clicked through the digital archive. We went back to midnight and fast-forwarded. At exactly 2:13 a.m., a figure appeared on screen. It was Penny. She walked straight up to my RV. In her hand, something metallic glinted under the streetlamp. She pressed a button. The amber hazard lights flashed, confirming the doors unlocking. She climbed into the driver’s seat. Two minutes later, Gary emerged from the breezeway of their unit. Following him like ducks in a row were Helen, Frank, and little Mia. They were lugging duffel bags and a cooler. Gary slid the side door open. He hoisted Mia in. Then Frank. Then Helen. Then Gary climbed in himself, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. At 2:18 a.m., my eighty-five-thousand-dollar motorhome rolled out of the complex gates. Barb slowly turned her head to look at me, her eyes wide. “Jack… aren’t those your neighbors?” 2 I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t. I just stared at the frozen frame of the video, my palms growing damp with a cold, creeping sweat. The keys. It hit me with the force of a physical blow. Gary had come over the night before, uninvited. When he was standing in my entryway, leaning against the console table, I had my back turned for exactly ten seconds to grab a bottle of water from the kitchen. I had left my spare set of keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. I thought I had misplaced them. I hadn’t. He had palmed them while I wasn’t looking. I pulled out my phone and dialed Gary’s number. User busy. I called again. User busy. Third try. It rang. And then, he picked up. “Gary,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “Where is my RV?” Through the speaker, I could hear the distinct, heavy rumble of highway tires and the wind whipping against the chassis. Gary’s voice boomed, completely unbothered. “Hey, Jack! Man, we’re just borrowing it for a couple of days. You’re a grown adult, don’t be so tight-fisted about it.” I closed my eyes. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to cage the absolute fury rising in my chest. “Turn it around,” I said softly. “Bring it back. Right now.” Gary actually laughed. A bright, genuine chuckle. “Bring it back? Buddy, we’re already three hours out on the interstate. Look, you’re just one guy. Book a nice hotel room for the weekend, get some room service. It won’t cost you that much. This thing is perfect for us. We’re saving a fortune on lodging.” “Gary,” I said. “You stole my vehicle.” “Oh, stop with the dramatics,” Gary scoffed. “We’re neighbors. It’s not stealing, it’s borrowing. I’ll bring it back with a full tank.” “If you do not turn off at the next exit and bring it back, I am calling the police.” Gary laughed again. It was louder this time. Exaggerated. Mocking. “Call them! Go ahead, call the cops. See what they tell you. You think they care about a neighborhood dispute?” His tone turned dismissive. “I gotta go, Jack. The kid is trying to sleep.” The line went dead. I hit redial. The number you are trying to reach has been turned off. I stood in the air-conditioned office of the clubhouse, the phone still pressed to my ear. Outside, the July sun was beating down on the asphalt, baking the rows of parked cars. None of them were mine. I tried again. Power off. I tried Penny’s number. Power off. I didn’t have the in-laws’ numbers. Barb, who had been listening to the entire one-sided conversation, offered a sympathetic wince. “Jack, maybe… maybe just let it go for the weekend? They’re your neighbors. You don’t want to start a war over a misunderstanding.” I lowered the phone and looked at her. “He stole my vehicle.” “I know, but, you know how these civil things get… it’s just a dispute. Maybe they’ll really bring it back?” “Barb.” My voice was hollow. “It’s an eighty-five-thousand-dollar motorhome. You think this is a ‘misunderstanding’?” Barb fell silent, her eyes dropping to her keyboard. I walked out of the clubhouse. I walked back to my empty parking pad. I stood exactly where the rear tires should have been. Yesterday, I was out here polishing the chrome. Yesterday, I was making a grocery list, debating which snacks to pack for the coast. Now, there was just an oil stain. Gary’s words looped in my head like a bad record. Book a nice hotel room. Perfect for us. Saving a fortune. The anger stopped being hot. It turned into something sharp, cold, and incredibly clear. My hands were shaking, not from panic, but from the sheer adrenaline of what I was about to do. I pulled out my phone again. I didn’t dial Gary. I dialed three numbers. 9-1-1. “911, what is your emergency?” “Hi. I need to report a Grand Theft Auto. My vehicle was stolen.” “Okay, sir. Can I get the make and model?” “It’s a custom Winnebago Class C. Valued around eighty-five thousand dollars.” “Do you know who took it?” “Yes,” I said, staring at Gary’s front door. “I have them on security camera. I have a recorded phone call of them admitting to it. They are currently driving it on the southbound interstate. Five passengers.” “Copy that, sir. We are dispatching an officer to your location to take the report.” I hung up. I stood in the blistering heat, letting the sun beat against my face. I could wait. Let’s see who ends up paying for the hotel room. Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on a hard plastic chair in the local precinct. A young patrol officer, probably no older than twenty-five, walked over with a clipboard. “You the one reporting the stolen RV?” he asked, looking me up and down. “Yes.” “Alright, walk me through it.” I laid it out methodically. The uninvited visit. The refused request. The missing spare key. The 2:00 a.m. security footage. When I finished, the young cop leaned back, tapping his pen against his chin. “So, you guys are neighbors?” “Yes.” “And he told you he was just borrowing it?” “Yes. But I explicitly denied him permission. Three times. I told him no. His wife asked, I told her no. The mother-in-law asked, I said no.” The officer sighed, the universal sound of a cop who didn’t want to deal with a mountain of paperwork. “Look, man. Why don’t you head home? We’ll try to get him on the phone, tell him he needs to bring it back.” 3 “I already tried to get him on the phone,” I said evenly. “He turned his phone off.” “Okay, well, when he gets back, we can set up a mediation. Talk it out. It’s a neighborhood dispute, these things happen.” I stared at him. I could feel the muscle in my jaw jumping. “Mediation?” “Yeah, you know, civil matter. It’s best to resolve it without getting the courts involved.” “He stole my vehicle,” I enunciated every word. “At two in the morning. He snuck onto my property, used a stolen key, packed his entire family into my RV, and drove across state lines. In what universe is that a ‘neighborhood dispute’?” The officer opened his mouth to reply, but I cut him off. I unzipped my leather folio and pulled out a stack of papers. “This is the bill of sale. Eighty-five thousand dollars, paid in full.” I slid it across the table. “These are time-stamped stills from the HOA security feed. 2:13 a.m. That is Penny in the driver’s seat.” I slid them across. Then, I unlocked my phone, opened my call recording app, and hit play. I pushed the phone toward him. Gary’s booming, arrogant voice filled the quiet precinct. “Man, we’re just borrowing it for a couple of days. You’re a grown adult, don’t be so tight-fisted about it.” “Book a nice hotel room for the weekend… We’re saving a fortune on lodging.” The recording clicked off. The young cop’s face had gone perfectly still. “He explicitly acknowledges he took it,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “He explicitly refuses to return it. I gave no authorization. He stole the key. That is theft. He took it across state lines. That is Grand Theft.” I leaned in, making sure he couldn’t look away from my eyes. “In this state, Grand Theft Auto for a vehicle valued over fifty thousand dollars is a second-degree