Category: English

The morning of the SATs, my parents suddenly stormed into the testing center. Ignoring the proctor’s furious shouts, they physically dragged me out of my seat. “Chloe, we would never hurt you!” “If you want to live, you have to come with us right now!” I had absolutely no idea what was happening, but I followed them. We ended up on an Amtrak train heading deep into the Rocky Mountains of Montana. That afternoon, a news notification popped up on my phone. My entire body turned to stone. Just as the morning reading section had ended… Every single person in my testing center—all 1,020 students and staff, except for me—had dropped dead. My face deathly pale, I turned to my parents to demand what the hell was going on. But they were pointing at the train window behind my head, their faces twisted in absolute, primal terror. “Don’t look back! We have to get off this train right now!” Just half an hour before they stormed the school, they had been smiling, cooking me breakfast, and wishing me luck on my exams. But then, they appeared in the testing center, their faces grim and aggressive. “Chloe, come with us. Now!” I looked at the dirt smeared on their clothes, and then at the campus security guard lying unconscious on the floor down the hall. My mind went completely blank. “What happened? Why did you knock out the security guard?!” They grabbed me, one by each arm, their grips like iron vices. “We would never hurt you! Even if we have to knock you out too, we are taking you out of here today!” The proctor saw what was happening and rushed over to physically block them. “What are you doing?! This is the SAT! This dictates your daughter’s entire future!” “Whatever emergency you have, it can wait until the exam is over!” My mom showed zero hesitation. She shoved the proctor hard against the doorframe and screamed: “Is a test more important than her life?!” Before I could even process the situation, I was dragged out of the building. We didn’t go home. Wearing their dirt-stained clothes, they hailed a cab and rushed us to the nearest train station. It wasn’t until the train started moving that the color slowly returned to their faces. But their eyes remained bloodshot, darting around, hyper-vigilant of our surroundings. They looked like fugitives running from the law. What were they hiding from? I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Mom, Dad, what is going on? What are you so afraid of?” “And where are we going?” My mom put a finger to her lips, her voice chillingly cold. “Don’t speak. And don’t ask why.” Their paranoid, fugitive-like behavior quickly caught the attention of the conductor, who stopped and questioned them aggressively for several minutes. I asked the passenger in front of us and found out this train was an express line heading deep into the Montana wilderness. My parents didn’t know anyone in Montana! Why were we going there? While they were busy distracting the conductor, I pulled out my phone. I was bored and wanted to see if anyone was posting about the SAT reading prompts online. But the moment I opened my browser, a breaking news headline dominated my screen. [BREAKING: 1,020 Students and Faculty Suffer Simultaneous Cardiac Arrest at Local High School Testing Center. All Confirmed Dead…] I clicked the article. The blood in my veins turned to ice. The testing center in the article… was the exact same one my parents had just dragged me out of! They were telling the truth! Every single person in that room was dead! If they hadn’t pulled me out of my seat, I would be lying under a white sheet right now! But… was this news real? How could 1,020 people die at the exact same second? I was just about to text my homeroom teacher when my phone vibrated. It was my best friend, Emily. “Chloe! Are you okay?! Mr. Davis is dead! The class president is dead!” Her voice was trembling violently. She was sobbing in sheer terror. “Everyone in your testing center is dead!” “Emily! I’m fine! Do you know what happened?!” Before I could even finish my sentence, my dad violently snatched the phone out of my hand. “Do not trust anyone!” he hissed. I was completely lost, desperate for answers. “Dad, you obviously know something, otherwise you wouldn’t have pulled me out! Tell me! What is going on?!” “Why is everyone in that room dead?!” My mom let out a heavy sigh, gently patting my leg to comfort me. “Chloe, knowing too much won’t do you any good.” “Just know that your father and I would never—” Her voice abruptly cut off. I looked at her, only to realize her face had turned ashen and completely drained of blood. “Mom! What’s wrong?!” Hearing my panicked voice, my dad turned to look at my mom. The moment he did, his expression froze in pure terror. Their eyes were wide with fear, staring fixedly at the space right behind my head. Through their trembling pupils, I could see the reflection of a blurry, shadowy figure standing right behind me. But behind me… was nothing but the train window. Was there something terrifying outside the glass? Instinctively, I started to turn my head to look. But my dad’s hand slammed onto the back of my head, holding me rigidly in place. His lips trembled, producing a voice I had never heard from him before. “Don’t look back. We have to run!” I could clearly feel my dad’s hand shaking. He was absolutely terrified. At that exact same moment, a blast of freezing, icy air blew directly against the back of my neck. The next second, my dad yanked me up by my arm. He grabbed my mom, and we sprinted frantically through three entire train cars, running as if hell itself were on our heels. It wasn’t until the train pulled into the next station that he finally slowed down. Without a single word of explanation, they dragged me off the train. “Mom, Dad, what did you see back there?” I was met with total silence. They refused to speak, but I couldn’t forget the sheer terror etched onto their faces. It was as if, had we been one second slower, we would have met the exact same gruesome fate as everyone in that testing center. What were we running from? Was it that blurry shadow? Seeing that the sun was starting to set, I suggested we book a hotel room in this town for the night. But my parents, their faces grim, flagged down a taxi instead. “There’s no time! Take us to the airport!” my dad yelled to the driver. I was shoved into the back seat of the cab. During the ride, Emily called my phone again. I was just about to answer it. My dad, sitting in the passenger seat, whipped around and glared at me. “Do not answer that!” My mom looked at me with intense paranoia. “Chloe, listen to your father! We cannot trust anyone right now!” The taxi driver shot us a bizarre look through the rearview mirror, but I ultimately let the call go to voicemail. However, I secretly texted Emily on iMessage, telling her I was safe and doing fine. She never replied. Half an hour later, urged by my dad’s frantic shouting, the driver finally pulled up to the airport. He was visibly annoyed by my dad’s yelling, but when he noticed the dried blood on my dad’s shirt, he looked terrified and sped off the second we got out. The earliest flights to Montana were completely sold out. I begged my parents to just wait until tomorrow, but my dad didn’t say a word. He just stood there, staring blankly at the massive TV screens broadcasting the evening news in the terminal. I took one look at the screen, and every drop of blood in my body turned to ice. Just ten minutes ago… The Amtrak train we had just fled had suddenly derailed, plunging directly into a deep river gorge. Over a thousand passengers were on board. There were zero survivors. The conductor who had been questioning my parents just an hour ago was now floating pale and lifeless in the river. Two consecutive brushes with mass-casualty death. I was officially terrified. My parents were right! There was something actively hunting us, trying to wipe us out. Despite the overwhelming shock, my dad was the first to snap back to reality. He pulled out a burner phone and made a call. He seemed to trust the person on the other end implicitly. He just nodded and kept repeating, “Okay, understood.” When he hung up, he looked like a man who had made a desperate decision. “Let’s go. We’re flying to Miami!” Wait, weren’t we trying to get to Montana? Why Florida all of a sudden? I was trembling. “Dad, shouldn’t we call the police?!” My dad’s face was dead serious. “The police can’t help us! They’ll just die with us!” I don’t know what kind of strings he pulled, but he somehow managed to secure three tickets for a flight boarding in ten minutes. I peeked at the boarding passes. The destination was Montana. But didn’t he just say we were going to Miami? Why did it change again? I was getting more and more confused about where we were going and what we were doing! Right before we boarded, my dad powered down his burner phone and threw it directly into a trash can. Without a second thought, my mom tossed hers in as well. They both turned to look at me. “Chloe. Phones transmit location data.” Faced with a life-or-death situation, I didn’t hesitate. I followed their lead and threw my iPhone into the trash. Once the plane successfully took off, my mom finally leaned in and whispered to me: “Sweetie, I know you have a million questions, but Mommy can only tell you this:” “Once we reach our destination, we will explain everything.” “Right now, the only thing that matters is staying alive!” I was about to speak, but my dad suddenly clamped his hand tightly over my mouth. “From this second on, if you don’t have to speak, do not make a sound!” “No matter who talks to you, do not reply, and absolutely do not say your name!” I didn’t know why, but I nodded vigorously. Half an hour into the flight, a cheerful ringtone suddenly pierced the quiet cabin. Everyone turned their heads to look at me. I suddenly remembered—I had a backup burner phone in my backpack! My parents’ faces turned a horrifying shade of gray. A flight attendant walked over. “Miss, please turn your phone off immediately.” Awkwardly, I pulled the burner phone out of my bag. The caller ID flashing on the screen read: Emily. “Wait, you guys get cell reception at 30,000 feet?” a passenger in the next seat asked curiously. I froze. A wave of pure, nauseating terror washed over me. I suddenly remembered a terrifying fact. This backup phone… didn’t even have a SIM card installed! Even if there was a signal up here, it was physically impossible for Emily to be calling me! While I sat paralyzed in shock, my dad violently snatched the phone from my hand and smashed it against the floor of the cabin. “Dad, I…” I tried to explain, but my dad glared at me with murderous intensity. “Shut your mouth!” “Hey man, take it easy! Your daughter didn’t do it on purpose! Stop yelling at her,” the passenger next to us tried to mediate. But I knew my dad was just reinforcing the rule: Do not speak. The phone was shattered and silent, but due to the impact, the cracked screen glitched and automatically opened the iMessage app. It stopped perfectly on my chat log with Emily. Our conversation had ended with the text I sent her after getting off the train, telling her I was safe. But three seconds later, a new message popped up on the cracked screen, sending me into absolute despair: [Chloe, I am so glad you’re still alive. Unfortunately, I wasn’t so lucky. Mr. Davis and I died in the exam room this morning.] Emily was dead! How was that possible?! I specifically remembered she was assigned to a different testing center than me! If she died this morning… who was the person calling me all afternoon?! It couldn’t be a ghost, could it?! I looked at my parents in sheer terror. They looked just as horrified. My mom’s face crumbled into absolute despair. She muttered under her breath: “It didn’t fall for the Miami trick! It found us…” So my dad saying we were going to Miami was a trick meant to throw it off our trail. But my mom said it was here! Where was it? I looked frantically around the cabin but saw nothing suspicious. Who—or what—was it? No one could give me an answer. My dad swiftly shot my mom a meaningful look. After taking a moment to steady her breathing, my mom gave me one last, heartbreaking look. Then, she pulled a small pill from her pocket and shoved it into her mouth. “Mom…” What did you just take? Before I could finish the sentence, my dad clamped his hand over my mouth again. “If you don’t want to get everyone on this plane killed! Shut up!” Watching my mom begin to violently foam at the mouth, I had to physically bite my own tongue to keep from sobbing out loud. Once my dad let go of me, he caught my mom’s collapsing body. “Sarah! Sarah! What’s wrong?!” “Help!” he screamed, his face a mask of agonizing grief. “My wife is having a severe seizure! We need an emergency landing immediately!” Seeing this play out, I finally understood what my mom had swallowed. This was their contingency plan all along! If they needed to force the plane to land, this was the only way. To prevent a medical fatality on board, the pilot initiated an emergency descent and landed at the nearest regional airport. The moment we touched down, we followed the ambulance straight to the hospital. My dad looked at my pale, traumatized face, a single tear rolling down his cheek. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. If we hadn’t forced the plane to land, it would have crashed. We, and the hundred other passengers on board, would have all died.” Fighting the urge to cry, I pulled a pen and paper from the nurse’s station and wrote: [Dad, are we being hunted by the Grim Reaper?] That was the only logical explanation I could think of. But my dad just shook his head. “Wait until we get to Montana…” After an hour of emergency treatment, my mom was finally stabilized, but she remained in a deep coma. At the exact same time, we received another horrifying piece of news. The hundred or so passengers on our flight hadn’t died in a crash. But every single one of them had fallen into a bizarre, unexplained coma, exactly like my mom. My dad wanted to grab me and run. He said we had to make it to Montana before dawn. But I absolutely refused. If we left, what would happen to my mom? Maybe my dad couldn’t bear to leave her behind either, or maybe he knew I wouldn’t budge. He didn’t force the issue. Instead, he deadbolted the heavy door to the hospital room and issued me one final, severe warning: “Tonight, no matter who knocks on that door, do not open it! And do not speak a single word!” After giving me that warning, he fell back into a chair and fell into a deep sleep. Or rather, it looked more like a coma. Just like the passengers on the plane, he had fallen into a strange, unbreakable unconsciousness. At exactly midnight, a knock echoed at the door. “Room 301, nightly rounds. Please open the door.” It was the voice of a young, female nurse. I was about to stand up, but my dad’s warning echoed in my head. Whether it was a real nurse or not, I refused to open the door. The knocking continued for a few minutes before stopping, and the shadow beneath the door vanished. Ten minutes later, the voice of my best friend, Emily, suddenly echoed from the hallway. “Chloe? It’s Emily. I heard your mom was in the hospital, how is she doing? Can I come in and see her?”

