Category: English

I was born soft. Delicate, high-maintenance, and—aside from a face that could stop traffic—utterly useless. When the Great Freeze descended and the world turned into a geometric nightmare of ice and death, I didn’t wake up with any “Gifts.” No superpowers, no survival instincts. Nothing. Instead, I demanded that my boyfriend, Cade, use his fire-manipulation abilities to keep our reinforced bunker at a constant, balmy 78 degrees. Today, the thermometer flickered down a single degree. I was already drawing breath to snap at him, to complain about the chill, when the air in front of my eyes suddenly fractured. Glowing lines of text—a digital barrage—exploded across my vision: [Ugh, when is this brain-dead side character finally going to get written out? She’s literally draining the life out of the Protagonist.] [Can’t she see the color of his face? Is she actually blind? He’s dying for her.] [When does the Wood-Gifted heroine finally show up? Fire and Wood are the ultimate power couple—fuel for the flame, if you know what I mean. I’m so over this spoiled brat.] [Hurry up and get to the part where she gets kicked out of the bunker and freezes to death. I’ve got my popcorn ready.] I froze. My gaze shifted to Cade. He was slumped in the corner, his skin a sickly, bruised grey, still straining to radiate heat for a room that didn’t need it. My hand trembled as I reached out and tugged at his sleeve. … “Cade… babe. I’m not cold anymore. Keep your energy. Stop.” I was lying on the small cot in our secure storage unit, and for a second, I felt a genuine shiver. I glanced at the thermometer. 77 degrees. One degree lower than my “mandatory” 78. Usually, that tiny dip would have sent a spike of irritation through me. I would have thrown a fit. “Cade!” I called out. He was curled in a sleeping bag in the corner. He opened his eyes slowly, the movement heavy and pained. The single emergency light cast a dim, jaundiced glow over us, and in that light, he looked like a ghost. “Why is it only 77 in here?” I pointed at the gauge. “You promised. 78, every day. No exceptions.” He pushed himself up on his elbows, his movements sluggish, a sharp contrast to the effortless strength he used to have. He looked at me, his lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came out. “Well? Say something.” I kicked off the duvet and marched over to him, giving his shoulder a sharp shove. “It was 77.5 yesterday. Now it’s 77. Is it going to be 70 tomorrow? Are we just going to freeze?” The shove made him lurch to the side. He reached out, his hand instinctively trying to steady himself by grabbing my wrist. The moment his skin touched mine, I went cold for real. He was freezing. His fingertips were like ice. That shouldn’t have been possible. He was a Fire-Gifted. His body temperature had always been a furnace. Usually, when he held my hand, I’d complain that he was too hot and pull away, telling him he was suffocating me. Now, his fingers were colder than mine. “…Romy.” His voice was a jagged rasp, sounding like it was being dragged from miles away. “Just… give me a minute. Let me catch my breath.” “Catch your breath for what?” I asked instinctively. And then, the Feed exploded in front of me again. [Hahaha, here we go! The classic bitch-move. Watch her start her drama while he’s literally crashing.] [He looks like death warmed up and she’s worried about one degree. She’s literally a parasite.] [78 degrees, 78 degrees… if he keeps this up, he’s going to be sucked dry. He’s running on empty.] [Serena needs to get here ASAP. Fire and Wood belong together. She’ll actually help him grow instead of just consuming him.] [I can’t wait for her to be tossed into the snow. It’s going to be peak cinema.] [Agreed. +1] [Watching for the downfall. +1000] I stood rooted to the spot. The words continued to scroll, every punctuation mark sharp and mocking. What? I’m a “side character”? A villainous one? And I’m supposed to be kicked out to freeze to death? [Lol, did she see the Feed? Look at her face. She’s glitching.] [Doesn’t matter if she sees it. She’s slated for a permanent exit soon. She can’t change the script.] [Hang in there, Cade. The real heroine is coming for you.] [Serena is at the Eastside Warehouse. Two chapters max until she finds the bunker. Just hold on, King.] I scrambled backward, hitting the wall. The words followed me, hovering perfectly in my line of sight no matter where I turned. I swiped at the air, but my hand passed through nothing but cold oxygen. Cade, startled by my sudden movement, forced his head up to look at me. “What’s wrong?” His voice cut through the scrolling text for a split second. I looked down at him. Truly looked at him. The pallor of his skin, the blue tint to his lips, the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes. It wasn’t just tiredness. It was the look of a man who had given everything away. The words from the Feed echoed in my skull: “If he keeps this up, he’s going to be sucked dry.” Sucked dry. I looked at the thermometer. 77 degrees. It had been a steady 78 since the day the sun went dark and the mercury plummeted. When the Freeze started, people began “Awakening.” I got nothing. But I didn’t care because I had Cade. He was my personal heater. He could generate warmth from his very cells. In the beginning, he told me, “Romy, I can probably keep us at 65. Just wear a sweater, okay?” And what did I say? “65? That’s basically the morgue. I want it at 78. You’re gifted, Cade. Just try harder. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do for me?” He had looked at me for a long time that day, and then he simply said, “Okay.” Since then, this ten-by-ten storage unit had been a tropical oasis in the middle of a graveyard. I never asked if it hurt. I never asked how he did it. I just bitched whenever the temperature dipped. [Do you remember now, you spoiled brat? Do you remember how he spent the last ten days?] [He sleeps three hours a night. The rest of the time he’s a human battery. He’s redlined his Gift so many times he’s lost count.] [“One degree?” That one degree is costing him half his life force, you idiot.] [I’m crying. Run, Cade! Leave her to the frost!] [Where is Serena?! Ugh.] I tripped over the edge of the cot and collapsed onto the mattress. Cade tried to stand up, using the wall for support, but his knees buckled. He swayed, his body a fragile reed in a storm. My instinct was to reach out, but I stopped halfway. If the Feed was right, I was a girl destined to destroy herself through sheer selfishness. I would keep pushing and pushing until Cade hit his breaking point, and then this “Serena” would show up, and I’d be cast out into the negative-fifty-degree wasteland to die. [Ooooh, look at her. Is she having a mid-life crisis at twenty-two?] [Go on, do something bitchy. Give us the finale we’re waiting for.] [She looks like she’s seen a ghost. Hilarious.] [His face is getting even paler. I can’t watch this. It hurts.] I looked at Cade. He was shivering. Not a big, dramatic shudder, but a fine, microscopic vibration. He was a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap. I saw beads of sweat on his forehead. Sweat. In a room that was barely 77 degrees while the world outside was fifty below. He was burning himself up from the inside out. My mind went strangely blank. The Feed was still scrolling, but the words lost their bite. All I could see was Cade. I saw the way his jaw was clenched, trying to keep himself upright for me. He didn’t have to be this way. If I wasn’t such a parasite, he could have saved his energy. He could have survived this comfortably. I wasn’t stupid. Even if the Feed was a hallucination, Cade’s condition was undeniable. Why hadn’t I seen it for the last ten days? Because 78 degrees was comfortable. Because I was used to him saying “yes.” Because I thought he was invincible. “Romy,” he whispered, his voice so thin it was barely there. “Don’t be scared. I’ll… I’ll get the temperature back up. Give me a second.” He raised his hand. A weak, flickering orange glow began to throb in his palm. I’d seen that light a thousand times. I’d complained it was too dim, or that it made the air too dry. I never realized that light was his life leaking out. I lunged forward and grabbed his hand. He flinched, the light dying instantly. “What are you doing? It’s okay, I’ve got it—” “I’m not cold,” I said. He froze, blinking at me. “I said I’m not cold.” I squeezed his hand. It was still icy, but I gripped it with everything I had. “This is enough. It’s warm enough. Stop. Don’t do it anymore.” He stared at me, his eyes wide and vacant, as if I were speaking a language he’d forgotten. [???????] [Did her brain short-circuit?] [Wait, this isn’t in the script. She’s supposed to throw a lamp at him or something.] [She said she’s not cold? Is she sick? How are we supposed to get to the ‘Freezing to Death’ scene if she stops being a bitch?] [Forget the brat—look at Cade! Look at his eyes. Oh my god, is he crying?] His eyes were indeed turning a bright, wounded red. The moisture gathered at the corners of his lids, and he tried to blink it away, but a single tear escaped. It tracked down his pale cheek and landed on the back of my hand. It was searing. He was a Fire-Gifted; even his grief was hot. “What did you say?” he asked. “I said,” I reached up to wipe the sweat and tears from his face, feeling the strange mixture of heat and chill on his skin, “that I’m fine. You’re done. You’re going to sit down, and you’re going to sleep. Right now.” “But you—” “78 degrees is over,” I snapped, cutting him off. “From now on, I don’t care if it’s forty degrees in here. You stay alive. That’s the only requirement.” His mouth hung open. He couldn’t find the words. The Feed went into a frenzy. [Holy shit. Holy shit.] [Did she just… evolve?] [What is happening? Is the author drunk? This isn’t how it goes!] [The original plot is ruined. If she’s nice, Serena has no reason to kick her out.] [Who cares about the plot?! Look at Cade! He looks so heartbroken and relieved at the same time. He’s so beautiful when he cries, I swear.] Cade looked like he was about to collapse. I didn’t have time for the Feed anymore. I dragged him toward the sleeping bag. His feet were heavy, stumbling with every step. I threw his arm over my shoulder, taking his weight. He was a head taller than me and built of lean muscle; the weight nearly crushed me, but I didn’t let go. I shoved him into the sleeping bag, zipped it up to his chin, and then grabbed every blanket, coat, and spare rug we had, piling them on top of him. He lay there, just a head sticking out of a mountain of fabric, his red-rimmed eyes tracking my every move. “What are you looking at? Sleep,” I growled. “Aren’t you cold?” he whispered. Only then did I realize I was standing there in thin silk pajamas, barefoot on the concrete floor. Was I cold? God, yes. I was freezing. My legs were shaking so hard I thought my teeth might rattle out of my head. But looking at his face, seeing the dampness of his feverish sweat, the cold didn’t seem like the most important thing anymore. “Nope. I’m toasted,” I lied. He watched me for a long moment, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Liar,” he said softly. He shifted over in the narrow sleeping bag, pulling the side open. “Get in,” he commanded. I hesitated. “Get. In.” [AHHHHHHHHHHH!] [The tension! I’m screaming!] [Wait, is the heroine getting ghosted before she even shows up?] [This is so much better than the original. Look at them!] [Romy, if you don’t get in that bag right now, I will find a way to reach through this screen and push you.] I got in. The sleeping bag was tiny. We were pressed together, chest to chest, hip to hip. His body was still radiating a strange, clammy chill, but his arms came around me, pulling me into the hollow of his chest. “I’m going to sleep for a bit,” he murmured into my hair. “When I wake up… I’ll make it warm again.” “No,” I muttered against his heart. “Just sleep.” He didn’t argue. After a long time, I heard the rhythm of his heart slow down, becoming steady and deep. The Feed slowed down too, the comments trickling by. [Okay, I’ll admit it. The brat has some moves.] [So what happens next? Where’s the drama?] [Whatever, I’m shipping it for now.] [But what about tomorrow? They’re almost out of food. Without the Wood-heroine, how do they survive?] [Romy better think of something. She woke up once; she better wake up again.] I stared at that last comment until my eyes burned. I didn’t know what I could do. I was just a girl who was good at being pretty and being a problem. But I wasn’t going to let Cade die. And I wasn’t going to die either. I woke up the next morning because the air felt like needles in my lungs. I reached out, but the other side of the sleeping bag was empty. The warmth was gone. I sat up, shivering violently. Cade was by the door, his back to me, his shoulders shaking. “Cade!” I scrambled out of the bag. The floor felt like stepping on dry ice. He turned around. His face was a mask of paper-white skin. His lips were cracked and bleeding. He tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “You’re awake?” “What the hell are you doing?” I grabbed his hands. Cold. Still so cold. “You were supposed to sleep! Cade, how long have you been up?” He didn’t answer. He just looked at his palms. “The temp dropped too low. I had to… I had to stoke the fire.” I looked down. A tiny, pathetic ember of light was flickering in his hand. It wasn’t a heater. It was a funeral pyre. He was using his own cells to keep the air from freezing. [Oh my god, Cade, do you want to die?!] [The brat changed, but he’s still stuck in his old patterns.] [It’s like a runner who can’t stop after a marathon. His body is conditioned to burn itself out for her.] [He’s going to crash. He’s going to crash so hard.] [Where is Serena?! She’s at the warehouse! She has the healing Gift!] I grabbed his wrists, forcing his hands down. “Stop it. Stop the fire.” “But Romy—” “I said stop!” The light went out. Cade swayed, and I caught him, realizing he was burning up—not with Gift-fire, but with a lethal fever. He was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering. “You’re sick,” I whispered. The irony was devastating. A Fire-Gifted dying of a fever in a frozen world. [It’s the backlash. His internal systems are failing.] [Without a Wood-user to balance his energy, he’s got three days. Max.] [Serena is a day’s walk away. He won’t make it.] I hauled him back into the blankets. He was delirious now, mumbling about the temperature, about how I’d be cold, about how he was sorry. “It’s okay,” I whispered, tucked the blankets around him. “It’s enough. I’m warm.” I sat there for a long time, watching him breathe. Then I stood up and walked to the door. It was a heavy steel door. I pressed my ear against it. Silence. The kind of silence that sounds like a scream. No birds, no wind, just the crushing weight of the ice. I looked back at Cade. He was a small, broken shape under the blankets. The Feed started scrolling again. [What is she doing?] [Is she going to leave him?] [She’s going to run away, isn’t she? To find Serena?] [She’ll never make it. It’s negative fifty out there. She’ll be a popsicle in ten minutes.] [Wait… she’s looking for something.] I was tearing through Cade’s backpack. I’d never touched his gear before; he’d always handled everything. As I emptied it, my heart broke. The bag was filled with my things. My favorite skincare, my silk pajamas, my spare sweaters, my heat packs. And his stuff? I found a single pack of compressed biscuits and two bottles of frozen water. That was it. He’d been living on crumbs for ten days while keeping me in luxury. [I’m crying. For real.] [He really does love her.] [Why did she have to be such a brat for so long?] I found a map at the bottom. Cade had circled a few spots in red. The nearest one was labeled “Supply Cache.” It was six miles away. Six miles. In a blizzard. On foot. [She’s going to do it. She’s actually going to go.] [She’s a normal human. She’ll die before she hits the first mile.] [Romy, don’t! Stay with him! If he wakes up and you’re gone, he’ll lose his mind.] I folded the map and shoved it into my pocket. I knelt by Cade one last time. His face was flushed with fever. His lips moved. “Romy…” he breathed. I froze. We’d been together two years. He usually called me “babe” or “princess” or “sweetheart.” But in his fever, he used my name. [Who is Romy?] [That’s the side-character’s name. Romy Vance.] [Oh, I forgot she even had a name. I just call her ‘The Bitch.’] [I think her name is Romy Jiang in the original? No, it’s localized now. Romy Vance.] I touched his cheek. He was scorching. “I’ll be back,” I whispered. “Stay here.” He couldn’t hear me. I put on every layer I owned. Three sweaters, two pairs of leggings under jeans, a heavy parka. I wrapped a scarf around my face until only my eyes were visible. When I cracked the door, the wind hit me like a physical blow. It was a wall of white. I looked back at Cade. One last look. Then I stepped out and shut the door tight. The world was a void. Snow came up to my thighs. Every step was a battle to pull my leg out of the drift. Ten yards in, I couldn’t breathe. The air was so cold it felt like swallowing glass. One hundred yards in, I wanted to turn back. [She’s actually doing it.] [This is suicide.] [The plot is officially off the rails. Romy was supposed to die in Chapter 5. We’re in Chapter 1.] [She’s turning blue. Her eyelashes are freezing.] I didn’t care. I just kept moving. Left foot. Pull. Right foot. Pull. Six miles. In the city, that’s a twenty-minute jog. Here, it was an eternity. I lost my sense of direction. I lost the feeling in my toes. I even lost the ability to feel the cold. There was just a dull, heavy numbness. Suddenly, a shadow appeared in the white. I stopped, squinting. A man. He was wearing a heavy military coat, his face obscured by a fur cap. He saw me and started walking over. “You’re out here alone?” he asked, his voice muffled. I nodded, unable to speak. “Heading to the cache?” I stared at him. “Don’t be jumpy,” he said with a rough laugh. “Me too. There’s a warehouse up ahead. Probably still got meds and food. We should go together. Safety in numbers, right?” [DON’T TRUST HIM.] [He’s a scavenger. These types are the worst.] [Romy, run! He’s looking at your gear.] [He’s going to rob her and leave her in a snowbank.] I looked at the man. I looked at the way his eyes darted to my backpack. “No thanks,” I croaked. I stepped around him. He shouted something, but I didn’t turn back. I just kept walking until he was swallowed by the white. I don’t know how long I walked. My vision started to tunnel. The edges of the world were turning black. I’m not going to make it, I thought. I’m going to die, and Cade is going to wake up alone. [She’s been walking for three hours.] [Three hours? That’s only two miles in this weather.] [She’s done. Look at her.] [Romy, don’t give up! Get up!] I tripped. I didn’t even feel myself fall; I just realized I was face-down in the snow. It felt surprisingly soft. Like a bed. I just need a minute, I told myself. Just a minute of sleep. And then, a hand grabbed my shoulder. I was hauled up out of the drift. I looked up, my eyes blurring, and saw a face. Cade’s face.