felony. That carries a maximum sentence of fifteen years in a state penitentiary. Does eighty-five grand meet your threshold for a felony, Officer?” The young cop swallowed hard. He looked at the paperwork. He looked at me. “You a lawyer?” “No,” I said. “But I know how to read. And I know what theft is.” For a long moment, there was just silence. Then, he gathered up my papers. “Wait here.” He disappeared into a back office. I sat there for ten minutes, watching the wall clock tick. When he came back, he wasn’t alone. A silver-haired sergeant with weary eyes was trailing behind him. The sergeant pulled out a chair opposite me and sat down heavily. “Mr. Jack,” the sergeant said, his voice gravelly. “I’ve reviewed the materials. We are officially opening a case for Grand Theft Auto.” He folded his hands on the table. “I need you to understand something, though. If we put this over the wire to the State Troopers and they make the stop… there is no un-ringing this bell. If he calls you crying tomorrow, the DA has the case. You can’t just drop it.” “I don’t plan to,” I said. “Alright then.” The sergeant pulled over a fresh incident report pad. “Let’s get this on the record.” I went through it all again. The timeline, the locations, the exact wording of the conversation. “What is your ultimate objective here?” the sergeant asked, pen hovering. “I want him prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. A thief is a thief, whether he lives next door or in another state.” The sergeant nodded slowly. “We’re coding this as a felony auto theft. We’ll put out a BOLO to the Highway Patrol. They’ll ping the plates. If they’re on the southbound interstate, Troopers will intercept them.” “Thank you,” I said. I stood up and slung my bag over my shoulder. As I walked toward the heavy glass doors, the young patrol officer called out to me one last time. “Hey. Are you sure you don’t want to try and settle this? What if he offers to just pay you for the rental time?” I stopped. I didn’t turn my whole body, just looked back over my shoulder. “I don’t need his money,” I said. “I need a consequence.” “He didn’t care about settling when he stole from me in the dead of night. He didn’t care about settling when he was laughing at me on the highway. He didn’t care about settling when he turned his phone off.” “It’s too late for a settlement.” The officer didn’t say another word. I pushed through the doors into the blinding July afternoon. I checked my phone. No missed calls. No texts. Gary and his family were still cruising down the highway, living it up. They had absolutely no idea what was coming for them. I stood in the parking lot, letting the breeze cool the sweat on my neck. You want a free vacation, Gary? You want to save on hotel rooms? Let’s see how much you enjoy state housing. “Dad, this thing is massive!” Mia was sprinting from the front cab to the rear bedroom, her sneakers leaving scuff marks on the pale grey upholstery of the dinette. Gary was kicked back in the passenger seat, his phone held high as he snapped a selfie. “Fourth of July weekend in the luxury suite! Life is good!” he narrated, uploading a carousel of photos to his Facebook. The pristine kitchen counter, the queen-sized memory foam bed, the panoramic windows. All mine. Penny had her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, her eyes glued to the road. “It drives okay,” she muttered, “but Jesus, it drinks gas.” “Who cares?” Gary laughed, tossing his phone onto the dash. “It’s not our wear and tear.” In the back, Frank was sprawled on the leather sofa. He patted his chest pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboros, and struck a match. “Dad,” Gary called out, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Maybe don’t smoke in here.” Frank took a long drag, exhaling a thick cloud of grey smoke. “Relax, Gary. It’s not our car.” 4 Snap. The burning ember at the tip of the cigarette broke off, tumbling down to the floor mat. Frank didn’t notice. When he took another drag, he carelessly flicked the ash. A stray spark floated upward, kissing the pristine white ceiling fabric. A brown burn hole instantly melted into the material. Gary squinted at the rearview. “Eh. A little bleach wipe will fix it when we get back.” The bathroom door suddenly swung open. Helen stumbled out, her face the color of old oatmeal. “I’m seasick,” she gasped, clutching her stomach. “This thing sways too much.” Before anyone could say a word, she doubled over. Splash. Right onto the custom leather bench seat. Gary grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, Helen. Could you not have aimed for the toilet?” “It came on too fast,” she groaned, sinking to the floor. “Whatever. We’ll hose it down later,” Gary muttered, rolling his window down to let the smell out. Off in the corner, Mia had dug a permanent marker out of Penny’s purse. She was pressing the dark ink deep into the faux-wood paneling of the hallway. She drew a circle. Then a jagged line. “Mia, what are you doing?” Gary asked, distracted. “Drawing.” “Cut it out.” “No! I want to draw!” she whined, pressing harder. Gary sighed and turned back around. “Whatever.” Penny tapped the brakes as a green highway sign approached. “I’m pulling into the next rest stop. I need a break, my shoulders are killing me.” “Sure,” Gary said. “Stretch the legs.” The RV lumbered up the off-ramp and pulled into the massive parking lot of a sprawling travel plaza. Penny threw it into park and killed the engine. She let out a long breath and looked over her shoulder into the cabin. Ash on the floorboards. Vomit on the leather. Sharpie on the walls. A burn hole in the ceiling. Her stomach gave a nervous little lurch. “Gary… is he going to take this back like this?” Gary let out a booming laugh, unbuckling his seatbelt. “What’s he gonna do? He’s a single guy in his twenties. You think he’s gonna throw down with me? We’ll wash it. It’s fine.” “I guess,” Penny murmured, opening her door. Gary pulled out his phone, ready to post another update. Suddenly, his screen lit up. An unknown number. He frowned and answered it. “Hello?” “Is this Gary?” a stern voice asked. “This is Detective Ramirez with the county police. We’re calling regarding the unauthorized use of a motor vehicle…”

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Standing outside the courthouse, I slipped the debit card into my pocket and, quite unexpectedly, burst into laughter. Just moments ago, Quentin had practically hurled the divorce decree at my face. “Evelyn, don’t even dream about the twenty million in premarital assets,” he’d said, his voice dripping with a casual, practiced disdain. “I’ve kept you like a pet for six years. You should know when to take the win and walk away.” Behind him stood his ‘ghost of the past’—the girl he’d never quite gotten over. Felicity. Her four-month baby bump was just starting to show beneath her designer silk, and she wore a smile that was as elegant as it was poisonous. That was when the first line of text flickered across my vision—a shimmering, digital scroll of “bullet comments,” like a live feed from a movie I didn’t know I was starring in. You are currently in a tragic melodrama. The text continued, mercilessly: You are the disposable character slated to exit in Chapter Three. Your label: The gold-digging ex-wife who married into the elite only to be tossed out like trash. It got worse. A notification pinged in the corner of my eye: Warning: Your grandmother will pass away in three days. According to the “script,” her will contained a final arrangement for me. A marriage to a man named Grady. He was a forty-year-old widower, a long-haul trucker with a teenage daughter and a measly eighty thousand a year to his name. But then, the scroll took a sharp turn. Note: Grady owns a series of defunct logistics routes and abandoned warehouses. In three months, the federal government will designate this specific corridor as a National Economic Zone. The eminent domain compensation? Twelve hundred million dollars. 