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My husband, whom I’ve known since childhood, loves going fishing with his female coworker. For the first three years of our marriage, we fought about it every single day. By the fourth year, I was too exhausted to fight anymore. I picked up a fishing rod and a tackle box, and started mimicking his routine of leaving early and coming home late. At first, Evan didn’t care. Until one night, he came home late and realized I still wasn’t back. He panicked. He begged me, promising he would never go fishing again and swearing he would stay home and be a good husband. But I didn’t want him anymore. Because the catch I reeled in… was the new widower in town. The billionaire tech mogul, Arthur Vance. I’ve always been a bit lazy. Because I was too lazy to date around, I just married my childhood friend, Evan. Things were fine at the beginning. Our families knew each other well, and we grew up together. He was decent-looking, had never really had a serious girlfriend before me, and I knew everything there was to know about him. After we got married, we got along pretty well. That was until his parents thought he had too much free time and pulled some strings to get him a job at a local firm. There was a girl in his department, loud and overly familiar, who constantly invited him out. At first, it was just grabbing dinner or going to a bar. Later on, somehow, they got obsessed with night fishing. He would stay out all night, not coming home until dawn. I was in the prime of my twenties, spending every night alone in an empty house. Who could tolerate that? When I argued with Evan about it, he called me needy and dramatic. His coworker, Chloe, would stand right next to him and add fuel to the fire. “Oh my gosh, Evan, you should just go home. It looks like your wife will literally die if she isn’t attached to a man 24/7.” A few of their other single male coworkers would stand around and snicker. I didn’t want to deal with them, so I just grabbed Evan’s arm to leave. He violently yanked his arm out of my grip, almost sending me stumbling to the ground. “Are you done throwing a tantrum?! Can’t I have my own hobbies?!” “I work my ass off all day for you, and I do chores around the house too!” “I give you whatever you want, and my only request is a little time to unwind. Why do you always have to chase me down and make a scene?!” I felt a surge of inexplicable grievance. “Is this just ‘unwinding’? You haven’t been home for a week.” His face was ice-cold. “What do you mean I haven’t been home? I come home to sleep every single night.” “Yeah, at 3:00 AM! And then you go to work the next morning, and spend the whole weekend hanging out with them! We haven’t even had a real conversation!” “That’s because you don’t have any friends of your own. That has nothing to do with me.” He kept a stony face, looking completely annoyed. “Listen to me, Mia. We are married, yes. But that doesn’t mean I have to take orders from you.” Evan had always been mild-mannered and polite since we were kids. He never had any bad habits, and he had certainly never lost his temper with me. That was exactly why I felt safe marrying him. We hadn’t even been married that long, and he had already learned how to scream at me. Seeing how utterly unreasonable he was being, I was furious. I turned around and walked away. From then on, the atmosphere between us became incredibly tense. He thought I was too controlling, and I hated that he was never home. Eventually, we just started sleeping in separate rooms and stopped talking to each other altogether. Our spacious house felt like a freezing icebox. My chest always felt tight, and I completely lost the motivation to take care of myself. Over those three years, I gained a significant amount of weight, and my face was perpetually etched with resentment. It wasn’t until my best friend, Sarah, who I hadn’t seen in ages, came to town for a business trip and asked me out to dinner. When she saw me, she physically jumped. “Holy shit, Mia, what happened to you? How did you end up looking like this?” “Like what?” I asked. “Look for yourself!” She pulled a compact mirror out of her purse. Looking into it, I saw a sallow-faced, dead-eyed, bitter housewife. I slammed the mirror down on the table in horror. “Fuck! Back up, what is that monstrosity?!” “Sarah, tell me… am I possessed by a demon?” My heart still pounding, I quickly poured out everything about Evan to Sarah. She pursed her lips, staring at me for a long time, seemingly at a loss for words. I was getting anxious and poked her arm. “Say something! Why are you just sitting there?” Sarah sighed. “I just think… getting married apparently kicked your brain cells right out of your head.” Me: ???? She started breaking it down. “Look, that Chloe girl is obviously up to no good. She knows you two are newlyweds, yet she drags your husband out every single day.” “And Evan? He’s playing dumb. Does he not know he should be spending his evenings with his wife? Of course he knows. He’s just absolutely certain that even if he leaves you rotting at home, you won’t do a damn thing about it.” I was confused. “How is that possible? I’m pretty. If he leaves me home alone, isn’t he worried I’ll go find some other guy?” Sarah: “Did you?” I immediately shook my head. “No. My grandma always told me, you have to live honestly. Once you’re married, you can’t mess around.” “Exactly,” she said. “You guys grew up together. You know him, and he knows you just as well. He is banking on your moral compass keeping you completely loyal.” I was suddenly enlightened. “Ohhh! So that’s why he’s so bold about abandoning me at home.” Sarah looked like a wise sage. “Exactly. And the fact proves he’s right. You can probably count the number of times you guys have been intimate lately on one hand, right? And even with all that, you still haven’t thought about finding another man. If that’s not being a predictable pushover, what is?” My fists clenched in anger. “Fuck! This is too much!” She sighed again. “Look, I’m not telling you this to make you do something crazy.” “But Mia, never, ever let a man think he can just brush you off whenever he feels like it. You need to start loving yourself.” After parting ways with Sarah, I went home. The massive house was cluttered with a mountain of random junk. It was all the cheap crap I had bought off Amazon and discount sites over the last three years to cope with my depression. It filled the entire two-thousand-square-foot house. The whole place looked like a landfill. Fortunately, even though Evan ignored me and left me hanging, he still had one redeeming quality: he contributed to the household expenses. Out of his $8,000 monthly salary, he gave me $3,000 as “pocket money.” His parents would also occasionally slip me cash during the holidays so I could treat myself. That was the only reason I had continued to endure the misery. But after talking to Sarah today, I realized this was completely wrong. I shouldn’t be wasting the best years of my life rotting away in this toxic environment. Looking at my bloated, greasy-haired reflection in the mirror, I took a long, deep breath. I tied my long hair back, grabbed a massive heavy-duty trash bag, and started throwing things away. From noon until night, I filled exactly eight contractor bags. The house was finally half-empty. I also threw away every single high-calorie snack hidden in the cabinets. The cheap, ill-fitting clothes in my closet, the drugstore makeup on my vanity, and the framed wedding photos of me and Evan—all of it went straight into the dumpster. After I was done, I boiled two sweet potatoes for myself. I had barely taken two bites when I heard the front door unlock. Evan walked in, and trailing right behind him was the polished, glamorous Chloe. Seeing me, her expression didn’t change. She smiled and said, “Oh, hey Mia. You’re home.” I gave a noncommittal “Yeah.” “What are you doing here?” “Evan said his new fishing rod was really smooth, so I came to borrow it and test it out.” Evan didn’t even look at me. He walked straight past me into the house. Chloe sat down next to me, staring at the sweet potato on my plate. “Why are you eating cheap food like that, Mia? Are you trying to lose weight?” Me: “Yeah, I’ve gained too much. Trying to trim down.” She let out a breathy giggle. “Oh, no offense, but body type is really just genetics.” “Some people are just born to be heavy. Starving yourself won’t help you slim down.” “You really shouldn’t torture yourself. Do you have any instant ramen? I’ll go make you a bowl.” She stood up, heading toward the kitchen, but I stopped her. “Don’t bother. I threw it all away.” “Why?” “I’m not eating it anymore. Leaving it there is just a waste of space.” Chloe’s eyes flickered, but she ultimately just smiled. “Alright. Since you’re so determined to lose weight, we’ll just have to wait and see the results.” She looked up and saw Evan walking back out. She immediately went over and took the fishing rod from his hands. “Wow, Evan, this rod is amazing! So thin and lightweight.” “Come on, I rented out a private pond on the south side of town tonight. Let’s go catch a few and see how it handles.” As she spoke, she turned back with a look of manufactured guilt. “Oops, I forgot you were still sitting here! Is it okay if I go with Evan, Mia?” Evan, who had completely stopped treating me like a human being, smirked mockingly. “Why are you asking her? Her opinion doesn’t matter anyway.” In three years, Evan hadn’t changed at all. If anything, as he got older, he had developed a more mature, polished charm. Combined with his well-maintained physique and respectable corporate job, there were plenty of women besides Chloe throwing themselves at him. He was no longer the innocent guy I had married. The way he looked at Chloe now held an undeniable, predatory edge. I stared at him, hating myself even more for turning into a depressed, pathetic ghost over a man like this. I looked like an absolute fool. Evan looked at me dismissively. “I’m leaving. I won’t be back for dinner, just eat by yourself.” Me: “Okay.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “Oh, right. I transferred $4,000 to your account. I got my quarterly bonus.” “Got it.” Clutching the balance in my bank account, I headed to the gym down the street. Thank god my in-laws had bought this house in a great location; everything I needed was within walking distance. After paying for a three-month membership, I still had $2,900 left. I bought a bunch of whole grains, eggs, and fruit, hauling the heavy bags home. Looking at my messy hair in the mirror, I made a ruthless decision and chopped it all off into a sleek bob. For the next three months, my entire life revolved around working out. Evan didn’t come home half the time, and I didn’t care. Once I had dropped over twenty pounds, none of my old clothes fit anymore. I wanted to ask Evan for some money to buy a few new outfits, but he wasn’t nearly as generous as he used to be. He sent me several 60-second voice memos, berating me for wasting money and buying useless things. After lecturing me for five minutes, he transferred me exactly $50. Me: … ????? If my original reason for marrying him was because I thought he’d provide for me and I wouldn’t have to struggle… Then this pathetic fifty bucks made me feel like an absolute clown. Gritting my teeth, I hit “Accept Payment,” completely losing my rhythm on the treadmill. Right then, a man walked over. He looked refined and intellectual, and asked if I wanted to grab lunch. When I spotted the Rolex on his wrist, a spark of inspiration suddenly hit me. Right. You marry a man for stability and provision. If I’m not getting anything out of this guy, what’s the point of staying with him? I might as well start scouting for a new target. So, that very night, I let this guy—Liam—take me to a private, secluded fishing lodge. It was remote, but the clientele clearly had money. I didn’t like Liam. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, and his gaze felt sleazy. After a few minutes of superficial banter, he started steering the conversation toward sex. This guy was way too eager. He was garbage. I didn’t want to waste my time. Losing my patience, I stood up to leave. But Liam got aggressive. He grabbed my arm. “Where do you think you’re going? You got in my car, you think it’s that easy to just walk away?” I actually found his tough-guy act hilarious. “We live in a society with laws. What exactly are you going to do? If you’ve got the guts, stab me to death right here.” Liam held onto me tightly. “I won’t stab you, but I’ve got plenty of ways to make you scream.” Psycho. Absolute freak! I kicked at him, but he dodged it. I grabbed a handful of his hair, causing a massive commotion. The owner of the lodge heard the noise and rushed over, quickly separating us and pulling Liam aside. “Bro, dial it back tonight, please. I have VIPs here.” Liam stubbornly adjusted his shirt. “What VIPs? You’re policing my game now?” “The CEO of Vanguard Corp. He just arrived. You know his background. He hates noise.” Liam’s expression shifted slightly. “Vanguard? Arthur Vance?” “Yeah, that’s him!” “I heard his wife died a few years ago, and he relocated his entire company to this city just to avoid the memories. Why the hell is a billionaire widower hanging out in the middle of nowhere?” “Come on, man. He’s just trying to clear his head and get back to nature. You think everyone is a sleazeball like you?” Their voices dropped to a whisper as they walked away, sounding like buzzing mosquitoes. Too annoyed to care, I quietly slipped away. But I hadn’t walked far before I realized I was lost. After taking a dozen random turns, I ended up behind a massive artificial rock formation. A man in casual clothes was standing there, staring off into the distance. Hearing my footsteps, he turned his head. The moment our eyes met, we both froze. I don’t know why he froze. I froze because… I had never seen a man this handsome in my entire life. In all fairness, Evan was a good-looking guy. But compared to the man standing in front of me, Evan wasn’t even a third of what this man was. It was mostly the aura. The difference was staggering. Just standing there, his silhouette alone was enough to make my heart race. I unconsciously licked my lips. “Um…” Arthur looked at me. “Yes?” “I… I’m lost. Could you help me find the exit?” I don’t know if it was because I hadn’t been around a genuinely attractive man in so long, but the sudden stimulation turned my brain into mush. Arthur’s detached gaze swept over me. Finally, he pointed to the right. “That way. You can get out.” “Oh. Th-thank you.” I had walked quite a distance before I realized I shouldn’t have just left like that. The lodge Liam had brought me to was incredibly remote. I could walk until my legs snapped and I still wouldn’t find my way back to the city. But if I turned around, I wouldn’t know how to find the main road, and if I ran into Liam again, it would be a disaster. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I heard a car horn behind me. A sleek Bentley pulled up slowly beside me. The window rolled down, revealing the man from earlier. Arthur didn’t know why he was feeling so charitable, but looking at the woman nervously clutching her jacket, he unlocked the door. “Get in. I’ll take you back.” I smoothly slid into the passenger seat and said earnestly, “Thank you so much, sir.” Arthur’s eyes darkened slightly, but he didn’t say anything. On the drive back, he drove in total silence. I looked down at my phone. It was 10:00 PM, and Evan hadn’t sent me a single message. On Instagram, Chloe had posted another picture of their “fishing group.” Evan was sitting so close to her that anyone who didn’t know better would assume they were a couple. I let out a deep sigh, genuinely unsure if there was any point in continuing this marriage. Unable to figure it out myself, I looked at the calm, composed man next to me. In a moment of sheer impulsiveness, I asked him the question out loud. Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You’re asking a complete stranger for marital advice?” Me: “Maybe sometimes a stranger can see things more clearly.” He gave a noncommittal smile. After a long pause, he finally said, “If you’re asking me, I think the real issue is that you haven’t figured out what you actually want out of your own life.” I froze. This guy was ruthless. He saw right through me. I really didn’t know what I wanted. My parents were always busy running their business, and I had a younger brother. Because I was a girl, they dumped me at my grandparents’ house from a young age. No one supervised me, no one cared about me; they all just wished I wouldn’t bother them. When my grandparents died, my parents didn’t bring me home. Instead, they bought me a condo in this city and told me to just stay here. I picked my college major completely at random. I picked my husband completely at random. Because no one ever told me how I was supposed to live my life. And now, someone had ripped away the facade. With just a few sentences, he saw right through my hollow, empty existence. My nose stung inexplicably, and I asked him, my voice thick with unshed tears, “Then… what do you think I should do?” Perhaps because I sounded so genuinely distressed, Arthur cast a few extra glances my way. He said, “If you’re not afraid that I’m a serial killer, go buy some fishing gear and come back to that lodge tomorrow.” By the time he finished speaking, the car had arrived at my building. Before we parted ways, he gave me his phone number. After adding him as a contact, I saw his name was simply listed as “Arthur.” His social media feed was almost empty. Just a single photo of the ocean. The caption read: Ten years separated by life and death. The mind tries not to dwell, but the heart cannot forget.

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Tricked by my boyfriend into going to a remote, lawless compound deep in the backwoods, I was reduced to nothing more than a breeding machine. The day the local quack cut my stomach open to deliver a breached pregnancy, I lay in a pool of my own blood. Through the haze, I heard the two women guarding the door chewing sunflower seeds and gossiping: “These college girls from the city are so gullible. She actually thinks she was kidnapped by human traffickers.” “Right? Who told her to mess with Mr. Vance’s precious best friend?” “Mr. Vance paid our boss a hundred grand to have the whole compound play along with this ‘escape room’ game. He even personally mailed the labor-inducing drugs.” “I heard Mr. Vance say that as long as she rots in this hellhole for three years and experiences the pain his ‘bestie’ went through, he’ll mercifully take her back to the city to marry her.” Through the crack in the door, I saw the video call from my fiancé, Arthur Vance, playing on the woman’s phone. So, this pitch-black purgatory I had endured for three years was just a customized punishment he orchestrated to make his female best friend happy. The excruciating pain in my abdomen tore at my nerves. As my consciousness teetered on the edge of collapse, a mechanical voice echoed in my mind: [Host, the abuse meter for the target, Arthur Vance, is full. Do you wish to abandon the conquest and detach from the current world?] …… I opened my eyes, staring at the blackened wooden beams of the ceiling. The heavy wooden door was violently kicked open. The hinges snapped, and the door crashed into the mud, splashing filth everywhere. Arthur Vance, dressed in an immaculate black suit, stepped into the dim, foul-smelling barn. Behind him were five bodyguards in sunglasses. And two private doctors carrying medical kits. The local quack was squatting beside me, holding a rusted needle threaded with coarse black string, hovering over my abdomen. The flesh there had been brutally sliced open, and blood was relentlessly pouring out. Arthur stopped in his tracks, looking at the blood-soaked hay and pig manure covering the floor. He raised a hand and pointed at the quack. “Stop. Get the hell out.” The quack dropped the needle and thread. With his hands covered in dark red blood, he scrambled and crawled out of the barn. Arthur turned his head, issuing a command to his private doctors. “Give her a shot of adrenaline. Use a high dose of stimulants. We can’t have her sleeping through this.” The two doctors immediately stepped forward. One opened a medical kit, pulling out a long syringe to draw a clear liquid. He grabbed the shriveled flesh of my inner thigh and drove the thick needle into my vein. The liquid was rapidly pushed into my body. Ten seconds later, the drug’s effects spread through my bloodstream. My muscles began to spasm uncontrollably. My body thrashed and twitched against the filthy hay. With every convulsion, more blood gushed from the unstitched wound on my stomach. The blood ran down my thighs, pooling into a dark red puddle on the dirt floor. Arthur took a step back, avoiding the blood creeping toward his Italian leather shoes. “Stop acting. I know all your little tricks.” He stared down at me from his high horse. “I read the script the compound boss sent me. The fake wound and the pig’s blood pouch on your stomach? Nice prop work.” He let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Do you really think making yourself look like a tragic heroine is going to erase what you did to Chloe?” The stimulation from the drugs made my brain throb with agonizing pain. My upper body violently lurched forward, my hands instinctively reaching out. My skeletal, withered fingers brushed across the mud and grazed the hem of Arthur’s tailored trousers. The moment my fingertips touched him, I used my raspy, broken throat to force out a faint whisper. “Arthur… it hurts…” Arthur’s face darkened. He violently kicked my hand away. The