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It was International Women’s Day, a day supposedly meant for honoring the women who anchor our lives. Instead, I watched my husband hand a bouquet of fresh-cut peonies—the ones he’d promised were for our anniversary dinner—to the woman living in the apartment next door. His first love. “She’s been living alone for so many years, Diana,” Parker said, his voice smooth but hurried. “It’s Women’s Day. I just wanted to do something kind. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in five minutes and then we’re straight to the theater, okay?” He was wearing the deep navy silk robe I’d bought him for Christmas. It was cinched loosely, the collar hanging open to reveal far more skin than was appropriate for a neighborly visit. We had been married for five years. The last time I’d seen him look this frantic, this desperate, was three years ago when I’d come home early from a business trip. I’d walked into the living room to find him entangled with that same woman on our velvet sofa. The image of their pale, intertwined limbs had seared itself into my retinas. Back then, he had dropped to his knees, sobbing. He didn’t even bother to wipe the sweat from his face; he just grabbed a throw blanket to cover Lydia, his high school sweetheart. “Rose, please… she seduced me. I didn’t want this, I swear!” “Don’t leave me. Please, I’m begging you…” I stayed. I stayed for the sake of our families—our fathers had been business partners for decades, and our lives were woven together in a tapestry of social obligations. For a long time, he was a model husband. He was attentive, domestic, and eager to please me in every way possible. Until tonight. I looked at the restless hunger in his eyes and reached out to straighten the ribbon on the bouquet. “Go on then,” I said quietly. “Give them to her while they’re still fresh.” I knew, even as the words left my mouth, that after those flowers were delivered, there would be no “us” left to save. 1 Parker clearly hadn’t expected me to cave so easily. He froze for a second, then a look of pure, boyish relief broke across his face. He leaned in to pull me into a hug. “Thanks, babe! You’re the best, seriously. I’ll be back before you can even pick out a pair of shoes!” I tilted my head, letting his kiss land harmlessly on my cheek. But I couldn’t stop the last shred of wife-like instinct from speaking up. “Parker, it’s pouring out there. You’re going out in just your robe?” He hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the door. “Lydia keeps her place like a sauna. I’ll be fine. I’m literally going twenty feet. I’ll be right back.” “I mean it,” he added, almost as a challenge to himself. He didn’t look back at me. He slipped out the door and into the hallway. A few heartbeats later, I heard the heavy thud of the door next door closing. It felt like a physical blow to my chest. I walked over to the window. From this angle, I could see the glow of Lydia’s living room. She was standing there in a silk slip dress that left nothing to the imagination. As soon as Parker entered, she threw herself into his arms. Parker didn’t pull away. He didn’t even pretend to. He wrapped his arms around her, their heads leaning together in a dark, intimate whisper. Then, slowly, the curtains were drawn, cutting off the view and leaving me in the shadows of our own apartment. I looked at my phone. 8:00 PM. The gala we were supposed to attend was starting. I looked at the few stray flowers left on the table—the rejects he hadn’t put in her bouquet. A wave of nausea rolled through me. I picked up the half-empty bottle of expensive red wine I’d opened and dumped it, along with the wilting flowers, into the trash. This five-year marriage was exactly like those flowers: something that should never have been forced to live this long. I was the only one tending the soil, and I’d finally run out of water. Half an hour passed. Parker didn’t return. The TV was on in the background, some festive special blaring cheerful music that felt like a mockery of my stupidity. I sat on the sofa, watching my phone screen light up and dim, light up and dim. The family group chat was exploding. Cousins were posting photos from various parties and events. A message from my mother popped up, tagging me: “Diana, where’s Parker? Why haven’t you posted any photos of the two of you tonight?” “You guys better be out celebrating! Send me a picture of that dress you bought!” Reading her voice in my head made my throat tighten. My mother adored Parker. Three years ago, when I’d caught him, she was the one who held my hand and begged me to give him another chance. She reminded me of how much our families owed each other, how a scandal would break my father’s heart. I forced a smile I didn’t feel and took a photo of the discarded bouquet on the counter from an angle that looked intentional. I texted back: “He’s tied up with something right now, Mom. I’ll call you in a bit.” Just as I set the phone down, a notification red dot appeared on my Instagram feed. It was Lydia. It was a photo of the peonies in a crystal vase. In the blurred background, you could clearly see the distinctive navy silk of Parker’s robe. The caption read: Another year ends, and you’re still the only one by my side. Thank you for always being there. Parker had already “liked” it. I let out a short, dry laugh. I was done waiting. I stood up, walked into our bedroom, and pulled my suitcase from the top of the closet. I had bought this penthouse with my own money when we got married. Parker had lived here, rent-free, for years. I’d chosen this building specifically because there were only two units per floor, thinking it would give us privacy. Now, his designer suits took up three-quarters of the walk-in closet. As I started packing, I realized with a jolt how little of “me” was actually in this room. I couldn’t find a single thing in the apartment that he had bought for me out of genuine thought. Five years, and we were less than roommates. We were a business arrangement that had gone bankrupt. I shook my head, tucked my passport and some essentials into my bag, and moved to the study to gather my professional files. By the time I was finished, it was nearly midnight. I sat back on the sofa and waited until the clock struck twelve before calling him. It rang for a long time. When he finally picked up, the background was loud—music, laughter. Parker sounded breathless, his voice laced with an edge of annoyance. “Hey. Look, Diana, I’m on my way back. Lydia’s still showing me her new art pieces, okay?” Right as he finished the sentence, I heard a woman’s low, melodic giggle on the other end. A second later, Parker’s voice hitched, turning into a muffled groan. “Mmm… Diana… I gotta go…” The line went dead. 2 I walked out onto the balcony, watching the distant fireworks over the city skyline. I remembered five years ago—Parker in a white tuxedo, promising forever before a priest. But there are no gods in this city, and there was no loyalty in Parker. One look from Lydia, and I ceased to exist. When Lydia first moved into 4B, he’d acted outraged. He’d complained to me about how she was “stalking” him, how she wouldn’t let the past stay dead. Looking back, it was a masterful performance. He wasn’t annoyed; he was setting the stage. Thirty minutes later, the front door unlocked. Parker stumbled in, smelling of a perfume that wasn’t mine. He was carrying a floral umbrella. Lydia’s umbrella. He had that post-coital glow, a lazy, satisfied slump to his shoulders. “Babe, I am so sorry. Got caught up. Are we still good to go out?” He stepped toward me, trying to pull me into his arms. The scent of her—heavy, cloying vanilla—hit me like a physical wall. I stepped back, avoiding his touch. “Are the flowers pretty?” I asked. He blinked, a practiced, charming smile sliding onto his face. “They’re great. Lydia said you have impeccable taste.” I looked at him, and the very last spark of affection I held for him flickered out into ash. “She said that? By what right does she get to comment on my taste?” Parker realized his mistake, his tone shifting to that “calm down” voice men use when they want to make you sound crazy. “Hey, it was just a compliment. Don’t be petty, Diana. It’s a holiday.” As he spoke, he carelessly leaned Lydia’s umbrella against the coat rack, right next to my wool trench coat. It felt like a silent, mocking invasion. “Parker, do you remember the promise you made me three years ago?” His body stiffened. The smile became a brittle mask. “Of course I do. I said I was done with the past. And I am. Tonight was just… she was lonely, and I felt sorry for her…” “Sorry enough to go over there with your robe hanging open?” Parker turned deathly pale. He instinctively clutched the lapels of his robe shut. “Diana, let me explain—” “Don’t.” I pointed to the coffee table, where a manila envelope sat. “Sign the papers.” The color didn’t come back to his face. He looked at the divorce decree as if it were a coiled snake. “Diana, are you seriously doing this? Tonight? On a holiday?” “I told you, she’s alone. We’re neighbors, we went to school together. What’s the big deal about being a good person?” “It was a bouquet of flowers! You used to be bigger than this. You’re being so small-minded.” The more he spoke, the more “disappointed” he sounded, as if I were the one failing him. In the past, this was where I would have softened. I would have wondered if I was being too sensitive. Now, I just felt a deep, oily sense of disgust. “Parker,” I interrupted his performance. “The curtains weren’t closed all the way. And you aren’t a good enough actor to hide what you were doing on the phone.” His face went slack. The mask shattered, leaving only a panicked, pathetic man underneath. He pulled the robe tighter, trying to hide the marks I knew were on his skin. “You… you were spying on me?” The sheer audacity of the deflection made me laugh. I didn’t answer. I just turned and went into the bedroom to grab my suitcase. Parker chased after me, grabbing the handle of my bag. “I’m not letting you leave! I didn’t mean that, okay? I’m sorry. I was out of line.” “Look, nothing happened. We… we just got caught up in the moment, a kiss, that’s it! Nothing more!” “You know how it is. It’s the history. It’s hard to just turn it off. But you’re the one I love! We’ve been married for five years. Are you really going to throw away our home over a stupid mistake?” He sounded so sincere. Exactly like he had five years ago. I’d believed him then, thinking he was just confused. But a man who is “confused” for five years is just a man who is a liar. I shoved his hand off the suitcase, but before I could reach the door, my phone began to scream. It was my father. I answered, and my father’s voice came through the line, jagged and unrecognizable with panic. “Diana! Get to the hospital! Now! Your mother… it’s her heart. They’re taking her into surgery!” 3 The world tilted. My suitcase hit the floor with a heavy thud. “Dad? Dad, stay calm. I’m coming. I’m coming right now!” I grabbed my keys and bolted for the door. Parker was startled, too. He followed me toward the elevator. “I’m coming with you! You know how much she means to me!” I didn’t even look at him. When the elevator doors opened, I sprinted toward the parking garage. But when I got to my SUV and reached into my bag, my hand hit empty leather. My car keys were gone. Parker stood by the car door, his eyes darting everywhere but at my face. “Where are my keys, Parker?” I asked, my voice dangerously low. “I… I thought we weren’t going anywhere tonight. I lent them to Lydia’s parents. They needed to pick someone up from the airport and their car wouldn’t start…” He couldn’t even look at me. I didn’t have time for his lies. I shoved past him, running toward the street to hail a cab. But it was midnight on a holiday in a secluded, high-end residential district. The streets were empty. “Call an Uber! Now!” I screamed at him as I ran toward the gate. Parker pulled out his phone, his fingers fumbling with the screen. “I… my phone’s dead. It just shut off.” My heart plummeted. My mother had a serious heart condition. I knew why this was happening—my father had mentioned earlier that day that he was worried about how much time Parker was spending “next door.” My mother was a woman of immense pride and she loved me fiercely. The stress of the rumors must have finally broken her. I looked at my own phone. The rideshare app was spinning—no cars available for fifteen minutes. I couldn’t wait. I ran toward the security kiosk to ask for help. As I passed Lydia’s designated parking spot, I saw a brand-new Mercedes sitting there. “Parker, go to Lydia’s. Now. Tell her to drive me to the hospital!” It was the most humiliating thing I had ever had to say. But Parker grabbed my arm, pulling me back. “No! We can’t ask her!” “It’s a matter of life and death, Parker! Let go of me!” I tried to shake him off, but he gripped my wrist with a terrifying strength. “Diana, please! Just don’t go over there… she… she’s been drinking. She can’t drive!” I looked at the sheer, unadulterated guilt written on his face. “Are you afraid of what I’ll see? I don’t care!” “I don’t give a damn if you were screwing her five minutes ago! I need a car!” Parker seemed shocked by my outburst. He finally let go, looking defeated. He ran up to 4B and pounded on the door. The door opened. Lydia stood there in her slip dress, her hair damp, the air of the apartment smelling of sex and expensive gin. Parker started explaining, his voice shaking. Lydia leaned against the doorframe, a slow, cruel smirk spreading across her lips as she looked at me. “If you want a favor, Diana, ask for it yourself. Don’t use my Parker as a messenger.” My chest was heaving, but for the sake of my mother, I swallowed every ounce of my pride. “Lydia. Please. Let me borrow the car.” She didn’t move. She took a slow drag from a cigarette she’d just lit and exhaled the smoke directly into my face. I choked on the gray cloud, my eyes watering, but I didn’t move. She tapped the ash onto the hallway carpet and gestured toward the floor with her chin. “You want the car? Show me some respect. It’s a holiday. A little ‘thank you’ on your knees wouldn’t be out of place for a girl like you, would it?” My eyes burned. I turned to Parker. “Is this what you want?” Parker looked away, his voice a pathetic mumble. “Diana, just do it. Don’t be stubborn. Your mom is waiting.” “Lydia’s just upset because of how you’ve been acting tonight. She just wants an apology. Just… give her what she wants so we can go.” The coldness that settled in my bones was absolute. Lydia laughed, a bright, tinkling sound, and leaned her head on Parker’s shoulder. “See? Parker understands. If you won’t bow, then get lost. We have a long night ahead of us.” The seconds were ticking by. Every heartbeat was a second my mother might not have. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, there was nothing left but a dead, hollow silence. “Fine.” 4 I let my knees hit the hard wood of the hallway floor. Thud. The sound of my pride breaking was deafening in my own ears. Humiliation washed over me like freezing water. Satisfied, Lydia chirped a little laugh and tossed her car keys. They struck me in the face, the metal leaving a sharp sting on my cheek before clattering to the floor. As I reached for them, she playfully kicked them further down the hall. “Oops. My hand slipped. You’ll have to fetch them, sweetie.” Then, she wrapped her arms around Parker’s neck and planted a lingering, possessive kiss on his cheek. “Parker’s staying here. Good luck at the hospital.” She slammed the door. I didn’t waste a second. I grabbed the keys, ignored the sob trapped in my throat, and ran for the stairs. But when I got into the Mercedes and pressed the ignition, the dashboard glowed red. The tank was bone-dry. Empty. The car wouldn’t even make it out of the parking garage, let alone thirty miles to the city hospital. “You bitch!” I slammed my fist against the steering wheel, the sound of my own breakdown muffled by the luxury interior. She had planned this. Every second of it. I pulled out my phone to scream at Parker, but my finger slipped and opened my Instagram feed instead. Parker had just posted. It was a video of me. Me, on my knees in the hallway. Me, looking broken and pathetic. The caption: When the ‘Ice Queen’ finally learns her place. Some guys just have that touch. He’d filmed it. While I was debasing myself to save my mother’s life, he was thinking about how many likes he could get from his “bros.” I scrolled through the comments, my face burning as if I’d been slapped a thousand times. “Holy shit, Parker! You actually got her to bow? Absolute legend.” “I always knew Diana was a closet sub. Nice work, man.” “Lydia for the win! Taking back what’s hers.” My stomach turned. But I couldn’t afford revenge yet. Not yet. I wiped my eyes, gritted my teeth until I tasted blood, and forced myself to think. I opened the neighborhood’s private community group on Facebook. HELP. Emergency. Mother having a heart attack. Need a ride to Mercy General immediately. Will pay anything. Most of the residents were asleep or out, but a few seconds later, a reply popped up. “I’m in 12C. I’ve got a car in the driveway. Come up.” Fifteen minutes later, I burst through the hospital doors. The fluorescent lights were blinding, the hallway smelling of antiseptic and death. My father was sitting on a plastic chair, looking as though he had aged ten years in a single night. When he saw me, his eyes filled with tears. “Diana… you’re here… your mother…” Before he could finish, a doctor in blue scrubs emerged from the double doors. “Doctor? How is she? Can I see her?” The doctor took a long, heavy breath and slowly shook his head. “I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.”