1 “Sign it.” Quentin’s attorney pushed the three-page document toward me. Every clause was a clinical reminder that I was nothing. The twenty-million-dollar estate? Quentin’s. The penthouse, the cars, the summer house? All registered under the family trust. Quentin’s. The final line: Evelyn Vance voluntarily waives all claims to asset division. Quentin sat across from me, legs crossed, his wedding ring already gone from his left hand. Beside him, Felicity smoothed her yellow sundress over her stomach. I’d been married to him for six years, and I hadn’t heard her name once until she’d shown up on our doorstep three months ago. “Just sign, Evelyn,” Quentin’s mother sighed from the corner, barely looking up from her phone. “Dragging this out is pathetic. You have nothing to your name. Do you really want to humiliate yourself in open court?” A line of text floated by: [Sign it. This agreement is your only shield. Leaving with nothing means you owe the family nothing—not even your silence.] I picked up the pen. “Wait,” Felicity interrupted, her voice a soft, melodic trill. “Quentin, Evelyn has been with the family for so long. It feels… cruel to leave her with nothing. Maybe we could set up a small trust? Just for her basic needs?” Quentin waved her off. “She doesn’t need it.” Felicity lowered her head, the picture of “I tried my best,” while her hand traced a protective circle over her womb. Everyone in the room was watching me. They were waiting for the breakdown. They wanted the sobbing, the pleading, the sight of me on my knees begging Quentin to stay. In the original “book,” that’s exactly what Evelyn did. She’d clung to his legs until security dragged her out. The footage would go viral under the headline: Gold-digger crashes and burns after being evicted from high society. I signed. My hand was perfectly steady. The ink was dark and final. Quentin’s mother looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. “Done.” I pushed the papers back and stood up. “Evelyn,” Quentin called out. I turned. He pulled a card from his pocket and slid it across the mahogany table. “There’s five thousand dollars on this. Consider it… a final gesture of goodwill.” Felicity chimed in instantly. “See? Quentin still has a heart.” Five thousand dollars. For six years of my life. I picked up the card, held it to the light, and tucked it into my jeans. “Thanks.” As I walked out, I heard his mother mutter behind me, “Finally. We never should’ve let your father agree to that match. A girl from the middle of nowhere… six years of free-loading is enough.” The text scrolled: [Don’t look back. Your grandmother has three days. You need to go now.] I didn’t look back. The sun was brutal as I stepped onto the sidewalk, the heat rising from the asphalt in shimmering waves. My phone buzzed three times in my pocket. My mother. “Evie… your grandmother was admitted this morning. The doctors… they say you should come home. Fast.” 2 The train ride back to my hometown took seven hours. I spent it staring at the scrolling text in the air, scrolling back through the “plot.” [Your name is Evelyn. Thirty-two. Character archetype: Vain, materialistic, failed trophy wife. In the original ending, you commit suicide on the day of Quentin’s wedding. The ‘Ghost’ steps over your grave to take her throne. No one mourns you.] Failed trophy wife. I stared at those words for a long time. The text flickered: [You didn’t fail. You were pregnant twice. The first at three months, the second at two. Both times, Quentin’s mother laced your tea with ‘herbal tonics.’ The second loss scarred your uterus. You are permanently infertile. The records are at the University Women’s Hospital, Case File #HY-2019-03742.] The train plunged into a tunnel. For a few seconds, the world was black. The digital glow of the text reflected in the window, bone-white and ghostly. My two children. The first time it happened, Quentin was away on business. His mother had brought me soup in the hospital, telling me, “You’re young, you’ll have another.” The second time, as I lay on the surgical table signing the consent forms, the doctor told me my uterine lining was paper-thin. That the odds of a third pregnancy were… non-existent. Quentin had taken a call outside the OR. When he came back, he just said, “It’s fine. Let’s not force it.” His tone then was exactly the same as it was today. She doesn’t need it. The text scrolled again: [The hospital keeps records for fifteen years. You have time for justice. But for now—see your grandmother.] The train screeched to a halt at a small, dusty station at 2:00 AM. My mother was dozing in the hospital hallway. When she saw me, her first words were, “She’s been waiting for you all day.” The room smelled of antiseptic and ozone. My grandmother lay there, a tangle of tubes connected to her frail, bird-like frame. “Evie,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering open. I knelt by the bed and took her hand. It felt like dry parchment. “Is it over?” she asked. “It’s over. I’m out.” “Good.” She squeezed my hand with the last of her strength. “The Sterling family… they weren’t for you. Evie, I’ve left someone for you.” “Who?” “Grady. He’s the grandson of your grandfather’s old army buddy. He’s forty. Lost his wife two years back. He’s a trucker, raises a girl on his own. He’s rough around the edges, but he’s a good man. A real man.” She coughed, and my mother rushed over with water. “Evie, marry him. Trust an old woman’s eyes.” Three days later, she was gone. At the wake, the small-town gossip was a low hum in the background. “I heard she got kicked out of the city.” “Not a dime to her name.” “Six years wasted. Who’s going to want her now?” I knelt before her casket and bowed my head. The text scrolled: [Grady’s number is in the red silk pouch under your grandmother’s pillow.] I found it. A folded scrap of paper with a number written in bold, utilitarian strokes. I dialed. It rang six times before a deep, gravelly voice answered over the roar of an engine. “Yeah?” “My name is Evelyn. I’m the granddaughter of—” “I know who you are,” he interrupted. He paused, the engine noise fading slightly. “Did she pass?” “Yes.” There was a silence for a few beats. “I’m hauling a load to the coast. I’ll be there the day after tomorrow. Wait for me.” The line went dead. The text scrolled: [He’s coming. And so is your billion dollars.] 3 Grady arrived in a beat-up, sapphire-blue Peterbilt. It was covered in road grime, with a crack spiderwebbing across the windshield. When he jumped down from the cab, I took him in—six-foot-two, tanned dark by the sun, with deep-set eyes and a jaw that looked like it was carved from granite. He wore a faded grey t-shirt and work boots that had seen better decades. Forty years old. He looked forty-five, in a way that felt sturdy rather than old. “Evelyn?” “Yes.” He looked at my suitcase—a designer LV trunk—and then at his truck. “Get in. Put the bag in the sleeper. Don’t worry, it won’t break.” He took the heavy suitcase from me with one hand and tossed it into the back like it was a bag of feathers. It landed amidst a pile of rachet straps and oily tarps. “Climb up. Handle’s on the right.” The cab was high. I was wearing a skirt and struggled with the step. Grady didn’t say a word; he just stepped behind me, put a hand firmly on my waist, and hoisted me up. “Hold on. The road’s rough.” He climbed in the other side and cranked the engine. The whole world started to vibrate. This was a far cry from the silenced interior of Quentin’s Mercedes. From up here, I could see the roofs of every car on the road. We drove for thirty minutes in silence. The text was working overtime: [Grady. Forty years old. In the original book, he had less than two hundred words of dialogue. He was the ‘rough guy’ the fallen socialite married out of desperation. Readers called him ‘the garbage collector Evelyn