back of my hand smashed against a stone trough, scraping off a layer of skin. He pulled a pristine white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. Bending down, he aggressively wiped the spot on his shoe where I had touched him. “Put away that disgusting face.” He crumpled the used handkerchief into a ball and threw it directly at my face. It slid off, landing in the bloody puddle on the floor. “Chloe hasn’t forgiven you yet. You have no right to touch me.” I looked at the handkerchief and didn’t reach out again. I had to leave him. Arthur stood up straight and waved at his bodyguards. “Take her away. Don’t get my car dirty.” Two bodyguards stepped forward. They grabbed my arms and dragged me up from the hay. My legs had been broken months ago. The bones had healed misaligned; I couldn’t straighten them. As they dragged me, my paralyzed legs carved two long trenches through the mud and gravel. The skin on my knees was torn open by the sharp rocks, exposing the white bone underneath. Arthur walked out of the barn and stood on the dirt road at the edge of the compound. Old Man Cletus, the compound boss, stood by the road with a few locals, clutching several thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Arthur swept his gaze over them. “You all played your parts well these past three years. Her acting in this little setup of yours was very convincing.” Cletus nodded profusely, stuffing the cash into the pockets of his ragged coat. The bodyguards dragged me over to Arthur and dropped me. My body slammed heavily against the gravel road. Arthur looked down at my broken legs. “You didn’t want to do farm work, so you actually went far enough to break your own legs.” He scoffed through his nose. “Playing the beggar to get sympathy? Making yourself smell like an open sewer—did you really think that would soften my heart?” I closed my eyes. Three years ago today, I was slicing an apple in the kitchen of our mansion. The knife slipped, leaving a tiny, shallow cut on my index finger. A single drop of blood welled up. Arthur had sprinted in from the living room, snatching the knife away from me. He held my finger under running water for ten minutes, brought out the first-aid kit, and wrapped my finger in a thick cocoon of gauze. A month later, he rented out an entire private island. He covered it in red roses. He knelt on one knee in the flowers and slipped a flawless ten-carat diamond ring onto my finger. Two days later, Chloe Miller returned from abroad. She moved into the guest room of our mansion. A week later, Chloe walked down the stairs wearing a white dress that belonged to me. She picked up a pair of scissors from the coffee table and sliced a shallow bloody line into her own forearm. Arthur pushed the front doors open and walked in. Chloe clutched her arm, pointing at me. “Arthur, Stella cut me with the scissors!” Arthur snatched the glass of water out of my hand and shielded Chloe behind him. Another week passed. Chloe was holding a cup of boiling hot coffee. She poured the entire cup directly onto her own shoulder, screaming and shrinking into the corner of the sofa. Arthur rushed down from the second floor. Chloe pointed at me. “Stella tried to burn me to death with boiling water!” The next day, Chloe stood on the edge of the thirtieth-floor rooftop. Arthur rushed over and tackled her to safety. Following that, in front of a swarm of reporters, Arthur shredded our prenuptial agreement. He froze all my bank accounts and had his bodyguards shove me into a car. He personally drove me to this remote backwoods compound and handed a massive stack of cash to Cletus. He told me to rot here for three full years to experience the pain Chloe had gone through. And those three years were authentic, unfiltered torture. After taking the money, Cletus locked me in the barn. A heavy iron chain was padlocked around my neck. Every day, my only food was rancid pig slop. Every night, those backwoods creeps would walk into the barn. In the suffocating darkness, I suffered miscarriage after miscarriage. The bodyguards hauled me up by the arms and threw me into the trunk of the SUV. When the private jet took off, I lay crumpled in the corner of the cabin. I opened my mouth, wanting to make a sound. Only a broken, raspy wheeze squeezed past my throat. Sitting on the plush leather sofa, Arthur put on a pair of black noise-canceling headphones. “Enough, stop playing mute. Save your energy. When we get back to the city, you’re going to crawl on your knees and beg Chloe for forgiveness.” The jet landed at a private helipad in downtown Manhattan. The bodyguards wrapped me in a black industrial tarp and shoved me into the very back of a luxury van. The vehicle pulled into the underground garage of the Grand Continental Hotel. The elevator went straight to the penthouse ballroom. The grand doors were pushed open. The ballroom was lined with thick red carpets, the crystal chandeliers radiating blinding light. The bodyguards pulled off the tarp and threw me directly into the center of the room. Arthur, holding a microphone, stood under the spotlight. Surrounding us was a crowd of high-society elites holding flutes of champagne. Arthur pointed a finger at me. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the gift I prepared to help cleanse Chloe of her bad luck.” He scanned the crowd. “A vicious, toxic woman I dragged back from the backwoods.” A roar of laughter erupted from the crowd. Several women in expensive evening gowns stepped forward, swirling their wine glasses. They looked down at me. “I heard she stayed in the woods for three years?” “Covering herself in mud on purpose, smelling like a rotting fish… is she trying to disgust Chloe?” I lay flat against the red carpet. I reached out my right arm, planting my elbow against the floor, and dragged my body forward. My broken legs trailed behind me, leaving a dark, wet streak of blood and grime across the immaculate carpet. Chloe, wearing a pristine white tulle gown, walked down the grand spiral staircase. Seeing the blood on the floor, she let out a dramatic gasp. She collapsed into Arthur’s arms, gripping his suit jacket tightly. “Arthur… her blood is so red… I’m scared…” Arthur’s face instantly went ice-cold. He turned to the hotel security guards stationed by the door. “Bring buckets of water. Wash that filthy blood off the carpet right now!” Two guards ran over carrying heavy plastic janitorial buckets. The buckets were filled with freezing, dirty mop water. Arthur pointed at me. “Dump it over her head. Help her wash off this pathetic, vulgar disguise.” The guards lifted the buckets. The freezing water, mixed with dust and grime, crashed down directly over my head. The torrent washed over my matted hair and seeped deep into the unstitched, gaping wound on my abdomen. The bone-chilling cold triggered violent, agonizing muscle spasms. Arthur walked up to me, his polished leather shoe stopping just an inch from my fingertips. “Crawl over here. Bow your head to the floor three times for Chloe.” He looked down at me. “Admit that you faked your pregnancy and faked your death just to fight for my attention. As long as you do that, I’ll give you a chance to be a janitor at the company.” I lowered my head. The gala transitioned into its second half. The bodyguards dragged me out of the ballroom and tossed me into the corner of the hallway outside the women’s restroom. My clothes clung tightly to my body. The bloody water from my abdomen dripped steadily onto the marble tiles. Chloe walked out of the restroom holding a compact mirror. She stopped right in front of me. She lifted her right foot, bringing the razor-sharp heel of her stiletto down hard onto my broken right index finger. She ground her heel left and right. The pain shot straight to my heart. My body seized violently, instinctively trying to shrink back. Watching me, Chloe let out a light, airy laugh. “Did you really think Arthur set you up at a nice little farm retreat?” She bent down, staring right into my face. “The day Cletus got the money, he texted me, asking how I wanted you handled.” She stood up straight, smoothing out her dress. “I texted back: Play with her however you want. Just leave her with one breath.” Chloe stared at the blood pooling around my stomach. “These past few hundred days and nights… tasted pretty good, didn’t they?” The sharp click-clack of leather shoes echoed from the other end of the hall. Arthur appeared around the corner. Chloe immediately threw herself backward, crashing heavily onto the marble floor. She grabbed her ankle, massive tears rolling down her cheeks. “Stella, I know you hate me, but why did you push me…” Arthur’s face changed instantly. He sprinted toward us. Without even glancing at me, he swung his right foot directly into my body. The toe of his leather shoe slammed precisely into the gaping wound on my abdomen. The fragile skin instantly ruptured. Blood and shredded tissue splattered against the wallpaper. I lay flat on my back, my eyes wide open, my breathing coming to a dead stop. Leaning against the wall, Chloe panted, her face pale. “Arthur, I was so scared, my anemia is acting up… I feel so dizzy…” Arthur immediately turned his head, his gaze locking onto me like ice. “Since you have enough energy to push her, you can use your blood to compensate Chloe.” He pulled out a walkie-talkie and called his private doctors waiting outside. Seconds later, a doctor ran down the hallway with a medical kit. Arthur pointed at my arm. “Draw her blood.”

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After being forced to drop out of high school, I got a job at a local boba shop. Just before closing, a gorgeous guy walked in. Without missing a beat, he ordered twenty Grape Slushes with Sea Salt Cold Foam. As I hesitated, a voice echoed directly into my brain. It was his inner thoughts: [This stupid System said I’m the male lead of a savior-trope romance, and the female lead is the girl working at the boba shop tonight.] [Heh, so this is my future wife.] [Damn! How does she look that pretty just breathing?] My fingertips stalled on the register. My heart slowly sank to the bottom of my stomach. The person who was originally supposed to work tonight wasn’t me. He had, it seemed, mistaken me for the female lead. I pretended I didn’t hear his thoughts. I told him the truth: “I don’t have enough ingredients left to make twenty cups.” Not to mention… It takes about three minutes to make one Grape Slush with cold foam. Twenty cups would take a full hour. I was the only one in the shop. The remaining cold foam in the back could only cover five cups, and I’d have to whip a fresh batch for the rest. For a minimum-wage worker who was exactly ten minutes away from clocking out, that workload was straight out of hell. The guy froze for a few seconds, then hurriedly said, “What about one cup, then?” I nodded. “That’ll be seven dollars and fifty cents. Cash or card?” Despite his calm outward appearance, I heard his thoughts again: […You’re so dead, Liam. You just left a terrible first impression on your future wife.] [Stupid System, come out here right now. I swear I won’t kill you.] Liam? Is that his name? It had a nice ring to it. I clenched my palms. I felt inexplicably nervous. Because the person scheduled to work tonight wasn’t me. It was Maya Reed. She had begged me ten minutes ago to cover the last half hour of her shift. Her payment was a crisp twenty-dollar bill. I agreed. But who could have predicted this? This guy had missed Maya by exactly ten minutes. I didn’t say a word. I just quietly started making his drink. Three minutes is a very short amount of time. But it also felt incredibly long. Because Liam was staring at me without blinking. He looked aloof and unapproachable. But his inner monologue was entirely out of control. [She works so hard. Shaking boba all day, her arms must be so sore.] [I want to go back there and help… but I don’t know how. What if I just make a mess?] [System, say something! You sent me here to save the female lead, at least tell me HOW to save her!] […This trash algorithm is playing dead again.] I sealed the lid on the cup. “Your drink is ready.” Liam immediately stood up. “Thank you.” He took the bag from the counter. When his fingers accidentally brushed against mine, he paused. [Her hands are freezing. Next time, I need to remind her to wear a jacket.] [Wait, next time… will I even get a next time?] I looked at Liam. He stood there, his sharp jawline illuminated by the warm café lights. Honestly, he was incredibly handsome. But his brain didn’t seem to work too well. He gave off serious “golden retriever with a trust fund” vibes. Liam asked, his face completely expressionless, “Are you… working tomorrow?” In his mind, he was screaming: [Please please please say yes say yes say yes!] I stayed silent for two seconds. Then I said, “Yes.” I paused, then added, “See you tomorrow.” I even made sure to flash him a warm, gentle smile. Liam nodded stiffly and practically tripped over his own feet walking out the door. The moment the glass door clicked shut, I saw his footsteps pause. His thoughts drifted back inside: [Hehehe, my wife has a little snaggletooth when she smiles. So cute.] [Fuck, I forgot to ask her name.] [It’s fine, I’ll see her tomorrow! I’ll definitely ask tomorrow!] [Wait, she said ‘see you tomorrow.’ Does that mean she doesn’t hate me?] [Oh my god, my wife is the best!] I narrowed my eyes and quickly ran out the door. I shouted at his tall, retreating back, “Do you want to exchange numbers?” Liam’s eyes lit up instantly. “Yes!” It was almost midnight by the time I got home. But my phone buzzed with a text from my dad. I had to drag myself out of the basement and climb the stairs up to the main floor of the house. They had changed the passcode on the smart lock again. I sighed helplessly and knocked on the door. When it opened, my dad was the only one in the living room. He asked, “You’ve been working for a month now. How does it feel?” I kept it brief. “Tiring.” My dad let out a cold scoff. “Now you know how hard it was for your mother and me to raise you.” I ignored the comment. I just stared blankly at the room down the hall. It used to be my bedroom. Now it was a renovated nursery. Inside slept the baby boy my stepmom had just given birth to. Seeing me stay silent, my dad finally got to the point. “Your stepsister is heading off to an elite arts conservatory prep camp soon. You know studying the arts burns through cash. My salary is barely enough to keep this family afloat. Since you’re making your own money now, it’s time you paid your parents back…” I interrupted him, feeling a wave of exhaustion. “How much do I need to hand over every month?” My dad didn’t expect me to be so compliant. “Four hundred.” I froze. The boba shop paid me six hundred a month for my part-time shifts. He wanted two-thirds of my entire paycheck? My dad fell silent for a few seconds, then inexplicably lost his temper. “You eat our food, you live in our house, and you don’t have any major expenses! What do you even need that much money for?!” Eat our food? He meant the cold leftovers they left for me. As for living in their house… They had just cleared out a corner of the unfinished, damp basement to give me a place to sleep. But I was too tired. I didn’t want to get into a screaming match with him. So, for now, I agreed. Perhaps sensing my underlying resentment, my dad added, “Your sister is beautiful. She’s going to make it big someday. Your grades were terrible anyway, and you weren’t going to get into college. Dropping out to help support the family was the right choice, so stop holding a grudge.” I bit my lip, my mind going numb. But I knew that arguing back would only trigger another violent outburst. It was better to say nothing. I walked silently back down the stairs to the basement. It was pitch black, damp, and freezing. But it had a twin-sized mattress and a discarded, wobbly desk. That was enough. The next day, when I got to the shop, Maya was already changing into her uniform. She saw me and smiled. “Thanks for covering me yesterday, Willow. Something came up last minute.” “No problem.” “Nothing crazy happened during closing, right?” My hands paused on the buttons of my apron. I forced out two words. “No. Nothing.” On my phone, Liam was asking what time he could come see me. I glanced at the shift schedule. I quietly texted him a time slot where I knew Maya wouldn’t be working. Ten o’clock at night. Liam appeared at the front door right on time. Aloof. Handsome. If you ignored his inner monologue, that is: [She looked at me! She looked at me!] [Is this outfit too casual? I should have worn the leather jacket.] [Wait, why didn’t she smile today? Is she upset?] [System! System! Get out here! What do I do?!] By the time I finished cleaning the espresso machines and walked out, Liam seemed to have regained his composure. He awkwardly trailed behind me as I locked up. I knew exactly what he wanted, so I played along. “Are you going to walk me home?” Liam tried to play it cool. “I can do that. It’s dangerous for a girl to walk home alone at night.” But his mind was screaming: [Good job, Liam. You are the absolute best.] [Willow actually let you walk her home! This is epic-level progress!] Me: “…” For the next month and a half. Liam showed up at the boba shop every single night at 10:00 PM sharp. An icy exterior, but a boiling hot heart. [She’s wearing a new scrunchie today. It’s pretty.] [She smiled at me. Hehehe.] [Why does she feel so hot and cold? Is she playing hard to get?] [Whatever, who cares. My wife can do no wrong!] I had to suppress a laugh every time I made his drinks. Sometimes he ordered the Grape Slush, sometimes Taro Milk Tea, sometimes a simple Lemon Iced Tea. He ordered something different every single time. His thoughts gave me a perfectly logical explanation: [I need to try every single flavor on the menu. That way, when she asks me what my favorite is, I can say, ‘Whatever you make.’] [I’m an absolute genius.] [Crap, crap, crap. I think I like her even more today than I did yesterday.] I almost squeezed the cold foam off the side of the cup. What kind of cheesy, sickly-sweet romance novel did this guy crawl out of? While sealing the drinks, I would “accidentally” meet his eyes. My heart couldn’t help but skip a beat. His gaze was intense. Focused. Like I was his entire world. It was such a beautiful feeling. But. What if he knew he had the wrong girl? I clenched my fingers. My nails dug painfully into my palms. Liam noticed me staring at him, and his ears turned visibly red. But his mouth said, “It’s late. Are you hungry? Do you want to grab late-night food?” I shook my head. “I’m so exhausted today. I just want to go home and sleep.” Liam nodded and waited for me to finish up. I calculated the timeline in my head. It was probably time. After clocking out, Liam walked me to my neighborhood gate, just as usual. But today, I purposely brought up the broken streetlights. “Liam, the streetlights in my subdivision are broken. Do you mind walking me all the way to my door?” Liam kept his face completely neutral. But his mind was racing: [AHHHHHH WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?!] [Does this mean our relationship is taking a massive leap forward?!] [Does this mean I can naturally ask to go inside for a glass of water?!] [No, never mind. She looks so tired today, my heart hurts just looking at her. I shouldn’t bother her.] The path down to the basement was pitch black. Liam walked beside me, his footsteps deliberately slow. As if he were pacing himself to match my stride. He used his phone’s flashlight to light the way, casually chatting with me about things happening at his high school. It turned out Liam was going to be a senior next year, too. If my dad hadn’t forced me to drop out… I would be sitting in a classroom during the day, just like him. I pushed down the envy in my eyes and gave a few generic, agreeable responses. Liam’s inner monologue was running wild, chattering non-stop: [Why is this path so dark? Doesn’t she get scared walking here alone every night?] [I need to buy her a tactical flashlight tomorrow.] [Where exactly does she live? Why does it keep getting more desolate? Why are we going down stairs??] He stopped in his tracks. Because I had stopped, too. In front of us was a rusted, metal security door. “I’m here.” Liam froze. He looked at the metal door, then at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing. [A basement? She lives in an unfinished basement?] [How can a person live here? It’s so damp and dark. She sleeps here every night?] [No wonder her hands are always so cold…] [Fuck.] I didn’t speak. I just stood there, waiting for him to say something. But Liam didn’t say a word. Even his inner thoughts went completely silent. This was exactly what I had predicted. I was the first to break the silence. I smiled and asked, “Do you want to come in for a glass of water?” Liam still couldn’t refuse me. Peeling paint, an overwhelmingly damp atmosphere, and a rickety twin bed. I poured him a glass of water, then suddenly spoke up. “You asked me before why I’m not in school. I’ll tell you now.” I told him the story of how I was bullied by my stepmom and stepsister. I told him how I was forced to drop out, and how my dad confiscated every dollar I earned. I timed my tears perfectly, letting them fall at exactly the right moments. I disguised myself as the resilient, tragic, innocent little flower that every “savior” novel demands. And sure enough. Liam was silent for a very long time. But his inner thoughts told me everything: He believed it. [Fuck.] [Fuck fuck fuck.] [I want to put her stepmom, stepsister, and her dad in the ICU.] [System, can you give me an invincibility buff? Just for ten minutes.] I kept my head down. My shoulders were trembling slightly.