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My husband has a deadly allergy to beef. In our five years of marriage, a single cut of steak hasn’t crossed the threshold of our home. That was the absolute truth—right up until the night of his company dinner. I had dropped by to bring him his forgotten briefcase, only to find he wasn’t at the corporate event. He had slipped away with his new, twenty-something assistant, Mia, to a high-end steakhouse a few blocks down. I didn’t make a scene right away. I simply walked into the dimly lit restaurant, pulled out a chair, and sat directly across from them at their intimate two-top. Harrison instinctively choked on a mouthful of his soup, his vocal cords tightening in panic. “Mia is… she’s new. She’s on a strict diet and couldn’t stomach the seafood catering at the event…” I didn’t say a word to him. Instead, I flagged down the waiter and ordered every single plate of Wagyu and prime rib the kitchen had left. “It’s perfectly fine,” I said, folding my hands on the pristine white tablecloth. “I’ll just sit here and watch you eat.” If he eats it all and dies, I’m a widow. If he doesn’t, we’re getting a divorce. Staring at the mountain of seared meat piling up on the table, Mia subtly tugged at Harrison’s sleeve, letting a single, perfectly timed tear roll down her cheek. “Harrison…” 1 Harrison let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Caroline, what are you doing? You’re being dramatic.” “She has dietary restrictions, Caroline. She can’t eat half the things at that venue, which is why I brought her here. How is she supposed to finish all this?” With a protective swoop of his wrist, he began transferring the expensive cuts of beef from her plate onto his own. Mia let out a delicate cough. Harrison immediately noticed a speck of black pepper on her plate, carefully scooping it away with his fork as if she were made of spun glass. Mia forced a small, placating smile, delicately wiping her cheek. “Mrs. Sterling, please don’t misunderstand. Harrison is just looking out for me because I’m a junior assistant.” She let out a soft breath. “I’ve heard you’re a full-time stay-at-home mother. You probably don’t realize how high-stress the corporate environment is right now, but I really hope you won’t take your frustrations out on him.” Her tongue dripped with honey and poison. It was a masterclass in passive aggression. I stood up, the legs of my chair scraping sharply against the hardwood floor. I didn’t bother lowering my voice. “If you had dietary restrictions, you could have eaten literally anything else in the city in broad daylight! Instead, you had to sneak off in the middle of a company dinner to have a private, candlelit steak dinner with a married man!” I took a step closer, my voice slicing through the hushed ambiance of the restaurant. “My husband has never complained about my choice to stay home and raise our child. Who do you think you are to lecture me on my own marriage?” The clinking of silverware stopped. Every eye in the dining room turned toward us. Mia’s face flushed a violent, blotchy red. Harrison stood up abruptly, a deep crease forming between his brows. “Caroline, enough. I brought her here. If you have a problem, take it up with me. There’s no need to publicly humiliate her.” “I will humiliate whoever I please,” I cut him off, the adrenaline making my hands shake. “There were fifty different things on that catering menu. If she couldn’t eat one thing, she could have eaten another. Why did Harrison have to personally escort her for a private meal? Is she the only employee with a restricted diet in your entire firm, or just the only one you want to play savior for?” The anger burning in my chest flared hotter, and I raised my voice so the back of the room could hear. “I gave you both too much grace, and you mistook it for a license to disrespect me.” I glared at Mia. “A piece of rotting meat will always attract flies. A man who can’t keep his pants zipped, and a woman who lacks the self-respect to walk away.” The murmurs in the restaurant grew louder. Harrison’s jaw clenched, his expression darkening into something ugly. “Caroline!” But he knew my temper. He knew the line he had crossed, and he didn’t dare push me further. Mia looked around frantically, seeking someone to rescue her. When Harrison remained frozen, she seemed to physically shatter. She stood up, swaying slightly on her heels. “Mrs. Sterling, you’ve completely twisted this. I’m so sorry. I’ll leave right now. Please, please don’t let my presence ruin your marriage.” She let her voice crack perfectly. “I’m used to being alone. I can handle being misunderstood.” With one final, lingering, tragic look at Harrison—who remained anchored to his seat—she turned and fled into the night, looking every bit the wounded gazelle. I slowly turned my gaze back to Harrison, taking in his clenched jaw and furrowed brow. I picked up a clean fork and pressed it firmly into his hand. “You’re not going to chase her? She’s crying.” When he didn’t move, I pushed the plate of steak closer to him. “Since you’re staying, eat. We paid a fortune for this.” He stared at the glistening cuts of beef, a storm brewing in his eyes. A second later, his features smoothed out, and he offered me a tight, helpless smile. “Caroline, honey, you know I’m deathly allergic to beef.” I nodded slowly, my eyes locked on his. I forced his fingers to close around the fork. “Oh, so you do remember that you’re allergic. Then eat it.” He stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he reached out and covered my hand with his. With the air of a martyr stepping up to the gallows, he brought a piece of steak to his mouth and began to chew, murmuring with a bitter edge, “Your jealousy is going to be the death of us.” I watched him, my voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register. 2 “Harrison, we didn’t build our life on some fragile, transactional foundation. We met in college. We were broke. We survived on nothing.” “You went from a kid with empty pockets to a CEO making a seven-figure salary, and every single step of the way, I was the one behind the scenes, drafting your business plans, mitigating your risks.” “When Sophie was born, I gave up a vice-president position at the bank to raise her. For five years, I have kept our lives running flawlessly so you could play the big boss without a single domestic worry.” The Wagyu on his plate was rapidly disappearing. His breathing was already growing shallow. I could see the angry red hives blooming along his jawline and neck. Without breaking eye contact, I calmly placed another piece of meat on his plate. “You walk into a clean house every night. A hot dinner is waiting. Your fruit is sliced, your clothes are pressed, and if you’re working at 2 AM, I am awake making you coffee.” “I am telling you this because I want you to remember exactly what you are risking. Do not throw this marriage away, Harrison. And do not destroy this family.” He was struggling to swallow now, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. His throat was swelling shut, and his words came out as a thick, slurred wheeze. “Whatever… my wife says,” he gasped out, his chest heaving. “Your word is… law…” He didn’t finish the sentence. His eyes rolled back, and he slumped forward, collapsing onto the table in a dead faint. I calmly pulled my phone from my purse and dialed 911. It took a frantic night in the ER and a heavy dose of epinephrine, but by morning, he was stabilized. His mother, Diane, stormed into the hospital room like a hurricane, immediately zeroing in on me. “Caroline! What is wrong with you? How are you taking care of my son? You know he can’t eat beef! Are you trying to kill him?!” Before I could even open my mouth, Harrison weakly lifted a hand from the hospital bed. “Mom, stop. It’s not Caroline’s fault. I ate something I shouldn’t have while I was out.” After Diane finally left, huffing her disapproval, I sat in the sterile quiet of the room, a knot of complicated emotions tight in my chest. If I pushed the steak incident aside, the truth was that Harrison had always been a good man. Or so I thought. In our first year of marriage, I was diagnosed with severe fertility issues. The doctors told us the chances of conceiving were microscopic. Diane had dragged Harrison out into the hospital corridor, begging him to divorce me so he could find a “proper” woman to give him an heir. Harrison had exploded. “Caroline is my wife. She will be my only wife. If you force me to divorce her, I will never marry again. I will die alone!” It was because of that fierce, unwavering defense that Diane had backed off. Even after our daughter, Sophie, was born via a miraculous IVF round, and I couldn’t conceive again, Diane never dared to mention the word ‘divorce’ in his presence. When he was discharged, Harrison spent every waking moment at home. Desperate to make amends, he booked a lavish two-week European vacation for me and Sophie, insisting we needed a girls’ trip. I saw his efforts. I saw the guilt in his eyes, and I decided, quietly, to offer him an olive branch. So, on the day of Diane’s birthday, I surprised him. I cut our trip short and brought Sophie home early to celebrate as a family. Instead, I walked into a nightmare. The house was a disaster zone. Shattered plates littered the kitchen floor. Soup and sauce were splattered across the expensive living room rug. And walking out of our master bedroom, hand-in-hand, were Harrison and Mia. She was wearing my silk blouse. “Take it off.” My vision swam with red. I stormed into the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs. As I got closer, the air vanished from my lungs. Resting against her collarbone, perfectly framed by the V-neck of myshirt, was the vintage emerald pendant. The Harrison family heirloom. When Sophie was born, some of the extended family had jokingly asked when Diane was going to pass the heirloom down to me. Diane had deflected, muttering something about waiting until I gave her a grandson. And now, it was resting on the neck of his twenty-four-year-old assistant. Seeing me standing there, Diane was the first to react, instantly going on the defensive in front of the gathered relatives. “Caroline, this is my son’s house! We have guests over for a birthday dinner, and while you and your daughter were off gallivanting around Europe spending his money, Mia was kind enough to come help me cook! What gives you the right to scream at her?” “Mom, drop it!” Harrison snapped, shooting his mother a dark look. When he turned to me, his voice immediately softened into a frantic, placating tone. “Honey, why are you home so early? I thought your flight wasn’t until next Tuesday.” I didn’t look at him. My eyes were locked onto Mia. She instinctively reached up, her fingers grazing the emerald pendant. “To thank Harrison for all his mentorship, I wanted to help out with his mother’s birthday,” she said, offering a demure, embarrassed little smile. “But I’m so clumsy, I accidentally knocked over a tray of food. Harrison let me use your room to change into something clean. You don’t mind, do you?” 3 Harrison smoothly took my suitcase from my grip, hoisting Sophie into his arms to diffuse the tension. He leaned into Mia’s narrative effortlessly. “Mia is a bit of a klutz. She tries to help but ends up making a mess. You should have seen how upset she was; she wouldn’t stop crying. I had to sit with her in the bedroom for twenty minutes just to calm her down. It was actually kind of cute.” “Harrison…” Mia blushed, looking down at her shoes. The sickening sweetness of her voice made bile rise in my throat. I reached out, hooking my index finger under the gold chain of the heirloom necklace, and yanked her forward. My voice was ice. “I will say this exactly one more time. Take. My. Shirt. Off.” “And then you’re going to tell me exactly what right you have to wear my family’s heirloom necklace, and why my husband is spending twenty minutes in a bedroom comforting you.” The relatives in the room fell dead silent. Their gazes shifted to Mia, suddenly laced with suspicion and judgment. Mia panicked, physically shrinking back and trying to hide behind Harrison’s broad shoulders. “I… I didn’t ask for it. Your mother gave it to me…” I shot a glacial glare at Diane before turning my fury back to Mia. “And you just took it? Are your hands that greedy? Is your dignity that cheap?” “Stop your fake crying! You have the audacity to crash a family dinner you weren’t invited to, wear another woman’s clothes, and you expect us to feel sorry for you?” “Keep the shirt. Consider it a donation. I don’t wear trash once it’s been in the gutter.” Mia looked as though I had struck her. Her hands shook violently as she fumbled with the clasp of the necklace, trying to take it off. Harrison caught her wrist, stopping her. His face hardened. “That is enough, Caroline. Do you have to be this venomous?” He pulled Mia slightly behind him. “The company’s cash flow took a massive hit this quarter. Mia was the one who managed to secure a bridge loan that saved us. She is a vital asset to the firm right now. My mother was grateful and wanted to give her a gift. Why are you being so territorial over a piece of jewelry? I’ll buy you a better one tomorrow.” A chill washed over me. In the past, Harrison had never finalized a major business decision without consulting me. He knew my background in finance was the bedrock of his success. I vetted every contract. But ever since the incident at the steakhouse a month ago, he had stopped bringing his work home. He had shut me out. And now, he was letting a junior assistant handle corporate cash flow? Was he insane? He was going to run the company into the ground. Diane immediately jumped on the opportunity to fan the flames. “Caroline, that emerald belongs to my family. I will give it to whoever I damn well please, and you have no say in the matter.” “You are nothing but a pretty vase sitting on a shelf, spending my son’s money! If you’re so capable, go get a job. What good is your Ivy League degree when you’re just a parasite living off my boy?” A few of the relatives exchanged uncomfortable, stifled smiles. Even in Harrison’s eyes, I caught a fleeting, sickening glimmer of contempt. Sensing the shift in power, Mia smoothly let her hand drop from the necklace. She left it around her neck, shooting me a tiny, triumphant smirk from behind Harrison’s shoulder. I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. Without warning, I lunged forward, grabbed the necklace, and ripped it off her neck. The gold chain snapped with a sharp crack. I threw it hard onto the coffee table right in front of Diane. The air in the room instantly turned suffocating. “Diane, if it’s a family heirloom, then I suggest you lock it in a safe,” I said, my voice lethal and steady. “Because as long as my name is on the marriage certificate, you do not give family assets to his mistresses.” “And as for me being a parasite? I wouldn’t push me if I were you. I don’t think you or your son want to see what happens in a divorce court when I legally dismantle half of everything he’s built.” “You!” Diane’s face turned a mottled, furious purple. The broken chain had left a thin red welt across Mia’s neck. She looked up at Harrison, her eyes wide and pleading. Harrison was completely caught off guard by my physical reaction. He stepped back, genuinely rattled. “Caroline, what has gotten into you? It’s just a necklace. Why are you making things so ugly?” “Sophie is right here! Are you trying to traumatize your own daughter?” The sheer hypocrisy of it made me want to scream. I pointed a trembling finger directly at Mia. “You remember that your daughter is in the room now?! What about when you brought this woman into our home?” “When you took her into our bedroom, when you were soothing her while she wore my clothes—did it cross your mind then that you were a father and a husband?” “I haven’t even signed the divorce papers yet, and she’s already auditioning for the role of stepmother!” Mia’s face drained of color. She burst into violent sobs, shoved past the relatives, and bolted out the front door. “Mia!” Harrison yelled, taking two frantic steps after her before stopping. I scooped Sophie out of his arms, holding her tightly against my chest. My voice dropped to a terrifying calm. 4 “Harrison. Your daughter is watching. Are you really going to burn this family to the ground for her?” He froze mid-step. A shadow of profound misery and indecision crossed his face. The birthday dinner ended in ruins. By the time I had gotten Sophie bathed and tucked into bed, Harrison had silently cleaned the disaster in the living room. He was sitting alone on the sofa in the dark, the glowing cherry of a cigarette trembling between his fingers. On the coffee table, his phone vibrated endlessly. I walked out, glancing down at the caller ID. “Your little assistant is desperate. Aren’t you going to pick up?” He aggressively pressed the power button, shutting the phone off. Thinking of Sophie sleeping in the next room, I reached over and plucked the cigarette from his fingers, stubbing it out in an ashtray. I took a slow breath, forcing my heart rate down. I decided to give him one last chance. One final test to see if we could be salvaged. “I’ve asked you a hundred times not to smoke in the house because of Sophie’s asthma. Consider this your final warning,” I said quietly. “While I was in Europe, I ran into an old classmate. Her uncle is the CEO of that logistics conglomerate you’ve been trying to partner with for two years. I arranged an introduction. I’m bringing him to your office tomorrow morning.” “He flies out at noon, so you have exactly thirty minutes to make your pitch.” Harrison’s head snapped up, the resentment draining from his face, replaced by a flash of desperate hope. “I’ll be ready.” That night, we slept in the same bed, miles apart. The next morning, I dropped Sophie off with Diane, praying she could manage to babysit for two hours without an incident. I met the VIP client at the lobby of Harrison’s corporate building. We headed straight for the executive elevator. Halfway across the lobby, Mia stepped directly into our path, holding a clipboard like a shield. “Excuse me. Do you have an appointment?” I took a deep, steadying breath. “No. But if you tell Harrison that I have the client he’s been waiting for, he will—” She cut me off with a painfully fake, customer-service smile. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Sterling. I know you’re used to just staying at home, so you probably aren’t familiar with corporate protocols. The CEO is in a high-level meeting. Without an appointment, you’ll need to wait in the reception area.” She gestured to a cheap leather sofa near the doors. “Would you prefer water or coffee? Or maybe I can have an intern fetch you both.” She didn’t even acknowledge the wealthy, powerful man standing next to me. She turned sharply on her heel and strutted toward the breakroom, casually grabbing a handful of gourmet mixed nuts on her way out. The receptionist looked absolutely mortified. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Sterling. Mia was officially promoted to Executive Assistant to the CEO this morning. We’ve been instructed to run all floor traffic through her.” My blood boiled. I pulled out my phone to call Harrison. It went straight to voicemail. Mia had confiscated his phone for the “meeting.” Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. By the time Harrison finally got the message and came sprinting out of the conference room, the client was already checking his watch, his face hardened into stone. “Mr. Sterling,” the client said, his voice dripping with icy condescension. “Your Executive Assistant certainly runs a tight ship.” “If my niece weren’t such good friends with your wife, I wouldn’t have given a boutique firm like yours a second glance. After this display of absolute incompetence, I see no reason to pursue a partnership.” Without waiting for a reply, the client turned and walked out the glass doors. Harrison looked like he was going to be sick. He turned on the receptionist, demanding to know what happened. When he realized Mia had intentionally stonewalled us to assert dominance, his face contorted in rage. I stood there, arms crossed, watching the fallout. “Well? She just cost you the biggest contract of your career out of petty spite. Are you going to fire her, or are you waiting for Christmas to give her a bonus?” Mia began to hyperventilate. The tears flowed instantly, huge, wet drops spilling over her eyelashes. “Harrison, I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know who he was!” “Your mother showed up with Sophie, and I was so busy trying to host them that I wasn’t paying attention to the lobby!” Harrison paced like a caged animal. Losing that contract was a devastating financial blow. But when Mia reached out, letting her tears fall onto his wrist, he froze. His anger faltered. “Caroline… people make mistakes. She’s young…” My heart turned to absolute ice. But my brain was already catching on something else. Diane brought Sophie here? She was supposed to be at the park. Before I could demand answers, a blood-curdling scream echoed from the adjacent VIP lounge. It was Diane. I sprinted toward the door, throwing it open. Sophie was collapsed on the Persian rug. Her face was swollen beyond recognition, covered in terrifying red welts. Her airway was closing. She was convulsing, fighting for breath. Scattered on the rug next to her small hand was a half-eaten bag of artisanal beef jerky. I let out a sound I didn’t know a human throat could make. I snatched Sophie off the ground, my terror instantly mutating into violent, blinding rage. I grabbed the bag of jerky and whipped it backhanded directly into Mia’s face. The sharp plastic cut her cheek. “My daughter is deathly allergic to beef protein! Everyone in this building knows that! Why did you give her this?!” “If my little girl dies, I swear to God I will bury you!” I didn’t wait for an answer. I ran, holding my dying child, screaming for someone to call an ambulance. The next twelve hours were hell. Three separate critical condition notices. 