Category: English

The door wasn’t locked. I stood on my own welcome mat, my suitcase heavy in my hand, the keys still buried somewhere in my purse. The door was cracked open. Just an inch. The living room lights were on. On the coffee table sat a half-empty glass of water, a ring of milky residue clinging to the rim. I had been out of state for three months. This house was supposed to be empty. From the direction of the master bedroom, a cry broke the silence. A baby’s cry. I didn’t have a child. The crying paused for a second, followed by a woman’s voice. Soft, cooing. “Shh, don’t cry, sweetie. Daddy will be home soon.” Daddy. I set my suitcase down. The wheels knocked against the doorframe with a dull thud. In the master bedroom, the woman’s voice abruptly stopped. 1. The shoe cabinet in the entryway was open. The top row was exactly how I had left it—my running shoes, my heels, my fleece house slippers. They were all there, but they had been shoved aggressively into the corner. The middle two rows were filled with shoes I didn’t recognize. Women’s shoes. Pink fuzzy slippers, a pair of thick recovery grip socks, some flats with little bows. The bottom shelf was entirely dedicated to a baby. Tiny socks and soft-soled booties, folded with sickening neatness. I stared at the pink slippers. The soles were worn down. Whoever they belonged to hadn’t just moved in. The master bedroom door creaked open. A woman walked out, bouncing a baby in her arms. She was young, her hair tied back in a messy bun, wearing a faded, oversized sleep shirt—the kind that had been washed a hundred times. She saw me and froze. “Who are you…” I looked at the infant in her arms. A newborn, swaddled in a pale blue blanket. The swaddle was brand new. But the small knitted throw draped over the baby? I recognized that. It was a wedding gift from a friend. I had kept it stored on the top shelf of my closet. “This is my house,” I said. She took a step back. “Greg said… he said you two were already divorced.” I didn’t say a word. I walked past her, into the living room. Next to the milky glass of water on the coffee table sat a tin of baby formula, a pack of wet wipes, and a bottle sterilizer. The sterilizer was plugged into the wall, its power light glowing a steady, cheerful green. The TV I bought. The sectional I picked out. The bookshelves I spent three weekends assembling. Everything was still here. It just wasn’t mine anymore. I turned my head toward the kitchen. A piece of paper was pinned to the fridge, held up by the decorative magnets I bought in Maine. The paper read: Baby’s Feeding Schedule — 7:00 AM Formula, 10:00 AM Puree, 12:30 PM Egg yolk… The handwriting was bubbly, complete with a little hand-drawn sun in the corner. I reached out and ripped the paper down. The magnet clattered to the hardwood floor. The woman stood paralyzed in the hallway, too terrified to step closer. The baby started crying again. “What month did you move in?” I asked. She hesitated. “…April.” April. I left for my work trip on March 15th. Two weeks. He only waited two weeks. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Greg’s name lit up the screen. I didn’t answer. It rang three times, then went silent. A second later, a text popped up: Hey honey, did your flight land? I have to stay late at the office. I’ll be home a bit later. Honey. Stay late. Home. Which home? I locked my phone and walked into the master bedroom. The bedsheets had been changed. The slate-gray linen duvet cover I had put on before I left was gone, replaced by a cheap pink floral pattern. On the nightstand sat a baby monitor, a tube of nipple cream, and a bottle of postnatal vitamins. I pulled open my closet. The left side used to be mine. Except, it wasn’t anymore. Every hanger was occupied by clothes I had never seen in my life. Sundresses, nursing tops, oversized cardigans. Where were my clothes? I yanked open the heavy bottom drawer of the dresser. There they were. My clothes had been hastily folded and violently jammed into the bottom drawer, packed so tightly the fabrics were deeply creased. Sitting right on top of the crushed fabric was my marriage certificate. I pulled it out. I opened it. In the photo, Greg and I were leaning into each other, smiling at the camera. I ran my index finger along the edge of the heavy paper. It was sharp. It left a fine, stinging line of red across my skin. A paper cut. I snapped the certificate shut. Out in the living room, the woman was on the phone. She was whispering frantically, but I caught one sentence: “…she’s back.” I walked out of the bedroom. I walked straight to the balcony. Clothes were hanging on the drying rack. Adult clothes, baby clothes, a whole row of them swaying slightly in the AC breeze. I had installed that drying rack myself. I stood on the balcony for a long moment. My phone vibrated again. Greg. This time, I swiped to answer. “Harper—” “How long until you get home?” A beat of dead silence on the other end of the line. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice tight. I stared at the row of clothes that didn’t belong to me. “Tell me when you get here.” I hung up. A few minutes later, the screech of tires echoed from the street below. Then, the heavy slam of a car door. Rushed. Frantic. The elevator pinged in the hallway. I sat on the living room sofa. A $400 sectional from IKEA. I had hauled the heavy flat-pack boxes from the warehouse to the car all by myself because he told me he had to work late that Saturday. The front door burst open. Greg stood in the doorway, chest heaving. He looked at me. Then his eyes darted to the woman cowering near the bedroom hallway. Then, he did something I truly didn’t expect. He turned around and closed the front door. He closed it incredibly softly. Gently pulling it until it clicked. Like he was terrified the neighbors might hear. “Harper, please, just let me explain.” When he said those words, he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at her. He was shooting her a desperate, silent look. I saw it all. 2. I didn’t stay in that house a minute longer. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out the door. Greg yelled my name—”Harper!”—down the hall, but I didn’t stop. As the elevator doors slid shut, I heard the baby start to wail again. I booked a room at a cheap motel right across the street from our subdivision. I sat on the edge of the stiff mattress. My suitcase was still zipped shut. Inside that suitcase was a navy blue windbreaker. Greg’s size. I had seen it on sale at an outlet mall near the project site in Phoenix and bought it for him. There was a bag of artisanal dark roast coffee beans. He had mentioned wanting to try them. There was a pair of new house slippers. He told me before I left that his old ones were wearing thin. I unzipped the luggage and pulled out the slippers. He already had new slippers at home. Pink ones. I shoved them back into the suitcase. Zipped it shut. My phone was vibrating violently against the nightstand. Call after call from Greg. I flipped the ringer switch to silent. The screen just kept flashing in the dark room. Lighting up, going black. Lighting up, going black. The text messages flooded in. Harper please don’t do anything crazy, let’s just talk. Tell me where you are, I’m worried about you being out there alone. It’s not what you think. Not what I think. What the hell was it, then? I opened my Instagram app and scrolled back. Three months ago. March 14th. The day before my flight. He had posted a picture of a sad-looking frozen pizza on a plate. The caption: Wife is out of town for three months. Guess I’m fending for myself starting today. Followed by a laughing-crying emoji. I looked at the comments. His coworker wrote: You’re gonna waste away without Harper cooking for you man lol. Greg replied: I know right, unsupervised bachelor life is rough. March 14th. I flew out the very next morning. Two weeks later, that woman moved into my home. I kept scrolling. Further back. February. Valentine’s Day. He had posted a selfie of us at a nice Italian place. The caption: Year four. Still going strong. I remembered that night clearly. After he paid the bill, he held my hand across the table and said, “Next year, let’s look at upgrading to a bigger house.” I had laughed at him. Told him we were still paying off the mortgage on this one, that we didn’t need fancy dinners, that we should just make pasta at home next time. He had wrapped his arm around my shoulders in the parking lot and kissed my temple. “You work so hard for us, honey. I appreciate you.” I appreciate you. On February 14th, he appreciated me. On March 15th, I left. By April 1st, another woman was sleeping in my bed. I tossed the phone onto the mattress. The motel blanket was painfully thin. The AC unit in the window rattled and hummed. I had flown three hours from Phoenix. Landed, took the train back to the suburbs, forty minutes. I had been on that construction site for three months. Eighty-seven days. Working twelve-plus hours a day in the blistering Arizona sun. The UV index was so high my face had peeled twice. We delivered the project ahead of schedule. The client gave us a massive bonus, and my cut was $20,000. I had been riding that high all day. Because I thought—I honestly thought—I could use that money to take a massive chunk out of our mortgage principal. The mortgage. I opened my banking app. This month’s payment had already cleared. $2,400. Deducted automatically from my checking account. Just like the previous thirty-five months. Autopay. I had set it up myself. From the very first installment, every single cent of that mortgage came out of my account. Had Greg ever transferred money into it? I pulled up my deposit history. No. Thirty-six months. $2,400 a month. I paid every dime of it alone. Outside the motel window, the neon sign flickered over the wet asphalt. It was 11:00 PM, and cars were still speeding by. I dialed my best friend, Sarah. “Hey,” she answered. “What’s wrong? You sound weird.” “I’m back.” “Wait, didn’t you say your flight was tomorrow?” “I came back a day early.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “When I opened my front door, there was a woman living in my house. Holding a baby.” Dead silence on the line. It lasted for a full three seconds. “I’m on my way. Drop your location.” When Sarah arrived, she was carrying a plastic grocery bag with some oranges and a bottle of water. She didn’t demand details. She just sat on the edge of the bed, peeled an orange, and handed it to me. I held it in my palm. Didn’t eat it. “She was wearing an old sleep shirt,” I said to the empty room. “Yeah.” “It wasn’t new. It had been washed a hundred times.” “Yeah.” “There was a baby food schedule on my fridge.” “Yeah.” “My clothes… they shoved my clothes into the bottom drawer.” Sarah didn’t say anything to that. She gently took the orange out of my frozen hand, broke off a wedge, and pressed it to my lips. “Eat something first.” I chewed the orange. It was incredibly sour. My phone screen lit up again. This time, it wasn’t Greg. It was my mother-in-law, Barbara. Harper, Greg just called me. Please don’t overreact. Come home tomorrow and we can all sit down and talk this through like adults. Talk this through. I flipped the phone over, screen down. Sarah watched me. “What are you going to do tomorrow?” I stared up at the water-stained ceiling. “I’m thinking about something.” “What?” “He practically forced me to take that project in Phoenix.” Sarah frowned. “What do you mean?” “When the firm asked who wanted to go in early March, no one volunteered. Three months on-site. Brutal heat. Awful hours.” “And?” “Greg was the one who pushed me. He told me, ‘You should take it. A massive commercial build like that will guarantee your promotion to Senior PM. Three months will fly by. I’ve got things covered at home.’” I paused, letting the memory settle over me like ash. “I’ve got things covered at home.” I repeated the words slowly. Sarah reached out and squeezed my hand hard. “Go to sleep. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.” She turned off the lamp. I lay on the motel bed, eyes wide open in the dark. All I could see in my mind were those pink fuzzy slippers. The worn-down soles. They weren’t new. She hadn’t just arrived. She had been living my life for a very, very long time. 3. The next morning, I didn’t go looking for Greg. I went straight to the bank. I waited in line for forty minutes and requested three years’ worth of bank statements. Eleven pages of standard A4 paper. I sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the lobby, going through them line by line. Mortgage: $2,400. Automatically deducted on the 15th of every month. Thirty-six transactions. Next to each one, the memo line read: Mortgage Auto-Pay. All of it from my account. Did Greg ever transfer money to me? Yes. I found them—at the end of every month, he would send a small, random amount. The highest was $400. The lowest was $100. The memo line always read: Groceries. A few hundred bucks. My mortgage was two-point-four thousand. He gave me a few hundred bucks. I kept tracing my finger down the pages. In November, I spotted a massive withdrawal. I didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t the mortgage, and it wasn’t a credit card payment. $4,000. Flat. Transferred to an account under the name “Bethany Clark.” I didn’t know that name. Wait. I did. Yesterday, standing in my master bedroom, the woman holding the baby… Greg had called her Bethany. November. I hadn’t even left for my work trip yet. What was I doing in November? I pulled up my phone’s calendar app. November 18th, project review. November 25th, a three-day business trip to Chicago. It was during those three days in Chicago. Four thousand dollars. I kept scrolling down the pages. December: Transferred to Bethany Clark, $2,500. January: Transferred to Bethany Clark, $5,000. January also had another transfer: Transferred to Barbara Zhou, $15,000. Fifteen thousand dollars. To his mother. The memo line was blank. I dropped the papers onto my lap and leaned my head back against the wall. The AC in the bank lobby was blasting, freezing the sweat on my neck. A little kid was running in circles near the teller line, his exhausted mother trailing behind him, whispering, “Slow down, please slow down.” I remembered something. In January, Greg had come home looking defeated, telling me his company had slashed end-of-year bonuses. He said he barely got a thousand dollars. He had sighed, rubbed his temples, and said, “The economy is just brutal right now. Everyone’s taking a hit.” And that exact same month, he wired fifteen thousand dollars to his mother. And five thousand to Bethany. Twenty grand. From a guy whose bonus was “barely a thousand dollars.” Where did that money come from? I kept reading. February, March. The frequency of transfers to Bethany skyrocketed. In March alone, there were three separate wires. Totaling $9,000. March. The month I left for Arizona. Nine thousand dollars wired directly to her. In that same exact month, my account was drained of $2,400 for our house. While I was out in the desert sun working myself to the bone, getting chemical burns from cheap sunscreen and drywall dust, he was funding another woman’s life. I neatly folded the statements and slipped them into my tote bag. I walked out of the bank. Took about fifteen steps down the sidewalk. Stopped. I turned around and marched right back inside. I asked the teller to print the statements for the joint credit card. Technically, it was a supplementary card under my primary account, but I had given it to Greg to “make grocery runs and paying the utility bills easier.” The printer whirred. I scanned the charges. A purchase at a high-end baby boutique: $850. January. A charge at a private women’s clinic: $400. December. December. The clinic. I was home in December. I was sleeping in the same bed as him. He would go to “work” during the day, and come home at night to eat the dinners I cooked. I even remembered a specific night in December when he came home incredibly late. I had asked him if everything was okay. He had loosened his tie, looking exhausted. “Team dinner. Had a couple of beers.” I had gotten up from the couch to pour him a glass of warm water. He drank it, smiled, and said, “Thanks, honey.” Thanks, honey. He had just come back from the maternity ward. I folded the credit card statements and shoved them into my bag, too. I stood on the sidewalk outside the bank. The sun was blinding. Late June. Suffocatingly hot. I pulled out my phone and texted Sarah: I need you to recommend a lawyer. The best divorce attorney you know. Before I could lock the screen, a notification popped up. My mother-in-law, Barbara: Harper, come over to our house for dinner tonight. We’re a family, we need to sit down and talk this out. Don’t sit in some hotel room letting your mind go to dark places. Dark places. She thought I was having a breakdown. Another text immediately followed: Bethany isn’t a bad girl. At the end of the day, she gave our family a grandson to carry on the name, and that— I didn’t even read the rest. I screenshotted the messages. Saved them to a hidden folder. Then I typed three words and hit send: I understand perfectly. I didn’t go to dinner. That night, alone in my motel room, I spread the three years’ worth of bank statements and credit card bills across the cheap bedspread. And I read every single line.

