Category: English

As the best underwater rescue diver in the country, I received an emergency call. The missing person was ten years old. The location was Gray Falcon Bay. Ten years ago, my younger sister Eilara disappeared there too. At the time, my fiancé, Cyrus Voss, was leading the rescue. He held my hand and promised me: “Trust me, Leona. I’ll bring her back alive.” But in the end, all they pulled ashore was my sister’s cold, bloated body. Years later, I learned that Cyrus had found Eilara. But to let his partner, Adrianna Crowe, claim the glory of rescuing her, he had personally unclipped my sister’s safety line. The current swept Eilara away in an instant. By the time they found her again, she was no longer breathing. Yet Cyrus and Adrianna used a falsified report to turn one of them into a rescue hero and win the other a medal presented by the President himself. That was the day I abandoned my old life and began learning to dive. Ten years. Five hundred and thirty-seven missions. Four hundred and seventy-two people returned to shore alive because of me. I ran more than ten thousand rescue drills, hoping no one else would ever be like my sister—reached by rescuers, only to be abandoned anyway. But today, the command center sent a photo of the missing child to my phone. I stared at it for a long time. Ten years ago, that man had held me and cried as he claimed he had done everything he could. I would never forget that lying face. “I’m not diving on this mission.” … “Leona, what did you just say?” The dispatcher, Kyla, froze. “Last year, a research vessel sank in the North Atlantic. You entered the wreck alone and brought out the trapped researchers.” “If even you won’t dive, who else in the country can save him?” I put my gear into my bag. “I didn’t say I couldn’t do it. I said I wouldn’t take the mission.” “But that boy has less than an hour of air left—” “Contact another rescue team now. Don’t waste the child’s time arguing with me.” Then I hung up. At that moment, the equipment-room door flew open. Captain Mason Reed rushed in, rain streaming from his graying temples. “Leona, wait.” I picked up my gear bag. “Mason, I’ve already said everything I have to say.” He shut the door behind him and blocked my way. “We’ve been searching for two hours, and we’ve used every piece of equipment available. But the seabed is full of narrow rock crevices and tangled lines. The machines can’t get through.” He lowered his voice. “The missing boy is the Crowe family’s only heir. Their corporation is one of the largest in the world, and everyone who matters is at the scene waiting for an answer.” “Then keep searching with the equipment.” “We’ve used everything we have! A diver still has to go down and find him!” Mason grabbed my arm. “You’ll have the best gear and support team available. I’ll stay on shore and watch you myself. I won’t let anything happen to you.” “This isn’t about safety.” “Then what is it?” “It’s personal.” Mason slowly released me. “There’s a ten-year-old boy underwater waiting to be saved, Leona.” At some point, the hallway outside had filled with team members. “Hale is our ace. She isn’t really planning to walk away, is she?” “Maybe she’s heard too many stories about her own legend. Now she wants an appearance fee before she’ll even get in the water.” “Shut up!” Mason roared over his shoulder. I checked my watch. “You’ve wasted another six minutes. Find a replacement now, before you lose any more time.” I pushed through the crowd. Then someone shouted behind me, “Your sister died in Gray Falcon Bay too. You know better than anyone what it’s like to wait, only to get a body back!” My steps stopped abruptly. The photograph from moments ago flashed through my mind. The boy had the same crooked canine tooth as Eilara. If Cyrus had not opened that buckle, what kind of life would Eilara be living now? The crowd suddenly parted. A woman in a tailored charcoal coat strode toward me. Ten years had passed, but Adrianna Crowe had barely changed. She was even still wearing the medal she had bought with my sister’s life. She did not recognize me. She simply pulled a black card from her purse and slapped it onto the table in front of me. “I heard you’re refusing to dive.” “Name your price.” “One million. Five million. Or founding shares in Crowe Deep-Sea Group.” “Bring my son back, and I’ll give you anything you want.”

“This is the so-called chief expert at the National Joint Search and Rescue Center?” Adrianna turned her head and gave Mason a cold look. “My son has been missing underwater for two hours, and she’s still here putting on airs, waiting for us to beg?” “Ms. Crowe, she isn’t—” “I’m speaking to her.” Adrianna cut Mason off and turned back to me. “Five hundred thousand isn’t enough? One million.” A wave of sharp breaths swept through the hallway. I only stared at the medal pinned to her chest. Two hands rose from silver waves, holding a child aloft. How ironic. When Adrianna noticed where I was looking, she straightened her shoulders. “Recognize it?” “This is the Gray Falcon Bay Medal of Valor. Not everyone in a wetsuit is worthy of one.” She tapped the medal with one knuckle, her voice arrogant. “Ten years ago, right here in Gray Falcon Bay, my husband and I searched for forty minutes in near-zero visibility. We nearly died down there ourselves.” “Unlike you, standing here and deliberately making us beg just because you have a little talent.” I looked up. “Did you save that child?” The smugness on Adrianna’s face froze for an instant. “The conditions were dangerous. No one could guarantee—” “So you failed to bring her back alive, but still accepted a medal for her death.” I gave a faint, humorless smile. Her expression darkened. She seized me by the collar. “You won’t even get in the water. What gives you the right to judge me?” I stared at the medal on her chest and gave a cold laugh. “At least I never used a falsified report to steal a medal.” The hallway went silent. The next second, a man stumbled into the corridor. His cashmere coat was soaked through, and the sea wind had left his black hair in disarray. Cyrus. After ten years apart, he did not recognize me. It was hardly surprising. After my sister died, I took my mother’s surname, Hale, and never showed my face to the media. As far as he knew, Leona Moore had vanished long ago. But I recognized him at once. This was the man who had promised to bring Eilara back alive, then personally unclipped her rescue line. My fingers slowly curled into fists. Cyrus caught Adrianna by the arm and pulled her back a step. Then he looked at me. “Please.” His voice was hoarse, and he could barely stand. “Mason said you’re the only person who can save my son. If you’ll go down, I’ll agree to any condition.” “Callum is only ten. He’s afraid of the dark. He still sleeps with the hallway light on.” “Today was his beginner diving lesson. He was supposed to stay within the instructor’s tethered area, but the guide rope suddenly snapped…” He reached toward me with a trembling hand. “Bring him back, and I’ll pay anything. Property, shares—just name it.” I looked at him as ten years of hatred churned inside my chest. Any condition. Would he still say it so easily once he learned the real price? I pulled my hand away from his. “I’ll go to the site.” Hope flared in Cyrus’s eyes. “Thank you! Ms. Hale, thank you! My wife and I will spend the rest of our lives—” “Don’t thank me yet.” I cut him off. “I only agreed to go to the site. I never said I would dive.”

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My mother was the most powerful Priestess in all of Alaska. Three years ago, at the Moon Rite, she declared I had been cursed by the Blood Moon—that if I became Luna, I would bring ruin down on the entire pack, and the only way to lift the curse was to stay away from the Alpha for three full years. At that time, Christopher had only just defeated the other heirs and taken his place as the new Alpha. His footing was still unsteady. The Elders demanded that he cancel the mate ceremony we were about to have. Christopher looked at me and said, “Elena, trust me. In three years, I’ll make things right and make you my Luna.” I believed him. I left the villa without a word. For three long years, I hid away in a small cabin on the edge of pack territory, not daring to see anyone. On the day the three years ended, I was already at the door before dawn. Just as I reached for the handle, I heard my mother’s voice from inside. “Emma, don’t worry. Three years or not, I can still make sure your sister never comes back.” Emma’s voice trembled, but there was a stubborn edge to it. “I’ve already taken three years from her. That’s enough. I can’t let Elena and Christopher be torn apart again.” Then my brother’s fist slammed down on the table. “Emma, you’re too soft-hearted. Forget about Elena. You love Christopher, and you have a pup with him—can you really bear to let him go?” A little girl’s crying cut through the room. “I don’t want to lose Mommy.” Just like that, everyone in the room was crying. After a long moment, Christopher sighed. “Emma, listen to your mother and your brother. We’ll figure it out when Lucia is a little older.” I stood rooted to the spot, a chill sinking deep into my bones. So the so-called curse had been a trap—one my entire family had set for me. All so that my sister could steal my Alpha. Fine, then. I’d disappear for good. I’d give them exactly what they wanted. That was when I felt the Mindlink request from my mother. The moment I accepted, her voice cut through my mind. “Elena, your curse hasn’t lifted yet. You’ll need to—” “How long this time? Another three years?” She fell silent, as if she hadn’t expected me to push back. When I was ten, my father cheated on my mother with my aunt. My mother, seven months pregnant at the time, collapsed in a pool of her own blood. She never looked at me the same way again. In her mind, I was the one who’d cost her my father—because I was the one who’d brought my aunt home that day. For years I tiptoed around her, doing everything I could to please her, never once contradicting her. I thought if I gave enough, someday she’d soften, someday she’d hold me again. Only now did I understand that it had all been wishful thinking. The silence broke. My mother’s voice snapped, impatient. “What kind of tone is that? I’m doing this for your own good—don’t be ungrateful!” I let out a soft laugh. “For my own good? Are you sure it isn’t for Emma’s?” “Of—of course it’s for you. Emma’s never given me half the trouble you have.” Her voice rose sharply, but it faltered at the end. “Is that so? I’m standing right outside the door. How much longer are you planning to lie to me?” I pressed my hand to the blood seal, waited for it to recognize me, and pushed the door open. The moonstone in the middle of the living room—carved with the wolf crest—made me falter for a heartbeat. That was the gift Christopher had promised me. A wolf-clan heirloom, meant for his Luna. The memory rose up before I could stop it: the day Christopher proposed, holding me close, laughter in his voice. “Elena, when you truly become my Luna, I’ll give you the moonstone with our clan’s crest.” I had believed him completely. I had been so sure I would be his Luna. Now I was finally seeing that moonstone. And it wasn’t mine. “Since you already know, do the smart thing and leave. Stop meddling in Emma and Christopher’s life.” I stared at her. “Mother… we’re both your daughters. Why did you do this to me?” She gave me a sidelong glance, contempt written all over her face. “Because Emma is the one who deserves Christopher. She’s the only one worthy of being an Alpha’s Luna. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. A mother who had once nearly destroyed herself over a sister’s betrayal was now telling me, in her own voice, that she supported one daughter stealing the other’s Alpha. The sheer absurdity of it, and the fury that came with it, snapped whatever restraint I had left. I lifted the moonstone and smashed it against the floor. Shards flew. One sliced across my arm, and blood soaked through my sleeve almost at once. “Elena, you’re hurt.” Christopher rushed forward, reaching for my arm. I stepped back, out of his grasp, and looked him in the eye. “Christopher, how much longer are you going to keep up this act?” He froze, his lips moving without sound. When his voice came, it was rough. “That’s not—” Before he could take another step, Emma grabbed my arm, choking on tears. “Elena, it’s all my fault. Please don’t blame Christopher.” “If my body weren’t so weak, if I could have gone through with the abortion, he never would have agreed to let me keep Lucia. He didn’t want to hurt what you two had. I’ll give him back to you. With how weak I am, I don’t even know how much longer I’ll live…” “You stole my mate, tore us apart, and now you’re the one making excuses?” I cut her off, my voice flat and cold. Her head shot up, her eyes red-rimmed. “Elena, I didn’t—” She never finished. Her hand flew to her chest and she swayed on her feet, half-collapsing. “Elena, that’s enough!” Christopher practically threw himself forward and caught her, worry practically pouring out of him. When he turned back to face me, his eyes had gone glacial. “Emma isn’t well. Stop provoking her.” My mother went livid, jabbing a finger at me. “You are a stain on this pack. When you were ten, you destroyed what I had with your father, and now you want to destroy your sister’s happiness too.” My brother, who had been silent until then, finally spoke up. “Elena, that’s enough. If you keep this up, you won’t have a place in this pack.” Behind their backs, Emma flashed me a triumphant smile. I squared my shoulders and stood my ground. “What part of what I said was wrong? She’s the one who stole my future, and every one of you helped her do it.” A sharp crack echoed through the entryway, and my cheek started burning at once.

“Elena, if it weren’t for you, Emma wouldn’t be this weak!” My mother’s voice shook, sharp as broken glass. “If you want to blame someone, blame yourself. You were never worthy of being our Luna!” Something in my chest tore open. The pain ripped through me so hard my whole body shook. So this was all it took for a heart to die. I lifted my hand to my burning cheek—and then I laughed. Before I knew it, I was crying. Christopher frowned at me, his voice edged with open impatience. “That’s enough. Go home and think about what you’ve done. When you’re ready to apologize to your family properly, we’ll talk.” Then he took Emma by the arm and led her into the bedroom. The door to my brother’s room opened, and when Belle stepped out, my chest tightened. Ever since Belle had married my brother, she had been the only person in this house who ever stood up for me. I opened my mouth to speak, and she pulled me straight out the front door. “Elena, you know now, don’t you?!” “Emma’s been sickly since she was little because of you. She’s finally been given Lucia—think of it as your way of making it up to her. Stop causing trouble.” I stared at her, disbelief crashing over me, and my gaze drifted—without my meaning it to—to the long scar on the left side of her face. Years ago, she had been attacked by members of another pack, her cheek slashed open with a knife. I was the one who had charged in and pulled her out. Afterward, eyes red, she had sworn she would never forget what I’d done, that she would never let anyone treat me badly. Now she stood in front of me, and her words cut deeper than that blade ever had. Behind me, Christopher’s voice. “Elena, you’re hurt. Let me take you to the hospital.” I pulled my hand out of Belle’s grip. “I’m fine.” Christopher rubbed his forehead, clearly impatient. “Can you please stop making a scene? Do you have any idea how exhausting this is?” “Oh, I’m sure keeping up this act is exhausting.” Christopher went stock-still, then his brow drew tight. “Watch your tone.” “Everything I’ve done has been for you. Emma is unwell—someone had to look after her and Lucia. I thought if I handled it quietly, you’d never have to deal with any of it.” “We kept it from you because we didn’t want to hurt you.” It was almost funny. He’d slept with my sister, and somehow the whole thing had been done for my benefit. Christopher shook his head with a weary sigh and stepped forward as he’d done a thousand times before, pulling me into his arms. “Come on. Enough of this. Let’s go to the Elders’ Council and bond. From now on I’ll make more time for you—alright?” I pushed him off, twisting out of his embrace. “There is no ‘us’ from now on.” I turned to leave, and his next words nailed me to the floor. “Elena, what’s that supposed to mean? Are you refusing to be my Luna?” I closed my eyes, forcing the tightness in my chest back down. “Christopher, you were the one who betrayed me first.” He took a step closer, softening his voice. “I admit lying to you was wrong. But not once did I ever think about calling off the engagement.” I didn’t want to hear another word of it. I started walking again. Christopher caught me from behind, his arms coming around me in a panic, his voice unsteady. “I know you resent Emma. Three years ago, when she got pregnant by accident, she was crying, begging me. Her body’s fragile—she might never carry another pup as long as she lives. I felt sorry for her. That was all.” He tightened his hold. His breath was warm against my ear. “Elena, I never wanted to be apart from you. Let’s go to the Elders and complete the bond now. We can hold the ceremony later, once Lucia is older. Alright?” Rage shot straight to my head. I wrenched free of him and slapped him across the face as hard as I could. He turned his face back to me, and instead of anger, he caught my hand. “Feel better? Consider that slap payment for the three years I lied to you.” “And don’t talk about ending the engagement. You wouldn’t want your grandmother’s last wish to go unfulfilled, would you?” Every ounce of strength drained out of me all at once. Becoming Christopher’s mate had been my one obsession, because it was the only thing my grandmother had asked of me before she died. For that promise I had poured my own strength into helping him defeat every rival, into carrying him through the full-moon trial of adulthood, into becoming Alpha—and I had waited for the day he asked me to marry him. That was why he was so certain I would never truly walk away. When I didn’t answer, he seized my wrist and pulled me toward the parking lot. “Then it’s settled. We’re going to the Elders now.”

I ripped my hand out of his grip. “Christopher, you make me sick.” I turned to leave, and Emma stumbled forward and dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her face. “Elena, please. Say you’ll bond with Christopher. This is all my fault. I’m dying anyway—please don’t hold it against him…” Christopher yanked Emma back to her feet, his expression turning ugly as he stared me down. “Elena, if you keep making things harder for Emma, I don’t mind making her my mate instead.” I met his eyes head-on. “Whoever you take as your mate has nothing to do with me.” I didn’t look at them again. I walked out. Back at the cabin, I started packing. I had just zipped the suitcase shut when the door was kicked in. Several bodyguards in black poured in and dragged me back to the villa without a word. The moment Belle laid eyes on me, she flew at me and slapped me hard across the face. “You vicious little she-wolf! If you hadn’t come here stirring up trouble, Lucia would never have gotten upset and run out into the street—she was hit by a car, there was so much blood, and now nobody knows if she’s going to make it!” Emma was sobbing so hard she could barely draw breath. “I know you hate me… I’d deserve to die a hundred times over, but how could you hire someone to hurt Lucia…” “I didn’t!” I fought against their grip, screaming. Christopher didn’t seem to hear a word. His eyes were nothing but rage. “Get the doctor in here. Draw her blood.” They forced me into a chair and kept drawing blood until I started to black out. I don’t know how long it went on. Eventually my mind began to slip. Memories drifted through my mind like smoke. Fifteen-year-old Christopher throwing his body over mine, taking a silver bullet meant for me. His blood soaking through his shirt, and still he’d forced a smile through gritted teeth. “Elena, don’t be scared… I’ll always protect you.” At twenty, when I’d eaten aconite by mistake and been rushed to the hospital, he’d stayed by my bed all night with red, hollow eyes, blaming himself. “This was my fault. I didn’t take care of you. I promise—I promise—I’ll never let you get hurt again.” At my grandmother’s funeral, holding me close, his voice raw but steady. “Elena. From now on, I’ll be the one you lean on. There’s only me.” Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the doctor speaking, terrified. “Alpha, that’s already a thousand milliliters. If we take any more, Miss Elena will—” “Keep going!” Christopher’s voice was ice. There was nothing left in it of the man I remembered. A bitter smile tugged at my lips. I closed my eyes and let myself slip into darkness. When I woke, a phone was ringing shrilly in my ear. The moment I answered, the panicked voice of the cemetery caretaker came through. “Miss Elena, your grandmother’s grave has been vandalized.” I stumbled into the cemetery to find my grandmother’s grave dug open. My mother stood at the edge of the pit, holding my grandmother’s urn in her hands. Her eyes burned with rage. “This is your fault! If it weren’t for you, Emma and Lucia would never have been hurt! Today you’re going to learn a lesson.” With that, she wrenched off the lid, scooped out a handful of ashes, and flung them into the air. “NO—!” The scream tore out of me. I threw myself forward, only to be caught fast by the pack warrior at her side. “No? This is exactly what you deserve!” Teeth clenched, she raised her hand to scatter more. My knees dug into the gravel. My voice shook. “Mom—please. Please don’t touch Grandma. Do whatever you want to me, just—please leave her alone.” “Is that so? Then you’ll go before the pack alliance and admit, in your own words, that you’re the interloper. That you stole your sister’s mate.” Tear after tear splashed onto the ground. My throat felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton. It was a long moment before I could force out a single word. “Fine… I admit it.”