5 By the early hours of the morning, they moved Sophie into the ICU. She still wasn’t out of the woods. I sat in the hallway, completely hollowed out. Harrison paced outside the glass window, his face pale and drawn. Mia was sitting beside him on a hospital bench. She was crying louder than I was, clutching at his sleeve. “Harrison, it was an accident. I didn’t know.” “Your mother brought her into the office today specifically to introduce me to Sophie as her new godmother! I just wanted to give her a special treat. I had no idea her allergy was that severe…” Something inside me finally snapped. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I calmly pulled out my phone and dialed 911. Mia saw the screen and panicked, her whole body trembling. She lurched forward to stop me. As she moved, the collar of her sweater dipped, and the emerald pendant slipped out, gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light of the hospital. I stared at it. I looked up at Diane, who was huddled in the corner. Before the call could connect, Harrison violently slapped the phone out of my hand. It shattered against the tile floor. “Caroline, what is wrong with you?! Why are you escalating this to the police?!” His voice was ragged, desperate to control a situation slipping entirely out of his grasp. “Mia brings immense value to my company! You sit at home all day living a life of luxury, and all you do is throw jealous tantrums and ruin my life! You are suffocating me! Is this how you want to live?!” Diane, emboldened by her son’s outburst, chimed in from the corner. “What are you staring at?! Mia is practically my granddaughter’s godmother now. It is perfectly appropriate for me to give her a family heirloom!” “It’s not like you’re paying the medical bills, so what are you screaming about? You better watch your attitude, or my son is going to divorce you!” I looked at the three of them. The father of my child, his mother, and his mistress. The last remaining tether tying me to this family quietly dissolved. “Okay,” I said, my voice dead and flat. “Let’s get a divorce.” I was a magna cum laude graduate with a degree in finance. I had built his entire portfolio. I didn’t give up my career because I was weak; I gave it up because I thought this family was worth the sacrifice. But more importantly, the financial lifelines of Harrison’s entire company were built on my personal connections. Harrison’s face turned stormy, his pride wounded by my instant agreement. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Fine. You want to throw tantrums? We’ll divorce. You walk away with nothing. No alimony. I won’t pay a dime for child support, and I’m cutting off the medical insurance!” “You’ve crossed a line today, Caroline. Don’t think you can just apologize tomorrow and come back to me.” He truly believed I was a helpless housewife who had lost her fangs. He thought without him, I would starve in the streets. He had his lawyer draft an emergency separation agreement, brought it to the hospital, tossed it onto my lap, and walked out without looking back. Diane looked absolutely thrilled. She patted Mia’s arm affectionately as they walked down the hall. “Oh, Mia, dear. Since you’re going to be Sophie’s godmother, just call me Mom. ‘Mrs. Sterling’ is so formal.” “Harrison says you have a brilliant mind for business. You’ll make a wonderful corporate wife. And maybe, God willing, you’ll finally give me a grandson.” They left. My daughter was fighting for her life in a glass box, and they simply left. As the elevator doors closed behind them, I calmly picked up a pen and signed the papers. I already knew about the “cash flow” solution Mia had so brilliantly devised. She had convinced Harrison to put up the company’s primary manufacturing plant as collateral for a high-interest bridge loan to pay off their existing bank debt, under the assumption the bank would immediately issue a larger credit line. But they forgot one vital detail. Before I was a stay-at-home mother, I was the Vice President of Commercial Lending at that exact bank. I picked up my shattered phone, the screen barely functioning, and dialed my old college roommate. “Rachel,” I said, my voice steady. “Congratulations on making Regional Director. I need a massive favor…”

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I was born with a storm in my blood. In my world, if you clip my wings, I’ll burn your whole forest down. That’s just the math of it. But growing up, my parents and my brother treated me like a piece of fragile porcelain. They smothered me with so much love and indulgence that my temper never had a chance to breathe. I was a weapon with no war to fight. Until I turned eighteen and enrolled at Beaumont Academy—a playground for the elite, the entitled, and the downright sociopathic. The school’s “Golden Girl,” a girl named Lexi Montgomery, made a sport out of destroying reputations. Her favorite move was photoshopping the scholarship girls into compromising, naked positions to ensure her own “purity” shone even brighter. I didn’t waste time with a dialogue. I smashed her iPhone into the marble floor, ripped the designer silk off her back, and let the entire student body see exactly what she was made of. Naturally, her pet thug and the school’s star quarterback, Brantley Pierce, didn’t take it well. He and his goons cornered me in the girl’s locker room, water buckets in hand. He grabbed me by the hair, forcing my head back, demanding I beg Lexi for forgiveness. I didn’t beg. I kicked him squarely in the groin with enough force to make his ancestors feel it. While he was doubled over, I dragged him into the stalls and shoved a filth-caked mop—the kind that had seen years of locker room grime—directly into his mouth. He passed out from the shock and the stench. I filmed the whole thing and posted it to the school’s private server. I thought that would be the end of it. I didn’t expect the Guidance Counselor to be even stupider than the students. Mrs. Gable was firmly in the pockets of the wealthy parents. She looked at me like I was a stain on her carpet, claiming I was the aggressor. Her “punishment”? A five-hundred-page handwritten apology and an order to kneel on the gravel of the track field while reciting it over a megaphone. “You want me to grovel?” I asked, my voice dangerously low. I didn’t wait for her answer. I grabbed her by the hair and slammed her forehead against the mahogany desk. Again. And again. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” I hissed. “Do you honestly think your little titles mean a damn thing to me?” … 1 “You’re psychotic! You laid hands on a faculty member! I’ll have you expelled before the sun sets!” Mrs. Gable was screaming, clutching her bleeding forehead. “You told me to grovel and apologize, didn’t you?” I wiped a stray drop of blood off my knuckle. “You just didn’t specify whose head should be hitting the floor.” I tossed her aside like a piece of yesterday’s trash. Looking at her pale, trembling face, a cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. These people spent their lives crushing the weak, but the second someone handed them their own medicine, they crumbled. Brantley, recovered and fuming, suddenly grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the desk and hurled it at my head. I ducked, but a shard grazed my temple. A flicker of sick satisfaction danced in his eyes when he saw the red streak on my skin. “Listen to me, Kit. This is Beaumont,” Brantley spat, stepping into my space. “Scholarship rats like you are here for one reason: to be our footstools. How dare you push back?” He lunged, throwing a heavy punch into my stomach. I took the hit, the air leaving my lungs for a split second. “Your parents probably sold their souls just to get you in here,” he sneered, leaning down to my ear. “If you want to stay, you’re going to bring them here. They can kneel on the gravel with you.” I didn’t let him finish. I caught his wrist, twisted it until the bone groaned, and stomped my boot onto his foot with a sickening crunch. He let out a strangled wheeze. Apologize? To them? They didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as my parents. If Brantley Pierce knew even a fraction of who my father was, he’d be hyperventilating. I was about to give them a reality check when Lexi Montgomery let out a sharp, mocking laugh. She picked up my student file from the floor, flipping through it with manicured nails and a look of pure disdain. “Parents’ background: Classified?” Lexi looked me up and down. “Please. That’s just code for ‘white trash.’ Your dad’s probably a low-level tweaker and your mom’s a back-alley pro. That explains why you have no manners. You don’t understand how the world works, Kit.” She stepped closer, her eyes glittering with malice. “Do you have any idea who our families are? Brantley’s father and mine are two of the three primary trustees of this entire institution. You didn’t just break a rule. You hit a brick wall.” A brick wall? To me, they weren’t even toothpicks. The “scholarship student” label was just a cloak my parents had draped over me. My family didn’t just have money; we owned the school. We were the majority shareholders. My parents had opened the doors to underprivileged students as a way to give back, but lately, rumors had reached us—rumors of scholarship kids disappearing, of “suicides” that didn’t make sense. My parents sent me here to burn out the rot. And Lexi had made it easy for me by posting those fake nudes of me on the first day, calling me the school’s “communal toy.” “I really wonder if you guys use your brains for anything other than hairspray storage,” I said, tilting my head. Lexi’s face contorted. She whipped out her phone and started sobbing into the receiver. “Dad! There’s a girl—a scholarship student—she’s attacking us! You need to find out who her parents are. Right now. I want them ruined. I want them at the bottom of the Atlantic!” She hung up, looking at me like she’d already won. I just smirked. “Your dad? He isn’t fit to shine my father’s shoes.” “You little bitch!” she screamed. Brantley tried to swing at me again. I parried, sent him back to the floor, and planted my heel firmly on his chest. My stomach still throbbed from his punch, and my patience was gone. “Still hungry, Brantley? Or should I go back to the stalls and get you a second helping of that mop?” Lexi started laughing, a high-pitched, hysterical sound. “You’re dead, Kit! You’re so dead! My father is sending his security team. And Brantley’s dad won’t let this go. You’ve destroyed your life.” I shrugged, the corner of my mouth twitching upward. “Good. Bring them all. I’d love to see them all grovel at once.” 2 Lexi helped Brantley up, her hands shaking with rage. “You think you’re tough because you can fight? You bullied us. You bullied Mrs. Gable! Her husband is the reigning champion of our family’s underground fight club. When they’re done beating your parents into the dirt, we’ll see if you still have that smart mouth.” “I’m the bully?” I asked. The audacity was almost impressive. There were three girls in the infirmary right now who Lexi had pushed down a flight of stairs last month. They still hadn’t woken up. “Yes! You’re a monster! I can only imagine the kind of filth that raised you.” My parents sent me here precisely because they knew I didn’t have a “forgive and forget” bone in my body. I was their retribution. I remembered when I was ten. An uncle had tried to embezzle from my father and suggested I be sent away to “boarding school” so he could replace me with his own daughter. I ended that dream by kicking a heavy door into his face, nearly blinding him. When I was twelve, a kidnapper grabbed me from a park. I didn’t cry; I bit his ear off and waited for the police to find him. My parents were often away on business, and my older brother, Sebastian, was too gentle for our world. He was the kind of person who apologized to the chair if he bumped into it. Our head butler once tried to steal my mother’s jewelry, thinking I was too young to notice. I taught myself basic coding in three days, drained his offshore accounts, and leaked his extracurricular affairs to the entire domestic service industry. He’s currently sorting recycling for a living. In my family, I wasn’t “bad.” I was “equipped.” “This is about the family legacy, Kit,” my father had told me before I left. “Find out who is hurting those kids. And once you find the rot… do whatever you have to do. I’ll handle the cleanup.” I didn’t even have to look for the rot. It had found me on day one. Mrs. Gable had tried to “mentor” me during my first week, implying that if I wanted to keep my scholarship, I’d have to be “accommodating” to the wealthy donors’ sons. She was a glorified madam. I was about to tell them that my family was the Valentine dynasty—the oldest money in the city—and that Lexi’s mother used to be my mother’s personal shopper, when the door burst open. Lexi’s face lit up, then fell. It wasn’t a hit squad. It was just the school’s medical team. “Miss Montgomery, we’re here to tend to Mrs. Gable and Mr. Pierce,” the lead medic said. “Your father and Mr. Pierce are in an emergency board meeting with the Chairman. They can’t come down yet.” Lexi’s eyes snapped back to me, the fire returning. “The Chairman is the most powerful man in this state. He doesn’t tolerate trash like you. When my dad tells him what you’ve done, your whole family is finished.” 3 “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” I said, turning to leave. Brantley blocked the door again, a cocky smirk plastered on his bruised face. “Scared? Running away?” “I’m bored, Brantley. There’s a difference.” “Tell you what,” he said, leaning in. “There’s one way you can save your family. Join the Hunt tonight. If you play, we might forget all about this.” Lexi sneered. “The Hunt is a privilege for scholarship rats. Don’t be ungrateful.” The “Hunt” was a twisted Beaumont tradition. Scholarship students were “mice,” hiding across the dark campus while the “cats”—the rich kids—hunted them down. If you were caught, you were at their mercy. If you survived the night, you supposedly got a cash prize. My roommate, Chloe, had told me about it. She’d spent her last Hunt locked in a cold basement. “What if the mouse decides to hunt the cats?” I asked. Before he could react, I grabbed his hand and twisted it at an angle that shouldn’t exist. He screamed as I walked past him toward the dorms. When I arrived at my room, I found Chloe sobbing in the hallway. I pushed the door open. Our beds had been smashed to kindling. Every piece of clothing we owned had been tossed into the dumpster outside. And the closet… they’d filled it with live rats. My phone buzzed. A message in the school group chat from Mrs. Gable. “Room 604 failed inspection. Deplorable conditions. Room lead Kit Valentine and her roommates are stripped of all credits and assigned to janitorial duty for the entire campus. Effective immediately.” Chloe was hyperventilating. “The scholarship… my mom is sick, Kit. I needed that money for her treatment. If I lose my credits, I’m out.” My other roommates were pale, but they didn’t blame me. “It’s okay, Kit. We know you were standing up for us. We’ll do the cleaning. You’re hurt, stay here.” Rage, hot and oily, bubbled up in my chest. My father’s scholarship fund was meant to be a lifeline, not a leash. I pulled up the group chat and sent a message to everyone. “Janitorial duty? Go to hell. Is fifty thousand enough to cover your stress? Because I’m bored of the drama.” I started hitting ‘Send’ on wire transfers. Every scholarship student in the school suddenly received fifty thousand dollars in their accounts. Before I could finish the list, I was kicked from the chat. A second later, I was added to a private group with Lexi, Brantley, and Mrs. Gable. “Where did you get that money? Did you steal a student’s credit card?” Mrs. Gable typed. I screenshot the transaction record, highlighting my name as the account holder. The amount I’d just dropped was more than Brantley’s monthly allowance. They went silent for three beats before Lexi typed: “I knew it. You’re a high-end escort. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure your parents know exactly how you’re earning your keep.” Three minutes later, Lexi posted a photo. It was a picture of me and my brother, Sebastian. We were laughing at a gala, his arm around my shoulder. “Looks like she’s the ‘special guest’ of the Valentine heir. I wonder if Sebastian Valentine knows his little plaything is a violent bully? I bet he’d cut her off in a heartbeat.” I stared at the screen. How did they get a photo of me and Sebastian? Before I could process it, a text came from an unknown number. “Your friend Chloe is having a bit of a problem at the old gym. Better hurry.” 4 By the time I reached the gym, it was a nightmare. Two thugs were holding Chloe down while Lexi and Brantley stood over her, phones out, the flashes strobing like a sick club. Mrs. Gable was there too, along with the school Principal, who was nodding as Gable pointed at Chloe. “This is the girl, sir. Bringing outsiders onto campus for ‘services.’ Absolutely disgusting behavior.” Chloe was shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. I realized then—she couldn’t speak. Her mouth was moving, but no sound came out. “She spends sixteen hours a day in the library,” I said, my voice echoing in the rafters. “She doesn’t even leave campus to get coffee. How is her ‘private life’ a mess?” The lead thug pointed at me. “You’re the one who called us, babe! You told us when you transferred that once you got into the Academy, you’d find us some fresh meat. Chloe was just the first one you offered.” “Check the security tapes,” I said, stepping toward the Principal. The Head of Security stepped forward, smirking. “Cameras are down for maintenance. Such a shame.” Brantley walked over and tapped my cheek, leaning in close. “You see now? Money is cute, Kit. But power? Power is the only currency that matters. Sebastian Valentine might be a big deal, but he’s one of us. He’s not going to ruin his reputation for a girl he’s bored with. Give up.” I smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Give up?” I walked over to Chloe, gently took the glasses off her face, and popped out the tiny pinhole camera I’d installed in the frame that morning. I synced it to my phone and projected the feed directly onto the school’s giant billboard in the courtyard. The video was clear: The thugs dragging Chloe out while she was cleaning. Mrs. Gable handing them a bottle of “vocal suppressant.” And Lexi, leaning into the frame, saying: “Blame your roommate, Chloe. She’s the one who made us do this.” Brantley’s face went gray. I patted his cheek, mimicking his gesture. “The problem with being arrogant, Brantley, is that you forget to check if the mouse is wearing a wire.” The video was scrubbed from the server within minutes, but I didn’t care. I knew that taking down Brantley and Lexi wasn’t enough. I needed to take down their fathers. I needed to cauterize the wound. So, I played along. For the next week, I didn’t retaliate. I watched. I waited. Every year, Beaumont hosted a Masquerade Ball. For the first time, all scholarship students were “invited” and provided with gowns. I checked the fabric. Water-soluble. One spill, one “accident” with the sprinklers, and every scholarship girl would be standing naked in front of the elite. I made a few phone calls. The night before the ball, the scholarship group chat was in a panic. All their provided gowns had been “vandalized” or shredded. Lexi and her crew were feigning outrage. “You clearly didn’t take care of them!” They rushed an order for a new set of gowns, paying double for overnight delivery. I made sure my contact was the one who fulfilled that order. The night of the ball arrived. The scholarship students were ushered in first. Above them, the sprinkler system was primed. Cameras were hidden in every corner. When Lexi and Brantley walked in, arm in arm, they stopped dead. Every scholarship girl was wearing a stunning, high-quality gown that was perfectly intact. I stood at the center of the room, holding a tray of champagne. “Care for a drink?” I asked. On my signal, the girls didn’t wait. They threw their drinks—not at the scholarship students, but at Lexi and Brantley. Their designer clothes—the ones I’d swapped into their dressing rooms—melted like wet sugar. Lexi screamed, trying to cover herself with her hands as the fabric dissolved into nothing. The photos were everywhere before they could even reach the exit. They snapped. The next day, Mrs. Gable screamed at me to get out of her classroom. Lexi and a group of her “followers” tried to corner me in the cafeteria, promising to “make me bleed.” Brantley went even further—he started sniffing around my brother, Sebastian, trying to convince him to “drop the charity case” before she ruined his name. Next week was the Annual Honors Gala. All the trustees would be there. “I talked to Sebastian,” Brantley hissed at me in the hall. “He barely remembered who you were. Just a girl he met at a party. Let’s see what the Chairman thinks when he finds out you’ve been using the Valentine name to bully his students.” I just watched him, like a scientist watching a bug in a jar. The Gala was a sea of tuxedos and floor-length silk. Brantley’s father, Arthur Pierce, and Lexi’s father, Marcus Montgomery, were there, looking smug. Beside them stood a man who looked like a retired linebacker—Mrs. Gable’s husband, the “fighter.” He caught my eye and made a throat-slitting gesture. Marcus Montgomery laughed loudly, making sure I heard him. “My sweet Lexi, tonight the Chairman and his son arrive. Finally, the trash will be swept out of this school for good.” Arthur Pierce nodded. “The scholarship program was a mistake. If the Chairman hears there’s a ‘Demon’ among the mice, he’ll pull the funding for good.” The scholarship students stood in the back, their eyes filled with dread. Then, the doors swung open. A phalanx of security guards cleared a path. A man in a bespoke suit walked in, the very air in the room shifting toward him. Lexi’s eyes gleamed. “You’re dead, Kit.” But the light in her eyes died an instant later. Because instead of shrinking away, I walked straight up to the man and looped my arm through his.