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There was a trending thread on Reddit’s r/AskMen the other day: “Guys who married a 10/10, what’s it actually like?” The top-voted comment belonged to a user named ApexPredator88. “Nothing special, honestly. It’s mostly just good for the ego when we go out.” “My wife isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but she’s undeniably gorgeous.” Below his comment, a chorus of internet bros chimed in with unsolicited warnings. “Looks don’t pay the bills, man. Women like that are spoiled rotten. Bet she can’t keep a house clean and bleeds your bank account dry.” “Bro, listen to me. The second she pushes out a kid, her market value tanks. You’re gonna be left holding the bag.” ApexPredator88 was quick to reply. “Oh, I know. I’m not an idiot. The second she hits the wall and loses her looks, I’m finding an excuse to divorce her. You can hold me to that.” The replies erupted into a digital frat party of cheers. Dozens of users dropped the “Following for updates” or “RemindMe!” tags. Someone called his bluff, demanding photo proof that his wife was actually as hot as he claimed. A few minutes later, he smugly uploaded a picture. I froze, the blood draining from my face until my fingertips turned to ice. Because the woman in the photo—smiling softly at the camera, completely unaware—was me. 1 I had barely locked my phone screen when my husband walked out of the kitchen, holding a plate of neatly sliced apples. His voice dripped with practiced, performative care. “Here you go, babe. Have some fruit.” “The doctor said you need to keep your nutrients up in the first trimester.” I was six weeks pregnant, and the hyperemesis gravidarum was tearing me apart. My morning sickness was brutal, unrelenting. Especially the smell of anything sweet. It made my stomach violently revolt. “I don’t want it. Take it away.” I forced the words through clenched teeth, swallowing down the bile rising in my throat, and coldly pushed the plate back. Connor paused, the corners of his mouth tightening. The supportive-husband smile fractured on his face. But he didn’t pull the plate back. Instead, he speared a slice with a fork and thrust it directly into my personal space. “Come on. I already cut it up. Just eat one piece. Do it for the baby.” The cloying, sugary scent of the apple hit my nose. Every nerve ending in my body flared with an uncontrollable, primal irritation. I shoved his hand away, harder this time. “I told you yesterday I can’t stomach anything sweet. Even the smell makes me want to throw up.” His eyes darkened. He looked down at me, his voice dropping into that condescending, paternal register I’d come to loathe. “Madeline, you’re about to be a mother.” “The baby needs nutrients. If you don’t eat, what’s he supposed to do in there?” “When did you become so selfish?” The fork lunged toward me again. This time, he didn’t give me a choice, practically shoving the cold, wet fruit against my lips. The nausea I had been wrestling with instantly overpowered me. A wave of absolute repulsion crashed through my system. “Connor, are you deaf?!” “I’ve told you a thousand times! I don’t want it! I don’t want it! I don’t want it!” I screamed at him, my vision blurring with rage. I slapped the plate out of his hands. It shattered against the hardwood floor. Pale, sticky apple slices scattered like debris across the room. He stood there, perfectly still, a terrifying flash of malice passing behind his eyes. 2 I didn’t care what he was thinking. The sticky, sweet residue of the juice on my lips was making my skin crawl. All I wanted was to get to the bathroom, scrub my face, and brush my teeth. I barely made it over the threshold. Before I could even squeeze the toothpaste onto the bristles, I collapsed over the toilet and wretched until my vision went dark at the edges. Connor followed me in. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, staring down at me with absolute, clinical detachment. He didn’t offer to hold my hair. He didn’t say a word. He just watched me dry-heave for a long, suffocating minute. Then, I heard the sound of him walking down the hall, putting on his shoes, and the heavy thud of the front door slamming shut. When my stomach was finally empty, I wiped my mouth, cleaned the porcelain bowl, and slumped against the cold bathroom tiles. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. ApexPredator88 had updated his thread. “The bros were right. Pretty women are impossible to please.” “I cut up an apple for her, literally tried to feed it to her, and she lost her mind. Threw the whole plate on the floor.” He attached a photo of the shattered ceramic and the apples scattered across our living room rug. The comment section was a cesspool of mockery. “Serves you right, bro. You created that monster by simping for her.” “For real. Why the hell are you cutting her apples?” One user chimed in, asking: “So what’s the play now?” Connor replied with the chilling confidence of a man performing for an audience: “I stepped out for a smoke. Gonna let her sit in her own mess and cool off.” “If I stayed and argued with her, I swear to God I would’ve backhanded her.” The comment racked up upvotes in seconds. 99+. “You’re a saint, man.” “Yeah, you’re stepping up more than 90% of guys out there. You just gotta grit your teeth and endure it for now.” “Exactly. Just survive these next few months. Once that kid drops, she’s lost her leverage. Then you hold all the cards.” I stared at the screen, a bizarre, hysterical laugh bubbling in my chest. It was so absurd it didn’t even feel real. Looking down, I logged into an old burner account and typed out a single, quiet reply. “Is it really that deep? Maybe the pregnant woman just genuinely didn’t want to eat fruit?” 3 The moment I hit reply, I was completely dogpiled. “LMAO, she has a mouth, she can use her words. Next.” “Yeah, if she doesn’t want to eat, fine. But smashing the plate? What kind of psychotic behavior is that?” “Give me a break. Stop making excuses for these females. She’s just weaponizing her pregnancy to throw tantrums and assert dominance over her husband.” Asserting dominance? Throwing tantrums? When Connor had brought the apples home from Whole Foods yesterday, I specifically told him I couldn’t eat them. And what had he said? “If you don’t eat them, I will. If I don’t, my parents will. If they don’t, the stray dogs in the neighborhood will.” “Just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean apples are banished from the house, Madeline. Stop being so self-centered.” It sounded reasonable enough at the time. So, he brought the massive bag of fruit inside, and I didn’t say another word. But the reality? He hated apples. He never ate them. He just liked the power trip of trying to force me to eat them. I said no, and he just kept pushing, pushing, pushing, like a machine incapable of processing the word no. Suddenly, a user with a verified flair as a medical professional spoke up in the thread. “Wait, can we back up a second?” “This guy left his pregnant wife alone with a floor full of broken glass and slippery fruit?” “What if she slips and falls? What if there’s an accident?” In a sea of men violently venting their resentments, she was the only one pointing out the actual physical danger. And yet, even this verified nurse was immediately torn to shreds by the mob. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. She made the mess, she should clean it. If he cleans it this time, next time she’ll smash the TV.” “Stop fear-mongering. It’s not that dangerous. Women always overexaggerate how fragile they are to extract more resources from men. We all know how this works.” “Truth. When my mom was pregnant with me, my dad beat the brakes off her a few times, and I came out just fine.” I scrolled down, comment by comment. With every swipe, the chill in my bathroom seemed to seep deeper into my bones, freezing the marrow. If the algorithm hadn’t randomly pushed my husband’s viral post onto my feed, I never would have known this dark, twisted corner of the internet existed. I never would have known these men walked among us. A long time passed. The bathroom grew dark as the sun set outside. I heard the lock click. Connor was back. His face was flushed, and the sour scent of bourbon drifted through the hallway. He walked into the living room, saw the apples still on the floor, and stopped. The anger flared instantly. “Madeline, you’ve been lying in bed scrolling on your phone all afternoon, and you couldn’t be bothered to clean up the house?” 4 I didn’t even have the energy to point out that he had also been out all afternoon, doing absolutely nothing to clean the house. He didn’t need my response to launch into a tirade. “You’re barely showing! It’s not like you’re incapacitated and need round-the-clock care.” “You’ve been pregnant for five minutes, and you’re already trying to play the queen? Trying to establish dominance, is that it?” “Well, let me tell you right now, Madeline—it’s not gonna work!” I stared at him. Really stared at him. He looked like a complete stranger. He had swallowed the internet’s poison whole. He genuinely believed that my nausea, my exhaustion, my very existence right now was some calculated chess move to manipulate him. I didn’t want to argue. The fight had drained right out of me. I walked past him, my face entirely blank, and pulled a weekender bag from the closet. I started throwing sweaters and underwear into it. I couldn’t think anymore. I didn’t want to analyze this. I just wanted to go home. Back to my parents’ house. Back to somewhere safe. But the moment he saw the bag, Connor snapped. He lunged into the bedroom and grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging painfully into my skin. “Where do you think you’re going? Your temper is getting out of control. One little disagreement and you’re running back to mommy and daddy?” He leaned in closer. The stench of cheap liquor and stale sweat hit the back of my throat. “Let go of me.” I tried to yank my arm away, my voice icy. Instead of letting go, his grip tightened like a vise. “Are you done throwing this little tantrum yet, Madeline?” “You smash plates, you throw food, I tolerate all of it. What more do you want from me?” “Do you have any idea how suffocating you are?” “You’re pregnant, congratulations. Does that mean our entire lives have to revolve around your psychotic mood swings?” The smell of the bourbon was pushing me right back to the edge of vomiting. I couldn’t form a sentence to defend myself, nor did I want to. I just shook my head. “Fine. I’ll stop suffocating you.” “Connor, I want a divorce.”

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My husband and his younger sister loved to spoil me. It was our little tradition: once a month, they’d treat me to a shopping spree, and they’d make a game out of who got to foot the bill. On the FaceTime call, my husband, Nathan, was grinning triumphantly, holding up his credit card, while his sister, Maddie, held the phone, laughing and cursing him out for beating her to the punch. I sat in my wheelchair, soaking in the envious glances of the other shoppers in the boutique. A husband who worshipped the ground I couldn’t walk on, and a sister-in-law who treated me like blood. I had it all. What more could a woman possibly ask for? When it was time to ring up the next item, Maddie shoved her phone’s Apple Pay screen right up to the camera. But as the screen blurred into focus, a banner notification dropped down from the top. “This month’s veterinary meds are filled. Same routine—put them in the supplement bottles?” My breath hitched. I was the only one in our house who took supplements. … The message vanished in the blink of an eye, so fast I almost convinced myself it was a glitch. A hallucination. On the other end of the screen, Maddie was still giggling. “Well? Did it go through? Did I beat him?” The young boutique clerk looked a little dazed by the digital shouting match. “Um, yes. Approved,” she said tentatively. The screen exploded with cheers. “Hear that, Nate?! I win!” Maddie flashed a smug peace sign at the camera. “Grab whatever you want, Sophie! It’s on me!” Beside her, Nathan let out a theatrical sigh of defeat, which earned him a playful shove from his sister. My mind was white noise. The notification echoed on an endless loop in my head. I didn’t snap back to reality until the clerk gently handed me the crisp, heavy shopping bag. Her eyes drifted down to my legs, soft with that familiar, cloying pity. I followed her gaze downward. Three years. Three years ago, my right leg was crushed in a horrific car accident when I threw myself in front of the steering column to shield Nathan. I spent three months in the hospital. I was supposed to make a full recovery, but somewhere along the line, my legs just stopped working. Irreversible nerve damage, the doctors eventually concluded. We flew across the country. We saw specialists. We tried grueling physical therapy. Nothing worked. Eventually, it was Maddie who knelt by my chair, holding my hands. “Sophie, being in a wheelchair isn’t the end of the world. Nate and I are going to take care of you for the rest of your life. Your only job is to relax and let us love you. Don’t worry about anything else.” And they did. Nathan negotiated a permanent work-from-home setup. Maddie switched her college classes to online and practically moved into our guest room. They anticipated my every need. They fed me, bathed me, entertained me. But gradually, the invisible walls of my life began to shrink. They stopped letting me go outside. Whenever I mentioned wanting fresh air, Nathan would break down. Tears welling in his gorgeous, devastated eyes. “It’s too dangerous out there, Soph. If anything else happened to you… I wouldn’t survive it. I’d die.” At first, Maddie provided the logical backup. It’s too cold, the icy sidewalks are a hazard, the doctor said you need absolute rest. Then, Nathan installed a smart-lock system on the front door. Fingerprint access only. Mine wasn’t registered. When the claustrophobia finally pushed me to my breaking point—after I shattered three coffee mugs against the wall and refused to eat for two days—they finally compromised. We agreed that on the last weekend of every month, I could go out to an accessible shopping center by myself, and they would fund the excursion. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come meet you, Soph?” Maddie’s voice filtered through the phone, pulling me back to the present. “It’s your first time out alone. I’m just a little anxious.” I forced a smile and shook my head at the screen. “No, I’m fine. I’m just going to browse a bit more and head home.” I hung up. Pushing the joysticks on my motorized chair, I rolled slowly toward the exit. Just as the automatic doors parted, my peripheral vision caught a flash of familiar faces near the valet stand. Maddie and Nathan. They saw me at the exact same time. Maddie froze for a fraction of a second before her face broke into a radiant smile. She jogged over, her blonde ponytail bouncing. “Sophie! Oh my god, what are the odds? Nate and I were just running an errand a few blocks over and figured we’d swing by to pick you up.” Nathan walked up right behind her, seamlessly sliding his hands over the push-handles of my chair. “Tired yet, sweetheart? What are you craving? Let’s grab dinner.” I stared at them. What are the odds? “You guys… were in the neighborhood this whole time?” I asked, keeping my voice perfectly level. “Yeah, just a quick meeting,” Maddie said, completely unbothered. She pressed a plastic cup into my hands. “Here. Iced matcha latte with oat milk. Your favorite. Still freezing cold.” I took the cup. The condensation slipped against my palms. I didn’t take a sip. I had hung up the FaceTime call barely five minutes ago. How were they already here? The rest of the evening played out like a perfectly choreographed play. Nathan pushed my chair. Maddie fluttered around us, grabbing the check, carrying my bags, constantly peppering me with questions. Are you tired? Are you thirsty? Are you cold? It was identical to every other outing we’d ever had. Only this time, a cold, heavy stone had settled in the pit of my stomach, and I couldn’t swallow it down. On the drive home, I leaned my head against the passenger window and closed my eyes. Nathan’s warm hand covered mine. “Wiped out?” I kept my eyes shut, letting my breathing slow into the rhythm of sleep. The car was dead silent. When we got back to our condo, Maddie gently shook my shoulder. I opened my eyes, realizing with a spike of adrenaline that I had actually drifted off. “You just chill, Soph. I’ll go get your water,” she said, breezing toward the kitchen with practiced ease. My wheelchair sat in the center of the living room. On the coffee table in front of me sat my lineup of wellness bottles. Multivitamins, calcium, fish oil, and my bone density supplements. Neatly arranged. Perfect. I stared at them. Maddie returned with a glass of water in one hand and a small, white plastic pill bottle in the other. My daily doses were always pre-sorted by them. It’s just easier this way, they’d said. “Here you go, Soph. Today’s batch.” I took the bottle, pushed down on the child-proof cap, and tipped the pills into my hand. “Bone density stuff. Gotta take it every day,” Maddie said. She dropped into a crouch beside my chair, looking up at me. Her eyes were massive, bright, and swimming with affection. “Come on, take them before the water gets warm.” “Maddie,” I said. “Yeah, Soph?” “That notification on your phone today—” I stopped. My thumb had brushed against the label of the pill bottle. It felt thick. Uneven. Like a sticker placed over another sticker. She blinked, her smile faltering for a microsecond before returning at full wattage. “What notification?” “The one about your coworker asking you to pick up meds? For her dog? Is everything okay with it?” “Oh! Yeah, poor little guy has a stomach bug. Nothing serious.” “Right.” My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I tossed the pills toward my mouth and took a long swig of water. She stood up, affectionately smoothing my hair. “Don’t overthink things, Soph. Get some rest. I’ll be over tomorrow to hang out.” “Okay.” She grabbed her purse, picked up her keys, and walked out the front door. The heavy door clicked shut. The condo plunged into a suffocating silence. Slowly, I slid my hand down into the gap between my thigh and the wheelchair cushion. While taking the water, under the guise of tossing the handful of pills into my mouth, I had palmed the smallest one. Now, I brought it up to the light. It rested in the center of my palm. Small. Chalky white. Completely odorless. Outside, the sky had turned a deep, bruised purple. Nathan hadn’t come upstairs yet; he was probably parking the car or chatting with the doorman. Using my fingernail, I picked at the edge of the pill bottle’s label. I peeled it back, centimeter by centimeter. Beneath the glossy white label for “Advanced Calcium Blend,” there was a second, matte sticker. The medical terminology was a jumble of syllables, but directly beneath it, printed in stark black ink, were two words: For Veterinary Use Only. There was more text beneath it, but the adhesive was too strong, tearing the paper when I pulled. My hands began to shake violently. I reached for my phone, desperate to pull up Safari and search the drug name. The browser spun. No Internet Connection. I switched off the Wi-Fi to use cellular data. The signal bars in the top right corner were completely empty. I frowned, bringing the screen closer to my face. The bars weren’t empty. The little SIM card icon was gone. The front door unlocked. I shoved the pill into my pocket and smoothed the label down just as Nathan walked in, carrying a bag of fresh fruit. “Maddie head out?” he asked casually, toeing off his loafers. “Just left,” I said. He took the fruit to the kitchen island, then walked over to me, kneeling by my wheelchair just as his sister had. He looked up at me, his face a portrait of devotion. “You exhausted yourself today, didn’t you? First time out for that long.” He took both my hands in his, kissing my knuckles. “Let me just go with you from now on. I can’t stand worrying about you.” I looked into his eyes. They were so incredibly kind. So full of aching, overwhelming love. “Okay,” I whispered. He smiled, leaning up to press a soft kiss to my forehead. Then he stood and headed back to the kitchen to wash the fruit. “Nate, my phone’s not connecting to the internet,” I called out, keeping my tone light. He walked back in with a plate of sliced apples. “Oh, yeah, the building group chat said there’s a fiber optic outage in the neighborhood. Probably take a few days to fix.” He set the plate on my lap. “Oh, and I realized your data plan was getting ridiculously expensive, so I called Verizon and got you a new eSIM. It’s in a transition period, so it might take 48 hours to activate.” He picked up a slice of apple and held it to my lips. I opened my mouth and let him feed it to me. “Sweet?” he asked. “Very.” He chuckled, ruffled my hair, and went into the master bathroom to shower. I set the apple down and rolled my chair over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Down below, Chicago was alive. People walking their dogs, couples holding hands under the warm glow of the streetlights. The world was spinning on, entirely normal. At 9:30 PM, Nathan helped me wash my face, brush my teeth, and carried me to bed. He slid in beside me, pulling me against his chest. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. Big day.” I closed my eyes. I didn’t move a muscle. Behind me, his breathing gradually slowed, deepening into a steady, rhythmic drawl. I lay there in the dark, my eyes wide open, staring at the sliver of amber streetlight slicing through the curtains. Sleep was impossible. About two hours later, the screen of Nathan’s phone lit up on the nightstand. He was awake instantly. He grabbed it, slipped silently out of bed, and left the bedroom. The door clicked shut, barely making a sound. Through the drywall, I could hear the low murmur of his voice in the living room. He sounded furious. Then, another voice answered him. Maddie. Before I could even process why she had come back at midnight, the hushed voices spiked in volume. “How many fucking times do I have to tell you?” Nathan hissed, his voice trembling with rage. “Can you be careful about what you send?!” “How was I supposed to know she’d be staring right at the screen?” Maddie snapped back, equally defensive. I gripped the bedsheets, my knuckles turning white. “Did she ask you about it?” “Yes. I gave her the dog excuse. She bought it.” A heavy silence fell over the condo. “Alright, fine. Just drop it,” Nathan muttered, sounding exhausted. “Keep your voice down. You’ll wake her.” Footsteps padded toward the bedroom. The door eased open a crack. I relaxed every muscle in my face, letting my mouth fall open slightly, breathing in deep, slow pulls. Maddie’s voice drifted through the crack, barely a whisper. “Is she really sleeping that deeply?” “She took the pills. What do you think?” Nathan replied, his tone devoid of any warmth. “Good.” The door shut. I lay paralyzed in the dark until the first grey light of dawn touched the window. The sheer magnitude of the truth was suffocating. I didn’t know what to do. The front door was locked with a fingerprint scanner I couldn’t bypass. I had no internet, no cell service. I couldn’t move my legs. Call the police? With what? And even if I found a landline, what would I say? My husband and sister-in-law are poisoning me to keep me paralyzed? Where was the proof? A ripped sticker? A single white pill? I had been locked inside this beautiful apartment for three years. Every friendship I had before the accident had slowly withered away into silence. The bedroom door opened. Nathan slipped out of bed, heading to the kitchen to make breakfast. I squeezed my eyes shut, faking the slow grogginess of waking up. A few minutes later, Maddie bounced into the room, holding a paper bag from my favorite bakery. “Morning, Soph!” she chirped, dropping into her signature crouch by the bed. “Sleep well?” “Like a rock,” I said. She held out the familiar plastic bottle. “Meds first, then croissants.” I took the bottle, pushed down the cap, and shook the pills into my hand. Vitamins, fish oil, calcium. And one tiny, chalky white pill. “Bone density. Every day,” she smiled, her eyes crinkling. I looked right at the white pill, tossed them all into my mouth, and drank the water. She watched my throat swallow, satisfied, before heading to the kitchen to help her brother. After breakfast, Nathan announced he needed to swing by the corporate office to grab some files. Maddie said she had a brunch date with a friend downtown. “You going to be okay by yourself for a bit, Soph?” Maddie asked, pulling on her coat. “I’ll be fine.” “We’ll be back before lunch.” They walked out together. The second the deadbolt clicked into place, the condo fell silent. I dragged my body up, transferred into my wheelchair, and started tearing the house apart. In the bottom drawer of Nathan’s nightstand, buried beneath old charging cables, I found a small lockbox. I jimmied it open with a pair of tweezers. Inside was a stack of faded receipts. I flipped to the very bottom. A receipt dated three years ago, just weeks after my accident. It was from a pharmaceutical supplier. The drug name meant nothing to me, but the header was unmistakable. Veterinary Anesthesia & Sedatives. I folded the receipt into a tiny square and shoved it deep into the crevice of my wheelchair cushion. I rolled into Nathan’s home office. His Mac was password protected. I started pulling out the desk drawers. They were packed with tax returns and mortgage documents. But in the very bottom drawer, pushed all the way to the back, was a thick manila envelope with my name written on it in sharpie. Click. The sound of the front door unlocking echoed down the hall. My blood ran cold. They hadn’t even been gone forty-five minutes. I panicked. I didn’t have time to put the envelope back in the drawer. I kicked it under the desk with my heel, grabbed the wheels of my chair, and rolled out into the hallway just as the front door swung open. Maddie stood in the entryway. She saw me. She stopped. “Sophie? What are you doing in the office?” “Looking for a book,” I said smoothly, forcing my heart rate to slow. “Why are you guys back so soon?” “Forgot my wallet,” she said, her eyes darting past me, scanning the office. “Did you find one? A book?” “No. The shelves are too high for my chair.” I backed up, giving her space. “Can you check the top shelf for that thriller I was reading last month?” She stared at me for two long seconds. “Yeah. Sure.” She walked into the office. I watched from the doorway as her gaze tracked downward, landing instantly on the space beneath the desk. A single corner of the manila envelope was peeking out. My stomach plummeted. She bent down and picked it up. “What is this…?” she asked, turning to face me. I tilted my head, putting on a mask of mild confusion. “No idea. Must have fallen out when I bumped the desk.” She opened the clasp, pulled out a thick stack of papers, and flicked through them. “Why would you be digging through this, Sophie?” “I wasn’t.” She slipped the papers back in and tossed the envelope onto the desk. Her eyes were dark, calculating. “You wouldn’t be keeping secrets from us, would you, Soph?” My heart skipped a beat. “Of course not. We’re family.” “Good.” Her bright, bubbly smile snapped back into place like a rubber band. She walked behind me, taking the handles of my wheelchair. “It’s stuffy in here. Let’s get you out to the living room.” She parked me in the center of the living room, sat down on the plush sofa opposite me, and pulled out her phone. From the corner of my eye, I watched her thumbs fly across the screen. I only caught the final text she sent to Nathan before she locked the phone. Just finish her off. At 5:00 PM, Nathan came home. Dinner. Face washing. Pills. I palmed the white pill and swallowed the rest. At 9:30 PM, he carried me to bed. “Sleep well, sweetheart.” “You too.” He got into bed beside me. Within twenty minutes, his breathing leveled out. I kept my eyes open, staring at the ceiling until the digital clock read 1:00 AM. My wheelchair was parked next to the bed. I slowly, agonizingly, dragged my upper body toward the edge of the mattress and hoisted myself into the seat. I pushed the wheels by hand, making no sound as I glided out of the bedroom and down the hall to the front door. The digital keypad glowed in the dark. I had spent weeks secretly watching Nathan type it in. I knew three of the numbers, I just didn’t know the order. I prayed. I punched in a combination. Beep. Red light. I tried again. On the fifth try, the light flashed green. The deadbolt slid back with a soft, mechanical hum. I froze, waiting to hear if Nathan had woken up. Silence. I pushed the door open. The hallway was dimly lit. The elevator was at the far end of the corridor, but I knew it was useless. Nathan had told me yesterday they reported it out of service for maintenance. I rolled myself toward the door marked with a glowing red EXIT sign. The stairwell. I pushed the heavy fire door open and stared down the concrete abyss. How does a woman in a wheelchair go down six flights of stairs? I looked at my lifeless legs. There was no other way. I locked the brakes on the wheelchair, grabbed the armrests, and lowered my body onto the freezing concrete landing. I reached up, collapsed the chair, and pushed it against the wall. Then, placing my palms flat on the rough concrete, I dragged my hips forward. Down one step. Thud. Pain shot up my spine as my tailbone hit the edge of the stair. My legs dragged behind me like dead weight. I used my triceps to lift my torso, moving my hands to the next step down. Thud. Every impact sent a shockwave of agony through my body. Black spots danced in my vision. Sweat dripped into my eyes. By the time I reached the third floor, my palms were raw and bleeding, and the knees of my sweatpants were soaked in something sticky. Sweat, or blood. I couldn’t tell. When I finally hit the ground floor, my entire body was violently convulsing from muscle fatigue. I dragged myself toward the heavy glass lobby door, using the wall to push myself into a semi-upright slump. Outside, the streetlights cast long, eerie shadows across the empty pavement. It was 3:00 AM. The doorman wasn’t at his desk. I pushed the door open and half-crawled, half-dragged myself out onto the freezing pavement of the courtyard. Where do I go? I looked back over my shoulder at the building. Up on the sixth floor, a single light flicked on. My bedroom. Nathan was awake.