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On the very day I was discharged from the psychiatric facility, my husband, Victor Vance, dropped a bombshell without any warning: “The day Chloe ran over your mother, I was the one who hired the defense attorney for her.” My father, the most elite surgeon in Boston, was driving the car. He added with chilling indifference: “And I personally forged your psychiatric records.” During three years of torture in that asylum, not a single moment went by without me remembering the horrific sight of my mother being crushed beneath Chloe’s car. And yet, my husband chose to defend her killer. My father chose to lock me in a madhouse. I gripped the edge of the seat, my voice trembling as I demanded, “Why? Why would you do this?” My father averted his eyes. Victor was the one who answered, his tone terrifyingly casual: “The reason is simple. You already had everything, Clara. Chloe has had to live with the stigma of being an illegitimate child her whole life. She’s suffered enough.” “I’m giving you two choices now. Either you make peace with Chloe, or you spend the rest of your life in that asylum.” … The sudden, brutal truth hit me so hard the world spun. It felt like my chest was stuffed with cotton, suffocating me. Victor reached out, his hand sickeningly gentle as he wiped away my tears. He continued: “Actually, when they injected you with sedatives back then, we took the opportunity to press your thumbprint onto the settlement agreement.” “But the dosage was too high. You only found out you were pregnant after the miscarriage. We were out celebrating Chloe’s freedom that night… we forgot to check on you.” I remembered. After my mother was killed by Chloe, I ran toward the police station, heavily pregnant and desperate for justice. Instead, a needle pierced my skin. As the sedative took hold, I felt warm blood slowly trailing down my legs. I was forced to press my inked thumb onto a piece of paper. But no one told me that piece of paper traded my baby’s life for three years of freedom for a murderer. My face was ice-cold. My throat was hoarse from crying. “Why are you only telling me this now…?” My father glanced at me through the rearview mirror and sighed. “I was afraid you wouldn’t calm down and repent while you were in there. Now that you’ve learned to behave, even if you know the truth, you won’t hurt Chloe.” Repent? When I first learned the truth about my mother’s death, I merely slapped Chloe across the face. That single slap bought me three years of imprisonment. Endless handfuls of bitter pills that made me vomit violently. Electroconvulsive therapy that repeatedly stripped away my consciousness. It was all their revenge. All for a single slap. I let out a devastating, hysterical laugh and lunged at my father in the driver’s seat. The car swerved violently across the road. “Clara, are you crazy?!” Victor roared, pinning me down in his arms with brutal force. “I am crazy!” I screamed, my voice tearing. My mother’s body wasn’t even cold before my father promised his mistress a lifetime of devotion. Then he teamed up with my husband to let my mother’s murderer walk free. I should have gone crazy a long time ago! When we arrived at the house, they locked me in the basement. My father held up a photo of him and his mistress, demanding I call her “Mother.” I spat fiercely at his feet. “Never.” Seeing the stubborn defiance in my eyes, he sighed in frustration and answered a ringing phone. Before leaving, he warned me: “Linda is going to treat you like her own daughter. You need to learn some respect!” Roaring, I snatched the photo album and hurled it across the room. It shattered. A shard of glass sliced across Victor’s cheek, and dark blood began to well up. He didn’t flinch, but his brows knitted together in deep disgust. “If you keep up this attitude toward Chloe, I don’t mind sending you back in there!” Seeing the mixture of blood and tears streaking my face, the man finally crouched down to meet my eyes: “If you can just let the past go and accept Chloe and her mother, everything will go back to normal.” “Whether you want to return to this family is entirely up to you.” Dropping those words, he stood up and slammed the heavy basement door shut. But neither of them knew. When they signed my discharge papers, hidden between the pages were two documents I had drafted: a divorce agreement and a formal severance of family ties. This “family” that only loved a homewrecker and her illegitimate daughter—I didn’t want it anymore. Later, Chloe sent me a friend request on social media, intentionally granting me access to her feed. On the exact day I was locked in the asylum, Victor had taken her to an exclusive auction to pick out diamond jewelry. I still remembered my first day in that hellhole. Unable to endure the inhumane torture, I had desperately managed to sneak into a bathroom and call him. The first time, he declined the call. The second time, it went to voicemail. The third time, his phone was turned off. I was caught using a contraband phone. What followed was a high-voltage session of electroshock therapy. After that, I finally learned to “cooperate” with my treatment. I never tried to escape again. My fingers continued to scroll down the screen, my eyes burning. On the day of my mother’s funeral, my father had dressed in a tuxedo to attend his mistress’s birthday banquet, publicly announcing their relationship. And they had specifically scheduled their wedding for tomorrow. It was Chloe’s birthday. And my mother’s death anniversary. That evening, Victor brought a tray of food down to the basement. He tried to feed me with a spoon, just like he used to, but I turned my head away. He looked surprised, his expression darkening: “Are you still throwing a tantrum?” During my three years in the asylum, I had survived only by fantasizing about his gentleness. But now, my heart, which once desperately craved his warmth, was completely frozen. The slightly softened atmosphere instantly plummeted to sub-zero. Victor angrily smashed the bowl onto the floor. “We brought you out because we thought you had finally learned to behave! I didn’t expect you to still be this stubborn!” “What happened back then wasn’t Chloe’s fault! Your mother was the one acting hysterical, calling her a homewrecker! She brought that ending upon herself!” My heart seized with a agonizing pain. I clearly remembered Chloe backing her car up and running over my mother’s body again and again, a sinister, victorious smile twisting her face. Warm blood had splattered right by my feet. When I tried to charge at her, Victor had tackled me to the ground, restraining me while whispering empty comforts into my ear. “The ambulance is coming, don’t be scared…” It turned out that while he was holding me, he was probably thinking my mother deserved to die. I gave a self-deprecating laugh and threw the signed divorce papers at his chest. “Is she not a homewrecker? Let’s get a divorce!” Victor froze for a moment, then let out a cold, incomprehensible sneer. “A divorce? You know I hate being threatened.” “But I think you should know—right now, you are the mistress!” As soon as the words left his mouth, a legally stamped marriage certificate hit my chest. The woman listed as his legal wife wasn’t me. It was Chloe. Even though I had already decided to divorce him, tears still spilled from my eyes. It had been a massive lie from the very beginning. In this moment, my signed divorce papers felt like an absolute joke. Seeing my silent tears, Victor thought I was regretting my decision. In a rare display of patience, he offered an explanation: “This was your father’s idea. After all, you had everything, and Chloe and her mother suffered a lifetime of grievances. Besides, a piece of paper means nothing.” “Be a good girl. As long as you can accept Chloe, I can eventually give you back your rightful title as Mrs. Vance.” Before I could respond, his phone rang. It was Chloe. He left the basement and didn’t come back. He flew her overseas that very night to pick out her birthday present. They sat on a beach waiting for the sunrise, playing the piano piece that was once “our” song. The deep affection I used to know so well was now being showered on another woman. Something inside me was collapsing entirely. When Chloe posted photos online, the comment section referred to her as “Mrs. Vance” and ruthlessly trampled on me: [A man’s heart is wherever his money is. She’s lucky they didn’t just throw the crazy bitch out on the street.] [Clara and her mom probably slept their way to the top anyway. No wonder no one cares that one is dead and the other went insane.] Victor chose to stand by and watch. I knew what he was doing. He was proving to me that if I didn’t obey, I would be nothing but a rat in the gutter, forced to watch their happiness from the shadows. He wanted me to take back the word “divorce.” But I never would. The next morning, I was violently awakened by deafening celebratory music echoing outside my door. My mother’s memorial portrait and belongings had all been thrown out, replaced by festive wedding decorations. When I emerged from the basement, disheveled and gaunt, the guests cast bizarre, mocking glances my way. “Isn’t that the crazy daughter? How did she get out of the asylum?” “Her dad is getting married, and her sister is celebrating a birthday—a double blessing! Of course she had to come show her support, hahaha!” “Isn’t she embarrassed to be seen around Mr. Vance? Looks like there’s a new Mrs. Vance in town.” … Chloe, dressed in a magnificent haute couture gown, walked over arm-in-arm with Victor. “Sister, you’ve suffered so much. Even though you’ve always hated me and my mother, we’re a family now. Let’s try to get along.” On the woman’s wrist rested the Vance family heirloom bracelet—a piece reserved exclusively for the legitimate daughter-in-law of the Vance family. Victor had given it to her long ago. Chloe wore a sweet, harmonious smile, but her manicured nails dug viciously into my arm. Wincing in pain, I shoved her away. “Congratulations. I’m going to pay my respects to my mother now.” “Stop right there!” I had barely taken a step when my father’s furious roar stopped me. “You are forbidden from mentioning that woman in front of Linda and Chloe!” Victor grabbed my arm, his patience wearing thin: “Today is a joyous day. I won’t allow you to cause a scene.” But today was also the anniversary of my mother’s death. I stubbornly pulled away. In the blink of an eye, a swarm of reporters suddenly surrounded me. Chloe rushed over and dropped to her knees in front of me, crying beautiful, delicate tears. “Sister, I know you’re grieving your mother. But you can’t deny that she was mentally unstable before she died! She intentionally rammed her body into my car… she slandered me…” “My mother spent her whole life doing good deeds, only to be framed as a homewrecker by your dead mother…” As she spoke, she conveniently dropped a psychiatric evaluation certificate from her designer bag. It had my mother’s name printed on it. Instantly, the guests gasped in collective shock. “I didn’t realize both the mother and daughter were clinically insane! And they abused Chloe and Linda for years!” In just a few sentences, they had successfully painted my mother and me as deranged bullies. Seeing Chloe’s pitiful, victimized act, Victor’s face turned thunderous. “Clara, I can’t believe you and your mother teamed up to abuse them! How could you be so cruel?!” My father’s face was flushed red with anger as he pointed a finger in my face: “You ungrateful wretch!” Everything in front of me twisted into a grotesque nightmare. I swayed dizzily. “No, my mom was perfectly sane…” Before I could finish, my weak body was pulled into Victor’s embrace. A cruel whisper sounded in my ear: “I hold the deed to your mother’s childhood estate.” “Clara, look into the cameras and clarify that Chloe’s mother never destroyed your family. Be a good girl.” His voice was terrifyingly gentle, yet so cold it sent uncontrollable shivers down my spine. Before she died, my mother had fought tooth and nail to secure that historic estate, just to leave me with a safety net. It was the only piece of her I had left. I used the last ounce of my strength to hiss: “You bastard!” The moment the words left my mouth, a barrage of news alerts lit up everyone’s phones like a virus. [SHOCKING! The historic estate formerly owned by the late Mrs. Sterling is currently listed for auction at Sotheby’s for a dirt-cheap starting bid!] Meeting my horrified gaze, Victor stroked my hair with absolute confidence. “What’s more important? A dead woman’s reputation, or her final worldly possession? Make your choice.” Tears poured from my eyes like a broken dam. I almost burst out laughing. The threatening face of the man standing before me could no longer be reconciled with the Victor Vance I once loved. A flash of hesitation crossed Victor’s eyes. Perhaps he remembered how hard I had cried the day my mother died. “Just clear their names, and I’ll divorce Chloe and marry you.” But Victor, I don’t care about marrying you anymore. I squeezed my eyes shut in total despair. Stumbling as I pushed him away, I faced the flashing cameras. “Chloe’s mother was never a homewrecker. My mother suffered from severe mental illness and fabricated lies about them. I apologize…” Instantly, the internet erupted. My mother and I were nailed to the pillar of public shame. On the exact anniversary of her death, she was branded a “crazy bitch.” Victor stood emotionless, while my father—with his arm wrapped around his mistress—let out a sigh of relief. Just then, Chloe let out a piercing scream, waving her phone in the air. “Sister! How could you hire thugs to dump garbage and feces all over my mother’s bridal suite?!” The video showed the luxurious, opulent bridal suite completely smashed to pieces and defaced. The moment the video played, a brutal slap struck my face. Victor’s eyes were bloodshot with rage. “Clara! Do you have any idea I was about to remarry you?! And because you were forced to make a simple clarification, you threw a tantrum and did this?!” “If this is how you’re going to act…” He turned and exchanged a glance with my father. His resolve hardened. “Then we don’t need to keep that estate!” The disgust in the man’s eyes deepened. He dialed the auction house on speakerphone. “Sell the property for a hundred dollars! First come, first served!” “No!” He pinned my thrashing body down as I screamed until my vocal cords tore: “Victor Vance! I don’t want to remarry you! Give me back the estate!” Victor suddenly froze, his face registering pure shock: “Is our relationship really that worthless to you? Stop using angry threats to manipulate me!” “Think whatever you want!” My eyes were blood-red. I snatched a set of car keys from a valet table and ran out without looking back. The man stared deeply at my retreating figure, only snapping back to reality when Chloe gently called his name. When I arrived at the childhood estate, my mother’s memorial shrine and offerings had been kicked all over the floor. Her portrait was splashed with blood-red paint, carved with vulgar obscenities. “Stop it! Leave it alone!” But before I could finish, the urn holding my mother’s ashes was knocked off the table, shattering into pieces on the hardwood floor. “Miss Chloe gave us special instructions! She wanted you and your mother to become one!” With that, the hired thugs swarmed me, pinning me to the floor. They grabbed fistfuls of the ashes and forced them into my mouth. “Mmm… No!” I struggled violently, but it was useless. Tears of blood streamed from my eyes. After the thugs finally left, I coughed up a mouthful of blood. My heart was completely, utterly dead. Moving like a machine, I lit a match, tossed it onto a pile of dry wood, and watched the roaring flames consume the house. Victor Vance, may we never meet again in this life. Three hours later, when Victor and my father arrived at the estate holding sacrificial bouquets, a panicked neighbor screamed at them: “The old house suddenly caught fire! I think someone burned to death inside!”