deserved.’] [But this man is the hidden variable of the entire world.] He pulled into a gravel lot in a decaying industrial park. Rusting warehouses stood like ghosts against the horizon. He parked in front of a small, one-story brick house. “Home,” he said. It was humble. Peeling paint, a couple of spare tires on the porch, and a yard overtaken by knee-high weeds. The front door creaked open. A girl stood there. Maybe twelve or thirteen, in a school hoodie, her expression guarded and icy. “Dad? This is her?” “Yeah.” The girl looked me up and down, her gaze landing on my stilettos. “Are you here to spend his money?” Grady frowned. “Macy, knock it off.” “He doesn’t have any,” Macy said, ignoring him and staring me down. “He clears maybe fifty grand a year after fuel and taxes. If you’re looking for a payday, keep walking.” She was sharp. A little accountant in a ponytail. I crouched down so I was eye-level with her. “I’m not here for his money.” “Then why are you here?” “To show him how to make more. Is that okay?” Macy narrowed her eyes, but she stopped talking. The text scrolled: [This kid will be your fiercest ally. Win her over first.] Dinner was simple—pot roast and potatoes. Grady pushed a mountain of food toward me. “Eat up. We’re going to the courthouse tomorrow to get the license.” I froze with my fork halfway to my mouth. “That fast?” Grady bit into a roll. “Your grandmother called me before she passed. Asked me to look after you. I don’t intend to keep her waiting.” Macy snorted into her water. The text scrolled: [Once you sign that license, you have seventy-two days. You must renew all his land leases within that window. If the federal announcement hits before you do, the price will skyrocket a hundredfold, and you’ll get nothing.] I started eating. Seventy-two days. I could work with that. 4 At the courthouse, the clerk looked at our IDs, then at us, then back at the IDs. Thirty-two and forty. I was in a simple dress; Grady was in a white button-down that looked like it hadn’t been ironed since the nineties. “Smile,” the photographer said for our license photo. Grady twitched his lips. He looked like he was passing a kidney stone. Once the papers were stamped, he tucked them into his shirt pocket. “Let’s go. I’ve got a haul this afternoon.” By the third day of our marriage, the news had reached the city. Quentin’s mother had posted in her “Inner Circle” group chat. A former friend, Sarah, sent me the screenshot. “Can you believe who Evelyn ended up with? A middle-aged trucker. Living in a shack by the docks without central heating.” A string of laughing emojis followed. “Mrs. Sterling always had an eye for quality. She knew that girl was trash.” “So sad.” “Not sad, deserved.” Ten minutes later, Felicity updated her Instagram. A photo of the Sterling estate gardens, covered in roses. Caption: “So glad I have someone to keep my hands warm this winter. It’s all I’ll ever need.” Sarah sent the screenshot with a ‘crying-laughing’ face. “You okay, Evie?” I replied with four words: “I’m good. Just busy.” And I was. The text had given me a map: The abandoned logistics routes under Grady’s name spanned six parcels of land. Three were thirty-year leases signed by his father, set to expire in seven months. Two were parking lots he’d let lapse. The last was a tract of communal industrial land he had the ‘Right of First Refusal’ on but had never used. Six pieces of the puzzle. In three months, every single one would be inside the “Red Line” of the new National Economic Zone. But if the leases expired or the rights lapsed, the government compensation would go to the landlords, not Grady. I found Grady under his truck, covered in grease. “Grady.” “Yeah?” “The leases your dad signed. Where are they?” The sound of a wrench hitting metal echoed from the undercarriage. “Kitchen cabinet. Second shelf. Blue tin box. Knock yourself out.” I found them. The paper was yellowed and smelled of old tobacco. Expiration date: Three months and eleven days from today. We were cutting it close. But I needed money to renew them. Legal fees, back taxes, and deposits would run about thirty thousand dollars. Grady’s entire savings. I waited until he crawled out from under the rig. He wiped his face with a rag, looking at the stack of documents in my hand. “What’s this?” “We’re renewing all six leases. Now.” “Why? Those routes are dead. No one uses those warehouses. It’s a waste of money.” “Do you trust me?” He looked at me, wrench in hand. He didn’t say anything for a long time. “Thirty thousand, Grady. All of it. In three months, I’ll turn that thirty thousand into three hundred million. Do we have a deal?” “Three hundred million?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Have you been drinking?” “Have I ever joked about money?” Grady stared at me. The scent of diesel and grease hung heavy in the air. The wind whistled through the weeds of the empty lot. “Money’s in the dresser. Top drawer. Password is my birthday.” I turned to go, but he caught my arm. “Evelyn.” “Yeah?” “If you lose it, you’re riding shotgun for three months to help me earn the fuel money back.” I looked back at him. His face was filthy, his expression dead serious. “Deal.” The text scrolled: [He believes you. He has no idea he just won the lottery.] The next day, I took thirty thousand in cash to the County Land Office. While waiting in line, I noticed a man in a sharp suit at the front counter. I recognized the silhouette. A red warning flashed in my vision: [That’s the Chief Legal Officer for Quentin’s firm. They’re scout-buying land in the area. Move.] I gripped the documents tighter. 5 The man was Marcus Vane. I’d seen him at the Sterling Christmas parties for years. He didn’t recognize me. In my jeans, sneakers, and no makeup, I wasn’t the polished doll he remembered. The text moved fast: [The Sterling Group got an inside tip. They’re land-banking around the zone. They have four of Grady’s parcels on their hit list. You have to file the renewal before they file an acquisition intent, or the landlord will take their higher offer.] I stood behind him, catching a glimpse of his paperwork: Portside North, Parcel 3. That was Grady’s fifth parcel. My palms were sweating. When I finally got to the window, the clerk flipped through my stack. “These three are automatic renewals, just pay the back taxes. These two need the corporate seal. This last one? You need a certificate of good standing from the Logistics Bureau.” “How long?” “Standard is two weeks.” Two weeks was too long. The text pinged: [Express Lane. Small business owners with veteran status get a 72-hour turnaround. Grady’s dad was Army. The business is still under his name. Go to the Veteran Affairs desk.] I spent the rest of the day sprinting between offices. I called Grady while he was on the road. “I’m hauling steel to the border,” he said. “I won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.” “You have to be here tomorrow. Quentin’s company is trying to buy the land out from under us.” There was a three-second silence. “Quentin? Your ex?” “My ex.” Grady didn’t ask how I knew. He didn’t ask for an explanation. He just said, “I’ll drop the load and turn around. I’ll be there by noon.” Six hundred miles. He drove through the night. At 11:00 AM the next day, the blue Peterbilt roared into the parking lot. Grady jumped out, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. “Where do I sign?” By the end of the day, we had the stamps. We beat Quentin’s firm by less than twenty-four hours. That afternoon, Marcus Vane showed up at the landlord’s office with a multi-million dollar buyout offer. The landlord just shrugged. “Sorry. The tenant just exercised his renewal option this morning.” I imagine Marcus calling Quentin. I imagine Quentin’s voice over the speaker: “What do you mean someone renewed? Who?” “A guy named Grady. Runs a mom-and-pop trucking line.” Quentin wouldn’t know who Grady was. But he was about to find out.