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I used to hide my relationships from my parents. Now, I hide them from my wife. The day my soft-spoken, younger girlfriend changed her profile picture to a spiteful image of a demon just to get a rise out of me, I was sitting in the passenger seat of my wife’s car. I didn’t dare show a single spark of emotion. I didn’t even dare to breathe too loudly, let alone cry. My wife, Morgan, glanced at my bloodshot eyes and assumed I was upset because she’d spent another night at her latest boy-toy’s penthouse. She tossed a check for two million dollars onto my lap, her voice cool and clinical. “You know how I feel about the people I see on the side. They’re just… distractions. Novelties. You’re different. You’re the master of the Montgomery estate. You’re the one who shares my name.” I just nodded, feigning a calm I didn’t feel. Later that night, I followed her to the exclusive lounge she frequented. I stood outside the heavy mahogany doors, paralyzed, as I heard her best friend’s mocking laughter. “Morgan, honestly, how many is this now? Aren’t you worried you’ll finally push your husband too far? What if he actually runs off with some little girl?” I could almost see Morgan swirling the ice in her scotch, her smile indifferent. “Miles loves the lifestyle. As long as the ‘compensation’ is adequate, he’d never dream of giving up the Montgomery title.” The room erupted in laughter. I pushed the door open, the sound dying in their throats as I walked in. Morgan didn’t miss a beat; she reached out to pull me into her lap, her touch possessive. “What, two million wasn’t enough? You had to hunt me down for more? Careful, Miles. Playing hard to get only works if you know when to stop.” I pulled away from her hand, my skin crawling. I reached into my coat and handed her the folder. “The girl I’m seeing is making things difficult. Sign the papers. I need to give her an answer.” … The silence in the VIP lounge was deafening. The smirk slowly slid off Morgan’s face. she leaned back into the velvet sofa, her eyes narrowing into icy slits. “Miles, I’ve let you play your little games. I haven’t said a word about your flings. But this? This is a bit much, don’t you think?” she sighed, looking at her friends for validation. “What’s the matter? Did some nightclub waitress get greedy? You need me to up your allowance?” A chorus of snickers broke out. Their eyes roamed over me like I was a piece of property under inspection. They all knew how “wild” I’d been acting for the last six months. In a desperate attempt to retaliate against Morgan’s blatant infidelity, I’d become a fixture at the city’s most expensive clubs, burning through cash, always seen with a different woman on my arm. Morgan never stopped me. She saw it as a tantrum—a pathetic plea for her attention. I didn’t flinch. I pushed the divorce papers closer to her on the marble table. “I’m serious, Morgan. Sign them.” Just then, a head popped up from behind Morgan’s shoulder. It was a boy with messy, bleached-blonde hair, a lollipop tucked into the corner of his mouth. “So this is the husband?” he asked, his voice dripping with faux-innocence. “He looks so… refined. Why the temper, big guy?” He leaned into Morgan, draped over her like a boneless cat. “Morgie, I told you. You can’t spoil men like this. Look at him—you give him an inch, and he thinks he can threaten you with a divorce whenever he wants a new watch.” His name was Parker. He was Morgan’s latest obsession. He wasn’t the slick, predatory type I expected; he was just a bratty kid who knew exactly how to play her. And Morgan ate it up. “Hear that?” Morgan said, her voice dropping an octave. “Even Parker can see you’re being ridiculous. Tell me—how much is it going to take to make this go away?” Parker laughed, took the lollipop out of his mouth, and shoved it directly into Morgan’s. “Here, Morgie. Have some sugar. Cool that temper.” Morgan frowned, but she didn’t spit it out. She sucked on the candy, looking at me with a sickening, half-smile. “Miles, take your pathetic little papers and get out. I’ll pretend this never happened. Don’t make me say it twice.” The sight of them together made my stomach turn. “If you won’t sign, I’ll take it to court. I’ll make it as messy as you want.” I turned to leave. Behind me, the sound of a crystal glass shattering against the floor echoed through the room. “Miles! If you walk out that door, there’s no coming back. Think very carefully.” I didn’t even pause. My hand was on the brass handle when I heard Parker’s exaggerated gasp. “Oh, Morgie, don’t be mad! He’s just so… stiff. Not like me. I just want to make you happy. If I were you, I’d stop the wire transfers. Cut off his cards for a few months. Let’s see how ‘serious’ he is when he can’t pay for his dry cleaning.” Morgan’s cold laugh followed me out. “You’re right, Parker. Some people really do need a lesson in humility.” I hadn’t been out of the club for five minutes when my phone began to vibrate incessantly. Notification after notification popped up: Card Frozen. Account Suspended. Strangely, I felt a wave of peace wash over me. Suddenly, a familiar red Ferrari roared to a halt beside me. The window slid down, and Parker let out a sharp whistle, jerking his chin toward the curb. “Hey, Hubby. No car? Need a lift? Too bad this is a two-seater. You could probably squeeze into the trunk, though.” He cackled, and Morgan leaned over from the driver’s seat, her eyes cold. “Miles, it’s not too late to apologize. Tell everyone you’re sorry for ruining the night, and I’ll take you home.” I tightened my trench coat against the evening chill. “No thanks. I’d rather walk than get into something that feels this dirty.” Parker pouted, slapping the steering wheel. “Morgie, did you hear that? I was being nice, and he called me dirty! My feelings are hurt. Does your husband think he’s better than me just because we’re friends?” Morgan reached over and ruffled Parker’s hair. “Miles, I’ve been incredibly restrained since your last outburst. I kept Parker around because he’s fun, he’s uncomplicated. He’s like a little brother. We haven’t even slept together.” “Uncomplicated.” “Like a brother.” The lies were so practiced they almost sounded like the truth. When I first found out she was cheating, I lost my mind. I screamed, I broke things, I even forced her to terminate a pregnancy when I found out the child wasn’t mine. She hadn’t fought me then. She let me rage, let me hit her, and promised she’d never sleep with another man. Then I caught her in the office with her secretary. That was the day I went cold. That was the day I started my six-month spiral into the nightlife. She thought I was imitating her—trying to win her back by making her jealous. She was so, so wrong. Seeing my silence, Morgan turned to the two bodyguards who had followed us out. “Since my husband thinks we’re so ‘dirty,’ he can walk home. Make sure no one gives him a ride.” With a deafening roar of the engine, the Ferrari tore away. The guards stepped up behind me, blocking the view of the curious onlookers. I had no choice. I took off my designer loafers and began to walk. It took me three hours to reach the house. By the time I walked through the front gates, my feet were covered in blisters that had already burst, stinging with every step. The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon when I pushed open the front door. Parker was lounging in the living room, wearing my silk bathrobe, his head resting in Morgan’s lap. “Look who’s back! Nice cardio, Hubby. You training for a marathon?” Morgan looked at my feet, stained with blood and grime. She froze for a split second, a flicker of something—guilt? annoyance?—crossing her face. “Do you understand now? There’s a bowl of oatmeal on the table. Parker made it for you. Eat it, and we’ll forget all this.” I looked toward the kitchen. The bowl was sitting there, but it was filled with cigarette ash, dregs of old wine, and a half-eaten lollipop floating in the center. I ignored them and headed for the stairs. “I told you to eat it!” Morgan’s voice turned lethal. Parker hopped off the sofa, barefoot. “Hey, I worked hard on that! I don’t usually go into the kitchen, you know. It’s the thought that counts.” He came toward me, grinning, shoving the bowl toward my face. The sour, rancid smell hit me instantly. I jerked my head away. Parker’s hand “slipped.” The cold, gritty mess splashed all over my chest and neck. “Oops! I’m such a klutz. My hands must be shaky from… taking care of Morgie all night. She just wouldn’t let me go. Morgie, tell him it’s your fault! Come blow on my poor hands!” Morgan marched over, but she didn’t help me. She shoved me out of the way. I was already unsteady on my feet; I slammed hard against the entryway cabinet. She didn’t even look at me. She actually took Parker’s hands and began to blow on them gently. “Miles, he tried to do something nice for you. If you’re going to act like a corpse, do it somewhere else. Apologize. Now.” I looked her dead in the eye. “I’ll apologize. As soon as you sign the papers.” Morgan snapped. “Miles! Are you seriously going to keep this up? Who do you think you are? You were a nobody from a trailer park when I found you. Without the Montgomery name, you are nothing!” Parker hid behind her, making a face at me, his lips silently mocking: Loser. I laughed. I pulled off my ruined coat and tossed it into the trash. “If you hate looking at me so much, sign the papers. You think I enjoy looking at you two?” The slap came so fast I didn’t see it. My vision blurred; half my face went numb instantly. Morgan pulled back, breathing hard. She reached into her bag, pulled out the signed document, and threw it at my face. “Fine. You want out? You’re out. I’m done with your moods.” Parker cheered, jumping up and down. “Yes! Go Morgie! That’s how a real woman handles business!” I clutched the papers, the sting on my cheek feeling like a badge of honor. It was worth the slap. I turned around and walked out the door, my bloody feet leaving tracks on the white marble. I had no money, no ID, nothing but my phone. I stared at the screen. Should I call her? If I did, she’d lose control. She’d burn Morgan’s world to the ground. Before I could decide, my phone rang. It was Parker. “Hey, Hubby,” he whispered, his voice dripping with malice. “Morgie was so mad after you left. She just had your favorite cat—what was his name? Marshmallow?—thrown into the alligator pond out back. Oh man, it was so graphic. I’m literally crying right now.” My heart stopped. My hand shook so hard I nearly dropped the phone. “What did you say?” Marshmallow. He was a Ragdoll cat, the last thing my father gave me before he died. He told me that looking at that cat was like looking at him. For seven years, Marshmallow had been my only real companion in that cold house. He wasn’t a pet; he was family. Parker’s heartless laughter echoed through the line, and in the background, I heard a faint, agonizing cry. Then, Morgan’s voice came on. Cold. Detached. “Miles, the cat is just the beginning. Tomorrow is Parker’s birthday gala. if you don’t crawl back here and beg for forgiveness, the next thing going into the pond is your grandfather. I hear the nursing home has very lax security.” “Morgan! You signed the papers! It’s over! Why won’t you let me go?” She hung up. I ran to the nursing home as fast as I could, but his room was a wreck. The monitors were overturned, the IV lines ripped out. There was blood on the floor. The nurse was trembling. “Mr. Sterling, Mrs. Montgomery’s people came. They said they were transferring him. they had legal authorization signed by her… we couldn’t stop them.” The world spun. He was my only living relative. He was my life. By the time I got back to the villa, the air was filled with music and laughter. A crowd of wealthy socialites was gathered around the back patio, cheering. When I walked in, Parker clapped his hands. “See, Morgie? I told you it would work. He’s back to say he’s sorry.” I saw my grandfather. He was tied to his wheelchair, pushed right to the very edge of the stone embankment over the alligator pond. I was shaking violently. “Morgan, stop this. What do you want? Do whatever you want to me, just let him go!” Morgan looked up, sipping her champagne. “I didn’t like your attitude last night, Miles. You want to save him? Fine. Get down on your knees. Crawl from the door to my feet and beg for forgiveness in front of everyone.” The crowd started chanting. “Do it, Miles! Did you really think you could leave Morgan for some girl?” “He’s probably got some disease from the streets anyway. Why do you want him back, Morgan? Parker’s right here!” Morgan walked over and hooked her arm through mine. “Men have their little tantrums. Miles, just apologize, and we’ll go get the marriage reinstated tomorrow morning. But if you want to be difficult…” A bodyguard at the pond gave the wheelchair a sharp nudge. It rolled forward, the front wheels dangling over the dark, murky water. “No!” I shrieked. My legs gave out, and I hit the stone floor. Morgan smiled, satisfied. “That’s a good boy. Everyone’s watching, Miles. I have a reputation to uphold. You’ve had me wrapped around your finger for too long.” She leaned in, her voice a cruel whisper. “If you really hate Parker that much, once you apologize, I’ll let you scar his face yourself. How does that sound?” She stepped on my back, her heel digging into my spine, forcing my head down toward the floor. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to kill them all. But the wheelchair wobbled. My rage turned into cold, hollow despair. “Fine. I’ll beg. I’m sorry.” The crowd cheered, phones coming out to record the humiliation. “Boss move, Morgan! That’s how you break a man!” Just as I was about to touch my forehead to the ground, a thunderous crash echoed through the estate. The front gates had been rammed open. A voice, low and sharp as a razor, cut through the noise. “You Montgomery trash really have some nerve.” “Touching my man?”

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After eight years of loving Nate, my mother finally caved. She was ready to accept him—his commitment issues, his “phobia” of marriage, all of it. I was heading home with a fresh Chilean sea bass, his favorite, thinking about how I’d tell him the news. But as I reached the door, I heard his friend, Cooper, inside. “I thought you were dead-set against marriage, man,” Cooper said. “What changed? Why the sudden wedding?” My heart leaped. I thought he was going to surprise me. I thought he’d finally found the courage to give us a future. Then Nate spoke, his voice casual, almost bored. “I didn’t have a choice. She’s pregnant. For the sake of the kid, I have to give the girl a name. It’s the right thing to do.” I froze. The world tilted on its axis. The bag of groceries felt like lead in my hand. “Wait,” Cooper stammered. “You’re marrying the side piece? What about Jo? What are you going to do about Joanna?” Nate’s tone didn’t even flicker. “What do you mean, ‘do about her’? We keep things as they are. It’s not like I’m leaving her.” “And if she finds out? If she dumps you?” Nate let out a confident, low chuckle. “She won’t. I know Jo.” He paused, and I could almost picture the smug tilt of his head. “She wants a family so badly, yet she gave up the idea of marriage and kids just to stay with me. If she can handle that, she can handle anything. She’s not going anywhere.” So, he knew. He knew how much I longed for a wedding, for a home, for a life that wasn’t lived in the shadows of his trauma. A cold, sharp laugh bubbled up in my chest, though it didn’t reach my lips. He didn’t know me at all. To me, a dishonest man isn’t a partner; he’s just trash waiting to be tossed. 1 I walked in while they were still talking. Nate didn’t miss a beat. He smoothly pivoted the conversation to the NFL, his face a mask of effortless calm. When he saw me, he gave me that trademark look of practiced devotion. “Hey, babe. You’re back.” Cooper, on the other hand, couldn’t hide the guilt. His smile was forced, his eyes darting toward the floor in a cocktail of pity and shame. “I thought I heard something,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “Something about marriage? Who’s the lucky guy?” Eight years. You develop feelings for a stray cat in eight years, let alone a man you’ve shared a bed with every night. I was giving him one last chance. One final, desperate hope that he would be man enough to tell me the truth and end it. A flash of hesitation crossed his eyes before he stood up and walked over to wrap his arms around me. “Just an old friend from college,” Nate lied, pulling me into his chest. “Cooper was asking if I wanted to fly out for the wedding.” Cooper jumped in, desperate to help bury the lead. “Yeah, totally. The guy was a hardcore bachelor, too. No one saw it coming.” My heart went cold. Watching Nate lie to my face without even a hint of a blush, I realized there was no point in a grand breakup speech. He didn’t deserve my honesty. He didn’t deserve my vulnerability. I pulled away from his embrace, my skin crawling. He took it as shyness because Cooper was watching. He turned his attention to the groceries. “Did you get the sea bass?” “Jo treats you too well, man,” Cooper joked, though his voice sounded hollow. “She always hunts down the freshest catch because she knows you love it. Nate’s always bragging about your cooking, Jo. Says no one does it better.” I lifted the bag. “Actually, I bought this for my dad. He’s been craving it.” “Well, make it for me next time then,” Nate said, his tone entitled and sweet. I let a faint, bitter smile touch my lips. There wouldn’t be a next time. Nate, I’m never cooking for you again. “You’re the only one who takes care of me,” he said, slipping back into his usual routine of public affection. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even know what good food tastes like.” He didn’t notice the emptiness in my eyes. He was used to saying these things—calling me the most important person in his life, his “anchor.” He’d said it so often it had become white noise. And it was true; before he met me, he didn’t eat fish. It was his greatest trigger, a food that carried the weight of a dark childhood. On our first date, I had ordered sea bass. I’ll never forget the sheer terror that washed over his face. Later, he told me why. When he was three, his mother remarried a man who treated Nate like an intruder. His stepfather would eat the meat of the fish and leave only the bones and spines for Nate. He’d been choked by them, poked by them, terrified by them. And his mother? She never protected him. She was too busy trying to keep her own head above water in that house. That house was the reason he claimed he was “broken,” the reason he said he couldn’t handle the “suffocation” of a marriage license. I was the one who healed him. Piece by piece, I fed him the best parts of the fish. I promised him, “I’ll cook for you for the rest of our lives. With me, you’ll always have the best cut.” That night, he cried in my arms like a child. He begged me, “Please stay with me forever. Don’t ever throw me away.” 2 For eight years, my love for him hadn’t wavered. But he was the one who had stopped cherishing it. I went into the bedroom, grabbed my ID and my bank cards, and headed for the door with the fish. “Call me when you’re heading back, I’ll pick you up,” Nate called out, not looking up from the TV. I paused. “Don’t bother. I’m not coming back tonight.” “Really? You’re going to leave me in a cold bed all by myself?” He pouted, playing the role of the lonely lover. He didn’t hear the finality in my voice. He thought it was just a weekend trip to my parents’. I looked at him, my heart in pieces, yet my voice remained calm. “For eight years, Nate, I’ve been a rebellious daughter to my parents because of you. It’s time I started listening to my mother.” He still didn’t get it. He just thought I was feeling guilty about not spending enough time with family. He walked over, stroking my hair with a patronizing tenderness. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be so selfish. Your parents need you. Why don’t you stay there for a few days? Take all the time you need.” “Goodbye,” I said. He smiled. “See you in a couple of days.” There is no ‘in a couple of days,’ Nate. You’re officially out of my life. I went to my parents’ house and cooked that fish for them instead. My father sighed as he ate. “If he’s really the only one for you, Joanna… then bring him over. We’ll make it work.” Initially, my dad liked Nate. But by the third year, when there was no talk of an engagement, he grew frustrated. That was when Nate revealed his “trauma.” He showed me stacks of therapy records, explaining how his childhood had left him with deep psychological scars. He had night terrors. He was genuinely afraid of the institution of marriage. I pities him. I thought as long as we loved each other, a piece of paper didn’t matter. In our fifth year, I got pregnant. With twins. I hoped that for the sake of the babies, he would finally overcome his fear. I wanted a family. A real one. But he broke down. He told me, “Jo, I’m sorry. I can’t be a father. A child wouldn’t be happy with me. Besides, childbirth is dangerous. My mother died giving birth to that man’s child… I can’t risk losing you.” He used his mother’s death to guilt me. He used his trauma as a shield. So, I had the abortion. I promised him we could be enough for each other—no marriage, no kids, just us. And yet now, another woman was pregnant, and he hadn’t hesitated for a second to marry her. He made me, and the children we never had, look like a total joke. “What does he like to eat? I’ll prepare something for tomorrow,” my mom added, her voice soft with resignation. They had shed so many tears over my refusal to leave him. “I don’t want him anymore,” I said quietly. “I’m done.” 3 My mother froze, the spatula mid-air. “Joanna… what did you say?” My father couldn’t hide the hope in his eyes. My throat tightened. I forced a smile through the lump in my chest. “I’m thirty years old. I’m not wasting another second on him. I want to start over.” My parents wept with joy. They thanked God that I had finally woken up. My mom insisted that the best way to move on was to find someone new, and within forty-eight hours, she had told every relative and friend that I was single. She started setting up blind dates. I didn’t really want to go, but I didn’t want to break her heart again, so I went through the motions. I was coming out of a mall with a guy my mom had set me up with when I ran into Nate. He was carrying bags from a maternity store. The moment he saw me with another man, his face darkened with possessiveness. He stepped toward us, marking his territory. “Hey, honey. Who’s this?” The blind date, sensing the tension, made a quick exit. Nate was fuming. “Is your mother setting you up again? You promised me you’d say no! What am I to you, Jo?” He knew the pressure I was under to get married. But he had never moved an inch to alleviate it. I looked at the maternity bags in his hand. “Who are those for?” “Don’t change the subject,” he snapped, then softened his tone when he saw me staring. “I told you, Mike’s wife is pregnant. It’s a gift for the baby shower. Now, why were you with that guy?” He still thought I was an idiot. He didn’t know that the previous night, I had received an anonymous package. Inside were photos of him and a girl named Piper holding their marriage certificate. There were ultrasounds, photos of them decorating a nursery, and shots of them looking like the perfect couple. The moment I left our apartment, he had gone and made it official with her. And Piper, eager to stake her claim, hadn’t waited long to let me know. She even included the date and location of their upcoming wedding. My blood boiled, but I kept my face neutral. I wanted to see how long he could keep up the act. “Nate, you know my parents are breathing down my neck. What if we just got married? Right now. Today.” The anger in his eyes turned to guilt. He tried his old trick—opening his arms to pull me in. “Babe, I’m so sorry. You know I love you more than anything. I’ll give you everything else—the money, the house, my heart—but that paper… I just can’t do it. I can’t get past the mental block. You know that.” I stepped back, avoiding his touch. My smile was cold. It was true. He had given me everything but the title. Five years ago, in a fit of “guilt” over the abortion, he had signed a legally binding agreement transferring his entire company to me as a gift. He was the CEO, but technically, he was my employee. He worked for a salary I approved. The house, the cars, the investments—they were all in my name. Even the “new” house he’d bought for Piper had been put under my name years ago during a tax restructuring he thought I wouldn’t notice. His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and I saw that flicker of panic. It was Piper. “Work emergency,” he lied, backing away. “I have to go. We’ll talk later, okay?” As soon as he disappeared, I got a text from an unknown number. I didn’t want to make this ugly, but you clearly can’t take a hint. This is your final notice: get your stuff out of our house. We’re adults here, Joanna. Be graceful. If your things aren’t gone by tomorrow, they’re going in the trash. I stared at the screen and laughed. She was getting desperate. 4 I didn’t go back for my things the next day. Piper, apparently losing her patience, tracked me down at a cafe near my office. She didn’t look like a “mistress”; she looked like a girl who had won. She was young—maybe twenty-two, the same age I was when I first met Nate. She slid their marriage certificate across the table. “I think this gives me the right to ask you to clear out,” she said. Her voice was high, polished. “I haven’t thrown your stuff on the curb yet because I have class, Miss Miller. Don’t mistake my kindness for permission to keep clinging to my husband.” I looked her over. She was pretty in a generic way. There were faint love bites on her neck, partially hidden by a pink diamond necklace. I recognized that necklace. Nate had outbid three people for it at a charity auction last year. He told me it was an investment for “our” future. “You’re here because you’re too afraid to tell Nate you know about me, aren’t you?” I asked. She flinched, then doubled down. “I’m trying to let you keep a shred of dignity. You were with him for eight years and he never put a ring on it. Doesn’t that tell you everything you need to know?” She let out a mocking snort. “Why be the desperate ex?” I pushed the certificate back toward her. “I know when the wedding is, Piper. Don’t worry, I’ll be there to… congratulate you.” She panicked. “Don’t you dare. If you make a scene, you’ll be the one looking like a fool. Just leave gracefully. I don’t want you anywhere near my wedding. You’re bad luck.” I gave her a thin, sharp smile. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have a wedding.” Her eyes flashed with rage. “You really are a piece of work.” Then, her expression shifted. It was like watching a professional actress. She glanced toward the entrance of the cafe, then suddenly dropped to her knees at my feet. She grabbed my arm, tears welling up instantly. “I didn’t know about you!” she sobbed, loud enough for the other patrons to turn. “Please, we’re married now, and I’m pregnant. Please don’t take him away from me and my baby!” I groaned, reaching for my purse to leave. I didn’t have time for this melodrama. But as I tried to stand, she threw herself backward, hitting the floor with a muffled thud. “Ah! My stomach! Help! My baby!” She screamed in feigned agony. “Someone call my husband! 206-555-0198! Please!” The cafe erupted. People rushed over to her, shooting me looks of pure disgust. Since Nate’s office was only a block away, he arrived in less than five minutes, drenched in sweat and panic. He stopped dead when he saw me standing there. Piper reached out for him, trembling. “Nate! This woman… she told me she was your girlfriend. She told me to leave the house… when I said no, she pushed me! My stomach hurts so much…” Nate’s eyes were filled with terror. He scooped her up right in front of me. Guilt kept him from yelling at me, but he looked at me with a pleading desperation. “Jo, I’ll explain everything. I promise. I just have to get her to the hospital.” I stood there, cold as marble. “Nate, before you go, a quick reminder.” He paused, Piper moaning in his arms. “That black card in your wallet? It’s an authorized user card on my account. I just deactivated it. You might want to find another way to pay the hospital bill.” The color drained from his face. I turned my gaze to Piper. “And one more thing you should know. Nate signed over every cent of his assets to me years ago. The house you’re living in? Mine. The company he runs? Mine. He’s just an employee, and as of five minutes ago, he’s fired.” I looked back at Nate, whose expression was now one of pure horror. “Technically, he’s penniless. So, Piper? You’re the one who needs to get out of my house.” Piper’s face went ghost-white. The “pain” in her stomach seemed forgotten. “Nate?” I prompted, my voice low and dangerous. “Tell her. Is any of that a lie?”