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My husband’s “ghost of Christmas past” is back in town. Becca is the quintessential “cool girl.” The kind who thrives on being the only woman in a room full of men, playing poker until dawn and knocking back whiskey like one of the guys. She’s built her entire personality around having no boundaries, especially when it comes to my husband, Harrison, and his circle of friends. I’ve spent years biting my tongue, swallowing my pride. Until tonight. Until I watched her drape herself over Harrison, pouting her lips with that fake, booze-fogged innocence, claiming she wanted to test their “brotherly bond.” “Come on, Harrison,” she cooed, her voice a sticky sweet syrup. “We literally shared a sandbox. We’ve known each other since we were in diapers. You’re really going to deny your best bro a little hug after all these years?” I watched Harrison’s face. He didn’t look annoyed. He looked flushed, bashful—charmed. In that moment, something snapped. I reached deep into a corner of my mind I hadn’t visited in seven years and pulled the trigger on the Fatal Attraction System. I’d forgotten that reboots take time. While the progress bar crawled in the back of my consciousness, Becca took it further. My five-year-old son, Toby, suddenly walked out of his bedroom and looked at me. “Mom,” he whispered, his eyes unnervingly steady. “Let me handle this.” “I’ve read the script.” 01. Becca was currently nestled against Harrison’s chest. Sensing my icy stare, she playfully punched Harrison’s arm. “Don’t mind me, Valerie,” she said, flashing me a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Harrison and I are brothers. We grew up together. I’ve seen him at his worst—and his most naked—so just think of me as one of the guys.” Harrison jumped in faster than I could. “Becca, stop! Val, don’t listen to her. That was a lifetime ago. I never let her see… anything.” But even as he spoke, he didn’t move her. He didn’t push her away. Becca leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “Oh, please. You forgot that night in college? You were wasted, I walked you home… I didn’t just see it, Harrison. I played with it.” She tapped her lips, feigning a “whoops” expression. “My bad, Valerie! Seriously, don’t be mad. It’s a guy thing. Friends look out for each other.” Harrison laughed nervously, putting a hand over her mouth to “silence” her. The two of them were so physically entwined they looked like a single creature. I felt like a ghost haunting my own living room. I couldn’t take it anymore. I closed my eyes and summoned the interface. {System.} {Online.} {Reboot. Now.} I hadn’t touched this power in seven years. I thought I wouldn’t need it. I thought a stable marriage and a beautiful life were enough to keep a man’s heart. I was wrong. The “seven-year itch” isn’t a myth; it’s a rot. I waited for the surge of power, but a notification popped up: [REBOOTING: 1%]. I’d have to handle this bitch the old-fashioned way. Becca, sensing the shift in the air, shifted her weight, angling herself so she looked like she was about to slip off the sofa. Before I could move, Toby stepped in front of me. His small hand pressed against my knee. “Mom,” he whispered, so low only I could hear. “I’ve seen how this story ends.” Before I could ask what the hell that meant, he let out a piercing scream. “AHH! A COCKROACH!” He hurled a brown, lumpy object straight at Becca’s chest. For a “cool girl” who claimed to be one of the guys, Becca had the reflexes of a frightened kitten. She shrieked, scrambling backward, lost her balance, and slammed hard onto the hardwood floor. The “cockroach” was pinned beneath her. Becca felt something sticky and let out a wail of disgust. “Harrison! Fix your kid! He’s throwing bugs at me! I think I broke my skin!” She grabbed Harrison’s arm, hauling herself up. “You need to take me to the ER right now. And you’re paying the bill!” Harrison turned on Toby, his face darkening. “Toby! What is wrong with—” “The only person allowed to yell at my son is me,” I snapped, stepping between them. Harrison flinched, but Becca wasn’t done. “Valerie, I get that you love him, but this is spoiled. He made me bleed. He needs to learn a lesson.” Harrison nodded, his voice tight. “She’s right, Val. He’s out of control.” I opened my mouth to tear into him, but Toby was faster. He darted over to Becca and, before anyone could stop him, flipped her white skirt up. The fabric covered her face, exposing her legs to the room. Toby pointed at her thigh. “Liar. There’s no blood. There’s not even a scratch.” Then, he looked Harrison dead in the eye. “Dad, Mom hates it when you touch dirty, lying women.” 02. The room went deathly silent. Harrison’s face went from red to a sickly, bruised purple. Under the watchful eye of his “first love,” he made a choice. He swung his hand. Slap. “Enough!” I wasn’t fast enough. Toby was on the floor, his small hand clutched to his red cheek. “What the hell are you doing?!” I shoved Harrison back, pulling Toby into my arms. Harrison looked away, jaw set. It was Becca who spoke up, her voice dripping with fake concern. “Valerie, don’t blame Harrison. The kid needs boundaries. If you won’t give them to him, someone has to.” “Exactly,” Harrison muttered. “He needs to learn what not to say. Forget it. I’m taking Becca to the clinic. You stay here and deal with him.” They left. Just like that. The heavy front door slammed, leaving me alone in the foyer with my son. I checked Toby’s face; Harrison hadn’t held back. The swelling was already starting. “I’m so sorry, baby,” I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. I hated myself for waiting so long to wake the System. If I had been “The Muse” earlier, no one would have dared touch us. Toby shook his head. He leaned into my ear. “Mom, remember what I said? I know the script.” “I provoked him on purpose. If he hadn’t hit me, he would have hit you.” On the way to the pediatric urgent care, Toby explained. In the “script” he knew, Becca was a woman who had burned through her life abroad and came back to systematically destroy the lives of the four men who had worshipped her in college. In that version of the story, Harrison was her favorite trophy. And the story ended with Becca driving me to a bridge and watching me jump. “I love you, Mom. I love Dad too. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.” I stroked his hair in silence. I decided I would talk to Harrison tonight. One last chance for our family. I waited until midnight. Then one a.m. Harrison didn’t come home. Instead, my phone buzzed with a notification. Becca had posted on Instagram. Becca: A real ‘bestie’ is the guy who feeds you your favorite street tacos when you’re feeling down. The photo: Her leaning into Harrison’s side, him holding a taco to her mouth. They both looked radiant. I “liked” the photo. Seconds later, a second post appeared. This one was “Close Friends” only—she must have added me just to twist the knife. Becca: As a ‘thank you,’ I let my bro have a little taste. The photo was a close-up of her hand guiding Harrison’s hand onto her chest. Her smile was pure malice. Harrison was compromised. He was “dirty.” Toby leaned over my shoulder. I covered his eyes with my hand. “Go to sleep, honey.” [SYSTEM REBOOT: 35%] Harrison didn’t crawl back until the next morning. He had a fresh, angry hickey on his neck. I was sitting on the sofa. I didn’t offer him coffee. “What’s on your neck, Harrison?” Without Becca there to perform for, he tried to play the “Good Husband” again. He covered the mark with his hand. “Mosquito bite.” “That’s one hell of a mosquito.” He gave me a sheepish, manipulative grin and knelt by my feet. “Val, come on. Don’t be like this. Look, I went all the way across town to get those lemon tarts you like. Let’s just move past yesterday. Toby was out of line.” “My son was telling the truth.” Harrison’s face chilled. I didn’t give him a chance to speak; I grabbed him by the ear and shoved him toward the stairs. “Go wash. Use the strongest soap we have. Scrub until you bleed.” While he was in the shower, I did what Toby suggested. I broke into his phone. I found the group chat: “The Queen’s Court.” It was new. The first message was from Becca. Becca: @Everyone, I’m still an ‘invalid’ from my fall yesterday. I want a spa day at the Hot Springs Resort tomorrow. No excuses. The replies from Harrison’s three best friends—Nate, Tyler, and Wes—were instantaneous. All they were waiting for was Harrison. I opened the camera. I was wearing a silk slip that left very little to the imagination. I crawled into our bed, took a shot that highlighted every curve, and hit send from Harrison’s account. Harrison: Sorry guys. Spending the day with the wife. Have fun. The chat exploded. Nate: Damn, Harrison. Lucky bastard. Tyler: Valerie is still the hottest woman I’ve ever seen. Wes: Can’t blame a man for staying home for that. It was working. But Becca wasn’t going down without a fight. Becca: Oh, so Harrison’s a ‘wife guy’ now? Cute. But anything she can give you, I can give you better. Or have you forgotten how I taste after seven years? Then, she sent a photo. She was wearing nothing but a strategically placed towel. Becca: If you guys have forgotten, I think it’s time for a private reunion. Who’s in? The men in the chat scrambled like dogs over a bone. I felt a wave of nausea. Then, a private message popped up from Becca to Harrison. Becca: Valerie might say no, Harrison, but we both know what you want. I blocked her. [SYSTEM REBOOT: 65%] 03. I expected Harrison to be guilty. I didn’t expect him to be murderous. He snatched the phone from my hand and smashed it against the wall. A shard of glass flew up, slicing my cheek. Blood trickled down my face. He didn’t even blink. “Who the hell gave you permission to touch my phone, Valerie?” He raised his hand again, but Toby threw himself in front of me. “Dad, don’t! Please don’t hurt her!” I pulled Toby back, laughing coldly. “So the mask is off, Harrison? You’re willing to trash seven years of marriage and your son for a woman who treats men like a buffet line?” “I asked you a question,” he hissed. “Don’t touch my things.” “I’ll touch whatever I want.” He stormed out. Minutes later, the front door opened. It wasn’t just Harrison leaving; it was Becca and the three “best bros” arriving. Becca was in a bikini that was basically three strings. She saw the tension in the room and smirked, throwing herself into Harrison’s arms. “Trouble in paradise, bro?” She wrapped her legs around his waist, grinding against him right there in my living room. I shielded Toby’s eyes, my blood boiling. “Valerie, I told you,” Becca purred. “Men need their space. You’re just making him miserable. Why don’t you go be a ‘good mom’ somewhere else while the adults play?” Harrison gripped her hips, his hands wandering shamelessly. “Why are you here?” his voice was a low growl, completely different from the tone he used with me. “I figured the resort was too far. Why not just use your giant pool? I want to learn how to swim, Harrison. You’re going to teach me, right?” The other three men—Nate, Tyler, and Wes—crowded around, their eyes full of lust and jealousy. “I can teach you too, Becca,” Nate muttered. “My turn for a hug,” Wes added. Harrison’s possessiveness flared. He carried her out toward the pool deck, the other men following like a pack of hounds. I sat on the floor with Toby. He was crying quietly, wiping the blood from my cheek. “Mom, this isn’t how it was in the script. It’s getting worse.” I hugged him tight. Hang on, Toby. [SYSTEM REBOOT: 85%] 04. Toby was terrified. He still had a sliver of hope that his father was being “brainwashed.” I knew better, but for Toby’s sake, I walked out to the pool for one last confrontation. The sight made me want to retch. The pool water, which I’d spent thousands to have specially treated, was covered in a film of… something. Becca was naked, clinging to the edge of the pool. Harrison was behind her, his movements unmistakable. He didn’t even stop when he saw me. “Just teaching her to tread water, Val,” he mocked. The three friends stood guard, their own bodies reacting visibly. “Harrison,” I said, my voice dead. “I’m filing for divorce tomorrow.” I turned to walk away. Toby, who had followed me, didn’t understand the mechanics of what was happening, but he understood the betrayal. He ran toward the edge of the pool. “You’re a liar!” he screamed at Becca. “You know how to swim! I saw your pictures from the beach! Stop touching my dad!” Becca let out a sharp, theatrical moan. “Harrison, look at your kid. He’s calling me a liar.” She shifted her hips provocatively. Toby grabbed her arm, trying to pull her away from Harrison. “Get away from him! Get out of my house!” I ran to grab Toby, to get him away from the filth. But the three friends stepped in, shoving me back, grabbing Toby by his small shoulders to protect Becca’s “lesson.” In the chaos, Harrison pulled away from Becca. Becca’s eyes flashed with a cruel, sudden inspiration. She let go of the ledge and sank. “Help! I can’t swim! He’s drowning me! Murder!” Harrison panicked. He grabbed Toby and me, and with a surge of strength, shoved us both into the deep end. “If anything happens to her, Valerie, I’ll make sure you rot in a cell!” He hauled Becca out of the water. The three friends swarmed around her, while Toby and I struggled to surface. Nate reached down, not to help, but to shove my head back under by my hair. “You really crossed a line this time, Val,” Nate sneered. “Becca’s precious.” I fought upward, gasping for air, holding Toby’s limp body. He had swallowed water. He was turning blue. On the deck, Becca was coughing delicately into Harrison’s chest. The four men looked at her like she was a dying saint. “Push them back down,” Harrison said, his voice cold as ice. “They need to cool off.” I felt hands on my shoulders, pushing us back into the dark. I held Toby to my chest, praying, screaming internally. “Harrison,” Becca yawned. “I’m bored of this. Let’s play something else.” The hands vanished. I broke the surface, coughing violently, and dragged Toby onto the tiles. He was unconscious. I pumped his chest, sobbing, until he coughed up a lungful of pool water. “Harrison,” I rasped, my eyes burning red. “You’re a dead man.” Harrison didn’t even look back as he carried Becca into our house. “What do you want to play, baby?” I dug my nails into my palms until I drew blood. [SYSTEM REBOOT: 100%] [PROTOCOL: IRRESISTIBILITY ACTIVE. COMMENCE?] {Commence.}