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The night my husband Dominic Caruso died, I was crouched behind the study door, listening to him sign my death warrant. His voice was fading—stage-four pancreatic cancer had eaten him from the inside out—but his words still carried all the authority of the Don’s underboss. “Elena needs to disappear before the week is out.” A wet cough. “Frame it clean. Tell the other families she was feeding information to the Morellis. Say she was sleeping with one of their captains. Nobody investigates a traitor’s execution.” His mother, Agatha, shifted in her chair. “Dominic, she’s carrying your child.” Silence stretched like a wire about to snap. “But Serena is too soft.” His voice dropped to something tender, something I’d never once heard. “Once I’m gone, there’ll be nobody left to shield her and Nico. Elena’s a Ferrante—her family will push for control of everything I’ve built. She’ll bury Serena alive if it serves her interests.” “I have to kill Elena.” “You understand what you’re asking,” Agatha finally said. “I do.” Another cough, thick and drowning. “Call it my debt. I owe Serena a life without fear.” Agatha’s heels clicked toward the door. I pressed myself into the shadow of the hallway credenza, barely breathing, and she passed without seeing me. Then came the sound that truly gutted me. Dominic’s voice, naked longing: “Serena… if there’s another life, please be mine from the start. No Marco between us. No political alliances. Just you and me.” Five years of marriage. Five years of him tucking my hair behind my ear at family dinners, his palm warm against the small of my back at fundraisers. His reputation as the underboss who adored his wife. The whole organization whispered about it—Dominic Caruso, cold-blooded in business, besotted at home. But all of it theater. Every tender gesture performed for an audience. My husband had never loved me for a single second. I don’t remember falling. I remember the taste of iron flooding my mouth, the sharp crack of my knees against marble, and then a terrible spreading warmth across my abdomen. Someone was screaming—one of the housemaids, maybe. There were running footsteps. “Mrs. Caruso is down! She’s bleeding—oh God, someone call an ambulance—” “The boss flatlined. He’s gone—” “She’s not breathing too. She’s not breathing—” The voices frayed into static. The marble under my cheek was so cold it burned. And then there was nothing. …… “Elena. Elena. Wake up—he’s here. Dominic’s back.” I opened my eyes to Mara’s face—my assistant. She was shaking my shoulder, her dark eyes bright with an excitement I hadn’t seen in years. “The convoy just pulled through the gate. He’s home from Chicago.” I sat up in bed. Silk sheets. Morning light. The penthouse suite of the Caruso estate in Brooklyn Heights, with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. My hands moved to my stomach. Flat. No swelling. No blood. The digital clock on the nightstand read 9:47 AM. The date beneath it knocked the breath from my lungs. March 15th. The day Dominic returned from the Chicago operation—victorious, celebrated, and carrying his brother’s widow Serena Vitale and her son Nico in tow. His brother Marco had been killed in the territory war three weeks prior, and Dominic had appointed himself their protector. I had been reborn. Impossibly, inexplicably back at the beginning. Downstairs, I could already hear the commotion—engines idling, doors slamming, voices raised in congratulation. “Get my clothes,” I told Mara. My voice sounded calm. Terrifyingly calm. She hesitated. “Are you alright? You look pale.” “I’m fine.” I swung my legs off the bed. “Get me dressed. I need to welcome my husband home.” This time, I would not love him. This time, I would not beg for scraps of affection from a man whose heart had never belonged to me. This time, I would give him exactly what he wanted—Serena, free and clear—and I would walk away with everything that was mine. This time, I would survive.

By the time I descended the main staircase, the foyer was already a tableau of domestic bliss. Agatha sat in the wingback chair by the fireplace, Nico perched on her knee while she cooed over him like he was the second coming. “Oh, look at you, tesoro. Come to Nonna. Such a handsome boy—Marco’s very image.” Serena was arranged on the adjacent settee. She wore a cream cashmere wrap draped artfully over her shoulders, her dark hair swept into a loose chignon that emphasized the porcelain pallor of her face. She looked fragile. Breakable. “Please, Agatha, you’re too kind.” Her voice was a murmur, soft as crushed velvet. “My health has been so unreliable—but Dominic took such good care of us. I’m much stronger now, truly.” And there he was. My husband. Standing at Serena’s shoulder with his hand resting on the back of her settee, his body angled toward her. When he spoke, his voice held a gentleness I had never once heard directed at me in five years of marriage. “Marco would have wanted me to look after them. It’s the least I could do.” Agatha beamed. “You two grew up together—no need for such formality. Behind closed doors, we’re all family here.” Family. Yes. What a perfect little family they made. I stepped into the room. The laughter died instantly. Agatha’s smile flattened. Dominic straightened, and for one unguarded second I caught it—the flicker of irritation, there and gone before he rearranged his features into something appropriately husbandly. “Elena.” Agatha’s voice cooled by several degrees. “Your husband and his sister-in-law arrived twenty minutes ago. Where have you been?” “My apologies.” I kept my expression pleasant. Neutral. “The guest suite needed final preparations—I wanted to make sure everything was perfect for Serena and Nico.” Serena rose on cue, one hand pressed to her collarbone. “Oh, Elena, please don’t trouble yourself on my account. We’ve imposed so suddenly—I told Dominic we shouldn’t have come without more notice. You’ve been unwell, haven’t you? You shouldn’t be exerting yourself.” Her eyes glistened. She was extraordinary at this—the trembling lip, the self-deprecating concern that somehow made me look neglectful by comparison. Dominic’s hand found Serena’s elbow to steady her. “Don’t rush to worry about others. Elena’s all aright. Instead, you’re the one having chest pains. The room needs to be warm, properly set up. Is it ready, Elena?” “Everything’s arranged.” I smiled. “Heated floors, humidifier, blackout curtains. If anything isn’t to your liking, Serena, just let me know.” Agatha nodded, slightly mollified. Eventually they settled Serena and Nico into the guest wing—the second-largest suite, after the master suite. Dominic walked her there himself, his hand hovering at the small of her back. I watched them disappear down the corridor and felt nothing. Later that night, in our bedroom, Dominic loosened his tie and looked at me with an expression I once would have called tender. “These past few years apart—I know it hasn’t been easy for you, managing things here alone.” He crossed the room, cupped my face in his hands. “I’m back now. Staying. We’ll make this work, Elena.” A pause. Then, softer: “Serena and Nico—I promised Marco. They need extra attention right now, but don’t read into it.” He kissed my forehead. “Maybe it’s time we thought about starting a family of our own.” Before I could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and his jaw tightened. “Serena’s having chest pains again. I need to—” He was already moving toward the door. “Don’t wait up.” He didn’t come back. By morning, every member of staff in the estate knew that Dominic Caruso had spent his first night home not with his wife, but sitting vigil at his brother’s widow’s bedside. And I knew what none of them did: Serena’s so-called heart condition was a fiction. She was two months pregnant with Dominic’s child. Last time, she’d swallowed pills to abort it, then wept to Dominic that I had poisoned her—driven her to miscarry through cruelty and neglect. Not this time. This time, I would keep that baby alive. I would guard Serena’s pregnancy like a hawk guarding its nest. And when the truth could no longer be hidden, I would drag it into the light in front of everyone who mattered. Let them explain that away.

Three days after his return, Dominic brought Serena to breakfast in the main dining room. She appeared in the doorway clinging to his arm, wan and lovely, and the moment she saw me her lips parted in that rehearsed look of concern. “Elena—good morning. I hope I’m not intruding. Dom insisted I eat with everyone today.” I smiled pleasantly and gestured to the chair beside me. “Of course. Sit.” That afternoon, the first strike came. I was reviewing household accounts in the study when Dominic burst in, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. “What did you put in those pastries?” I blinked. “What?” “Serena’s doubled over in pain. She hasn’t eaten anything today except what your kitchen sent to her room this morning.” He was advancing on me, his voice low and lethal in the way I imagined he spoke to men he was about to put in the ground. “If you touched her food—if you put something in it because you’re jealous of one goddamn night—” “Dominic.” I stood slowly. “I didn’t—” He grabbed my wrist and yanked me toward him. From behind him, Serena’s housekeeper appeared in the doorway, breathless and theatrical. “Mr. Caruso—she’s asking for you. She keeps saying the pain is in her stomach, and the only things she ate were Mrs. Caruso’s pastries—” His open palm connected with my cheekbone before I could speak. The crack echoed off the study walls. My head snapped sideways. For three full seconds I couldn’t see—just white light and a high ringing sound, and then the room swam back into focus and Dominic was staring at me with his hand still raised, his chest heaving. “If anything happens to her,” he said, very quietly, “I will make you wish you’d never been born.” He turned and strode out. I stood alone in the study, my cheek throbbing, and pressed my palm flat against the mahogany desk until my fingers stopped trembling. When I reached Serena’s suite twenty minutes later—because I needed to see, needed to confirm—the scene was already winding down. The family physician had come and gone. Diagnosis: indigestion from overconsumption of rich food. Nothing more. Two antacid tablets and she’d be fine by evening. She’d simply eaten too many pastries. Serena was propped against her pillows, eyes red-rimmed, Dominic perched on the edge of her bed holding her hand. When she saw me in the doorway, she manufactured a tremulous smile. “Elena—I’m so sorry for the scare. I think I was just anxious. When my stomach started hurting, I panicked… I thought maybe…” She trailed off delicately. Dominic didn’t look at me. “She was frightened. Can you blame her? You’ve made it clear you don’t want her here.” “I’ve done nothing of the sort.” “Your attitude alone is enough.” He finally met my eyes. Cold. Dismissive. “She feels unwelcome. Fix it.” Nico appeared from behind the armchair—I hadn’t seen him there. He ran at me full-tilt, both small hands shoving hard into my hip. I stumbled backward and my lower back cracked against the marble edge of the console table. Pain radiated up my spine like electricity. “I hate you!” he shrieked. “Uncle Dom is ours—mine and Mama’s! You’re the bad one!” Serena gathered him to her chest, tears spilling prettily. “Oh, baby, no—Elena, forgive him. He’s just a child. He only wants a father so badly…” I couldn’t straighten fully. Mara was suddenly beside me, hand under my elbow, pulling me upright. Dominic watched me struggle and his expression didn’t change. “He’s five years old, Elena. Don’t be dramatic. He barely touched you.” “You need to fix your attitude. You’re making them both miserable.” I looked at Nico, still glaring at me from the safety of his mother’s arms. “Don’t worry, Nico,” I said softly. “Your uncle is all yours. He always has been.” Dominic’s eyes narrowed, but I was already turning away, letting Mara guide me out. Behind us, Serena’s muffled sobs resumed on cue.

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Mom spent three years paying my dead Dad’s debts. Then, on her deathbed, she learned the truth: he’d faked it all. He was alive. … The door creaked open, and the nineteenth man stepped out of Mom’s bedroom, buckling his belt with a sneer. “Even half-dead, your mom is still the best ride in town. That cow was worth every damn minute.” He spat on the floor and walked away without a glance. A faint, wet cough came through the room. “Iris…” I rushed in, but my feet froze at the edge of the bed. The room smelled of stale sweat, copper, and despair. Mom lay there, in a pool of blood, looked like a broken porcelain doll. Her skin was a map of purple and blue, and a thin trail of blood leaked from the corner of her mouth with every ragged breath. Yet, seeing me, she forced the corners of her lips upward. “I paid it off, baby,” she whispered, her voice a rattling shadow. “The debt… it’s gone. Nobody will ever touch you now.” She tried to raise a trembling hand to touch my cheek, then it dropped. A hollow thud against the mattress. “I’m sorry, Iris” she choked out, her eyes beginning to glaze over. “I don’t have much time left. You’ll have to walk the rest… alone.” My world blurred. I couldn’t scream; I couldn’t even breathe. Then—a violent crack split the silence. I turned, my eyes widening in pure shock. Standing there, dressed in a sharp, expensive suit that cost more than our debts, was Dad. Behind him stood my Uncle Lucas, Mom’s brother, looking bored as he checked his gold watch. The two men I had watched “jump” to their deaths three years ago. “Still a dramatic one, aren’t you, Joanna?” Dad said, stepping into the room. He didn’t look at Mom’s shattered body with pity; he looked at her with cold, clinical disgust. He pulled a black credit card from his wallet and tossed it onto her blood-soaked chest. “Remember the charity auction?” he asked. “The day you cancelled Vivian’s card in front of the whole social circle? The day you humiliated her.” “You looked so high and mighty that night, didn’t you? So we decided to bring you down.” Uncle Lucas added. He stepped around a pool of blood as if it were a common puddle. “We let you rot three year. Every debt collector, every ‘thug’ who came to this door?” He smiled, “They were on our payroll. ” “We faked the bankruptcy and debts. We faked the deaths.” “We still watched every single minute of your struggle through the cameras we hid in the walls.” “Now, it’s time to end this.” Dad leaned over her, his voice soft, almost gentle. “Kneel. Apologize to Vivian. Promise you’ll never bully her again, then we’ll let you be our family again. We’ll love you like before.” Mom didn’t cry. A laugh started in her chest. Soft. Hollow. I looked down. Beside her limp hand lay a small, green plastic bottle. It was empty. Antifreeze. Before they broke in, she had swallowed it. “What’s so funny?” Uncle Lucas snapped. He didn’t notice the bottle. He only saw the black blood spray from Mom’s mouth onto his polished leather shoes. “God! Disgusting!” He curled his lip, wiping his shoe on the rug. “What the hell are you faking now, Joanna? You knew we were coming today. Is this fake blood for sympathy? Do you think we’re idiots?” “Mom isn’t faking!” I screamed, lunging at him, but Dad caught me by the throat, shoving me back against the wall. “Don’t be like your mother, Iris. A liar,” Dad hissed. He walked toward the bed, looking at Mom’s mangled limbs with a smirk. “I paid those actors myself. They wouldn’t dare actually touch you. So stop the act and get up.” “Actors?” My voice broke. I looked at the cigarette burns on Mom’s thighs. I looked at the empty space where her right hand used to be—hacked off by a “debt collector” six months ago. Dad saw the stump, but he didn’t flinch. “Nice prosthetic. Very realistic. How much did that cost you? Or did you steal the money I let you keep for food?” “That’s not—” Before I finished, Uncle Lucas cut me off. “Stop wasting words on her. Vivian is outside. She’s been waiting three years for this apology.” “Now get up and kneel, Joanna. Don’t make us drag you.” “Apologize?” she whispered. Her laughter turned into a wet, broken wheeze. “Not… a… chance.” With a final, agonizing surge of will, she tried to push herself up. Yet her remaining arm gave out immediately. She rolled off the bed, her knees hitting the floor with a heavy, bone-snapping thud. For a second, the room was silent. Then, Uncle Lucas lost his temper. He reached down, grabbed Mom by her matted hair, and yanked her head back. “I said GET UP! This isn’t a choice!” Mom screamed. The sound cut straight through me. “Stop it! You’re killing her!” I fought against Dad’s grip, but he held me fast, watching the scene with a bored expression. Just when I thought all hope was lost— Uncle Lucas’ boot struck the green bottle. It rolled across the floor, clinking against the bedpost. My heart hammered. Look at it. Please, just look at the label. If they realized she was poisoned, maybe they’d stop. Maybe they’d feel a shred of guilt. A pause. Uncle Lucas frowned, his eyes following the bottle. He started to bend down. His fingers were barely an inch from the plastic— Then the door swung open again. A woman stumbled in, draped in white silk and diamonds. Vivian.

She dropped to her knees in front of Mom, in the basement filth, putting on a face of mock concern for the men watching. She had knelt like this before. In the hospital. When Mom woke up with fifteen stitches across her stomach. Her eyes were red back then, leaking tears. “You saved me, Joanna,” she had sobbed. “You’re my sister now.” Now, those same hands grabbed Mom’s knuckles. Yet her sharp nails sank into Mom’s knuckles. “Joanna, just hit me,” Vivian whispered, Her voice was like honey poured over glass. “I should have told you Julian was only faking his death. It’s my fault you suffered for three years.” Then, without warning, Vivian’s eyes flashed with a cold, predatory light. She grabbed Mom’s limp, unresponsive hand and violently yanked it against her own cheek. SLAP. The sound was sickeningly loud in the small room. A massive shock rocked Mom’s body. A fountain of dark, thick blood burst from her mouth, staining her chin. I lunged forward to catch her. Dad’s hand clamped onto my shoulder like an iron trap. He didn’t even look at the blood pouring from Mom’s lips. He turned a blind eye to all of this. Mom’s face twisted in excruciating pain. She gave a weak, desperate pull, trying to free her hand. “Ah!” Vivian shrieked, hitting the floor like a sack of flour. Dad let go of me instantly. He was there in a heartbeat. He scooped Vivian up, holding her as if she were a piece of fine porcelain. “You haven’t changed, Joanna,” Dad said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. “Vivian comes here to apologize, and you attack her?” “Three years wasn’t enough,” Dad continued, his hand tightening around Vivian’s waist as if shielding her from a monster. “Since you won’t learn, Joanna, I’ll find a place where your malice can’t reach anyone.” He turned his gaze to the guards standing in the shadows. “Take her back to the estate. Lock her in the cold storage. Don’t let her out until she learns how to beg for Vivian’s forgiveness.” Two guards lunged forward. They didn’t treat her like the mistress. They grabbed her by her matted hair and her bruised shoulders, dragging her across the rough concrete. Mom’s thin shirt tore away, exposing the network of cigarette burns and whip marks to the dim gray light. Not one man in the room flinched. Not my dad, not my uncle. To them, those scars were just part of the ‘act’ she was putting on. Mom didn’t fight. She didn’t scream. Instead, she laughed. It was a wet, rattling sound that seemed to bubble up from the blood in her lungs. “Julian. Lucas,” she said, her glassy eyes flitting between her husband and her brother. “You are both… so incredibly stupid. You think you’re the masters of this game?” “Do you want to know why I really cancelled her credit card three years ago?” Her voice was getting weaker, but the edge in it was still sharp. “Because—” CRACK. A blow suddenly caught Mom across the face, snapping her head back. The sound was like a whip. A shadow moved from the corner. My grandfather stepped forward. He didn’t look like a grieving parent, he looked like a god passing judgment. He didn’t look at Mom’s blood on the floor. He just wiped a smudge of Mom’s blood from his thumb with a silk square. “Enough, Joanna!” Grandfather hissed. “You’ve been spoiled too long. You lie. You hurt the only person who cares about you.” He looked at Vivian, cradled in Dad’s arms, then back at Mom, who was barely holding onto consciousness. “You are no daughter of mine anymore,” Grandfather said, his voice cold and final. “From today on, Vivian is the only daughter of this family.” Mom’s eyes went flat. The light didn’t just fade; it vanished. She stopped looking at Grandfather. She stopped looking at any of them. It was the look of someone who had already left the room. The guards lunged, dragging her toward the stairs like a bag of trash. Her lifeless feet kicked the empty green bottle. Clink. Clink. Clink. It rolled into the darkness. None of them looked down.