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I bought a refrigerator out of kindness for a sick student so she could store her medication. Half a month later, her medication became ineffective. She collapsed in the classroom and was left permanently disabled. Her parents cried at the school gates: “This heartless teacher ruined our daughter!” I was forced to care for her for ten years. Then her parents demanded I marry her and support her for life. My girlfriend couldn’t handle the pressure and broke up with me. On my way to her wedding, I died of a heart attack. When I opened my eyes again, I had been reborn ten years earlier. Standing before me was Lily Mitchell, looking pitiful. “Mr. Reed, my medication needs refrigeration, but there’s no fridge in the classroom…” I said, “You should ask the facilities department about that.” I had been reborn. Reborn to the moment when Lily Mitchell first said she needed a refrigerator to store her medication. Behind her stood three roommates, all my students. Four pairs of eyes stared at me expectantly. I was twenty-four years old, with a master’s degree in philosophy. My advisor had recommended me for this position as a teaching assistant at this community college to gain experience. In my previous life, I’d been full of enthusiasm. When I learned a student had diabetes and needed a fridge to store insulin, I’d proactively bought her a small refrigerator. Half a month later, she suddenly collapsed during class break. At the hospital, I discovered she didn’t have diabetes at all, and what she’d been refrigerating wasn’t insulin. She had osteogenesis imperfecta, commonly known as brittle bone disease. It was incurable and required lifelong medication. The investigation revealed her medication had become ineffective. The refrigerator plug had come loose and stopped cooling. Her parents sued the school for neglecting students. The school deflected responsibility, saying the fridge wasn’t theirs—I had bought it, so I should be responsible. Public opinion crushed me. My family was cyberbullied and couldn’t live in peace. I had no choice but to compromise and take responsibility for caring for her. That responsibility lasted ten years. But her family still wasn’t satisfied. They wanted me to marry her and support her parents too. I had a girlfriend I loved deeply. She’d waited for me for ten years. Knowing I’d never be free, I cruelly forced her to leave. She went home for matchmaking dates. The day before her wedding, Lily had an episode. I cared for her all night. The next day, driving to the hotel, I had a heart attack on the road. My life-saving medication was right beside me, but I didn’t use it. I didn’t call 911 either. My heart was strangely calm. I only felt sorry for my girlfriend—today was supposed to be her happy day. Now I’d been reborn. Facing these four expectant faces, my heart filled with hatred and disgust. “Is Lily Mitchell the applicant? If you need a refrigerator, you can download a form first, explain your condition and the medication’s requirements, then fill it out and submit it to facilities. They’ll apply to the school for procurement.” Her roommate Emma Carter was a warm-hearted girl. She frowned. “That sounds complicated. Won’t it take forever? Lily has diabetes and needs insulin injections before every meal. Right, Lily?” That’s right. Lily had never explicitly said what disease she had. The diabetes story had spread after everyone saw her injecting herself. She’d never denied or clarified it. Just like she’d never asked me to buy a refrigerator. Everything had been decided by her roommates and me. In my previous life, her parents had hung banners at the school gates and made the news. My whole family was cyberbullied. My parents were teachers about to retire honorably, but because of me, they had to take early retirement. No salary, and they had to support me financially. They got sick but didn’t tell me. Within a few years, they both passed away. I could imagine that even after my death, I’d still be reviled. In my previous life, these girls had posted online and testified, cementing the story that I’d tried to impress Lily and voluntarily bought the fridge. In this life, I’d watch carefully to see who would die. “That’s the procedure. If you have questions, ask another teacher.” I picked up my teaching materials and left lightly. Before I’d gone far, I heard Lily say pitifully, “What’s wrong with Mr. Reed today? He’s so cold.” Emma consoled her. “He’s dodging responsibility. Can’t make any decisions himself. Don’t worry, I’ll handle this.”

I was just a teaching assistant. I’d only been interning for two months. Besides teaching, I had to do all kinds of odd jobs, and I didn’t even have an office. I opened the resignation page but couldn’t bring myself to click submit. First, my advisor had fought for this job for me. It was meant to help me gain experience—a kind gesture I didn’t want to waste. Second, I’d tried to resign in my previous life too, but the school had rejected it. According to the contract, even if I submitted my resignation, I’d have to stay for another month. A month was enough time for many things to happen. So I could only find a way to get fired. Just then, my uncle sent a message in the family group chat. “Mom’s not feeling well. Got her checked today—her blood pressure was 200. The doctor wants her hospitalized.” I’d chosen to intern at this school because it was close to home, only a hundred kilometers away. I was about to say I’d come back today. My cousin, a doctor, replied, “I’ll head back soon. Lincoln, someone gave me two boxes of lychees. I’ll drop them off for you.” My cousin was in the city. My eyes lit up. A plan formed in my mind. I went back to my dorm and changed into designer clothes, making myself look ten times more handsome than usual—tall and long-legged. My roommate saw me and said admiringly, “Who are you meeting? Don’t tell me your girlfriend’s coming.” I smiled but didn’t answer. In my previous life when I got into trouble, not a single person spoke up for me. My roommate was no exception. We were all interns and therefore competitors. I dressed up handsomely and even carried a fifty-thousand-dollar bag with a huge logo that made my roommate’s eyes widen and his mouth form an O-shape. “Lincoln, you’re actually rich?” Ignoring him, I fluttered toward the school gate like a butterfly. Passing students couldn’t help but stare. From afar, I spotted my cousin’s luxury car. I was exactly six feet tall. He was taller, wore glasses, and looked very gentlemanly. He wore clothes similar to mine—actually, he’d bought the clothes I was wearing. The bag was also his hand-me-down. A cousin supporting his younger relative who just started working is perfectly normal, right? My cousin got out of the car and opened the trunk to move the lychees. I threw myself onto his back, just like when I was a kid. My cousin nearly fell into the trunk but caught himself, holding my legs. “You think you’re still a kid? You’re over a hundred and sixty pounds—you’re crushing my old bones!” He was a fitness enthusiast with muscles under his clothes. I couldn’t hurt him. Not only did I not get down, I climbed higher. “Is Grandma’s condition serious?” My cousin said unhurriedly, “Don’t listen to my dad. I went back last week and her blood pressure was fine. He just wants me to go home for a blind date.” I saw from the corner of my eye that many students were watching us, taking photos with their phones, pointing and whispering. Only then did I climb down from my cousin’s back and hook my arm through his instead. My cousin handed me the lychees. He also straightened my hair. “How’s work? Are your colleagues easy to get along with? Are the students obedient?” I smiled. “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.”