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The guy I used to blow up dog shit with when we were kids got a new girlfriend. This new girlfriend called me a “Pick-Me.” She said I was just pretending to be “one of the guys” so I could steal her man, and that my entire childhood friend group was trash. I didn’t say a word. I just squeezed my girlfriend’s hand a little tighter. She froze. “You… you have a girlfriend?” 1 I, Harper, the unapologetic architect of the Great Dog Crap Explosion of 2005, had returned. My first day back in the States, after my parents forcibly repatriated me from Europe for college, happened to coincide with a welcome-home dinner thrown by my oldest friend, Connor. Connor was one of the kids I grew up in the dirt with. Our little cul-de-sac crew consisted of six people: four guys, two girls. I was one of the girls. The other girl, Natalie, is currently at Harvard, perpetually stressed and entirely too busy for our nonsense. She is the only respectable human being to emerge from our circle. The remaining four were the guys: Connor, Mack, Coop, and Miles. How did we all become friends? It’s incredibly simple. We grew up in the same suburban neighborhood. One sticky summer afternoon, after a torrential downpour, a massive puddle formed in the dirt lot at the end of our street. Some neighborhood dog had left a massive pile of shit right in the center of the depression. By the next afternoon, the sun had baked the water, rehydrating the turd until the entire puddle transformed into a bubbling, natural biological weapon. Mack, who was five at the time and an absolute idiot, pointed at the murky water and said, “It looks like a big bowl of soup.” Connor, four and a half and an even bigger idiot, asked, “Can we drink it?” I was five years and two months old. I answered his question with direct action. I grabbed a heavy tree branch, took aim, and slammed it right into the center of the hazard zone. Splat. Foul, brown water erupted into the air. We spent the rest of that golden afternoon chasing each other around the street, dipping sticks into the biohazard and launching it at one another until the entire neighborhood smelled like a landfill. Eventually, our respective mothers dragged us home by our collars. I got the lecture of a lifetime from my parents, my mother shouting, “Harper! Are you a young lady or a feral animal?!” I was a young lady. But I was a young lady who knew how to make a bomb out of dog crap. So, three years later, when I finally sat down at the table with Connor and the boys again, Mack’s very first sentence to me was: “Harper, do you still think about the soup?” “I do,” I deadpanned. “I also remember that you licked the water that splashed on your cheek and your mom had to take you to the clinic for three days of preventative rabies shots.” The private dining room erupted into laughter. This was our dynamic. We survived each other’s ugliest, loudest, most unpolished phases. We kept each other humble through mutually assured destruction. Anyone with a fragile ego would have been exiled from our circle back in kindergarten. Connor poured me a beer. “Harper, listen. My girlfriend is coming tonight. Do me a solid and maybe let’s not talk about feces?” I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You locked someone down?” Mack leaned over, rolling his eyes. “Two months now. Treats her like she’s made of spun glass. He wouldn’t even let us meet her until today. We’re only getting the privilege because of you.” Coop twisted the knife. “Yeah, he said he had to introduce her to his ‘most important childhood friend.’ We were wondering who that was. Turns out, it’s you, Harper. The rest of us are basically dogs to him.” Connor kicked Coop under the table. “Can you guys just be normal for ten minutes?” I nodded solemnly. “Alright, alright. I’ll play the part. Perfect Southern belle. I got you.” Five minutes later, the door to the dining room opened. A girl walked in. White sundress, long flowing hair, wide doe eyes, and skin that looked like it had never seen a harsh ray of sunlight. The way her skirt swished when she walked made it look like she was floating on a cloud. Someone was floating right behind her. No, it wasn’t a person. It was Connor’s soul, tethered to her wrist. Connor stood up, wearing the kind of dopey, worthless grin that only belongs to a man who has entirely lost his mind. “Guys, let me introduce you. This is my girlfriend, Paige.” Paige. She kept her chin tucked, looking up at us through her lashes. The angle, the wide-eyed apprehension—she looked like a startled fawn that had just wandered onto a busy highway. “Hi everyone. I’m Paige.” Her voice was soft. Like cotton candy dissolving in hot water. Mack and the guys immediately dropped their degenerate personas, sitting up terrifyingly straight and doing their absolute best impressions of civilized society. I stood up too, ready to go through the standard American social pleasantries. But as Paige’s eyes scanned the room and landed on me, she faltered. She physically shrank back, hiding slightly behind Connor’s shoulder. Connor quickly stepped in. “Harper, tone it down, you’re scaring her. She’s shy.” Me? I hadn’t even opened my mouth. I just stood up. Alright then. I sat back down. Connor pulled out the chair next to me for her, making the introductions. “Paige, this is the Harper I told you about. We grew up together. Ride-or-die. She just got back from studying abroad.” Paige offered me a smile. It was so tight, so constrained, so… forced. I brushed it off. I reached into my jacket pocket. Crap. I’d been in such a rush to get here, I forgot to buy a welcome gift. I usually wouldn’t care, but meeting a friend’s new girlfriend empty-handed felt like bad form. I glanced down at my wrist. A diamond tennis bracelet. Cartier. I’d bought it for myself literally that morning. Without a second thought, I unclasped it and gently slid it across the table toward Paige. “Hey, I didn’t have time to prep a proper gift, but take this. Nice to meet you.” Paige froze, staring down at the glittering diamonds. Connor froze, too. The air in the room suddenly turned very heavy. Assuming she was grossed out because it was already worn, I scratched the back of my neck. “Look, if you mind that I had it on, just hold onto it for now and I’ll buy you a fresh one in a box tomorrow.” The moment the words left my mouth, Paige’s eyes welled with tears. What? She pushed the bracelet back toward me with trembling fingers. When she spoke, her voice was thick with a sob. “Harper, I know you’re Connor’s best friend… but you don’t have to do this.” Do what? I was genuinely baffled. “I think you’re misunderstanding me. I literally just forgot to bring a gift—” “It’s fine.” She cut me off, the tears now actively pooling. “I know. I know the kind of money your circle comes from. I know I don’t fit in with Connor’s world. But I’m not with him for his money. I work hard for what I have. I don’t need your charity.” I stared at her. Then I turned my head slowly to look at Connor. Connor grimaced, leaning in to whisper furiously in my ear. “Harper, Paige didn’t grow up with a lot. She’s fiercely independent and she hates feeling like a charity case. You tossing a Cartier bracelet at her makes her feel like you’re mocking her.” My brain short-circuited. Mocking? I tried to course-correct. “I swear I didn’t mean anything by it, I just thought—” “Harper.” Paige spoke up again. This time, she stood up. The tears were actively rolling down her cheeks now, but her spine was rigid, playing the part of the tragic, unyielding heroine to absolute perfection. “I know you meant well. But I might not have money, but I have my pride. I don’t want your handouts.” You could hear a pin drop in that dining room. Mack and the guys exchanged panicked glances. A familiar spark of temper flared hot in my chest. But I swallowed it down. I remembered the very last thing my mother said to me at the airport before shipping me back to the States: Harper, if you start drama the minute you land, I am donating your entire sneaker collection to Goodwill. I took a deep breath. Then another. I forced the most pleasant, customer-service smile I could muster onto my face. “Okay. You don’t want the bracelet. That’s fine. Give me your Venmo. Name a number. I’ll just send you the cash.” Paige went entirely pale. Connor went entirely dark. “Harper!” His voice snapped like a whip. I was officially out of patience. “What?! She doesn’t want the jewelry, so I offered cash. I’ve bought gifts for everyone else’s girlfriends in this room! Why is this so difficult?” “Paige isn’t that kind of girl!” “Then what kind of girl is she?” I threw my hands up. “I give her jewelry, she says I’m mocking her. I offer her cash, she says… I don’t even know what she’s saying! I’m literally just trying to say ‘welcome to the group,’ why is this a federal offense?” Mack hastily stood up to play peacekeeper. “Alright, alright, let’s dial it back. Harper didn’t mean anything by it, Paige. She’s just got no filter. She’s a blunt instrument. Don’t take it personally.” It was the wrong move. The second Mack tried to smooth things over, Paige’s crying escalated from a tragic weep to a full-on breakdown. She looked at Connor. Then at me. Then at Mack. Her lips trembled. “I see. I get it now. You guys grew up together. You’re the real circle.” “I’m nothing. I’m just an outsider.” She looked right at me, her chest heaving. “You didn’t have to do this, Harper. If you want me gone, just say it. You don’t have to use your money to make me feel small.” Excuse me? I used my money to make you feel small? Giving you diamonds was an insult? Venmoing you was an insult? What did she want me to do? Get down on one knee and pledge fealty? “Connor.” Paige turned to my childhood best friend, her voice breaking on his name. “I clearly don’t belong in your world. We should just break up.” With that, she turned on her heel and sprinted out of the restaurant. Connor looked at me. There was a lot in that look. Exhaustion, blame, and a little bit of… something else I couldn’t quite place. Then he ran out after her. The door clicked shut. Silence hung in the room for three agonizing seconds. Coop was the first to speak. “Bro. What the actual hell just happened?” Mack scratched his head. “Harper, you were… a little intense.” I sat back in my chair, staring at the glittering Cartier bracelet still sitting innocuously next to my plate. Miles, the slowest processor among us, finally spoke up, his words dragging out. “Hey… does that Paige girl seem a little… you know?” “A little what?” I asked. Miles searched for the word for a solid ten seconds before finally finding it. “Like… a professional victim?” The four of us exchanged looks. We sank into a deep, collective silence. After a minute, I asked the room, “Does Connor realize?” Mack shook his head. “If he did, he wouldn’t have chased her.” Coop sighed heavily. “It’s over. Connor’s an idiot. He’s going down with the ship.” I rolled my eyes. “Let him drown. He picked her. Now he gets to sleep in the bed he made.” What I didn’t know at the time was that Paige wasn’t just my best friend’s exhausting girlfriend. She was about to become the inescapable shadow of my college existence. To be precise, she was about to become my roommate. 2 Later that night, my phone buzzed with a text from Connor. [Connor]: Harper, don’t sweat what happened tonight. Paige is just really sensitive. I talked her down. We’re good. [Connor]: I’ll buy you dinner to make up for it. I texted back an “OK” emoji and left it at that. I’d known Connor for twenty years. I knew exactly how he operated. When he locked onto an idea, a team of wild horses couldn’t drag him away from it. In middle school, he liked a girl in the grade above us, chased her for three years, and she ended up dating the captain of the track team. In high school, he fell for another girl, chased her for two years, and she moved across the country for college. Now, there was Paige. Two months in. The absolute peak of the honeymoon phase delusion. Anything I said right now would be used against me. It was better to say nothing at all. But the universe has a remarkably twisted sense of humor. On the first day of the semester, I dragged my suitcase into the dorms, pushed open the door to Room 408, and saw someone sitting on the bed near the window. White dress. Long hair. Doe eyes. She looked up. I looked straight ahead. The air in the room instantly turned to concrete. The sweet smile froze on Paige’s face. The textbook in her hands slipped and hit the floor with a loud smack. “…Hi,” I said. “…Harper?” she whispered. I took a slow, deep breath, dragged my suitcase inside, and located my assigned bed. It was the top bunk. Directly above hers. Karma is a sick joke. Fine. I started unpacking. She stayed frozen on her bed. About five minutes of excruciating silence later, she finally spoke. “Harper… about what happened the other night. I misunderstood your intentions. I’m sorry.” I paused folding my shirts and looked down at her. She had her face tilted up toward me, eyes wide and glistening, the absolute picture of earnest, vulnerable apology. I gave a single nod. “Don’t worry about it. Water under the bridge.” She smiled. It was so sweet it made my teeth ache. “Thank you, Harper.” I smiled back, turned around, and kept unpacking. My internal monologue, however, was crystal clear: If I can’t beat her, I’m just going to avoid her like the plague. For the next two weeks, I executed this strategy flawlessly. When her alarm went off in the morning, I was already out the door. When she went to sleep at night, I was just walking in. Library, dining hall, the bleachers by the athletic fields—I didn’t care where I was, as long as it wasn’t Room 408. There were four of us in the suite. Besides Paige and me, there was Dakota, a golden retriever of a girl from the Midwest who loved everyone, and Lauren, a brutally silent premed student whose only form of communication was aggressively turning pages of her biology textbook. Dakota, true to her nature, hated tension. By the third day of classes, she cornered me. “Harper, do you have beef with Paige? Why are you always avoiding her?” I waved a hand dismissively. “No beef. I just have a heavy course load. I leave early and come back late so I don’t wake her up.” Dakota bought it. Paige, however, did not. She decided to go on the offensive. 3 During the second week of the semester, the humanities department hosted a mandatory storytelling showcase for freshmen. “The Moth” style. I had absolutely zero desire to participate, but my advisor mandated that every seminar class had to send two representatives. We drew straws. I lost. Paige had volunteered. On the day of the showcase, I walked up to the mic and delivered a wildly inappropriate five-minute stand-up routine about almost burning down a flat in London while trying to boil pasta. It was pure filler. When the results were posted, I ranked second to last. Paige ranked third. Walking back to the dorms, I was actually in a fantastic mood. Obligation fulfilled, no expectations to advance to the finals. I could go back to coasting. I pushed open the door to Room 408. Someone was sobbing. Dakota was sitting on the edge of Paige’s bed, rubbing her back. “Paige, please don’t cry… third place is incredible…” “But it’s not fair,” Paige sniffled, her voice trembling. “I prepared for weeks. I rewrote that speech a dozen times. I know I should have gotten first…” Dakota patted her shoulder sympathetically. “I know, but the judges are subjective. You still placed!” “It’s not that.” Paige lifted her tear-streaked face, looking at Dakota with tragic intensity. “Dakota… I need to tell you a secret. But you can’t tell anyone.” Dakota leaned in. “What is it?” Paige lowered her voice to a fragile whisper. “I have it on good authority that someone… stole my draft.” Dakota gasped. “Who?!” Paige didn’t answer. She just wept softly. I was standing perfectly still in the doorway, caught in the awkward limbo of whether to walk in or back out slowly. Paige suddenly looked up and locked eyes with me. She flinched, then violently ducked her head, shrinking into herself. It was the look. The specific, calculated look of a victim terrified of her abuser. My brain stuttered to a halt. She… she isn’t implying what I think she’s implying, is she? Dakota slowly turned around. The look she gave me was incredibly complicated. I crossed my arms. “Spit it out.” Paige shook her head frantically. “Harper, it’s nothing! I know it wasn’t you.” I exhaled, feeling the tension drain out of me, and stepped fully into the room. But before I even reached my desk, Paige whispered, “It was probably just a coincidence… great minds think alike, right?” I stopped dead in my tracks. Think alike? My speech was titled: How to Make Microwave Ramen Taste Like a Michelin Star Meal While Drunk. I hadn’t read Paige’s draft, but I had been sitting in the auditorium when she delivered it. I remembered her topic vividly. It was titled: The Unseen Struggles of First-Generation College Students. How, in God’s name, did those two concepts “think alike”? I turned slowly to look at her. She immediately curled her shoulders inward, casting her eyes down in terror, looking every bit the bullied innocent. Dakota was now staring at me like I was a villain in a Lifetime movie. I let out a harsh laugh. “…I got second to last.” Paige blinked, looking up. “What?” “I said, I ranked second to last. If I had stolen your brilliantly crafted emotional masterpiece, don’t you think I would have placed higher than the girl who talked about her cat for six minutes? I was second to last.” Paige froze. A slow, hot flush crept up her neck. Dakota blinked, the gears finally turning in her head. “Oh wait, yeah. Harper talked about ramen. Paige, your speech was about first-gen students. Those have literally nothing in common.” Paige looked down at her hands, her voice dropping to a microscopic whisper. “I was just… thinking out loud. I never said Harper stole it…” I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my own skull. I ignored her entirely, climbed up the ladder to my bunk, put on my noise-canceling headphones, and booted up my Switch.