Mom lay on the floor, blood masking her face. Even then, a thin, cold smile still stayed on her lips. “I’m not a daughter of this family,” she rasped. “But none of you deserve to be my family, either.” Grandfather’s face went dark with rage. His chest heaved as he raised his hand. I didn’t think. I threw my weight over Mom’s spine, my arms locking around her neck. Slap! The blow didn’t hit her. It landed on the side of my face with a dull, wet crack. A sharp, copper taste flooded my tongue. My jaw felt like it would snap. I didn’t cry. I screamed into the stagnant air of the basement. “Stop hitting her! She drank the antifreeze! She’s dying!” Silence dropped over the basement. The only sound was the heavy drip of water from a pipe. Dad’s face turned the color of ash. He stepped toward us. “Iris?” His voice was a jagged whisper. “What did you say? Your mom took… what?” I scrambled across the blood, my knees scraping against the floorboards. My fingers shook as I finally picked up the green bottle. I held it out to him. “She drank it. Right before you broke down the door. It’s Antifreeze!” Dad reached out, his long fingers trembling. But before he could touch the plastic, Vivian moved. She snatched the bottle from the air. Her thumb moved across the label in a quick, practiced scrape. My eyes widened. I saw her nail dig into the ink, peeling back the letters. “You—” Before I finished it, she handed it back to Dad with a long, theatrical sigh. “Antifreeze? Julian, look.” She pointed to the mangled label. “The letters are all wrong. It says ‘A-N-T.’ ” “It’s just bug spray. Joanna, if you wanted to hurt us, you should have used the real thing. Don’t force Iris to lie for your theater.” I stared at the bottle in Dad’s hand. The word was gone, replaced by a smear of gray plastic. It looked like a cheap prop. Dad’s jaw tightened. Uncle Lucas grabbed the bottle and hurled it at Mom’s head. Thud. The plastic struck her temple. Her head lurched to the side, hitting the floor hard. A fresh line of red opened near her eye. “Are you insane, Joanna?” Uncle Lucas’ voice was thick with disgust. “You think a fake bottle and a lying brat will make us pity you? You’re pathetic.” Dad let out a short, sharp laugh. “To lie about your own death just for a moment of attention,” Dad said. “You’re even lower than I thought.” He didn’t see Mom’s fingers twitching against the floor. Beside her was the bottle of antifreeze. I remembered the day three years ago when she first bought that bottle. The smell of the basement was the same then. A debt collector had pinned me to the wall, his hand crushing my collarbone. “If you die, the debt goes to the girl,” the man had snarled. Mom had dropped the cap. She had crawled to them, her forehead touching the mud on their boots. “I won’t die. I’ll do anything. Just don’t touch my daughter.” She had endured three years of hell for me. And now, the light in her eyes was flickering out because of them. I stumbled toward Dad. My legs felt like lead, but I forced them to move. I dropped to my knees in front of his polished leather shoes. Thud. I slammed my forehead into the concrete. The impact sent a shockwave through my skull. I did it again. Thud. Warm liquid began to drip down my nose, mixing with the grit on the floor. “Dad, Mom’s in pain! Please, just look at her! Save her!” Dad just stepped back. He looked down at me, his eyes flat and cold, as if he were looking at a stain on his carpet. “Look at her, Joanna. Look at what you’ve turned our daughter into. A liar. A beggar.” “No!” I shrieked, my voice breaking. “Stop…” That moment, Mom let out a soft, wet sound. She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers brushing the dust near my knees. “Iris… stop. Don’t beg them. I’m… fine.” She tried to push herself up. Her elbows gave way. The next second, she rolled onto the cold concrete. A low, guttural moan tore from her throat—a sound of raw, physical agony that cut right through me. “Mom!”

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The afternoon I was about to meet my online boyfriend in real life, Zack went live on Twitch with a special stream. The stream title was painfully eye-catching: [Exposing My “Mega-Size” Online Girlfriend — Donate $1,000 and I’ll take her out for vegan food!] Ten minutes after going live, he pasted a photo of my high school graduation picture in the upper-right corner of the screen. Back then, I weighed 250 pounds, had a face full of acne, and wore a school uniform that looked ready to split open. The chat was instantly buried under a flood of “LMAO” and vomiting emojis. “Zack, are you seriously risking your life for views?” “I’ll bet ten rockets he won’t even be able to squeeze into a standard booth at the diner later.” Zack watched the donation total climb and smiled with obvious smugness. “Guys, don’t blame me for being ruthless.” “Once she shows up and gets stuck in the seat, I’m breaking up with her on the spot.” I was sitting in a high-end nail salon downtown, watching the livestream on my phone. Over the past six months, I had cut out all junk food and sweated it out in the gym. I had gone from 250 pounds to 110, and I had lost more than fat, too, I had also lost the coward who used to bend over backward to please everyone. As the nail technician painted the last bit of cherry-red polish onto my nails, she marveled at how I glowed like a fairy goddess. I casually used my side account to tip ten rockets in Zack’s stream, with a message attached: “You said you were going to break up, so don’t go back on your word later.”

Inside the livestream, the gorgeous explosion effect from the ten rockets instantly wiped the mocking comments clean off the screen. Zack had been lounging back in a sofa chair and playing with his hair, but when he saw the effect, he straightened up at once. He leaned toward the screen and saw my donation message and the profile picture I was using. That avatar was a candid shot from last month, when I had done a fashion shoot for a niche magazine. My side profile looked cool and stunning, my jawline sharp, and my deep eyes hidden in the dim lighting with a strong, aggressive edge. Zack let out a whistle into the microphone. “Wow, thanks to the mysterious rich beauty named S for the ten rockets. Gorgeous, looks like you really support me getting back to single life?” The chat exploded again. “Zack, the rich girl has a crush on you!” “If that avatar is the real person, I’ll eat my keyboard right now. That chin is sharper than Zack’s future.” Zack smiled as he brushed his carefully styled bangs, his tone dripping with the arrogance he couldn’t hide. “Guys, it’s not that I’m cruel. I’ve been in an online relationship with this Selena for a year, and she still doesn’t even dare to turn on video. Every day it’s either those clingy little messages or snacks she sends me.” “My girlfriend, Zack’s girlfriend, at the very least has to be someone I can take out in public, right?” He pointed at the old photo of me from when I weighed 250 pounds in the upper-right corner of the screen. “Look at that build. If I really took her out for burgers today, I’d be worried she’d treat me like a side dish and swallow me whole.” The chat immediately filled with laughing reaction stickers. I stared at the handsome but disgusting face on the screen, calmly picked up my phone, and opened his private messages. Just a few minutes earlier, he had still been messaging me there, sweet-talking me. “Baby, I’m already at the restaurant. I’ve prepared a huge surprise for you today.” “Don’t be scared. No matter what anyone thinks of you, you’ll always be the cutest in my eyes.” This was his so-called surprise, using a gentle, considerate lie to keep me in place and make sure I would show up on time. All while, in front of a hundred thousand people in his livestream, he was shredding my dignity and stomping it into the ground for those ridiculous views and donations. Once upon a time, I really thought he was different. When I first came to the U.S., I gained a ton of weight because I couldn’t adjust to the food and the pressure from school. When I walked across campus, some guys would even deliberately go around me. I met Zack when he added me after we got matched in an online game. He was a huge esports streamer with tens of millions of followers, and he said he liked my voice and my attention to detail. He also said that looks were the most boring shell, and that soul compatibility was the rarest thing of all. For that vague thing called compatibility, over the past six months, not only did I help him edit his gaming videos, I also used the money I earned from part-time jobs to buy him expensive gaming gear. Even after I started that hellish fat-loss phase and was so exhausted every day I could barely lift my arms, I still stayed up late to keep him company through those so-called “low points.” I had once thought that was mutual healing, but now it was just a joke. After the nail tech finished my nails, she led me over to the mirror and interrupted my thoughts. “Honey, take a look. Do you like them?” I looked up at myself in the full-length mirror. The burgundy silk slip dress hugged my waist tightly, my collarbones were defined, and my wavy hair fell over my pale shoulders. That fat girl, wrapped in fat and insecurity, had long since died in countless late nights drenched in sweat. I stood up, picked up the sunglasses on the table, and casually sent Zack a message. “I’m almost there. I hope your surprise won’t disappoint me.”

I pushed open the heavy glass door of Starlight Diner, and a wave of vintage jazz mixed with the smell of coffee rushed at me. It was an old-school American retro diner from the last century, with red leather booths and flashing neon signs setting the mood perfectly. I walked in my high heels to the hidden booth in the far corner and sat down, then ordered a sparkling water with no sugar. In the center of the room, across two rows of seats, Zack’s livestream setup with its ring light stood out like a sore thumb. Zack was talking away at the camera. Today he wore an expensive custom black shirt with two buttons undone at the collar, and the Patek Philippe on his wrist caught the diner lights. Sitting beside him was his longtime partner, Chloe. Chloe was a girl wearing a pure white floral dress, her long blonde hair styled neatly. She covered her mouth and laughed softly at the camera. “Everyone, don’t say that. Selena might just have gotten fat because she’s been sick.” “Zack also chose this classy restaurant with no high-calorie food today just to encourage her to lose weight.” As she spoke, she reached over and patted Zack on the arm. “Zack has always had such a soft heart. Don’t let his harsh words fool you. Once he sees her later, he’ll definitely still take good care of her.” The chat instantly flooded with praise. “Chloe is such an angel. So kind.” “Too bad Zack is blind. He has an absolute bombshell right beside him and still insists on going online-dating a giant.” “Strongly demanding that Zack and Chloe get together!” I watched Chloe’s understanding, reasonable act with cold eyes. She seemed like she was helping me out, but every word she said was really nailing down the label of “fat, pathetic, and deserving of pity” on me. Zack clearly enjoyed being surrounded by adoration. He leaned toward Chloe and raised an eyebrow at the camera. “If she really crushes the booth later, Chloe, you’ll have to cover the damages for me.” The two of them laughed together in front of the camera, and just then, a waiter came over carrying my sparkling water. “Ma’am, your water.” That greeting sounded a little out of place in this section of the restaurant. I took off my sunglasses and set them on the table, then let my gaze drift casually toward the VIP half-booth on the other side of the diner. A dark red curtain half-covered it, and inside sat a man. He wore a perfectly tailored dark gray suit, with a pair of silver-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. He was holding half an unlit cigar between his fingers, and his gaze crossed most of the restaurant and landed straight on me. That look was razor-sharp, like he was sizing up prey, yet it also carried a coldness that saw through everything. I didn’t know him, but the pressure around him was so strong it even outweighed all the noise in the diner. The eye contact lasted only a second before he lowered his gaze and kept listening to the people opposite him report to him nervously. At the same time, because I had taken off my sunglasses, a lot of people in the restaurant had already started looking at me. Zack also noticed the disturbance. He turned around, and the second his eyes landed on me, his whole body visibly froze. I lifted the glass, my red lips touching the rim as I took an unhurried sip of sparkling water. Zack’s throat bobbed, and he nearly lost his grip on the iced Americano in his hand. He didn’t recognize me at all. He was just instinctively drawn to a completely unfamiliar, aggressively beautiful face. He didn’t even notice that the camera had tilted off to the side. Chloe followed his gaze and looked over, and the smile on her face froze instantly, a trace of fierce, guarded hostility flashing in her eyes. Zack suddenly muted the microphone and leaned toward the camera to lower his voice. “Guys, the giant still hasn’t shown up.” “But I think I just saw a real muse in this restaurant.”

Zack took his drink and left his ring-light livestream spot, walking straight toward my table. He walked with total confidence, even deliberately adjusting his shirt collar, nailing that rich, devoted young-master vibe. “Excuse me, sorry to bother you.” He stopped at the seat opposite my booth and flashed the signature smile that had once won over countless girls on Twitch. “This diner’s AC is always blasting, and I think you need a martini that suits the place better than a boring sparkling water.” “Can I buy you a drink?” I lifted my eyes and slowly moved my gaze from his Patek Philippe to his face. This face had once sent me endless sweet talk through the screen in countless late nights, and now it was using the same expression to hit on a woman he thought was completely strange. I didn’t refuse. I just tapped lightly on the table with my fingers. “Sit.” A flash of triumph crossed Zack’s eyes, and he sat down without hesitation. He took out his phone and deliberately left his obvious million-follower streamer profile visible. “I’m Zack. I usually work in esports investments and streaming. What about you? Here alone waiting for someone?” “Sort of.” I swirled the glass in my hand. “Waiting for my online boyfriend. He said he’d give me a huge surprise today.” Zack visibly paused for a moment, then let out a charming little laugh. “Online dating? Someone like you, a top-tier hottie, still needs to online-date?” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes turning intensely predatory. “That guy must have no idea how lucky he is. If it were me, I’d never let you sit here waiting for more than a minute.” “Is that so?” I looked straight into his eyes. “But I heard you have an online girlfriend too?” “And it looks like you’re over there humiliating her at the next table for views.” Zack’s expression flickered awkwardly for a split second. But he quickly recovered and put on a look that was helpless and deeply affectionate. “You saw that just now? Sorry you had to witness that.” He sighed and leaned back against the booth. “That doesn’t even count as online dating. It’s just a mess I couldn’t avoid.” “She’s been pestering me for a whole year, sending me hundreds of messages every day. I’m just too kind. I never had the heart to reject her.” “Until I found out she wasn’t just a 250-pound fat girl, she’d also been tricking me with fake photos.” Zack spread his hands, his tone full of disgust. “The only reason I did this today was to make her give up for good. I don’t want her clinging to my life like a leech anymore.” I listened to these lies that twisted the truth upside down and only felt sick and amused at the same time. She was sending him hundreds of messages every day? Who was the one calling me over and over at three in the morning when his call wouldn’t go through, forcing me to crawl out of bed and play ranked matches with him? Who was the one who swore after receiving the limited-edition keyboard I bought him that he’d never marry anyone else and would only marry me someday? Just then, the soft sound of high heels approached. Chloe came over carrying her phone. “Zack, the fans are asking where you ran off to.” She stood beside the booth and looked down at the silk slip dress I was wearing, then finally stopped on my face, which had no flaws at all. “This lady looks a little unfamiliar. Is she a new streamer in our circle?” Her smile was extremely deceptive, but her tone was barbed. “Zack is just too warmhearted. He always wants to mentor newcomers when he sees them.” “But miss, Zack’s taste is very picky. Just having a pretty face won’t get you into our circle.” I looked at the pair of them performing in sync. They were still lost in the superiority they had built for themselves, thinking they were the absolute rulers of this game. “He is picky.” I picked up my phone from the table and swiped the screen on with my fingertip. “But I’d like to see just how picky he can really be.”

I pressed the shortcut key I knew all too well on my phone screen. Just two seconds later, Zack’s phone, tucked inside his suit pocket, suddenly rang. It was an extremely childish sweet-girl Japanese song, and under the background of one American jazz song after another, it sounded harsh and ridiculous. He had insisted on setting it as my exclusive ringtone back then, saying it was to prove I was the most special person on his list. Zack’s expression changed instantly. He fumbled to pull out his phone and, without even looking at the screen, hit decline. “Spam call.” He forced out a smile. “These annoying calls really are getting more and more common.” I looked at him, and instead of putting down my phone, I hit the call button again. The familiar Japanese song echoed above the booth once more. This time, Chloe’s eyes fell on Zack’s phone screen. There, in bright letters, flashed a name: [My baby Selena]. Chloe froze. She looked at the phone, then at me across from her, as if she’d been struck by lightning. “You…” Following Chloe’s gaze, Zack finally looked down at his screen. His expression completely stiffened at that moment. All the fake affection, arrogance, and ease he had been wearing vanished instantly. He stared at me so hard his eyes looked like they might pop out. “You’re Selena?” Zack’s voice even changed pitch, and everyone in the restaurant turned to look this way. I tossed my phone onto the table, and the metal case clacked against the glass with a crisp sound. “What? Don’t recognize me anymore?” I leaned back in my chair and looked at him coldly. “Didn’t you just say I was like a leech clinging to your life? Didn’t you say bringing me here for vegan food today was to make me give up for good?” Zack’s chest rose and fell violently. His gaze kept darting over my slim arms, my clearly defined collarbones, and the face that looked nothing like the one in the photo. Right now, he simply could not connect the 250-pound fat girl to the top-tier beauty sitting in front of him, the one he had almost just tried to sweet-talk. The livestream setup that was still running had recorded everything clearly. The chat had already gone insane, scrolling hundreds of messages per second. “What’s going on? That hottie is Selena?!” “The insanely gorgeous girl Zack just hit on is the same giant online girlfriend he was about to publicly humiliate?” “Holy crap, this has to be the biggest reversal of the year. Zack’s peacock routine from just now was all caught on camera!” Zack clearly realized the livestream was still going too, and the reason he usually prided himself on his composure completely shattered. He shot up to his feet, and his handsome face twisted with rage and embarrassment. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” He braced both hands on the table and stared me down. “You’ve been thin this whole time, haven’t you? You watched me in the livestream looking like an idiot while you played me like a fool. Did that make you feel accomplished?!” I met his gaze without any fear. “You’re the one who wanted to turn me into your cash cow. Since you dared to set up this bet, then you should be ready to face the consequences of losing everything.” I picked up the martini he had ordered for me, then turned my wrist. The cold liquor splashed perfectly onto Zack’s carefully styled face. “Now it’s you who isn’t good enough for me.” The drink dripped from his chin onto his expensive custom shirt, leaving ugly dark stains. From childhood to now, when had Zack ever suffered such a humiliating insult? His eyes immediately turned red, and after muttering a curse, he reached out to grab my wrist hard. Just as his hand was about to touch me, a large hand with sharp knuckles and a Patek Philippe black-gold watch on the wrist clamped down hard on Zack’s wrist. Then, a cold, deep voice full of absolute authority sounded behind Zack. “Zack, who gave you the guts to touch her with your filthy hands?”