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When I opened my eyes, I was thrust straight into the climax of a toxic alpha-male fantasy. He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a lit cigar clamped between his teeth, pointing a manicured finger at the illuminated world map on the mahogany wall. “Finance,” he barked, his voice dripping with that manufactured baritone of a man who watched too many Wall Street movies. “I want a hostile takeover of this multinational conglomerate by noon. Money… is no object.” I blinked against the glaring morning light. I looked down at the iPad in my hands, pulling up the master corporate account ledger. Current available balance: $34.50. A laugh ripped out of my throat—a harsh, entirely unladylike snort that echoed in the cavernous penthouse office. “Money isn’t the object?” I asked, my voice cutting through the heavy silence. “The object is that we have no money. Even that pre-embargo Cuban you’re smoking to look intimidating? I put that on my personal American Express yesterday.” God, what a nightmare. I had somehow woken up trapped in the body of a punching-bag Chief Financial Officer in a trashy, male-gazey corporate romance novel. The plot was infuriatingly predictable: the arrogant billionaire protagonist, desperate to impress the doe-eyed female lead, casually orders his CFO to mobilize three billion dollars in ten minutes to destroy a rival company. In the original story, the CFO couldn’t produce the money, was fired for “incompetence,” blacklisted from the entire financial sector, and eventually died of exhaustion working minimum-wage delivery jobs. It was the kind of toxic narrative that made me want to get my stomach pumped. 01 “That’s impossible! My company is valued at a billion dollars! How could we possibly only have thirty-four dollars?” “Valuation is valuation. Cash flow is cash flow,” I said, my tone as flat and cold as the marble desk between us. “Preston,” I continued, leaning back in my ergonomic chair. “Last week, to celebrate Madison’s birthday, you rented out every digital billboard in Times Square. That was four million dollars.” “The week before that, you decided to take Madison to see the penguins in Antarctica. The non-refundable deposit on the Gulfstream G650 was seven million.” “And before that, you said you were feeling ‘existentially unfulfilled’ and blew twenty-five million at the roulette tables in Vegas.” With every line item I listed, Preston Harrington’s perfectly tanned face darkened by a shade. “Shut up! That’s pocket change! I am the CEO. What’s the problem with spending a little money?” Humiliated and furious, he brought the cigar to his lips, a desperate attempt to regain his dominant posture. I gave him a dead-eyed stare. “That box of cigars was nine hundred dollars.” Preston’s hand froze. He offered a disdainful sneer. “What? You want a puff? I don’t mind throwing you a bone.” I calmly pulled my phone from my blazer pocket, opened the Amex app, pulled up the itemized receipt, and slid it across the desk until it bumped against his knuckles. “No. What I mean is, you forced me to put it on my personal card last night because the corporate card was declined. Since the company account currently holds the exact price of a cheap lunch for two, I need you to reimburse me that nine hundred dollars. Today is my billing cycle cutoff, and I refuse to let my credit score take a hit because you wanted to play mob boss.” “Natalie! You—!” Preston hurled the cigar onto the floor, the expensive tobacco instantly crumbling into a messy, pathetic heap on the Persian rug. “You dare nickel-and-dime me? You want reimbursement for this garbage? I can see you don’t want to work here anymore! Get out! Pack your desk and get the hell out of my building!” Ah, there it was. The classic line. I didn’t move a muscle. Instead, I reached into my leather briefcase, pulled out a thick, beautifully bound copy of my executive employment contract, and slammed it onto the desk. The crack of the heavy paper hitting the wood was deafening, far more impactful than his little temper tantrum. “You can fire me,” I said, my voice dropping into a register of absolute calm. “I am the CFO. I’ve been here three years. My base salary is six hundred thousand a year.” I tapped the contract with a manicured fingernail. “According to the termination clauses we negotiated, along with state labor laws regarding wrongful termination without cause, you owe me my full severance package, unvested stock options, unused PTO, and overtime. Let’s round it down to be generous. Four million, five hundred thousand dollars.” I opened my palm and held it out toward him. “Cut the check, and I’ll walk out that door right now.” “Short me a single penny, and I will file a lawsuit so fast your head will spin. And while I’m at it, I’ll file an injunction to freeze your personal assets. Including that matte black Ferrari downstairs that you haven’t even registered yet.” Preston froze. He was an arrogant trust-fund baby, and his brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders, but even he understood the words ‘freeze the Ferrari.’ “What the hell is wrongful termination? I own this entire company! I can tell whoever I want to get lost! The law? In this building, I am the law!” It was then that Madison finally seemed to realize what was happening. She peeked out from behind Preston’s broad shoulders, her large, doe-like eyes brimming with perfectly calibrated, shimmering tears. “Miss Natalie, how can you talk to Preston about money right now? It’s so… tacky.” She placed a delicate, trembling hand on his chest. “We’re all here because we believe in a dream. Preston is just a little stressed. Can’t you just apologize and soften up a bit?” I rolled my eyes so hard I thought I might permanently damage my optic nerves. “A dream? My dream is getting paid my contractual salary to not deal with this circus.” I leveled a glare at her. “And don’t call me ‘Miss Natalie’ like we’re sisters. My mother only had one child, and she certainly didn’t give birth to a manipulative little pick-me girl.” “You…” Madison’s lower lip quivered. She swayed, looking like a frail Victorian woman about to swoon. Preston looked absolutely heartbroken for her. He pointed a shaking finger toward the heavy oak doors and roared, “Security! Security! Get this greedy, money-grubbing bitch out of my sight!” The heavy doors swung open. Davis, the head of security, marched in, flanked by two burly guards. Preston pointed at me. “Her! Throw her out!” Davis puffed out his chest and took a step toward me. I didn’t flinch. I just took a slow, deliberate sip from my coffee. “Davis,” I said smoothly. “Payroll is two weeks behind. If I get physically removed from this building today, there’s no authorized signatory left in the finance department. That means your paychecks are permanently stalled.” I paused, letting the silence stretch out in the room. “Oh, and as everyone here just heard, the corporate account has exactly thirty-four dollars in it. If you boys want to see your rent money this month, I suggest you think very carefully about whose orders you follow.” Davis’s expression shifted instantly. The aggressive set of his shoulders dropped. He slowly turned around, facing Preston, and gave a stiff, formal nod. “Mr. Harrington. As long as the CFO is still officially employed here, we cannot lay hands on her. It’s against corporate policy.” Without waiting for a response, Davis turned on his heel and marched his men right back out, quietly and politely clicking the door shut behind them. Preston looked like a blood vessel was about to burst in his forehead. In a blind rage, he grabbed the heavy crystal ashtray off his desk, rearing his arm back to hurl it at my head. I immediately raised my phone, the camera already recording. “Throw it,” I said softly. “The moment that leaves your hand, it’s aggravated assault. Plus, you’ll be destroying company property. That’s a Baccarat crystal ashtray. Four thousand dollars. Corporate asset.” His arm hung suspended in the air. He was paralyzed—too proud to back down, too terrified of the consequences to throw it. Finally, desperate to maintain his alpha-male facade in front of the whimpering Madison, he slammed the ashtray back down, yanked open a drawer, and violently scribbled onto a piece of company letterhead. “Here! An IOU for four point five million! Payable in seven days! Now, can you get the hell out?” I plucked the paper from his fingers. I checked the date, the signature, and the corporate seal. I gave the paper a satisfying flick. “I’ll accept the promissory note, Preston. But I’m not going anywhere.” “Are you playing me?” he snarled. “No. I’m protecting my investment.” I stood up, slowly smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in my tailored blazer. “Given the extreme volatility of this company’s financial situation, and to prevent you from liquidating assets or fleeing the country before my check clears, I will be anchoring myself to the CFO’s desk. I will monitor every single cent that flows in and out of this building.” I looked down at him, my expression blank. “Meeting adjourned.” 02 For the sake of my four-and-a-half million dollars, I became the most dedicated employee in the history of Harrington Enterprises. I literally pulled a chair up to the door of the finance department. Every single reimbursement request had to physically pass through my hands. Early the next morning, Madison ran out of the finance corridor in tears, sprinting straight to Preston’s office. Five minutes later, Preston stormed over to my desk, a stack of crumpled receipts in his fist. He slammed them down right in front of my keyboard. “Natalie! You’re deliberately trying to mess with us, aren’t you? Why the hell did you deny Madison’s expense reports?” I took my time. I slowly leaned forward, picked up the receipts, and smoothed them out. I didn’t raise my voice, but I made sure it carried across the open-plan office where dozens of employees were suddenly pretending not to listen. I began to read them aloud. “Five Hermes Himalayan Birkin bags. Unit price: One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Memo line: Office Supplies.” “Three Bulgari Serpenti diamond necklaces. Unit price: Ninety thousand dollars. Memo line: Occupational Safety Gear.” I held up the receipt for the Birkins, waving it lightly in the air between us. “Preston. Are you planning on sending our mid-level sales reps door-to-door carrying limited-edition Hermes? Or did you want the cleaning staff wearing Bulgari diamonds while they scrub the toilets?” “Are you seriously classifying this as office supplies? When the IRS audits us, how exactly do you want me to spin this fairy tale to the federal government?” A muffled snicker echoed from the cubicles behind us. Preston had skin thicker than a rhinoceros. He just jutted his chin out, looking entirely justified. “I am the CEO. If I say it’s office supplies, it’s office supplies! Who the hell does the IRS think they are? Tell the director of the agency to come see me personally!” “The director of the IRS is probably a little busy to meet with you,” I said, the amusement draining from my voice, leaving only cold, hard reality. “But the federal investigators from the Criminal Investigation division will be thrilled to make your acquaintance.” I slapped the receipts back onto the desk. “This is called corporate fraud. With an amount exceeding a million dollars, the mandatory minimum is three years in federal lockup. Maximum is ten.” “If you want to spend the next decade making license plates in an orange jumpsuit, be my guest. But leave me out of it. I am not signing off on this.” Madison appeared behind him, sniffling into a tissue. “Miss Natalie, how could you say such awful things about Preston?” she cried, her voice pitching up into that cloying, breathless register. “This is all for the company’s image! When I carry a nice designer bag to client meetings, people respect Harrington Enterprises more! How is that not an office supply?” “Client meetings?” I looked her up and down. “Madison, the only ‘business’ you successfully negotiated last month was booking two AMC movie tickets for you and Preston.” “For that kind of business, a reusable grocery tote would be a flex.” Madison let out a loud, theatrical sob, buried her face in her hands, and ran away. Preston’s heart bled for her. He pointed a furious finger at my face. “Fine! You won’t approve it? I have my own money! I’ll authorize the transfer myself!” He yanked out his phone, his thumbs flying aggressively across the screen to initiate a wire transfer. I casually glanced over at the account number on his screen and offered a helpful, quiet warning. “Preston, that’s the restricted capital injection account. You might have override access, but those funds were strictly earmarked by the board of investors for the new tech acquisition. You use that to buy your secretary a purse, and you’re crossing the line into gross embezzlement.” “Shut your mouth! This is my family’s company! I’ll spend the money however I damn well please!” “I’m going to have to report this financial risk to your father.” At the mention of ‘your father,’ Preston’s thumb actually twitched. But the arrogance quickly seeped back into his posture. “My father is skiing in Gstaad. He doesn’t give a shit about this trivial administrative garbage! Stop trying to act like you have power over me! Transfer successful!” He shoved the screen in my face. “Let’s see what you can do about it now!” The phone chimed with a crisp ding. The funds had cleared. Preston looked at me with triumphant, childish glee. I just nodded, my face completely impassive. I sat back down at my computer, opened my email client, and attached the audio recording of our conversation I’d just taken on my Apple Watch. I added the screenshots of the transfer logs, and the scanned copies of the absurd Hermes receipts. I bundled it all into a zipped folder titled: Preston Harrington Liability Documentation. Recipient: Arthur Harrington, Chairman of the Board. BCC: Natalie (Personal Email). Dear Chairman Harrington, Please find attached documentation regarding a direct override of restricted funds initiated by CEO Preston Harrington today. Given the severe nature of the unauthorized expenditure and the associated federal tax and criminal liabilities, I am formally logging this incident. Furthermore, the CEO explicitly bypassed finance department approval protocols to execute this transfer. This is an official notice of record. I clicked ‘Send.’ As long as the paper trail was faster than the crime, the fallout would never touch me. 03 The third day brought a catastrophe that made the handbags look like child’s play. Desperate to prove he was a visionary leader who didn’t need my oversight, Preston secretly opened negotiations with our biggest rival, Mercer Holdings. Mercer sent over a drafted contract. When I finally managed to get my hands on a copy and read it, my vision actually blurred. I had to grip the edge of my desk to keep from passing out. There were more hidden landmines in this single document than in an active war zone. The penalty for breach of contract was ten times the total agreement value. And the delivery deadline for the manufacturing order? Tomorrow. They might as well have printed “WE ARE GOING TO BANKRUPT YOU” in bold red letters across the header. I burst through the heavy glass doors of the boardroom just as Preston was raising the company’s official corporate seal to stamp the signature page. “Stop! Do not sign that!” I lunged forward, slamming my hand down over his wrist. “Delivery by tomorrow? Unless you have a time machine, it is physically impossible to manufacture that volume! The liquidated damages are three hundred million dollars! You could sell your own organs on the black market and it wouldn’t cover the interest!” Preston shoved me away so hard I stumbled back, my shoulder hitting the oak paneling of the wall. “You lack vision, Natalie! Rules don’t apply to me when I’m operating at this level of dominance!” “I sign this, and I’ll have the factory floor run twenty-four hours straight. If the workers can’t keep up, I’ll fire them all and ruin their lives! Let’s see who dares to slack off!” “The factory workers haven’t been paid since last quarter,” I stated, the cold truth dropping like a lead weight in the room. “The only things guarding the manufacturing plant right now are three stray dogs.” “Shut up! If you don’t want to work here, quit! Stop standing in the way of my empire!” Madison, hovering near the espresso machine, looked at him with starry-eyed devotion. “Preston looks so incredibly masculine when he signs contracts,” she breathed. “Is this that ruthless billionaire charm I’ve read about?” High on her adulation, Preston practically vibrated with ego. He raised his pen again, ready to sign his life away. I let out a long, heavy exhale. I reached inside my blazer and pulled out a different document, placing it gently on the table next to the Mercer contract. “Since you’ve made up your mind, Preston,” I said, my voice shockingly gentle, “before you sign that corporate death warrant, do me a favor and sign this one first.” He glared at it. “What the hell is this?” “Transfer of Fiduciary and Legal Liability.” I uncapped my own Montblanc pen and offered it to him, my expression a picture of pure sincerity. “You’ve been complaining that I’m too controlling, that you want absolute, unquestioned authority over this enterprise, right?” “If you sign this, you become the sole legal guarantor and fiduciary of the company. From this moment on, whatever contracts you sign, whatever funds you transfer, my signature is no longer required. My oversight is removed. You answer to no one. You are the absolute king.” It was my carefully crafted ‘Golden Parachute of Plausible Deniability.’ Once he became the sole legal representative, when the company inevitably defaulted and the FBI came knocking, he would be the primary target. As a mere W-2 employee and CFO, I would be legally insulated. Preston’s eyes lit up with arrogant delight. “Really? You can’t micromanage me anymore?” “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. You will be the one and only master of your domain.”