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Right after the holidays, my phone rang. I answered, and my ex-boss immediately started screaming at me: “Do you have any idea what time it is? Why aren’t you here yet? The project is due immediately. If this deal falls through, can you afford to take the fall? Get your ass over here right now!” His tone was entirely entitled, acting as if I were still his dependable corporate workhorse, at his beck and call. Before I could even get a word in, he hung up. Seconds later, the HR Director called: “Why aren’t you at the office? Mr. Vance is furious! You’re usually our most reliable employee. Even if you have complaints about your year-end bonus, you can’t just abandon your post!” I smiled and explained calmly: “It’s not that I’m abandoning my post. I quit before the holidays!” Today was my first day officially onboarding with our biggest client. 1 Hearing me bring up my resignation, Brenda, the HR Director, brushed it off lightly. “Oh, that. Yes, I saw your resignation letter, and Mr. Vance saw it too. But you know how crazy it gets before the holidays. We just didn’t have time to sit down and discuss it. Now that the holidays are over, let’s sit down and have a proper chat, okay?” “Chat about what?” I asked flatly. I had successfully resigned. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing left to discuss. “About your terms, of course!” Brenda replied instantly. “Mr. Vance said he’s willing to give you a $100 monthly raise. The economy is tough right now. Good luck finding a raise like that anywhere else. Think about it—that’s an extra $1,200 a year!” I couldn’t help but do the math in my head. The employees in my department who clocked out precisely at 5:00 PM every day and never saw a project through to the end? Rumor had it they each walked away with a $2,000 year-end bonus. Last year, I single-handedly generated millions in revenue for the company. That massive project I managed from pitch to delivery had a contract value of $2 million. I did the work of three people. I had the highest overtime hours in the entire department. I didn’t take a single sick day. Yet, at the annual company gala, when the “Employee of the Year” awards were handed out, all the projects I signed were credited to my subordinate, Amber. She received a $5,000 cash bonus and the newest iPhone. My year-end bonus? A $25 Amazon gift card. Just thinking about it felt absurd. I just wanted a straight answer. “Brenda, why was my bonus exactly $25?” Silence hung on the line for a few seconds. “Chloe, you have to understand. The company has its policies,” she said, carefully choosing her words. “You do a lot of work, yes. But sometimes you’re too rigid. You don’t focus enough on being a team player. You skipped almost all the team-building events, and you barely socialize with your coworkers. The year-end bonus takes your overall performance and company culture fit into account.” I let out a bitter laugh. I remembered the company team-building weekend hike last year. I didn’t go because I had to work mandatory overtime. Friday night happy hour? I didn’t go because I had to finalize a pitch deck. That time the department went out to a karaoke bar? I declined because I had a massive client meeting the next morning and couldn’t afford to be exhausted. Every single reason I had for missing a department party was to do my job better. And now, they were using that to negate everything I had accomplished? And what were the others doing while I was covering for them? Drinking, singing, taking group selfies, and posting them on Instagram. Their captions always read: “We are family!” or “Best team ever!” So that was what “overall performance” meant. “Is there any other reason?” I asked. Brenda thought for a moment, then lowered her voice. “Also, Mr. Vance mentioned that a few of your projects last year… well, the client feedback wasn’t great, so…” “Which client? What was the issue? When did they give this feedback? Why have I never heard a single word about this until today?” I fired back immediately. “Well… I’m not entirely sure on the specifics. It’s just what I heard.” Heard I did a bad job. Heard there were complaints. Heard I wasn’t a team player. So my bonus was a $25 gift card. Not a penny more, not a penny less. Just a pure, calculated insult. My last shred of hope for them died. My voice was deadpan. “I understand, Brenda.” “Anyway, I formally resigned before the holidays, and my paperwork went through the standard channels.” “Oh, Chloe, why are you being so stubborn? Just listen to me—” “Brenda.” I cut her off. “For seven years, I never skipped a single day of work. I never took a sick day. I never refused a weekend shift. I believe I have done right by this company. If there are formal handover requirements, I will cooperate. Other than that, do not call this number again.” “Chloe Evans!” She panicked, her voice turning shrill. “What kind of attitude is this? I am trying to help you out, and you’re being completely ungrateful!” I hung up the phone. I wasn’t about to let my former toxic workplace ruin my good mood on my first day at my new job. 2 My phone didn’t even stay quiet for five minutes before it buzzed again. This time it was an Instagram audio call. The caller ID showed Amber—the subordinate who had stolen my “Employee of the Year” award. I hit decline. Thirty seconds later, Instagram DMs started popping up, one after another. “Hey girl, why aren’t you answering?” “Mr. Vance is SO mad. Please text him back.” “You’re usually so reliable! Why are you acting so reckless all of a sudden? Don’t put Mr. Vance in a difficult position.” I stared at the messages, my heart completely steady. Amber Hayes. Employed for three years. I was the one who trained her by hand when she came in as a clueless intern. I taught her how to negotiate with clients, how to cover for the team when a project hit a snag. And her thanks was stealing my credit and my bonus. My phone buzzed again. Another long paragraph. She was getting anxious because I was leaving her on read: “Look, I know you’re upset about the bonus, but you can’t blame the company for that.” “The economy is bad right now. We’re all struggling. Mr. Vance actually really values you. If you just up and quit over a little bit of money, think about how bad that will look on your reputation. Plus, the company spent years training you. Can your conscience really handle just walking away like this?” Conscience. I stared at the word, finding it hilariously ironic. I typed my reply: “Who copied all my private client files while I was out getting a root canal? Who took my creative pitches, slapped a new font on them, and presented them to the board as her own? Who bought bubble tea for the entire department before the peer reviews but intentionally left me out?” “You are the very last person on earth who gets to talk to me about a conscience.” Less than three minutes after I sent that, she replied. This time, her tone was dripping with condescending pity. “What is the point of bringing all that up? If you keep throwing a tantrum, you’re the only one who’s going to suffer. Where do you think you can go if you leave us? Do you know how many people with Master’s degrees are unemployed right now? You only have a Bachelor’s, you’re 30 and single, and every decent metric on your resume is only there because of the company’s resources.” “Brenda already said it. If you don’t come back right now, Mr. Vance is going to put the word out, and nobody in this industry will ever hire you.” I sneered at my screen. She was actually trying to threaten me! The phone buzzed again: “Hello?? Say something! We’re all waiting for you.” I opened the chat and sent a single emoji: A slightly smiling, passive-aggressive smiley face. Then, I blocked her account, put my phone down, and went to wash my face. Today, I was officially joining Apex Group—the client from the $2 million project. The CEO of Apex Group was David Sterling. We had worked closely together during the project, and he was a straightforward, no-nonsense leader. Before the holidays, right after I got stabbed in the back by my company, Mr. Sterling had sent me an Instagram DM: “Chloe, my company is in desperate need of talent like yours. You’re wasting your potential over there. You name your salary. If you’re interested, reach out to me anytime.” I dried my face and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. This year, I was going to live differently. 3 I walked through the sleek glass doors of Apex Group. The young woman at the front desk already recognized me. She smiled brightly. “Morning, Chloe! Mr. Sterling is waiting for you in his office.” Mr. Sterling’s office was at the end of the hall. The door was open. He was looking at his monitors, but when he heard me knock, he looked up and smiled. “Chloe, you made it. Take a seat.” I sat across from him. “There’s something I want to discuss with you right out of the gate,” he said, skipping the small talk. I sat up a little straighter. “Of course.” “That project from before the holidays, you remember it? The $2 million contract with your old firm.” The project I had pulled countless all-nighters for. The one I revised a dozen times, only to watch Amber walk on stage to take the credit for. “That project is due for its final audit and delivery today,” Mr. Sterling continued. “Originally, I was going to send someone else. But then I realized—you managed that project from day one. Nobody on this planet understands it better than you do.” “So, I want you to go,” he said, looking me in the eye. “Head over to your old company this morning and audit their final delivery.” I met his open, trusting gaze. I thought about the day I quit, when Mr. Vance didn’t even look up from his phone as he tossed my resignation letter aside. I thought about Amber standing on that stage, fake tears in her eyes, thanking “everyone who supported her.” I thought about Brenda telling me my $25 bonus was because I “didn’t fit the culture.” I thought about the barrage of calls and texts this morning—the demands, the threats, the fake sympathy, culminating in frustrated insults. “Absolutely. I’ll head over right now,” I smiled. “Honestly, I’d love to see how their first day back in the office is going.” I left his office and went straight to HR to finish my onboarding paperwork. Finally, the HR rep handed me my new corporate badge. It read: Project Director: Chloe Evans. I went to my new desk. As soon as I sat down, my phone rang. It was Mr. Vance. For seven years, this name had popped up on my screen countless times. 2:00 AM emergency calls, Sunday morning demands, random tasks assigned while I was mid-flight. And every single time, I answered on the first ring. “Yes, Mr. Vance.” “Right away, Mr. Vance.” “No problem, Mr. Vance.” I tapped answer. “CHLOE EVANS!” he roared through the speaker. “You’ve got some nerve! You don’t answer my calls, you don’t reply on IG, and you block everyone? You think you’re untouchable now?” “Let me tell you something, don’t push your luck!” He was practically hyperventilating. “If you don’t walk through these doors today, I am processing this as job abandonment and firing you! I’ll put a permanent black mark on your employment record. Let’s see who hires you then!” Fire me. I laughed internally. “Mr. Vance,” I said, my voice perfectly level. “I am on my way to your office right now.” I could hear the smugness dripping from his voice. “Hmph. Glad to see you finally came to your senses. Hurry up. I’m waiting.” When I got Mr. Sterling’s offer before the holidays, I hadn’t agreed immediately. But the night of the company gala, when my credit was stolen and I was handed a $25 gift card, I lay awake until 6:00 AM. That night, I realized a fundamental truth. That company was never a place that rewarded competence. It was a place that used you to do the heavy lifting, used you as a scapegoat, and expected you to suffer in silence. And when the work was done, the people standing in the spotlight would always be the ones who knew how to kiss the ring. That morning, I decided to quit and join the client’s side. Snapping back to the present, I stood up and slipped my new badge around my neck. I wondered what faces they would make when I walked in as the Client. I was actually looking forward to it. 4 The cab pulled up to the familiar office building. I pushed the glass doors open. Everything looked exactly the same. I hadn’t even taken five steps before Brenda walked over, holding a coffee mug. “Well, well, Chloe. I thought you actually had a spine,” she said, looking me up and down. “With your attitude on the phone this morning, I thought you had struck gold somewhere. What happened? Flew around a bit and realized you had to come crawling back?” I gave her a cold smile and said nothing. Seeing my silence, Brenda grew even more emboldened. “What, playing the obedient employee now? Where’s all that fire from yesterday?” As she spoke, her eyes flicked down to my chest. She let out a loud “Oh?” “What’s this? What’s with the badge? Our company lanyards aren’t that color. Chloe, did you walk into the wrong building? Or…” She rolled her eyes, her face lighting up with a mock epiphany, and she laughed even louder. “Or did you get a job delivering food? That blue lanyard—isn’t that what the UberEats drivers wear? Hahahaha!” Because my badge had flipped around, she couldn’t see the company logo. Amber’s voice chimed in from the side. “Oh my god, you’re finally here!” “Okay, you’ve thrown your little temper tantrum, time to get over it. Hurry up and finish the loose ends on the project. The Client is sending their reps over any minute.” She reached out to grab my arm, but I swatted her hand away. Amber’s face darkened, and she lowered her voice. “I am trying to help you here. Mr. Vance is in a terrible mood today. Just get your work done and don’t paint a target on your back. You really don’t want to get screamed at in front of the Client!” I scoffed. “Didn’t you complete this project all by yourself? At the gala, Mr. Vance personally announced that you carried the whole thing and did a phenomenal job.” “You got the ‘Employee of the Year’ award and the massive bonus. Why are you asking me to tie up your loose ends?” Brenda chimed in with a sarcastic gasp. “Wow, Chloe, that’s really uncalled for. Look what time it is, why are you being so petty? Just get to work!” I stood my ground, unmoving. The standoff was interrupted by a furious roar from the inner office. “Where the hell is Chloe? Is she here yet? Tell her to get her ass in here!” Mr. Vance stormed out of his office. He stopped, looking me up and down. “Chloe Evans, you’ve really outdone yourself,” he sneered, looking down his nose at me. “You threw your fit, you caused your drama, and now you know you have to come back?” I nodded calmly. “I’m here on official business.” Mr. Vance let out a harsh bark of laughter. “I’ve seen a million people just like you. You do a little bit of work and suddenly think you’re God’s gift to the company. You feel underappreciated, so you throw a tantrum hoping the boss will coddle you. Let me tell you right now—it doesn’t work! That’s how the real world operates. The earth keeps spinning without you. Did you really think the company would collapse just because you left? What a joke!” He put his hands on his hips, his voice echoing across the floor. “I thought you actually had some principles. But look at you, scurrying right back.” “Showing up late on the first official day back—your attitude is unacceptable. I’m docking your entire paycheck this month to teach you a lesson.” He stared at me, waiting to see that familiar, submissive look of defeat wash over my face. Instead, I laughed out loud. “Are you absolutely sure you want to take this tone with me?” Amber jumped in, playing the sycophant. “Please don’t be mad, Mr. Vance. Chloe’s just in a bad mood. I asked her to get to work a second ago and she snapped at me.” Mr. Vance glared at me. “Being in a bad mood means you can just abandon your job? Being in a bad mood means you ignore my calls? I am telling you, this office isn’t your living room, and nobody here is going to baby you!” He waved a hand dismissively. “Go clean up your desk. Apex Group is sending someone over today to audit the project. You are in charge of hosting them. They are the ones paying the bills, so fix your attitude and don’t screw this up.” “Mr. Vance, the representative from Apex Group is already here.” He froze. “They’re here? Where?” “Right here,” I said, flipping my badge around so the logo faced outward. When the three of them read the words on the badge, they all turned to stone.