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The man who funded my education for years went bankrupt and lost his sight. I found him, brought him home, and took care of him. He stared blankly with unseeing eyes, his voice fragile and thick with unshed tears. “Don’t be so good to me, Harper. I’m thirty. I’m a ruined man. I don’t deserve you.” I leaned over to gently wipe the dampness from his cheek. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw his adopted son leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, watching him with a frigid glare. “He’s right. You are thirty,” the boy said softly. He shifted his gaze to me, a smirk playing on his lips—a smile wrapped in barbed wire, radiating a storm. “And me?” he said. “I’m only eighteen.” 1 It was my third year in the corporate world when the news broke: Arthur Harrison had lost everything. His massive gamble on a tech merger had failed spectacularly. He was wiped out. His rivals hadn’t hesitated to kick him while he was down, and amidst the chaos, a car accident had taken his sight. “Arthur Harrison just didn’t have the teeth for it. A businessman with a heart that soft was never going to last,” my coworkers gossiped over their cubicle walls. “God, he used to be Chicago’s most eligible bachelor. Now look at him. He’s worse off than a beggar on the street.” “Harper? Are you okay? You look awful,” one of the women finally noticed me. I stared at them for a second, my mind entirely blank, before I grabbed my purse. “Sarah, I have a family emergency. I need to take the afternoon off.” If you had told me three years ago that my reunion with Arthur Harrison would happen in a greasy, linoleum-floored diner near Chicago Med, I would have thought you were insane. Three years ago, he was a wildly successful young entrepreneur. He had been the keynote speaker at my college graduation. He had stood at the podium—radiant, effortless, and devastatingly handsome. The campus anonymous boards had talked about him for weeks. Now, his eyes were dull and unfocused. His long fingers groped blindly across the sticky Formica table. I saw a smear of ketchup near his sleeve and quickly caught his hand. With my other hand, I took a wet wipe and scrubbed the table clean. “Stop fussing and just spit it out!” a brash, impatient voice snapped. I turned my head. Sitting across from Arthur was a college kid radiating pure, unadulterated hostility. He had a shaved head, a slit in his left eyebrow, and a silver stud in his ear. He knocked his knuckles hard against the table, barking like a cornered stray. “I’m warning you, the money is gone. You could shake him upside down and you wouldn’t find a dime, so drop the Good Samaritan act.” “I apologize. My son’s temper gets the better of him. He didn’t mean to offend you,” Arthur said softly. “Why are you being polite to her? Anyone looking for you right now is a debt collector.” “Jaxon, that’s enough.” They started arguing. Arthur kept his voice low, trying to de-escalate, but Jaxon was relentless. He was stubborn and vicious, throwing words like punches until Arthur’s pale cheeks flushed with humiliation. I stared at the rigid, defensive line of Arthur’s back for three full seconds before I realized I was still holding his hand. I looked down. There was a tiny, distinct mole resting right on the webbing between his thumb and index finger. Only when Arthur’s flush deepened and those cloudy, unseeing eyes turned vaguely in my direction did I finally let go. “Mr. Harrison, you misunderstand. I’m not here for money. My name is Harper. Harper Hayes. I’m one of the students you sponsored.” Arthur blinked slowly, his brow furrowing as he searched his memory. I figured he had forgotten. He had dropped out of an Ivy League school to build a startup that changed the industry, and in his quest to change the world, he had funded the education of hundreds, if not thousands, of underprivileged kids. But then, Arthur smiled. It was the same smile from three years ago, when he had his bodyguard hand me a bouquet of flowers at graduation, waving goodbye to me through the tinted glass of his town car. “I remember you,” he said softly. “All the other kids called me Arthur in their letters. You always called me Mr. Harrison.” He remembered. I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to suppress the sudden, violent hammering of my heart. “Mr. Harrison,” I said, my voice remarkably steady. “If you don’t mind, you can stay at my place for now.” Jaxon crossed his arms. “He can’t pay rent.” “He doesn’t need to.” Jaxon scowled. “He needs money for medical bills.” “I’ll pay them.” Jaxon narrowed his eyes, assessing me. “You’ve got a good job, you’re pretty. Why the hell are you anchoring yourself to dead weight?” Arthur turned his blind gaze toward me, silent, lost, and deeply worried. I tapped the table, a flicker of genuine anger sparking in my chest at the term “dead weight.” When I spoke, my tone had turned to ice. I looked right at Jaxon. “Seven years ago, I had nothing. If Mr. Harrison hadn’t paid for my schooling, I would have been trapped in a dead-end factory town for the rest of my life, popping out kids.” I sat up straight and looked back at Arthur. “I will remember that grace until the day I die. I am here to pay my debt. He is not dead weight, and I refuse to let him sink into the mud. I will hold him up. I will carry him.” 2 It took some convincing, but Arthur eventually moved into my apartment. He was hesitant, but he had no other options. The banks had seized everything. He was penniless, homeless, and responsible for Jaxon—the orphaned son of his late older brother. Jaxon had just started his freshman year of college. As far as I was concerned, he was a walking lawsuit waiting to happen. But he was Arthur’s kid, which meant I had to tolerate him. Blindness made every little thing a monumental task for Arthur. I held onto his sleeve, gently guiding him through every room, letting him touch the edges of the furniture, the doorways, the counters. He smiled, apologizing for the trouble, assuring me he had memorized the layout. But that very first night, he mistook the living room for his bedroom. I was lying on the couch in the dark, scrolling through my phone, when I noticed him stop dead in his tracks by the wall. I paused, curious. When he didn’t call out, I realized he had no idea I was there. I smiled to myself and opened my mouth to let him know. But before I could speak, Arthur—staring blindly at the drywall—began to unbutton his dress shirt. Inch by inch, his chest was exposed in the moonlight. He slipped the shirt off, draping it over his forearm. He pressed his right hand against the wall for balance, and then— He reached for the buckle of his belt. 3 I lay paralyzed on the couch, instantly regretting not speaking up two seconds earlier. Arthur’s skin was pale, his muscles lean and tightly coiled. Bathed in the silver light spilling through the window, he looked like a statue carved from moonstone. Left in nothing but a pair of dark grey boxer briefs, he trailed his hand along the wall, trying to navigate toward the bed. Except he was in the wrong room. After a few steps, his hand hit the flat screen of the TV. A flash of sheer panic crossed his face. Arthur was a dignified man. I doubt he had ever in his life stripped down in a woman’s living room uninvited. His hands began to shake wildly as he felt his way along the wall. It took him an agonizingly long time to finally find the door to the guest bedroom. He practically fled into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. On the couch, the breath I had been holding in my lungs finally escaped in a violent, trembling exhale. He had a mole on his left shoulder blade, right near the curve of his collarbone. It looked like a dark, tiny fish swimming in a pale pond. Beauty is marked by its flaws. For some reason, that phrase echoed in my head. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I lay there until the early hours of the morning, waiting until I was absolutely certain Arthur was asleep before I silently crept off the couch and slipped into my own bedroom. 4 The first time I saw Arthur Harrison was at my high school. It was a decaying, underfunded public school in a dying Rust Belt town. Arthur was twenty-three at the time. His startup had just secured its first major round of funding, and the world was his oyster. He was brimming with energy, desperate to use his newfound wealth to do some good. I stood at the very back of the auditorium, craning my neck through the sea of heads to catch a glimpse of his striking, expressive face. He was so young—he looked more like a student than I did, with my heavy, dead-eyed exhaustion. I knew the principal thought this “rich kid” was an easy mark. He had padded the scholarship list with the kids of local politicians and school board members. I, who was actually on the verge of dropping out to work shifts at the local diner, had been pushed to the very bottom of the list. Small towns are like that. Corrupt in the pettiest of ways. I stood in line without a shred of hope, zoning out, trying to calculate how many shifts I’d need to afford rent once I quit school. The line moved fast. Suddenly, I was standing right in front of him. He looked at me, glanced down at my calloused hands and the frayed, muddy hems of my jeans, and knelt down slightly to meet my eyes. “I’m moving your name to the top of the list,” he said softly. “Focus on your grades. You won’t have to worry about college tuition, I promise.” “Mr. Harrison, you can’t—” the principal panicked. The top of the list meant a full-ride sponsorship. Arthur smiled and politely shut him down. He looked gentle, but his tone was absolute steel. Watching his profile, I suddenly felt like a weed that had sprouted in a manicured garden. A hot flush of shame crawled up my neck. I hid my hands behind my back, terrified he would look too closely at the scars on my knuckles or the cheap fabric of my clothes. He was out of my league in every conceivable way. Over the years, I watched him from afar in crowded rooms. He was a good man, fiercely dedicated to his foundation. Because our county was so poor, he came back every semester to check on the kids. We spoke privately a few times, but it was always strictly about my academics. He was warm, but it was the same blanket warmth he gave everyone else. From high school through college, I wrote him letters. Once a month, like clockwork. I was terrified that if I wrote too often, I’d annoy him, but if I wrote too little, he’d forget I existed. In one of his early replies, he jokingly asked why I was so formal. Why “Mr. Harrison”? The other kids called him Arthur. The bolder ones even called him Artie. I never dared tell him the truth. I wanted to be special. Even if that “specialness” was entirely in my own head. Like a stray dog guarding a bone, I quietly idolized him. He was my personal saint. Back then, I didn’t fully understand what my obsession was, or why I was so fiercely opposed to treating him like a peer. But lying in bed now, I finally understood. 5 I had just experienced my first wet dream. It wasn’t about the Hollywood actor my friends obsessed over, or the perfectly nice accountant my coworker had tried to set me up with. It was about Arthur. In the dream, his shirt was unbuttoned. He was lying back against my pillows, a faint, devastating flush on his cheeks. A slow smile spread across his lips as he asked me what I wanted to call him now. And dream-me was terrifyingly bold. I straddled him, burying my face in his neck, and murmured, “Mine.” Then I bit down softly on the little mole on his hand. I kissed my way up his forearm, and finally, I sucked on the dark mark near his collarbone until the pale skin around it bloomed into a violent red bruise. Arthur let out a low groan. “Harper,” he whispered, his voice dark and heavy. “Let me.” He turned his head, gripping my wrists, pressing his lips to my pulse point. He looked up at me through his lashes—feral, seductive, entirely in control. “I’m older than you,” he murmured. “I know more than you. I should be the one teaching you.” I woke up gasping for air. From the kitchen, I heard the loud hum of the exhaust fan. I scrambled out of bed, threw on some clothes, and practically ran into the kitchen. Standing by the stove was Jaxon. He was flipping an egg in a skillet with one hand and holding a cigarette in the other. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung jeans. My pink checkered apron was tied around his waist, the thin straps stretching tightly across his muscular back. He heard me, turned around, and glared through the smoke. “Look what time it is. You finally awake?” I offered an awkward smile and reached for the skillet handle. Jaxon yanked it away, our forearms brushing. “Sit down, it’s almost done,” he snapped. “And go wake him up. He’s got this weird complex about being a burden. He’ll starve in there before he asks you for food.” I hurried over and knocked on the guest room door. “Come in.” I pushed the door open. Arthur was already awake, sitting perfectly straight at the desk. His hands were gently tracing the contours of a small clay sculpture. My heart dropped into my stomach. How the hell had I forgotten to hide that? It was a bust I had made during a weekend pottery class. Somehow, subconsciously, the face I had sculpted looked exactly like him. He’s blind, I reminded myself frantically. He can’t tell what it is. Arthur tilted his head up. In the morning light, the grey film over his eyes was highly visible. He smiled at the empty space in front of him. “Thank you for taking me in, Harper. Did you make this? I can’t quite feel what it’s supposed to be, but I imagine it’s beautiful.” “I made it, yeah.” His thumb gently brushed against the cheek of the clay face, right over a fingerprint I had accidentally left behind. I cleared my throat loudly, snatched the sculpture from his hands, and shoved it into a drawer. “It’s just a tree,” I lied smoothly. “It’s really poorly done. Don’t worry about it.” “A tree…?” Arthur murmured, a small smile playing on his lips. The way he smiled sent a sudden, electric jolt straight to my core, bringing the wet dream rushing back in vivid detail. My face burned. I hated myself in that moment. I felt entirely devoid of morals. This was Arthur Harrison. A fundamentally good man who had hit rock bottom. When he got back on his feet, he belonged with a refined, elegant woman from his own world. And here I was, a nobody whose life he had saved, harboring dirty, filthy thoughts about him while he was vulnerable. I was disgusting. I cursed myself a thousand times over, forcing the twisted, heavy desire out of my mind. But a dark, pessimistic voice in the back of my head whispered: How long is your willpower really going to last? Arthur turned his face toward the window, his expression serene. He didn’t know I had taken a silent step closer. I was so close I could see the fine, golden hairs on his jawline. “Is the sun out?” he asked softly. “I think… I think I can see a little bit of light.” “It is. It’s a beautiful day.” I stood there, just watching him. The sun warmed the earth, but Arthur had warmed my life. Standing in this tiny room, it felt as if my own personal saint had fallen right into my hands. 6 Breakfast was a struggle for him. His chopsticks kept missing his plate, clicking against the table. Without thinking, I picked up a piece of egg and guided it to his mouth. Arthur’s face flushed a deep red. He chewed, looking profoundly uncomfortable. Jaxon hadn’t touched his food. He sat across from us, arms crossed, watching the exchange with cold, hard eyes. He hadn’t said a word. “Jaxon, aren’t you going to eat?” I asked, baffled by the sudden mood swing. He had been fine in the kitchen. “I ate before my run. Not all of us sleep till noon,” he said, his voice flat and hard. “Jaxon! She works full time. There’s nothing wrong with sleeping in on a Saturday,” Arthur scolded, frowning. Jaxon stared at him deadpan, his jaw ticking as if he were grinding his teeth. Then, completely deliberately, Jaxon stretched his long legs out under the small table, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, you’re right! Good thing it’s Saturday. I’m staying here all day.” As he stretched, his foot bumped mine, forcing my knee directly into the side of Arthur’s thigh. I jerked back like I had been burned. Arthur didn’t seem to notice the contact. He just frowned in Jaxon’s direction. “Jaxon, behave.” “It’s fine,” I said quickly. “He’s family. I know he’s worried about leaving you here alone with me.” Arthur didn’t say anything else. But later, when Jaxon went to the bathroom for a smoke break, Arthur reached out, his fingers finding my sleeve. He leaned in close. Because of his blindness, his spatial awareness was shot. If I hadn’t leaned back, his chest would have pressed directly against mine. Arthur tilted his head slightly, his sightless eyes searching, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Why do you call him Jaxon?” “What?” “You’ve only ever called me Mr. Harrison.” “I—” My brain short-circuited. He was so close I could smell him. Clean soap, cedar, and the faint, warm scent of his skin. “Harper…” “I just—” Whatever shred of sanity I had left was rapidly evaporating. He looked so innocent. He clearly had no idea how intimate this was. No wonder. He couldn’t see the frantic, desperate pounding of my pulse at my throat. A ruined, beautiful man. Like a fragile glass chalice placed right at the edge of a table. If I just leaned in a fraction of an inch, I could kiss him. Would he even know it was my lips, or would he think my hand had brushed against him? I could lie to him. Clatter! I sprang out of my chair so fast it tipped over backwards. Arthur flinched violently. I grabbed his arms to keep him from falling, my teeth clamped shut to keep my emotions from spilling out. “I call you Mr. Harrison because you’re my benefactor.” “Can’t a benefactor be a friend?” “A benefactor is a benefactor.” The bathroom door clicked open. Jaxon stepped out, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He had the eyes of a feral wolf, and they locked directly onto me. I looked away, my face burning, praying he hadn’t seen exactly what I had been thinking. Jaxon just let out a low, mocking scoff. 7 After Arthur went to bed, Jaxon knocked on my bedroom door and let himself in. He dropped into my desk chair, sprawling his legs out, the silver stud in his ear catching the light. He tapped his knuckles on the desk like a detective at an interrogation. “Alright, out with it. What do you actually want?” “What?” “Are you after his equity? Corporate secrets? His contact list?” I laughed out loud. “I’m a middle manager at a logistics company. I have zero interest in tech equity or his billionaire contacts. Why would you even think that?” Jaxon’s face flushed. He was only eighteen, and his forced, hardened-man persona instantly cracked. He ran a hand over his buzzed head, frustrated. “Then you have to want something! Don’t tell me you… you want…” I looked at him, amused. He stammered, unable to finish his sentence, his face turning the color of a tomato. I sighed. “Do you read comics? I have the vintage Calvin and Hobbes box set in the living room if you’re bored.” Jaxon looked like he wanted to spontaneously combust. “Who the hell reads Calvin and Hobbes! Stop trying to change the subject!” Because he was Arthur’s kid, every time I looked at him, I saw traces of Arthur. It softened my edges. I looked at him gently. “Okay, take your time. What do you think I want?” He forced the words out like he was choking on them. “…Sex.” I blinked in surprise. Jaxon glared at me, defensive and utterly humiliated. When he saw that I looked genuinely shocked—and not a bit guilty—he realized he had severely misread the situation. Too proud to admit defeat, he raised his voice. “Fine! I get it! But you can’t blame me for thinking it! I’m good-looking, I’m built, girls literally line up outside the library to talk to me. I thought you were just using him to get to me!” His voice dropped to an embarrassed mumble. “He’s sponsored so many kids, and you’re the only idiot who actually showed up to wade into this mess. I thought you had an ulterior motive… I didn’t know you were just genuinely stupid.” He scratched his jaw, his bicep flexing. “I, uh… I misjudged you. My bad.” He stood up quickly. “Anyway. I’m gonna go do push-ups in the living room. See ya.” I shook my head, laughing softly. Half a second later, Jaxon ducked back into the room, grabbed the Calvin and Hobbes books off the shelf, and sprinted away. Who’s the stupid one here? 8 After Jaxon went back to his dorm, it was just Arthur and me. Over the next few days, I put tactile stickers on the microwave buttons and his meal prep containers. I added foam corner guards to all the furniture, and I bought him a folding cane so he could navigate the apartment safely. Most things were manageable. But there was one major hurdle: showering. I was terrified to leave him alone in the wet, slippery bathroom. But I also couldn’t just pull up a chair and sit outside the shower curtain like a creep. Arthur gave me a brave, strained smile. “It’s fine, Harper. I can manage.” The sheer vulnerability in his voice completely destroyed my hesitation. Fine. I’ll stand guard. I couldn’t risk him breaking a hip. I took his hand, guiding his fingers over the shampoo, the body wash, and the temperature dials, explaining everything until he had it memorized. Only then did I pull the curtain shut. The water turned on, and my mind instantly went into overdrive. Every single one of my senses was hyper-fixated on the silhouette behind the thin, frosted plastic curtain. I clenched my fists, staring aggressively at my own knees, trying to focus on literally anything else. “Harper.” Maybe it was the acoustics of the bathroom, but the way he dragged out my name sounded thick, low, and incredibly intimate. Intimate? I was losing my mind. I glared at my hands, wishing I could physically reach into my brain and scrub it with bleach. “Harper?” “Yeah?” I croaked, turning around. The curtain was pulled back an inch. A wet, muscular arm and a sliver of a sharp V-line were exposed. He held out his open palm, looking confused. “I’m sorry, my memory is failing me. Did I just pump the body wash or the shampoo?” “Body wash,” I said, my voice sounding incredibly tight. A deeply paranoid thought flickered through my brain: Is he… is he flirting with me? “Oh,” he smiled softly, looking down. “Losing my sight has made me so clumsy. So stupid.” The guilt hit me like a freight train. I was a monster for sexualizing this man’s tragedy. “You’re not stupid,” I whispered. To me, bankrupt or blind, he would always be the brilliant, kind man who changed the world. Even if he only changed my little corner of it. He wasn’t clumsy. He was surviving. The water shut off. “I’m done. But… I think I forgot to bring my clean clothes in.” “It’s okay. I have them.” I grabbed the neat stack of clothes from his bed and handed them around the curtain. “What’s this?” “Your t-shirt. The tag is in the back.” “And this?” “…” I coughed into my fist. “Your… boxers.” Arthur smiled warmly. “Thank you.” Once he was dressed, he pulled the curtain back. I took his arm to guide him out, but I noticed he was walking stiffly. “Are you okay?” Arthur’s ears turned crimson. He stayed silent for a long time before he finally muttered, “Harper, the underwear you bought me… I think it’s a size too small.” 9 I broke into a coughing fit. I felt a bizarre, overwhelming wave of guilt, like I was actively bullying a saint. Days passed. I went to work; Arthur stayed home. Things were peaceful. Except a few times, when I got off work early, I would hear a voice through his closed bedroom door. He seemed to be on phone calls—conference calls, maybe. The voice sounded like his, but completely devoid of the soft, broken vulnerability he showed me. This voice was ice-cold, commanding, and arrogant. Like a king executing his enemies. It sounded so different I convinced myself he must be listening to an audiobook. Because I was rushing home every day, my coworkers finally caught on. “Harper, do you have a boyfriend?” one of them asked, smirking. I shook my head frantically. She clapped her hands. “Oh, thank God. I thought I missed my window. That guy from accounting I set you up with? He really liked you. He wants to take you to dinner.” “How about tonight? No time like the present! He’s a great guy, tall, good benefits…” I vaguely remembered the guy. He was quiet, polite, and completely inoffensive. My coworker was so pushy I couldn’t find a polite way to say no, so I caved. Before I left the office, I called Arthur. I told him I had to work late and that I had ordered delivery for him. Arthur didn’t complain. He just told me to be careful and take an Uber home if it got too late. I wanted to explain that I wasn’t working, but I stopped myself. It was none of his business. He was just being polite. If I over-explained my whereabouts, he’d think I was full of myself. Dinner dragged on. By eight o’clock, my coworker, who had tagged along as a wingwoman, dragged us to a movie. When I finally got into an Uber to head home, I checked my phone. It was past 11 PM. I had five missed calls. All from Arthur. He had called exactly once every hour. Controlled, but borderline obsessive. He had left one text: Harper, where are you? I’m worried. When I unlocked the front door, I froze. Arthur was sitting on the hardwood floor in the dark. He was soaking wet. He was staring blankly ahead, the faint streetlights casting harsh shadows over his sharp cheekbones, making him look devastatingly frail and abandoned. I dropped my bag and rushed over, grabbing a towel from the bathroom to dry him off. “What happened to you?” “I slipped in the bathroom,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “My knee gave out. I couldn’t get up. I’m sorry, Harper. I’m such a burden to you.” “Where does it hurt?” I panicked, touching his leg. His knee was deeply bruised. The guilt was suffocating. I should never have silenced my phone for a stupid movie. I knew I had a blind man at home relying on me. How could I have been so selfish? I looked down at his damp hair. “I’m so sorry. I got held up.” Arthur shook his head slightly. “Where were you?” “…I met up with some friends.” Arthur’s eyelashes fluttered. “It sounds like you had a wonderful time. That’s good. I truly hate the idea that my broken body is ruining your normal life.” “You’re not broken! And you’re not ruining anything!” Arthur offered a pale, tragic smile. “Aren’t I? When you didn’t come home, I thought… I thought you had finally gotten sick of dealing with me.” He let out a self-deprecating laugh. “I was just… so lonely. I can’t see anything, the apartment was so quiet, and I panicked. That’s why I called you so many times. I’m sorry. I have no right to demand your time when you’ve already been so generous to me.” I stared at him in the dark. I took a deep breath, making a decision. “Stay here. I’ll go get you some dry clothes.” When I walked into his bedroom, I pulled out my phone and sent a polite rejection text to the guy from accounting. I told him I had personal commitments and no time to date. He took it gracefully, and we deleted each other’s numbers. I looked at the screen, a bitter smile crossing my face. I had to admit the truth to myself: Arthur Harrison was a lethal weapon, and I was completely defenseless against him. One slight frown, one tremble in his voice, and my vaunted self-control shattered into a million pieces. 10 Back in the bedroom. Arthur struggled to stand, leaning heavily on me before collapsing onto the edge of his bed. “I’m embarrassing myself,” he muttered. He fumbled weakly with his soaked shirt. “It’s fine. I can dress myself.” I couldn’t stand watching him struggle. “Let me help.” Before he could object, I added quickly, “Don’t worry, Mr. Harrison. I’ll blindfold myself. I won’t look.” “…Okay.” I grabbed a sheer silk scarf from my dresser and tied it over my eyes. It wasn’t until I had it knotted that I realized the fabric was too thin—I could still see the blurry outline of his body perfectly. But it was too late to change it now without making a scene. I gently took his hand and brought it up to my face, letting him feel the knot at the back of my head. “See? I’m completely blindfolded. You’re safe.” His pants were soaked through and heavy. With Arthur sitting on the edge of the bed, I had to step into his space, practically wrapping my arms around his waist to shimmy the wet denim down his hips. To get them past his calves, I had to kneel on the floor. Because my vision was obscured by the scarf, I was entirely focused on the stubborn denim. I didn’t realize how close I was. My face was inches from his lap; my warm breath was hitting his bare skin. As I pulled the jeans down, Arthur’s voice drifted down from above me. “Harper, you really can’t see anything right now?” “Nothing,” I lied. He let out a soft laugh. “It’s a strange feeling, isn’t it? I’ve dragged you into the dark with me.” I opened my mouth to laugh, but the sound died in my throat. Through the sheer veil of the scarf, I saw his dark grey boxer briefs. And the very prominent, very distinct shape pressing against the fabric. Arthur’s voice didn’t waver. He sounded casual, relaxed, perfectly normal. “It’s the weekend tomorrow. That little menace Jaxon is going to come barging in here. I wonder if he actually misses me, or if he’s just skipping track practice.” “Yeah,” I squeaked out automatically, my brain entirely offline. I blinked hard behind the silk. I wasn’t hallucinating. The shape was definitively growing. Suddenly, my fingers, which were resting near his waistband, felt like they were on fire. The skin-on-skin contact felt electric and terrifyingly intimate. I bit my lip, slowly pulling the denim the rest of the way down. My mind was screaming in panic. Do I act natural? Do I stop? If I stop, he’ll know I can see! Maybe it’s just biology, I rationalized wildly. Maybe it’s involuntary! Maybe he doesn’t even realize it’s happening! He was such a gentleman. He had almost starved to death rather than wake me up. If he knew I was kneeling directly in front of his raging erection, he’d probably throw himself out the window out of pure shame! My heart hammered against my ribs as I finally got the jeans past his knees. Suddenly, a large hand clamped down over mine, stopping me. “I can do the rest. Thank you.” I nearly collapsed with relief. I handed him the dry sweatpants and stepped back. As he pulled them up, he paused, clearing his throat lightly. “You haven’t taken the blindfold off yet.” He sounded almost bashful. “Why don’t you leave it on for a bit? We can just talk for a while. Two blind people sitting in the dark.” I sat down heavily in the desk chair, my face burning like a furnace. “Okay.” For a long time, neither of us said a word. Two people, in the dark, harboring terrifying secrets. It wasn’t until the swelling in his sweatpants finally, agonizingly subsided that Arthur lifted his head and, with that same perfect smile, asked me what I wanted to do for breakfast. Adults truly are spectacular liars.