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Ten years into the collapse. Daniel’s little protégée, Tinsley, had been throwing a tantrum because she wanted to celebrate “Queen’s Day” despite the rations being thin. Her selfishness led them straight into a swarm, and a stray crawler ripped into her forearm. In my past life, Daniel came to me, frantic, claiming he was the one who had been hurt. The moment I stepped through the door to help him, he pinned me down. Without a flicker of hesitation, he hacked off my arm. He didn’t miss a beat. He grafted my severed limb onto Tinsley to save her. And me? He gave me her infected, rotting stump, already black with the necrosis of the hollow-virus. “Cassie, you have the Mending gift,” he’d said, his voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “Even with the infection, you won’t die. But Tinsley… she isn’t strong like you.” He was right. I didn’t die. Instead, my powers began to wither, poisoned by the very limb I’d been forced to accept. They stripped me of my title as Colony Commander. Eventually, when I was no longer “useful,” they lashed me to the ramparts, slicing my veins open to let the scent of my blood lure the horde away from the gates. I died being torn apart, bone by bone. I opened my eyes. The phantom pain of the blade was still there, a searing heat against my skin. But when I looked down, my left hand was still there, fingers twitching against the rough fabric of my cot. Outside the door, a voice shouted—a voice I recognized with a sickening jolt. It was Beckett, one of the scouts I’d personally pulled from a pile of corpses years ago. In my last life, he was the one who held my legs down while the saw bit into my bone. “Commander! Daniel’s hurt bad! You need to come, now!” I slowly wiped the cold sweat from my palms. A dark, jagged smile touched my lips. “What’s the rush, Beckett?” I called out, my voice steady. “The colony has plenty of Medics. Find someone else.” … Thump. Thump. Thump. The knocking was violent now, sending plumes of dust dancing down from the doorframe. “Cassie! Please! He’s losing too much blood! He asked for you specifically!” I stared at the ceiling, the familiar cracks looking like a map of a life I had already failed. There was no stench of rotting flesh here. No agonizing heat of a thousand teeth tearing into my midsection. My arm hung heavy and whole at my side. In that other life, the moment I heard Daniel was hurt, I’d bolted out of bed, my heart in my throat. I’d run straight into the ambush he’d spent weeks perfecting. Daniel had stood just a few feet away, holding the very blade I’d forged for him from reclaimed steel. He didn’t look away when he swung it. “Don’t hate me for this, Cassie,” he’d whispered as I screamed. “Tinsley lost her arm trying to save me. You’re a Healer. Your tissue is the only thing that will take. You’ve survived bites before; you’re practically immortal. You’ll be fine.” He’d called the rotting stump he gave me a “gift”—a way to keep me from being a “cripple.” I had spent months pouring my dwindling energy into that dead limb, trying to keep the virus from reaching my heart. My skin turned the color of wet ash. My hair fell out in clumps. I’d applied for the colony’s restricted serum—the stuff that could kickstart a Healer’s marrow. Once. Twice. Three times. Denied. The Quartermaster wouldn’t even look me in the eye. “Resources are tight, Cassie. It has to go to the front lines.” It wasn’t until the very end that I learned the truth. The front lines weren’t starving for supplies. Daniel, using his new authority as Commander, had been funneling every vial of serum to Tinsley. He wanted to see if he could force her body to develop a “Gift” of her own. When I’d dragged my skeletal body to his office to confront him, he just sighed. “Tinsley is showing signs of awakening an Ability, Cassie. She needs the nourishment. You’ve always been the tough one. Just endure a little longer.” Endure. I had endured until I was a husk. And when the well ran dry, they tied me to the stone like a piece of livestock, letting my blood “serve the colony” one last time. I closed my eyes, and for a second, I was back on those ramparts. Tinsley was standing below me, looking up with a face full of manufactured pity. “Oh, Cassie,” she’d cooed. “You’re infected and powerless. You’re basically a ghost already. You were the Commander once—don’t you want to die a hero? Think of it as your final contribution.” My fist clenched until my nails drew blood. Suddenly, a strange sensation bloomed in my palm. It wasn’t the warm, golden hum of the Mending. It was cold. It felt like graveyard soil and sharpened iron. A flicker of grey light danced between my fingers, swallowing the gold. A second Gift. Something that hadn’t existed before the rebirth. “Commander? Cassie! Are you in there?!” Beckett’s voice was frantic now. “He’s dying! The Medics say if we wait any longer, there will be permanent damage!” Permanent damage. The lie was so bold, so practiced, it made my skin crawl. I remembered Beckett’s face from the meeting where they stripped me of my rank. “Cassie’s a woman, and a broken one at that,” he’d told the council. “Why should a literal invalid run our home? Daniel is the one keeping us alive.” He had knelt before me once, years ago, sobbing that he’d never forget my kindness. Apparently, memory is a luxury the apocalypse doesn’t afford. The knocking turned into a rhythmic pounding. “Cassie! Open the damn door!” I took a long, jagged breath, pushing the rage down until it was a cold stone in my gut. When I opened the door, my face was a mask of perfect, frantic concern. “Where is he? Lead the way.” Beckett’s shoulders slumped with visible relief. “Thank god. Follow me!” He led me toward the restricted wing, to a room with reinforced walls and a door that locked only from the outside. In my past life, I hadn’t noticed the trap. I had been too busy looking for bloodstains on the floor. As we reached the door, Beckett glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyes darting away quickly. He reached for the handle. I didn’t wait. I didn’t ask questions. I gathered that new, oily grey energy in my palm and shoved. My foot connected with the small of Beckett’s back, sending him stumbling into the room. I slammed the door and threw the heavy iron bolt. From inside, a sickening squelch echoed, followed by a scream that sounded like a pig in a slaughterhouse. “What the hell? Beckett?” “Where’s Cassie? She was supposed to be the one!” Daniel’s voice was a low, dangerous snarl. Silence followed, then a shaky whisper from one of the others. “Captain… it’s Beckett. He’s… he’s passed out from the shock.” I heard Daniel approach the door, but a female voice stopped him. It was the colony’s head surgeon. “Don’t open it! If we don’t graft an arm onto her now, the necrosis will hit her heart. We already did the amputation. We have to use what’s in the room.” “No! I don’t want a man’s arm!” Tinsley’s voice rose in a shrill, hysterical peak. “It’s disgusting! It won’t match! You promised me Cassie’s! You said hers was the only one that was pure!” “Tinsley, shut up and hold still,” Daniel snapped, though his tone softened. “It’s a temporary fix. I’ll… I’ll find you a better one later. I promise.” Later. I leaned my head against the cold metal of the door and laughed, a quiet, jagged sound. “Good luck with that, Daniel,” I whispered. “I don’t think your ‘later’ is going to look the way you planned.” I walked away. I expected them to lay low, to try and hide their failure. But I underestimated Daniel’s arrogance. An hour later, he kicked in the door to the medical ward where I was checking the supply crates. He lunged for me, his fingers bruising my arm as he wrenched me toward him. “You bitch,” he hissed. “Because of your little stunt, Tinsley had to take Beckett’s arm. She’s locked herself in her room, crying her eyes out! She won’t even look at me!” He began dragging me toward the exit. “You’re going to her room. You’re going to get on your knees and beg for her forgiveness. And then, you’re going to ‘voluntarily’ offer your arm for a second transplant. If you don’t, I swear to God, you will never see the sun again.” I wrenched my arm back. The coldness in my chest flared, a localized blizzard. “Beg? Her?” I spat the words like venom. “Tinsley is a parasite, Daniel. She’s a nothing. And you? You’re just the man who forgot who actually built this place.” The slap was so hard it sent me stumbling into a rack of glass vials. My cheek went numb instantly. Behind Daniel, a few of his loyalists stepped forward. “Give it a rest, Cassie,” one of them sneered. “You’re just a Healer. You hide behind the walls while we do the real work. Losing an arm won’t kill you. Quit being so dramatic.” “Seriously,” another added. “The colony only stands because of Daniel. He only kept you around out of some misplaced sense of loyalty. You’re a leech, Cassie. You don’t even compare to Tinsley.” “Go apologize. Maybe then we won’t vote to kick you out of the gates tonight.” I looked at their faces. I had shared my bread with these men. I had stayed up for seventy-two hours straight during the Great Blight, weaving my Mending energy through the infirmary until I coughed up blood, just to keep their fevers from breaking. I remembered the hike through the Dead Zone—two hundred miles on foot to bring back the winter supplies they were too afraid to scout for. I remembered the siege at the West Gate, where I stood alone in the breach because Daniel had “clutched his chest” and retreated to the command center. “He’s the one who keeps us alive?” I started to laugh. It was a dark, hysterical sound that echoed off the sterile walls. “Is that what he told you?” “That’s enough!” Daniel barked. A flicker of genuine panic crossed his eyes before being replaced by ice. “I know you’re bitter, Cassie, but don’t try to rewrite history. I’ve bled for this colony while you sat in your office playing Commander. You’re done.” I pushed past him, my hand hovering over the console on my wrist. I tapped a command, and several holographic displays flickered to life in the air. They were the faces of the colony’s founding members—the ones who had been there since Day One. “Arthur,” I said, addressing the oldest of them. “Tell them.” Arthur’s face was etched with a weary, hollow kind of shame. “Cassie… don’t make this harder. Daniel is the face of the Sanctuary. He’s the strength. You’re a woman, dear. Without him to protect you, you never would have lasted this long.” The world seemed to tilt. I remembered pulling Arthur out of a burning wreck. I remembered carrying him on my back across a field of glass. I looked at Daniel. He was watching me with a smug, predatory satisfaction. “See, Cassie? I told you. You think too much of yourself.” I turned to walk away, but a hand caught my hair. I was jerked backward, my knees slamming into the concrete with a sickening crack. “You aren’t going anywhere,” Daniel growled. He knelt down, gripping my chin so hard I felt my teeth grind together. The mask was gone. The “hero” was gone. There was only the beast underneath. “You wouldn’t give the arm up willingly? Fine. We’ll do it the hard way. Consider this a down payment for Tinsley’s trauma.” He stood back. A fist caught me in the temple. Then a boot to the stomach, knocking the air from my lungs in a spray of red mist. Someone grabbed me by the hair, hauling me up just to drive a knee into my ribs. I heard the distinct snap of bone. Blood pooled in my mouth, tasting of copper and failure. I pressed my face against the cold floor, peering through the shattered glass of the medicine vials. And then, I felt it. A vibration. Deep in the earth. A low, rhythmic thrumming that felt like a heartbeat. They’re here. I closed my eyes. The floor beneath us didn’t just crack; it exploded. A massive, slick tentacle, dripping with black bile and lined with obsidian thorns, burst through the concrete. It swung with the force of a wrecking ball, sending three of Daniel’s men flying into the far wall like ragdolls. Then came the second. And the third. From every corridor, the sound of the dead began to rise—not a moan, but a coordinated, guttural roar. “Monster!” “It’s a swarm! How did they get inside the perimeter?!” The room descended into chaos. Daniel’s face went white, but his eyes landed on me. “She’s a Gifted! Her blood is concentrated!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “Throw her to them! Use her as bait while we hit the emergency exit!” Rough hands grabbed me. A blade nicked my throat, and I felt the warm slide of blood down my collar. They threw me toward the breach in the floor. I hit the rubble, the stench of decay filling my senses. I looked up. Dozens of pale, milky eyes were fixed on me. Daniel was already halfway to the safety tunnel, a jagged, triumphant grin on his face as he watched the “leech” finally get consumed. I sat up slowly. I raised my hand. And I snapped my fingers. The dead stopped. As one, they turned their heads away from me and fixed their gaze on the man in the tunnel.

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To keep from being buried alive in the fallout of a dying dynasty, I decided to steal a child from a man who supposedly couldn’t even stand. To make sure the plan was foolproof, I doubled the dose of “Midnight Silk”—a cocktail of chemistry and desperation designed to make a man forget his own name. That night, the man who came to me was anything but the invalid the rumors described. He was a force of nature, primal and unrelenting, far more savage than any dying billionaire had a right to be. I told myself the drugs were just that good. I let my tears hit the pillow and endured every grueling hour until dawn. When the sun finally crept through the heavy velvet curtains, I pulled on a silk robe, my lower back aching with a dull, throbbing heat. I pushed open the double doors of the suite, ready to secure my future by announcing my “devotion” to the old man. Instead, I found a massacre. The marble floors were slick with it—a river of crimson reflecting the morning light. Bodies lay scattered like discarded dolls. And right in the center of the carnage stood the man I had spent the night with. He was holding a tactical blade that still dripped onto the expensive rug, his boot firmly planted on the throat of the man I was supposed to have seduced. He turned to look at me, his eyes bloodshot and dark with a lingering, predatory satisfaction. “So, Sadie,” he rasped, his voice a low, terrifying vibration. “Did you get what you wanted last night?” I was ruined. I hadn’t seduced the dying king. I had seduced the man who just murdered him. 1 The biggest mistake of my life wasn’t marrying into the Montgomery family. It was believing that a hit of “Midnight Silk” could buy me a way out. In this world, there was a dark, unspoken rule: when the Patriarch falls, the loose ends are cut. No heirs, no protection. And for a trophy wife like me—a girl with no pedigree and even less influence—I wasn’t just a loose end. I was a liability meant to be discarded. Harrison Montgomery was dying. He was a shell of a man, barely clinging to life in the east wing of the estate. The vultures were already circling. For someone like me, “discarded” usually meant a one-way trip to a shallow grave or a life-shattering scandal that would leave me on the streets. I wanted to live. So, I burned through my hidden savings to bribe the head of security. I needed him to steer Harrison into my suite for one last “reconciliation.” I prepped the room, lit the incense, and doubled the dose of the stimulant. I even downed half a bottle of expensive bourbon myself; if I had to sleep with a man who smelled like mothballs and impending death, I needed to be numb enough not to vomit. But I missed one crucial detail: the coup was scheduled for that very night. I was hiding behind the canopy curtains when I heard the heavy thud of boots and the metallic clatter of gear. My brain was a fog of bourbon and adrenaline. I thought it was Harrison, maybe wearing some kind of experimental medical brace to help him stay upright. The moment the doors swung open, I didn’t look at his face. I didn’t dare. I lunged. If I got pregnant tonight, it wouldn’t matter who sat on the throne tomorrow. A Montgomery heir was a golden ticket. The man froze. He smelled of cold rain, gunpowder, and the metallic tang of fresh blood—the scent of a man who had just finished a harvest. In my drunken haze, I convinced myself it was just a strange, expensive cologne. I didn’t just embrace him. I wrapped myself around him like a vine, dragging him toward the bed with a desperation that should have been a warning. His body was like granite. He was still holding something cold and hard in his hand—a weapon, surely—but I didn’t give him the chance to use it. I pressed my lips to his, forcing the drugged wine into his mouth. “I’ve been waiting for you, darling,” I whispered, reciting the lines of a loyal, grieving wife. I felt the killing intent in him falter for a split second. Then, the drug hit. That suppressed, violent energy was ignited by the chemical fire I’d sparked. He flipped me over, his hands gripping my waist with enough force to bruise. At the time, I only felt a surge of triumph: The rumors were wrong. The old man still has plenty of fight left in him! The night was a blur of survival. I thought I was performing a grim duty, a “calculated transaction.” Instead, it was a total eclipse. This man was a predator, ruthless and agonizingly thorough. He didn’t move like a man who needed help walking; he moved like a man who destroyed things for a living. Somewhere in the middle of the fever dream, I wondered if the “Midnight Silk” was some kind of fountain of youth. He seemed to be venting years of repressed rage, his movements bordering on destructive, yet he stopped himself from truly hurting me in moments of strange, terrifying restraint. In a moment of sheer, drug-induced stupidity, I actually panted into his ear, “You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you? You’re quite the dark horse. If I’d known you were this… capable… I wouldn’t have used the double dose.” He stilled for a heartbeat. Then he redoubled his efforts, and I was lost again. I was a small boat in the middle of a hurricane, clinging to my only hope of survival. I don’t remember falling asleep. I only remember whispering that I was exhausted, crying into his neck. He let out a low, raspy chuckle—a sound so deep and resonant it couldn’t have come from Harrison’s frail chest. But I was too far gone to care about the logic of it. I just knew the seed was planted. My life was safe. Until I woke up the next morning and saw his face. 2 My head was pounding when I drifted back to consciousness. The man was standing by the window, his back to me as he pulled on his tactical shirt. Broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and a back marked with the red scratches I’d left there during the night. There was no way in hell this was a sixty-year-old man. My eyes drifted to the floor, where a combat blade lay discarded. The blood on the edge hadn’t fully dried; dark droplets were still seeping into my cream-colored rug with a rhythmic plink, plink, plink. The hangover vanished instantly, replaced by cold, paralyzing terror. I looked up just as he turned around. It was a face I recognized from the “Avoid at All Costs” briefings: Roman Blackwood. The “Butcher” of the corporate underworld, the mercenary kingpin who had been rumored to be planning a takeover for months. I hadn’t slept with the King. I had slept with the man who had just decapitated the kingdom. I scrambled off the bed, not even stopping to find a robe, and dropped to my knees, trembling so hard my teeth chattered. “You’re awake,” he said. His voice was sandpaper and velvet, a terrifyingly magnetic sound. He didn’t kill me immediately. Instead, he took his time tightening his belt, his eyes tracing the line of my bare shoulder with a look that was half-amused, half-starved. “You were quite… enthusiastic last night, Sadie.” This was it. The moment I died. My mind raced. If I admitted I mistook him for the old man, I was calling him a substitute. Dead. If I said I intended to sleep with him, I was a traitor and a whore. Dead. If I was going to die anyway, I might as well play the most dangerous hand in the deck. I took a sharp breath, looked up, and let the tears flow on command. I channeled every ounce of “doomed heroine” energy I had. “Roman! I… I’ve waited so long for this night!” His hand paused on his belt. He arched a dark eyebrow. “Oh?” I had to commit. I had to believe my own lie so hard it became his reality. “You have no idea. I’ve watched you from the sidelines for years. Marrying Harrison… it was a prison sentence. I was a captive in this house, but my heart? My heart has always belonged to you. I’ve been praying for the day you’d finally come and burn this place down.” He walked toward me, each step echoing like a heartbeat. He used the bloody tip of his scabbard to tilt my chin up. “You’ve been pining for me?” He let out a cold, cynical whistle. “Then why did you keep calling out for ‘the Master’ last night?” My heart skipped. Shit. I had used the formal title I usually used for Harrison. But I, Sadie Moore, have a face made of brass. “Because to me, you are the Master!” I cried, leaning into the blade. “In my heart, you’ve always been the one in charge. Harrison was just a ghost I had to endure until you arrived!” It was treasonous, but to a man who had just successfully staged a coup, it was exactly the kind of ego-stroke he needed. The murderous glint in Roman’s eyes softened—not into kindness, but into a dark, intrigued curiosity. “Pretty words,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “But you’re a hell of an actress, Sadie. You should be in Hollywood, not a billionaire’s bedroom.” “It’s not an act!” I reached under the pillow and pulled out a small, silk handkerchief I’d been embroidering. It was supposed to be a floral pattern, but my needlework was so atrocious that the ‘M’ for Montgomery looked more like a jagged ‘B’. I held it up with trembling hands. “Look! I made this for you! ‘B’ for Blackwood! I’ve been keeping it hidden for months, waiting for the right moment!” Roman took the scrap of silk, staring at the messy, distorted letter. “This is a ‘B’?” “It’s… it’s abstract!” I insisted. “It represents my chaotic, wild devotion to you!” Roman was silent. He had likely never encountered a woman this shameless in his entire life. Finally, he let out a low, jagged laugh. It was a terrifying sound, but it wasn’t the sound of a man about to kill me. “Since you’re so devoted to me…” He tossed the handkerchief back onto the bed and turned toward the door. “Put some clothes on. You’re coming with me to watch the board members surrender.” I collapsed onto the floor the moment he turned his back, my skin drenched in cold sweat. I was alive. But the road ahead was going to be a hell of a lot harder than dying. 3 The Grand Ballroom smelled like ozone and expensive scotch. The board of directors—the men who had treated me like a decorative houseplant for a year—were now huddled on the floor, terrified. And there I was, standing right at Roman’s side, feeling their stares burning into me like I was some kind of ghost. Harrison—or what was left of him—was seated in a chair in the center of the room, bound and broken. Roman sat on the marble desk, one arm draped possessively, almost bruisingly, around my waist. The intimacy of it made my skin crawl, but I leaned into him, playing the part of the devoted consort. “Harrison, do you recognize her?” Roman asked, his voice dripping with sadistic mockery. The old man looked up. When his eyes landed on me, they nearly bulged out of his head. “Sadie? You… you traitorous little bitch! How could you?” I felt a twinge of guilt, but it was quickly drowned out by self-preservation. If I showed a second of weakness, Roman would toss me to the wolves. I hardened my heart and pointed a finger right at my “husband.” “Shut up! I was never yours! I’ve always been Roman’s!” The room went dead silent. Even Roman shifted slightly, surprised by how far I was willing to go. “You useless old fossil,” I continued, the words pouring out like venom. “Did you really think I enjoyed our ‘quiet evenings’? You couldn’t hold a candle to a man like Roman. He’s a god; you’re just a relic.” “I was waiting for him! I was keeping myself ready for the man who actually knows how to lead!” The more I talked, the more I channeled all the frustration of the last year. Harrison started shaking, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. He tried to speak, but he just sputtered, a thin line of foam appearing at the corner of his mouth before he slumped over, unconscious from the sheer shock. “A bit fragile, isn’t he?” I muttered, turning back to Roman with my best adoring smile. “How was that, darling?” Roman looked at me, his gaze deep and unreadable. My heart hammered against my ribs. Had I overplayed it? Did I look too much like a psychopath? Suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed. “Perfect! A ‘devoted’ heart indeed!” He pulled me flush against his side, announcing to the room, “From this moment on, Sadie stays with me. She’s my personal assistant, my shadow. She goes where I go.” I exhaled, but the relief was short-lived. “Personal assistant”? That meant being under his thumb twenty-four hours a day. This wasn’t a reward. This was Roman Blackwood keeping his favorite new toy on a very short leash.