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I didn’t speak a single word until I was eight years old. Everyone in the Sterling family called me a retard. Even my own mother would cry in secret, convinced she had given birth to a severely autistic daughter. My father looked at me with eyes full of utter disappointment. Yet, bound by the crushing weight of his pride and social standing, he never sent me to a special needs school. Then came the day the corporate raiders from Wall Street arrived to acquire our family’s empire, Sterling Enterprises. They were so arrogant they verbally decimated the entire boardroom. A room packed with top-tier executives sat in dead silence like frightened cicadas, not a single one daring to speak up. I stood in the corner, listening until I was practically falling asleep. I was annoyed. I took one step forward. And spoke my very first sentence in this lifetime. 1 My name is Seraphina Sterling. The eldest granddaughter of the main branch of the Sterling family, and the sole direct heir to the empire. This was a life that should have been defined by a silver spoon. But I was eight years old, and I still hadn’t spoken a single word. Everyone from the top to the bottom of the Sterling family knew the truth: the eldest young miss was an idiot. My mother came from a highly educated, aristocratic family in Boston. Gentle and refined, she poured absolutely all her love into me. She would hold me, teaching me over and over again. “Sera, say it with Mommy… Ma… ma…” I would just look at her, silent and motionless. The light in her eyes would slowly dim, inch by inch. Then she would turn around and covertly wipe the corners of her eyes with a tissue. She thought I couldn’t see. But I knew everything. It wasn’t that I couldn’t speak. I just didn’t want to. Because I came into this world carrying the memories of my past life. In my previous life, I was a fast-talking, relentlessly grinding financial analyst on Wall Street. I spent thirty years talking non-stop, and I was exhausted to my core. In this life, I just wanted to be a quiet, useless trust-fund baby and enjoy the ride. But I underestimated the immense weight of the title “Eldest Granddaughter of the Sterling Family.” It wasn’t just wealth; it was a shackle. My father, the Chairman and CEO of Sterling Enterprises, was a ruthless, decisive businessman. Every time he looked at me, there was a glimmer of desperate hope. “Sera, do you know what this is?” He would point to the numbers on a financial statement. I would nod. “Can you tell Daddy what our net profit is for this quarter?” I would reach out my little hand and accurately point to the exact figure. The hope in his eyes would flare brighter. And then, he would ask the question he wanted the answer to more than anything else in the world. “Sera, can you just call me Daddy? Just once?” I would look at him, maintaining my silence. The light in his eyes would instantly extinguish, like a raging fire doused in ice water. Leaving behind only disappointment. A disappointment so thick you could cut it with a knife. He would sit in silence for a long time, then stand up and storm out of the room. “Sigh.” That sigh was so heavy it felt like it could shatter the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the entire executive floor. I knew perfectly well that if I wasn’t the only direct granddaughter, and if my mother’s family wasn’t incredibly powerful in their own right, my position as the heir would have been revoked years ago. The looks my cousins gave me had also morphed from their initial wariness into undisguised mockery. “Big Sister, did you understand anything they taught in tutoring today?” The one speaking was my Uncle Robert’s daughter, Victoria Sterling. She was only a year younger than me, but she was articulate, sharp-tongued, and deeply favored by my father. I gave her a sideways glance, too lazy to acknowledge her. That only made her smile wider. “Oh, I forgot. Big Sister is a born genius! She knows everything right out of the womb. Unlike us mere mortals who actually have to study hard.” “Victoria, don’t say that.” My Uncle Thomas’s daughter, Chloe Sterling, chimed in with fake, sickening sweetness. “Big Sister just thinks it’s beneath her to speak to us. It’s called being a late bloomer, understand?” They sang their little duet perfectly in sync. The nannies and maids standing around kept their heads down, but their shoulders were shaking slightly. They were laughing. Laughing at me, the mute idiot. I walked past them, my face entirely devoid of emotion. It was like watching two grasshoppers jumping up and down in front of me. Boring. And childish. My mother saw all of this and it broke her heart. That night, she held me again, her tears soaking my shoulder. “My sweet Sera, why won’t you speak?” “Even if it’s just one word. Just one word, and Mommy could die happy.” I could feel her body trembling. It was the absolute despair of a mother. My heart wasn’t made of iron. In that moment, my resolve wavered slightly. Maybe… maybe I should finally speak. Just as I was preparing to open my mouth and attempt to force out a rusty, unfamiliar syllable… Frantic footsteps echoed outside the study. Our head butler, Mr. Henderson, practically tumbled into the room, gasping for air. “Ma’am, it’s a disaster!” “The people from New York are here!” “That Wall Street predator… Charles King… he’s already at the corporate headquarters!” All the color drained from my mother’s face. Charles King. That name was a dark, looming storm cloud over Sterling Enterprises. He was the most vicious vulture on Wall Street, specializing in shorting and dismantling legacy Asian-American family conglomerates. In recent years, he had already devoured three companies the same size as Sterling. “What is he doing here?” my mother asked. Mr. Henderson’s voice was shaking violently. “He… he says he’s here to negotiate a buyout. He was incredibly disrespectful! He said he’s here to help Sterling ‘exit the stage of history with some dignity’!” My mother stumbled, grabbing the edge of the desk for support. “Negotiating a buyout” was just a polite corporate euphemism for a hostile takeover. A massive, devastating hurricane was about to make landfall. I looked up at the gray, overcast sky outside the window. It seemed my days of quietly playing the useless idiot were officially over. Oh well. There are always some blind, annoying flies who insist on forcing a sleeping lion… no, a sleeping lioness, to open her eyes. 2 My father called an emergency meeting on the top floor of the corporate headquarters, summoning all family members and core executives. I was dragged along too, standing in the corner. It was family tradition: the eldest grandchild must be present for major family events. Usually, I would just find a corner, stand there all morning, and zone out completely. But today, the atmosphere was different. The entire boardroom was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Every single person’s face was a sickly, humiliating shade of iron-gray. My father sat at the head of the table, his face so dark it looked like a thunderstorm. Standing directly across from him was a tall, middle-aged man in a bespoke suit. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses were eyes as sharp and predatory as a falcon’s. This was Charles King. He had an Asian face, but he was a crocodile raised in the bloody waters of Wall Street. “Mr. Sterling, is this the famed Sterling hospitality?” Charles spoke up. He used fluent English, but his tone was dripping with condescension. “I flew fourteen hours from New York just to look at this?” He pointed a long, manicured finger at the trembling executives in the room. “A bunch of pathetic nerds who only know how to look at financial data!” “I talk to you about capital, and you talk to me about sentiment.” “I talk to you about market dynamics, and you talk to me about your ‘century-old legacy’.” “It’s laughable!” “Absolutely pathetic and laughable!” He burst into arrogant, booming laughter. The sound echoed through the solemn boardroom, incredibly grating to the ears. “Mr. King!” The CFO, trembling with rage, slammed his hands on the table and stood up. “This is the Board of Directors for Sterling Enterprises! We will not tolerate your disrespect!” Charles shot him a sideways glance, his face full of utter disdain. “Old Wu, I know who you are.” “You’re the one who was lecturing me yesterday about how ‘family businesses have a soul’.” “Let me tell you something. Our rule on Wall Street is simple: the only ‘soul’ a business without profit has is the soul of a graveyard!” “Only the weak need to use sentiment to cover up their sheer incompetence!” The CFO’s face flushed a violent, dark purple. He pointed a trembling finger at Charles, stuttering “You… you…” for several seconds before gasping for air and collapsing backward, stiff as a board. “Mr. Wu!” The people next to him frantically scrambled to catch him. Chaos erupted in the boardroom. My father slammed his hand on the table and roared, “Enough!” Charles finally dialed it back a fraction, but the contempt on his face didn’t fade in the slightest. He gave a mocking, half-hearted shrug toward my father. “Mr. Sterling, I won’t waste any more of your time.” “The investment committee at my hedge fund has already made the call. Sterling’s stock price won’t survive the next fiscal year.” “If you sell right now, you can still walk away with $300 million.” “If you wait for us to initiate our short-selling campaign… by the time we’re done, you’ll be lucky to walk away with $100 million.” “Furthermore, we have our eyes on that massive plot of land Sterling owns in the South District. We plan to develop it into ultra-luxury real estate.” “And I hear your R&D tech team is quite capable. We intend to poach the entire division…” Before he could even finish his sentence. The entire boardroom exploded. Slashing the buyout price, stealing their prime real estate, and poaching their core tech team! Was this a buyout negotiation? This was the blatant, brutal dismemberment of Sterling Enterprises! “This is extortion!” “Get the hell out of here, you Wall Street parasite!” “Robert, we’ll fight him to the death!” On my Uncle Robert’s side of the table, several hot-tempered shareholders couldn’t hold back anymore. Charles let out a cold, cynical sneer. “Fight me?” “Be my guest.” He locked eyes with Uncle Robert, the leader of the opposition. “I know you. You’re the second Sterling brother, right? Three years ago, you spearheaded that commercial real estate project. How much money did you lose? Twenty million? Or was it thirty million?” Uncle Robert’s face instantly flushed crimson, looking like he had just been slapped across the face. The veins on his clenched fists popped, but he couldn’t utter a single word. Charles turned his gaze to another executive. “And you, you’re the Chief Marketing Officer? Last Black Friday, how much did you burn on marketing? And what was your actual conversion rate? Did that pathetic bump in sales even cover the cost of the ad spots?” The CMO lowered his head, his face burning with shame. Charles swept his gaze across the room. Every single person who had been screaming for a fight instantly deflated. The boardroom fell into a deathly silence once again. A humiliating, powerless silence. I stood in the corner, watching it all unfold. These were the elites of Sterling Enterprises. The CFO was out-argued, the CMO had his deepest failures exposed. A room full of seasoned executives, completely subjugated and humiliated by a single Wall Street vulture, unable to even lift their heads. I felt a little sleepy. Honestly. This scene was even more pathetic than I had anticipated. It was like watching a group of grown men get cornered in an alley by a street thug, getting slapped in the face one by one, yet not a single one daring to fight back. My father’s chest was heaving violently. I knew he was on the absolute brink of exploding. But he couldn’t. Because everything Charles said was the brutal, undeniable truth. Sterling’s profits were indeed in a steep decline. This was the tragedy of the weak. Charles was immensely satisfied with the effect he had created. He cleared his throat, preparing to lay out even more outrageous demands. “Since no one has any objections, I’ll take that as a unanimous agreement.” “Our fund also requires…” His incessant, droning voice was like an annoying fly buzzing right next to my ear. I originally just wanted to be a quiet spectator. But this fly was just too damn loud. I was annoyed. I was genuinely annoyed. In this dead-silent boardroom, everyone was looking down. Nobody noticed me in the corner. I moved. I took a step forward. Just one step. From the shadows of the corner, directly into the light. Chapter 2 3 My single step was very light. But in the dead-silent boardroom, it echoed like a crack of thunder. Every single person’s gaze was instinctively drawn toward me. They saw me. An eight-year-old girl, dressed in a custom-tailored dress, looking like a porcelain doll. Their eyes were blank at first, then morphed into shock. Seraphina Sterling? The idiot? What is she doing? My mother, sitting next to my father, also saw me. Her eyes filled with panic and worry. She reached her hand out, as if wanting to call me back, but didn’t dare make a sound. My father furrowed his brow, his eyes filled with confusion and a trace of displeasure. My cousins, Victoria and Chloe, exchanged a look of pure schadenfreude. Their expressions practically screamed: Is this idiot really going to embarrass herself in front of everyone? Charles noticed me too. He looked down at me from his towering height, a cruel, mocking smile spreading across his face. “Oh? Whose kid is this?” “Is Sterling really out of options? You’re sending a child to the front lines?” He deliberately raised his voice. “Little girl, are you going to talk to me about ‘sentiment’ too?” “Or is your daddy planning to offer you to me as my goddaughter to sweeten the deal?” He laughed arrogantly. The shareholders let out suppressed gasps, their faces twisted in humiliation and rage. Insulting a child was insulting the entire family line. Yet, still, not a single one of them dared to speak up and defend me. I ignored everyone else. My eyes were locked solely on Charles, who was currently parading around like a clown. I looked at him, and then, I opened my mouth. And I spoke my very first sentence since arriving in this world. I spoke in English. Rapid-fire, impeccably pronounced, elite Wall Street-accented English. “Are you finished?” My voice was young and childish, but my articulation was razor-sharp, my tone freezing cold, completely devoid of any emotion. The entire boardroom instantly plunged into a silence far more bizarre and terrifying than before. Everyone froze. Because they understood me. Every single person in that room understood English. The idiot spoke. And she spoke fluent, flawless English. The smile on Charles’s face instantly solidified. His sharp, predatory eyes filled with an unimaginable, impossible shock. It was as if he had just seen a ghost in broad daylight. He stared at me, his mouth opening and closing, a strange gargling sound coming from his throat, as if an invisible hand was choking him. “You…” He forced a single English word out with extreme difficulty. I looked at him expressionlessly. And continued in his native tongue. “If you’re finished, get the fuck out.” Those words hit Charles’s chest like a sledgehammer. His body swayed violently. The blood instantly drained from his face, leaving him as white as a sheet. If my first sentence caused shock. My second sentence caused fear. A bone-deep, primal fear originating from the very depths of his soul. Because “If you’re finished, get the fuck out” wasn’t just a generic insult in Wall Street circles. Thirty years ago, when the legendary George Soros successfully shorted the British Pound and broke the Bank of England, those were the exact final words he said to his defeated opponent. It was a legend. A myth. It was a piece of Wall Street lore known only to the absolute top-tier financial titans! The way he looked at me—an eight-year-old girl—had completely changed. He was no longer looking at an idiot. He was looking at a… monster wearing human skin. “Who… who the hell are you?” He asked, his voice trembling violently, still speaking English. Everyone else in the boardroom was absolutely dumbfounded. They understood every single word that was spoken, but they couldn’t comprehend the scene unfolding before their eyes. The ruthless Wall Street wolf who, just seconds ago, was trampling a room full of elite executives under his feet… was now trembling like a terrified rabbit in front of an eight-year-old girl. What… what was happening? My father shot up from his chair, his eyes wide, staring at me with a mix of shock, ecstasy, and endless confusion. My mother covered her mouth tightly with her hands, tears streaming down her face, but she didn’t dare make a sound. I didn’t answer Charles’s question. I just continued speaking calmly in English. “This ‘hedge fund’ you’re parading around is nothing but a marginalized spin-off team from Goldman Sachs. The real heavy hitters pulled their capital ages ago. The money you’re managing now is just scraps from tier-two pension funds.” “Three years ago, when you shorted that Southeast Asian tech firm, you didn’t do it based on ‘precise market analysis.’ You preemptively bribed their CFO and acquired their internal financial reports illegally.” “Last year, when you acquired that biotech startup, your so-called ‘valuation model’ was just a copy-pasted McKinsey template from five years ago. You got scammed out of $30 million, and you were actually proud of yourselves. Right?” “Furthermore.” I smiled slightly. To Charles, that smile must have looked more terrifying than the devil himself. “Your mandate for acquiring Sterling Enterprises today has a hard floor of $200 million. If Sterling plays hardball, your committee authorized you to accept $250 million.” “Because your own fund’s cash flow is dangerously tight. If you don’t close a deal right now, you won’t even be able to pay out end-of-year bonuses.” “You don’t even have the actual capital required to swallow Sterling whole. You just desperately need to close one flashy deal before the annual review to appease your investors.” “Am I right, or am I right?” I finished speaking and looked at him quietly. Thud! Charles couldn’t hold himself up any longer. His legs gave out, and he dropped straight to his knees right in front of the entire boardroom. He leaned forward, his hands bracing against the floor, cold sweat pouring down his forehead, his voice choked with terror. “Oh my God… Oh my God…” The entire room was dead silent. Everyone was completely paralyzed by the surreal, magical scene unfolding before them. I stopped looking at him. Instead, I turned to look at my father, who was standing at the head of the table, equally dumbfounded. I switched from English back to standard, flawless English. My voice was still young, but crystal clear. “Dad.” “I have something to say.”