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1 The day Graham Shaw touched down at JFK after a decade in London, I handed my wife the divorce papers. Elena Hastings didn’t scream. She didn’t even flinch. She simply set down her tea—a delicate bone china cup filled with an Earl Grey that smelled like bergamot and indifference—and looked at me with those cool, slate-gray eyes that I had spent ten years trying to decipher. “I haven’t been unfaithful, Elias,” she said. Her tone was flat, a professional monotone she usually reserved for dismissing a junior architect’s poorly drafted floor plan. She sat there, draped in a cream-colored cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my first car, looking every bit the heiress to the Hastings architectural legacy. I managed a thin, exhausted smile. “I know.” I slid the leather-bound folder across the Carrara marble kitchen island. The sound of the paper whispering against the stone felt like a serrated blade in the heavy silence of our Upper East Side apartment. “I’m just done, Elena,” I said, meeting her gaze. “My heart… it’s a hollowed-out building. There’s no structural integrity left. We’ve been living in a ruin for years, and I’m tired of trying to patch the cracks.” “Let’s end this. Let’s get a divorce.” The moment the word divorce hit the air, the vintage fountain pen in Elena’s hand slipped. It clattered onto her vellum sketches, a heavy blot of midnight-blue ink blossoming across her latest design like a bruise on white skin. I recognized that pen. It was a limited-edition piece Graham had sent her from a boutique in Mayfair during his third year at the Architectural Association. The silver cap was engraved with her name in a script that looked suspiciously like a caress. Graham Shaw. The name had been a fishbone caught in my throat for ten years. He was the golden boy of her Ivy League days, the light source in every one of her sketches, the phantom third party at every dinner we’d ever shared. And me? I was Elias Miller—the negative space, the filler material used to patch the holes Graham left behind when he chose London over her. He was back now. The architectural world was already vibrating; the “prodigy” who’d swept the RIBA Gold Medal was returning to New York to launch his own firm. My wife hadn’t been the same since the second his plane touched the tarmac three days ago. In seventy-two hours, she’d missed nine of my calls but managed thirty-plus encrypted messages to him. She’d drive forty minutes into the industrial heart of Brooklyn just because he mentioned “missing the grit of the old shipyards,” taking photos of the sunset on the piers to send to him. She spent all night in our kitchen preparing a multi-course gourmet spread to drop off at his hotel because he “craved something home-cooked after years of British food.” She hadn’t left a single bite for me. Standing in the kitchen doorway that night, watching her back—so vivid, so full of a frantic energy she never afforded me—I felt like a stranger in my own house. I was the ghost haunting my own marriage. “Just because Graham is back?” Elena finally spoke, her knuckles white as she retrieved the pen. “Elias, aren’t you being a bit… dramatic?” I didn’t answer immediately. I just watched the ink soak into her sketches. “Dramatic? Elena, I’ve been a spectator in my own life for a decade. I’m just tired of the view.” I pushed the papers closer. The terms were spelled out in black and white, drafted by the best lawyers my money could buy. She got the beach house in the Hamptons. She got the Tesla. She got the primary checking account. I just wanted my name back. I wasn’t a failure. Miller & Associates wasn’t a global titan like Hastings & Co., but we cleared eight figures a year in boutique commercial contracts. My friends used to call me the luckiest man in Manhattan for landing Elena Hastings. The Hastings were architectural royalty—old money, effortless grace, “quiet luxury” personified. “You hit the jackpot, Eli,” they’d say over cigars. I’d just nod and sip my scotch. They didn’t realize the jackpot was paid out in ice. In ten years, her most frequent responses to me were “Sure,” “Fine,” or “Understood.” We were like two strangers who had signed a long-term co-living agreement. I used to think she was just “built cold”—some people are just wired for detachment, I told myself. Until Graham returned. Then I saw the glow. I saw that she wasn’t incapable of affection; she was just keeping all her heat in a trust fund, waiting for the original owner to claim the interest. Elena didn’t look at the settlement. She stared at me, searching for a trace of a joke, a sign of a bluff. “Ten years,” she whispered, her voice finally trembling. “You’re throwing away a decade over a misunderstanding?” “A misunderstanding?” I let out a dry, jagged laugh. I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the city skyline I’d spent my life trying to conquer. “Elena, do you remember our third anniversary?” She hesitated. “Of course. We went to that French bistro in the Village.” “No. We were supposed to go to Per Se. I waited four hours at that table, Elena. Four hours. You finally showed up and told me Graham had broken up with his partner in London and you’d been on the phone with him all night to keep him from ‘doing something stupid.’ You said, ‘He’s a friend in pain, Elias. It’s the decent thing to do.’ And I, being the fool who loved you, believed you.” Her face began to drain of color. “Our fifth anniversary, I booked that overwater villa in the Maldives. You told me you didn’t want to travel, that staying home was ‘more intimate.’ I found out later Graham was in town for a visa renewal that week. You needed to be available for coffee, for walks, for whatever he needed. I was the husband on standby.” “Your phone passcode is his birthday. The watercolor in your study? The one you won’t let me move? It’s signed by him. Every password, every favorite playlist, the way you suddenly started liking your afternoon tea served exactly the way they do it at the Savoy—it all points to him. You aren’t married to me, Elena. You’re married to the memory of him. I’m just the guy who pays the property taxes.” Every sentence I spoke was a brick being removed from the foundation of our life. By the time I finished, she looked translucent, like she might shatter if the wind changed. “Those were just… coincidences,” she stammered, her voice thin. “Coincidences don’t skip my mother’s 60th birthday gala to pick someone up at the airport, Elena. Coincidences don’t involve a hidden folder on your cloud filled with every photo he’s posted on Instagram since 2014. You have a museum of him in your pocket.” The kitchen was so quiet I could hear the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. It sounded like a countdown. “Elias…” she finally said. “Nothing happened between us. Physically. Not once. I have been a faithful wife.” “I know,” I nodded, and the bitterness in my throat was like ash. “You’re far too disciplined for a messy physical affair. You’re a master of the emotional betrayal—the kind where you keep your body in my bed but your soul in his inbox. You think that makes you innocent? It makes it worse. I’d almost prefer a one-night stand. At least that’s honest. This? This is a slow-motion execution.” She swayed slightly, her hand bracing against the marble island. “Is that really what you think of me?” “I don’t ‘think’ it, Elena. I’ve lived it. Have you ever once wondered why I stopped eating seafood? I’ve been allergic for three years, and you still put shrimp in the risotto last month because ‘Graham always loved the way the kitchen smelled when it was cooking.’ I spent a week in the hospital for my gallbladder surgery last year; you visited three times, and twice you were in the hallway texting him about his new studio space. I watched you through the glass, Elena. You were smiling at your phone while I was hooked up to a morphine drip.” I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair. “Read the papers. Have your lawyer call mine. I’ve already moved my essentials into the corporate loft.” As I walked out the door, I heard the sound of something shattering—a porcelain cup, probably. I didn’t look back. Outside, the October rain was brisk and cold. It felt like a baptism. The next day, Elena didn’t call. I wasn’t surprised. The corporate loft was sterile, smelling of industrial cleaner and silence. It took exactly one suitcase to pack my life. Ten years of marriage, and my personal belongings were as thin as a ghost. “Mr. Miller? I thought you were taking the week off for the anniversary,” my assistant, Sarah, said in shock as I walked into the office at 7:30 AM. “Change of plans, Sarah. Let’s get to work. I want the briefings for the North Shore project on my desk in ten minutes.” “Right. Well… about that,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “The North Shore Riverfront project just moved to the RFP stage. The city just released the shortlist. St. John Collective made the cut. Graham Shaw is their lead.” I took the briefing from her hand. Graham Shaw. The name was a recurring fever. The “prodigy,” the darling of the London scene, the man the city council was already grooming for the win. My firm was respectable, but we were the underdogs here. To the world, I was the guy who married into the Hastings family—a talented enough designer who rode the coattails of old money. No one knew that I was the one who pulled the eighty-hour weeks while Elena brooded over her “artistic visions” and Graham sent her poetry from overseas. At 10:00 AM, my phone buzzed. Not Elena. Her mother, Margaret Hastings. “Elias, what on earth is this nonsense? Elena tells me you’ve lost your mind and moved out.” “Margaret,” I sighed, rubbing my temples. “It’s called a divorce.” “Don’t be flippant with me. Do you have any idea what this looks like? You were a boy from a state school with a mid-tier firm, Elias. Marrying a Hastings was the making of you. We gave you our name, our connections, our daughter. You should be grateful for the life we provided.” I moved the phone away from my ear. The same script for ten years. The lucky interloper. The charity case. “The house and the money stay with Elena, Margaret. I’m not taking a dime of your ‘legacy.’ I’m building my own. I’m hanging up now.” It was the first time I’d ever hung up on her. It felt better than a shot of top-shelf bourbon. By 2 PM, my lawyer, Frank, called. “Elias, she’s refusing to sign. She’s hired Silas Wright. They’re contesting the pre-nup, claiming your firm’s growth was ‘marital property’ built on the Hastings’ social connections. They’re coming for fifteen percent of Miller & Associates.” I spun my pen in a tight circle. Silas Wright—the shark of the Upper East Side. “My firm was built on sweat and caffeine, Frank. Not cocktail parties. Tell them I’ll see them in the deposition room.” “Understood. But Eli… they’re also asking for the Greenwich house and a five-million-dollar cash ‘rebalancing.’ You sure you want to fight this?” “I’m not being generous, Frank. I’m buying my freedom. If she wants the Greenwich house and the cash, give it to her. But she doesn’t get a single share of my firm. Not one.” I turned back to my computer. The North Shore Riverfront project. It was the largest urban renewal project in the city’s history. Twelve miles of shoreline. Eight billion dollars in total investment. Six firms were shortlisted. Graham’s St. John Collective. And my firm, Miller & Associates. I didn’t want this project to spite Graham. I wanted it because I had been walking that twelve-mile stretch for five years. Every weekend, every midnight when Elena was busy on the phone with London, I was there. I knew every rusted bolt on those piers. I knew where the salt had eaten through the wood. It was my obsession, the only thing that felt real when my marriage felt like a stage play. At 9 PM, I left the office to grab a sandwich. In the parking lot, I saw a familiar white Porsche Taycan. Elena was leaning against the door, her trench coat cinched tight, her hair windswept and uncharacteristically messy. “You aren’t answering my calls,” she said. “Talk to Frank. That’s what he’s for.” “I want to talk to you, Elias. Not a man in a three-piece suit.” “There’s nothing left to say, Elena.” I walked toward my SUV. “Elias!” she called out, her voice cracking. “Are you really going to throw away a decade over a misunderstanding?” I stopped. I turned back to see her standing under the amber hum of the streetlamp. She looked small, almost fragile, but all I could see was the decade of coldness she’d wrapped me in. “A decade of what, Elena? Being your second choice? I’m tired of being the man who pays the bills while you dream of someone else’s hands. I’m not a misunderstanding. I’m a casualty of your indecision.” She didn’t move. I got in the car and drove. In the rearview mirror, she was still standing there, a lonely figure in the dark. A year ago, that sight would have broken me. Now? I just felt the cold air from the vents.