My cousin drove away. I stood there watching for a long time before carrying the lychees back to the dorm. Sure enough, as soon as I entered, I was met with my roommate’s strange look. “What’s wrong?” He laughed awkwardly. “Ah, lychees are already in season? I love lychees.” Usually, he loved taking advantage of small perks. But I locked the lychees in my cabinet. “These are for me only. I can’t give you any.” His expression grew even stranger. He pushed the tissue box on my desk over to his own. Like he wanted to draw a clear line between us. I opened the school forum and, as expected, many people had photographed my “intimate moments” with my cousin. I saved them all. In the afternoon, while checking student attendance, I heard people muttering that I was gay and showing off my wealth. I didn’t explain. I let them gossip. Then I saw the four girls—Lily and her roommates. Emma rolled her eyes at me. “Mr. Reed, we went to facilities at noon. They said the school has no precedent for buying refrigerators for individual students. We’d need approval from school leadership. In the meantime, we could only put the medication in the cafeteria’s freezer. But when we went to the cafeteria, they said it didn’t meet hygiene standards. They refused! We wanted to buy a small fridge for the dorm, but the dorm supervisor won’t allow it either.” I shrugged. “Then there’s nothing I can do.” Lily said timidly, “Mr. Reed, could you keep a fridge in your office or dorm? A very small one.” I shook my head. “I don’t have an office, and high-power appliances aren’t allowed in the dorm.” Lily’s eyes quickly filled with tears, ready to fall but not quite falling. Emma felt terrible for her and quickly patted her chest. “I’ll buy one and put it in the activity room with a lock. It’ll be fine.” But Lily wasn’t satisfied. She kept looking at me. Honestly, she was very beautiful, soft and delicate, inspiring protective instincts. I’d helped her several times before. God knows I’d only helped her as a teacher should, never imagining it would give her inappropriate ideas. Emma said sarcastically, “Ha! Some teacher—dressing up like a peacock, not caring about students at all. You deserve this title? I’m going to file a complaint against you!” I rolled my eyes too. “Ooh, I’m so scared! Go ahead. If you don’t, you’re a coward!” All four girls were stunned. I was an intern teacher who paid close attention to my performance evaluation. I was almost always accommodating to students’ requests, known for my good temper. Now I looked like a completely different person. After they recovered, they all took out their phones to write complaints to the principal’s email. Not only wasn’t I panicking, I mocked them. “A bunch of broke losers acting like entitled babies all day long, like the whole world should pamper you. What garbage. Don’t you look in the mirror every day?” Lily burst into tears. The other two girls’ eyes also reddened. Only Emma looked at me like an angry bull, eyes bloodshot. “You just wait.” I crossed my arms. “I’m waiting. Who’s afraid?” Emma looked like she was about to explode, pointing at me with her long manicured nail. “Fine. Just wait to get fired!” I believed her. These four girls were terrible at studying and terrible people. They were experts at spreading rumors and cyberbullying others.

That evening, complaints about me flooded the principal’s inbox—dozens of them. The contents were varied: homosexuality, flaunting wealth, unfit to be a teacher, cold violence toward students. The next morning, the department chair called me in for a talk. He sat behind his desk, the computer screen in front of him showing the forum posts. In the photos, I was on my cousin’s back, smiling quite sweetly. He pointed at the screen. “Lincoln Reed, is this you?” “Yes.” “Who is he?” “A friend.” The department chair waited a moment, then rephrased his question. “Are you gay?” “That’s personal and unrelated to work.” The chair’s expression darkened. “Lincoln, I’m asking you a question. Answer properly.” “I did answer. It’s unrelated to work.” At that moment, the door opened. The principal walked in. My roommate followed behind, bowing and scraping like a eunuch, looking at me with gloating eyes. If I was removed, he could be promoted. Sometimes, the world is just a damn circus, and in my previous life, I’d been destroyed by these people. How tragic. Let it all burn. The principal looked down at me. “Lincoln Reed, I’ll ask you one more time. Are you gay?” “No comment.” “Then explain the photos.” “I have no obligation to explain.” The principal laughed—a cold laugh. “Who do you think you are? You haven’t even finished your probation period and you dare take this attitude?” I snorted coldly. He stared at me. “I’ll ask you one last time. Are you or are you not gay?” “Are you discriminating against gay people?” “Enough. Doesn’t his roommate know whether he’s gay or not? Don’t corrupt the students.” He declared, “You’re fired!” Like some feudal emperor. But his eyes betrayed his greed, staring directly at the huge logo on my bag. I turned and walked out. Minutes later, HR sent notice that my employment had been terminated. According to the internship agreement, termination without cause should come with one month’s compensation. But HR said there was nothing—they wouldn’t even pay my wages. One month’s intern salary was only two thousand dollars. Whether they paid it or not shouldn’t matter—but it did. Withholding a worker’s wages deserves divine punishment. I’d make them beg me to take the money! From this moment on, I was finally free. Before leaving, I went to the activity room and dismantled and destroyed the water dispenser, water jugs, and power strips I’d bought, throwing them in the trash. “Mr. Reed, if you remove the water dispenser, what will we use?” a student complained. I stomped on a water jug, breaking it. “I bought this for myself. You’ve been freeloading off it for so long. What if some psycho poisons it and then blames me? Better to destroy it.” After throwing away the last jug, I turned around to see Lily standing a few steps away, biting her lip, looking at me tearfully. Every hair on my body stood on end. It was as if she wasn’t a young girl in her prime, but a venomous snake flicking its tongue. I instinctively stepped back. It wasn’t that I was weak—the trauma from my previous life was just too heavy. I couldn’t adjust immediately. She stepped closer, her eyes showing a hint of obsession and an indescribable ambiguity. That wasn’t how a student should look at a teacher. Nor was it simply how a woman looks at a man. It was how a spider looks at plump prey! “Mr. Reed,” she called me, soft and weak. I felt nauseous and turned to run. She shouted, “Don’t leave!” I stopped and turned to look at her, hatred burning in my heart like wildfire, making my bones ache. I wanted to rush over and strangle her. But I couldn’t. I’d finally been reborn. A bright future awaited me. She’d already walked up to me. Tears fell one by one. Under the lights, she looked especially pitiful and touching. “I’ll go beg Emma to withdraw the complaint. Nothing will happen. Don’t leave.” “If you stay, I’ll do whatever you say.” She spoke lightly but enunciated each word heavily, as if making some incredible promise. I remembered my previous life. In the second year of caring for her, one night she’d pulled my hand and placed it on her body. “Mr. Reed, marry me. I’ll be so good.” At the time, I’d thought it was gratitude, dependence, the desperate grasping at the only lifeline after being tormented by illness for too long. Or perhaps she’d gone mad from prolonged sickness. It turned out she’d harbored such unspeakable thoughts so early on. But I’d been oblivious, falling into the trap she’d laid. “Lily Mitchell,” I couldn’t out-act her, so I spoke plainly. “You disgust me!” She froze, tears still on her face. Her expression shifted from innocent and pure to determined, then she smiled slightly. It made you wonder if she had mastered the art of switching personas. “Mr. Reed, you’ll come back.” “You will definitely come back.” I smiled too. “I will come back—to attend your funeral!” I ignored her, went back to pack my things, and left without staying a second longer, taking a bus away from the hell that had trapped me for half my previous life.