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My thin sweater was soaked through minutes ago. My knees were pressed against the freezing concrete, and a biting numbness crawled from the cracks in the pavement straight into my marrow. I gripped my phone so hard my knuckles turned a ghostly white. “Dean, please… my mother is hemorrhaging. The doctors say I have to sign the papers now, but they need the deposit, and you have the card—” My voice was shredded by the howling wind, barely a melody of desperation. There was a long, heavy silence on the other end. Then came his sharp, impatient snap. “Elena, can’t you grow up for once? Valerie just had an acute allergic reaction. She’s in the ER, and she has no one but me!” “But my mother is dying!” I finally screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. The screech of brakes suddenly sliced through the curtain of rain, followed instantly by the sickening crunch of metal on bone. I felt a massive, violent force slam into my back. My body took flight, weightless and broken, like a kite with a severed string. Before my consciousness sank into the black, I saw a car—Dean’s car—speeding past. In the passenger seat, Valerie’s pale face was pressed against the window. For a fleeting second, I thought I saw a ghost of a smile dancing on her lips. 1. I woke up three days later. The sharp, sterile sting of antiseptic made me cough violently, every hack feeling like a knife in my chest. Sunlight was streaming across the linoleum floor, but it couldn’t touch the winter in my heart. I tried to move my fingers. A white-hot flash of pain shot through my left arm—it was encased in a thick, heavy cast, a literal weight anchoring me to the bed. “You’re awake?” A nurse walked in, her voice softening with pity. “You’re lucky. Just a fractured arm and some deep lacerations.” “My mother…” I croaked, my throat feeling like it was full of glass. The nurse’s small smile vanished. “I’m so sorry. Your mother… she didn’t make it through the night. She passed yesterday.” Passed. The word hit me like a physical blow. I sat there, jaw slack, but no sound came out. Instead, the tears came first, hot and silent, soaking into the thin hospital pillow. My throat felt constricted, as if an invisible hand were squeezing the life out of me. The door swung open, and Dean walked in. He was wearing a crisp, tailored suit, his hair perfectly styled. He looked untouched—as if the storm, my mother’s death, and the moment I was sent flying through the air had happened in a different universe. “If you’re awake, get up,” he said, his brow furrowed in a cold scowl. “Valerie is still recovering, and I need to get back to her.” I slowly looked up at him. I knew my eyes must have been a roadmap of broken red veins. I looked at this man—the man I had loved for five years—and he felt like a complete stranger. “Dean,” I whispered, my voice sounding like sandpaper. “My mom is gone.” He paused for a fraction of a second, but his mask of indifference didn’t slip. “I heard. Handle the arrangements yourself. I don’t have time.” He stopped, then added as if stating a mundane fact, “And don’t expect Valerie at the funeral. She’s allergic to lilies and pollen. It’s not a good environment for her.” In that moment, my heart didn’t just break; it fossilized. I looked at him and started to laugh. It was a jagged, desperate sound that echoed off the sterile walls until it turned into something haunting. “Dean,” I said, the laughter dying as my eyes went hollow. “I want a divorce.” He froze, then let out a sharp, mocking huff. “What game is this? Threatening me with a divorce? It won’t work, Elena.” “I’m not threatening you.” My voice was terrifyingly calm. “From this day on, whether you or Valerie live or die is none of my business.” He looked into my empty eyes, and for a moment, his Adam’s apple bobbed. A flicker of panic crossed his face, but he crushed it instantly. “Fine. You want it? You got it.” He turned on his heel and slammed the door, leaving without a backward glance. the moment the latch clicked, I curled into a ball, and the sob I had been strangling finally shattered my chest. The woman in the next bed handed me a box of tissues with a heavy sigh. “Honey, let him go. He’s not worth the air you breathe.” I took the tissues, my vision a blurred mess of salt and grief. My entire world was spinning, collapsing into dust. 2. The funeral was small. I used the last of my savings to hire a modest service. I didn’t call any friends or family. I just stood there in a black dress, my left arm still in a sling, holding an umbrella with my one good hand as I watched the urn being lowered into the earth. The rain started again—a light drizzle this time, but it carried a bone-deep chill. I stood by the headstone until my clothes were damp, then slowly turned away. Every step in my heels through the mud felt like walking on broken glass. When I returned to the house we had shared, the “home” that never felt like mine, it was already half-empty. Dean’s things were gone. He had moved out with clinical efficiency, as if he had never lived there at all. On the coffee table sat the signed divorce papers, weighted down by a set of car keys. Hanging from the keychain was a small, hand-stitched leather charm I’d made for him years ago. The edges were frayed and faded to a dull grey. I didn’t touch them. I went straight to the bedroom and pulled a dusty trunk from the back of the closet. Inside were my old art supplies from before the marriage. The easel was covered in a thick layer of dust; the tubes of oil paint were rusted shut. I ran my fingers over a well-worn sable brush, remembering how my mother used to say, “Elena, when you hold a brush, your eyes catch the stars.” I sank to the floor, surrounded by these mummified dreams, and cried again. The five years I’d spent with Dean had been a slow execution, a thousand tiny cuts stripping away my pride and my soul. In our first year, I spent all day making a complex Coq au Vin for his birthday. I sat by the candlelight until the sauce congealed and the fire in the hearth turned to ash. He came home at 2:00 AM smelling of expensive bourbon, his tie loose, saying Valerie was feeling depressed and needed a drink. “She lost her parents young, Elena. She’s sensitive. Be the bigger person,” he’d said, not even glancing at the cold feast on the table before disappearing into his study for the night. I sat there and ate the cold, salty chicken in the dark until dawn. In the second year, I was rushed to the hospital with a ruptured appendix. When I called him, he said he was at a gallery opening with Valerie. “She finally has the courage to show her work. Just have the nurse help you with the consent forms.” I lay on the gurney, the last thing I heard before the anesthesia took me was the nurses whispering about the husband who couldn’t be bothered to show up. In the third year, our anniversary. He’d made a reservation, but his phone rang just as we were leaving. “Valerie twisted her ankle. I have to take her to urgent care.” He grabbed his coat and left, never noticing the velvet box I was hiding behind my back—a pair of custom cufflinks I’d saved three months of salary for, engraved with his initials. I went to the restaurant alone, ordered his favorite steak, and sat across from an empty chair for two hours. In the fourth year, my mother had her first stroke. I spent my days at the hospital and my nights cooking for him, but he came home later and later. “Valerie is prepping for a solo show. She’s spiraling. I need to be there.” One night, I called him at 3:00 AM. Valerie answered, her voice syrupy and sweet: “Elena, Dom is asleep. He’s just so exhausted…” I hung up and watched the soup I’d kept warm on the stove turn to sludge. And in the fifth year—just last month—Valerie decided she wanted a cat. Dean threw away the rare orchids my mother had given me because “cats have sensitivities.” Those orchids were the only thing my mother had left from her own wedding. I spent the night clutching the wilted stems, while in the next room, I heard him over FaceTime, tenderly asking Valerie if she preferred a Persian or a Ragdoll. “Mom,” I choked out, wiping the dust off my easel. “I’m going to paint again.” As I packed, I found the first necklace Dean had ever bought me. He’d knelt on one knee and promised me the moon. Now, two of the crystals were missing, and the chain was tarnished. I tossed it into the trash without a second thought. It was just a piece of rotting history. 3. A week after moving into a small studio apartment, my phone buzzed with an unknown number. I stared at the screen for a long time. In the last five years, the only people who called me were Dean or the utility companies. “Is this Elena Vance?” a warm, cultured male voice asked. “Speaking. Who is this?” “This is Julian Henderson, Director of the City Museum of Fine Arts. I came across your old application for an exhibition grant. I was struck by the portfolio you attached. I’d love to discuss a potential showcase.” I froze. I had almost forgotten that application. It was a relic from my life before Dean, a dream my mother had nurtured. After I married him, I’d locked my brushes away to be a “supportive wife.” I’d sent that application three years ago on a whim during a particularly lonely night. “Are you free tomorrow at ten?” Mr. Henderson asked. “Yes,” I breathed. “I’ll be there.” I hung up and looked at the canvas on my balcony—a half-finished piece titled After the Rain. It was a street scene, water pooling on cobblestones, reflecting a bruised, grey sky. For the first time in years, a tiny spark of hope flickered in my chest. I called my best friend, Sarah. When I told her about the gallery, she practically screamed through the phone. “Elena, I knew it! You were a prodigy! You won awards before that man sucked the life out of you!” I laughed with her, but my eyes were wet. How had I let myself forget who I was? 4. The next day, I wore a simple cornflower blue dress, carefully shielding my cast as I walked into the museum. Mr. Henderson was a man with silver hair and a kind, perceptive smile. As he walked me through the halls, he couldn’t stop praising my work. “There’s a raw honesty in your pieces, Elena. Especially the one titled The Wait. You’ve captured the architecture of loneliness perfectly.” The Wait was a piece I’d painted in secret—a woman sitting in a cavernous living room, staring at a table of cold food, while the world outside was pitch black. It was the autobiography of my marriage. “Thank you for the opportunity,” I said, my palms damp. “You earned it,” he said, gesturing to a man standing nearby. “I’d like you to meet Sebastian Thorne. He’s our primary benefactor and a great lover of the arts.” A man in a camel-colored overcoat turned toward me. He was striking, with a quiet, scholarly elegance and eyes that felt as warm as spring sunlight. “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Vance. I’m Sebastian.” “Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm and dry—unlike Dean’s hands, which always felt strangely cold. “I was particularly moved by your Rainy Night,” Sebastian said, his voice sincere. “The brushwork on the raindrops… it feels like they’re trying to tell a story.” It had been so long since someone looked at my work—at me—with that much focus. With Dean, my art was “cute hobbyism.” He used to say, “Women doing art is fine, but don’t let it distract you from the house.” A wave of warmth rose in my chest. I looked down. “I just paint what I feel.” “Authenticity is the only thing that lasts,” Sebastian smiled. “I’m looking forward to your show.” Over the next few weeks, Sebastian became a regular fixture at my studio. He wasn’t demanding like Dean; he would just sit quietly in the corner with a book, occasionally bringing me a thermos of warm tea. Once, when I was painting late into the night, I looked up to find him washing my paint-stained brushes. He was doing it clumsily but with immense care, soap bubbles clinging to his expensive sleeves like tiny clouds. “Sebastian, you don’t have to do that,” I said, feeling flustered. He wiped his hands and laughed. “You just focus on the canvas. And please, call me Seb.” The studio window faced an old oak tree. Every time Seb visited, he brought a small bouquet—sometimes daisies, sometimes jasmine. Never anything flashy, just fresh and fragrant. He told me, “Art needs light, but it also needs a little color.” I realized he wasn’t just talking about the room. He was talking about the light returning to my soul. 5. Two weeks before the opening, I was at a high-end grocery store picking up supplies when I ran into Dean and Valerie. The produce aisle was crowded. Valerie was draped in Dean’s black cashmere overcoat, leaning into him as they picked out strawberries. I recognized the coat—I’d bought it for his birthday last year. He’d called it “too old-fashioned” and never wore it once. When Valerie saw me, her eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. She raised her voice just enough for the surrounding shoppers to hear. “Dom, look at these berries! Aren’t they exactly like the ones Elena said she was allergic to?” Dean followed her gaze. His brow instantly knit into a scowl. “What are you doing here?” I tried to push my cart past them, but he stepped in my way. “How’s the arm?” He looked at the faint scarring on my left limb, his tone harsh, as if he were inspecting a piece of lost property that had been returned damaged. “None of your business,” I said, my voice cold. “Elena,” Valerie said, suddenly grabbing my arm. Her nails dug into my skin. “I’m so sorry about… you know, the hospital. I didn’t mean to keep Dom away from your mom. I really couldn’t breathe that day…” Her voice trembled with fake tears, drawing looks from the people around us. Dean immediately pulled her behind him, shielding her like a precious treasure. He glared at me. “Elena, Valerie’s health is fragile. Don’t you dare start with her.” The blood rushed to my head. Seeing him play the knight in shining armor for a woman who was clearly weaponizing her “frailty” made the last five years feel like a cruel joke. “Dean,” I said, every word a frozen shard. “Are you actually blind, or just stupid?” His face went pale, then flushed a deep, angry red. Valerie peeked from behind his shoulder, a tiny, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She looked like a cat that had finally caught the canary. That night, I locked myself in the studio and didn’t sleep. For the first time, Dean’s face appeared on my canvas—distorted by the rain, positioned next to Valerie’s poisonous smile. I layered the paint on, thick and heavy, like scabs over a wound that refused to heal. When Seb brought me breakfast at dawn, he stood before the painting in silence for a long time. Then, he said softly, “It’s over now.” He didn’t ask what happened. He just made me a cup of honey tea. I wiped my tears and picked up the brush again. He was right. It was over. I wouldn’t let them stain my canvas ever again. The day before the opening, my phone lit up. A text from Dean: Regretting it yet? I stared at those three words. He was testing me—waiting for me to crawl back, convinced I couldn’t survive without his shadow. I replied: I’ve never felt better. Goodbye, Dean. I turned the phone off. Tomorrow was a new beginning.

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Traffic was at a complete standstill on the highway. I clutched the cooler bag and ran. Suddenly, two police officers stopped me. “Someone reported you for transporting contraband.” I froze. I glanced back and spotted Maya, the intern, covering her mouth as she laughed. “That’s her! There are drugs in that box!” I quickly explained, “It’s insulin in this box!” “The patient has diabetic ketoacidosis. The ambulance is stuck in traffic. He needs his injection immediately!” The officers checked and were about to let me go. Maya suddenly shouted: “She’s lying! Insulin is code for drugs! She’s trafficking!” “If you don’t believe me, smash it open and look!” Watching Maya’s triumphant expression, my entire body went cold. If I couldn’t get the insulin to the Mayor within ten minutes, his life would be in danger. No one could bear that consequence. “You can’t smash it!” I shouted desperately. There had been an accident on the highway. The ambulance transporting the Mayor was stuck in traffic. I received a call from the Mayor’s secretary and immediately left the hospital with the insulin. I was the Mayor’s personal physician. Since he took office, I’d performed all his surgeries, major and minor. The Mayor’s secretary had just called me. The Mayor’s entire body was ice cold, and he was losing consciousness. If he didn’t receive his insulin injection within ten minutes, the consequences would be unthinkable! The seconds flew by. Nine minutes left! “Whether it’s drugs or not, we’ll know after we test it,” one officer said. I shook my head desperately, clutching the insulin tightly. “No, the patient can’t wait! I’m begging you!” The Mayor’s secretary had warned me that the Mayor’s condition must remain confidential. So I had to prove my identity and get there as fast as possible. Two hundred meters from the ambulance. Nine minutes left. The officers brought me to their car. I stared hard at Maya. “Before we left, you clearly saw me get the medication from the storage room. All the paperwork was in order.” “Why would you lie? Why are you framing me!” “A life is at stake! Can you handle the responsibility?” Maya was scrolling through short videos on her phone, giggling constantly. Hearing my question, she sighed. “Why are you yelling at me?” “I was just bored and wanted to make a joke.” “How was I supposed to know they’d take it seriously?” At her words, the officers’ expressions changed immediately. They sternly warned Maya: “Maliciously wasting police resources and spreading false information—we can arrest you for this!” Maya snorted, her face full of indifference. “Why are you giving me attitude?” “My dad is the Mayor’s secretary. Keep glaring at me like that and I’ll have you all fired!” She crossed her arms, acting like none of this concerned her. I stared at the time on my watch, my heart in my throat. “Two hundred meters ahead, there’s an ambulance.” “My patient is in there! He’s waiting for me to save his life!” “We can’t delay any longer! You can escort me there to verify everything!” My eyes were red as I pleaded with the officers in the most humble way possible. Right now, I didn’t care about dignity. I had to save the Mayor as quickly as possible! The officers looked hesitant and immediately went to report to their captain. I frantically searched through my phone. Finally, I found my digital medical license and employment verification. The police captain reviewed everything, confirmed my identity, and was about to let me leave. Maya suddenly covered her mouth and laughed. “Officers, let me tell you a story.”