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To spend a romantic birthday with her high school sweetheart, my wife put sleeping pills into our sick, crying daughter’s baby bottle. The baby fell into a deep sleep, allowing them to enjoy a romantic, uninterrupted night. When I got home, I found our daughter wouldn’t wake up. By the time I rushed her to the hospital, it was too late. I called my wife, but she only snapped impatiently over the phone: “Are you seriously trying to ruin things just because I’m celebrating Julian’s birthday? I’ll come home when it’s over.” Then, she hung up and turned off her phone. She had no idea that her romantic date night had just cost our daughter her life. I walked through the door at seven in the morning. Only our nanny, Mrs. Gable, was in the living room. When she saw me, a worried look crossed her face. “Mr. Sterling, Lily slept through the whole night without waking up or crying for her bottle. I tried to wake her up just now, but she wouldn’t budge. I was just about to call you.” I rushed into my daughter’s nursery. Lily lay there, looking like a little sleeping angel. “Lily? Lily, baby.” I called her name, but there was no response. I pinched her tiny hand. Still nothing. Cold dread washed over me. I looked up and asked, “Where is Chloe?” Mrs. Gable replied, “Mrs. Sterling called me last night and told me to watch Lily. She was already gone by the time I arrived, and she hasn’t been back all night. Lily was already asleep when I got here.” I called Chloe. She picked up, her voice thick with sleep. “What is it? Why are you calling so early? I told you, it’s Julian’s birthday. I stayed over at my friend’s house last night.” I didn’t care where she was. I just wanted answers. “Was Lily feeling sick yesterday? Did you give her any medicine? She’s been asleep all night and won’t wake up. She’s completely unresponsive.” Chloe paused for a second before raising her voice defensively. “She’s just tired and sleeping in. What is there to worry about?” “Lily is only eight months old!” I yelled. “It’s impossible for her to be this deep asleep!” Chloe groaned in irritation. “She was crying and screaming last night for no reason. She wouldn’t stop! So I put a little sleeping pill in her formula.” My brain went entirely numb. A loud ringing filled my ears. “Chloe Vance! Your daughter is only eight months old! Are you out of your mind? Do you want to kill her? How much did you give her?!” She hesitated, her voice suddenly trembling slightly. “Not… not that much. Just one pill. I take them all the time and I’m fine. What could a tiny dose do? Ethan, stop making a scene out of nothing.” With that, she hung up. I turned to the nanny, my voice shaking. “Hold Lily. We’re going to the ER. Now!” At the hospital, the doctor’s face turned pale the moment I explained the situation. Lily was rushed straight into the trauma bay. A nurse stood outside, looking at me with pure disgust. “How could you give sleeping pills to an infant? Are you people even human? How could you be such terrible parents?” I clenched my teeth, tears burning my eyes. “Please, nurse, save my daughter. I don’t care about the cost. I’ll pay anything. Just save her.” “If you cared so much, you should have been more careful before this happened,” she snapped. A few minutes later, a nurse ran out. “How many sleeping pills did she ingest? We need the exact dosage. It’s critical for her resuscitation.” “Her mother said… she said just one,” I stammered. The red light over the operating room stayed on. No other doctors came out. I don’t know how much time passed before a doctor finally walked out. His face was grim. “The dosage she took was far more than just one pill. And she was brought in way too late. We did everything we could, but she didn’t make it. I’m so sorry for your loss.” My mind went blank. My entire body froze. I could barely force the words out of my throat. “No… that’s impossible. How could my daughter be dead? She’s only eight months old.” When they wheeled Lily out, I threw myself over her small body, touching her cold cheek. “Lily, wake up. Look at Daddy. Please, Lily…” My tears fell hot and fast onto her quiet face. Her eyes were closed, looking exactly as if she were taking a normal nap. I looked up at the doctor, begging. “Look at her, she’s just sleeping. How can she be dead? Doctor, please, look again. Check her again!” Mrs. Gable stood beside me, sobbing into her hands. “It’s all my fault. If only I had realized something was wrong in the middle of the night…” “Lily was so sweet, always smiling… she was such a beautiful baby.” With trembling hands, I dialed Chloe’s number. It rang and rang. On the ninth attempt, she finally answered, her voice dripping with annoyance. “Are you seriously trying to ruin things just because I’m celebrating Julian’s birthday? I’ll come home when it’s over!” In the background, I heard Julian’s smooth, relaxed voice. “Babe, come eat breakfast.” Chloe hung up on me before I could say a single word. When I tried calling back, her phone was turned off. She said she was staying at a girlfriend’s house, but she was with Julian. It was all so clear now. I closed my eyes. Chloe, in your eyes, the happiness of this family doesn’t even compare to a single birthday date with Julian.

I gently lifted Lily into my arms. This was my daughter, and this was the last bit of warmth I could ever give her. I held her tight against my chest and kissed her forehead. “Baby, don’t be scared. Daddy will come see you every day. Just wait for me, okay? Daddy will come keep you company soon. Sleep tight, my sweet girl.” My tears flowed uncontrollably, but I couldn’t even make a sound. I felt as if my heart had been ripped out of my chest, thrown into the dirt, and trampled on. I was broken beyond repair. I handled Lily’s funeral arrangements completely alone, eventually bringing back a small urn. By the time I returned home, I didn’t care if Chloe was back or when she would ever return. I walked into Lily’s nursery. Her mobile was still hanging over her crib, and her playmat and toys were scattered across the floor, as if waiting for her to come back and play. I curled up on the rug next to her crib, clutching the little stuffed bunny she slept with every night. Holding it tightly, I cried myself to sleep in the dark, imagining my baby was still in my arms. I was barely asleep when I heard the front door open. A man and a woman were talking. The woman was my wife, Chloe, and the man—I didn’t even have to guess—was Julian. “Ugh, Ethan isn’t even home yet,” Chloe grumbled, her voice filled with annoyance and contempt. “The house is pitch black. Just because I went out to celebrate your birthday for a few days, he’s probably going to give me the silent treatment again.” “He’s always like this. Whenever you’re involved, Ethan gets so paranoid and insecure. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking when I married such a petty, narrow-minded man.” Julian comforted her smoothly. “Don’t be mad, babe. Maybe he just loves you too much. Or maybe we should stop seeing each other so often. You know I hate seeing you suffer because of me.” “Don’t worry about him,” Chloe dismissed him. “He’s just dramatic.” “We’ve been away traveling for a few days,” Julian asked softly. “Is Lily going to be okay?” Chloe brushed it off. “What could possibly happen to her? If anything was wrong, Ethan would have called to start a fight days ago. See? Not a single call or text from him these past few days.” I clenched my fists, suppressing the raging fire inside me. Of course I didn’t call or text you. You blocked my number on everything. “You must be exhausted after our trip,” Julian said tenderly. “Get some rest. I’ll head out now.” But Chloe stopped him. “Julian, stay. It’s late, and Ethan isn’t even here anyway. He probably took Lily to his parents’ house. You know his parents have always hated me. I can’t be bothered to call and ask them to bring her back.” Julian sighed. “Chloe, have you really been unhappy and miserable these past few years? It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t left back then, Ethan would have never had the chance to marry you. That is the biggest regret of my life.” “Chloe, if you’re truly unhappy, will you give me a chance? A chance to make you happy. Can we start over?” I quietly cracked the door open. Through the gap, I saw Chloe throw herself into Julian’s arms, her eyes red as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Julian, you know you’re the only man I’ve ever loved. Yes, I want to be with you.” “If Ethan hadn’t forced me to marry him in exchange for saving Vance Enterprises, I would have never married him! You have no idea how sick to my stomach I feel every time I have to lie next to him, Julian.” “I have never loved him. I even gave him a daughter—I’ve paid him back everything I owed. Now, I just want to be with you.” A bitter ache pierced my chest. What did our years of marriage mean to her? Just a debt to be paid? She claimed she had only ever loved Julian. In her eyes, I was just a villain who had taken advantage of her family’s misfortune. But she never stopped to think: without me, how could she still be living this lavish lifestyle? How could she still be the high-society heiress of the Vance family? Without my money, she would have been ruined long ago. I met Chloe at a charity gala. At the time, Vance Enterprises was facing a massive financial crisis. If they didn’t get an immediate cash injection, they were going to go bankrupt. Her family had brought her to the gala specifically to auction her off to some wealthy businessman in exchange for a marriage alliance to save their company. Everyone knew what was happening. The way the wealthy men looked at her was disgusting—like she was a piece of meat on display. Chloe was being mocked and humiliated by a group of wealthy heiresses. She looked like she was about to burst into tears, but she didn’t dare leave. I couldn’t stand seeing her suffer, so I stepped in and defended her. That was how we met.

I admit, it was love at first sight for me. She knew it, and she knew exactly what I could offer. Under my pursuit, she quickly agreed to marry me—on the condition that I bail out Vance Enterprises. I knew she had a first love who had gone abroad, but I truly believed that if I treated her with absolute devotion, our years of marriage and our beautiful daughter would make her love me back. It turned out to be nothing but a foolish, one-sided delusion. To her, I was an eyesore she couldn’t stand to look at, and Lily was just an unwanted burden. Looking at the two of them locking lips in my living room, I threw the door open with a loud SLAM, startling them apart. Julian’s face turned pale when he saw me standing there, my expression dark as storm clouds. Chloe immediately stepped in front of Julian, shielding him. “Ethan, if you have a problem, take it out on me! This has nothing to do with Julian!” She raised her chin defiantly. “You know I’ve never loved you. I only married you because my parents and you forced me into it! Now that Julian is back, I realize I still love him. I refuse to spend the rest of my life in misery.” “Don’t think your money gives you the right to control me. I’m not afraid of you anymore.” “Let’s get a divorce. You can keep our daughter—I don’t want her. We’ll split the assets fifty-five. You shouldn’t have a problem with that, right?” I took a step forward, my eyes bloodshot. With a swift movement, I slapped her hard across the face. SLAP! The force knocked her onto the couch. Julian rushed forward, grabbing my collar. “How dare you hit Chloe! I’ll kill you!” The thought that my daughter died because of him made my blood boil. Hatred consumed me. I threw a brutal punch straight into his face, over and over again, completely losing control. Chloe panicked and threw herself onto me to pull me back. “Ethan, are you insane?! I’m calling the police!” I shoved her away. Staring down at Julian, who was bleeding on the floor, I turned my murderous gaze to Chloe. “Chloe, you want a divorce? Fine. If you want me to sign, bring our daughter to me. Hand Lily over, and I will sign.” Hand her over? A sharp pain pierced my heart. Let’s see how you’re going to hand our daughter back to me. Chloe looked thrilled. “Really? You better keep your word!” I nodded slowly. “I always keep my word. Go ask her if she’s willing to go with you.” Chloe scoffed. “You’re the one who raised her. She always smiles whenever she sees you. Of course she’ll be willing. If she smiles, it means yes.” If only she could smile… If Lily could still smile at me, I would gladly give up everything I own. She walked into Lily’s nursery. A moment later, she called out in confusion. “Where is Lily? Did you leave her at your parents’ house again? I told you, stop leaving her there. We need to raise our child ourselves.” I let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Raise her ourselves? You? Since when do you care about raising her? Other than shopping, high tea, spa days, and spending my money, when have you ever spent a single second with her?” “When Lily was born, you said you didn’t want your body ruined, so you refused to breastfeed her for even a single day. She had to drink formula, and her immune system was always weak.” “You said you didn’t know how to take care of a baby, so I hired a professional nanny.” “You said her crying kept you awake at night, so Lily slept with me every single night.” “As a mother, what did you actually do? You drugged her with sleeping pills just so you could go screw around with your lover? You murdered her!” Chloe jumped up defensively. “What lover?! Julian and I are completely innocent!” “Innocent?” I sneered. “Affair during our marriage is innocent? Making out with another man in our home while your husband is away is innocent?!” Julian struggled to stand up, wiping blood from his mouth. “It’s just a sleeping pill. She’ll just sleep it off and wake up fine. Why do you have to be so dramatic and blow this out of proportion?” My eyes flared with rage. “What the hell did you just say? Sleep it off?!” Chloe crossed her arms. “What do you want from me? What’s done is done. Why are you acting like a psycho?” My anger reached its boiling point. “What do I want? Chloe, why don’t you take a good look at what you’ve actually done?!” I grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the dining table. She screamed, struggling against my grip. “What are you doing?! Let go of me!” But in the next second, her scream died in her throat as her eyes landed on Lily’s framed portrait and the small urn resting on the table.

Chloe’s hand trembled violently as she pointed at the urn and the photo. “What… what is that?” “Ethan, you’ve completely lost your mind! Just to win an argument with me, you’re cursing our daughter to death?!” I snatched the death certificate from under the urn and slammed it onto her face. “Open your eyes and read every single word on this paper! Read what it is!” With shaking hands, Chloe unfolded the paper. There, in cold black and white, was Lily’s name and her time of death. The color drained from her face. She stumbled backward, dropping the paper to the floor. “No… this is a lie. How could Lily be dead? How did she die? Ethan, how did the nanny watch her?!” I grabbed her by her chin, dragging her forcefully in front of Lily’s portrait. “You drugged your daughter with sleeping pills just to go on a date, leaving her completely alone in the house, and now you’re blaming the nanny?! Chloe, you are Lily’s mother! Is everyone else completely worthless to you compared to Julian?!” “You are so cold-blooded that you drugged your own flesh and blood. The doctor said the dosage was far more than just one pill. Tell me! How many did you give her?! Speak!” Tears streamed down her face as panic finally took over. “I don’t know… Julian was the one who poured it…” Julian stood frozen in place, whispering in shock. “I only put in two pills… but you told me to put in more so she would fall asleep faster…” Chloe began to shake violently. She grabbed my hand, sobbing. “Ethan, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to. Lily wouldn’t stop crying… she just kept crying…” I wanted nothing more than to choke the life out of her. “She was just a baby! You’re her mother! Just to go fool around, you actually did this? Are you insane?! Give me back my daughter!” My grip tightened around her neck. As her face turned purple, a sudden wave of clarity washed over me. I couldn’t let her off this easily. Death was too quick an escape. I had so much more planned for her. I threw her to the ground. “Chloe, we are getting a divorce. Now, take your lover and get the hell out of my house. If you stay one more second, I swear to God I will kill you both.” Chloe wrapped her arms around my leg, sobbing hysterically. “Ethan, no! I didn’t mean what I said about the divorce! I love Lily, I swear!” I kicked her away. “Get out, Chloe. Don’t let me ever see your face again. When I loved you, you could get away with anything. But now that I don’t, you are nothing but a corpse to me.” “But dying is too easy. Don’t think you’re getting off scot-free. Everyone has to pay for their sins, and you are no exception.” Chloe packed her bags and left with Julian that very night. The next morning, my lawyer contacted Chloe with the divorce papers. She called me immediately, screaming into the phone. “Why do I have to walk away with absolutely nothing?!” I replied nonchalantly, “We signed a prenuptial agreement. Did you really think you could touch the Sterling family assets? Aren’t you afraid of choking on them? The money I poured into the Vance family during our marriage—I’m already being incredibly generous by not clawing it all back. And you still want a fifty-fifty split? Chloe, I knew you were heartless, but I didn’t know you were this greedy.” “I married you!” Chloe demanded. “Half of your money belongs to me! Why shouldn’t I get it? Besides, I gave birth to your daughter…” She stopped abruptly, realizing her mistake, and slammed the phone down. Our daughter, Lily. I had been trying to suppress the agonizing pain in my chest, but hearing her mention Lily made my heart bleed all over again. I dialed my assistant’s number. “Call a meeting with the heads of all departments. Right now.” Did the newly resurrected Vance Enterprises give Chloe the confidence to act this way? Fine. Let’s watch them go bankrupt again.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “462024”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