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1 I am the child of a mistress. When I was seventeen years old, my biological father kicked the bucket. At the funeral, wearing my cheap high school uniform, I stood in front of a room packed with Wall Street titans, brilliant tech innovators, and an A-list Hollywood actress. Trembling like a leaf, I stuttered: “I… I’m here to fight for the inheritance…” Before the words fully left my mouth, the legitimate heirs all turned their heads and stared dead at me. I was so terrified I started crying. “N-never mind… you don’t have to give me anything…” The A-list actress’s eyes suddenly lit up. “A little sister? A soft, squishy little sister?!” The tech innovator pulled out a pen and paper. “You’re a high school senior? Come here, let’s do some calculus so I can gauge your baseline.” The Wall Street titan pulled out a sleek black Amex card. “Why do you care about the old man’s spare change? Call me ‘Big Brother,’ and I’ll give you ten times whatever he left you.” My mother was a high-end gold digger, a kept woman stashed away by a very wealthy man. The original agreement was simple: the sugar daddy provides the cash, she provides the beauty. A clean transaction, no strings attached. But when you live the good life for too long, greed starts to fester. She got pregnant. Relying on her growing belly, she pulled a classic “runaway pregnant mistress” routine. Before she left, she broadcasted her new address all over Facebook and Instagram. She was terrified he wouldn’t be able to find her. She fantasized that her sugar daddy would lock down the entire city and launch a dominant, aggressive crusade to win her back. She imagined the legitimate wife breaking down in an inferiority complex and willingly stepping aside. Unfortunately. She played her hand too far. The sugar daddy didn’t look for her at all. He didn’t want her, and he didn’t want the baby. How could she accept that? Heavily pregnant and about to pop, she camped out at the gates of the sugar daddy’s sprawling estate. Two massive security guards hauled her away and threw her literally into the dumpster out back. They also passed along a message from the legitimate wife: “If you have the skills to steal a man, go ahead. If you have the baby, I’ll raise it. But money? You aren’t getting a single red cent.” After all her harassing yielded nothing, she finally gave up hope. But it was too late to get an abortion. She gave birth to me full of bitter resentment, and raised me in the most negligent, haphazard way possible. She didn’t raise me because she loved me. She raised me because she wanted a payout. The phrase she said to me the most was: “You are his flesh and blood! He thinks he can just refuse to pay?!” “In his dreams! Even if he dies, a piece of that estate belongs to you!” As she wished, when I turned seventeen, my biological father kicked the bucket. The second she heard the news, she practically threw me out of a moving car in front of the funeral home. “Chloe Davis, you listen to me! Including you, your father only has four kids! You are entitled to one-fourth of his estate!” “Today is your last chance! If you don’t get that money, don’t you dare come back home!” Her twisted, furious face terrified me. “Mom, please don’t leave me here, I’m scared…” “Scared, scared, that’s all you ever say! Why do you think I raised you all these years?! To make money!” “You’ve eaten my food and lived under my roof for over a decade, and you ruined my chances of finding a new rich guy! Don’t you owe me compensation?!” “Get that inheritance, give it to me, and maybe I’ll still be your mother!” She stormed off a few paces, then suddenly stopped. She turned around, dug through all my pockets, and snatched the only ten-dollar bill I had on me. I froze. Without money, I couldn’t take the bus. This funeral home was halfway up a mountain in the Hollywood Hills. Relying on my own two legs, I wouldn’t make it home before dark. She shoved me hard toward the doors. “If I cut off your retreat, you’ll actually put in the work!” “If you get the money, you can take a taxi home. If you don’t…” She pointed casually at the surrounding hillsides. “This whole area is a graveyard. You can just stay here and keep the ghosts company!” 2 The cold mountain wind whipped past, making the hair on my arms stand straight up. It felt like every single headstone in the deep woods had a pair of eyes staring right at me. I braced myself and walked into the funeral home. The service was over, and the guests had completely cleared out. The only people left in the massive room were the sugar daddy’s three legitimate children, discussing the final legal wrap-up with a lawyer. “According to Mr. Sterling’s final will and testament, his remaining liquid assets, totaling two hundred million dollars, will be divided equally among the three of you.” Two hundred million! That’s so much money! No wonder my mom was so psychotic about it. No wonder she spent over a decade jumping through hoops trying to score a payout. And today, my job was to demand one-fourth of that two hundred million. Fifty million dollars! My palms were sweating profusely. Who would ever willingly let a bastard child from a mistress walk away with that kind of cash? It looked like a severe beating was absolutely guaranteed. I just hoped they wouldn’t hit me too hard. I had AP exams tomorrow, and I still needed my hands to write… As I was having a mental breakdown, the division of assets began. Sitting at the head of the table was the eldest sister, Victoria Sterling. She had just swept the Oscars and was currently the highest-paid actress in Hollywood. Even a simple, solemn black dress couldn’t hide her breathtaking, absolute beauty. Her slender, manicured fingers took the legal document, skimmed it for one second, and tossed it carelessly to the middle brother. “This is it? Is this really worth wasting my time?” The second child, Ethan Sterling, was wearing a crisp white shirt and black slacks. Silver-rimmed glasses added a touch of maturity to his surprisingly boyish face. He kept his eyes glued to his laptop, typing furiously, not even glancing at the piece of paper worth two hundred million. “I have no use for money like this.” I had heard of him. He was the country’s most brilliant young innovator, absolutely dominating the high-tech aerospace sector. He really didn’t need the money. Everything he did was funded by massive government defense contracts. The piece of paper fluttered over to the youngest brother, Liam Sterling. His long, articulate fingers pinched it, and then he casually ripped it in half. “Two hundred million is worth drafting a will over? Just donate it to charity.” Liam radiated a casual, ruthless, cutthroat aura. For a guy who permanently resided on the Forbes Billionaires list, two hundred million simply wasn’t worth the time it took to process the paperwork. The older sister and brother raised an eyebrow, neither objecting. Seeing that the lawyer was about to start drafting a charitable donation agreement, I weakly raised my hand in the air. “Um… excuse me… sorry to interrupt…” The moment the words left my mouth, the three legitimate heirs and the lawyer—four pairs of eyes—locked dead onto me. My scalp went completely numb. The lawyer spoke up. “May I help you, miss?” I swallowed hard, speaking as carefully as humanly possible. “I’m sorry, I… I’m here to fight for the inheritance…” 3 By the time I snapped out of my daze, I was completely surrounded. The three legitimate heirs were all exceptionally tall, striking, and radiated an intimidating aura of elite privilege. Compared to them, in my cheap, faded high school uniform, I looked like a pathetic, stunted weed hiding in the corner. I was so terrified I was on the verge of tears. Just because they didn’t care about the money didn’t mean they’d be happy tossing it to their father’s mistress! I started shivering. “N-never mind… you don’t have to give me anything…” Could you guys maybe just lend me two bucks… so I can catch the bus? I covertly glanced up, but the sheer, oppressive weight of their presence made me flinch. Forget it, forget it. It’s only a twenty-mile walk down the mountain. I can walk it… I slowly began inching my way toward the exit. I had barely taken two steps when Victoria grabbed me by the collar of my jacket and effortlessly hoisted me back. “Tsk. Too light. She’s practically nothing but bone.” Victoria flipped me around, inspecting me from head to toe, her gorgeous face filled with absolute disgust. “First, we need to put at least twenty pounds on her. You have to be well-fed to be healthy.” “Her hair is dry and full of split ends—needs intense deep-conditioning treatments. Her face is sunburned—needs medical-grade serums.” “Her uniform is frayed, her shoes are the wrong size, and the zipper on her backpack is broken.” “Replace it, replace it all! Everything has to be replaced!” She whipped out her phone and dialed her personal celebrity stylist. “Height: 5’3″, weight: 90 pounds. I need a complete wardrobe from head to toe, ready immediately.” “Who is it for?” Victoria’s tone suddenly became incredibly cheerful and bubbly. “For my little sister, obviously!” 4 I shifted uncomfortably, incredibly anxious. “Do… do you guys know who I am?” Victoria wrapped an arm firmly around my waist, her usually icy, high-fashion face beaming with excitement. “Of course! You’re the old man’s illegitimate daughter~” She pointed at her genius brother and her billionaire brother, complaining to me: “Ethan was a prodigy. Memorizing the dictionary at three, doing advanced calculus at five. If you took him to a playground, within five minutes he’d pull out a textbook to do practice problems. So incredibly boring!” “Liam is a ruthless, calculating shark. He was born scheming. The second he learned to talk, he was setting traps for me. The second he could walk outside, he was figuring out how to monopolize the local lemonade stands. He is entirely immune to being ‘cute’!” “Being the oldest sister to them gave me the title, but absolutely zero real power.” “Now, I’ve finally caught a completely normal, average human sister. I don’t care about the family drama or the outside gossip. I am finally going to experience what it’s like to be a proper, doting big sister!” As she spoke, Victoria unzipped her designer makeup bag, preparing to give me a full facial cleanse and skincare routine right there in the funeral home. Ethan unceremoniously bumped her out of the way with his hip. He pulled out a pen and a notepad, his eyes gleaming with excitement behind his silver glasses. “Sister is a high school senior? How are your grades?” “Come on, let’s do a quick derivative problem so I can see where you’re at!” Looking at the massive block of complex Greek symbols on the paper, my brain completely short-circuited. “I… I don’t know how to do that…” I’m a high school senior, not a college junior! What kind of high schooler knows advanced calculus?! Ethan scratched his head, looking genuinely baffled. “That doesn’t make sense. No matter how slow someone is, by seventeen they should have mastered this, right?” Liam let out a cold scoff, shoved Ethan out of the way, and leaned in close to me. “You said you came here to fight for the inheritance?” That single sentence yanked me back to reality. I looked at Liam, my heart pounding. This is it, right? This is where we talk about the money, and then I get beaten up? Liam pulled out a sleek, solid metal Amex Black Card. His sharp, lethal features suddenly softened. “The old man didn’t have that much cash anyway. Be a good girl, call me ‘Big Brother,’ and I’ll give you ten times what he left.” Their overwhelming enthusiasm was making me incredibly nervous and deeply confused. This was completely different from what my mom had told me. Before I came, she had drilled it into my head over and over: “The richer they are, the cheaper they are! If they refuse to give you the money, throw yourself on the floor and throw a massive tantrum!” “If they beat you, even better! The harder they hit you, the more money you can extort from them!” She told me the Sterling family were my mortal, blood-sworn enemies. But the way my “enemies” were looking at me right now… was kind of warm? 5 I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were treating me like a Tamagotchi. Take right now, for example. I had been brought back to the sprawling Sterling family estate in Beverly Hills. Victoria had canceled all her upcoming Hollywood appearances and red-carpet events just to hover around me all day. On my very first day at the estate, she ordered the private chef to prepare an absolute mountain of premium wagyu beef, lamb, and imported seafood. Plate after plate of exquisite, Michelin-star-level dishes was placed on the long dining table. I was completely overwhelmed. Determined not to waste anything, I kept my head down and ate ferociously until I felt like I was going to throw up. Victoria was stunned. She quickly stopped me. “You’re going to make yourself sick eating like that.” “I only had the chef make all these different dishes so I could see what you like. You don’t have to eat the things you don’t like.” I looked at her, dazed. What she was saying was… I was allowed to be a picky eater? But my mom always told me that being picky was wrong. When I was three years old, she brought home some leftover spicy stir-fried pork from a date. I took one bite, started crying from the intense heat, and pushed the plate away, tears streaming down my face. She flew into a rage, yanked me up by my arm, and beat me. “You’re just a little kid, what right do you have to be picky?! You think you’re entitled to eat gourmet food? Do you have the luxury of that kind of life?!” But it was so spicy. It physically hurt my mouth to eat it. I cried and only ate plain white rice, terrified to go near that dish again. But that wasn’t good enough for her. She called me an entitled brat and said this “bad habit” had to be broken immediately. That leftover spicy pork… if I didn’t eat it the first meal, she saved it for the second. If I didn’t eat it for two days, she saved it for three. I wouldn’t be allowed to eat any fresh food until I finished that specific dish. I was starved for three entire days. Finally, sobbing, I forced down the spoiled, rotting, spicy pork. That night, I spiked a dangerous fever. After my fever broke, she stood over my bed and lectured me: “Being a picky eater is wrong. Mommy is disciplining you for your own good. Have you learned your lesson?” I learned my lesson. So, faced with a table full of food, I forced myself to eat with everything I had. I was hoping to finish it all before it had a chance to spoil. Preferences? Favorites? I didn’t have any. I didn’t have the right to be picky. Victoria couldn’t watch anymore. She gently took my chopsticks away and softened her voice. “Chloe, don’t be afraid. You’re still just a kid. You are completely allowed to only eat the things you like.” A sudden, overwhelming wave of grief and grievance swelled in my chest. It felt like the three-year-old me, forced to eat burning chili peppers, was finally being hugged by someone whispering softly: Did the peppers hurt your mouth? Be a good girl, we don’t have to eat that. We’ll eat something else! Summoning all my courage, I whispered, “I… I don’t want to eat anything spicy…” Victoria waved her hand. Several maids immediately stepped forward and swiftly removed every single dish that contained even a trace of spice. And it wasn’t just that. From that day forward, I never saw a single spicy dish on the dining table ever again. So this is what it feels like to be favored. Just saying “I don’t like it” was enough to make that thing completely disappear from my world. Under her meticulous care, I plumped up rapidly, my skin turning bright and healthy. My hair visibly transformed from dry straw into a thick, glossy mane. Victoria was incredibly satisfied, constantly showing off her “results” to her two younger brothers.

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Arthur and I were what you’d call a blended family. When we got married, we didn’t have a big reception. He brought his daughter, and I brought mine. We introduced the girls, and then we all just moved in together. The unspoken agreement was that each of us would primarily take care of our own child. But after the wedding, Arthur was always busy. Busy arguing with his ex-wife. Busy staying out all night cleaning up the messes she left behind. One afternoon, as I was getting ready to take my daughter to her dance class, I caught a glimpse of Arthur’s little girl. She was huddled in a corner, shrinking back, watching us with a face full of naked envy. I couldn’t help but let out a long, heavy sigh. 01 Arthur and I met later in life. When the matchmaker set us up, he had been divorced for two years. Arthur was thirty-two. He worked as a doctor. Both of his parents had passed away. He owned a condo downtown, though he was still paying off the mortgage. He drove a thirty-thousand-dollar sedan. He was about five-foot-ten, slender, and reasonably good-looking. On paper, he was an excellent catch. When I first glanced at his profile, I was actually a bit suspicious. I wondered if he had some unmentionable, hidden flaw. Why else would someone like him need to scour the dating market for a partner? Then my eyes dropped to his marital status: Divorced, one child. It suddenly made sense. “He really picked me?” “Out of hundreds of profiles, you’re the one he zeroed in on!” The matchmaker grinned so wide I could see all her teeth. “He specifically asked to meet you.” “Look at how sincere he is!” Matchmakers—they have a silver tongue and a heart full of lies. I’d thank God if even thirty percent of what came out of her mouth was true. I didn’t feel any flutter of excitement. Instead, I frowned and read through Arthur’s profile from top to bottom one more time. My eyes lingered slightly longer on his twenty-thousand-dollar monthly salary. After a moment, I set the papers down and asked, “He does know that I also have a daughter, right?” The matchmaker nodded enthusiastically, like a chicken pecking at grain. “He has a little girl too.” “That’s exactly why he decided he wanted to meet you.” Since she put it that way, I suppose I didn’t have any real reason to refuse. I thought about it and said, “I’m going to bring my daughter to this meeting.” “Everything depends on how she feels.” “If my daughter likes him, then we can talk about moving forward.” The matchmaker made a note of it and set up my first date with Arthur. What I didn’t expect was that Arthur would bring his daughter, too. 02 My daughter, Chloe, was eight. Arthur’s daughter, Mia, was six. When the two little girls met for the first time, the atmosphere between them was even stiffer than it was between Arthur and me. Chloe was warm and outgoing. As soon as they met, she gave Arthur a big, polite greeting, and then tried to hold Mia’s hand to show she wanted to be friends. Unfortunately, the second Chloe’s fingers brushed the back of Mia’s hand… Mia’s face completely changed. Like a terrified rabbit, she leaped back and hid behind Arthur. No matter how hard Arthur pulled or tugged, she absolutely refused to step out even an inch. When he pulled too hard and hurt her… She actually bit his hand. Arthur’s face instantly darkened to a thunderous scowl, and he immediately raised his hand, ready to smack her. I couldn’t watch it happen. I quickly stepped in and grabbed his arm. “Arthur, hitting a child doesn’t solve anything. It’s only going to make your relationship with her worse.” Arthur gave me a look of utter helplessness. “I don’t want to hit her, but you saw her just now.” “She is completely unmanageable! She makes me so angry I could die!” “I’ve spanked her, I’ve yelled at her, and absolutely nothing works.” Arthur let out a deep, exhausted sigh. He looked over at Chloe, who was sitting quietly beside me, seriously studying the menu. He gave a bitter laugh. “Your daughter has such a wonderful personality.” “If my daughter was even half as smart and outgoing—no, even a third as outgoing—I’d thank God.” I frowned. I really didn’t like what Arthur had just said. Every person is an independent individual. Every person is their own miniature universe. There is absolutely no need to compare anyone to anyone else. Everyone is unique; everyone is the most perfect version of themselves. I suddenly didn’t really want to keep seeing Arthur. But Arthur, it seemed, really liked me. After that first meeting, he added me on social media and tried to bypass the matchmaker to set up a second date. When I declined, he wasn’t discouraged. He asked for a third. After going back and forth a few times, I decided to meet him, just to make my boundaries clear. But the moment we sat down, Arthur got a call from his ex-wife. The two of them got into a massive screaming match right there on the phone. After he hung up, Arthur looked completely drained, stripped of all his energy. Seeing he wasn’t in a good headspace, I kept quiet. It wasn’t until much later that he suddenly asked me: “Why did you and your ex-husband divorce?” “He cheated,” I answered flatly. “He started a whole second family behind my back. When the woman got pregnant and told him it was a boy, he couldn’t wait to divorce me fast enough.” Arthur paused, stunned, then ordered us two glasses of red wine. First date. Our topic was children. Second date. Our topic was exes. Third date. I said to him, “If we get married, will you let me manage the finances?” Arthur was momentarily taken aback, but then he nodded. “My money is your money.” I shook my head. “I want your entire paycheck deposited directly into my bank account.” Arthur hesitated for three days, then agreed to my condition. Fourth date. Arthur and I went to the courthouse and got our marriage license. 03 Since it was a second marriage for both of us, we didn’t make a big fuss. I just packed some essentials and moved into Arthur’s condo with my daughter. That first night, we had hot pot. Keeping the two little girls in mind, I also made a few kid-friendly, sweet dishes: Sweet and sour spare ribs, popcorn chicken, cola chicken wings, and fresh shrimp patties. The four dishes were set right in front of Mia and Chloe. Chloe ate a piece of rib, her eyes crinkling with absolute delight. She looked at me sweetly and said, “Mommy, your sweet and sour ribs are the best in the entire universe! I love you, Mommy!” “Thank you, baby. That makes Mommy so happy.” Smiling, I put another rib on her plate. And, of course, I didn’t forget about little Mia sitting next to her. The little girl was holding her bowl, eating incredibly carefully, never looking up, never reaching for any of the shared dishes. Arthur didn’t even notice. He just focused on inhaling his own food. Once he was full, he immediately retreated to his home office to work, leaving me and the two kids to finish eating. From the beginning to the end of the meal, Mia didn’t reach for a single dish. But I saw that the sweet and sour rib I had put in her bowl was gnawed completely clean. Only the bare bone was left, and she hadn’t even brought herself to take it out of her bowl. I wanted to give her some more food. But the second the shrimp patty landed in her bowl… Mia reacted like she had been burned. She dropped her bowl and sprinted away as fast as she could. This kid… she was going to be a headache. As a stepmother, trying to discipline Arthur’s child always felt like walking on eggshells. Fortunately, Arthur and I had set clear boundaries before we got married. I told him I would spend one year trying my absolute best to help Mia become a more adjusted, normal child. But when I was parenting her, Arthur had to be actively involved. If, after a year, she was still like this, I wouldn’t try to parent her anymore. I had my own daughter to raise, after all. Arthur had agreed readily. But in reality, he was completely hands-off at home. The condo was basically just a hotel for him. He only came back to do two things: eat and sleep. Every morning, he left at exactly 7:00 AM. Every evening, he’d randomly spawn back in the house anywhere between 6:00 PM and 9:00 PM. Occasionally, when he had a sliver of free time, I’d try to talk to him about Mia. But he was always dragged away by a million different things. One minute it was a work call. The next, his ex-wife would call him with some crisis, demanding he go handle it immediately. If it was just work, that would be one thing. But the second Arthur picked up the phone and heard his ex-wife’s voice, his entire demeanor shifted. They would almost always end up screaming at each other. Yet, after all the screaming, he would still leave to go help her. Before he left, he’d just shoot me an apologetic look. After it happened enough times, I took the hint and stopped bothering him. After all, Mia wasn’t my biological child. Both of her actual parents were still alive. Did they really expect a stepmother to exhaust herself trying to fix her? 04 Three months into my marriage with Arthur. Chloe’s school year started. Mia was old enough to start first grade, too. But given her current level of severe withdrawal… Forget going to school; just getting her to come out of her bedroom to speak to someone was a miracle. Every morning, I’d prepare two identical breakfasts. I’d set one on the dining table for Chloe. I’d place the other on the floor right outside Mia’s bedroom door. When I set it down, I’d ring a little bell hanging on her doorknob to let her know breakfast was ready. Mia usually didn’t respond, and she wouldn’t come out to get it right away. She would wait. She’d wait until I took Chloe out the door. She’d wait until she heard the heavy thud of the front door closing. Only then would she stealthily open her door just a crack to snatch the food. But this time, when she reached her hand out, she didn’t grab the breakfast. She grabbed my hand. The child didn’t understand what had happened. Panicking, she tried to yank her hand back, but I gripped it firmly. The next second, I dragged her forcefully out of the bedroom! Mia let out an uncontrollable, piercing scream. Like a cornered, terrified wild animal. She started thrashing wildly, using her arms and legs to fight me. Seeing that I wasn’t going to let go, Mia opened her mouth in a frenzy and bit down hard on my hand. I didn’t flinch. I let her bite until my hand bled. Blood dripped down the wound and seeped into Mia’s mouth. The slap she was waiting for never came. Instead, a thick, heavy blanket dropped over her, enveloping her back in darkness. Immediately after, she was pulled into a warm, tight embrace. “Don’t be scared. You’re a good girl. I’m not going to hurt you.” Mia stared at me blankly through a gap in the blanket, completely lost. Even though I had to go get a tetanus shot because of that bite… The good news was that Mia was finally willing to show her face around people. She went from completely isolating herself to slowly being willing to open her door and respond. She still didn’t want to come out fully, but it was a massive step forward. Whenever I was in the living room talking to Chloe, I could always feel a hidden gaze fixed on us. But whenever I looked over, all I saw was a tightly shut door. Until that day. I was getting ready to take Chloe to her dance class. The little girl was wearing a beautiful Elsa dress, twisting and posing in front of the mirror, admiring herself. No matter how much I tried to reason with her, she absolutely refused to change. Finally, I had to compromise. “Alright, fine. You can wear that dress to dance class.” “But when you can’t do the big movements later, don’t say Mommy didn’t warn you.” Chloe instantly lit up. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss me, not forgetting to butter me up sweetly: “Mommy, you’re the absolute best!” I laughed and gently pinched her nose. As I grabbed my purse and headed for the door, I caught a glimpse of Mia. She had cracked her door open and was timidly, enviously staring at Chloe’s dress. Chloe hugged her dress and said a bit awkwardly, “This is my dress.” “It’s too big for you. You can’t wear it.” “Right, Mommy?” Little Chloe was incredibly anxious. This was her absolute favorite dress. She was normally a kid who loved to share. But this dress… Mia truly couldn’t wear it. She was just too skinny. Compared to the healthy, chubby Chloe, they were completely different body types. Chloe frantically tugged at my shirt, trying to get me to back her up. I found the whole situation both funny and sad, and replied, “Right.” “This dress is definitely a bit too big.” Mia reacted like she had been burned. She quickly averted her eyes and dropped her head. I was going to pretend I hadn’t seen anything and just walk out the door. But as I pulled the front door open, I couldn’t hold back a heavy sigh. I turned back and asked, “Mia, do you want to come out with me and Auntie?” “I’ll buy you the exact same Elsa princess dress that Chloe is wearing.” “I’ll buy you one in a smaller size. How does that sound?”