All eyes turned to Maya. She cleared her throat and spoke slowly: “Have you guys seen Breaking Bad? She’s exactly like that.” Maya took a deep breath, acting mysterious: “She makes and sells illegal substances in the hospital basement. I saw it with my own eyes!” “Maya! That’s slander!” I was shaking with rage. Maya was an intern, a nepotism hire. At first, she couldn’t even find a vein to draw blood. I taught her step by step, putting in so much effort. And this is how she repays me? The officers pressed me down hard. Click—they handcuffed me. “Take it for testing immediately!” The insulin pen I’d been desperately protecting was confiscated. I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Please believe me!” “Take me to that ambulance and the truth will come out!” I started crying from desperation. Only eight minutes left! If something happened to the Mayor, no one could handle the consequences! The captain glanced at me and stopped the testing personnel. He told an officer nearby, “Go investigate up ahead.” He helped me up, about to get out of the car. Maya suddenly screamed: “Don’t go over there! Everyone in that vehicle might be her accomplices! They have guns!” “If you let her go, it’ll be dangerous!” The atmosphere immediately became tense. I heard the sound of guns being loaded. In an instant, I was staring down multiple gun barrels. I was so angry my chest felt tight. I bit my lip until it bled, tasting blood in my mouth. “Maya! What do you gain from smearing me like this and hurting me!” Maya laughed until tears came out. She moved next to me and whispered: “Because I need to vent.” “Last time during surgery, I just forgot a gauze sponge in that kid’s stomach, and you criticized me in front of the entire department.” “No one’s ever dared talk to me like that! I lost all my dignity.” I clenched my fists. Maya wasn’t even qualified to perform surgery independently. But the hospital director still let her do it, despite my objections. If I hadn’t checked before closing, that gauze would’ve stayed in that child’s stomach! “You almost killed a child! And you have the nerve to say this?” “Maya! Do you have a heart? You don’t deserve to be a doctor!” Maya spat in my face. She took out her phone to record me, but the captain knocked it out of her hand. “So you’re making this up? Maliciously providing false information?” He questioned Maya coldly. “I was just speculating. I didn’t say I knew everything for sure.” “You guys can’t even take a joke.” “This is so boring.” Maya opened a mobile game, turned the volume to maximum, her face full of indifference. The captain sternly rebuked her: “Second warning!” “One more time and I’m taking you in!” My phone vibrated. A document came through. From Anderson, the Mayor’s secretary—Maya’s father. Worried I might run into trouble, he’d given me the highest clearance. Along with the document came a text message: [The Mayor’s condition is critical! Get here within five minutes!]

I immediately showed the document to the captain. The Mayor’s situation was critical. I couldn’t keep this secret anymore! The captain glanced at it once and his face went pale. He unlocked my handcuffs and prepared to escort me. “Wait!” Maya suddenly pulled up several photos. “Sorry! I lied!” “I’m reporting Christa for organ trafficking!” “Here’s the evidence! She’s trying to flee!” All AI-generated screenshots. They showed me in the hospital’s organ storage facility, trafficking organs with accomplices. Then she pointed at the document: “She’s so bold! She even dared to forge documents!” “She’s trying to run!” “Just control her and you can bust the whole ring!” The captain stared at the screenshots Maya provided. He sternly warned her: “Organ trafficking is a serious crime. If prosecuted, it carries severe legal penalties.” “But if you’re making false accusations again, you’re the one getting arrested!” Maya held her head high, self-righteous: “Why would I be afraid! I’m just reporting!” “Besides, my dad’s the Mayor’s secretary. You can’t arrest me!” I looked at Maya in complete despair, unable to control my emotions anymore. “Maya, are you insane? My patient really is the Mayor!” “His condition can’t wait!” “If something happens to the Mayor, your dad is finished too!” Smack— A sharp slap struck my face. Maya jabbed her finger at my nose. “You evil woman, how dare you curse my dad!” Then she said through gritted teeth: “I’m calling my dad right now!” Maya dialed her father’s number. Several calls went unanswered. She frowned. On the sixth attempt, Anderson picked up. “Maya, I’m in a meeting with the Mayor right now. Talk later.” Maya clapped her hands, laughed out loud, even started humming happily. “You said the Mayor was in danger, but he’s clearly in a meeting with my dad.” “See? You’re cursing the Mayor. Your intentions are evil!” “You should investigate her thoroughly. She might be a spy!” Listening to Maya’s extreme accusations, the captain’s brow furrowed. He called the officers he’d sent to investigate via radio. No response. Then Anderson’s phone rang. I quickly put it on speaker: [Dr. Christa, why aren’t you here yet!] [The Mayor has lost consciousness!] [We’ve tried every emergency measure! Nothing’s working! We’re waiting for your insulin!] [What are you doing! If something happens to the Mayor, you’re going to prison!] Anderson hung up in agitation. He’d given me an ultimatum. Four minutes left. If I could get there and give the Mayor his injection, he’d survive! If I couldn’t make it, everything was over! Everyone was finished!

I broke down crying. “I’m not lying! He really can’t wait!” “You can escort me there under guard!” “The Mayor really is in that ambulance!” The captain quickly helped me up, uncertainty in his eyes. Although the Mayor’s secretary had said the Mayor was in a meeting, what if? After all, someone at the Mayor’s level maintained strict secrecy about everything. If something really went wrong, no one could handle the responsibility. I desperately pointed at the watch face, constantly emphasizing the time to the captain. “She’s tricking you!” Maya grabbed me. “That’s not even my dad’s phone number!” She pulled up her call history to confront me. Arrogantly pointing at Anderson’s private number. “Christa, you liar! How dare you impersonate my dad!” “My dad won’t let you get away with this!” I explained in a trembling voice. Anderson contacted her using his private number. When he called me, it was from the Mayor’s office dedicated line. There was no conflict. “That was clearly Anderson’s voice on the phone. How do you explain that!” I stared hard into Maya’s eyes. Maya was instantly speechless. She anxiously scratched her head. “Please, just escort me there!” “I’ll take full responsibility for any problems!” “If I’m proven guilty, I’ll serve my sentence!” Less than three minutes left! I begged the captain almost desperately. After thinking for several seconds, he nodded. Just as the captain was taking me out of the car, Maya suddenly blocked my path, talking non-stop: “She used a voice changer! That wasn’t my dad on the other end! It’s her lover!” “You don’t know—she loves using voice changers for online relationships!” “She’s really good at it!” “Check her phone!” She desperately pulled at me, refusing to let me leave. Insisting the captain check my phone. “Christa, you’re not getting away today.” “You want to save the person in that ambulance up ahead, I know.” “Must be your family member, right?” “You embarrassed me, so I’m going to make your family member suffer!” Maya leaned close to my ear and smiled maliciously. So she’d known all along I was trying to save someone. So she’d been deliberately blocking me this whole time! Just to get revenge for me criticizing her in public! All my emotions exploded at that moment. I shoved her hard. Maya fell heavily to the ground, wailing. I had no time to deal with her. Clutching the cooler bag, I ran desperately toward the ambulance ahead. The captain followed right behind me. Less than a minute and a half left! Soon I’d be able to save the Mayor! The officer the captain had sent ran over to meet me. The ambulance door opened immediately. Anderson, the Mayor’s secretary, pulled me into the vehicle. Under everyone’s watchful eyes, I opened the cooler and froze instantly. The insulin had vanished. In its place were two lollipops! Maya’s call came through. “Christa, I accidentally put lollipops in there.” “Is the person in the ambulance still alive?” “No worries, my dad will handle it.” Anderson’s face went pale. As Maya laughed, the Mayor took his last breath. The heart monitor flatlined. A deathly silence spread through the vehicle.

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For twenty years, my family never acknowledged my existence. But today they all came. The living room was packed. My dad, my mom, my brother Marcus, Dad’s sister Aunt Lesley, Dad’s brother Uncle John, and several relatives whose names I couldn’t recall. My mom wore a black dress, her eyes red-rimmed, clutching a tissue in her hand. When she saw me come in, she stood up, her lips trembling. “Chloe…” Twenty years. This was the first time she’d called my name so tenderly. I looked at her and said nothing. The lawyer opened his folder. Everyone was waiting for the will Grandma had left me. When I was six, I was sent to live with Grandma. Not the “going to Grandma’s for vacation” kind of visit. I stood at Grandma’s doorstep with a cloth bag containing two changes of clothes and a pair of canvas shoes, watching my mom’s back grow smaller and smaller in the distance. I didn’t cry. A six-year-old doesn’t really understand what “being abandoned” means. I only remember that when my mom left, she was holding Marcus’s hand. Marcus was four that year, wearing a new red winter coat. He held a candied apple on a stick. He glanced back at me once, then turned his head and continued licking his candied apple. My mom never looked back. Grandma stood behind me. After a long time, she sighed. “Come on, let’s go inside.” She took my hand. “Grandma will make you some spaghetti.” Grandma asked me, “Do you miss Mommy?” I said, “Yes.” Grandma said nothing and ladled half a bowl of noodles for me. Later I learned that before my mom dropped me off, she’d said something to Grandma. “Mom, I’m leaving Chloe with you. We really can’t afford to raise two kids.” Can’t afford two kids—so why was I the one who had to leave, and not Marcus? I spent twenty years thinking about that question. The answer was actually quite simple. Marcus was a son. I wasn’t. Grandma’s house was in town. Three tiled rooms with an apple tree planted in the yard. Not big, but clean. Grandma was sixty-two then, still in good health. Every morning she’d get up at five, go to the farmers’ market to buy groceries, come back to make me breakfast, then take me to school. In the afternoon she’d wait for me at the school gate, rain or shine. In summer she’d fan me with a palm-leaf fan. In winter she’d fill a hot water bottle for me. When I had a fever, she’d carry me to the clinic and stay with me in the hallway at three in the morning while I got an IV drip. Everything my mom should have done, Grandma did instead. But I knew Grandma wasn’t Mom. Because every time the school asked me to fill in parent information and I wrote “Grandma,” the teacher would give me an extra look. “Where are your parents?” “Somewhere else.” “Why don’t you live with them?” I didn’t know how to answer. Later I learned a standard response. “My parents are busy with work.” Busy with work. So busy they hadn’t come to see me more than a handful of times in twenty years. I remember when I was seven, the school organized a drawing contest for Christmas. The theme was “My Home.” The other kids drew their mom, dad, and themselves—a family of three, holding hands. I drew Grandma and me. Two people. One apple tree. The teacher looked at it for a long time and said, “This is really good.” She didn’t say “Why are there only two people in your home?” but I saw her eyes turn red. I kept that drawing for a long time. Later it got lost when I moved.

On New Year’s Eve when I was seven, I thought I could go home. Grandma made a phone call. I stood beside her and heard my mom on the other end say, “Don’t come back this year. There’s not much space at home. Marcus just got a new bed, and there’s nowhere for her to sleep.” Nowhere to sleep. Marcus had a new bed. I didn’t even have an old one. Grandma hung up and patted my head. “This year you’ll stay with Grandma. Grandma will make your favorite food.” I ate until my stomach hurt. Grandma smiled. “Eat slowly. No one’s going to take it from you.” Later I learned that during that same New Year, my parents had set up two tables at home, one table full of my brother’s favorite dishes. Family photos were sent to Aunt Lesley’s house and Uncle John’s house. In the photos were my dad, my mom, and Marcus. Not me. Aunt Lesley later told others, “The Scott family just has one son. They treasure him.” Someone asked, “Don’t they have a daughter too?” Aunt Lesley said, “Oh, that one. She’s out in the countryside. The old lady’s taking care of her.” “That one.” She was talking about me. I wasn’t “Chloe.” I was “that one.” In this family’s narrative, I didn’t even deserve a name. When I was nine, Grandma took me to the city to see a doctor. On the way, we stopped by my parents’ house. I stood at the door and saw Marcus’s room—an entire wall of toys, a new computer on the desk, and on the nightstand, a photo of Marcus with my parents at an amusement park. Hanging in the living room was a family portrait. Dad, Mom, Marcus. Three people. I counted twice. Three people. Marcus ran out, looked at me, and frowned. “Mom, who is she?” He didn’t recognize me. My mom poked her head out from the kitchen and glanced at me. “She’s from Grandma’s house. Her name is Chloe.” “From Grandma’s house.” Not “your sister.” Marcus said “Oh,” turned around, and went back to his room to play video games. He didn’t say a second word to me the entire time. On the way home that day, Grandma didn’t say anything. When we were almost there, she suddenly stopped. “Chloe.” “Yeah?” She crouched down and looked into my eyes. “Remember this. You’re my Chloe. If no one else wants you, I want you.” Her eyes were red. “As long as I’m alive, I’ll take care of you.” I nodded. That year I was nine, and I learned something. Some people are family. Some people are just strangers who happen to share your blood.

When I was twelve, I ranked first in the entire town on my exams. Grandma called my mom to tell her. The phone was on speaker. I was right there and heard everything clearly. “Ruth, Chloe got first place in the whole town!” There was silence on the other end for two seconds. “Oh. Got it.” “Chloe wants to go to the top-rated middle school in the city. The tuition—” “Mom, we’re tight on money right now. Marcus has to start his extracurriculars next semester, plus tutoring fees.” Grandma said nothing more and hung up. That same year, Marcus ranked 138th in his grade. My parents enrolled him in three tutoring programs. Twenty-four thousand dollars a year. I ranked first in the entire town. Not a penny spent on tutoring for me. I went to a public middle school. Marcus went to a private school in the city. Later I found out that Grandma had been sending my parents three thousand dollars every month for twelve years. The note on each transfer said “Chloe’s tuition.” Three thousand times twelve months, times twelve years. Four hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars. Not a penny of it reached me. The summer I was fifteen, Grandma took me to get glasses. On the bus, we ran into Aunt Lesley. She looked me up and down and said to Grandma, “Mom, Chloe’s gotten so big.” Then she lowered her voice. “What’s going on with Scott? He said Chloe would stay with you for two years, and it’s been almost ten now.” Grandma didn’t respond. Aunt Lesley continued, “Don’t spoil Chloe too much either. She’s a girl, you know. Good enough is fine. When she gets married later—” “Lesley.” I spoke up. She froze and looked at me. “I’m not someone who’s just ‘good enough.’” I looked at her. “From now on, please call me by my name. Chloe.” Aunt Lesley’s face stiffened. Grandma patted my hand without saying anything, but I saw a slight smile at the corner of her mouth. When I was eighteen, I took the SAT. I ranked 23rd in the entire city. Got into a top private school. Law major. Grandma was so happy she couldn’t sleep all night. The next morning, she called my mom first thing. “Ruth! Chloe got in! A private university!” Silence again on the other end. “Mom… that’s great.” “About the tuition—” “Mom, Marcus is getting his driver’s license this year too, and we—” “I’ll pay.” Grandma said. Her voice was calm. “I’ll pay Chloe’s tuition.” After hanging up, Grandma sat in the yard, looking at the apple tree. For a long time. Then I walked over. “Grandma, I can apply for financial aid. You don’t have to—” “No need.” She looked at me. “I can afford it.” She smiled. “The thing I’m most proud of in this life is raising you.” I couldn’t hold it back. That was the first time in twenty years I cried in front of Grandma. That same fall, Marcus failed his college entrance exam. He retook it for a year and got into a community college. My parents spent eighteen thousand dollars to buy him a car to “celebrate him getting into college.” One car, eighteen thousand dollars. My four years of tuition plus living expenses—Grandma spent a total of seventy thousand dollars. My parents didn’t contribute a single cent. But what they told relatives was, “We worry about both our kids equally.”