1 After we got engaged, the six of us booked one last trip together before the wedding. On our second night at the resort, my best friend, Vivian, came up with an idea over drinks: a “24-Hour Partner Swap.” The rules were simple. Everyone would draw a card from a mystery box, and whoever pulled matching symbols had to spend the next twenty-four hours acting like a real couple. And whoever drew a blank card? They were the designated odd one out—responsible for taking photos, carrying luggage, and staying out of the way. In the first round, I pulled a blank card. My fiancé, Ethan, and Vivian both pulled matching crescents. They held hands as they walked down to the shoreline to watch the sunrise, while I lagged ten paces behind them, my shoulders aching under the weight of three heavy backpacks. In the second round, I drew a blank card again. Ethan and Vivian pulled matching roses. The penalty for drawing the rose was a one-minute hug. The rest of the group gathered in a circle, whistling and cheering, while I stood on the periphery, watching the timer tick down on my phone. The third round. The fourth round… Seven rounds in a row. Every single time, I was the extra piece that didn’t fit. By the fifth round, Vivian was resting her head against Ethan’s chest, looking at me with wide, apologetic eyes. “Tess, it’s just a stupid game. You’re not actually getting jealous, are you?” Ethan reached over and lightly ruffled her hair, a gentle, familiar gesture that made my stomach knot. “Don’t bother with her, Viv. She’s always been terrible at taking a joke.” On our final night, they pulled matching wedding cards. The rule for the wedding card was absolute: the pair had to hold a mock wedding ceremony right then and there. Vivian slid into the ivory slip dress I had packed for our engagement photos. Then Ethan reached out, unclasped my hand, and gently pulled my engagement ring off my finger. Before I could process what he was doing, he slid it onto Vivian’s left ring finger. Everyone crowded around them, laughing and chanting in unison: “Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!” A second later, Ethan bent down, cupped the side of her neck, and pressed his lips firmly against hers. While everyone was cheering and taking videos, I walked quietly over to the side table and opened the mystery box containing the remaining cards. I opened the compartment assigned to me. Every single card left in my tray was blank. Then I opened the compartments assigned to Ethan and Vivian. They were stuffed with identical crescents, identical roses, and identical wedding symbols. It hadn’t been bad luck. The entire game had been constructed, from the very beginning, entirely for the two of them. I stood there in the warm evening air and let out a soft, silent laugh. Then I pulled out my phone, navigated to our wedding website, and clicked the button that permanently deleted all the digital invitations I had spent three months designing. If a six-person trip couldn’t make room for me, then I didn’t need to reserve a place for them in the rest of my life. When the digital invitations disappeared from my screen, a fresh burst of laughter erupted behind me. Ethan finally released Vivian’s waist. Vivian’s cheeks were flushed pink, but her hands lingered on his shoulders, her fingers lightly curled into his linen shirt. Derek, standing near the balcony rail with a beer in his hand, hollered out, “One more time! Do it again!” Ethan let out a low laugh and nudged him with his elbow. “Fuck off, Derek.” Yet he didn’t push Vivian away. He kept his arm loosely resting behind her back, as if her weight against him was the most natural thing in the world. It wasn’t until Vivian looked up and caught my eye that she seemed to remember I was standing there. She lowered her head, looking down at her left hand, and twisted the ring back and forth. “Tess, I think the ring is stuck,” she said, her voice dripping with soft innocence. “My fingers must be swollen from the humidity. Mind if I just wear it for the night?” That engagement ring was something Ethan had given me on my twenty-fifth birthday. He had made a huge point of telling me that he had spent weeks having it custom-sized to fit my exact finger circumference. Yet sitting on Vivian’s hand, it slid comfortably down to the base of her knuckle. It fit her perfectly. I didn’t call her out. I didn’t raise my voice. I simply gave a small nod. “Sure.” Ethan shifted his gaze toward me, his brow furrowing slightly, as if surprised by how effortlessly I had conceded. “Tess, drop the tragic act,” he said, a note of sharp annoyance creeping into his tone. “Everyone took time off work to come out here and celebrate with us. Don’t ruin the mood over a party game.” I looked at him, my eyes clear. “I’m not ruining the mood.” “Then smile,” he commanded softly. Derek was already holding up his phone, waving us down. “Alright, temporary bride and groom, look at the camera!” Tyler and the rest of the crew quickly pushed into the frame, sandwiching Ethan and Vivian in the middle. The five of them stood in a neat, perfect row, as if the space had been tailor-made for them. Derek stepped back and handed his phone to me. “Tess, you always take the best shots. Take a few for us.” I took the phone. Through the lens, they were leaning into one another, laughing. Ethan stood squarely in the center. Vivian, wearing my dress and my ring, had her arm hooked tightly around his elbow. The other three clustered around them like a genuine bridal party. “Tess,” Ethan snapped, his patience wearing thin. “What are you daydreaming about?” I blinked, brought the camera up, and tapped the shutter. One shot. Two shots. A dozen shots. Not a single one of them had me in it. By the time we returned to the hotel, it was nearly two in the morning. When we first arrived at the resort, I had booked three luxury ocean-view suites. Two of the suites were for the other four friends, while Ethan and I were supposed to share the third. But when we walked up to the front desk to pick up the keys, Tyler clapped his hands together with a grin. “Hey, there’s still twelve hours left on the Partner Swap timer. According to the game, Ethan and Vivian are staying together tonight.” My fingers tightened around the key envelope. “Sharing a room is part of the game now?” Vivian answered as if explaining something obvious to a child. “It’s just a room, Tess. The suite has two queen beds. It’s not like anything is going to happen.” Ethan’s face darkened as he looked at me. “With everyone right here, what exactly are you accusing us of?” I stared at him, ignoring his tone. “Then where am I sleeping?” The group exchanged brief, uneasy glances. Finally, Derek pointed down the hallway toward the end of the corridor. “Ethan and Vivian’s room is the family suite. There’s a pull-out sofa bed in the living room. Can’t you just sleep there?” So that was the arrangement. I was expected to sleep on a pull-out couch outside the bedroom of my fiancé and my best friend, listening to them close the door, waiting for their twenty-four-hour game to run its course. A sudden wave of absurdity washed over me. It was so ridiculous it was almost funny. “I’ll just book another room downstairs,” I said, turning back toward the reception desk. Tyler immediately caught my arm. “Woah, hold on! Rooms here are eight hundred dollars a night. Why waste that kind of cash? We all grew up together—who here doesn’t know everybody?” I didn’t grow up with them. The five of them had known each other since pre-K. Their families went on summer trips together; their parents sat on the same country club boards. I was the outsider who met Ethan during our sophomore year at NYU, the girl he eventually introduced to his inner circle. In those early years, I had tried so desperately hard to fit in. When they reminisced about breaking into their prep school’s boathouse in ninth grade, I listened quietly and smiled along, even though I had no idea who they were talking about. When they dropped inside jokes that only the five of them understood, I secretly jotted the names and references down in the Notes app on my phone so I could look them up later. I memorized every single person’s birthday, their coffee orders, their allergies, and their favorite cocktails. Whenever we planned a dinner, I was always the first to arrive. Whenever we went on trips, I was the one who spent weeks comparing flights, booking villas, organizing private drivers, and building color-coded itineraries. Yet no matter how much effort I poured in, whenever they talked about the past, it always boiled down to the same dismissive phrase: “Well, you didn’t know us back then, Tess. You wouldn’t get it.” Eventually, “you wouldn’t get it” mutated into “there’s no need to tell her.” They changed dinner reservations without notifying me. They started a new group text with matching profile pictures without including me. Even this trip—this supposed “pre-wedding celebration”—was something I only found out about because I happened to glimpse a chat log on Ethan’s laptop. They had been planning it for six months behind my back. When I had asked Ethan why nobody had mentioned it to me, he had simply chuckled and ruffled my hair. “Well, we were waiting for you to step in and organize it, babe. You’re so much better at that stuff.” So I had taken out my credit card, booked the flights, secured the resort, and paid for the deposits out of my own account. And in the end, the five of them came to enjoy the vacation, while I was brought along to act as the concierge, the photographer, and the pack mule. And now, I was expected to give up my own bedroom. I loosened my grip on the key card and handed it over to Tyler. “You guys take it,” I said quietly. “I’ll stay down in the lobby lounge.” I didn’t fight. I didn’t raise my voice. I just walked away. When I woke up the next morning on the plush sofa in the corner of the lobby lounge, the sun was already high. I unlocked my phone. The main group chat was active. Someone had posted a photo of the five of them sitting at the resort’s private beach club, enjoying a spread of mimosas, eggs benedict, and fresh fruit. Five place settings were arranged neatly around the outdoor table. A direct text from Vivian popped up right below it: [Tess! We were so worried we’d wake you up, so we came down to grab breakfast first. Eat whenever you wake up!] I washed my face in the lobby restroom, smoothed down my clothes, and walked over to the resort restaurant. The hostess gave me a warm, professional smile. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but our breakfast service closed fifteen minutes ago.” Before I could reply, my phone began to vibrate in my palm. It was Ethan. I answered. “Hello?” “Where the hell are you?” His tone was sharp, laced with heavy impatience. “At the restaurant.” “Why are you still at the restaurant?” He sighed loudly into the receiver. “We’ve been sitting down at the marina waiting for you for twenty minutes.” I opened the group chat again. Not a single person had posted about heading to the marina. “Nobody told me what time we were leaving,” I said. “Didn’t Vivian text you?” “She texted to say you guys were eating breakfast without me.” There was a beat of silence on his end, followed by an irritated huff. “Tess, use some common sense. If you see everyone else has left, couldn’t you just ask? Everyone is down here waiting on you.” I never got my breakfast. By the time I rushed down to the marina, the engine of the private yacht was already idling, sending deep vibrations through the wooden dock. The five of them were standing near the stern, drinking iced teas. Not a single seat had been cleared for me. Vivian was wearing Ethan’s oversized white button-down linen shirt over her bikini, the hem falling just past her thighs. When she saw me approaching, she pulled the collar flush against her chest, looking flustered. “Tess, please don’t get the wrong idea! The zipper on my linen cover-up snagged, so Ethan was nice enough to lend me one of his shirts.” Ethan’s dress shirts had always been off-limits to me. Once, during our second year of dating, I had accidentally washed one of his custom white shirts with a dark load, leaving it faintly tinted gray. He had refused to speak to me for an entire week, claiming that he hated anyone touching his personal garments. Yet now, Vivian was wearing his shirt right in front of him. Ethan didn’t mind at all. In fact, he reached out and adjusted her collar, his voice soft. “You should throw on some linen pants too later. Don’t catch a cold from the sea breeze.” Vivian poked her tongue out at me playful. “See? He’s such a control freak.” I grabbed the boat’s railing and stepped aboard. Before I could even balance myself, Tyler shoved a heavy tote bag into my arms. “Perfect timing! Sunscreen, the DSLR camera, and all the water bottles are in here. Mind watching over them?” I held the heavy canvas bag against my chest and took a seat on the small bench right next to the loud, rumbling engine—the most uncomfortable spot on the entire vessel. The cold ocean wind blasted against my face. Because I hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon, my stomach began to twist in sharp, rhythmic cramps. I had spent six months taking private swimming lessons just for this day. Ethan loved deep-sea diving, but I had always been terrified of open water. Yet I had forced myself to conquer that fear, secretly training until I finally earned my open-water diving certification, hoping to surprise him on this trip. When we reached the dive site, the boat captain stepped out and announced, “We can only send five divers down per group due to safety regulations.” Derek immediately turned his head and grinned at me. “Hey, doesn’t Tess hate the water anyway? You can just stay on the deck and guard our stuff.” I parted my lips, wanting to tell them that I wasn’t afraid anymore—that I had my certification card sitting right inside my wallet. But before I could speak, Vivian threw her arms around Ethan’s right elbow. “Ethan, I’m so nervous! You have to hold my hand the entire time we’re down there, okay?” Ethan reached over and carefully checked the pressure gauge on her oxygen tank, his expression focused and gentle. “Don’t worry. I won’t let go of you.” I swallowed the words back down my throat. One by one, the five of them tipped backward off the edge of the boat and splashed into the crystal-blue ocean. I sat alone on the empty deck, holding their designer sunglasses, their phones, and their dry clothes. After twenty minutes, the boat captain walked over, holding two cups of warm water. He handed one to me and looked down at my hands. “You’re not going down?” I reached into my canvas bag, pulled out my wallet, and thumbed the edge of the glossy, brand-new diving certificate card. I looked at it for a long time. Then I slowly slid it back into my bag and shook my head. “No,” I whispered. “Not anymore.” By lunchtime, Vivian had developed a case of seasickness, and Ethan stayed glued to her side, rubbing her back and feeding her ginger chews. My stomach was cramping so severely from the hunger and stress that I couldn’t stomach the thought of rich food. I flagged down the boat’s catering staff and asked if they could bring me a small bowl of plain broth or simple rice porridge. Tyler overheard and burst out laughing. “Tess, seriously? Now you’re feeling sick too? Are you just copying Vivian because she’s getting attention?” The rest of the group chuckled along. Ethan raised his eyes from Vivian and looked at me, his brow furrowed. “Since when do you get seasick on boats?” “I haven’t eaten anything all day,” I explained softly, holding my lower abdomen. “My stomach hurts.” Instead of asking if I was okay, Ethan turned back, smoothed a stray strand of hair behind Vivian’s ear, and handed her a glass of warm water. “Then just hang tight for a bit, Tess. Don’t cause a scene while she’s actually feeling miserable.” A few minutes later, the crew member brought out a single bowl of steaming white porridge. Just as I reached my hand out to take it, Ethan reached across the table, grabbed the bowl, and set it directly in front of Vivian. “Eat a few bites of this,” he urged her gently. “It’ll settle your stomach.” My hand froze in mid-air. I looked around the table. Not a single person thought there was anything wrong with what he had just done. Vivian stirred the porridge twice with her spoon, took two tiny bites, and then wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Ugh, it’s completely bland. I don’t want it.” She pushed the mess of stirred porridge back across the table toward me. “Tess, weren’t you complaining about your stomach? Here, you can have the rest.” The porridge was a soggy, scattered mess, and a faint smudge of her pink lipstick clung to the rim of the ceramic spoon. In the past, I probably would have smiled and accepted it. Because in the past, Vivian would always cuddle up to me and say, “We’re best friends, Tess! What’s mine is yours!” And Ethan would look at me approvingly and say, “Tess is always so sensible. She’s not high-maintenance like other girls.” But this time, I didn’t reach out. Instead, I raised my hand and motioned to the server. “Excuse me. Could you please throw this away?” Vivian’s face froze. “Tess… I barely touched it. Are you… are you disgusted by me?” “I don’t eat other people’s leftovers,” I said, my voice entirely flat. Ethan’s face darkened in an instant. “Tess! What the hell is wrong with you? She’s feeling awful and she still thought to share her food with you. Do you really have to embarrass her like this?” I looked at the five faces staring back at me across the table, and for a second, a strange sense of detachment washed over me. For seven years, this had been our dynamic. Whenever there were leftovers, they were passed to me. Whenever a table was too small, I was expected to sit at the adjacent counter. Whenever a car ran out of seats, I was the one who volunteered to take an Uber. Whenever they needed someone to document their lives, they remembered I existed. And the moment I refused to play my assigned part—even just once—I was suddenly labeled as bitter, petty, uncooperative, and incapable of fitting in. I lowered my eyes, staring at the polished teak floor of the boat deck. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. As expected, the tension around the table instantly evaporated. Derek let out a relaxed laugh and patted the table. “There we go! That’s more like it! We’re out here to have fun, guys!” I offered them a tiny, hollow smile. My apology wasn’t because I thought I was wrong. It was simply because I realized I no longer cared enough to argue with any of them. That evening, they set up a lounge area on the main terrace of the villa to drink margaritas. I went back to my room alone and pulled my luggage out from under the bed. The trip was supposed to last seven days, but we were only on day three. I had zero intention of enduring another four days of this psychological theater. I logged onto my phone and booked a seat on the earliest flight back home tomorrow morning. Once the confirmation landed in my inbox, I realized I couldn’t find my phone charger. I remembered that Vivian had borrowed it from my bag earlier that afternoon, so I walked down the hall to her room to retrieve it. The door to her suite was unlocked and slightly ajar. The room was empty—she was still downstairs on the terrace with Ethan—but her iPad was sitting open on the nightstand, its screen glowing brightly in the dim room. A new notification banner popped up at the top of the screen. It was from a group chat titled: The Original Five. I stopped in my tracks. Derek had just dropped a short video clip into the chat—it was the recording of Ethan and Vivian kissing during the mock wedding earlier that night. Below the video, a rapid stream of messages was flooding in: [Derek: Finally got them to lock lips!] [Tyler: Told you guys the Partner Swap idea would work like a charm.] [Derek: Tess’s face went dead white when Ethan kissed her. I’m amazed she didn’t blow up right then and there.] [Tyler: Please, she’s a master at faking it. She’d swallow her own teeth before making a scene.] I stood by the edge of the bed, my fingertips slowly losing all warmth. A group chat without me. I reached out and tapped the screen, scrolling upward through the chat history. The very first message in the log was dated three months ago. Vivian had dropped a screenshot of a viral “Couple Swap Game” into the chat, along with a text: [Vivian: Tess is always bragging about how smoothly she integrated into our group. How about we test how many rounds she can actually survive?] Tyler had replied almost instantly: [Tyler: Easy. Rig her box so every single card she pulls is blank.] Derek had added: [Derek: And make sure Ethan and Viv get matching cards every single time. From holding hands, to hugging, to kissing—make it wild.] My heart hammered against my ribs as I scrolled further up. Ethan hadn’t responded at first. But hours later, he had typed out a short message: [Ethan: Don’t push it too far.] I stared at those five words, a pathetic, stupid spark of hope flaring up in my chest. At least he tried to stop them. At least he cared. But then my thumb scrolled down to his very next text: [Ethan: Tess takes things way too seriously. We still need her to handle all the vendor bookings and logistics for the wedding. Don’t actually piss her off so much that she walks away.] Derek had replied with a series of laughing emojis: [Derek: Relax, man. She’s obsessed with you. She’s never leaving.] Ethan’s reply was brief: [Ethan: True.] True. Four letters, like a physical blow across my face. He hadn’t been ignorant. He had known about the game from day one. He knew every single card in my box was blank. He knew his friends were treating me like a performing monkey for their own amusement. He knew I would suffer through it, round after round, swallowing my pride. His only concern had been whether their cruelty would disrupt my ability to organize his perfect wedding. I kept scrolling, my mind numb. I saw the messages regarding the trip’s itinerary. I had posted my meticulous, weeks-long itinerary into the main group chat months ago, and no one had ever bothered to reply. But in The Original Five chat, they had ripped it to shreds: [Tyler: The diving excursion Tess booked sounds boring as hell.] [Derek: Vivian’s scared of open water anyway. Let’s switch it to a yacht party instead.] [Ethan: No need to tell her in advance. We’ll just change the plan when we get there. She won’t say no.] They had even debated the room assignments weeks before we left the city: [Tyler: Put Ethan and Vivian in the main family suite.] [Derek: What about Tess?] [Tyler: Sofa bed in the living room.] [Derek: What if she complains?] [Ethan: I’ll talk to her. She’ll agree.] Standing in the quiet bedroom, I felt a sudden, suffocating pressure in my chest, making it nearly impossible to draw breath. For seven long years, I had blamed myself for my inability to truly connect with them. I had assumed I was just too quiet, too awkward, or too culturally different. So I had tried with everything I had. I catered to their whims, laughed off their subtle disrespect, and willingly took on every tedious task they didn’t want to handle. Only now did I finally understand the truth. It was never that I wasn’t trying hard enough. They had been standing inside a locked room with their arms crossed, holding the door shut, watching me bang my fists against the glass from the outside—laughing at how desperate I looked. A new notification banner flashed across the top of the screen. [Tyler: Where’s Tess right now?] [Derek: Probably crying into a pillow in her room. Hey, should we set up another round for tomorrow?] A voice note from Vivian popped up a second later. I tapped it. Her sweet, airy voice filled the quiet room: “Maybe we should stop, guys. Tess seemed genuinely upset at lunch today.” Ethan’s text flashed immediately beneath her voice note: [Ethan: If she’s mad, let her cool off on her own. Does everyone have to baby her every single time she pouts? It’s exhausting.] Listening to his voice through the speaker, the absolute last embers of warmth inside my chest died out completely. I was about to close the tablet when a new video notification popped up in the chat. It was a clip Derek had stealthily recorded from the villa balcony just minutes ago. The terrace was empty now, except for Ethan and Vivian. Vivian was noticeably intoxicated, her head resting heavily on Ethan’s shoulder as they stared out at the dark ocean. In the video, her voice sounded small, fragile, and thick with alcohol: “Ethan… if I hadn’t turned you down back in college… would you still have ended up with Tess?” My fingers froze against the cold glass of the screen. The ocean breeze howled through the speakers. In the video, Ethan remained silent for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he spoke in a low, quiet voice: “No.” Vivian let out a wet, breathless laugh, tears slipping down her flushed cheeks. “Do you regret it now?” Ethan didn’t answer her with words. Instead, he reached out his hand, gently cupped her face, and wiped away her tears with his thumb. The tenderness in that single movement was an answer far more absolute than any words could ever be. The video cut off. The group chat remained silent for a few seconds before Derek sent a message: [Derek: I’ve been saying it for seven years: you two were always meant to be together.] Tyler chimed in: [Tyler: Tess was an intruder from the day Ethan brought her around. She took Vivian’s spot for seven years—it’s time she gave it back.] A high-pitched ringing echoed in my ears. To them, the woman who had stood beside Ethan for seven years, the woman who had supported him through his darkest moments, the woman he was supposed to marry in two months—was nothing more than an intruder who had stolen someone else’s life. I turned off the tablet, placed the charger back on the nightstand, and walked out of the room. I didn’t march down to the terrace. I didn’t scream. I didn’t demand an explanation. Because the answer was already crystal clear. I walked back to my room, opened my airline app, and moved my flight up to the red-eye departing in two hours. That gave me just enough time to pack and leave. If there was never any room for me in a group of six, then for the rest of my life, I would never reserve a single place for them again.