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My husband and I had a deal. DINK. Double income, no kids. We were religious about protection. We bought condoms in bulk. Yet, there I was, staring at two pink lines. He played the part of the comforting husband, telling me to embrace fate, that maybe this child was meant to be our little miracle. Against my better judgment, I believed him. I started from scratch, learning how to be a mother. Then came the third trimester. Anxiety stole my sleep. One night, while he was passed out, I found his secret social media account. He had posted a status at 3:00 AM: Can we just go back? Back to the shade of the trees on campus when we were eighteen. Before the sickness found us. Seconds later, a user with a Hello Kitty avatar commented with a single “hug” emoji. I was confused. I wasn’t sick. Who was he talking about? I clicked on the girl’s profile. Her featured video was titled “Three Toasts to Fate.” In the video, a frail girl in a hospital gown held up a shot glass filled with glucose solution, celebrating a new beginning. The first toast, to my love. Here’s to him suppressing his physical disgust to sleep with that other woman. All because she has O-negative blood—the Rh-negative rarity. She is the only bed warm enough to incubate my “cure.” The second toast, to the fetus. Because only that woman’s newborn stem cells are pure enough. So my love tracked her ovulation, sabotaged her birth control, and made sure she conceived. The third toast, to the due date. In three months, when that child lands, I will be reborn. As for the hollowed-out mother… who cares if she lives or dies. The comment section was full of people calling it “darkly romantic” and “edgy.” But me? I froze. Because five minutes ago, my husband, the renowned hematologist Dr. Harrison Miller… Had just brought me a glass of warm milk and a document titled Consent for Directed Neonatal Stem Cell Donation. The person in his heart was never me. It was his high school sweetheart, sitting in the ICU, waiting for my baby’s life to save hers. And I was just the catalyst. The incubator for her cure. Harrison was dressed in his lounge clothes, his gold-rimmed glasses resting on his high nose bridge. The picture of sophistication. He even thoughtfully tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Babe, drink the milk and get some rest. It’s good for the baby.” His voice was so tender it could melt. If I hadn’t just seen that video, I would have thought I was the luckiest pregnant woman in the world. I looked down at the consent form. Paragraphs of dense legal jargon, but the core was simple. The cord blood and stem cells after birth would be donated, free of charge, to a patient named Samantha Reed. Samantha Reed. The name sounded familiar. The girl’s ID on the video was “gentle_wind_whispering.” My hand trembled. Milk spilled onto the blankets. Harrison’s brow furrowed slightly, but he immediately grabbed a tissue to wipe my hand. His tone was a mix of reproach and pampering. “Why so careless? Are you burned?” I pulled my hand back, avoiding his touch. “Harrison, who is Samantha Reed? Why are we directing the donation to her?” Harrison paused. Only for a second. He quickly recovered, pushing the paper closer to me. “She’s a very unfortunate young girl. A leukemia relapse. Critical condition. You have O-negative blood, and our baby almost certainly will, too. It’s a perfect match.” He looked into my eyes, his gaze full of deep affection. “Babe, you have the biggest heart. Just think of it as building good karma for our child, okay?” Good karma. That line from the video—who cares if she lives or dies—stabbed into my brain like an ice pick. I fought down the urge to vomit and pointed at my phone screen. “And this video? Is this also building karma?” Harrison followed my gaze. On the screen, the woman in the hospital gown was facing the camera. On her wrist was a red string bracelet. Harrison had bought that bracelet two years ago on a medical trip to a monastery in Tibet. He said he lost it. Turns out, he “lost” it onto another woman’s wrist. Harrison’s pupils shrank violently. But he was too calm. Calm like a surgeon dissecting a cadaver. He took my phone, closed the video, and even tucked the blanket around me. “Don’t look at that garbage online. It’s all just clickbait for views. That bracelet is a generic design; you can buy them anywhere.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead. His lips felt thin and cold. “Be a good girl. Sign the paper and go to sleep. That patient can’t wait much longer.” That last sentence carried a barely perceptible urgency. I stared at him. I had loved this face for seven years. From college sweethearts to walking down the aisle, I thought he was my salvation. I never imagined he was a grim reaper coming for my soul. I grabbed the pen and slashed a hard, deep line through the consent form. “I’m not signing it.” Harrison’s expression instantly turned pitch black. Harrison didn’t come back to our bedroom that night. He stayed in his study. The next morning, the dining table was covered with my favorite breakfast. Peeled shrimp, warm gourmet oatmeal, and an unopened bottle of prenatal vitamins. Harrison acted like nothing had happened, smiling as he dished up some oatmeal for me. “I had a bad attitude last night, babe. Don’t be mad. We can talk about the donation later. Let’s just eat.” He pushed the bottle of vitamins toward me. “I had a colleague bring these back from Europe. Highest purity folic acid, great for fetal brain development. Make sure you take them on time.” If this were before, I would have been incredibly touched. After all, he was a medical authority and a known workaholic. Taking the time to care about these little details was proof of his love. But now, I just felt sick. I swallowed the pill right in front of him. Then, maintaining the loving atmosphere, I sent him off to work. The second the front door clicked shut, I sprinted to the bathroom, stuck my fingers down my throat, and threw up my entire breakfast and the pill. Stomach acid burned my esophagus. Tears and snot smeared my face. I carefully collected the undigested pill fragments and put them into a Ziploc bag. That afternoon, I went to a private clinic. I sought out my best friend, who was a licensed pharmacist. The lab results came back fast. My friend was holding the report, her hand shaking. “Babe, this isn’t folic acid. This is Filgrastim! And it’s an incredibly high dose!” “This drug is meant for bone marrow donors. It forces the bone marrow to overproduce stem cells and dump them into the bloodstream. The side effects are brutal, especially for pregnant women. Long-term use causes kidney and liver failure, and even…” She didn’t dare finish. I finished it for her: “Even maternal death, right?” My friend nodded, her eyes red. I smiled. A smile uglier than crying. So, the phrase who cares if she lives or dies wasn’t a hyperbole. It was a literal medical plan. He really wanted my life. Just to save his Samantha. On my way home, Harrison called. He sounded out of breath, and the background noise was chaotic, like an emergency room. “Babe, where are you? The GPS shows you’re out.” He had installed a tracker on my phone. He used to say it was for my safety. Now I knew it was to monitor the condition of the “incubator.” I watched the streetlights blur past the car window, my voice flat. “Just out buying some baby clothes. What’s wrong?” “Go home right now! There are too many germs out there, you’ll catch a cold.” He paused, his tone suddenly dropping into something sinister. “Don’t wander off. I’ll worry.” After hanging up, I clicked on “gentle_wind_whispering’s” profile. She had updated. This time, the photo was taken right outside the ICU. The caption read: [The other woman still hasn’t signed the form, but he told me to leave everything to him and rest easy. It’s okay. For our future, I can endure anything.] A comment asked: “What if she finds out?” She replied: [What if she does? The baby is in her belly, the baby’s life is in her hands. But her life… is in his.] My knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone. Harrison Miller. If you want to play games. Let’s play for keeps. I started acting completely normal. Taking my “medicine” on time, reporting my whereabouts. Harrison, as expected, lowered his guard. To ease his guilt, or maybe just to keep the incubator happy, he started coming home earlier, cooking for me, and massaging my swollen legs. His hands were dry and warm, hitting all the pressure points. Watching his focused profile, I suddenly asked, “Harrison, we should pick a name for the baby.” His hands didn’t stop. “Let’s name him Reed.” “What?” “Reed Miller. It sounds distinguished.” I sneered in my heart. Reed. For Samantha Reed. How poetic. How utterly devoted. “I want to go to Mount Sinai for my next checkup. I heard there’s a specialist there who’s hard to get into,” I probed cautiously. Harrison’s hands suddenly tightened, digging painfully into my calf. “No need.” He looked up, the gaze behind his lenses chilling. “I am the best doctor. My colleagues are the best team. I don’t trust outside physicians.” “But…” “Listen to me.” He cut me off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Your condition is unique. Only I understand your body perfectly. Don’t go making a fuss out there. What if something goes wrong?” He made it sound so noble. In reality, he was terrified an outside doctor would look at my bloodwork, see my hormone levels spiking, and realize I was being slowly murdered. Over the next two weeks, Harrison escalated his control. He hired a “nanny.” He said it was to take care of me, but she was a prison warden. My keycard was confiscated. My cell reception became mysteriously spotty. I was a pig in a pen. Just waiting for slaughter day. Until late one night, Harrison got a frantic call and rushed out. He forgot to lock the study. I slipped in and found a folder on his computer desktop named “S & H”. Encrypted. I tried my birthday. Error. Our wedding anniversary. Error. Finally, I typed in the date Samantha mentioned in her video—the day they celebrated their “rebirth.” October 18th. The folder clicked open. It was packed with photos and medical records. Pictures of Samantha bald from chemo, pictures of her leaning into Harrison’s chest, laughing brilliantly. The timestamps spanned a decade. They were the college sweethearts. I was just the tragic accident who got in the way, the unlucky fool who happened to have the golden O-negative blood type. In a document titled Ovulation & Conception Protocol, I found something even more vile. Harrison had documented my menstrual cycles down to the hour. Which day he swapped the pills. Which day he poked holes in the condoms. Which days intercourse was strictly mandatory. Every single date corresponded to a night I had mistaken for passionate, spontaneous love. To him, those nights were just sickening, calculated breeding assignments. The last line of the document read: “Target Delivery: 32 weeks. Pre-term C-section to ensure maximum stem cell viability.” 32 weeks. That was next week. He never intended for me to carry to term. A baby born at seven months would be fighting for its life. But he didn’t care. He only needed the “cure.” The front door clicked open. Harrison was back. I instantly killed the monitor and held my breath in the dark. Footsteps stopped right outside the study. The doorknob turned. I pressed myself behind the heavy curtains, shaking uncontrollably. Harrison walked in. He seemed exhausted. He collapsed into his desk chair and lit a cigarette. In the dim glow of the cherry, his face was shadowy and hollow. “Samantha, just hold on a little longer. It’s almost over,” he whispered to the empty room. “Next Tuesday. I’ll schedule the surgery. You’re going to be okay.” My heart plummeted into an abyss. Next Tuesday. Three days from now. I waited until Harrison went to the master bedroom before I dared to creep back into my own room. I stared at the ceiling until dawn broke. The next morning, I intentionally threw myself down a flight of stairs. It made a horrific crash. The nanny screamed and frantically dialed Harrison’s number. I curled on the hardwood floor, clutching my stomach, cold sweat pouring down my face. “It hurts… take me to the hospital, the nearest one, now!” Harrison roared through the speakerphone: “Do not take her anywhere else! Wait for me! I’m bringing an ambulance now!” The nanny was paralyzed with fear. I grabbed her arm, my nails biting into her skin. “I’m bleeding! Are you going to watch me die? If we both die, can you afford the prison time?!” That broke her. She dialed 911. Just as the paramedics arrived, Harrison’s SUV tore into the driveway. His eyes were bloodshot as he physically shoved a paramedic out of the way. “I am a doctor! She is my patient! And my wife! I am taking her to my hospital!” The EMTs looked shocked, but recognizing his badge and authority, they backed off. I was shoved into the passenger seat of Harrison’s car. He slammed the gas pedal to the floor, his jaw tight enough to crack stone. “若惜 (若惜), did you do that on purpose?” He figured it out. I was pale from genuine pain, but I forced a weak, pathetic smile. “Harrison, I was just so scared for the baby… why are you so angry?” Harrison didn’t say a word. He drove me straight to his hospital and wheeled me right into a VIP suite. Not maternity. Hematology. In the bed next to mine lay Samantha Reed. It was the first time I saw her in person. She wasn’t as arrogant as she was online. She was skin and bones, looking like a shattered porcelain doll. But the way she looked at me was pure, unfiltered greed. Like a starving wolf looking at a slab of meat. Harrison injected something into my IV. A sedative. Before the darkness pulled me under, I heard Samantha’s frail voice. “Harrison… is that her? My medicine?” Harrison stroked her hair, his voice dripping with a tenderness I had never received. “Don’t talk like that. She’s our benefactor.” “What benefactor? She’s a walking blood bag. Once the baby is out, she’s useless anyway, right?” “Samantha, stop it. The OR is prepped. You get ready too.” “Harrison, do you really not feel bad? That is your child… and your wife.” Silence. A long, suffocating silence. Then, Harrison’s cold, dead voice. “Only the living have the right to claim a title. If she doesn’t cooperate, she’s nothing but medical waste.” A tear slipped from the corner of my eye and soaked into the sterile pillow. So this is what it feels feels like when your heart truly dies.

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