During my four years of college, I spent every winter and summer break at Grandma’s house. Not because I didn’t want to go to my parents’ house. Because no one asked me to come back. One year during fall break, I tried calling my mom. “Can I come home and stay for a couple days this fall break?” There was a pause on the other end. “Chloe… the house is being renovated right now. There’s dust everywhere. You should go to Grandma’s instead.” Renovations. Later I saw a post Marcus made on Twitter. On the day of fall break, the three of them took a family photo in the newly renovated living room. New sofa, new TV, new curtains. Marcus’s caption read, “New house feels amazing.” In the comments, my mom replied, “As long as you like it.” As long as Marcus liked it. A new home for three people. No place for me. After college graduation, I stayed in the state. A law firm. Internship salary of thirty-five hundred a month. I never asked my family for money, because I knew even if I asked, they wouldn’t give it. And also because from the age of six, I knew one thing—rely on yourself. In this life, aside from Grandma, I could only rely on myself. My third year working, I got a permanent position. Salary of twelve thousand a month. Fourth year, I got promoted. Eighteen thousand. Fifth year, I was handling cases independently. During those five years, my mom called me four times. First time: “Chloe, Marcus is looking for a job. Can you help ask around in the city?” Second time: “Chloe, Marcus has a girlfriend. They’re buying a house but they’re short on money—” Third time: “Chloe, Marcus—” Fourth time: “Chloe, Marcus—” Every single time was about Marcus. Not once did she say, “Chloe, how have you been lately?” Did I give them money? Yes. The first time I lent them twenty thousand. They said they’d pay it back in six months. Three years later, they’d never mentioned it again. The second time they asked for another thirty thousand. This time they didn’t even say “borrow.” My mom’s exact words were “transfer thirty thousand to Marcus.” Transfer. Not borrow. Transfer. As if my money was naturally meant to be spent on Marcus. Fifty thousand dollars total. To this day, not a penny paid back. But I didn’t care about that fifty thousand. What I cared about was this— When they needed money from me, I was “family.” When they didn’t need money from me, I was “that one from Grandma’s house.” I’m twenty-six now. Twenty years. I stopped expecting them to call me their daughter a long time ago. Until Grandma got sick. Last October, Grandma was diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer. When the call came, my hands were shaking. I requested extended leave and rushed back to town. Grandma had lost a lot of weight. Her hair was completely white. Lying in the hospital bed, she saw me come in and smiled. “Chloe’s here.” “I’m here.” I held her hand. So thin. I could feel her bones. “I’m going to take care of you.” Grandma shook her head. “No need. Your work—” “Work isn’t important.” I looked at her. “You’re important.” Grandma’s eyes turned red. She didn’t say anything. She just squeezed my hand tight. For the next forty-seven days, I stayed at the hospital. During the day I fed her, bathed her, accompanied her to tests. At night I slept on the folding bed next to hers. Forty-seven days. Scott came twice. The first time he stayed half an hour, took a phone call in the hallway, and left. The second time he brought a bag of fruit, set it down, and left. Ruth came once. Sat for fifteen minutes, looked at the IV line, looked out the window, said to Grandma “Take care of yourself,” and left. Marcus never came. Not once. Forty-seven days. Just me. Once the attending physician pulled me aside and asked, “Where are your grandmother’s other relatives?” I said, “Just me.” He looked at me. “You are…?” “Granddaughter.” He was silent for a moment. “Her other children should come visit too.” I smiled. “They’re busy.” During Grandma’s last week in the hospital, she could barely speak anymore. One night, she suddenly grabbed my hand. “Chloe.” “Grandma, I’m here.” “In my closet… there’s a metal box.” Her voice was very soft. “There are some things inside… take them.” “Grandma—” “Take them.” She looked at me. “They should be yours.” She said one more thing. Her voice was very soft, but I heard it clearly. “Chloe, the person I’ve wronged most in this life is you. You shouldn’t have had to suffer through all that.” Ten days later, Grandma passed away. Three days after Grandma died, I opened that metal box. Inside were three things.

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To help her lover tip off criminals, my reporter wife secretly planted a tracking device on me, causing a covert mission to fail. Over a dozen of my comrades lost their lives, and I was thrown into prison for ten years on suspicion of leaking classified information. After my release, I pushed open the front door to find streamers and noise flooding toward me. Jennifer stood at the center in a designer suit, her posture as elegant as ever. The officiant enthusiastically pushed me toward the center of the living room: “Mr. Robert, Jennifer wanted to surprise you today by holding the wedding ceremony you two never completed!” She gazed at me deeply, her fingertips trembling slightly. “Robert, I’ve been waiting for you all these ten years…” I stared at her coldly until the anticipation in her eyes gradually filled with unease, then I spoke flatly. “A husband with a criminal record probably doesn’t deserve you.” Jennifer’s body shook violently, the color draining from her face instantly. The day I went to prison, she used those exact words to force me to sign the divorce papers. Dead silence filled the living room. “Robert! If you hadn’t gone to prison back then, would Jennifer have needed to divorce you to protect herself?” My sister Mia stepped in front of Jennifer, glaring at me fiercely. “She didn’t look down on you, and she’s still willing to wait for a废人 like you—you should be grateful!” I smirked but didn’t respond. Ten years in prison taught me that the most powerful response is silence. Seeing I had no reaction, the relatives joined in, chattering away with their persuasion. My brother chimed in from the side: “Have you forgotten that you leaked information and got over a dozen people killed!” “Jennifer has been compensating those families for the past ten years—otherwise you would’ve died in prison long ago!” Leaked information? Got my comrades killed? I almost laughed out loud. The night before the operation ten years ago, Jennifer had unusually pressed me about the mission location and timing. I strictly refused, citing discipline. Before bed, she took out a necklace and put it around my neck, choking up as she said: “Wear this. May it keep you safe and bring you home.” But I didn’t know then that the necklace concealed a tracking device! At the time, Jennifer’s ex-lover Anthony was being held hostage by criminals while investigating a dangerous drug trafficking case. To save him, Jennifer chose to betray me and my comrades. Just as we were about to close the net, Jennifer burst in with people! Gunfire erupted, and my comrades fell before my eyes one after another. Before the investigation began, she knelt and grabbed my hand, pressing it to her belly as she pleaded: “Robert, I’m carrying our child. I can’t have anything happen to me…” Looking at her belly that hadn’t yet started showing, I took the blame. But the day the verdict came down, she pushed divorce papers in front of me and said coldly: “I had a miscarriage. I can’t let his life begin at a prison visiting window.” “A husband with a criminal record would destroy my career. Let’s divorce.” The pen tip hovered over the signature line, trembling for a full three minutes. Ten years of hell began with that stroke. In prison, being blamed for my comrades’ deaths made me a public enemy. Beatings, freezing cold, contaminated food—all routine. And the permanent disabilities I’ll carry for life. An inmate thug punctured my left lung, which still aches to this day. My right hand was shattered and remains permanently twisted and deformed. “Ha…” I finally couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. Jennifer’s face grew even paler. Her gaze swept over my disabled right hand and my labored breathing from lung pain, and something complex flashed in her eyes—hard to detect. Like guilt, or perhaps irritation. She took a deep breath and spoke gently to the still-chattering relatives: “Everyone, please stop. Robert just got out—he probably needs time to adjust.” “During this time, I’ll stay with him and show him my love.” Sure enough, the relatives immediately changed their tune, sighing one after another: “Jennifer is such a rare, good woman!” “Robert, knowing Jennifer is a blessing you earned over three lifetimes!” Jennifer was too skilled at this performance—retreating to advance, playing the wronged yet devoted woman. Suddenly, her phone rang. After listening for just a few sentences, her expression changed dramatically. She grabbed Mia and rushed out without looking back. The relatives in the living room exchanged glances, then found various excuses to leave one by one.

After standing in the living room for a moment, I turned and walked toward the master bedroom. The closet door was half-open, with men’s shirts hanging inside. In the bathroom, there were two sets of toiletries and a razor. Her claim of “waiting ten years for you” was apparently a joke. I turned and left, flagging down a car on the street to head to the city hospital. Ten years in prison had already wrecked my body—I had to get checked. I accidentally ended up on the floor where the nephrology department was located. At the end of the hallway outside a patient room, I stopped. The door was ajar, and Mia’s suppressed sobbing came from inside. “Jennifer, Anthony surviving this acute rejection episode is God’s blessing! But the kidney transplant can’t be delayed any longer.” “I know! I know!” Jennifer’s voice was broken. “Anthony, just hold on a little longer…” Through the gap in the door, I saw Anthony lying in the hospital bed. Mia said anxiously: “I’ll go ask the doctor if there are any other options…” Jennifer sobbed uncontrollably, trembling as she kissed Anthony’s fingers. “Anthony, Robert got out of prison. He has healthy kidneys—he can definitely save you!” In the bed, Anthony shook his head, his voice barely a whisper: “Jennifer, back then I was obsessed with getting the scoop and went into that drug den for fame. They injected me with drugs and ruined my kidneys. If you hadn’t tipped them off to save me, Robert wouldn’t have had to…” Outside the door, the blood in my veins seemed to freeze instantly. These two people destroyed my life and now brazenly enjoyed everything I had. “Anthony, don’t think like that!” She soothed him in a low voice. “What we did back then was to get firsthand truth and let more people see it!” “It’s Robert who was incompetent and couldn’t protect his comrades. His imprisonment is deserved—he brought it on himself!” Her words were like poison-tipped ice picks, chiseling away at my already riddled heart. Then she continued, self-righteous: “Protecting people and saving lives—isn’t that a soldier’s duty?” “Right now, you’re a civilian waiting to be saved, so Robert should fulfill his obligation.” A chill spread from the deepest part of my heart, rapidly freezing my limbs. I felt like a complete and utter joke. Inside the room, Jennifer’s voice continued. “I’ll remarry Robert as soon as possible…” Her voice lowered, taking on a vicious edge. “A spouse’s signature—no one can stop that! Once he donates his kidney to you, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to him, living a good life together…” So that was the entire reason for her grand insistence on remarrying. I could no longer hold myself up and staggered backward, my heel hitting a trash can. “Clang!” “Who’s out there?” Jennifer’s suspicious voice called from inside. I let out a bitter laugh and quickly walked away.

I used the five hundred dollars I’d saved in prison to rent a single room in the slums that never saw sunlight. My criminal record barred me from all decent jobs, so I could only haul cargo at a warehouse in the suburbs. I started before dawn. My right hand was useless, so I relied entirely on my back and waist. After unloading each truck, my damaged lung felt like it would explode. Jennifer’s calls came like death warrants, ringing constantly. I watched her name flash on the screen, going from initial sharp pain to eventual numbness. I declined, blocked her. She’d call from a different number, and I’d block that too. The cycle repeated endlessly. I never opened the text messages she sent either. Mia’s messages came one after another too. First accusing me of betraying Jennifer’s devotion, then softening her tone to ask if I could do compatibility testing for Anthony. Mia remained completely blind to my ten years of suffering and my injuries. Watching those messages felt like slow torture with a dull blade. Finally, I dragged her number into the blacklist too. I thought if I hid like a rat in the gutter, they’d eventually leave me alone. But I was wrong. Today, I arrived at the loading dock early as usual, waiting for work assignments. The boss walked over with a dark expression and viciously threw crumpled bills in my face. “Take your dirty money and get lost right now!” I froze, staring at him in confusion. “What are you looking at? Murderer! Bastard who won’t even save a dying man!” The boss spat on the ground, undisguised disgust in his eyes. The other workers all looked over, their gazes strange, whispering among themselves. A coworker I was somewhat familiar with shoved his phone in my face, righteous indignation burning. “Playing dumb? Your brother is waiting for your kidney to save his life, and you won’t give it! Are you even human?” “Bah! And you call yourself a soldier—you heartless bastard!” On the phone screen, the social news headline was a bolded, glaring title: [Soldier Refuses to Save Dying Man—Critically Ill Brother’s Life Hangs by a Thread] Below were two photos: one showing Anthony in a hospital bed covered in tubes in close-up. The other was actually me from years ago in military uniform with medals on my chest after receiving an award. [Article by: Jennifer] The comments were already flooded with insults. My heart felt like it was being squeezed tight—I couldn’t breathe. She actually fabricated lies to manipulate public opinion, putting me on a moral execution pyre. I didn’t defend myself. I had no strength to defend myself. I bent down, hands trembling as I picked up the four hundred dollars scattered on the ground. Step by step, I walked back to my rental. As soon as I reached the alley entrance, I sensed something was wrong. Several people carrying cameras were blocking my rental door, peering around. My heart sank, and I instinctively turned to leave. “Hey! There! That’s Robert!” At that shout, the group swarmed like sharks smelling blood. Long lenses and short cameras surrounded me completely, blinding flashlights making it impossible to open my eyes. “Mr. Robert! We heard you were in prison for getting your comrades killed?” “What do you know about Anthony’s condition?” “Jennifer says you agreed to remarry but then backed out—was it to avoid donating your kidney?” Each question was sharper and more malicious than the last. I kept my head down, shielding my face with my arm, trying to push through. “No comment! Let me through!” “Robert, do you feel guilty?” “Anthony is only thirty-five years old—can you bear to watch him die?” “Do you think having a prison record means you can abandon all responsibility, even basic humanity?” I was like a cornered clown with nowhere to hide, completely disheveled and wounded. The gathering crowd pointed and whispered. Not a single person dared approach.

Just then, the sound of a car engine came from outside the crowd. The car door opened, and Jennifer and Mia stepped out. The reporters immediately turned their cameras toward them. In front of the cameras, Jennifer instantly put on a worried expression, choking up: “Robert, we were married once. As long as you’re willing to donate a kidney to save Anthony, I’ll give you a million dollars and a house!” “Why make yourself so miserable?” Mia chimed in from the side, tears falling on cue. “Robert, please save Anthony! He’s your brother! Can you really watch him die?” My eyes turned bloodshot, each word dripping with blood and hatred. “I’m going to request a retrial of that case! I’ll make all of you pay!” I stared at them, enunciating each word: “Want my kidney? Dream on!” The worry on Jennifer’s face froze instantly, revealing a flash of anger. She stepped forward, hissing through clenched teeth: “Robert, you’re forcing my hand.” She pulled out her phone and quickly sent a message. Within minutes, chaotic footsteps and noise came from the distance. A group of grief-stricken people pushed through the crowd and instantly surrounded me. They were the parents, wives, and children of the comrades who died ten years ago. They were older now, haggard. But the hatred in their eyes was even more bone-deep than in court all those years ago. “Robert! You murderer! Executioner!” “If Jennifer and Anthony hadn’t been secretly helping us all these years, giving us money, finding us jobs, helping the kids with school—we would’ve waited at the prison gates and stabbed you the moment you got out!” “You killed my son, my husband, my father! You should’ve paid with your life long ago! Donating a kidney to save someone now is giving you a chance to atone!” “Right! Donate! You have to! Otherwise we’ll drag you to the hospital today!” Spit and curses wove into a net, trapping me in the center. Jennifer had fed them with favors and hatred, turning them into the sharpest blades. “I’m innocent!” I shouted with all my strength. “Jennifer planted a tracking device on me! She tipped them off to save Anthony—that’s why the mission was exposed…” “He’s gone crazy!” Mia pointed at me, saying with feigned distress to the crowd: “Ten years in prison drove him insane—he’s talking nonsense! Don’t you all know what kind of person Jennifer is?” “Still trying to slander good people on death’s door!” “Trying to shirk responsibility! No way!” Watching the deceived crowd, the sneering Jennifer, and Mia who didn’t care if I lived or died, I trembled uncontrollably. Jennifer pushed through the crowd and stood before me again, looking down at me like she was granting charity. “Robert, I’ll ask you one last time. Will you donate your kidney or not?” I raised my tear-filled eyes to look at this woman who had destroyed everything I had, speaking one word at a time: “The greatest regret of my life was falling in love with you.” Jennifer froze, standing still. “Beat him! Beat this heartless bastard to death!” Someone shouted, and the crowd erupted! I curled up to protect my vital organs, but fists and feet rained down from all directions. Ribs made dull thuds, knees buckled in pain, sticks lashed across my back. Mia tried to step forward but was blocked by the enraged crowd and turned her face away. In the chaos, I heard someone say quietly: “Jennifer said not to hit the kidneys—we still need those…” That sentence was colder than any fist, freezing my heart and lungs solid. I spat blood, roaring as I shoved one person aside and crawled toward the road! “Stop him!” “Don’t let him get away!” I dragged my nearly broken body onto the traffic lane! Ear-splitting brake sounds erupted all at once! “Robert! What are you doing! Come back!” Jennifer’s panicked scream came from behind. I gave her a bleak but liberated smile and leaned backward. “Jennifer, in every life…” “I will never forgive you.” Jennifer shook her head, her voice carrying unprecedented panic: “No! I don’t need you to donate anymore! Come back…” Bang!! A massive impact sounded.