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When I heard the news that Vivian Blackwell had gone bankrupt and returned to the country, I was curled up in Dominic’s arms, picking out rings. The entire social circle was mocking the downfall of this once untouchable goddess. I looked up and kissed his chin, teasing, “Vivian’s back. Don’t you need to go help her out?” He played absentmindedly with my fingers and sneered, “Why would I help her? Baby, don’t think I’m that sentimental.” I breathed a sigh of relief. After all, it was the Blackwell family who dumped Dominic years ago because they thought he was too poor. With his pride, he would never go back to her. I went to the dressing room to change into an evening gown. When I came out, I saw Dominic standing on the balcony with his back to me, cigarette smoke curling around his fingertips. On impulse, I picked up his phone from the couch. A message from his assistant popped up on the screen: “Dominic, as per your instructions, I’ve redeemed Miss Blackwell’s family estate. The total was 50 million.”

“What are you looking at so intently?” A low voice came from behind me, with a raspy edge from just smoking. My fingers instinctively stiffened, the numbers on the screen reflected in my pupils. A few seconds later, I calmly pressed the lock button and placed the phone face down on the couch cushion. “Nothing.” I turned around and met his eyes. The dark undercurrent in his eyes hadn’t completely dissipated, but the moment he met my gaze, he skillfully switched to a gentle expression. “Just checking tomorrow’s bridal fitting schedule,” I said. Dominic casually stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and strode toward me with long legs. He carried the scent of tobacco mixed with the coolness of the night breeze, naturally pulling me into his embrace. “Leave those trivial matters to the assistant.” His chin rested on top of my head, rubbing gently in a soothing manner. “Tomorrow I’m clearing my entire schedule to spend the whole day with you.” I leaned against his warm chest, listening to his heartbeat, which remained steady. The question “What’s with the fifty million?” got stuck in my throat. I closed my eyes and swallowed it down, along with five years of my youth. “Okay,” I said softly. The next morning, a light rain began to fall over River City. Unusually, Dominic didn’t handle emails during breakfast. Instead, he carefully peeled an egg and placed it on my plate. When we arrived at the city’s most exclusive bridal boutique, the manager and her assistants were already waiting at the entrance. “Miss Harper, all three wedding dresses you reserved have been flown in.” I was ushered into the VIP room. Dominic sat on the couch, casually flipping through a magazine. “Go try them on. I’ll wait here for you.” He smiled at me warmly, his eyes full of affection. The first dress was an extremely elaborate French embroidered gown with a long train. The fitting process was lengthy, with several assistants carefully tightening the laces at my waist. Just as I was about to put on the veil, a sudden urgent phone ring came from outside. Through the half-open curtain of the fitting room, I saw Dominic abruptly stand up. He didn’t even notice the magazine dropping to the carpet. He strode to the window, covering the receiver, his voice extremely low, his spine rigid. By the time I walked out of the fitting room holding up my skirt, he had already grabbed his suit jacket from the chair. “Dominic?” I called softly. He turned around, his gaze pausing on me for half a second. No amazement, no praise, only poorly concealed irritation. “A friend has an emergency.” He strode toward the exit while quickly buttoning up his jacket, not even coming over to hug me. “I’m going to check on them. I’ll be right back. Whichever dress you like, just put it on my account.” As the VIP room door clicked shut, he disappeared behind it. The manager stood awkwardly holding the veil. “Miss Harper, this…” “It’s fine,” I said, looking at myself in the full-length mirror, dressed so elaborately yet looking utterly ridiculous. “I’ll wait for him.” The wedding dress was heavy, making it hard to breathe. The wall clock ticked monotonously. The staff changed my tea for the fourth time. The water had gone completely cold, a bitter film forming on the surface. I glanced at my phone. 8 PM. He said he’d be right back, but made me wait twelve hours in the climate-controlled VIP room. A sudden pain shot through my lower abdomen. My face went white as I bent over, fingers gripping the wedding dress tightly. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. With trembling hands, I opened my contacts and dialed Dominic’s number. The long ringing tone echoed in the empty VIP room. Just one second before it automatically disconnected, the call was answered. “Dominic, my stomach hurts a bit…” “Hello?” What came through the speaker wasn’t Dominic’s deep voice, but a woman’s coquettish laugh. “Oh, it’s Miss Harper.” My breathing stopped abruptly. It was Vivian. “Dominic can’t take your call right now.” I heard a faint metallic clinking sound from the other end. Vivian laughed casually, her tone blatantly showing off. “The crystal chandelier at the Blackwell estate is too heavy. Dominic’s worried it might fall and hit me, so he’s standing on a ladder right now, personally hanging it for me.”

The call was disconnected from the other end. The dragging pain in my lower abdomen slowly tortured my nerves. I sat on the couch, not moving for a long time. It wasn’t until the manager softly asked if I needed a car that I snapped out of it, took off the wedding dress, and changed back into my regular clothes. The Blackwell family’s hillside estate was nearly an hour’s drive from downtown. The taxi drove along the mountain road, the windshield wipers swinging frantically. By the time I reached the front gate, my shoes were completely soaked through. The rusty iron gate stood ajar, welcoming its former owner. I stepped through the mud puddles, walking step by step to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the main building. Inside, the lights blazed brightly. Through the rain-washed glass, I could clearly see the scene inside. Dominic had removed his suit jacket and wore only a white shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows. He stood on a ladder, tools in hand, looking down and saying something to the person below. Vivian wore a nightgown, looking up with a happy smile. She held a ragdoll cat in her arms. Dominic hated cats the most. In five years of living together, he wouldn’t even go into cat cafés, making excuses about allergies and waiting for me in the car. But now, he descended from the ladder and not only didn’t avoid it, but quite naturally reached out to pet the cat’s head. Vivian took the opportunity to grab his sleeve, acting coquettish. The scene was too warm, so warm that me standing here as his fiancée seemed utterly ridiculous. I stood in the rain, watching through the glass for a long time. Long enough for my fingers to freeze stiff, long enough for even the pain in my abdomen to become numb. I circled around to the front entrance and pushed open the main door. The laughter inside stopped abruptly. Vivian flinched and immediately hid behind Dominic with the cat. “Miss Harper… why are you here?” She looked at me timidly, her eyes instantly brimming with tears. Dominic turned around, the warmth on his face instantly cooling the moment he saw me covered in mud. “You followed me?” He frowned deeply, striding up to me. I ignored his accusation, my gaze moving past his slightly wrinkled white shirt to the few cat hairs still remaining on his fingertips. He said he was allergic to cat hair. In the past, if I so much as glanced at a stray cat, he would nervously remind me to wash my hands. Now, he could let that ragdoll cat roll around in his arms without any problem. It wasn’t an allergy after all. It was just not enough love. “Rain, do you have to make a scene in the pouring rain?” Seeing my silence, his tone grew harsher. “Vivian has severe depression. She’s afraid to be alone.” Boom! Thunder crashed outside the window, white light illuminating my wet, slightly trembling fingers. The vintage wall clock struck eleven. I looked at him draping his suit jacket over Vivian’s shoulders and suddenly smiled faintly. “So it’s already eleven.” I didn’t cry, and even looked at him quite gently. “Dominic, the bridal shop closed at eight.” Dominic’s previously angry eyes instantly froze, his hand draping the jacket stopping mid-air. Behind Dominic, Vivian tugged at his sleeve, her voice choked: “Dominic, don’t blame Miss Harper. It’s my fault. This house is full of my parents’ memories. I was too scared… I’ll never dare trouble you again.” Dominic turned and gripped her wrist, patting it reassuringly. He turned back to me, his eyes cold, as if looking at a stranger. “Your jealous behavior right now is completely unreasonable.” He pointed toward the door. “Go home right now. Stop making a scene here.” I looked at his posture protecting Vivian. “Fine.” No hysterical argument, no pointing at Vivian and cursing. I turned and stepped over the threshold, opening my black umbrella again. Behind me came the sound of the door slamming heavily. The airflow kicked up muddy water, splashing onto my beige dress hem, leaving several dirty streaks. The relationship I had carefully protected for five years was now completely soiled.