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1 The first time Nathan actually looked at me—truly looked at me—was on the steps of the Cook County Courthouse. Over three years of marriage, I had sat through both of his mother’s surgeries, held her hand in recovery, and drained my own 401(k) to keep his startup afloat when the Series A funding dried up. In all that time, he hadn’t noticed when I cut eight inches off my hair or when I stopped wearing my wedding ring to bed because my fingers were swelling from stress. But that morning, he stared at me for a full ten seconds. He was staring because I wasn’t crying. “Joanna,” he said, his voice raspy from the flight back. “Are you sure about this?” “I’ve never been more sure of anything.” “Fine. The house is yours. I’ll keep the joint card active, and I’ll wire you five thousand a month for… transition costs.” “Don’t bother,” I said. He narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowing in that familiar way that used to make me want to soothe him. “Then what’s the angle, Jo? What are you trying to get out of this?” I gave him a small, tired smile. What was I getting? I was getting a life where I didn’t have to smell another woman’s expensive Le Labo perfume on his dry cleaning. I was getting a life where I didn’t have to nod and say “it’s okay” every time he told me he was “working late” while his Instagram tags suggested otherwise. I was getting silence. And God, I missed the silence. He reached out, grabbing my wrist. “Whenever you get mad, it never lasts more than seventy-two hours. You’ll cool off.” “Okay,” I said quietly. He thought I was waiting for him to talk me down. He didn’t realize that in seventy-two hours, my resignation would be processed, my one-way ticket to Denver would be booked, and the keys to my new life would already be in my pocket. Three days later, I sat in the HR office of Miller-Apex. I pushed the physical copy of my resignation across the desk to Mrs. Gable. She looked at the date, then at me, her expression pained. “Jo, Nathan hasn’t signed off on this. He’s in New York for the product launch. He told me to tell you he’d ‘handle it’ when he got back.” “Resignation is a notification, Mrs. Gable, not a request for permission.” I pointed to the clause in my contract. “My notice period starts today. The handover list, the admin passwords, and the vendor directory are all in the attached cloud folder.” “But Nathan said you were just… having a moment. Being impulsive.” I took my keycard off the lanyard and set it on the desk. The plastic was scuffed from three years of being the first one in and the last one out. During the early days, I was the one who fixed the broken equipment, did the payroll, and scheduled his mother’s oncology follow-ups while Nathan focused on the “vision.” Mrs. Gable put her hand over the card. “Jo, you’re his wife. Just wait until he’s back?” “Marriage is one contract. Employment is another,” I said firmly. “They’re both being terminated.” She lowered her voice. “Finance just got an alert to freeze your reimbursement access. Nathan… he probably just wants you to calm down before you do something you regret.” My fingers twitched. I had been planning to use my personal account to cover the last-minute freight costs for the Denver expo—a habit I’d formed when our cash flow was tight. I pulled the invoices out of my bag and handed them to her, unpaid. “In that case, these are now ‘uncompleted tasks.’ Tell him not to expect me to float the company’s bills with my personal savings anymore.” Mrs. Gable looked stunned. “But this shipment has to go out today.” “The authorized signer is in New York,” I said, standing up. “And I don’t work for free.” I was at the airport when Nathan called. I could hear the roar of a crowd in the background—the launch event was clearly a success. “Did you really turn in your badge?” he demanded. “I did.” “The finance lock is temporary, Jo. Come back to the office, and I’ll have them restore your access immediately.” “I’ve already filed the paperwork.” He must have moved to a quieter hallway. His voice dropped an octave, turning cold. “I didn’t approve the resignation. You aren’t going anywhere.” “Check the labor laws, Nathan. I’m gone.” The silence on the other end lasted several beats. “You’re really going to drag our personal issues into the workplace? That’s unprofessional.” I looked down at the old leather portfolio by my feet. Three years ago, when he opened his first boutique gym, the bank had pulled our line of credit. I’d given him every cent I had. He’d told me then: “Your faith in me is the only thing keeping this company alive.” Now, that faith had become something he thought he could overdraw indefinitely. “You’re the one who cut off my access,” I said. “I was afraid you’d do something reckless while you’re emotional.” “Right. And the first thing you thought to do was take away my money. That says everything, doesn’t it?” He didn’t answer that. Instead, his voice softened into that manipulative, charming tone. “Cancel the flight, Jo. I’ll have my assistant pick you up tonight. You’ve been wanting that trip to the coast, right? Once this launch is over, I’m all yours. We’ll go to Big Sur.” My grip on my suitcase tightened. In our second year of marriage, I’d booked two different B&Bs in Big Sur. Both times, he’d canceled at the last minute because Sloane had an “emergency” with her branch’s marketing. The reservation reminders were still in our shared calendar—ghostly notifications of a trip that never happened. The boarding call for Denver echoed through the terminal. At the same moment, a notification popped up on my phone from our shared business email. An automated receipt: Monthly Parking Renewal – 1200 N. Ritz Way. It was the luxury apartment building where Sloane lived. I clicked the link. It had been a recurring expense for nine months. Two hundred dollars a month, categorized as “Client Transit.” “Are you still there?” Nathan asked. “I’m here.” “Then cancel the ticket.” I took a screenshot of the receipt and saved it to my private drive. Then, I went into our shared Apple family settings and hit “Leave Family.” “Enjoy the launch, Nathan,” I said. “Joanna—” I hung up and switched my phone to airplane mode. Two hours later, I touched down in Denver. No one was there to meet me. I took the train into the city and met a rental agent at a 450-square-foot studio. It faced north, the light was dim, and it was four stops away from the Convention Center. The lease was cheaper than a short-term rental, but signing it felt like a finality. It meant there was no “going home in a few days.” My hand shook slightly as I signed the papers. That evening, I dragged my suitcase to an interview at the Denver Convention Center. By the time I walked out, the sun had set. I turned my phone back on. Seventeen missed calls. One text: I told you to cool off, not disappear. Get home tomorrow. I didn’t reply. Instead, a scheduled email I’d written earlier was sent to his inbox. It was a comprehensive list: the water filter replacement schedule, the insurance renewal dates, the dog’s heartworm medication, and his mother’s physical therapy appointments. I had only taken my clothes, my passport, and my books. I left Nathan with the only thing he’d never bothered to learn: the actual weight of running a life. 2 The interview task for the Convention Center was a nightmare: mapping the entry flow for an 800-person tech summit. I broke the staff into four teams—registration, wayfinding, security, and a “roaming” response unit. I added stanchions at the two exits where bottlenecks always happened. The interviewer, a man named Grant with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense manner, looked at my plan. “What if the budget only allows for one roaming staffer?” “Then you cut the double-verification at the door,” I said immediately. “Too many rules don’t make an event safer; they just create a crowd that’s harder to manage. Simplicity is security.” He flipped through my resume. “Your previous salary is nearly double what we’re offering here.” “I’m aware.” “Three-month probation. You work holidays. You’re on your feet ten hours a day.” “I can handle it.” When I reached the “Conflict of Interest” disclosure form, I wrote down Miller-Apex Fitness. Grant glanced at it. “What’s your relationship with the CEO?” “Going through a divorce,” I said, my voice steady. He didn’t pry. He just noted it and made sure I wouldn’t be assigned to any projects Nathan’s company might bid on. I was hired that afternoon. The pay was tight. After rent, there wasn’t much left. Standing in the grocery store, I reached for my usual expensive fair-trade coffee, then paused, and replaced it with a generic brand that cost half as much. That’s when Nathan called. “The gym equipment maintenance crew is at the Chicago flagship,” he snapped. “Where is the service contract?” “In the public cloud folder.” “I don’t have the password.” “The reset instructions are in the handover document I sent you.” “I don’t have time to dig through your directories, Jo! Just call the vendor and fix it.” I shifted my grocery basket to my other hand. “That isn’t my job anymore, Nathan.” “You used to handle this in five minutes!” “Because I was acting as your COO and your personal assistant simultaneously. I’ve resigned from both positions.” I heard him rustling papers. “Are you really going to be this petty?” “You set the tone when you froze my corporate card,” I reminded him. The line went quiet. Then, his voice changed. It became… almost concerned. “Have you even eaten since you got to Denver?” My grip on the basket tightened. Nathan wasn’t always a monster. During the first year of the startup, when I had a 102-degree fever and was still trying to balance the books, he’d driven across the city at 2 AM to bring me soup. He’d once given me the only cot in the office and slept on the floor so I could rest. The kindness had been real. Once. But then, Sloane’s voice drifted through the phone in the background. “Nathan, the guest list for the Denver opening isn’t confirmed. Can you look at this?” Nathan didn’t even bother to move away from her. He just said to me, “Send the vendor’s number to my email. Don’t let your temper interfere with business.” I sent the number to the general info@ account, not his personal text. At 10 PM, my phone buzzed. A bank alert: Transfer received: $15,000. The memo read: Living expenses. I initiated a “Return to Sender” immediately. I texted him: Please have HR settle my final paycheck and outstanding reimbursements through official channels. I do not accept private transfers. He called instantly. “Is it not enough?” “It’s not about the amount.” “Then what do you want? Your job is still open. Your seat is still here. You’ll find out within a week that you can’t pay a mortgage with ‘pride,’ Joanna.” “I already have a job.” There was a long pause. “Doing what?” “None of your business.” “You won’t last a week.” I looked at the small desk lamp I’d just bought. The shade was crooked, and I’d spent twenty minutes trying to level it. Usually, I would have called Nathan. He was good with his hands. But he was always so “busy” lately that I’d learned to do it myself anyway. “Maybe,” I said. “But it’ll be my week.” The next day, Mrs. Gable messaged me. Nathan had finally let Legal process my resignation. I threw myself into the high-octane world of the Convention Center. I survived the first month of my probation, working on my feet until my calves ached. Nathan didn’t call again. He was clearly waiting for me to break, for the lack of luxury to bring me crawling back. Until, with three days left in the mandatory “cooling-off” period before our divorce could be finalized, a notification popped up on our still-linked shared calendar. Event: Denver Branch Grand Opening. Attendees: Nathan Miller, Sloane Reed. He was finally coming to my city. But he wasn’t coming for me. 3 The grand opening was held in the West Hall of the Convention Center. I wasn’t assigned to that project; I was in the public concourse, checking the fire marshal’s clearances for a medical convention in the East Hall. I saw him from a distance, and despite everything, my heart skipped a beat. He was in a charcoal suit, looking every bit the successful CEO. Sloane stood beside him, radiant in a sheath dress. A local partner approached them, his eyes drifting toward me. “Nathan, who is that over there? She looks like she’s running the show.” Nathan followed his gaze. I saw his throat move as he swallowed. “That’s Joanna,” he said to the partner. “A former operations colleague.” Not his wife. Not even his “soon-to-be-ex-wife.” Just a “former colleague.” The partner walked over to shake my hand. “A pleasure. Nathan’s old right hand, I hear.” I didn’t correct him. I didn’t give Nathan the satisfaction of a scene. I just pointed to the pallet of equipment in the hallway. “This needs to be cleared. It’s blocking the fire exit.” Nathan stepped closer, his hand instinctively reaching for my clipboard. “What are you doing here, Jo?” I pulled the clipboard back. “Working.” “You didn’t think to tell me you were working here?” “How did you just introduce me, Nathan?” He stiffened. “It’s a professional setting. There’s no need to explain our private lives to strangers.” “Exactly,” I said. I signed the form and handed it to the floor manager. Nathan started to follow me, but Sloane called out to him, telling him the mayor had arrived. He shot me one last look. “We’ll talk tonight.” Then he turned and walked toward her. Half an hour later, Sloane found me in the staff breakroom. Her tone was measured, perfectly poised. “Joanna, this opening is a huge deal for Nathan. Could you maybe… stay in the East Hall? Your presence is a bit of a distraction.” “I don’t work for you, Sloane. And I don’t work for Nathan.” “I know that. But everyone here knows who you are. If people see the ‘wife’ wandering around like a staffer, it makes Nathan look bad. It makes the company look unstable.” “If Nathan feels unstable, that’s his problem to manage.” Her face tightened. “You’ve already filed for divorce. Why are you still clinging to the ‘Mrs. Miller’ identity if you’re so over it?” “Sloane.” I lifted my badge, pointing to the name printed on it. “I’m using my own name. And you’re standing over the yellow safety line. Non-staff need to stay behind the barrier.” Grant, my supervisor, happened to walk by at that moment. He didn’t ask about our history; he just looked at Sloane’s temporary guest pass. “Visitor passes aren’t allowed in the equipment zone,” Grant said, his voice like flint. “Please return to the lobby.” Sloane bit her lip. “I’m the head of marketing for the event.” “Vendors still follow the rules,” Grant said. He signaled for a security guard to escort her. Before she left, Sloane turned to me and whispered, “Nathan was right. You’re just having a tantrum. You aren’t actually going through with it.” I felt the edge of my clipboard dig into my palm. Nathan had told me we needed “space to think.” He had told her that I was just bluffing. He was playing both sides, keeping us both in our lanes until things got quiet again. I caught Nathan in the parking garage after my shift. “Friday morning. 9:00 AM. The courthouse back in Chicago for the final signature,” I said. “Last chance.” He looked exhausted, his tie loosened. “You really want to do this on the day of my biggest launch?” “I sent you the calendar invite twice. You said you’d be there.” “The opening ceremony ends at 10:30. I’ll fly back right after.” “The judge’s clerk leaves at 9:30. If we aren’t both there to sign the final decree, the filing expires.” He rubbed his temples. “I’ll have my assistant handle the morning session… fine. I’ll be there.” For a second, I actually wanted to believe him. He opened the car door for me, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register he used after every fight. “Let’s get dinner. You look like you’ve lost weight, Jo.” I looked into the car. Sloane’s perfume—that heavy Le Labo scent—was thick in the air. Her badge was sitting on the passenger seat. “Friday. Nine o’clock,” I said, and walked away. When I got back to my apartment, I went to delete our shared calendar. I noticed he had changed the entry. The “Divorce Finalization” event had been renamed to: Can be rescheduled. He had promised to be there, but in his mind, I was still just a minor task that could be pushed to the bottom of the list. 4 Friday, 8:20 AM. I was at the Cook County Courthouse. The lobby was quiet, the air smelling of floor wax and old paper. I took a number and sat on a hard wooden bench, the two copies of our marriage certificate heavy in my lap. 8:40 AM. I texted Nathan: I’m here. Confirm you’re on your way. I won’t wait past 9:30. No reply. 9:05 AM. His assistant called. “Joanna, Nathan is tied up at the Denver site. Sloane’s having a bit of a panic attack because the audio system failed, and Nathan needs to stay until the keynote starts. He wants to know if you can push the appointment to 1:00 PM?” “The court doesn’t work around his schedule,” I said. “And neither do I.” “Nathan says we can just re-file next month.” I looked at the digital display on the wall. My number was coming up. “Tell him he needs to tell me himself.” Minutes later, Nathan called. The background noise was a cacophony of cheering and music. “Jo, just give me an hour.” “Are you at the airport?” “I’m leaving as soon as the ribbon is cut.” “If you leave now, you can make the final signing.” “Sloane has never run an event this big, Jo! She’s falling apart. If I leave, the whole thing goes to hell.” “You have a professional tech crew and three managers.” “She only trusts me right now.” I traced the gold-leafed edge of the marriage certificate. “And what about me, Nathan?” The line went silent for a second. “You’re stronger than she is. You’re more mature. Don’t force me to choose today.” The speaker called my number. The clerk at the window waved me over. “Both parties need to be present to finalize,” she said. I stood up. “Nathan, I’m not asking you to choose today. I asked you to choose three years ago.” “Don’t be dramatic. It’s just a few weeks’ delay.” “Are you coming by 9:30? Yes or no?” In the background, I heard a voice: “Nathan, Sloane needs you in the green room. Now.” “I have to go,” Nathan said hurriedly. “Don’t make a scene out of nothing, Joanna.” He hung up. At 9:30, I put the certificates back in my folder and walked out of the courthouse. But I didn’t go to the airport. I walked three blocks over to my lawyer’s office. The paperwork was already prepped. I hadn’t wanted to use it, but I had it. The bank statements. The shared calendar logs. The receipts for Sloane’s apartment parking. The records of the $26,000 Nathan had funneled into “consulting fees” for Sloane that were actually just her rent and credit card bills. My lawyer looked at me. “You originally wanted a clean, no-fault break. No alimony, no asset split. Are you sure you want to pivot to a contested filing?” “I’m sure,” I said. “He didn’t show up. So now, we talk about the money.” I had wanted to be “the bigger person.” I wanted to walk away with nothing but my dignity. But Sloane had stood in my professional space and told me to hide. Nathan had used our money to build a life for her, while telling me my “salary” was a gift. If I left with nothing now, it wasn’t “grace.” It was just me paying for their affair. I signed the new petition. My hand didn’t shake. As I walked out, a photo was posted to the Miller-Apex Instagram. Nathan stood in the center, Sloane on his arm. She didn’t look like she was having a “panic attack.” She looked triumphant. Nathan texted me: The event is over. I’m heading to the airport now. Stay at the courthouse. I replied: I’m already gone. He called. I ignored it. Text from Nathan: How far are you going to push this tantrum? I sent him a photo of the court’s receipt for the new, contested filing. I replied: You missed the appointment. So I’ve filed for a contested divorce. That $26,000 you ‘gifted’ Sloane? I’m taking my half back. See you in court.

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