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Four years ago, I was forced to leave him because of a setup. Four years later, he was a billionaire, and he ground me into the dirt, right alongside his fiancée. “This million dollars, it buys you for a year as my mistress.” He stuffed the check into my collar with a sneer. “Service me well in bed.” For the sake of my grandmother in the ICU, I became his secret lover. Until he crushed my right hand with his own, until my grandmother died cold and alone in the morgue. That’s when I began to hate him with everything I had. I came to despise him completely. I vanished completely from his world. But he went mad searching for me everywhere. When he finally found me, I was in a wedding dress, arm in arm with my new husband, and I said to him. “Who are you again?” Claire’s POV “I heard Mr. Barrett gave that East Coast property to the Sterling family daughter as an engagement gift.” “That’s not all. They haven’t even officially announced the engagement yet, but that pink diamond on her finger could buy ten of my lives.” The private room was thick with smoke, the clinking of glasses rising and falling in waves. I kept my head down as I poured drinks, trying to minimize my presence as much as possible. My wrist suddenly trembled, and a few drops of red wine splattered onto the pristine white custom tablecloth. “What kind of service is this?” someone scolded disapprovingly. I grabbed napkins to wipe it up, but out of the corner of my eye, I caught a pair of dark, unreadable eyes. Damien Barrett sat in the seat of honor, a half-burned cigarette between his fingers. Through the curling smoke, he watched me with something between a smile and contempt. His gaze was cold as ice, tinged with mockery and disdain. As if watching an ant struggling pathetically. “I’m sorry.” I lowered my eyes, my voice dry. The person beside him wanted to make more of it, trying to curry favor with this top billionaire, but Damien flicked his cigarette ash and spoke casually: “Forget it.” His voice was low and deep, carrying the lazy quality of someone long accustomed to power. “Miss Davis is an old acquaintance. Let’s give her some face.” The words “old acquaintance” were bitten off with particular emphasis, dripping with sarcasm. The atmosphere in the room instantly became strange. Everyone’s eyes darted between me and Damien. Who didn’t know that Damien Barrett’s most hated person was me? Four years ago, when he was at his lowest point-exiled abroad by the Barrett family-I took a million dollars from his rival and broke up with him on the spot. I still remember that rainy night when he grabbed my wrist with red-rimmed eyes and asked if I had any heart at all. What did I say then? I said, “Damien Barrett, you can’t even afford to buy me a handbag right now. Why should I suffer with you?” That was the last time we saw each other. Now, he was the high-and-mighty head of the Barrett empire, about to marry the well-matched Miss Sterling. And I was just an employee here, smiling and pouring drinks for a three-thousand-dollar commission. “Since Mr. Barrett has spoken up for you, why don’t you toast him?” Someone started jeering, pushing a full glass of liquor in front of me. My stomach churned, but this deal was important to the company-and even more important to my grandmother lying in the ICU. I picked up the glass, forcibly suppressing my trembling. “Mr. Barrett, I toast to you.” Damien didn’t move. He leaned back in his chair, his slender fingers tapping the table absently, his gaze sliding from my face to my hands, finally stopping at my cheap employee badge. “Claire Davis.” He suddenly called my name, his voice cold to the bone. “This drink, you could afford it four years ago. Now, do you think you’re worthy of it?”

Claire’s POV A deathly silence. My hand holding the wine glass froze mid-air, my knuckles bone-white. Shame surged over me like a tidal wave, nearly drowning me. All around were eyes watching the spectacle. I knew he was taking revenge. Revenge for my gold-digging ways back then, revenge for how deeply and cruelly I’d stabbed him. “Mr. Barrett, you must be joking.” I took a deep breath and forced out a professional smile. “The customer is king. As long as you’re happy, I’m worthy of anything.” With that, I tilted my head back and drained the glass of liquor in one go. The burning liquid scorched down my throat, making my eyes water. I set down the empty glass, turning it upside down to show it was finished. “Mr. Barrett, satisfied?” Damien stared at my reddened eyes, his pupils darkening several shades. He said nothing, only casually splashing the untouched red wine in front of him onto the floor. The deep red liquid splattered on my heels and ankles. Cold. Sticky. “It’s dirty.” He said flatly. “Get someone clean to pour instead.” This was naked humiliation. I felt all the blood drain from my face in an instant. But I couldn’t leave. The contract wasn’t signed yet. I hadn’t gotten my commission. “Damien, that’s too far.” A gentle voice suddenly cut in. Ashton Reid, who’d been sitting quietly in the corner, stood up and walked past everyone to my side. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over my slightly trembling shoulders, blocking those ill-intentioned gazes. “Miss Davis is my guest. It’s fine to have her help warm up the room, but there’s no need to humiliate her like this.” Ashton was my boss, and the only person in these four years who’d known my background but never mocked me for it. Damien narrowed his eyes, his gaze landing on Ashton’s hand resting on my shoulder. In that instant, the temperature in the room seemed to drop to freezing. “Ashton,” Damien sneered, “since when did you start picking through garbage for companionship?” Ashton’s expression changed. “Damien!” “Isn’t it true?” Damien stood up, his tall figure looming over us with overwhelming pressure. He walked up to me, looking down from his height, his eyes full of disgust. “A woman who’d sell herself for money at any time. She might be a treasure in your eyes, but to me, she’s worse than garbage.” With that, he didn’t spare me another glance and strode out of the room. In that moment, I heard the sound of my heart breaking. Not because I still loved him. But because even after four years, facing his humiliation still hurt.

Claire’s POV The dinner ended badly. I rushed to the restroom and threw up violently. My stomach felt like it was on fire, the pain making me unable to straighten up. The woman in the mirror was pale, her makeup smudged-as wretched as a ghost. Claire, you’re so pathetic. I cursed myself internally. When I came out after composing myself, it was pouring rain outside. The autumn rain was bone-chilling, cold wind whipping dead leaves against the glass doors. Ashton pulled up in his car and rolled down the window. “Get in. I’ll drive you home.” “No need, Mr. Reid. The subway is very convenient for me.” I didn’t want to cause him more trouble. He’d already offended Damien Barrett by defending me in the private room. Ashton sighed helplessly. “Claire, this is a private club. The nearest subway station is three miles away. Are you planning to walk in this?” I froze. As I hesitated, a black Maybach tore through the rain curtain and slowly stopped at the entrance. The windows were closed tight-I couldn’t see who was inside. But I recognized that license plate. It was Damien’s car. The car door opened. The driver got out with a black umbrella and respectfully opened the rear door. A gleaming leather shoe touched the ground, followed by those long legs wrapped in dress pants. Damien Barrett got out of the car. A woman was nestled in his arms. She wore a white Chanel suit, her long hair flowing over her shoulders, exuding an elegant and noble air. The limited-edition crocodile leather bag in her hand was worth five years of my salary. Natalie Sterling. His fiancée. The two of them nestled intimately together. Natalie looked up at him, smiling as she said something. Though Damien’s face was expressionless, he leaned slightly to shield her from the drifting rain. That scene was so dazzling it made me want to cry. I instinctively shrank back into the shadows. But Natalie had sharp eyes and still spotted me. “Isn’t that Miss Davis from earlier?” Natalie’s voice was sweet, carrying an innocent cruelty. “Damien, look-she doesn’t seem to have an umbrella. Should we give her a ride?” Damien followed her gaze. Our eyes met in the air. His expression was indifferent, as if looking at an irrelevant stranger. “Not on our way.” Three simple words-a death sentence. Natalie covered her mouth and laughed softly. “That’s true. Miss Davis probably lives somewhere quite far away. Well, we’ll be going then. Goodbye, Miss Davis.” The two turned and got in the car. The Maybach started up, its taillights cutting two red streaks through the air. Without mercy, it crushed through puddles on the ground, splashing mud all over me, then sped away. I stood there, freezing all over. “Get in.” Ashton’s voice came again, this time with undeniable firmness. I didn’t argue anymore and pulled open the door to get in. The car was warm with the heater running, but I couldn’t seem to warm up at all. “Don’t take what he said to heart.” Ashton handed me a bottle of water. “Damien’s personality has changed drastically these past few years. He’s ruthless in business-treats everyone the same way.” I clutched the water bottle and smiled bitterly. “I know.” I was the one who turned him into this. I didn’t blame him. I only hated this fate that had never given me even one chance to catch my breath. The car pulled up to my shabby apartment building. I thanked him and was about to get out when Ashton suddenly called out to me. “Claire.” He looked at me, seeming to want to say something but stopping himself. “That project… Barrett Corporation specifically requested a different person in charge. If you don’t want to do it, I can arrange a transfer for you.” My hand tightened on the door handle. The ICU cost an astronomical amount per day. A transfer meant a pay cut, which meant my grandmother’s oxygen tube might get pulled. I turned back, my eyes determined. “No need, Mr. Reid. I’ve been working on this project for six months. I can handle it.” Ashton looked at me deeply and sighed. “Alright. Call me anytime if you need anything.”

Claire’s POV The next day, I was woken up by my phone blowing up with calls. My grandmother’s attending physician told me the account was running low on funds again. If I didn’t pay soon, subsequent treatment might be interrupted. I looked at the pitiful balance in my bank account and gritted my teeth, transferring all my savings. That left me with five hundred dollars for living expenses. When I got to the office, I could tell immediately that something was off. Colleagues were gathered in small groups whispering. When they saw me come in, their voices dropped, but their eyes were full of prying curiosity and contempt. “That’s her, right? I heard she used to date Mr. Barrett?” “What ‘date’? She was his kept woman, wasn’t she? I heard she took the money and ran when Mr. Barrett hit hard times.” “Oh my god, that’s so mercenary. And now that Mr. Barrett’s successful, she’s throwing herself at him again?” “Last night at the club, Mr. Barrett publicly humiliated her, and she still forced herself to drink. Talk about shameless.” The gossip from the break room wasn’t quiet-every word stabbed like needles. I poured myself a cup of water expressionlessly and walked out. The voices cut off abruptly. Back at my desk, a document was slapped down in front of me. It was Barrett Corporation’s project contract. “Claire, Mr. Barrett’s people said there are problems with the contract terms. He wants you to go revise them in person.” The department head looked at me like I was a spectacle. “Mr. Barrett specifically asked for you by name. Don’t screw this up, or the whole company will be drinking the northwest wind because of you.” I picked up the document, my fingertips trembling slightly. “Understood.” What had to come would come. I took a taxi to Barrett Corporation headquarters. The towering office building pierced the clouds. Just standing at its base, I could feel that suffocating pressure. When the receptionist heard my name, her expression subtly changed. “Miss Davis, the CEO is in a meeting. He asked you to wait in the lounge.” That wait lasted a full four hours. From morning until afternoon, without even a cup of water offered. I knew he was doing it on purpose. He was grinding down my spirit, crushing my dignity bit by bit. It wasn’t until sunset that the assistant finally sauntered over. “Miss Davis, Mr. Barrett has finished his business. You may go in now.” I pushed open the heavy mahogany door to the CEO’s office. The spacious office was frigidly air-conditioned. Damien sat in his executive chair by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to me, reviewing a report. The setting sun’s afterglow bathed him in golden light, but it couldn’t melt the chill surrounding him. “Mr. Barrett.” I walked over and placed the documents on his desk. “Regarding the contract revisions…” “Who told you to sit down?” He turned around and coldly interrupted me. My movements froze. I silently straightened up. Damien casually closed the report and leaned forward, those intensely aggressive eyes locking onto me. “I heard you need money badly?” I didn’t understand why he was suddenly asking this, but I nodded honestly. “Yes.” “How much do you need?” “…Five hundred thousand.” That was the cost of my grandmother’s next surgery. Damien let out a scoff, pulled open his drawer, took out a check, and pushed it in front of me. I saw the number clearly. One million dollars. Exactly the amount I had “accepted” to leave him years ago. “What does this mean?” I stared at the check, my heartbeat skipping. Damien stood up and walked around the desk to stand before me. He raised his hand, his slender fingers hooking a strand of my hair, twirling it absently. The gesture was intimate, but his tone was venomous. “Claire, Natalie is pregnant. It’s inconvenient for me.” My mind exploded with a deafening roar. What did he mean? Damien lowered his head, his warm breath spraying against my ear as he said words that plunged me into an icy abyss. “Be my mistress.” “This million dollars buys you for a year.” “However you sold yourself back then, that’s how you’ll sell yourself back to me now.”

Claire’s POV Slap. The crisp sound of the slap echoed through the empty office. My palm stung, my chest heaving violently as I stared in disbelief at the man before me. Damien’s face turned to one side, five red finger marks quickly rising on his pale skin. He ran his tongue over his cheek, then slowly turned his head back. There was no anger in his eyes-instead, there was a frightening kind of madness. “You hit me?” He advanced step by step, backing me against the floor-to-ceiling window with no escape. “Damien Barrett, you bastard!” I cursed with reddened eyes. “I have a boyfriend! I won’t be a homewrecker! And I definitely won’t be your mistress!” “Boyfriend?” Damien looked like he’d heard the funniest joke. “Ashton Reid? You think he’d actually want a woman as tainted as you?” “That’s my business!” I tried to push past him and run, but he grabbed my wrist and pinned me hard against the cold glass window. Behind me was the city nightscape from thousands of feet up; before me was a man as dangerous as a beast. “Claire, stop pretending to be virtuous.” Damien stared into my eyes, his voice hoarse. “Three years ago you could abandon me for money. Now what’s so hard about being a mistress for money? Isn’t money your only bottom line?” “I didn’t!” I screamed, breaking down. “Back then I had my reasons…” “Reasons?” Damien sneered. “What reasons? Was it your gambling addict father who owed debts, or was your sickly mother about to die again?” “Shut up! Don’t you dare talk about my mother!” I struggled desperately, tears finally spilling from my eyes. He had no idea. Three years ago, that gambling father hadn’t just owed debts-he’d owed lives. Those people held knives to my mother’s throat, forcing me to come up with money. And Damien at that time-because he refused an arranged marriage for my sake-had been cut off financially by the Barrett family. He couldn’t even afford fever medicine without borrowing money. What choice did I have? Tell him the truth and make him beg the father he hated most? Make him spend his whole life unable to hold his head up in front of his father? I couldn’t do it. So I took the million dollars Natalie offered, played that scene, and became the villain. “Hit the nail on the head, did I?” Seeing my tears, a flash of satisfaction crossed Damien’s eyes, mixed with an indescribable pain. He released me and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his fingers with disgust. “Take the money or don’t-I don’t care.” “But let me remind you, your grandmother’s hospital happens to be funded by Barrett Corporation.” My head snapped up, my whole body shaking. “What do you want to do?” Damien stuffed the check into my collar, the cold paper against my skin like a venomous snake. “Tomorrow night at eight. Hillside Villa.” “If you don’t come, face the consequences.” With that, he pressed the intercom. “Show her out.” I don’t know how I walked out of Barrett Corporation headquarters. Outside, the rain was still falling. I clutched that crumpled check and crouched by the roadside, sobbing. My phone rang at that moment. It was the hospital calling. “Miss Davis, please come to the hospital as soon as possible. Your grandmother’s condition has deteriorated. She needs surgery immediately. Please pay the fees as soon as possible.” Despair wrapped around me like a giant net, strangling me. I looked at the million dollars in my hand. Dignity, or my grandmother’s life? This wasn’t even a choice. Damien Barrett, you win. You’ve finally trampled me into the mud and turned me into exactly the kind of woman “who’ll do anything for money” that you accused me of being. If this is the revenge you want, Then I’ll give it to you.

Claire’s POV Hillside Villa. This place was once the future Damien and I had fantasized about. Back then we’d huddled in our tiny rental room, pointing at mansions in magazines. He said when he made money, he’d definitely buy one with floor-to-ceiling windows so I could draw while basking in the sun every day. Now he’d actually bought one. But it had become a cage to imprison me. At eight o’clock sharp, I rang the doorbell. Damien himself opened the door. He’d just showered, wearing only a bathrobe. Water droplets slid down his sculpted chest muscles and disappeared into his trim V-line. His black hair hung damply over his forehead, less sharp than usual, more wildly attractive in a way that made hearts race and faces flush. But I only felt cold. “Come in.” He stepped aside, his expression dark and unreadable. I changed my shoes and stood awkwardly in the entryway. The living room was cavernously large, decorated in minimalist black, white, and gray, emanating a forbidding coldness. “Go shower.” Damien sat on the sofa, lit a cigarette, and pointed upstairs. “The master bedroom is on the left. Clean yourself thoroughly.” That tone-like he was instructing someone on how to handle a newly purchased pet. I bit my lower lip, my nails digging into my palms. “Mr. Barrett, I’ve already cashed the check. I paid my grandmother’s surgery fees.” “So?” He raised an eyebrow. Through the cigarette smoke, those eyes were sharp as a hawk’s. “So… I’ll fulfill my promise.” I took a deep breath and turned to go upstairs, as if marching to my execution. The bathroom was large. In the mirror, I looked deathly pale, like a fragile porcelain doll. I turned on the shower. Hot water poured down, but it couldn’t warm my body. When I came out after bathing, a silk slip nightgown lay on the bed. Extremely short. Extremely sheer. Even that damn color was the light purple I used to love most. He did it on purpose. He was reminding me that I used to wear similar things in front of him too-back then for romance, now for transaction. I changed into the nightgown and hugged my arms, curling up at the foot of the bed. The door opened. Damien walked in. He stubbed out his cigarette, his gaze traveling over my body inch by inch-that kind of look burning enough to make one panic. “Come here.” He patted the space beside him. I stiffly moved over. The moment I got close, he yanked me into his arms. The strong scent of tobacco mixed with body wash instantly enveloped me. “Why are you shaking?” He gripped my chin, his thumb rough as it rubbed across my lips. “Four years ago when you demanded your breakup fee, weren’t you pretty tough?” “Damien…” “Call me Mr. Barrett.” He coldly corrected me, then lowered his head and kissed me brutally. This wasn’t a kiss. It was biting, punishment, venting. That night, rain fell outside the entire time. And I died the entire time.

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