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My mother is a textbook misogynist. Even though I’m her daughter—her only child—she’s hated me from the moment I took my first breath. To her, my existence wasn’t a miracle; it was an intrusion. I was beaten for wearing lip gloss, beaten for putting on a sundress, and beaten most severely if I ever dared to show affection toward my father. On the eve of my high school graduation, she did the unthinkable. She went to my school and spread a sickening lie: she told everyone I was a “homewrecker” who was seducing my own father. She pushed me until I had nowhere left to go but over the edge of a fifteen-story ledge. And as I fell, I knew one thing for certain: my mother was finally satisfied. 1 In the delivery room, the doctor beamed as she handed me over to my mother. “It’s a girl,” the doctor whispered, her voice full of warmth. “Look at that skin—she’s going to be a beauty when she grows up.” The color drained from my mother’s face, but not from exhaustion. It was pure, unadulterated rage. She lunged forward, grabbing the young doctor by her hair and swinging her palm across the woman’s face. The hallway echoed with her screams. “You bitch! You swapped him, didn’t you? Where is my son? I followed every old wives’ tale, took every supplement—I was supposed to have a boy!” It took a senior physician and a DNA test to finally quiet her, but the damage was done. When the results confirmed I was hers, she looked at me with eyes that dripped poison. It was only when my aunt called my father, Robert, and begged him to come to the hospital that the immediate violence stopped. My mother never forgave my aunt for that call. A few weeks later, once they were back in the quiet of our suburban home, my aunt came to check on me. My cries were weak, barely audible from the nursery. In the master bedroom, my father was sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully spooning warm broth into my mother’s mouth. “Robert, swear to me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a desperate, sick kind of love. “Swear I’m the only woman you’ll ever love. You can’t love her just because she’s your daughter.” “I swear, Diane,” he replied softly. “You won’t hold her. You won’t kiss her. She’s just a guest here.” He promised. And in the years that followed, my father proved to be a man of his word. In all my memories, we never once touched. No hugs, no high-fives, no hand-holding. But even my father’s cold distance wasn’t enough to appease her. When I was seven, I walked three miles home from school only to be met with a backhanded strike that sent me reeling. She had found a photo of me on my father’s phone—a simple, blurry picture of me playing in the backyard. “You little tramp,” she hissed, shoving the phone into my face. “Who taught you to pose like that? You’re already trying to steal what’s mine!” I didn’t even know what she was talking about. I looked toward the hallway, hoping to see my father, hoping he’d step in. But the door stayed shut, and the beating continued. After that day, my father never took another photo of me. My mother’s triumphant, territorial smile is burned into my mind. When I was thirteen, I saved my allowance for six months to buy him a birthday gift—a simple navy blue sweater. I left it on his mahogany desk in the study, thinking it was a safe gesture. That night, the house felt like a tomb. I walked into the living room to find a pile of shredded blue wool on the floor. “Think you’re clever, don’t you?” Diane sneered. “I see right through you, you little slut!” She rained blows down on me until I was curled in a ball on the hardwood, gasping for air. The light was on in the study. My father was right there, behind the door. He never opened it. Diane spent her afternoons at the neighborhood coffee shop or the community pool, sighing to the other mothers: “It’s my cross to bear. My own daughter is a seductress. She won’t leave her father alone. It’s disgusting.” I became the ghost of the neighborhood. People whispered when I walked by. I learned to live in the silence. Until the woman moved in upstairs. Her name was Mrs. Miller. She was soft-spoken, kind, and always smelled like vanilla and rain. Whenever Diane locked me out of the house, Mrs. Miller would find me and slip me a granola bar or a juice box. She was the only light in my world. But God doesn’t let light stay in places like that for long. One afternoon, I was waiting on the porch for Diane to finish her bridge club. Mrs. Miller came down the stairs and noticed my lips were cracked and bleeding from the dry winter air. She reached into her purse and handed me a brand-new, tinted lip balm. “It’ll help, sweetheart,” she said with a sad smile. I had never used makeup. I didn’t realize it had a rosy tint. I applied it, feeling a tiny spark of joy, just as my mother’s car pulled into the driveway. The second she saw the color on my lips, her hand flew. 2 The blow sent me sprawling into the dirt. My vision blurred into a sea of static. My front tooth was loose, and the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. She screamed insults so vile the neighbors came out onto their porches to watch, but no one stepped forward. To them, I was exactly what my mother said I was: a girl trying to steal her father’s heart. Mrs. Miller heard the commotion and rushed down. I tried to crawl away; I didn’t want her to see me like this. I didn’t want her to hear the filth Diane was spewing. But my mother grabbed me by the hair and dragged me toward her. “Was it you?” Diane shrieked at Mrs. Miller. “Did you give this to her? Are you helping her entice my husband? You’re both trash!” I hung my head, burning with a shame that wasn’t mine to carry. But Mrs. Miller didn’t flinch. She stepped between us, her eyes brimming with a mixture of pity and steel. “I gave it to her, Diane. She’s a child. How can you say those things about your own daughter?” Mrs. Miller’s thin frame was a shield, but Diane wasn’t a woman who cared about reason. My mother’s eyes went cold. I felt a chill run down my spine. Diane raised her hand again. Mrs. Miller didn’t move—she probably thought a neighbor wouldn’t actually strike her. But I knew better. I’d seen Diane’s rage break women before. The thought of Mrs. Miller’s kind face being bruised because of me was more than I could bear. Before the blow landed, I lunged forward. It was the first time I ever fought back. I threw my arms around my mother’s waist, trying to pin her arms. It only made the beating more frantic. In the chaos, my head slammed into the rusted iron railing of the porch. Everything went white. Blood began to pour down my face. The neighbors turned away, closing their doors one by one. Diane didn’t stop. She shoved Mrs. Miller to the ground. Through the fog in my brain, I heard the heavy click of the gate. My father was home. I tried to scream for him, but my voice was a broken rasp. He walked past us, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He opened the front door and stepped inside. He didn’t even hesitate. Mrs. Miller begged for me. She went from demanding justice to pleading for mercy. “I’ll go! I’ll move out! I’ll never speak to her again! Just please, stop hitting her!” I looked up and saw tears streaming down Mrs. Miller’s face. Diane finally stopped—either because she’d won or because her arm was tired. She tossed me aside like a bag of refuse and followed my father into the house. I never saw Mrs. Miller again. Before she left, she managed to leave a small box for me hidden in the bushes. A few items of clothing, some snacks, and a book. I hid them away, treats I never dared to use, talismans of a life I wasn’t allowed to have. As the years passed, Diane’s hatred matured. Every birthday I had was a countdown to her losing her grip on Robert. She began to look at me not as a daughter, but as a rival she needed to liquidate. The only thing that kept me going was school. And Zoey. Zoey was my best friend. She didn’t know the details of my home life, but she saw the bruises. Every morning, she would pull me into a hug in the hallway. “It’s going to be okay, Nancy. Just breathe,” she’d say. That one sentence, that one hug—it was my oxygen. I was a straight-A student. I worked harder than anyone else because I knew that a scholarship was my only ticket out of that hellhole. My guidance counselor, Mr. Harrison, believed in me. He’d pat my shoulder and tell me I had a brilliant future. Senior year arrived. Mr. Harrison pulled me aside after a mock exam. “Nancy, look at these scores. Keep this up, and you’re looking at a full ride to the state university. Maybe even Columbia.” I was in the top ten of my class. I was twenty days away from freedom. One afternoon, after a celebratory lunch with the honor society, I walked across the campus alone. I was so happy it felt like a fever dream. For the first time, I allowed myself to think about a dorm room, a locked door, and a life where no one called me a slut for existing. “Nancy, wait up!” Mr. Harrison called out. He caught up to me, sensing my uncharacteristic glow. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. The road is long, but you’re almost there.” I saw Zoey waving at me from the parking lot. The sun was hitting the trees, and for a second, the world looked beautiful. I thought, Maybe I can be like her. Maybe I can be normal. That night, I walked into the house. Diane was sitting in the living room, the TV off. My heart skipped a beat. The air felt heavy, charged with a familiar electricity. I tried to bolt for my room, but she was faster. She lunged, grabbing me by the hair and slamming me to the floor. 3 The impact knocked the wind out of me. My backpack, heavy with textbooks, dug into my spine. Diane kicked me twice before stalking over to the coffee table. She was trembling with a manic, jagged energy. “The junk removal guy found your little stash,” she hissed, throwing a handful of items at me. “Dresses! Lipsticks! You’ve been stealing from us to buy these things, haven’t you?” They were the things Mrs. Miller had left me. The lip balm was dried up, the snacks were long expired, and the sundress smelled of mildew from being hidden under the floorboards. “You’re just dying for him to see you in this, aren’t you? You want to take him from me!” She threw the dress at my face. I curled into a ball, clutching the moth-eaten fabric. Just a little longer, I whispered to myself. Just twenty days. Just survive twenty days. The pain was a dull roar. I could handle the pain. Hope was so close I could taste it. But the world had other plans. Two weeks before graduation, the school announced a mandatory parent-teacher night. I didn’t think much of it. My parents never showed up to anything. I figured I’d have the night to myself. But the next morning, Diane was gone before I woke up. She had left early, humming a tune I didn’t recognize. Anxiety gnawed at my stomach all day. When I saw her later that afternoon, sitting on the porch of a neighbor’s house, laughing and drinking tea, I felt a wave of relief. Maybe she was just having a good day. I had already lined up a summer job at a diner three towns over. The manager had promised me a spot in the staff dorms. I had it all mapped out. I was so lost in my daydream that I didn’t notice the way the other students were looking at me. Cruel smirks. Disgusted whispers. Zoey was standing by her locker. I walked up to her, but when I reached out, she flinched away. “Zoey? What’s wrong?” my voice was trembling. “My mom said…” Zoey’s eyes were full of a coldness I’d never seen. She couldn’t even finish the sentence. A boy from the football team finished it for her. “She said you’ve been sleeping with your own dad, Nancy. That you’re a freak.” The hallway erupted in laughter. It was like a physical wall of sound hitting me. “Hey, Nancy, I didn’t know you were into that!” “Is that how you got the straight As? Practicing at home?” My face went white. I threw my books at them, but they just laughed harder, dodging easily. “Whoa! The slut’s got a temper!” I felt the blood rushing to my head. I wanted to kill them. I wanted to die. Mr. Harrison appeared and ushered me into his office. He didn’t pat my shoulder this time. He looked at me with a profound, soul-crushing disappointment. “Nancy… your mother came by this morning. She was… distraught. She told me everything. I know you’re young, and sometimes boundaries get blurred in difficult homes, but—” The room started to spin. I finally understood why Diane had been humming. She hadn’t just beaten me; she had reached out and poisoned the only world I had left. I didn’t say a word. I tucked my chin into my collar and walked out of the school. The next few days were a living nightmare. Zoey stopped talking to me. The girls in the cafeteria moved their trays if I sat within ten feet of them. The boys were worse. They would block my way in the halls, whispering graphic things, telling me that since I was “doing it with my old man,” I might as well give them a turn. When I went to the office to collect my graded senior thesis—the culmination of four years of work—I found it in the trash can in the girls’ bathroom. It was soaked in soda and covered in slurs. I looked around the school, and I realized I didn’t have a single person left. Not one. When I got home that night, Diane was sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of wine in her hand. She gave me a slow, satisfied smile. This was her masterpiece. She had isolated me so completely that I was hers again. 4 The noise from the courtyard below pulled me back to the present. I was standing on the roof of the science building. It was senior skip day, but a lot of kids were hanging out by the fountain below. I could see their bright, youthful faces looking up at me. “Hey! Look! She’s actually going to do it!” a voice yelled. My notebooks, my carefully curated life, were all gone. I was tired. I was so incredibly tired of fighting a war I was born to lose. I just wanted to live. Why was that so much to ask? “Just jump already!” someone shouted. “People like you don’t belong here!” The cruelty of teenagers is a special kind of sharp. I didn’t look at them. I looked at the horizon, at the life I would never have. One boy, a kid I’d helped with his chemistry homework just a month ago, climbed up onto the ledge a few feet away. “Come on, Nancy. Give us a show before you go. Or better yet, come down and play. I bet you’re as good as your mom says.” He reached for my arm. I scrambled back, my heart hammering against my ribs. I hadn’t planned to jump—I just wanted to get away from them—but as I looked down, I realized there was nowhere else to go. The rumors were a snowball that had turned into an avalanche. There was no explaining this away. My mother’s word was law. “She’s the girl from the honor society, right? I heard she’s been sleeping around since she was twelve.” “Her mom said it. Why would a mother lie about that?” I stared at a girl in the crowd. She looked like Zoey. She was recording me on her phone. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stepped off. The wind was a roar in my ears. Then, a sudden, bone-shattering crack. Everything went black. When I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t on the pavement. I was sitting in a recliner. My hand was clutching a TV remote. The screen was flickering with static, a news report playing about a local tragedy—a high school girl jumping to her death. I stood up and walked to the mirror in the hallway. I didn’t see Nancy. I saw a face lined with seventy years of life. White hair, clouded eyes, the scent of lavender and mothballs. I was Martha. My grandmother. My mother, Diane, had never been close to Martha. They saw each other maybe twice a year. Martha was the only person who had ever been kind to me in a quiet, distant way—a crisp twenty-dollar bill in a Christmas card, a soft pat on the head when Diane wasn’t looking. I checked the calendar on the wall. It had been exactly one day since I—Nancy—had died. The grief in my chest was gone, replaced by a cold, vibrating hum of rage. I grabbed a cane and began the slow, painful walk to my old house. It was only two blocks away, but in this body, it took me forty minutes. The front door was propped open. I heard Diane’s voice coming from the hallway. “Just take it all. The books, the clothes, everything in that back room. Just give me a flat rate for the lot.” I walked inside. A junk removal guy was bundling my life into heavy plastic bags. My honors society plaques, my favorite novels, the few clothes I owned—all being weighed like scrap metal. “What are you doing here?” Diane asked, looking up. She didn’t sound sad. She sounded annoyed. I looked at the bag containing my books and whispered, “Where is Nancy?” “Dead,” she said flatly.

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