The next morning, the sound of the keypad lock beeped in the quiet apartment. Dominic walked into the bedroom carrying the chill of late autumn. He held a paper bag printed with the logo of that croissant shop in the west of the city. That was the place where years ago, after I casually mentioned wanting to eat there, he braved sub-zero temperatures and snow, waiting in line for two hours, keeping the food warm against his chest so it wouldn’t get cold, bringing it back to me. Back then, his eyes held only me. Back then, I thought I had the whole world. Now it was also pouring rain, only he was rushing to someone else. Turns out time really does devour people. It not only devoured his love but also devoured the me whose eyes were full of him. He placed the paper bag on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out, wanting to tuck the stray hair from my cheek behind my ear. Just as his fingertips were about to touch my skin, a faint scent of perfume drifted into my nostrils. It was Vivian’s favorite perfume. Last night, he had draped his suit jacket over her shoulders. My body reacted faster than my brain, instinctively turning my head away from his touch. His hand froze in mid-air, his fingers curling slightly before he casually withdrew it. “I had a bad attitude yesterday.” He lowered his posture, his tone carrying helpless tolerance. “But you have to understand. The Blackwell family went bankrupt. She has nothing now, and her depression relapsed. She keeps trying to kill herself.” “I can’t just watch her die, can I?” He opened the paper bag on his own and used a bamboo pick to spear a steaming croissant, bringing it to my lips. “Be good. Eat it while it’s hot. After you finish, we’ll reschedule the dress fitting.” The rich buttery aroma mixed with that faint perfume smell fermented in the air. I didn’t get angry. My body even retained the muscle memory from the past. I obediently reached out and took the bamboo pick. A hint of relaxed amusement flashed in Dominic’s eyes. But in the next second, I turned around and quite naturally tossed the whole steaming croissant, bamboo pick and all, into the trash can beside the bed. A soft thud. “It’s cold. Can’t bite through it.” I pulled out a wet wipe and carefully cleaned the fingers that had just held the bamboo pick, not even lifting my eyelids. The smile on Dominic’s face instantly froze. He stared at the trash can, seemingly unable to believe that I, who had always been so docile, would do such a thing. “Rain,” his voice turned cold, carrying the authority of someone in power, “don’t push your luck.” He threw down those words, stood up, and went into the bathroom. I threw the wipe I’d used to clean my hands into the trash can. From that day on, for a whole week, Dominic always had an excuse to stay out all night. Each time he returned in the early morning, the scent of that perfume on him grew stronger. I didn’t expose him, nor did I make a fuss. I continued to eat, sleep, and work on my designs as usual. I just stopped initiating messages to him and stopped asking about his schedule.

These past few days, the dragging pain in my lower abdomen had become more frequent. I’d spent four hours making chicken soup, packing it in a thermos, planning to take it to the hospital to eat after my checkup. But at the intersection, on impulse, I had the driver change course to Dominic’s studio. The receptionist saw it was me and respectfully let me through. I carried the thermos and walked to his private consultation room. The door wasn’t fully closed, leaving a small gap. Vivian’s soft voice drifted out: “Dominic, you spent fifty million to buy back the Blackwell estate. Was it really just to help me?” I stopped in my tracks. “Don’t overthink it,” Dominic’s voice was flat. Vivian laughed softly, her voice even softer: “Then… does this count as you preparing our wedding home?” Inside went silent for a few seconds. Dominic didn’t deny it, only saying quietly: “Just live there for now.” I looked at the heavy thermos in my hands and suddenly felt that these days of restraint and understanding were absurd to the extreme. I raised my hand and pushed open the half-closed door. Both people inside looked over simultaneously. Vivian was leaning against the edge of the desk, Dominic standing in front of her, the distance between them long past the safe boundary of social interaction. “Miss Harper…” Vivian looked startled when she saw me, suddenly stepping backward. She wore thin high heels. Her foot caught and she fell backward. “Ah!” Her hand happened to land on a decorative crystal on the desk, the skin breaking, a trace of blood seeping out. “Vivian!” Dominic’s expression changed instantly. His body moved faster than his reason, rushing past me, even bumping my shoulder heavily in his haste. I stumbled backward from the impact, my lower back hitting the door frame, the thermos in my hands falling to the floor. Sharp pain spread rapidly from deep in my abdomen. My face turned deathly pale instantly. I slid down along the door frame, sitting on the floor. A few steps away, Dominic was half-kneeling on the ground, carefully protecting Vivian in his arms. He held the handkerchief I had embroidered with his name, pressing it firmly against Vivian’s palm, which had only a minor scrape. After doing all this, he turned his head, looking at me with extremely guarded and disgusted eyes. But the moment he saw the spilled chicken soup on the floor, his body froze abruptly. His fingers holding Vivian’s wrist moved involuntarily. His gaze moved from the soup up to my pale face, a panic he himself didn’t notice flashing in his eyes. “Rain…” He instinctively released Vivian, wanting to stand up. But Vivian cried out delicately at that moment: “Dominic, it hurts so much.” His knee, which had just lifted, knelt back down again. “Rain, do you have to make a scene at a time like this?” He lowered his voice, his tone revealing guilty anxiety and coldness. I looked at his posture protecting Vivian. The pain in my abdomen had made even breathing painful. But I didn’t cry out in pain. I knew that the man before me would no longer feel heartache for my tears. Crying out would only make me seem more pathetic. I braced myself against the wall, slowly and shakily standing up. I looked at the spilled soup on the floor, then at Dominic. “I’m sorry.” I swallowed dryly, my voice so soft it was almost inaudible. “I dirtied your floor.” I didn’t look at him again. Clutching my aching stomach, I slowly walked out of the studio. The moment I walked out the door, I thought I heard Dominic call my name. I didn’t look back. A warm flow trickled down my thigh, washing away five years of relationship completely clean.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “396515”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster