Category: English

Devin suddenly switched his regular cigarettes to a cotton candy-flavored vape. I asked him why the sudden change. Hadn’t he always insisted that vapes lacked the kick he needed to handle his work stress? He took a slow drag, his voice dripping with irritation. “No reason. I was at the mall, tried it, and liked it. So I switched.” Then he walked into his study and locked the door behind him, a habit that had become second nature to him lately. I acted as if I hadn’t noticed his shift. As always, I picked up his discarded suit jacket and headed downstairs to the dry cleaners. After all, he was in a rush to text the girl who had bought him that childish vape. And me? I was in a rush to “accidentally” run into Albert—the man who had just bought the most expensive penthouse in our luxury complex—at exactly 6:25 PM. 1 Devin is ten years older than me. Because he was always the protective, mature type in our relationship, he had spent our entire dating history coddling me. In the early years of our marriage, he washed my delicates, apologized first after every argument, and showered me with surprise gifts on every holiday. But about six months ago, the coddling stopped. So, I adapted. I started chasing him, playing the role of the devoted, doting wife. When he came home from work, I would immediately fetch his slippers. The moment he took off his suit, I would rush it down to the dry cleaners. When he was working in his study, even if he snapped at me and called me annoying for interrupting him, I never fought back. I would just smile and say, “Don’t work too hard, honey.” Devin didn’t notice my transformation. Instead, my submission only made him complacent. He forgot my birthday, then our anniversary. Two weeks ago, when the World Cup started, he completely forgot our sacred tradition of drinking beer and staying up together to watch every single match. He didn’t invite me. When I finally tracked him down to our favorite local bar, I found him sitting in our usual spot, clinking glasses with a strange young girl to celebrate a goal, using the exact ritual he and I had shared for a decade. Even then, I didn’t lose heart. A middle-aged man with a bit of money straying in his marriage? It was practically a cliché. But today, when the cloying scent of cotton candy vape filled our living room, it didn’t just make me feel incredibly cheap; it made me feel painfully outdated. Suddenly, the effort of coddling Devin felt exhausting. I decided it was time to find someone else to dote on. I had begged Devin countless times to quit smoking or at least switch to vapes because I couldn’t stand the smell of smoke. He had never done it for me. Yet, for her, he did it instantly. 2 To run a successful business in a high-end neighborhood like ours, you have to be incredibly sharp. Frank, the owner of the dry cleaners, was no exception. When I walked into his shop at exactly 6:25 PM, he took Devin’s suit and gave me a knowing look. “Mrs. Callahan, do you have plans tonight? I set up a small screening room in the back with some beers and barbecue. I was thinking of watching the World Cup match here. Care to join?” I smiled. “Sure, I don’t have much going on. By the way, is my quarterly membership expiring? Let me renew it.” Frank didn’t hesitate to print out the invoice. The price had gone up by $500, but I paid it without blinking. Just as he handed me my receipt, Albert walked in. As usual, he wore slides, a simple polo, and shorts. There were no visible logos, but the tailoring of his clothes screamed bespoke luxury. Frank was incredibly smooth. He took Albert’s garment and repeated the invitation. Albert, who seemed to have a friendly rapport with Frank, gave a quiet nod and agreed. That was how I ended up sitting in the back of a dry cleaner’s screening room, drinking beer with Albert—a thirty-nine-year-old, divorced billionaire with no kids. Because we didn’t know each other well and Albert was a naturally reserved man, the evening was quiet. Aside from the commentary on the television, the only sound was the cracking of beer cans. The barbecue on the table went entirely untouched. About fifteen minutes into the game, Frank tried to break the ice. “Mrs. Callahan, I recall you mentioning your husband is a huge soccer fan. Why don’t you call him down? The more the merrier.” At the mention of Devin, I didn’t have to fake my sadness. My face naturally fell. “He’s busy,” I said quietly. Then, I picked up a beer and downed the entire can. The next morning, I woke up with a bird’s nest of hair and a blinding headache, remembering absolutely nothing of the night before. Until Frank sent me a video. In it, a completely wasted version of myself was dragging Albert and Frank around, desperately trying to start a dance party in the middle of the tiny screening room. Staring at the screen, I wanted to sink into the earth. I had wanted to catch Albert’s attention, but certainly not by making an absolute fool of myself. To my surprise, there was a new contact in my phone, along with a message. “Are you awake, Mrs. Callahan?” I tapped on the profile. It was Albert. “Who is this?” I played dumb. “Albert.” “Oh, I am so sorry, Albert. I drank far too much last night.” “Don’t worry about it. Do you have a headache today?” “No, I’m okay. Thank you and Frank for making sure I got home safely.” After I sent that, Albert didn’t reply. I wasn’t bothered. A man in his position had an empire to run; he wasn’t going to spend his day texting a married woman about her hangover. I knew when to back off. Two weeks passed. I continued to run into Albert at the cleaners almost every evening. We maintained our routine, exchanging nothing more than polite nods and smiles. Frank, growing impatient on my behalf, whispered to me one afternoon, “You’re still just waiting around? Why haven’t you made a move?” I laughed softly. “How? Am I supposed to ask a billionaire to be my sidepiece? I’m not that delusional.” But the truth was, a part of me was still holding onto Devin. Even though Devin was pulling away further and further. He hadn’t come home last night, nor the night before. When I called him two nights ago, he actually answered, but his voice was sharp with annoyance. “I told you I’m in a meeting! Why do you keep calling me?” Before I could even choke out an apology, the line went dead. Last night, he didn’t even bother to pick up. Instead, he posted a photo of an airplane wing on his social media. I couldn’t help myself. I left a comment: “Honey, you didn’t tell me you were traveling?” Devin replied publicly, right beneath my comment: “Don’t you have anything better to do? If you’re that bored, go sign up for a yoga class.” I cried all night because of that comment. Even now, my eyes were swollen and red. Remembering that suffocating despair, I turned to Frank. “Frank, let me renew my membership for another six months. Organize another World Cup night for us, will you?” 3 Frank pulled out the payment terminal immediately. I tapped my card for another five thousand dollars. That evening started out just like the others—the three of us sitting in quiet companionship, watching the match. But then, my phone buzzed with a new contact request. The accompanying message read: “Hey girl, I’m your husband’s girlfriend. Mind adding me back?” It ended with a playful emoji sticking its tongue out. My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped my beer. After a agonizing struggle, I tapped accept. The moment the connection went through, she sent a video. With trembling fingers, I opened it. It was Devin, kissing her with a raw, tender passion he hadn’t shown me in years. It quickly became too intimate, and I had to close the screen. My chest felt as if it were being crushed under a heavy weight. Before this, I had always told myself that if Devin wanted to leave, I would let him. I could find another man. But in that moment, the sheer, suffocating reality of his betrayal was enough to make me feel like I was dying. I had been with Devin since I was twenty. I was young and innocent when we met. He was my first kiss, my first lover, my entire world. But when he was thirty, he liked twenty-year-olds. Now that he was forty, he still liked twenty-year-olds. By halftime, I couldn’t even pretend to be okay. Without saying a word to Frank or Albert, I set my beer down, bit my lip to keep from sobbing, and walked out of the room. For the next two weeks, I stayed inside. I didn’t go down to run into Albert, and I didn’t call Devin. But the girl didn’t stop. Her messages kept coming, each one more venomous than the last. “You old bird, do you really think you deserve a man like Devin? I heard you’re barely an A-cup. Devin told me he only likes C-cups.” “I looked up your social media. You must be over 120 pounds by now. No wonder Devin never takes you to corporate events anymore. You’re an embarrassment.” Along with the insults, she sent intimate photos of them. They were repulsive. Every time one popped up, I would run to the bathroom and dry-heave. Another month slipped away. Then came another text from her: “We’re back in the country, by the way. I bet Devin didn’t tell you.” “Haha, want to know why? Because we played a game while we were abroad, and I told him he wasn’t allowed to call or text you for the whole month. Can you believe a forty-year-old man can be this obedient? He does whatever I say.” Staring at the glowing screen, after living like a ghost in my own home for a month, I finally pulled open the curtains. I walked into the bathroom and carefully applied makeup to cover my hollow, pale face. Once I was finished, I called Devin’s secretary. She clearly had no idea about the affair and easily gave me the name of the restaurant where Devin was hosting a dinner tonight. I slipped into a silk dress, grabbed my bag, and drove to the venue. Through the glass of the private dining room, I saw Devin sitting at the head of the table. He looked remarkably rejuvenated, even wearing a youthful, trendy tie. And me? I had spent the past month sobbing into a silent phone, begging a voicemail to answer: “Devin, please, just pick up.” The memory brought a sharp pain to my chest. Inside the room, the girl was practically draped over his lap, pouring his wine and feeding him. I wiped away a stray tear, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. “Sorry to interrupt, everyone.” The room went dead silent. Devin looked up, his face hardening with shock. But his first instinct wasn’t to push the girl away. He simply frowned, lecturing me like an disappointed boss. “What are you doing here? Wait for me outside.” Then, as if to salvage his pride in front of his business partners, he chuckled dryly. “Apologies, gentlemen. My wife. She’s been a homemaker for too long and has forgotten her manners. I asked her to pick me up, and she just barged in.” He turned to the girl. “Lexie, honey, would you mind showing my wife out?” Lexie smirked, stood up, and sauntered over to me. She leaned close, whispering in my ear, “Don’t make a scene and embarrass Devin. Get out.” “Embarrass.” The word hit me like a physical blow. Was I embarrassing? Yes. If this had been years ago, I would have flipped the table. But instead, I had spent the last month cowering in my house, afraid to shatter the illusion of my marriage, letting a cheap mistress look down on me. It was pathetic. I didn’t offer Lexie a single word in response. I simply raised my hand and slapped her across the face. Then, I pulled a set of divorce papers from my bag and threw them onto the table. “Devin, I wanted to handle this quietly. Even though you cheated, I wanted us to end things with some dignity.” “But your little mistress here is too vile. She sends me your bedroom photos daily and brags about keeping you away from home. I had to get your secretary to tell me where you were just to deliver these.” “The papers are signed on my end. Enjoy your dinner.” Without looking at him again, I turned and walked out. I didn’t call a cab. I walked all the way back to our neighborhood. My heels cut into my skin until my ankles bled, and halfway through the walk, a torrential downpour began. But I barely felt it. A person’s breaking point always happens in a single, quiet instant. My collapse had begun six months ago, the first time he stopped washing my clothes, the first time he started wearing those youthful ties. It took me four hours to reach the estate gates. During that entire time, Devin didn’t call or text once. It was clear who he had chosen. My chest was tight with a pain so sharp I could barely breathe. As I entered the courtyard, I saw Albert, walking his dog in the damp air just as the rain stopped. I carried my ruined heels, my makeup running down my face, and walked up to him with a trembling voice. “Albert… do you have time for a beer tonight?”

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I never paid my husband’s personal driver a high salary. But once a month, for six years straight, I took his wife out for an upscale afternoon coffee and pastries. Brad used to say I had too much time on my hands. What could you possibly have in common with a chauffeur’s wife? I would just smile. The driver’s wife talked much more than the driver ever did. Whatever her husband grumbled about when he got home, she turned around and told me over lattes. Last week, she texted me out of the blue. Jo, honey, I shouldn’t be saying anything. But my Mike took a woman to the Mount Sinai clinic yesterday. First-trimester OB-GYN appointment. Your husband was with her the whole time. 1 Patti Henderson sat across from me, her manicured nails nervously picking at a paper napkin. Usually, she was a fountain of neighborhood gossip. Whose kid was stressed over the LSATs, whose daughter-in-law had hired a ridiculously expensive postpartum doula, whose HOA fees had skyrocketed—she could easily fill a half-hour. Today, she had only said one thing, her eyes wide with panic. I took a slow breath. “Which clinic?” She gave me the name. I nodded. “What’s the woman’s name?” Patti shook her head. “Mike didn’t dare look too closely, but he heard your husband call her Lila.” Lila. The name hit the air between us, and my stomach turned over on itself. I knew her. Lila Foster. The administrative assistant at Brad’s marketing firm. She was twenty-six, had been there two years. Sweet-faced, sugar-tongued. Whenever she saw me, it was always a bright, chirpy, “Hi, Miss Jo!” At the company holiday party last month, she had worn a little white dress and personally handed Brad his bourbon. I had even smiled and praised her for being so attentive to the executives. I had been serving up my own heart on a silver platter, absolutely clueless. Patti watched my face carefully. “Jo, please don’t tell Brad it came from Mike. He’s terrified of losing his job.” “I won’t.” I paid the bill and asked the waitress to box up a slice of lemon cake for her. Patti didn’t reach for it. “Are you really not angry, Jo?” A faint, hollow smile touched my lips. “What good is anger right now? First, I need to tally the debt.” 2 Brad wasn’t home when I got back. I sat alone in the quiet, cavernous living room, mentally dragging every passing remark Patti had ever made over the years into the harsh light of day. Brad goes to the South District every Wednesday. He told me he was meeting clients. Patti had said Mike always parked below an upscale high-rise down there while Brad went up for exactly two hours. Brad is out of the office on the afternoon of the 15th every month. He told me it was for executive health check-ups. Patti had said he’d go to the bank, then pick someone up near a high-end baby boutique. Brad started wearing a new cologne last year. He told me a client gifted it. Patti had said the backseat of the car often smelled like a cloying, sugary perfume. I had never looked too closely. When you’re married long enough, your brain automatically builds alibis for your partner. You build enough alibis, and eventually, you’ve built your own grave. Brad walked in at 10:00 PM. He tossed his suit jacket to the housekeeper and looked down to unlace his oxfords. “Did you eat?” I asked. “Yeah.” “Where were you today?” He looked up at me, eyes flat. “The office.” “All day?” “Yeah.” I stared at his collar. There was a long strand of hair resting against the fabric. Not my shade. Not my length. I reached out and plucked it off him. His expression shifted, a microscopic flinch. “What are you doing?” “Hair.” I placed the single strand down on the glass coffee table. He stared at it for a fraction of a second, then let out a sharp, exasperated laugh. “What is this, Jo? Are we doing the paranoid housewife thing now?” 3 I laughed back. “Asking about your day is being paranoid?” Brad collapsed onto the sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m exhausted lately. Don’t start manufacturing drama where there isn’t any.” He had been using that exact line for ten years. When we first got married, his first startup had crashed, leaving him buried in debt. He was exhausted. I understood. Later, when the current company took off, he was drowning in networking and corporate dinners. He was exhausted. I accommodated him. And later still, when young, pretty girls started orbiting him, he told me I was being overly sensitive. I swallowed it. I swallowed it right up until today, when Patti’s single text violently ripped away the thin veneer of dignity I had suffered to maintain. “Is Lila pregnant?” I asked. Brad’s hand froze. He lifted his eyes to mine. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness. “Who told you that?” “Does it matter?” His jaw tightened. “Are you having me followed?” “Answer the question.” He stood up, violently yanking his tie loose. “What does her being pregnant have to do with me? An employee got pregnant, I accompanied her to the clinic. It’s called checking in on my staff.” A bitter sound ripped from my throat. Checking in on staff by booking their VIP maternity suite. What a goddamn humanitarian. “Do you personally escort all your pregnant employees to the OB-GYN?” “Joyce.” He used my full name. A warning shot. “Don’t make this into something ugly.” I looked right through him. “Then stop doing ugly things.” The last trace of his feigned guilt evaporated. In its place was pure, unfiltered annoyance. “I’m not doing this tonight. My mother’s birthday is next week. Get everything ready. And don’t make us a laughingstock in front of outsiders.” With that, he walked up the stairs. I sat in the living room, staring at that single strand of hair on the glass for a very long time. When I had seen enough, I pulled out my phone and texted Patti. Next time he leaves anything in the back of the car. Don’t touch it. Just take a picture for me. Her reply came almost instantly. I got you, Jo. 4 Two days later, my mother-in-law called. No ‘hello.’ Just straight to business. “Joyce, Brad said you’re handling my birthday. Book a larger ballroom. None of that cheap, understated nonsense you like.” “Okay,” I said. “And reserve two spots at the head table.” “For who?” A slight pause on the line. “A friend of Brad’s.” My knuckles turned white around the phone. “Lila?” Dead silence. A few seconds later, Erica let out a dry, rattling laugh. “So you know.” I didn’t speak. She decided to drop the act entirely. “Good. You should know. That girl is carrying the Kingston heir in her belly. So drop the attitude.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “Erica. You know your son is having an affair, and you’re fine with it?” “A successful man having a little fun on the side isn’t an affair. You’ve been married into this family for ten years and haven’t produced a single child. Did you plan on letting the Kingston line die with you?” A cold laugh slipped out of me. “I don’t have children. Have you forgotten whose medical issue that is?” Erica’s voice instantly spiked into a shriek. “Don’t you dare bring up those old test results! Brad is having a child now, which proves he is perfectly fine. Stop taking up space as his wife when you can’t even give us an heir.” I pulled the phone away from my ear. She was on a roll. She cursed me out with practiced ease, finishing with a final demand. “At the gala, you will play the gracious host. Don’t cause a scene. If you’re smart, when the baby is born, they might even let it call you Mom.” I hung up. The housekeeper, who had overheard the shouting from the kitchen, looked profoundly uncomfortable. I turned to her. “Keep making the dinner. But leave the mushrooms in the salad.” “Mr. Kingston hates mushrooms.” “I know.” I had remembered that detail for him for ten years. Starting today, I stopped remembering. 5 Patti texted me on the third day. When we met, she slid her phone across the table. It was a photo of the backseat of Brad’s Lexus. Jammed into the crevice of the leather seat was a glossy receipt. A high-end baby boutique. A luxury crib. $4,500. Cardholder: Bradley Kingston. There was also a valet ticket. The Belvedere. I zoomed in on the photo. “Has Mike ever gone up to the apartment?” “No. Your husband won’t let him. He makes Mike park on the street and goes up alone every time.” “Which tower?” “Tower 3.” I had her text the photos to me. She hesitated, her finger lingering over the screen. “Jo… I shouldn’t say this, but last night Mike had a few beers and let it slip. Your husband told him he’s looking into a new vehicle.” “A new vehicle for who?” “He’s replacing Mike.” I looked up. Patti’s eyes were rimmed with red. “He says your husband thinks Mike knows too much. After this month’s payroll, he’s done.” I understood immediately. Brad wasn’t stupid. He knew his driver of six years held too many of his secrets. Now that Lila was pregnant, he was cleaning house. I reached into my bag, pulled out a thick envelope, and slid it across the table. “There’s ten thousand dollars in here. It’s not hush money. It’s a severance package, to help you transition.” Patti panicked, pushing it back. “Jo, no, I didn’t come here to shake you down for money—” “I know.” I held her gaze. “But you two shouldn’t bear the risk of his mess for free.” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed quietly. I didn’t try to soothe her. Sometimes, tears are the only dignity a person has left when they’re pushed to the edge. 6 That evening, Brad came home early. He was holding a velvet jewelry box. “For you.” I snapped it open. A pearl necklace. The style was painfully dated, the luster cheap. An airport gift shop afterthought. “What’s the occasion?” He sat down, his tone softening into something resembling affection. “I’ve been so wrapped up in work lately. I know I’ve neglected you.” I set the necklace back in its velvet groove. “Did you invite Lila to your mother’s birthday gala?” His pseudo-affection vanished. “My mother likes a full house.” “Having your pregnant mistress show up to celebrate her birthday sure will pack the house.” Brad fixed a hard stare on me. “What exactly is your endgame here?” “Are you done with her?” He didn’t answer. “The child she’s carrying,” I pressed. “Is it yours?” He slammed his water glass down on the marble island. “Joyce, can you stop being so aggressively paranoid for one minute?” I looked at the water that had splashed over the rim. “Asking for the truth is aggressive?” He stood up, towering over me. “My relationship with Lila isn’t what you think. She’s a pitiful girl, out here in the city all alone, pregnant with no one to take care of her. I’m helping her because she looks up to me.” I actually laughed out loud. Brad’s face turned to stone. “At the gala next week, you had better keep your mouth shut. Some of my biggest investors are going to be there. If you embarrass me, I promise you, neither of us will walk away clean.” “Okay.” I answered so quickly he actually blinked in surprise. I slid the velvet box back across the counter toward him. “Give the pearls to Lila. She needs your charity more than I do.” 7 Five days before the gala, I went to my bank. Inside my safety deposit box was a thick manila envelope. It held every original document from the days Brad and I built the company from nothing. The lease for our very first office. The wire transfer receipts from my personal savings. The massive loan my father gave him to keep the lights on. And a handwritten contract Brad had penned himself. Back then, he had literally dropped to his knees in front of my father, swearing he would treat me like royalty. My father hadn’t demanded blood. He merely said, “Joyce can weather the storm with you, but you will never humiliate her.” Brad had written the terms without hesitation. All major financial decisions within the marriage must be made jointly. In the event the marriage dissolves due to infidelity on my part, I forfeit all executive control of the company, transferring full management and liquidation rights to Joyce. The company was a pathetic little startup back then. He signed it like it was nothing. Later, when the money started rolling in, he found every excuse in the book to keep me off the board. “Your health isn’t great, honey.” “You hate networking events anyway.” “Someone needs to anchor the home front.” I swallowed every single excuse. Looking back, giving him the benefit of the doubt was the dumbest thing I’d ever done. Trusting him was like handing a loaded gun to a toddler. I photographed every page of the documents. Then, I drove to the hospital records department. The fertility clinic records from six years ago were still in the system. Bradley Kingston. Azoospermia. Complete absence of sperm. The doctor had recommended a sperm donor or adoption. Brad had ripped the physical report to shreds in the parking lot, claiming he “didn’t want to worry his mother.” Since that day, Erica had publicly berated me for being barren, and he had never—not once—opened his mouth to defend me. When the clerk handed me the fresh copies, my hands were incredibly steady. Steadier than I could have ever imagined. 8 Three days before the gala, Lila sent me a text. Hi Miss Jo! I heard it’s Erica’s birthday this weekend. Is it okay if I come? Followed by an innocently smiling emoji. I stared at the screen for thirty seconds. Then I typed: Of course. She replied instantly. Thank you so much! I was so scared you’d be mad. I typed: Not at all. Please come. Then came a voice memo. Her voice was dripping with manufactured, sugary sweetness. “I’ll make sure to wear a flowy dress, otherwise people might see my bump and get the wrong idea!” I played it three times. Then I saved the audio file. They won’t, I replied. She dropped the act entirely in her final message. You’re so sweet, Miss Jo. No wonder Brad always says you’re the most accommodating wife a guy could ask for. Accommodating. I’d worn that label for a decade. An accommodating woman bites her tongue. An accommodating woman shrinks herself to fit the room. An accommodating woman gets shoved face-first into the dirt, and still compliments the other person’s shoes. I screenshot her messages and sent them to Patti. She’s so arrogant, Patti replied. Let her be, I typed back. A minute later, Patti sent a new photo. There was a red legal folder sitting in the passenger seat of Brad’s car. The label on the front read: Post-Nuptial Asset Restructuring. Can Mike get pictures of the inside? I asked. Tomorrow is Mike’s last day on the job, she replied. He says he’s going all in. 9 The next morning, Patti sent the photos. Every single page was crystal clear. It wasn’t a long document. Brad wanted me to sign a new agreement. The stated purpose was “establishing a trust for a new family member.” The actual legal mechanism was transferring the deed to our primary residence, along with my remaining equity shares in the company, directly into a trust for the unborn child. The child’s designated legal guardian and sole trustee? Lila Foster. I read it twice, and then I laughed until my ribs ached. Brad had some serious nerve. He wanted to use my money and my house to fund his mistress’s life. And he expected me to sign it away with a smile. He came home that afternoon. Sure enough, he was carrying the red folder. “Jo, I need to discuss something with you.” I poured him a glass of iced tea and slid it across the island. “Go ahead.” He placed the folder in front of me. “Look, Mom is getting older. She’s always wanted a grandchild. Whatever people might say about Lila, the child is innocent. I want to make sure the baby is provided for.” I flipped open the cover. “Provided for with my house and my company shares?” “Those are marital assets.” “So you’re giving them to a stranger?” He frowned, playing the weary peacemaker. “Not a stranger. The baby.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Is the baby going to have the Kingston name?” He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Of course.” “And I agreed to this?” Brad hadn’t expected the pushback. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “Joyce, don’t put yourself on a pedestal. You don’t have the final say on everything in this family.” I closed the folder with a sharp snap. “We’ll discuss it at the gala.” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you planning?” I smiled. “Nothing. But discussing family matters in front of your mother seems more official, doesn’t it?” 10 The day of the gala, I wore a sleek, pitch-black dress. When Brad saw me, his face clouded over. “It’s my mother’s birthday. You’re wearing black?” “It’s slimming.” “Change into something else.” “No.” He clenched his jaw, fighting a visible war with his temper. “Do not start anything today.” I walked to the front door, pausing with my hand on the knob to look back at him. “If you’re so terrified of me starting something, why did you invite Lila?” His face darkened. “You already gave her permission.” “I gave her permission to attend. I didn’t give her permission to walk all over me.” Brad closed the distance between us, his voice dropping into a dangerous hiss. “Joyce, let me remind you. The clothes on your back, the food you eat, the life you live—I provide all of it.” I stared right back into his cold eyes. “Let me remind you. The very first meal you ever ate in this city, I paid for.” His face drained of color. We rode to the country club in suffocating silence. Erica was already at the grand entrance, playing the royal matriarch to the arriving guests. She took one look at my black dress, then glared at my bare neck. “Where is the necklace Brad bought you? Why aren’t you wearing it?” “It looked cheap.” Her eyes bugged out. “Excuse me?” I offered a polite, icy smile. “I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends.” Erica choked on her retort. With a lobby full of wealthy relatives and business partners, she couldn’t risk a screaming match. She bared her teeth in a strained smile. “Get inside and start seating the guests.” I didn’t move. “I’m your daughter-in-law, Erica. Not your event coordinator.” A few heads turned in our direction. Erica’s face flushed a deep, blotchy red. Brad quickly stepped between us, grabbing my elbow and pulling me aside. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” “No.” “Then act normal.” I yanked my arm out of his grip. “I am acting perfectly normal.” 11 Lila arrived at 11:30 AM. She was wearing a flowing white silk maternity dress, her baby bump proudly on display. Brad personally jogged to the lobby doors to escort her in. The moment Erica saw her, her face lit up with absolute joy. “Oh, sweetheart, take it easy! Don’t tire yourself out.” She practically carried Lila into the ballroom. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. Guests traded loaded glances. Some looked at me with pity. Some stared at Lila’s belly. Whispers rippled across the linen-draped tables. Lila waddled over to me, flashing her innocent, dimpled smile. “Happy birthday, Miss Jo—oh, silly me! Happy birthday to Erica. I’m just so nervous today!” Erica immediately stepped in to shield her. “It’s pregnancy brain, darling. Completely natural.” I nodded slowly. “Of course. The brain is clearly starved for oxygen.” Lila’s smile shattered. Erica slammed her hand down on the table. “Joyce! Watch your mouth!” I picked up my water glass. “I was just agreeing with you.” Brad rushed over, his voice a low, gravelly threat. “Joyce.” Just my name. A heavy warning. I watched as Lila was seated at the head table, right next to Erica. My designated place card had been quietly moved to a small, secondary table near the back. Erica even made a point to announce it. “Joyce, you sit back there. It’ll be easier for you to direct the waitstaff.” I looked at my chair. Tucked in the corner. Facing the stage, with my back to the giant projector screen. Perfect. It gave me an unobstructed view of the entire room. I had barely sat down when Erica pulled the red legal folder out from her designer tote bag. She tapped a spoon against her champagne flute to command the room’s attention. “Since our closest family and friends are here today, I have a joyous announcement to make.” Brad’s face went white. “Mom, don’t—” Erica ignored him. She lifted her chin, looking down her nose at me. “Joyce. Come sign this. Once you do, Lila’s child will essentially be half yours.” Lila looked down, tenderly stroking her belly. Brad didn’t step in. He didn’t stop his mother. He just watched me. Waiting for me to bow my head and submit, like I always did. Erica slapped a silver pen on the table in front of me. “Sign it.” I picked up the pen. Brad exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. Lila fought back a triumphant smirk. Erica beamed with smug satisfaction. I flipped to the signature page. Before the pen touched the paper, I looked up toward the AV booth at the back of the room. Patti Henderson was standing in the shadows. She gave me a single, sharp nod. I put the pen down. And I picked up the microphone resting on the table. 12 “Since it’s a joyous occasion, I think everyone in the room should have the full picture.” My voice boomed through the ballroom’s surround-sound speakers. Erica’s smug expression evaporated. “Joyce, what are you doing with that microphone?” I didn’t look at her. “Today is your birthday, Erica. As your daughter-in-law, I’ve prepared a very special gift.” Brad lunged across the table to grab the mic. I stepped backward, out of his reach. Up in the booth, Patti hit the spacebar. The massive projector screen behind the stage flared to life. The first slide was the clinic intake form. Lila Foster. 12 Weeks Pregnant. Accompanying Partner: Bradley Kingston. The second slide was the receipt for the $4,500 crib. The third slide was a screenshot of the HOA payment portal for the luxury condo at The Belvedere. Payer: Bradley Kingston. The entire ballroom erupted into chaos.

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After I got out of prison, my buddy and I opened an auto shop together. He put up the cash, I provided the expertise, and we agreed on a seventy-thirty split. Relying on my custom tuning skills, we took the local trust-fund racing scene by storm in our very first year, clearing eight million dollars in net profit. But when I went to collect my cut at the end of the year, he handed me a check for only ten grand. “The only reason we’re doing so well is because I’m the one rubbing shoulders with those rich kids,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Anyone can turn a wrench. You really think you’re some kind of genius? Most shops pay their mechanics six grand a month. I’m giving you ten. I’m doing you a favor.” Shocked and furious, I realized my loyalty had been met with nothing but greed. I quit on the spot and opened a rival shop right across the street. Six months later, he came begging: “If you come back, I’ll pay you five hundred thousand a year. That ought to be enough to keep you happy, right?” … 1 Before I went to see Derek, my phone rang. “Dante, have you given any more thought to my offer?” I didn’t hesitate. “Mr. Herman, I appreciate the interest, but I’ve made my position clear. I’m not leaving Apex Tuning.” The man on the other end of the line was Richard Herman, the owner of the largest high-end auto repair franchise in the state. He had been trying to headhunt me for months. Three years ago, when I first walked out of the state penitentiary with a record, finding a decent job was impossible. No one wanted to hire an ex-con. Just when I was at my lowest, Derek, my childhood friend, called. He asked if I wanted to run the technical side of his struggling auto shop. I had a degree in aerospace engineering and had spent years working at a research institute before my life went sideways. If I hadn’t stepped in to protect my parents from a group of local thugs and ended up severely injuring one of them, I never would have gone inside. Derek’s logic for hiring me was simple: if I could calculate rocket trajectories, I could easily tune a Porsche. He also complained that other mechanics kept stealing parts to sell on the black market, a loss his small business couldn’t survive. He promised that if I came on board, he’d give me a sweat equity stake in the business. After thinking it over for a few days, I agreed. As I prepared to hang up with Mr. Herman, he seemed to sense my eagerness to end the call and cut in. “Dante, listen to me. My sources tell me Derek is paying you ten grand a month and promising a thirty-percent cut of the profits. If you join us, I’ll start you at a base salary of five hundred thousand a year, plus a fifty-percent share of the performance shop’s net profits. I guarantee—” Before he could finish, Derek’s call beeped in. He wanted to know if I was at the shop yet and asked me to step into his office. I hung up on Herman, my chest swelling with anticipation. Word had already reached me that our shop had pulled in eight million dollars in net profit this year. According to our seventy-thirty agreement, my share was a cool two point four million. Two point four million dollars. Even back during my research institute days, I had never seen that kind of money. But the moment I walked into Derek’s office and he handed me my envelope, my excitement turned to ash. Derek sat in his oversized leather executive chair, casually tossing a black debit card onto the desk. “Dante, great work this year. There’s ten grand on this card. That’s your bonus.” For a second, I thought I had misheard him. “Ten grand? Did you miscalculate? We did eight million in net profit. Our agreement was thirty percent. I’m owed two point four million.” Derek let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Two point four million? Dante, do you honestly think you’re worth that much?” The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. I froze, staring at him. “What is that supposed to mean, Derek?” My voice cracked, rising in pitch. “We had a deal. Technical equity. A seventy-thirty split. It was written down. Now you’re telling me you’re keeping it?” “Written down?” Derek’s smile turned patronizing. “We talked about it, sure. But it’s not in the contract you signed. Your employment agreement says ten grand a month, plus a ten-grand annual bonus. I’ve essentially doubled your monthly pay with this check. Look around the industry—what other shop owner is this generous?” A hot spike of anger flared in my chest. “Derek, don’t do this. You know exactly what kind of shape this dump was in when I started. We were barely pulling in ten jobs a month and facing bankruptcy. Who turned it around?” I pointed out the window toward the courtyard, which was currently packed with millions of dollars of European machinery. “Look at those cars out there. Do you think those guys bring their specs here because of the waiting room? They want my custom tuning. Even Richard Herman has been trying to lure me away, offering half a million a year and a fifty-percent cut. I didn’t even consider it because of our friendship, and this is how you treat me?” The smile vanished from Derek’s face. He leaned forward, his eyes cold. “You think I didn’t know Herman was sniffing around you? Dante, you really need to get over yourself.” “You think our business is booming because of your little wrench-turning skills? Come on. Anyone can learn to tune a car. There are dozens of shops in this city with decent mechanics. Why do you think these rich kids bring their toys to our small-time garage?” “It’s because of me. I spent the last year drinking craft beer, playing golf, and hanging out at VIP lounges with those trust-fund kids. They come here because of my relationships, because they like me. You’re just the guy covered in grease in the back. Don’t act like you’re the star of the show.” Listening to him, I had to actively restrain myself from throwing a punch. I knew my worth. There were fewer than a dozen engineers in the country who could do what I did with high-performance engines. The reason those wealthy drivers chose our small shop over established franchises—and the reason Herman wanted me so badly—was because of my custom work. I could extract performance gains they thought they could only get by shipping their cars back to Germany or Italy. Without me, Derek could drink a thousand craft beers with those kids, and they still wouldn’t trust him with a three-hundred-thousand-dollar engine block. Seeing the fury in my eyes, Derek sighed, getting up from his desk to pat my shoulder. “Look, Dan, I get that you’re upset. But I have to run a business. You aren’t the only mechanic in the shop. I have guys with more seniority who do more physical labor. They don’t get a percentage of the profits. If I give you millions, they’re going to find out, and it’ll destroy morale.” “Tell you what. I’ll bump your monthly salary by another thousand. And I’ll guarantee a ten-grand bonus every year. How’s that for taking care of my brother?” His smug, patronizing tone made me laugh out loud—a bitter, hollow sound. When I first arrived at this shop three years ago, the entire staff consisted of three clueless high school interns. We didn’t even have a lift that worked properly. We were patching tires and doing oil changes, pulling in less than twenty grand a month. I spent six months traveling to specialized performance seminars, paying for my own flights and lodging out of my meager savings while taking zero salary from the shop. When I returned, I used every connection I had left to find a local driver willing to let me modify his BMW M4. The day after he took it out on the track, he brought back five of his wealthy track-day friends. That was the day Apex Tuning was truly born. Over the past year, I was the first to arrive at seven in the morning and the last to lock up at eleven at night. Three hundred and sixty-five days, without a single day off, terrified of missing a client’s deadline. I had even herniated a disc in my spine and had to undergo emergency back surgery. The doctor warned me that my days of heavy lifting were over. Derek’s solution was to hire a young apprentice to assist me. Even then, I returned to the shop immediately after being discharged, kneeling and crouching on the cold concrete floor, guiding the apprentice’s hands through the delicate parts when my back screamed in pain. And now, he was pretending the senior mechanics—who had only applied here after we became famous, and whom I had personally trained—were the reason he couldn’t pay me. “Derek, if you want to break your word, just say it,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “If you want me out, say it. Don’t hide behind some pathetic excuse about the other guys’ morale. Do you really think I’m that stupid?” Derek waved his hand dismissively. “Dan, you’re taking this the wrong way. We’re brothers. Why would I want you to leave? But business is business. If you want a cut of the profits, you have to prove your worth to the bottom line.” I almost laughed again. My worth? The custom fabrication suppliers we used were partners I had personally vetted and negotiated with. Every single vehicle on our portfolio wall was a build I had engineered from scratch. And with a single sentence, he had erased all of it. I wanted to sue him. But the harsh reality crashed down on me: three years ago, trusting our friendship, I had agreed to everything verbally. We didn’t even have a text thread detailing the equity split. If I tried to take him to court, a lawyer wouldn’t even look at the case. “Fine, Derek. If that’s where we stand.” I took a deep breath, forcing my heart rate down. “I’m done. I quit.” I expected him to flinch, or at least try to negotiate. Instead, he reached into his desk drawer and slid a pre-drafted termination and release agreement across the table. “Alright, Dante. If your heart’s not in it anymore, I won’t force you to stay. Go see payroll and get your final check.” Staring at the paper, the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. He had planned this long ago. With a cold sneer, I swept the ten-thousand-dollar debit card off the desk and walked out. I headed back to the garage bay to pack up my personal toolbox. When the other mechanics saw me packing, they crowded around my station. I had always treated them with respect and handled the toughest technical issues for them, so we had a good relationship. When I told them what Derek had done, the bay erupted in anger. “That is complete garbage, Dan. Everyone knows you built this place.” “Seriously. We wouldn’t even have a custom department if it weren’t for you. Nobody’s going to bust their hump for just hourly pay.” “Just watch. He’s going to run this place straight into the ground.” They were working-class guys; they understood the sting of being exploited. But at the end of the day, they had families to feed. All they could offer me were words of sympathy. I thanked them, then called over Cody, my apprentice, to ask if he wanted to come with me. Cody came from a rough background, and I had taken him under my wing, often slipping him extra cash for groceries and teaching him the finer points of diagnostic tuning. I figured if he came with me, I could have him running his own bay in two years. But when I explained my plan, Cody hesitated, taking a step back. “Actually, Dan… I think I’m going to stay here. I like my setup.” “Cody, you’re only making three grand a month here,” I said. “Come with me, and I guarantee I can double that within a year.” Seeing that I wasn’t dropping it, Cody straightened his posture, his tone turning defensive. “To be honest, Dan, Derek already bumped my salary to eight grand. I’m good.” I stared at him, stunned. “Eight grand? That’s what we pay senior master technicians. Why on earth is he paying you that?” Cody shifted his weight, refusing to meet my eyes. Looking at his nervous demeanor and remembering Derek’s smug confidence in the office, the ugly truth finally dawned on me. “You told Derek you’ve mastered my custom tuning techniques, didn’t you?” Cody’s silence was my answer. He was a smart kid, and he definitely had a natural hand for mechanics, but he had a fatal flaw: he was impatient and sloppy. We worked on seven-figure vehicles where a single stripped bolt or misaligned bracket could destroy a dry-sump lubrication system. Every custom job he had worked on had been heavily supervised by me to ensure nothing went wrong. Out of a lingering sense of mentorship, I tried to warn him. “Cody, you need to be honest with Derek. If you take on those builds alone, you’re going to make a mistake. Derek let me go without a second thought; if you destroy a client’s engine, he will ruin your life.” Cody’s face hardened, the faux-respectful apprentice act vanishing. “You know what, Dante? I called you ‘boss’ out of politeness, but you really think you’re some kind of god, don’t you? You’re just bitter because I’m replacing you.” “Your ‘secret’ tuning specs aren’t that complicated. I’ve watched you do them a hundred times. I know the maps, I know the fuel pressures. You think the world stops spinning because you’re not here?” “And let me let you in on a little secret: Derek’s wife is my first cousin. He’s family. He’s not going to touch me. So why don’t you worry about your own career and leave me the hell alone?” A dull thud echoed in my head, like I’d been struck by a blunt object. Derek’s wife’s cousin. That was why Derek had insisted on assigning Cody to me as an apprentice. That was why Cody’s frequent mistakes had always been brushed under the rug by management. That was why Derek had the confidence to throw me out today. From the very first day they introduced me to Cody, they had been planning to steal my trade secrets and replace me with a cheaper, family-loyal alternative. There was nothing left to say. I turned around, walked to the front office to collect my final paycheck, and wheeled my heavy toolbox toward the exit. But as I reached the rolling bay doors, a hand gripped my shoulder. “Dante! Thank God you’re here!” I turned to see a young guy with dyed silver hair standing in my way. It was Tyler, one of our wealthiest and most demanding clients. “What’s going on with my build?” Tyler demanded, pointing toward the back of the shop. “Why is some junior kid working on my car? He didn’t even know what year the chassis was!” Tyler’s car was a Porsche 935—one of only seventy-seven in existence. He had been on our waiting list for six months, explicitly demanding that I personally handle the suspension and aero upgrades. “I’m sorry, Tyler,” I said quietly. “I’ve been let go. I won’t be working on your car.” “Let go?” Tyler’s voice echoed through the high-ceilinged bay. “Is your boss insane? I waited half a year for you. Now you’re telling me some kid is going to chop up my Porsche?” The shouting drew a crowd. Several mechanics stopped what they were doing to watch. Derek came jogging out of the office, a practiced, oily smile plastered on his face. “Tyler! Hey, man, what seems to be the problem? Why the heavy vibes?” Tyler pointed at me. “Derek, why is Dante leaving? We agreed he was personally doing the custom alignment and turbos on my 935. Why is a kid touching my car?” Derek shot me a warning look, then turned to Tyler, his voice dripping with reassurance. “Tyler, chill, it’s all good. Dante chose to resign, which we’re bummed about, but we’ve got you covered. Cody here is his star pupil. He’s been doing ninety percent of the work on these high-end specs anyway. Your car is in perfect hands.” Cody stepped up, puffing out his chest. “Absolutely, Tyler. I know Dan’s setups inside and out. I’ll make sure she runs like a dream.” Tyler looked back and forth between Cody and me, clearly skeptical. I wanted to walk away and let them burn, but my eyes drifted to the 935 sitting on the lift. It was a masterpiece of carbon-fiber engineering, worth well over a million dollars. The replacement parts had to be shipped directly from Weissach. If they messed up the suspension geometry, they could easily write off the entire chassis. I let out a slow sigh and looked at Tyler. “Tyler, if you want my honest advice, take your car somewhere else.” Derek’s face turned crimson. He stepped up to my face, pointing a finger at my nose. “Dante! You don’t work here anymore! Get the hell out of my shop! If you try to sabotage my business, I swear to God I’ll have you locked back up!” He then grabbed Tyler by the arm, pulling him toward the office while whispering frantically in his ear. After a minute, Tyler looked back at me, his expression shifting from confusion to disgust. “Really? Jesus. I had no idea.” He walked back over, ignored me completely, and tossed his keys to Cody. “Alright, Cody. Make it happen. Just keep him away from my car.” I watched Tyler walk away, his body language stiff with sudden contempt. I wanted to explain. I wanted to tell him the truth. But then I thought, Why bother? It wasn’t my car, and it certainly wasn’t my shop anymore. I knew Derek had whispered something foul about my past into Tyler’s ear. But I didn’t realize how quickly that poison would spread. A few days later, I called Mr. Herman to see if his half-a-million-dollar offer was still on the table. There was a long, awkward silence on the line before he finally spoke. “Dante… let me ask you something. Do you have a felony record?” My heart sank. “Did Derek call you? Mr. Herman, I can explain. It was an altercation involving my elderly parents—” “I believe you, Dante, I really do,” Herman interrupted, his voice sympathetic but firm. “But I have partners and a board of directors to answer to. If word gets out that we hired an ex-con to manage our high-end division, it could destroy our brand image. I’m sorry.” He went on to tell me that Derek had already blasted my criminal record to every major shop owner and distributor in the local car community. I was blacklisted. Herman offered to help me find a job out of state, but the shock left me numb. I had treated Derek like a brother for years. I had worked myself to the bone to make him rich, and this was how he repaid me—by trying to starve me out of the industry entirely. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Herman,” I said, my voice steadying. “But I’m staying here. And you can mark my words: in less than two months, Derek is going to beg me to come back.” I packed my things, took my ten grand, and went back to my hometown to spend some quiet time with my parents. Sure enough, exactly two months later, my phone rang in the middle of the night.

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My wife, the CEO, believed that every man who wanted to marry her was only after her wealth. Because of this, she made me submit an itemized expense report for any purchase over twenty dollars. Because I loved her, I was willing to step back and be the man behind her career. But on the day of my car accident, she rejected my emergency request for $3,000 to cover my surgery. “Do you have any idea how many people live on three thousand dollars a month?” she had snapped over the phone. “My money isn’t there for you to bleed me dry!” The delay in the surgery cost me the full use of my right hand, leaving me with a lifelong disability. By the time I was rolled out of the operating room, her childhood friend, Chase, who had just returned from living abroad, posted a picture on social media. The photo showed a rare luxury watch, easily worth half a million dollars. The caption read: Some girl is still the same as she was when we were kids—always giving me her absolute best. And he tagged Cynthia. 1 I didn’t throw a tantrum like I used to. Instead, I simply tapped the heart icon and left a comment: Good for you two. I hope you stay like this forever. “Isaac, what is the meaning of your comment on Chase’s post?” Cynthia’s voice blasted through the phone. “Everyone was having a great time, and now he’s feeling guilty because of you! He just got back to the country. What’s wrong with me giving him a welcome-back gift? We grew up together. Can you stop being so irrationally jeal—” Before she could even finish the word “jealous,” I cut her off. “Is that so? Then I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” There was a sudden, sharp silence on the other end of the line. Whenever we used to argue about Chase, I would scream and demand explanations, begging her to choose me. Even though those fights always ended in cold silence, and even though I was always the one left broken-hearted, the next time would come, and I’d inevitably find myself begging for proof of her love all over again. This was the first time I had ever accepted her accusations without a single word of defense. She didn’t know that the car accident had forced me to finally look at what we had, and what we had lost. Without waiting for her reply, I hung up. Right after I deleted my comment, my phone lit up with her caller ID again. Her tone was much calmer this time. “I wasn’t trying to blame you. It’s just… forget it. Where are you?” “The hospital.” “Right. You probably don’t have cash for a cab, do you? I’ll come pick you up.” The hospital corridor was dim, the lights off, and the heating seemed barely functional. It was New Year’s Eve, and the snow falling outside made the draft freezing. My hand, stiff and swollen from the surgery, clutched the phone. A wave of bitter irony washed over me. “Aren’t you even going to ask why I’m at the hospital?” Through the receiver, I heard Chase’s soft voice in the background: “Cindy, is Isaac still mad at me? I didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable… I don’t know what to do now. Can you please stay with me?” My voice went cold. “Cynthia.” She had just said she was coming to get me. A brief pause echoed on her end. “I’ll have the driver pick you up.” And with that, she hung up. Listening to the hollow dial tone, I slowly closed the phone, lowered my head, and let out a long, quiet sigh. As expected, I was still the one left behind in the end. Just like always. But for some reason, the tears didn’t come this time. I didn’t even feel sad. I just felt incredibly sorry for myself. I stood at the hospital entrance, the freezing wind whipping through my thin winter coat. A cab driver, hurrying to get home, pulled up to the curb and rolled down his window. “Need a ride home, buddy? I can take you for free. No one should miss New Year’s dinner!” I offered him a faint, tired smile. “Thank you, but someone is coming for me.” The cabs passed by, one after another, but Cynthia’s driver never showed up. She had probably forgotten about me again. I didn’t bombard her phone with desperate calls to demand her arrival. Instead, I simply stepped to the curb and waved down a passing taxi. I knew I didn’t have any money on me. But the thought of begging her, of making a scene just to get a ride, was something I could no longer bring myself to do. As the taxi pulled up to the entrance of our gated community, a brilliant burst of fireworks suddenly painted the night sky, illuminating the darkness in vibrant hues. I stared up, mesmerized. The driver chuckled warmly. “I heard the CEO of Sunrise Enterprises put on this whole show to welcome her husband back to the country.” “Her husband?” I repeated softly. The driver nodded, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, apparently he just got back today. Word is they had some misunderstanding over another guy, so she threw a fortune at this display just to prove her devotion. They say these custom fireworks cost ten thousand dollars a minute! Must be nice to be rich, huh?” So I was the “other guy” now… I looked down, a quiet, humorless smile touching my lips. The driver continued his lighthearted chatter. “Well, at least the rest of us ordinary folks get to enjoy the view.” I stared out the window at the brilliant cascades of light. “Yeah. It’s beautiful.” A love so grand and public made it easy to forget who her actual husband was. No wonder picking me up from the hospital felt so insignificant compared to buying his happiness. “Sir? Sir?” The driver’s voice pulled me back to reality. He gave me an apologetic smile. “We’re here. That’ll be twenty-five dollars.” “Right.” I reached down, slipped off my platinum wedding band, and placed it on the passenger console. “Keep the change.” “Wait! Sir! This is too much! Sir!” The driver’s shouts faded behind me as I walked into the dark residential streets. Just as I reached the edge of our dimly lit driveway, a massive burst of light erupted directly overhead. I turned. An even more spectacular array of fireworks bloomed into the shape of giant roses, filling the midnight sky. A fleet of synchronized drones began to form words in the air: Love like youth, regardless of the cost. I supposed Chase was very happy right now. The dazzling lights illuminated half the city, but they only seemed to cast me deeper into the shadows. I took a few steps forward, letting the edge of the artificial glow wash over me. This was the warmth my wife had built for another man. I gently crossed my hands over my chest, looking up at the fading sparks. “Happy New Year, Isaac.” Back inside the quiet, drafty house, I curled up on the sofa and dialed my best friend, Kyle. He picked up almost instantly. “Hey, man. Short on cash again? How much do you need?” A lump formed in my throat. Every time Cynthia rejected my requests for essential expenses, Kyle was the one who quietly lent me the money without asking questions. I swallowed hard and shook my head. “No, Kyle. I wanted to ask… is there still a spot for me at the firm?” Silence stretched over the line for five agonizing seconds. Finally, Kyle spoke, his voice thick with disbelief. “Are you serious? You’re coming back? You’ve finally decided?” “Yes.” After graduation, Kyle and I had started a consulting firm together. Just as the business was beginning to take off, I met Cynthia during a corporate negotiation. She was the girl I had secretly loved since college. Those early days had felt like a dream. Cynthia had a fragile stomach; my cooking was the only thing she could eat without getting sick. She suffered from terrible insomnia; she could only fall into a deep, peaceful sleep when she was wrapped in my arms. For her, I agreed to her demand that I leave my career behind to focus entirely on her. Kyle had tried to warn me. He told me a man should never abandon his own livelihood, especially when our company was on the verge of massive growth. He mapped out our future, painting a picture of the wealth and success we would achieve together. But back then, I had only smiled and said, “If it’s for her, I’d give up anything.” I transferred all my shares to Kyle and dedicated my entire life to taking care of Cynthia. Only to be left stranded, over and over again, in the freezing cold. “Of course there’s a spot for you!” Kyle’s voice rose with genuine excitement. “You’re not just saying this because of another fight, right? You’re really in?” I smiled, feeling a genuine spark of hope. “I promise you. I’m in.” “Perfect! I’ve been wanting to set up our overseas branch, and you’re exactly the kind of strategist we need to get it off the ground. What do you say to moving abroad with me?” “I’d love that.” “Incredible! Get your language certifications sorted—just a standard IELTS score will do. I’ll help you prepare. We can head out as early as next month!” After we hung up, I dug out my old English test prep books from the bottom of the closet. I should have taken these exams years ago, before Cynthia swept me away. My English was rusty, and I knew I had to push myself. Still weak from the surgery, I sat in the study with a bottle of cooling balm pressed to my temples, trying to memorize essay structures. Because my right hand was entirely useless, I had to train myself to write, painstakingly slow, with my left. Eventually, exhaustion won, and I drifted off to sleep right there at the desk. Through the fog of a restless dream, the sound of the front door opening woke me. “If I drop you off like this, is Isaac going to be upset with me?” Then came Cynthia’s voice, thick with alcohol and slurred amusement. “He won’t care. He’ll probably just cry and beg me not to leave him.” “Whoa, Cindy, steady!” A sudden gasp echoed through the hallway, and the door to the study was shoved open, jarring me completely awake. Chase had his arms wrapped tightly around Cynthia’s waist, supporting her weight as she leaned heavily against him, smelling strongly of red wine. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the light of the study, and landed on me sitting at the desk. “You’re back?” I rubbed my eyes, letting out a soft yawn. Chase immediately let go of Cynthia, looking frantic and apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Isaac! Cindy had way too much to drink, and there weren’t any rides available, so I…” “Oh, don’t worry about it. Thanks.” I didn’t ask where Cynthia’s driver had gone. Instead, I stood up, walked over, and gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Your face is freezing. Thank you for bringing her home safe.” Chase froze, completely caught off guard. Even Cynthia frowned, her eyes narrowing. “Isaac, what is with the attitude?” “What do you mean? I’m just thanking him.” “Isaac, I really didn’t mean to cross any lines,” Chase said, reaching out to grab my arm. “If you’re going to be mad, be mad at me. Please don’t let this ruin things between you and Cindy…” I gently placed a warm compress I had been using for my hand into his palms. “Here. Take this. It’s freezing outside.” Cut off mid-sentence, Chase stared down at the compress in his hands, his expression twisting into a flicker of resentment. I walked past them toward the bedroom. “If you don’t mind the guest room, you’re welcome to stay the night. I’m exhausted, so I’ll leave you two to it. Goodnight.” I stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind me. In the hallway, the two of them remained frozen in absolute silence. A few minutes after I closed my eyes, the bedroom door clicked open. “Isaac.” She called my name softly a few times. I was too tired to answer. “Isaac, I know you’re awake,” Cynthia said, her voice laced with rising annoyance. I reluctantly opened my eyes. “Is something wrong?” “I sent him home.” “Oh. You didn’t want him to sleep in the guest room?” Her brow furrowed. “Isaac, he’s my childhood friend. I wish you would stop acting so ridiculously jealous.” “Jealous?” I let out a soft laugh. “I just thought it was a snowy night and the roads were icy. It seemed safer for him to stay.” Cynthia stared at me, speechless. I turned back toward the wall, closing my eyes. The mattress dipped, and her warm body pressed against my back. Her breath brushed against my ear. “Don’t you have anything else to say to me?” I kept my eyes shut. “Like what?” “Usually, you have a million things to say when this happens.” I opened my eyes to the dark room. She was right. Every time I saw her with another man, I used to demand fights, validation, and promises. “You two grew up together,” I said quietly. “I don’t have any right to be jealous.” I felt her hand tighten on my shoulder. For the first time in our marriage, she was the one left without a response. After a quiet pause, her hand began to slide down toward my waist. A sudden jolt of anxiety went through me, and I quickly grabbed her wrist. “I don’t want to.” She wrapped her arms tighter around me. “But it’s been so long since we…” I held her hand firmly, keeping her at bay. “Cynthia, are you really not even a little curious about why I was in the hospital today?” My emergency funding request had clearly stated it was for surgery. Yet, from start to finish, she hadn’t asked a single question about my health. She let out a soft, dismissive chuckle. “I know, I know. It’s probably just a cold or a headache. Let me make it up to you tonight, okay?” “No.” I pulled the duvet tightly around myself, turning away. “I told you, I’m tired.” In our relationship, I had always been the one to accommodate her every whim. I was the one who begged, who pleaded. Rejecting her was something I had never done before. Beside me, her posture stiffened. “Isaac, you’re usually the one begging for this.” “Am I? Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore.” She didn’t say another word. A moment later, the bedroom door slammed shut with a violent bang that made me startle. I looked back, but her side of the bed was already empty. She had stormed out of the house. Soon after, the loud roar of an engine echoed from the driveway as her car sped away. I didn’t chase after her. I didn’t send her a string of apologetic texts like I always did whenever she got angry. Instead, I pulled the blanket up, settled into the quiet room, and finally fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. For the next week, Cynthia didn’t come home. I didn’t call to check on her. I spent my days meeting with Kyle, discussing our future business plans, and studying vocabulary. I had also officially rejoined the firm, and Kyle had already advanced me my first paycheck. “The paperwork for your shares will take a little time, but everything will be restored to you,” Kyle said, beaming as we looked over the company’s financial growth. “Our valuation has skyrocketed since you left!” Listening to him, a wave of regret washed over me. “You’ve worked so hard all these years. Thank you, Kyle.” Just then, my phone chimed with a notification. It was a custom alert for a social media update. I opened it. It was Chase. I used to care deeply about the relationship Cynthia had with her childhood friend, especially since she always made it a point to visit him whenever she traveled abroad. I had been caught in a miserable cycle of wanting them apart while obsessively tracking what they did. Because of that, I had turned on notifications for his account. His latest post was a selfie of him sitting inside a private helicopter, wearing sunglasses and wrapping an arm around someone’s shoulder. The caption read: Who says childhood sweethearts can’t have a romantic getaway? Though the person beside him was wearing large sunglasses and a face mask, I recognized Cynthia instantly. I didn’t call her to demand answers about why she had taken him on the trip. I simply tapped the like button, then systematically unfollowed his page and turned off the notifications. Just as I set my phone down, Cynthia’s name flashed on the screen. “I’m coming home for dinner tonight,” she said. “Oh,” I replied, unsure of what she expected. “Should I leave some leftovers for you?” Her voice carried a strain of barely concealed anger. “Isaac, do you really not understand what I’m saying?”

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I had just stepped out of a grueling six-hour surgery when a text from my girlfriend, Catherine, popped up on my screen. She wanted to go out for a proper, candlelit date. I immediately headed to the chief’s office to request a shift swap. But just as I pulled off my scrubs, my phone rang. The caller ID was a string of scrambled, unrecognizable digits. I picked up, only to hear a desperate, breathless voice on the other end. “I’m on death row, Jared. They’re executing me today. The person who framed me is Catherine!” “Dustin screwed up. He tried to show off during a coronary bypass and lacerated the patient’s heart. The family is incredibly powerful—political royalty. Catherine was terrified he’d go down for it, so she lured you there to take the fall!” “She has everything ready—the OR logs, a forged suicide note, even a scalpel with your prints on it. The moment you walk into OR 5, the police will arrest you. You’ll be convicted, and the family’s retaliation will destroy Mom and Dad. They’ll die because of this!” Hearing the raw, blood-curdling panic in my own voice made my chest tighten. My hand began to shake. I hung up and immediately cancelled my shift swap request, but a cold, gnawing dread lingered in my gut. Right then, a sudden commotion erupted in the hospital lobby. A man was screaming, brandishing a blade, charging right at one of our nurses. Watching him lunging with the knife, I didn’t think. I grabbed a heavy red fire extinguisher from the wall and slammed it into the back of his head. By the time the police escorted me out of the building for questioning, my phone was blowing up with frantic, impatient texts from Catherine. I stared at the screen and let out a cold, sharp laugh. I wanted to see how she planned to frame me for a shredded heart when I was sitting locked inside a police interrogation room. 1 “You’re telling me you’re me from the future, and I’m about to face a firing squad? Stop messing with me…” I scoffed into the receiver, unable to mask my disbelief. Who was he kidding? I’d been a law-abiding citizen my entire life. How could I ever end up on death row like some hardened, violent sociopath? I was just about to press ‘end call’ when the voice spoke again, dropping a detail that turned my blood to ice. “When you were fifteen, you had a massive crush on a girl from the swim team. You finally built up the courage to write her a three-page love letter. Then, at a family Thanksgiving dinner, you realized she was your second cousin.” “You were so mortified you wanted to swallow a handful of glass. It scarred you so badly you couldn’t even look at a beautiful woman without sweating. That’s why you remained single until you were twenty-eight.” My brain went completely blank. A loud, rushing sound filled my ears. He was right. Every single word. It was a humiliating secret I had never breathed to a single soul. Not to my best friends, not to a therapist. My parents never understood why I was so intensely avoidant when it came to dating. It had taken my mother staging a full-blown intervention—practically threatening a heart attack—to get me to agree to a blind setup. That was how I met Catherine. She was a brilliant cardiothoracic professor. Since we were both in medicine, we understood the brutal hours, and she was transitionally striking. Over time, I let my guard down. I fell for her. So… was that really me on the phone? And if it was… did that mean her plan to destroy me was real too? I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned a bloodless white. I desperately wanted to tell myself that this was absurd. No girlfriend would frame her partner to save her childhood golden boy. But then, the voice on the line rattled off a string of numbers. As a doctor, I recognized it instantly: a patient medical record ID. “Look up the system right now,” the voice rasped. I sat down at my terminal and typed in the ID. The file popped up. It was a patient scheduled for an emergency coronary artery bypass graft. The date of the surgery was today. The scheduled time was right now. And the lead surgeon listed? Dustin Coleman. Catherine’s childhood sweetheart, the golden boy she’d brought into our hospital. Everything aligned perfectly. My mind screamed at me to deny it, but the future version of me let out a hollow, broken laugh. “I don’t have time to convince you. They’re coming for me. My time is up.” “Just listen to me. If you don’t want to become a disgraced scapegoat who ruined his own life and killed his parents with grief, get yourself an alibi. A rock-solid, undeniable alibi. Now!” Before I could press for more details, a sharp beep echoed, and the call cut out. I frantically hit redial, only for an automated recording to tell me the number didn’t exist. Was he… already gone? Had they just executed him? As I sat there, paralyzed by the sheer terror of it all, my phone buzzed. A text from Catherine: Hey babe, I’m stuck with a follow-up patient and can’t get away. I left my coat in the operating room. Could you grab it for me? It’s on the shelf in OR 5. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, reflexively starting to type Sure. But then my eyes drifted back to the active surgery monitor. The room assigned for the bypass surgery was OR 5. A cold shudder ran down my spine, followed by a sudden, fierce clarity. It didn’t matter if the phone call was some elaborate hallucination or a cosmic anomaly. I couldn’t afford to take the risk. The stakes were too high. I marched straight back into Dr. Davis’s office and pulled my shift swap request. Dr. Davis looked up from his paperwork, thoroughly confused. “I thought you were leaving early for a romantic candlelit dinner with Catherine? Why the sudden change of heart?” I forced a casual, easy smile, hiding the frantic hammering of my heart. “You know how it is, Chief. Patients come first. Romance can wait.” Dr. Davis beamed, clearly thrilled by my dedication. He tore up my request and immediately put me back on the schedule for three back-to-back orthopedic consultations. I let out a quiet breath. I was an orthopedic surgeon. Our clinic was in the North Wing, far away from the cardiac unit. With nurses, residents, and patients witnessing my presence, Catherine wouldn’t be able to pin anything on me. But then, my eyes caught the updated digital operating schedule on the screen. My breath caught in my throat. The lead surgeon for the bypass in OR 5 had just been changed. It no longer read Dustin Coleman. It read Jared Abbott. 2 In surgical procedures, the doctor whose name is on the charts carries the ultimate legal responsibility. If a patient dies under that name, they are the first one the medical board and the DA prosecute. A coronary bypass is cardiothoracic territory. I was a bone guy—orthopedics. Even if the hospital’s database had a massive glitch, it wouldn’t cross departments like this. There was only one explanation: manual override. And as a senior professor and clinical director, Catherine had the administrative clearance to do exactly that. What’s worse, our system didn’t allow a surgeon to be in two places at once. I tried to log into my own portal, only to find that the consults Dr. Davis had assigned me were already canceled and reassigned to another resident. According to the system, I was currently scrubbed in and operating in OR 5. My alibi was being systematically dismantled before it even began. A cold sweat broke out across my neck. She was closing every exit, trapping me in a corner. I forced myself to breathe, desperately trying to think. What else could I do? Go out for a public lunch? I wasn’t a social butterfly; I kept to myself. Catherine, on the other hand, was incredibly popular and well-connected. If she pointed the finger, the staff would instinctively take her side. Security cameras? As a department head, she had the authority to request footage or claim a “temporary system lag.” Was I truly trapped? Just as panic began to claw at my throat, a loud, violent crash shattered the quiet of the main lobby downstairs. “You greedy, bloodsucking parasites! You just want to drain every single cent I have! I told you I have a stomach ache, all I needed was some damn Tylenol, and you’re forcing me to get a CT scan and blood work? You’re running a scam!” I rushed out to the balcony overlooking the atrium. A middle-aged man in his fifties was screaming, frantically waving a folding knife in the air. He had backed a young nurse into the corner. It was Ellie, a fresh residency graduate. She had never faced anything like this. Her shoulders shook, and she could only stammer out the hospital’s standard protocols in a trembling voice. But her compliance only seemed to enrage him further. “You’re still trying to lie to me! You wicked little bitch!” He lunged, the blade flashing in the fluorescent light. My instinct, drilled into us by security training, was to back away and call for backup. We weren’t supposed to engage. Even if it was self-defense, getting physical with a patient meant administrative leave, internal investigations, and losing our annual bonuses. Wait. An investigation. My eyes widened. Where is the one place with absolute, tamper-proof security cameras? The one place where no hospital administrator, not even Catherine, could touch the records? The police station. Suddenly, this raging, dangerous man didn’t look like a threat anymore. He looked like my savior. Without a second thought, I ripped a heavy red fire extinguisher off its wall bracket. I slipped down the stairs, quietly circling around behind the hysterical man. Before he could drive the knife into Ellie, I swung the extinguisher with everything I had, aiming precisely for the sweet spot at the base of his skull. As an orthopedic surgeon, I knew exactly how to incapacitate a man without causing permanent neurological damage. The man crumpled instantly, knocking his head against the tile floor as he went out cold. Ellie stared at me with wide, tear-filled eyes before collapsing to her knees in pure shock. The lobby erupted into applause. Patients and visitors cheered. “So brave! That doctor saved her life!” I stood up straight, making sure my face was fully visible to the dozen onlookers who had their phones out, recording the whole thing. Excellent. More evidence. Within minutes, the sirens wailed, and two officers rushed through the sliding doors. They looked at the unconscious man, then at me, their faces grim. One of them tapped my shoulder. “Sir, even in self-defense, we’re going to need you to come down to the precinct for an official statement. We have to file a report.” 3 “We aren’t treating you like a suspect, Doctor. It’s just standard procedure…” The officer began to explain, likely expecting me to complain or demand a lawyer. But before he could even finish his sentence, I had already opened the door of the cruiser and climbed into the back seat. “Absolutely, officer. I completely understand. Let’s make sure everything is documented thoroughly. It’s best for everyone.” The officers blinked, completely caught off guard by my enthusiasm. Leaving a detail behind to handle the scene, the officer got behind the wheel and drove me toward the local precinct. As the hospital shrank in the rearview mirror, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a cold knot of anxiety. What if the phone call really was a hoax? What if I had just torpedoed my career and caught an assault charge over a misunderstanding? Then, my phone buzzed. Another message from Catherine: Jared, where are you? Get to OR 5 right now. We found a bone tumor during a chest opening. I need an orthopedic consult immediately. It’s an emergency! When I didn’t reply within thirty seconds, her texts grew frantic, almost hostile: Jared! A man’s life is on the line! Stop slacking off. If you don’t show up in the next five minutes, we are done. I cannot be with a man who has zero medical ethics. She sounded like a passionate, dedicated doctor fighting to save a patient. But if you stripped away the desperation, it made no sense. There were three other orthopedic surgeons on duty today. Why was she so utterly obsessed with getting me into that specific room? I took a breath and typed a quick reply: My stomach is killing me. I’ve been stuck in the bathroom for the last hour. Call Dr. Adams. Then, I turned the phone completely off. When we arrived at the precinct, they escorted me into an interrogation room. “Alright, take a breath. No need to be nervous…” the detective began, opening his notepad. But before he could ask his first question, I launched into a highly detailed, incredibly thorough monologue. I started from the exact moment I heard the shouting, walked him through my cognitive assessment of the threat level, explained the biomechanics of my strike to ensure minimum lethality, and described my emotional state in vivid detail. I had never been this articulate during my residency board defense. The detective sat frozen for a moment, then hurriedly began typing on his computer. Twice, he had to ask me to slow down so he could keep up. By the time we finished, his fingers were practically cramping. He glanced at the clock, then at his screen, letting out a bewildered chuckle. “Dr. Abbott, you certainly have a way with words. In my ten years on the force, I’ve never had a simple witness statement take five hours. I think I’ve typed nearly thirty thousand words here.” I ignored his fatigue and leaned forward. “So, my name is officially logged in the state database? The timestamp is locked? Nobody can edit or delete this report, right?” The detective frowned, slightly offended. “This is a secured federal network, Doc. Nobody touches these files unless they want to spend a decade in federal prison.” A wave of pure, sweet relief washed over me. I shook his hand warmly, thanked him profusely, and walked out to hail a cab back to the hospital. But the moment I stepped into the hospital lobby, two massive men in dark suits stepped out from the shadows, blocking my path. “Are you Jared Abbott? The orthopedic surgeon?” My stomach dropped, but I forced myself to nod. “Yes. Who are you?” “You incompetent butcher,” one of them growled, grabbing me by the collar and lifting me nearly off my feet. “You killed our young master, and you’re still walking around acting like nothing happened?” The sudden commotion drew a crowd of onlookers. “Killed someone? But… surgeries have risks. Doctors aren’t miracle workers,” a bystander murmured, trying to defend me. But then, a voice, dripping with profound grief and authority, boomed from the center of the lobby: “If he had actually tried to save my son, I would accept it as God’s will! But this orthopedic hack wanted to show off in front of me! He forced his way into a cardiothoracic surgery he wasn’t qualified for!” “And then he took a scalpel and shredded my boy’s heart, letting him bleed to death on the table!” “This monster needs to pay with his life!” 4 Someone in the crowd gasped, recognizing the elderly gentleman in the tailored wool coat. “Oh my god… that’s Dr. Richard Kingsley. He’s a living legend in thoracic surgery!” Dr. Kingsley nodded slowly, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow with grief. At this moment, he wasn’t a world-renowned medical authority; he was just a devastated father looking for vengeance. “I trusted the reputation of this hospital,” Dr. Kingsley whispered, his voice trembling with rage. “I never imagined my son would be murdered by a reckless, unethical clown. I will personally see to it that you face the absolute maximum penalty under the law.” The crowd immediately turned on me. “Dr. Kingsley saved my grandmother’s life years ago! To think his own son was killed by a negligent idiot…” “He should go to jail!” The bodyguards tightened their grip, dragging me toward the exit. The sharp pain in my shoulder snapped me out of my shock. The horror of the future had actually manifested, but instead of panic, a strange, burning adrenaline took over. I looked up, staring directly into Dr. Kingsley’s eyes. “Dr. Kingsley, I understand you are in agonizing pain. But I am not the man who killed your son.” “When your son was on that table, I wasn’t even in the building. I was—” Before I could finish, a sharp voice cut through the crowd. “Jared! How can you still lie at a time like this?” Catherine pushed her way to the front, looking at me with a perfect mixture of heartbreak and disgust. “You wanted to impress Dr. Kingsley so badly that you took over the surgery, and now that you’ve butchered his son, you’re trying to squirm out of it? You are a coward and a monster!” “I must have been blind to ever love a man as soulless as you.” I looked at her—at the cold, calculated venom behind her eyes—and let out a bitter, hollow laugh. “One of us was blind, Catherine. But it was me. I was blind to what a parasitic, vicious snake you really are.” “You know exactly who killed that boy. Every word you just said applies to you. Turn yourself in now. It’s your only way out.” Someone in the crowd whispered, “Wait, what does he mean? Is he saying he didn’t do it?” Suddenly, Dustin stepped forward. He looked pale, but he held himself with an air of righteous indignation, holding up a manila folder. “Dr. Abbott, the charts don’t lie. Your signature is right here on the surgical log as the lead surgeon.” He showed the paper to the crowd, pointing at my forged signature with a trembling, theatrical finger. “How can you accuse Professor Catherine of lying when your own hand signed the document?” His performance was flawless, earning nods of sympathy from the onlookers. Dr. Kingsley snatched the folder, his knuckles turning white as he stared at the signature. “If you didn’t perform the surgery, why is your name on this paper?” “Dr. Kingsley, please listen to me. I have proof—undeniable proof—that I was nowhere near OR 5 when your son died—” I struggled against the bodyguards, but Catherine stepped closer, leaning in so only I could hear her whisper: “The security footage in the hallway has already been wiped, Jared. You’re taking this fall, whether you like it or not.” She stepped back, raising her voice for the crowd. “He’s completely unrepentant! Dr. Kingsley, I will use every resource I have to make sure he pays for what he did to your family!” Just then, someone shouted from the back, “The police are here!” Two uniformed officers pushed through the crowd, their faces stern. Dr. Kingsley stepped forward, swallowing his grief. “Officers, I am the one who called. Please arrest this man. He butchered my son.” The officers nodded grimly. “We’ll handle it, sir.” They pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Catherine stood with a cold, detached expression. Behind her, Dustin caught my eye and let out a tiny, mocking smirk, mouth silent but clear: Thanks for taking the bullet, fall guy. But as the officer stepped up to cuff me, his eyes locked onto my face. He froze. “Wait… Abbott? Is that you?”

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Since my second chance at life, I ignored every single one of Michelle’s calls. The texts she sent, I deleted the second they hit my screen. Instead, I spent my nights drowned in the neon haze of local dive bars, flanked by cheap booze and a rotating crowd of young, wide-eyed girls who hung on my every word. It was on my eighth night of binging, as I stumbled up the driveway of our estate, barely holding myself upright, that I found Michelle blocking the front door. Her shadow stretched long and menacing under the porch light. “The girl who bought you drinks tonight,” Michelle said, her voice like grinding stones. “Where did she touch you?” I let out a wet, drunken giggle, my vision swimming. “My hands, Michelle. Obviously. The dice shaker doesn’t rattle itself.” A sudden storm flared in her dark eyes. Without looking back, she barked an order to the shadows behind her: “Find her. Take her hands off.” I let out a dry whistle and brushed past her into the house. “Do whatever the hell you want.” In my past life, we had been married for eight years. They used to call me the Sovereign Sharp. I was the one who won the Obsidian Syndicate its crown jewel—the grandest underground casino on the East Coast. I was the one who bled with her, running from the law until we finally carved out an empire and sat together on a throne of dirt and gold. But once the throne was secure, she grew bored of the blood. She became obsessed with a new card-shuffler at the VIP tables. His name was Milo. He had been bought out of a human trafficking ring like a piece of livestock—fragile, easily bruised, and clean as a blank sheet of paper. Michelle tucked him away in the private salons, personally teaching him how to handle the deck, how to read the chips. I ignored the rumors until the day I logged into the syndicate’s internal database and saw my own file. My marital status had been updated to Divorced. When I confronted her, she didn’t even look up from her paperwork. “Milo has no one,” she had said, her tone dripping with casual indifference. “Giving him a legal title keeps the sharks from tearing him apart. Everyone in our circle already knows you’re my husband, Adam. Why are you making a scene over a piece of paper?” Driven mad by the humiliation, I stormed into the VIP lounge and slapped Milo across the face in front of her entire crew. That same night, my younger sister, Lucy—who had spent years pulling shifts in Michelle’s roughest smuggling docks—was dragged into the warehouse. They broke both of her legs right in front of me and threw her into the muddy back alley like trash. “This is your lesson, Adam,” Michelle had whispered into my ear as I screamed. “Keep your hands off Milo.” I knelt in the dirt, begging her to stop, but she walked away. I watched the color drain from Lucy’s face until she took her last, shuddering breath in my arms. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day I discovered the altered database. This time, there were no tears. No screaming matches. I quietly pawned every piece of jewelry I had hidden away, booked two international flights, and began planning. I was going to take Lucy and run as far away from Michelle’s gilded cage as humanly possible. … 1 The moment I confirmed the database status at the courthouse, the reality of my rebirth settled over me like ice. “Mr. Corin,” the clerk had said, peering over her glasses. “According to our system, your divorce was finalized on the fourteenth.” The fourteenth. My birthday. I remembered that day from my previous life. I had rented out the highest revolving restaurant in the city, ordered a custom fireworks display, and sat alone in a tailored suit from sunset until dawn. She never showed. It turned out she was busy signing her name to a document that systematically erased my existence. Stepping out of the memory, I walked back toward the Obsidian Casino. A sleek black Maybach was idling near the entrance. In my past life, I would have rushed toward it, demanding answers. But back then, Michelle was so terrified of Milo seeing me that she had kicked me hard into the ribs before the boy could even step out of the passenger seat, leaving me gasping in the dirt. This time, I slipped silently behind the shadow of a massive concrete pillar. The driver’s side door opened, and Michelle stepped out. She walked around to the passenger side and opened the door herself, her movements gentler than I had ever seen them. A boy in a soft blue button-down stepped out, looking small and terrified against the backdrop of the flashing neon lights. Milo. Michelle slipped her tailored blazer over his thin shoulders and wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him toward the heavy glass doors. “Michelle…” Milo hesitated, his voice trembling. “I have nothing left but you. I can’t afford to lose this bet.” Michelle pulled him tight against her chest, her voice carrying a tenderness she had never granted me. “What is there to fear? You’re the master of this house now. No one else has the right to stand where you stand. If you grow tired of the noise, I’ll buy you a stretch of coast and build you a resort to play in.” The same guards who used to bow to me and call me boss now lined the hallway, bending low for the boy. “Good evening, sir,” their voices echoed, loud and sycophantic. They ushered the frightened lamb into the gilded slaughterhouse. I waited until the doors hissed shut before I let myself stumble out of the shadows. I wiped a single stray tear from my cheek. Any lingering warmth I had held for her died the moment she gave away my home. I hailed a cab and rode to the private clinic where Lucy was recovering. Fortunately, in this timeline, her current assignment had only left her with minor scrapes. She would be fit to travel soon. I wouldn’t let her die a second time. Using an encrypted browser, I paid a premium for two black-market tickets to a non-extradition country, scheduled for three days later. Going through official customs would have triggered Michelle’s tripwires instantly. I then called my only trusted contact in the city, handing him a stack of cash to arrange Lucy’s quiet discharge the following night. With the pieces on the board set, I felt a rare moment of peace. I took a cab back, asking the driver to drop me off several blocks away from the estate—a habit born from years of dodging Michelle’s rivals. But the moment I stepped onto the dark curb, a heavy hand clamped over my mouth from behind, dragging me into the darkness. I thrashed against the grip, breaking free for a fraction of a second, but before I could run, a jagged piece of metal sliced deep into my lower back. The pain exploded, hot and blinding, as blood began to soak through my shirt. It was one of Michelle’s rivals. She had taken so much territory over the years that the list of people wanting her dead—or wanting to hurt the people close to her—stretched down to the harbor. I reached for the tactical knife in my coat, but my arms were pinned back with a sickening crack. My phone was ripped from my pocket and smashed boot-heel deep into the asphalt. “Shut up and move,” a voice hissed near my ear, dragging me toward a rusted cargo van parked at the curb. Just as my vision began to tunnel, the headlights of a familiar black Maybach swept around the corner. Michelle’s car. With a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, I screamed her name, thrashing against the hands holding me down. The Maybach slowed. The brakes squealed slightly. She saw me. I knew she did. But a second later, the engine roared, and the car accelerated, speeding past the mouth of the alley without stopping. Through the tinted glass, I caught a glimpse of Michelle pulling Milo’s head down to her chest, shielding his eyes from the window. She didn’t want him to look at the ugly scene outside. To her, it wasn’t her bleeding husband being dragged into a van; it was just a dirty street brawl, unworthy of her darling’s pure eyes. The fight drained out of my limbs. The cold rushed in, and the darkness took me. I woke up in a sterile room, the smell of antiseptic burning my throat. The door was cracked open, and low voices drifted in from the hallway. “The laceration is deep, boss. If he finds out about the kid…” It was Dr. Lawson, Michelle’s personal physician. “Keep your mouth shut,” Michelle snapped, her voice cold. “Your job is to patch him up, not ask questions. Adam has been in this game for a decade. He knows how the world works. He’s survived worse.” She paused, her tone dropping an octave. “Milo isn’t like him. Milo is fragile. He wouldn’t survive Adam’s claws. If Adam starts making trouble when he wakes up, bring his sister to the estate. She’s the only leverage he cares about. He’ll fall in line.” I clutched the sheets, my teeth digging into my lower lip until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I remembered the night we took over the city’s largest dock. She had held my hands and whispered, “Adam, from this day on, no one in this city will ever touch a hair on your head.” The same promise, the same protective instinct. She had just swapped the target. Now, the man who had built her empire was the monster she had to protect her lamb from. I closed my eyes as the door clicked open, pretending to stir just as she approached the bed. “You’re awake,” she said, tossing a folder onto my lap. “We found the guys. Some low-level crew from the docks trying to settle an old score. Sign these settlement papers, and they’ll hand over the lease to the East End docks.” The East End. A quiet, coastal strip. No casinos, no smuggling, no blood. I remembered her promise to Milo: “I’ll buy you a stretch of coast and build you a resort.” My blood, my broken bones, were just currency to buy her new toy a playground. “Michelle,” I croaked, my throat dry. “When did you negotiate this deal?” Was it before or after she watched me get dragged into that alley? Or had she planned to use my body as a bargaining chip all along? Her brow furrowed, irritation flickering across her face. I pulled my lips into a thin, humorless smile and looked away. The answer didn’t matter anymore. For the next two days, perhaps out of some lingering sense of guilt, she stayed by my bedside, working on her laptop. But her phone was never more than an inch from her hand. Every time she ate, she would snap a photo of her plate and send it, a soft, rare smile touching her lips as she waited for a reply. I watched her profile against the window, thinking back to eight years ago. We hadn’t met in a casino. It was a wet, narrow alley behind a dive bar. She had been caught cheating at a high-stakes table, and half a dozen men with knives had her cornered. I had just won a small fortune myself, and for some stupid reason, I stepped in and pulled her out, bringing her back to my cramped apartment. Later, when my father was hunted down by cartels over his debts, they came for me next. They had a dirty needle hovering over my jugular when Michelle stormed the basement with a shotgun and dragged me out. She gave me a home. I gave her my hands, becoming the silent shadow behind her rise. I helped her swallow every rival, drain every vault. I knew my hands were dirty. The grease of the tables and the blood of her enemies had settled deep into my skin. But even if the whole world thought I was filthy, she was the one person who never had the right to say it. After my discharge, Michelle disappeared, citing “business at the docks.” With only twenty-four hours left before my flight, I used her absence to slip back to the casino’s penthouse office. I needed my passport and the emergency funds hidden in the safe behind the mahogany desk. But as I stepped out of the private elevator into the lobby, my knees buckled, the lingering weakness from my stab wound catching up to me. I braced for the hard marble floor, but a pair of soft hands caught my shoulders, steadying me. “Are you okay?” a gentle voice asked, laced with genuine concern. I looked up into Milo’s wide, clear eyes. He was wearing the casino’s dealer uniform, but he looked entirely out of place, like a child dressed in his father’s clothes. He didn’t recognize me; he likely assumed I was just another gambler who had lost his shirt at the baccarat tables. “I’m fine. Thank you,” I said, trying to pull away. He didn’t let go. Instead, he gently guided me toward the employee lounge. “You look incredibly pale. Let’s get you some water.” For some reason, I didn’t fight him. He poured me a warm cup of water and set a small pack of dried mangoes and a wrapped pastry on the table in front of me. “Eat something,” he said softly. “Losing money hurts, but you should go home. Your family must be worried about you.” When I didn’t answer, he reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a few crumpled twenty-dollar bills, and pressed them into my palm. “It’s not much, but it’ll get you a cab… I wish I could do more, but I don’t have access to the main accounts.” My throat tightened. I wanted to tell him to run. I wanted to tell him that the woman he thought was his savior was a viper, that her love was a slow-acting poison wrapped in silk. But the words stayed trapped behind my teeth. If I told him who I was, he would confront Michelle. The fragile peace would shatter, and I would be dragged back into the blast radius. I couldn’t risk Lucy’s life. I took the bills, whispered a quiet thank you, and slipped out the back exit into the humid afternoon air. But before I could even reach the street, a cold piece of iron pressed hard against my temple. A gun barrel. I tried to turn, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Milo’s body hit the concrete floor of the corridor behind me. Before I could draw my pocket blade, a heavy pistol-whipping caught me behind the ear, and the world went dark. When I woke up, the smell of damp rot and gasoline filled my nose. Milo and I were bound to two rusty support pillars in an abandoned shipyard warehouse. Milo was sobbing softly beside me. “Who are you? What do you want from us?” A man with a jagged scar running from his ear to his chin stepped into the light, backhanding the boy across the face. “Shut up! You can thank your pretty boss, Michelle,” the scar-faced man spat. “She took our West End routes. Cut off our supply lines.” So it was the West End crew. The territory Michelle had just seized using my blood as collateral. They didn’t recognize me—I had always operated in the shadows—but Milo’s face had been plastered all over her social circles recently. He was the perfect target. I worked my fingers behind my back, using the micro-blade concealed beneath my thumbnail to slowly saw through the hemp rope. A trick from my early days. The scar-faced man turned to me, sneering. “As for you, bad luck, pal. Wrong place, wrong time. Give me a number. Five million, or you don’t leave this room.” Milo looked at me through his tears. “I’m so sorry… this is my fault. But don’t worry, Michelle is coming. She’s powerful. She’ll save us.” I didn’t waste my breath. I just kept sawing at the fibers. The leader’s phone rang, but whoever was on the other end apparently didn’t pick up. He cursed, kicking a rusted oil drum across the floor. “Damn bitch isn’t answering! Looks like we need to send her a souvenir to wake her up.” He drew a long, serrated hunting knife, his eyes crawling over Milo’s trembling frame. “I heard you’re her favorite. Let’s see how much she likes you without your fingers.” Milo shrieked, his face turning gray. “No! Please! Don’t!” The men chuckled, stepping closer. In that split second, my ropes frayed and parted. I lunged forward like a coiled spring, driving my elbow hard into the leader’s throat. With my other hand, I snatched his knife, sliced Milo’s binds in one clean motion, and pushed the boy behind me. “Kill him!” the leader choked out, clutching his throat. Five men closed in, heavy iron pipes in hand. I knew how to fight, but my body was still weak from the stab wound, and the odds were entirely against me. A pipe caught me across the collarbone, sending me to my knees. I didn’t let them reach Milo. I kept my body positioned over him, absorbing the heavy blows as they rained down on my back and shoulders. Losing patience, the scar-faced leader pulled his pistol, aiming it straight at my chest. “Die, you bastard.” Before his finger could squeeze the trigger— The heavy steel doors of the warehouse blew inward with a deafening crash. Michelle’s enforcers flooded the room, gunfire erupting instantly. She came through the smoke like a wolf, ignoring the bullets, and threw her arms around Milo, pulling him to his feet. “Milo, baby, I’m here. You’re safe.” Milo let out a weak sob and went limp in her arms, fainting from sheer terror. Michelle carried him gently to her car, laying him across the backseat like a piece of priceless porcelain. Then, she turned and walked back toward me. “Adam,” she said, her voice dripping with ice. “What the hell were you doing here?” I leaned against the rusted pillar, coughing up dark blood, and met her clinical gaze with a cold laugh. “Are you accusing me?” Before the words could fully leave my mouth, her hand cracked across my face. The force of the blow sent me sprawling into the dirt, my vision blurring as blood pooled in my mouth. “I knew it,” she whispered, her eyes dark with disgust. “You set this up. You wanted to get rid of him. You wanted him dead.” I spat the blood onto her boots. “I didn’t do shit.” She dragged one of the groaning, wounded thugs by his collar, pressing her gun to his forehead. “Tell me. Who paid you to take the boy?” The thug looked at me, terror shining in his eyes, and seized the only lie that might save his life. “Him! It was him! He gave us the tip… said to teach the kid a lesson…” My blood ran cold. Michelle didn’t hesitate. She pulled the trigger, dropping the man’s limp body back into the dirt. She stepped over the corpse, her heavy heel coming down on my right hand—my throwing hand, my shuffling hand. The bones popped under her weight, a white-hot agony screaming up my arm. “This hand…” she murmured, her voice almost sad. “It used to be so useful. Why did you have to use it to hurt the person I love?” She pulled a long, gleaming combat knife from her belt. “I told you, Adam. Never touch what’s mine.” The blade came down. The world stopped. The steel tore through my palm, pinning my hand flush against the concrete floor. I screamed—a raw, animal sound that tore my throat raw. Through the red haze of pain, I stared up at her face, looking for any shred of the woman who had once saved me. There was nothing. “Michelle!” I choked out, my body shaking with dry heaves. “I should have left you in that alley eight years ago! I should have let them butcher you!” She didn’t answer. She simply turned her back on my screams, walking toward her car without a single backward glance. When the sound of her engine faded, I reached into my inner pocket with my left hand, pulled out the micro-tracker Lucy’s contact had given me, and pressed the button. Ten minutes later, my contact was kneeling beside me, his eyes wide with horror as he pulled the knife from the floor. My right hand was a ruined, bloody mess. “Sir…” he whispered, his hands shaking. “Burn it,” I gasped, the cold finally taking the edge off the pain. “Burn the warehouse. Let her think I died here.” “From this day on, there is no Sovereign Sharp. Adam Corin is dead.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497705”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On my birthday, my husband gifted me a pristine, snow-white snake. I immediately took it to an apothecary in Chinatown and had it drowned in a jar of high-proof medicinal liquor. Because this time, I woke up with my memory intact. I was reborn. In my past life, I pampered this snake like royalty. She ate the finest delicacies and slept in a custom, heated jade terrarium that cost me a small fortune. Yet, out of everyone, she only ever chose to bite me. At first, it was just a nightly habit. She would wind around my wrist, drawing a few drops of blood. But eventually, she began slithering under my duvet, sinking her fangs into my throat, draining me day by day until my face was a ghostly, hollow white. I begged my husband to get rid of her, but he only sneered and called me petty. “Bibi is my anniversary gift to you,” Denis said. “Can’t you even tolerate a harmless little snake?” Our daughter, Ruby, would stand in front of the terrarium, crying and shielding it. “Mommy is mean! Bibi is way sweeter than you!” On our wedding anniversary, I was finally drained of my life force, dying a quiet, agonizing death on the bathroom floor. After I died, my soul lingered. I watched as the white snake slithered off my cold corpse, her scales splitting apart to reveal a delicate, fragile woman who threw herself into my husband’s arms. With tear-brimming eyes, Denis kissed her. “Bianca, my love. I’m so sorry you had to pretend to be a snake for all these months. Now that you’ve drained her essence, you’re finally human again.” And Ruby clung to her, joyfully calling her “Mommy.” That was when the truth finally shattered my heart. That white snake wasn’t a pet. She was Bianca—Denis’s tragic first love, the one that got away. And I was nothing but a biological blood bag they kept alive just long enough to feed her. 1 On the morning of my birthday, Denis presented me with a pristine, snow-white snake. His voice was laced with that familiar, honeyed warmth. “Linda, I searched everywhere for this rare spirit snake. They only appear once in a lifetime. She’s incredibly intuitive—keeping her close will soothe your nerves, preserve your youth, and protect our home. Do you love her?” Our seven-year-old daughter, Ruby, was already pressed against the glass, her eyes sparkling. “Mommy, I already named her! I’m calling her Bibi. Isn’t it pretty?” I looked down. Inside the custom terrarium, the small white snake was curled into a perfect spiral. Her scales were a blinding, porcelain white, but her beady eyes gleamed with a chilling, intelligent blackness. “Touch her, Mommy! She’s so good.” I forced a polite smile and reached my hand in. In a flash, the snake lunged, sinking her fangs deep into my fingertip. A bright bead of blood welled up instantly. Ruby let out a sharp gasp, but her panic wasn’t for me. She threw her arms around the glass tank, scowling up at me. “Mommy, stop moving! You scared Bibi!” Denis rushed over, grabbing my wrist. His eyes darted first to the snake, inspecting her for any harm, before casting a brief, dismissive glance at my bleeding finger. He let out a visible sigh of relief. “It’s nothing. A snake’s way of bonding. The fact that Bibi bit you means she’s drawn to you. She likes you.” I stared at him. She likes me? In my past life, he said the exact same thing. And like a fool, I had believed him. I was terrified of reptiles. But back then, desperately wanting to be a good wife and to keep my daughter happy, I swallowed my revulsion and poured my heart into caring for her. I fed her the most expensive organic delicacies. She slept in a heated, custom-cut jade terrarium that had cost me a six-figure sum at an auction. I even used warm silk cloths to gently polish every single one of her pristine scales. Yet, she chose only to bite me. At first, it was just a subtle pressure around my wrist in the dead of night, followed by a sharp prick as she took a few drops of my blood. I foolishly thought she was just hungry. Then, she began slipping beneath the covers, sinking her teeth into the hollow of my throat. Eventually, she stayed coiled around me all night. Her cold, heavy body would constrict around my waist, her fangs buried deep in my flesh, slowly draining my life force until I was perpetually dizzy and pale. I begged Denis to rehome her. But his face would harden into a mask of disgust. “Linda, Bibi is my anniversary present to you. Can’t you tolerate a single pet without making a dramatic scene?” Ruby would throw herself in front of the tank, sobbing. “Mommy is mean! Bibi is way better than you!” The torment left me with chronic insomnia and severe vertigo; I could barely walk down the hallway without leaning against the wall for support. The doctors couldn’t find a medical cause. Denis used that to gaslight me, claiming I was paranoid and fabricating an illness for attention. Until our anniversary. I had stayed home, wanting to surprise him with a quiet dinner. But by the time he walked through the door, I was already collapsed on the cold bathroom tile, my body freezing, my neck covered in a constellation of tiny, neat puncture wounds. My spirit hovered over the room, unable to leave. I watched the little white snake slowly slither off my lifeless chest. Her pristine skin began to split and peel away. Following a flash of ethereal light, a woman in a delicate white dress materialized and threw herself into Denis’s waiting arms. Denis kissed her passionately, tears streaming down his face. “Bianca, my darling. I’m so sorry I made you play the snake for all these months. Now that she’s drained dry, your soul is finally anchored. You’re human again.” Even Ruby rushed forward, hugging her waist. “Mommy Bianca! You’re finally back!” That was the exact moment I realized the grotesque truth. The “spirit snake” was actually the vessel housing Bianca, the dead woman Denis had mourned for a decade. And I, his devoted wife, was nothing more than a biological incubator—a walking blood bag raised to nourish her transition back to life. But I have been given a second chance. And this time, I will not let them step over my corpse to build their twisted family portrait. I watched Denis act the part of a caring husband, dabbing a cotton swab over my finger. In her green jade terrarium, the white snake swayed slightly, her pink tongue flicking. The smug, human triumph in her beady eyes was barely concealed. I pulled my hand back and slowly wiped away the remaining blood. “Since she’s so prone to biting, we should get rid of her.” The living room fell into a dead silence. Denis froze. Ruby immediately threw herself over the glass tank, her voice rising to a frantic shriek. “No! You can’t!” Denis swallowed hard, masking his sudden panic with a rehearsed, gentle tone. “Linda, sweetheart, she’s just stressed from the move. Give her a few days to adjust. Besides, Ruby and I spent weeks looking for her. You wouldn’t want to break our daughter’s heart, would you?” I looked down at them. My husband. My daughter. Both of them were hyperventilating over a reptile. It was almost comical. It was as if I weren’t threatening to rehome a pet, but rather banishing their true wife and mother. After a long moment, I let out a soft laugh. “You’re right. Since it’s a gift from the two of you, I’ll make sure to take very, very good care of her.” Both Denis and Ruby exhaled, their faces relaxing into matching smiles. Only the white snake in the terrarium raised her head slowly, her tongue darting out in a lazy flick. It felt like a silent taunt: Smart move. I stared back at her, my smile deepening. Bianca. Let’s see who survives the game this time. Denis insisted on carrying the heavy jade terrarium into our master bedroom himself. I leaned against the doorframe, watching him set it up on the nightstand. “Does she really have to sleep in our room?” Denis’s hands faltered for a fraction of a second. “Bibi is sensitive to drafts. The climate control in here is the most stable.” Ruby wrapped her small arms around my leg, tugging at my jeans. “Mommy, Bibi is so shy and scared. Please don’t banish her to the hallway, please?” Shy? She certainly wasn’t shy when she was sinking her fangs into my jugular in my past life. I walked over to the nightstand, bending down to look inside. The white snake lay coiled, still as a strip of white silk. But as soon as my face drew near, her jaw unhinged, and she lunged at the glass. I didn’t flinch. Instead, I slid the screen lid back, reached in, and clamped two fingers precisely around her neck, pinning her down right at the sweet spot of her spine. The snake went completely rigid. Then, her tail thrashed wildly, whipping against the jade walls with loud, hollow thuds. Ruby burst into tears, horrified. “Mommy! Stop! You’re hurting her!” Denis’s face drained of color. He lunged forward, shoving me aside. “Linda! What the hell are you doing?” I released my grip. The white snake instantly retreated to the absolute corner of the tank, her thin body trembling. Denis bent over the glass, his voice dropping to a soothing, tender whisper that made my stomach turn. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Shh… I’m here. I’ll protect you.” A wave of nausea hit me. In all our years of marriage, he had never once spoken to me with that level of tenderness. When I was pregnant and burning with a 104-degree fever, he had told me to stop being dramatic. When I collapsed from severe anemia, he blamed my poor constitution. Yet now, because a snake had been pinched, he looked as though his own heart had been ripped out. I blinked at him, softening my expression into one of innocent confusion. “But didn’t you say she was highly intuitive? I was just trying to bond with her.” Denis’s jaw tightened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed his rage. Ruby glared at me with pure hostility. “Mommy, you’re not allowed to bully her ever again!” I knelt down, level with the little girl I had spent thirty-six hours in hard labor to bring into this world. “Ruby, she bit Mommy.” Ruby hesitated for a split second, then lifted her chin defiantly. “Then you must have done something bad. Bibi never bites me, and she never bites Daddy.” The exact same words from my past life. And yet, hearing them again, my chest still felt a cold, hollow ache. In my first life, I died wondering why the child I carried for nine months loved a reptile more than her own mother. It wasn’t until I was a ghost that I heard her voice the truth. It was so painfully simple, it was laughable: I didn’t let her eat candy because of her cavities. But Denis had promised her that “Auntie Bianca” would buy her an entire room filled with sweets. And just like that, my daughter became an accomplice to my murder. She hadn’t even cried when she saw my cold body. She had simply kicked my leg twice to see if I was really gone. The phantom pain of those kicks hardened my gaze. The fake smile slipped from my face. Sensing the sudden shift in the room, Denis quickly pulled Ruby behind his back. “She’s just a child, Linda. Don’t take it personally.” I didn’t say a word. I turned on my heel and walked into the walk-in closet. Closing the door behind me, I reached into the deepest corner of the top shelf and pulled out a small black velvet pouch. It was the first thing I had secured after waking up in this timeline—a trip to the secluded Taoist temple upstate. I pulled a small porcelain vial from the pouch. Through the closet door, Denis’s low, conspiratorial murmur drifted in from the bedroom. “Just hang on a little longer, Bianca… wait until she’s asleep…” A faint, dry hiss answered him from the terrarium. It sounded terrifyingly like a woman’s soft chuckle. That night, Denis was uncharacteristically attentive. He insisted I rest early so my bitten finger could heal, offering to handle Ruby’s bedtime routine himself. I watched him place the jade terrarium right beside my side of the bed, my heart turning to ice. In my past life, this was always his routine. Every time the snake bit me, he would become the perfect, doting husband—pouring me warm water, wrapping me in the blankets, kissing my forehead. I used to think it was remorse. Now, I knew it was just the gentle handling of livestock before slaughter. I turned off the bedside lamp, closed my eyes, and forced my breathing into the slow, heavy rhythm of deep sleep. It didn’t take long. A soft, dry scraping sound echoed in the dark. The heavy lid of the jade terrarium was being nudged open from within. A cold, slender weight slithered onto the wood of the nightstand, then transferred noiselessly onto the mattress. A sudden patch of icy skin touched my bare wrist. The snake began to coil. She was highly practiced at this; first looping around my forearm, then positioning herself right over my radial artery. She unhinged her jaw, aiming her thin fangs at the delicate skin. Just like she had done night after night in my previous life. My blood was her spiritual nourishment. Every drop she took bound her soul more tightly to the physical realm. The day my body finally gave out was the day she would fully manifest in the flesh. I opened my eyes. The sharp tip of her fang had just grazed my skin. In one swift movement, my hand whipped out from under the pillow, holding a heavy red cord soaked in cinnabar. I looped it around her neck and yanked it tight. The snake froze instantly, paralyzed by the spiritual property of the cinnabar. Her body began to thrash violently against the sheets, but the knot only tightened. Her jaw stretched wide in a silent scream, but what came out was not a reptilian hiss. It was a faint, muffled sob of a woman. The bedroom door flew open. Denis barged in, barefoot and frantic. Seeing the white snake thrashing in the red cord, his eyes went wild. “Linda! Are you out of your mind? Let her go!” Ruby trailed in right behind him, crying hysterically. “Mommy is mean! Why are you always hurting Bibi!” I sat up, lifting my arm so the moonlight caught the thin, bleeding scratch on my wrist. “She slithered into my bed. She was trying to bite me.” Denis faltered, but his face quickly hardened again. “She’s a pet, Linda. She was probably just hungry. She’s tiny—how much damage could she possibly do?” I let out a cold laugh. “So because she’s hungry, I’m supposed to let her feed on my blood?” Denis looked away, unable to meet my eyes. But Ruby screamed, her small fists clenched. “It’s just a little bit of blood! You won’t die! Bibi is sick—she needs Mommy’s blood!” The words hung in the air. The room went dead silent. Denis’s face drained of color, and he slapped his hand over Ruby’s mouth, but the damage was already done. I slowly turned my gaze to my daughter. “Who told you that?” Ruby’s eyes darted around in panic, and she buried her face in her father’s chest. “She’s just talking nonsense,” Denis stammered, his voice tight. “She… she watches too many fantasy cartoons.” I looked at the two of them, feeling a bizarre urge to laugh. To think that in my past life, I had wept bitter tears over their emotional neglect. Taking advantage of my silence, Denis lunged to grab the snake. I jerked the cinnabar cord. The snake’s spine arched in agony. Denis froze mid-air, terror written all over his face. “Linda, please. Let Bibi go. I swear, I won’t let her near your bed again. Just put her down.” I stared at his pale, sweating face. When I died in our previous life, he hadn’t looked even a fraction as terrified as he did right now. I opened my hand. The snake slipped from the cord, falling into his arms like a limp piece of white rope. Denis cradled her close, his hands trembling with genuine terror. Ruby pressed close to his side, gently blowing on the snake’s scales to soothe her. I calmly got out of bed and walked into the master bathroom. I turned on the faucet, letting the cool water wash the blood off my wrist. In the mirror, my reflection was pale, but my eyes had never been clearer. Through the cracked door, Denis’s hushed whisper floated in. “Don’t worry, my love. Tomorrow night, I’ll slip a sedative into her dinner.” “Once she’s out cold, you can feed as much as you need.” I turned off the tap. The rush of water ceased. Tomorrow night? He had no idea that Bianca wouldn’t survive to see tomorrow night. The next morning, Denis handed me a warm mug of milk with an unusually sweet smile. Across the kitchen, Ruby was cradling the jade terrarium, gently stroking the glass. “Bibi, I’ll come play with you the second I get home from school. Wait for me, okay?” I took small, slow sips of the milk, keeping my expression perfectly neutral. In my past life, this was the exact day Denis began spiking my food and drinks with liquid Ambien. My sleeping hours stretched longer and longer. The snake stopped restricting herself to my wrists. Every time I struggled awake from those drug-induced slumbers, I would find fresh, burning punctures on my neck, my collarbones, and over my heart. And when Denis saw my skin turning translucent, he would only smile warmly and say, “Linda, sweetie, you look tired. Are you sure you’re getting enough sleep?” While Ruby watched from the corner, giggling into her tiny hands. This time, I looked up from my mug and smiled. “You two should head out. Don’t worry about Bibi, I’ll take care of her today.” Denis’s smile widened with relief. But Ruby remained suspicious. She marched over, clutching the terrarium tightly. “You promise you won’t bully her, Mommy? You have to feed her the imported organic blend later, and make sure to refresh her warm water every hour.” I leaned down, looking into her dark eyes. “And what else?” Ruby thought about it seriously for a moment. “If she wants to bite you, you can’t run away. Daddy said Bibi biting you is how she cures her illness.” Denis’s face instantly darkened. He cleared his throat sharply, and Ruby bit her lip, shutting up. I just smiled, smoothing a stray hair behind her ear. “Alright. Mommy will keep that in mind.” Before they left, Denis reached in to stroke the white snake affectionately. Standing beside him, I mirrored his movement and reached out my own hand. The white snake lunged immediately, sinking her teeth deep into my wrist. Ruby shoved me away instantly. “Mommy is so stupid! Bibi doesn’t want you touching her!” She reached her own tiny hand in and stroked the white scales with an air of smug triumph. The snake remained perfectly still, preening under her touch. I lowered my eyes to hide the curl of my lips. A few minutes later, the front door clicked shut. Denis and Ruby were gone. The sprawling, empty suburban house grew quiet, leaving only me and the white snake. Inside the jade terrarium, the snake slowly raised her head. But as she went to flick her tongue, her entire body suddenly began to shudder. She had no idea that on the very first day of my rebirth, I had poured a generous amount of the spirit-severing oil into every bottle of body wash and hand soap Denis and Ruby used. Every single touch from my husband and daughter was a slow, agonizing drop of poison, dragging Bianca closer to her permanent grave. Realizing something was wrong, the snake slammed violently against the mesh lid, knocking it open as she lunged at me. But I was ready. The cinnabar cord whipped through the air, binding her tightly at her vital spot. She thrashed frantically, her tail sweeping across the coffee table, sending glass coasters crashing to the hardwood floor. Shards rained down. I didn’t even blink. “I wonder,” I whispered, tightening the knot. “What kind of faces will they make when they come home and find your cold, dead body?” The snake froze. She understood. For the first time, a very human terror flashed in those tiny, black bead eyes. I lifted her up by the cord and walked out of the house. I drove down to the old Chinatown district, stopping at the very end of a narrow, historic alley where an ancient, traditional apothecary sat nestled between the brick buildings. It was run by Mr. Matt, a man famous for crafting potent, high-grade medicinal liquors. Mr. Matt took one look at the thrashing white snake in my hand, nodded silently, and swept aside the heavy bamboo curtain leading to the back room. The air there was thick and suffocating with the scent of dried roots, bitter herbs, and strong grain alcohol. Rows of dark ceramic jars lined the wooden shelves. The white snake went wild, writhing desperately in my grip. Her jaw unhinged, and from the depths of her throat, a choked, raspy woman’s voice clawed its way out: “Help… me…” Mr. Matt’s hand paused on a jar. He shot me a sharp, questioning look. I offered him a calm, polite smile. “She’s a rare specimen. Highly spiritual. The tincture she makes will be incredibly potent.” Mr. Matt studied the snake for a moment, then reached up to the highest shelf and pulled down a heavy, black clay urn. “This contains the strongest grain spirit in my shop,” he said, his voice flat and ancient. “If you throw an ordinary snake in, she’ll drown within minutes. No art in that. But a creature with spiritual energy? That’s different.” “The moment she goes into the clay, the alcohol will seep through the micro-spaces between her scales. It will soak into her bones, inch by inch. Her flesh won’t rot immediately, and her breath won’t cut off right away.” “She will remain fully awake. She’ll feel her life essence being slowly extracted by the herbs, her soul dragged down into the liquid. She will want to die, but won’t be able to. She will want to flee, but there will be nowhere to go.” The white snake understood every word. She began slamming her body frantically against the rim of the clay jar, her spine twisting into grotesque angles. I opened my mouth to reply, but my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Denis. When I answered, his voice was tight, vibrating with a suppressed panic. “Linda? Why isn’t Bibi in her tank?”

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I was born without the ability to sleep. For nineteen years, my brain has not shut down for a single second. My neural pathways simply do not possess a sleep mode. When I was sixteen, the Lockwell family took me out of the state foster care system and moved me into a fully sealed, high-security medical wing on the penthouse floor of the Lockwell Medical Center. They did it because Adrian Lockwell’s brainstem had been crushed in a devastating car accident. The cutting-edge neural AI keeping his consciousness tethered to reality required a constant, uninterrupted human brainwave to act as its real-time anchor. If I woke, he lived. If I slept, he died. A year ago, a nurse accidentally mixed a trace amount of a sedative into my daily nutrient IV. My consciousness drifted for exactly three seconds. Seven floors down, in the middle of a board meeting, Adrian collapsed. His heart rate flatlined instantly. By the next morning, the nurse’s license was permanently revoked, and the pharmaceutical supplier was blacklisted from the industry. After that, the air composition in my room was monitored second by second. Even hand creams containing lavender oil were added to the strict contraband list. Everything changed when Adrian flew to the Middle East for a summit, leaving his fiancée, Virginia Carl, in charge of the facility under a temporary power of attorney. She scoffed as she flipped through my monthly eight-figure medical invoices. “Is this what the Lockwells are paying for?” she sneered, looking at me. “A useless, staring burden?” She dismissed the night nursing staff, ripped out the neural transmission cables, and dragged me out of my temperature-controlled pod. Then, she pried my jaw open and forced a whole blister pack of sleeping pills down my throat. “You don’t need sleep, right? Let’s put that to the test.” I collapsed to my knees, clawing at my throat, but at least three of the pills had already dissolved in my stomach. For the first time in nineteen years, my eyelids grew incredibly heavy. The neural anchor system flashed a violent, crimson warning on the monitors. Virginia reached over and casually flipped the master switch to off. She had no idea. Seven time zones away, Adrian’s consciousness was fading into the dark right along with mine. 1 “Miss Carl!” Simon Marvin, the lead engineer on duty, burst into the room. He stared at the disconnected cables on the floor, then at me kneeling on the ground. The color drained from his face instantly. “Who authorized you to unplug those cables?” Virginia’s expression darkened. “Do you know who you’re talking to?” Simon ignored her, dropping to his knees beside me and reaching for the transmission line. “Julie, don’t close your eyes! Do you hear me? Look at me, keep them open!” I tried. I desperately tried to focus on his face, but my eyelids felt as heavy as lead. Virginia stepped forward, her designer heel pinning the cable to the floor. “Did I say you could plug her back in?” Simon snapped his head up. “Miss Carl, stop playing games! That isn’t a standard monitoring line. That is Mr. Lockwell’s neural anchor channel.” “If Julie slips into a deep sleep, Mr. Lockwell’s neural AI will completely lose its connection.” “If it goes on too long, his consciousness will drift away entirely. He will be gone.” Virginia looked entirely indifferent, her expression dripping with disbelief. “So?” She bent down, picked up the cable, and wound it lazily around her finger. “The great Adrian Lockwell’s life depends on whether this girl keeps her eyes open? Please.” Simon grit his teeth. “Yes. It does.” The cold amusement on Virginia’s face sharpened into something ugly. “Then the Lockwells really are keeping a goddess up here, aren’t they?” She turned her gaze back to me. “Julie, tell me, how did you pull this off? A nameless orphan from a state home, living in the most exclusive penthouse wing, using their most expensive equipment, with an entire neuro-engineering team catering to your every whim.” “And now, Adrian’s life belongs to you too?” I wanted to explain. I wanted to tell her the truth, but my throat was thick with the bitter, chalky taste of the pills and a metallic tang of blood. The sedatives were taking hold. My brainwaves were plummeting. I could feel it because the physical implant embedded behind my left ear was beginning to burn. It was a direct connection between my mind and Adrian’s. Right now, seven time zones away in a Riyadh conference hall, Adrian had to be feeling the exact same fire. Simon’s eyes were bloodshot with panic. “Miss Carl, you can check the security logs, or you can wait until Old Mr. Lockwell gets back. But right now, we have to reconnect this line. Every minute we delay puts Mr. Lockwell in mortal danger.” For a fraction of a second, Virginia’s composure wavered. But then, her phone rang. The screen illuminated with an encrypted call. The caller ID read: Riyadh Medical Escort Team Simon looked at the screen like a drowning man catching sight of a life raft. “Answer it! Answer it now! It has to be Adrian’s team!” Virginia stared at the flashing screen for two seconds. Then, right in front of us, she swiped to decline the call. Simon froze. I felt the last of my hope wither. Virginia turned the phone face-down on the table. “Adrian gave me temporary management of this facility before he left because he trusted me. While he is away, what I say goes.” She looked at the security guards standing by the doorway. “Please escort Mr. Marvin out.” Simon’s voice cracked with rage. “Virginia Carl, you are going to regret this!” Virginia let out a soft, mocking laugh. “The only thing I regret is not finding out sooner that the Lockwell family was hiding a piece of property like this.” Property. She spoke about me as if I were a piece of hardware. The guards stepped forward, dragging Simon toward the exit. He struggled so violently that the veins in his neck bulged. “Julie! Don’t sleep!” “Do you hear me? Fight it! Mr. Lockwell has always protected you!” The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off his voice. The silence of the room settled around us, leaving only Virginia, me, and the dirty, discarded cable on the floor. I summoned the absolute last of my physical strength and began to crawl forward. Just as my fingertips brushed the metal connector, Virginia stepped down hard on my hand. I felt the delicate bones in my fingers click under the pressure. A sharp gasp of pain escaped my lips. “Still acting?” She crouched down, tapping my cheek with a manicured finger. “I thought you were born without the ability to sleep.” “So prove it to me.” I stared up at her, my vision blurring into a haze of shapes and shadows. “Ad… Adrian…” Virginia’s eyes flashed with venom. “You think you have the right to speak his name?” She grabbed my hair, pulling my face upward to force me to look at her. “Listen to me, Julie. Adrian Lockwell is my fiancé. You are nothing but a human machine paid for by his family.” “And machines need to remember their place.” I wanted to speak. I wanted to defend myself, but a sudden, deafening screech of static erupted inside my head. It wasn’t an alarm in the room. It was Adrian’s neural AI, transmitting through our failing interface, echoing in the quietest chambers of my mind. It was faint, breaking apart. [Julie…] [Don’t… sleep…] Tears spilled over my eyelashes. Adrian was still awake. He was still fighting to find me. With the absolute last ounce of my strength, I reached out and clutched the hem of Virginia’s sleeve. “Plug it… back in…” “Please…” Virginia sneered, wrenching her arm away from my grasp. “You’re begging me?” She stood up, looking down at me with utter contempt. “Then stay on your knees.” “Once I’m satisfied, maybe I’ll consider letting you continue this little charade.” My body gave out completely. My forehead hit the cold floor. My consciousness felt as though it were being dragged down into a deep, fathomless body of water. For nineteen years, I had never known what sleep felt like. I had always assumed it was a gentle thing. But this wasn’t gentle. It felt like death, slowly extinguishing the light. In my final second of awareness, I heard the room’s backup system automatically rebooting. A stark red light flooded the ceiling. [Anchor brainwave dropped below safety threshold.] [Target consciousness drift: 37%…] [Target consciousness drift: 61%…] [Target consciousness drift: 89%…] Virginia’s brow finally furrowed. “What is that noise?” No one answered her. Seven time zones away, at the Riyadh summit. Adrian Lockwell sat in his wheelchair, speaking through his neural AI to close a major acquisition with a foreign conglomerate. One second, he was calmly turning the final page of the contract. The next, his pupils dilated and lost focus. The mechanical exoskeleton supporting his frame lost its feed, collapsing under him as he crashed to the floor. The room erupted into chaos. His private medical team rushed forward, their faces turning pale as they looked at the portable monitors. Adrian’s heart was still beating, but the golden wave representing his consciousness was flattening into a straight line. The lead doctor, hands trembling, dialed Virginia’s number. The first call was declined. The second went straight to voicemail. The third time, the phone was turned off. Back in the penthouse suite of the medical center, Virginia looked at the flashing red alerts, her patience entirely gone. “Turn off these ridiculous alarms,” she ordered. She turned on her heel and walked toward the door. “First thing tomorrow morning, I want a full audit of Julie’s medical expenses over the last three years.” “The Lockwells are not a charity.” “And we certainly aren’t going to keep spending millions on a liar who pretends to die the moment she closes her eyes.” She did not know. The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind her, the very last trace of Adrian’s consciousness went dark. 2 I didn’t fully fall asleep. Rather, because my brain had never learned how to sleep, the heavy dose of sedatives could only trap me in a horrific, twilight state of near-death. I couldn’t hear distinct sounds. I only heard the fragmented, synthetic voice of the machine. [Anchor brainwaves continuing to deteriorate.] [Target consciousness reconnection: Failed.] [Please restore primary anchor channel immediately.] I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids felt like they were made of stone. The bitter taste of the pills lingered in my throat, and dry heaves racked my stomach in painful spasms. I had no concept of how much time had passed. Suddenly, someone slapped my cheek hard. “Julie.” “Wake up.” “Stop playing dead.” Virginia’s voice drifted in from a great distance, completely devoid of warmth. I forced my eyes open. The overhead lights were blindingly bright, sending a sharp pain through my temples. Virginia stood over the bed, flanked by two guards and a young resident doctor she had pulled from the lower floors. The doctor looked at my vitals, his expression deeply concerned. “Miss Carl, her pupillary response is incredibly weak, and her blood pressure is dropping fast. We need to pump her stomach immediately.” Virginia frowned. “I called you up here to prove she is faking, not to listen to your exaggerations.” “But she has clearly ingested an overdose of heavy sedatives,” the doctor protested. “An overdose?” Virginia laughed coldly. “I thought she was born unable to sleep. If she can’t sleep, how can a few sleeping pills be considered an overdose?” The doctor went quiet, unsure of how to argue. I parted my dry lips, my voice barely a whisper. “The… cable…” Virginia looked down at me. “Still thinking about that wire?” I used every bit of energy I had left to glance toward the corner of the room. The neural transmission cable was still lying there on the floor. If they just plugged it back in. If they just reconnected it. Maybe Adrian still had a chance. I tried to push myself up on my elbows, but my limbs felt like water. The moment I moved, a white-hot, tearing pain flared at the base of my neck where the interface was implanted. “Don’t move!” The doctor instinctively stepped forward to hold me steady. “Her neural interface is overheating. If we don’t stabilize her, she will suffer permanent, irreversible brain damage.” “Irreversible?” Virginia looked almost amused. She walked closer to the bed, leaning in to look at me. “Julie, haven’t you been using this little plug behind your ear to drain the Lockwell family fortune for years?” “Let’s see if you can keep up the act without it.” My breath caught in my throat. “No… please…” From outside the heavy suite doors, a sudden, violent banging echoed through the room. “Miss Carl! Open the door!” It was Simon. His voice sounded hoarse, raw with panic. “We’ve lost all contact with Mr. Lockwell! The Riyadh medical team has sent twelve consecutive red-level emergency alerts!” “We need to reconnect Julie right now!” Virginia’s face went cold. She turned to the guards. “Why is he still on the penthouse floor?” “Mr. Marvin’s security clearance is too high,” the guard murmured. “The lower floor security gates couldn’t stop him.” Virginia let out a cold laugh. “Then terminate his access.” She picked up the temporary administrative terminal from the table and pressed the authorization key. The pounding outside stopped instantly. A heavy silence fell, followed by Simon’s voice, which had gone completely hollow. “Virginia Carl… did you just lock out the neuro-engineering team?” “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Virginia walked over to the door, speaking through the security intercom. “It means that from this moment on, the penthouse wing is no longer a playground where you run up invoices in Adrian’s name.” “Miss Carl!” Simon screamed. “You are going to kill him!” “Enough!” Virginia’s voice cracked like a whip. “You all keep screaming about how he’s going to die, how she can’t sleep. But Adrian Lockwell is my fiancé!” “If his life were actually in danger, why has he never told me about her?” There was a long, terrible silence on the other side of the door. Then, Simon spoke, his voice trembling. “Because Mr. Lockwell didn’t want you to know about Julie’s existence.” Virginia’s face went entirely white. She gripped the terminal, her knuckles turning translucent. “What did you say?” Simon had clearly decided he had nothing left to lose. “Adrian signed a top-level non-disclosure agreement. Only seven people in the world know Julie’s actual purpose. You are not on that list.” “Miss Carl, whether you want to accept it or not—in Adrian’s life-support network, Julie is far more important than you will ever be.” The words were a direct hit to the center of Virginia’s pride. The thin veneer of elegance she always wore began to crack, piece by piece. “More important than me?” She slowly turned around to look at me lying on the bed. In that moment, a cold dread settled deep in my stomach. She hadn’t been reasoned with. She had been pushed over the edge. She walked over to my bedside, her eyes entirely devoid of warmth. “Julie.” “Did you hear that?” “They think you are more important than me.” I tried to shake my head, but my muscles refused to cooperate. Virginia reached down, her fingers digging violently into my jawline. “You? A nameless orphan nobody wanted? On what grounds?” She forced my head back, making me look directly into her eyes. “Because of this pretty face?” “Or because of the machine parts they shoved inside your head?” My eyes widened in terror. Virginia saw my reaction, and a slow, cruel smile spread across her face. “So there really is something in there.” The doctor’s face drained of color. “Miss Carl, we cannot touch the neural interface. Especially not now while she is sedated. Any forced manipulation could cause massive neurological trauma.” “An examination?” Virginia released her grip on my face, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm whisper. “No.” “I am calling an internal hearing.” “Tomorrow morning at nine, I want every senior executive and board member of the Lockwell Medical Center in the main conference hall.” “I want everyone to see exactly what kind of monster this family has been keeping in the attic.” The doctor took a step forward. “But she needs medical intervention right now!” Virginia cast a chilling look at him. “Is she dead?” The doctor stopped. “No, but—” “Then she can wait until tomorrow.” With that, she turned and walked out. As the heavy doors locked shut, my world drifted back into the cold dark. But this time, deep in the silence, I heard a faint, distant whisper. It sounded as if someone were calling my name from across an ocean. [Julie.] [Hold on.] A single tear slid down my cheek. Adrian. You are still there. So I cannot sleep. 3 The next morning at nine, I was wheeled into the seventh-floor executive conference room. I wasn’t allowed to sit up. Instead, I was strapped down to a mobile examination bed, completely restrained. The room was filled with people. The medical administration, the financial directors, the legal counsels, and several senior board members of the Lockwell Corporation I had never seen before. The way they looked at me was a mixture of clinical curiosity, disgust, and mild fear. Virginia stood at the head of the long mahogany table, a massive projection of my medical billing history illuminated behind her. The numbers were staggering. The maintenance of the temperature-controlled pod. The specialized replacement parts for the neural interface. The operations cost of the real-time synchronization servers. The twenty-four-hour nursing rotation. The constant filtration and monitoring of the air quality. Each line item cost more than an average family would see in a lifetime. Virginia tapped the screen with a red laser pointer. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is what Julie has cost the Lockwell family over the last three years.” “An average of eight figures every single month.” “And the invaluable service she provides in return? Laying in a penthouse pod, staring at the wall with her eyes open.” A quiet murmur rippled through the boardroom. “How is it even possible for a human to never sleep?” “I always thought the penthouse project was incredibly suspicious.” “With Adrian incapacitated, those expenses were never properly audited.” “Could this be a massive embezzlement scheme?” Listening to their whispers, my chest tightened. They didn’t know the truth. And none of them had the clearance to access it. Virginia had calculated this perfectly. She was going to use their ignorance to destroy me. One of the senior board members cleared his throat. “Miss Carl, while Adrian did grant you temporary power of attorney, the penthouse wing has always been under the personal oversight of Old Mr. Lockwell. Is a public hearing like this entirely appropriate?” Virginia smiled warmly. “It is precisely because Mr. Lockwell is getting older that he is more vulnerable to being deceived.” “As Adrian’s fiancée, it is my duty to protect this family from predators.” She turned her gaze directly onto me. “Julie, I will give you one chance.” “Admit to everyone in this room that you and the neuro-engineering team fabricated your condition, falsified the brainwave data, and systematically drained the Lockwell family’s resources.” My throat was so dry it felt like paper. “I didn’t…” My voice was too quiet, swallowed up by the low chatter of the room. Virginia walked over and tossed a thick document onto my chest. “Sign it.” I looked down at the cover page. Confession of Medical Fraud and Misappropriation. Everything had already been laid out for me. Falsification of rare medical records. Conspiracy with the engineering staff to embezzle medical funds. Using a fabricated neurological condition to occupy Lockwell properties. Consent to the immediate removal of all neural implants and cooperation with the subsequent criminal investigation. My fingers trembled against the straps. “You can’t take it out…” Virginia leaned over the bed. “And why is that?” I used every ounce of breath I had left. “He will die.” A heavy silence fell over the room. Then, someone near the back let out a sharp chuckle. “She actually believes she controls the president’s life.” “This isn’t just fraud anymore. It’s severe delusion.” Virginia smiled, pleased with the reaction. This was exactly what she wanted. By pushing me to state the truth, she made me sound completely insane. Suddenly, the double doors of the conference room were shoved open. Simon was struggling against two security guards at the threshold, holding a portable neural diagnostics terminal. Sweat was pouring down his face. “Virginia, let me in!” “Adrian’s consciousness cloud fractured three times last night!” “The main servers can’t locate his signal! The Riyadh team has initiated maximum-level resuscitation protocols!” The room erupted into quiet panic. Virginia’s face went cold. “Who let him up here?” Simon stared at her with raw fury. “I am going to say this one last time: Julie is not a fraud.” “She is the sole anchor keeping Adrian’s neural AI online.” “When you drugged her last night, you essentially signed his death warrant.” The word murder seemed to echo in the high ceilings. Virginia merely smiled. “Mr. Marvin, do you understand the gravity of what you are claiming?” “I do,” Simon said, his voice shaking. “And I am prepared to take full legal responsibility for every single word.” Virginia nodded slowly. “Excellent.” She turned to the corporate legal counsel. “Take that down. Simon Marvin, an employee of the neuro-engineering division, is attempting to cover up a massive medical fraud by using threats against Adrian’s life.” Simon’s face went pale. “You are completely out of your mind!” Virginia ignored him. She walked back to the center of the room, her eyes sweeping over the board members. “Since there is so much debate, we will proceed with the most direct verification method.” My heart hammered against my ribs. Virginia spoke clearly. “Julie has a neural implant at the base of her neck.” “Mr. Marvin claims that chip is Adrian’s lifeline.” “Personally, I find it hard to believe that a tiny piece of metal in an orphan’s head dictates the survival of the Lockwell empire.” She looked at the medical team standing near the door. “Prepare to extract the implant.” The room went dead silent. The resident doctor she had brought up looked terrified. “Miss Carl, this violates every medical protocol. She was heavily sedated last night, and her neural activity is highly erratic. Any invasive procedure right now could be fatal.” Virginia looked at him coldly. “Are you a licensed physician, or are you her accomplice?” The doctor looked down, unable to answer. Virginia raised her administrative terminal. “I hold the temporary executive power of attorney. Anyone who refuses to carry out my orders will be terminated immediately.” A cold sweat broke out across my skin. I wasn’t afraid of the pain. I was terrified because I knew that if that chip was forcibly removed, Adrian might never find his way back. I began to thrash against the leather straps, tears streaming down my face. “Don’t… please…” Virginia walked up to the side of my bed, looking down at me with a soft, venomous smile. “Now you’re begging?” Her finger brushed against the cool sterile patch on the back of my neck. Her voice was barely a whisper. “I thought you couldn’t sleep, Julie.” “Once we take this out, I’m going to let you sleep for a very long time.”

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In the fifth year of my marriage to Darnell, I suddenly began to see the leaderboards inside everyone’s minds. In my mother’s heart, I was number one. In my best friend’s, I was number two, second only to her newborn daughter. Even the barista at the coffee shop down the street ranked me at number six. Naturally, I looked at Darnell’s list with nothing but anticipation. Number one: his mother. Number two: Hannah. Me. I was right there at number two. I couldn’t stop smiling all day. Until my eyes drifted down to number six: Gina. A name I had never heard in my life. I told myself it didn’t matter. I was number two. She was just a distant sixth. But over the next few days, her name began to climb. Inch by inch. Up until she was almost neck-and-neck with me. That night, Darnell came home and wrapped his arms around me from behind, just like he always did. “I missed you,” he whispered. I looked up at the leaderboard hovering silently above his head. Gina—now sitting at number three—was still rising. “Darnell.” “Who is Gina?” The arms around my waist stiffened. Just for a fraction of a second. … 1 It was so brief. So fleeting that I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it. Darnell quickly looked down at me, his face a mask of effortless calm. “She’s a new designer on the team,” he said, smoothing my hair with a familiar, easy touch. “We’re co-managing a new account, so I’ve been showing her the ropes.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Why? You’re not actually jealous of a colleague, are you?” I looked up at him. Above his head, Gina’s name sat solidly at number three, completely untroubled. If she were really just a coworker, a sudden question from his wife should have caused at least a tiny tremor in his mental ranking. A flicker of anxiety, a shift. But there was nothing. It was perfectly still. “Oh,” I murmured, lowering my head to take a sip of water. I held the rim of the glass against my lips for a long, silent moment. The next morning, Darnell left the house twenty minutes earlier than usual. He said the morning rush hour had been brutal lately. On the dining table, he had left the usual breakfast—warm milk, a perfectly fried egg, and toast with the crusts neatly trimmed off. He had done this every single day of our five-year marriage. I stood by the door, waving goodbye and telling him to drive safely. But the moment his taillights vanished around the corner, a strange, hollow impulse made me open the location-sharing app on my phone. His car wasn’t heading toward his office. Instead, it stopped in a residential neighborhood I didn’t recognize, idling there for about fifteen minutes before starting up again. I stared at the tiny blue dot on the map, my chest tightening. The third day, it was the same time, the exact same detour. By the fourth day, I no longer stood by the window to wave him goodbye. I just watched him leave, then watched the dot on my screen pause in that unfamiliar neighborhood. Every morning after he stepped out the door, Gina’s name crept a little closer to mine. Not by leaps and bounds. Just an agonizing millimeter at a time. It was enough to keep me on edge all day. It happened at night, too. Twice, he claimed he had to work late, but his location showed him parked at a condo complex miles away from his office. I stared at the address on my screen until my eyes burned. Later that week, I sat at the dining table, watching him brew pour-over coffee in the kitchen. A sweet, floral aroma of lavender drifted through the air, settling into every corner of our apartment. It was a scent that didn’t belong to me. It didn’t belong to us. Darnell walked over, setting the mug down beside my hand. There was a faint, almost imperceptible tension in his eyes. “Try it.” I took a sip. It was sweet, smooth, with a delicate hint of lavender and steamed milk. It was a far cry from the black Americanos we both always drank. I looked up. “Since when do you like lavender lattes?” He froze for a fraction of a beat before offering a quick smile. “Just wanted to try something new.” That tiny, hesitant beat pierced my heart like a needle. That night, while he was in the shower, he left his phone on the sofa with his notes app still open. I didn’t want to pry, but my eyes caught the screen. Lavender syrup to milk ratio: 3 to 7. She likes it a bit sweeter. She. Not a name. Just a carefully placed pronoun. My finger hovered over the screen, paralyzed. The sound of running water echoed from the bathroom. I set the phone back down exactly as it was, pretending I had seen nothing. Later, we curled up on the couch to watch a movie. My head rested on his shoulder. On the screen, the characters were laughing, but I couldn’t process a single line of dialogue. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and a soft, barely visible smile played on his lips as he typed a quick reply. The entire exchange took less than five seconds. But in those five seconds, Gina’s name leaped forward on his leaderboard, pressing directly against my second-place spot. Resting against his chest, I felt his heart skip a beat. Not because of me. When he put his phone away, he instinctively tightened his arm around me, pulling me closer. It felt like an act of compensation. Or perhaps, an attempt to suppress his own guilt. I couldn’t sleep that night. A sliver of streetlamp light filtered through the curtains, illuminating his profile. He slept peacefully, his features relaxed, a soft trace of a smile lingering on his lips. I used to love watching him sleep. But that night, my gaze drifted upward. The leaderboard hung silently in the darkness above him. Number one: his mother. Number two: Hannah. Number two: Gina. Tied. I stared at those two names sitting side-by-side. It felt like a physical blow to my chest. Five years of marriage, balanced on the exact same scale as a woman he had probably known for only a few months. Gently, I pried his arm off my waist, turned my back to him, and faced the wall. I kept my eyes wide open until the room filled with morning light. The next day, while sorting the laundry, I found a crumpled receipt in his coat pocket. The name of the coffee shop was unfamiliar. The time stamp read 7:48 AM. Exactly during those twenty minutes he had started leaving early. I slowly smoothed out the paper. Two lavender honey lattes. Darnell and I only drank black coffee. He hadn’t been practicing a new recipe at home out of curiosity. He had been trying to perfect another woman’s favorite drink. Sunlight streamed over the laundry basket, but as I held that thin slip of paper, my fingers went completely numb. Eventually, I folded the receipt back up and slipped it back into his pocket. Then, I sat on the balcony, pulling my knees to my chest, staring into nothing for hours. The leaderboard didn’t lie. The receipt didn’t lie. The only liar in this house was him. Later, I looked up the coffee shop online. Following the location tags, it didn’t take long to find Gina’s Instagram profile. Her feed was filled with film photography. Pictures of stray cats, clear skies, riverfront nightscapes, and artisanal coffee. Everything looked serene, clean—like a blank sheet of paper. I scrolled down, post by post, until I reached a photo of a waterfront skyline. My thumb froze. I knew that riverbank all too well. During our college years in Boston, Darnell and I had walked along that exact stretch of the Charles River countless times. The green iron railings, the vintage streetlamps, the distant silhouette of the bridge—I could recognize them with my eyes closed. The caption was simple: “Someone took me to see the most beautiful view of the city tonight.” My breathing hitched. That was my place. Our place. But he had taken someone else, retracing the steps we had carved together. I kept scrolling. Another photo showed her study desk, and in the corner lay a fountain pen. Black body, silver clip. It was the Montblanc I had gifted Darnell years ago. When he got accepted into his graduate program, I had spent months scraping together enough money to buy it for him. I remembered how he had held my wrist, kissing it gently, and whispered, “Every time I use this, I’ll be thinking of you.” Months ago, he told me he must have misplaced it at the office. I had spent an entire weekend tearing the apartment apart trying to find it for him. It wasn’t lost. He had given it away. I touched my wrist, feeling a sudden chill seep deep into my skin. In another post, Gina had shared a screenshot of a French indie documentary—the exact same one Darnell had suddenly started streaming in the evenings. I had asked him to watch movies with me so many times over the years. He always complained they were boring, a waste of time, that he’d rather sleep. I had spent five years trying to share things with him, and I hadn’t managed to change a single one of his habits. Gina had been in his life for three months, and he had already remade his tastes and hobbies to match hers. I slowly looked up, my eyes drifting to our bedroom closet. Recently, he had bought several new shirts—sharper cuts, brighter colors, nothing like his usual muted grays. I remembered dragging him to a department store once, picking out a beautiful tailored coat for him. He had shrugged it off, saying, “I’m a guy, who cares about that stuff?” I had bought us couple’s gym memberships; he never went once. I had bought him hand creams for his dry skin; he left them unopened, complaining they felt greasy. Yet lately, he had started working out. He was wearing cologne. He was taking care of his hands, keeping them clean and moisturized. Five years of marriage couldn’t make him change. But the moment Gina arrived, he eagerly remade himself from the ground up. He wasn’t incapable of effort. He was just unwilling to put in that effort for me. That afternoon, I pulled out our wedding video. On the screen, a younger Darnell stood under the soft venue lights in a classic black tux, holding my hands. His eyes were incredibly red, brimming with tears. He had looked straight at me and said, “In my heart, you will always be number one. If that ever changes, it’ll only be because I’m no longer breathing.” I had sobbed uncontrollably. He wiped my tears away as our guests erupted into applause. I closed the video and laid my laptop face down on the table. When I closed my eyes and pictured the leaderboard, Gina’s name was now pressed tightly against mine. Darnell came home very late that night. There was a faint, pale red mark on the side of his neck. Before I could even ask, he offered a quick, casual explanation: “The collar on that new shirt is incredibly stiff. Kept chafing all day.” With that, he walked straight into the bathroom, washing away whatever scent he carried. He changed into his pajamas, slid into bed, and wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Tired today, sweetie?” He kissed the sensitive spot behind my ear. His breath was warm, his touch practiced and familiar. It felt exactly like every other night of the last five years. But once his breathing slowed and he fell asleep, I looked above his head. Number two: Gina. Number three: Hannah. I had finally been dethroned. On the very night he held me, called me his wife, and kissed me. I stared into the dark. No tears fell. There was only a cold, hollow numbness spreading from the back of my eyes, slowly freezing my entire body. The next morning, I opened Gina’s Instagram again and looked at that riverfront photo. The longer I stared at the streetlamps and railings, the more familiar they felt. Then it clicked. Just around the bend of that riverbank sat the little Italian bistro we used to frequent during our college days. It wasn’t just the pen. It wasn’t just the flavor of coffee. Even the paths we had walked a thousand times, he had retraced with someone else. I stared at the photo for a long time. There was no anger left, no burning resentment. Only a quiet, resolute thought: I have to see it for myself. I needed to see how much of his sincerity remained when he recycled our sacred memories to woo another woman. Over the weekend, I suggested going back to that Italian bistro near campus. “It’s been so long since we went to Bella’s,” I said. “I’m craving their pasta.” Darnell agreed instantly. The owner, an older Italian man named Mario, recognized us immediately. “Look who finally decided to come back!” he cheered. Darnell laughed, pulling out my chair with practiced grace. He ordered all my favorites: the truffle gnocchi, the roasted garlic bread, and chicken piccata. He even remembered to tell the kitchen to leave out the rosemary, knowing I disliked the strong herb. He chatted with Mario about our college days, recalling how I always insisted on sitting by the window, and how I’d nervously drink three cups of chamomile tea before my midterms. He sounded so natural, as if nothing had changed between us. But my eyes were fixed on the leaderboard above his head. Gina sat firmly at number two, completely unmoved. I forced myself to laugh, to jump in with nostalgic details, trying desperately to piece our past back together. But throughout the entire dinner, I couldn’t claw my way back up by even a single inch. Halfway through the meal, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “Just a quick work call,” he said, stepping outside. Through the glass door, I watched him stand under the awning, one hand tucked casually into his pocket, his shoulders relaxed. At some point in the conversation, he looked down and smiled. I knew that smile. It was unguarded, soft, the kind of smile he only reserved for someone he held incredibly close. I looked down at the food on our table. It was everything I loved. But the steam was fading, the dishes growing cold. While he stood just outside the glass, his heart had wandered miles away. On the leaderboard, Gina’s name was slowly drifting closer to the number one spot. When he returned, he immediately sensed the shift in my mood. His compensation mechanism kicked in instantly. He piled food onto my plate, offering soft apologies, blaming a demanding client. Then, looking at me as if searching for reassurance, he added, “By the way, for our anniversary next month, I took three days off. I’m taking you to Maui, just like you’ve always wanted.” The moment he said it, I instinctively looked up at the leaderboard. My name actually budged, floating up a fraction of an inch. Just a tiny, pitiful fraction. And suddenly, it became painfully clear. His kindness wasn’t a sign of returning love. It was guilt. A three-day trip to buy back his peace of mind. A beautiful, expensive receipt to clear the ledger of his betrayal. I offered a faint smile. “That sounds lovely.” My own voice sounded hollow, like a stranger’s. As we left the bistro, we passed a young couple on the sidewalk. The boy was holding the girl’s hand, his laughter bright and clear. Hovering over his head was a single, pristine name at number one: the girl walking beside him. No one else was on his list. Outside our apartment complex, an elderly couple was slowly crossing the street. The husband held his wife’s elbow, guiding her step by step. Above his head, her name sat at number one, a placement that had clearly remained unchanged for decades. I stopped walking, a sudden ache blooming in my chest. So that’s what it looks like to be someone’s absolute first choice. I turned to look at Darnell. He was looking down at his phone, typing away. Number one: his mother. Number two: Gina. Number three: Hannah. I had never actually been his first choice. Back at the apartment, he retreated into his study, claiming he had paperwork to wrap up. I sat alone in the living room without turning on the lights. In the quiet dark, the weight of reality finally settled over me. I wasn’t going to wait around anymore. I refused to watch myself slide further and further down a ranking system in my own marriage. I pulled out my phone, scrolled through a few corporate event photos Gina had posted, and figured out where she spent her lunch breaks. It was that boutique coffee shop. The next afternoon, I arrived early at the coffee shop. I ordered a black coffee and took a table in the far corner, waiting. Just past noon, Gina walked in. Short hair, a simple white blouse, minimal makeup. She sat down quietly and ordered a lavender honey latte. She looked ordinary, almost plain. But my eyes immediately locked onto the leaderboard hovering above her head. Number one: Darnell. My husband was the most important person in her world. And she was rapidly becoming the most important person in his. Their lists locked together perfectly, forming a closed, exclusive loop. And I was left standing completely on the outside. Gina opened her laptop, beginning to review some design drafts. I stood up to use the restroom. As I walked past her table, my eyes caught her phone lying face down. Tucked inside her clear phone case was a polaroid. Two silhouettes, standing side-by-side along the Charles River. The railing, the streetlamp—it was the view I knew by heart. And on her wrist, a delicate silver chain. I recognized the brand instantly. It was the same jewelry boutique where Darnell bought my gifts every Christmas. I walked into the restroom, leaned over the sink, and turned on the tap. I splashed cold water onto my face, watching it drip from my chin. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. When I came out, I picked up my coffee, walked over to her table, and slid into the empty seat opposite her. “Hi. I notice you come here quite often.” Gina blinked in surprise, but quickly offered a polite, gentle smile. “Oh, yes. I’m a bit obsessed with their lavender lattes.” I looked down at the milky, lavender-scented drink in front of her, feeling a dull ache in my chest. We exchanged a few pleasantries—chatting about the autumn weather, local bakeries, and the stray cats around the neighborhood. Her voice was soft, deliberate, completely lacking any malice or pretense. The kinder and sweeter she seemed, the tighter my throat became. “Are you here alone today?” I asked, keeping my voice light. Gina looked down, a soft blush warming her cheeks. “No, actually. My boyfriend has a lunch meeting, but he’s stopping by to pick me up soon.” Boyfriend. The word echoed in my mind, freezing me in place. She didn’t know. She had absolutely no idea. In her world, Darnell was a single, loving boyfriend. Not someone else’s husband of five years. Not a man with a home, a mortgage, and a wife waiting for him. In the narrative he had spun for her, my entire existence had been thoroughly erased. I wasn’t even a footnote. Gina’s phone buzzed on the table. She picked it up, her voice softening with affection. “Hey. Yeah, I’m at our usual spot. You’re close? Perfect. See you in a minute.” She hung up and gave me an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that. He’s here. He’s really the sweet type, always insists on grabbing me a coffee.” Before I could find my voice, the bell above the door chimed. Darnell walked in. He was holding a paper carrier with two lavender lattes. His eyes scanned the room, automatically finding Gina, a relaxed, boyish smile already forming on his lips. Then, his gaze shifted a fraction of an inch. When he saw me sitting across from her, he froze. The smile vanished, the color draining from his face in a terrifying wave. His fingers went limp. The paper carrier slipped from his grasp, crashing to the tiled floor. The lids popped off, and warm purple-tinted liquid splattered across the tiles. The sweet, heavy scent of lavender instantly filled the air. The entire café fell dead silent. Gina looked back and forth between us, entirely lost. Darnell stood near the door, looking as though he had been turned to stone. I slowly pushed my chair back, stood up, and walked toward him. The spilled coffee pooled around his leather shoes, spreading like the ruins of a dream I was finally waking up from. I stopped a foot away from him, looking up at his head one last time. Number one: Gina. Number two: his mother. Number three: Hannah. I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Darnell,” I said, my voice remarkably steady. “Do you have any idea where I rank in your heart right now?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497708”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the afternoon of my college move-in day, my phone buzzed with a FaceTime call from my mother. Only, it wasn’t the mother I knew. It was her—eighteen years in the past. She was gently caressing her slightly rounded stomach, her eyes bright and filled with a luminous, teary hope. “Sweetheart,” she whispered, looking at the screen as if she could see right through time. “Your father took me to the clinic today. The doctor says everything looks perfect. Soon, the three of us will finally be together.” She looked at me, her eyes tracing my face with longing. “Tell me, sweetheart. In the future, do you follow in my footsteps and dance? Or did you inherit your father’s business mind?” A bitter, dry laugh caught in my throat. I slowly tilted the camera downward. The canary-yellow delivery vest felt stiff and smelled faintly of stale fries and cold grease. My name tag hung crookedly over my chest, a cheap piece of plastic declaring my state-assigned role. DoorDash Runner #9: Isabel. When I tilted the camera back up, meeting her bewildered, frozen gaze, my voice was as flat and cold as a stagnant pond. “I’m sorry, Mom. You didn’t guess right on either.” “I was just kicked out of the house. Ruby tore up my college acceptance letter.” “And eighteen years from now, you’re still lying in a hospital bed, waiting for me to scrape together enough cash to cover your medical bills.” My throat tightened, a sob threatening to break through. “Mom,” I choked out, “if you can hear me… please. Abort this pregnancy. Divorce him. Leave, and never look back.” 1 My mother forced a fragile, trembling smile. “Izzy, what kind of joke is that?” she chuckled softly, though her hand shook. “Your father and I are engaged. Why on earth would he marry Ruby?” She raised her hand, showing off the massive, glittering diamond ring on her finger. “Look. This is the family heirloom. He placed it on my finger himself.” “He told me that the day you are born, he’s going to give me the grand wedding of my dreams.” I had seen that ring. Countless times. Every time my mother’s depressive episodes took hold, she would clutch that ring, white-knuckled, until the storm in her mind passed. But the tragedy was that this ring—the one she cherished like her very soul—would eventually be ripped from her hand and slipped onto Ruby’s finger. And the marriage certificate she spent eighteen years begging for? It was signed the very day after I was born. While my mother was recovering in her hospital bed, my father and Ruby made a detour to City Hall on their way to visit her. They got married. When my mother found out and screamed herself hoarse, demanding to know why, his response was a dismissive, casual shrug. “Ruby is the adopted daughter,” he’d said. “Without this marriage, high society will always look down on her. To the world, you’re still my real partner, and our child is still the heir to the family fortune. It’s just a piece of paper, Margot. Why make such a fuss?” I didn’t argue with her. Instead, I flipped the camera, carrying a pastry box up the steps of the old family estate. I knocked on the heavy oak door. “Delivery for unit 4B. Delivery under the name Charles.” Through my earbuds, my mother let out a small, startled gasp, her voice laced with sudden joy. “That’s my mother’s old house! The estate she left me as a dowry! Charles promised me he’d take care of it… I can’t believe it’s still standing, looking exactly the same eighteen years later!” The door clicked open, and her joyful words died in her throat. My father stood there. For a fraction of a second, surprise flickered in his eyes. “Izzy? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at your dorm registration?” A soft, petulant voice drifted from behind him. Ruby appeared, her lower lip trembling with practiced vulnerability. “Charles, don’t blame her. It’s my fault. This morning, Izzy called me a homewrecker and knocked over the cake you bought me. I only scolded her a little, but she got so angry she ran away to do… whatever this is.” A shadow of disgust crossed my father’s face. He didn’t even bother to ask for my side of the story. “Well, maybe some hard labor will cure her of that attitude,” he muttered coldly. “She’s starting to sound just like her hysterical mother. Bring the cake in and put it on the table.” I kept my head down and followed them inside. On the screen, the camera captured the room. The exquisite, hand-carved marble desk—the one my grandmother had passed down to my mother—had been painted a gaudy pink and converted into a plush bed for Ruby’s toy poodle. In my ear, my mother’s voice trembled with a ragged, weeping breath. “How… how could he? Charles promised me he would honor my mother’s memory… How could he let her treat my inheritance like garbage?” But I felt nothing. I was entirely numb. On their first wedding anniversary, during one of my mother’s severe depressive episodes, she had pushed Ruby in a fit of panic. Ruby fell, suffered a miscarriage, and was told she could never have children again. From that day on, my mother was labeled a criminal. And on every subsequent anniversary, Charles would bring Ruby to this very house, using the desk my grandmother loved to indulge their desires, leaving their marks all over it. Afterward, he would force my mother to kneel, weeping, and scrub the wood clean. He systematically broke her, piece by piece, forcing her to watch exactly how much he adored another woman. I placed the cake box down and spoke in a flat, customer-service drone. “Please remember to leave a five-star review on the app. Have a good day.” As I turned to leave, the ragged sobbing in my ear grew louder, shaking the tiny speaker. “Why would Charles do this? He loved me. When we were younger and those thugs cornered me, he took a knife for me. He nearly lost a kidney protecting me!” “Izzy, please tell me this is a joke. It’s a prank, right? It has to be!” I let out a hollow, bitter smile. So that was where his scar came from. He had saved her. No wonder that very scar later became his deepest source of resentment. My throat felt dry, choked with unshed tears. I didn’t know what to say. Footsteps echoed behind me. My father caught up to me in the hallway, pulling a thin stack of bills from his leather wallet. He thrust them toward me, his expression dark. “That’s enough of this little drama. If you need pocket money, just ask. Don’t play the martyr like your mother. It’s pathetic.” I reached out and took only the smallest bill—a ten-dollar bill—and offered him a polite, hollow nod. “Thank you for the tip. I’ll take the trash out on my way. Enjoy your evening.” His jaw clenched, irritation flaring in his eyes. “Did she teach you that passive-aggressive tone, too? Eighteen years, and her tricks are still as cheap as ever.” “I’m warning you one last time. As long as you don’t touch Ruby, I don’t care what you do. But if you dare hurt her again, I won’t hesitate to ruin you.” With that parting threat, he slammed the door. On my phone screen, my mother’s eyes were wide, red-rimmed with utter disbelief. “How… how did he become this monster?” “But if it’s true… if things really get this bad… why didn’t I take you and leave?” “I’m a principal ballerina! I have my own career, my own money! Why would I stay and endure this torture?” My silence slowly drained the last embers of hope from her face. The terrible truth began to dawn on her. “So… eighteen years from now… I don’t dance anymore, do I?” Before I could answer, my phone vibrated, interrupting our call with an incoming line. It was the hospital nurse, her voice clipped and impatient. “Isabel? Your mother’s medical bill is still short three hundred dollars. Today is the absolute deadline. How much longer before you get here?” My voice was barely a whisper. “I have the money. I’m on my way.” Hanging up, I looked back at the video call, staring deep into the eyes of the young mother on the screen. “Come,” I said softly. “Let me show you who you are in eighteen years.” I walked down the sterile hospital corridor and stopped outside room 302. I angled my phone camera through the small glass pane of the door. The woman inside sat in a wheelchair. She was so emaciated her hospital gown practically swallowed her. Her face was hollow, devoid of life. When the draft from the AC blew, the right pant leg of her pajamas fluttered, completely empty. In my ear, my mother’s voice was a terrified shiver. “Izzy… is that… me? Her right leg…” “It’s gone,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Charles had someone break it.” My mother gasped, a sound of pure agony. “He knew… he knew dancing was my entire life. Why would he do that? What happened?” I smiled, the taste of salt on my lips. “Because Ruby claimed you put sewing needles in her ballet slippers. Charles didn’t even bother to check. He just took a lead pipe to your knee.” Silence stretched across the eighteen-year gap. It was absurd. On a single, unverified accusation, he had shattered her legs, and along with them, her dream of ever standing on a stage again. I pushed the heavy door open and entered the room. The moment the woman in the wheelchair saw me, her eyes clouded with sudden, manic rage. She grabbed a ceramic vase from the bedside table and hurled it at my head. I ducked, but the vase shattered against the doorframe, a stray shard slicing a clean line across my cheek. My mother—the eighteen-years-older version—began to scream at me, her voice cracked and hysterical. “Charles! You bastard! Aren’t you supposed to be in bed with that whore? Why are you here to mock me? Get out! Get out!” I calmly wiped the bead of blood from my cheek, speaking softly to the terrified young woman still on my phone screen. “I look too much like him. Whenever she has an episode, she mistakes me for my father.” “Now do you see? It’s not that you didn’t want to take me and leave. It’s that you were too sick. You couldn’t.” On the screen, my young mother bit her lip until it bled. “When… when did it start? The sickness?” I thought back. “The night you found out you were pregnant with me. You came home to surprise him and caught them together. The shock triggered your first psychotic break.” “After that, whenever Charles wanted to spend the night with Ruby without being disturbed, he’d have you committed to the psychiatric ward for a few days.” Looking at her devastated face, I asked gently, “Do you want to talk to her?” She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “No. There’s no point.” “Is there really nothing we can do? Are we completely helpless?” In the heavy, suffocating silence of the hospital room, I whispered the only truth left to us. “For us, yes. It’s too late. But for you… you still have a choice. Abort the baby. Pack your bags. Leave tonight, and never let him find you.” “Break it off cleanly, and never look back.” She fell silent. Suddenly, through the speaker, I heard a man’s voice calling out from eighteen years ago—my father’s voice, warm and full of false tenderness. “Margot? Who are you talking to? You’ve been on the phone forever.” The line went dead. I tucked my phone away and firmly but gently forced the woman in the wheelchair to take her medication. As the sedatives took hold, the manic red left her eyes. She looked at my bleeding cheek, her face crumpling with guilt. “Izzy… I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you again?” I shook my head. “It’s okay, Mom.” She reached into her thin hospital gown, pulling out a faded cloth pouch and stuffing it into my hands with desperate urgency. “This is all the money I’ve managed to hide over the years. Take it. Go to college. Don’t worry about me anymore!” Then, her eyes fell on my bright yellow delivery vest, and she froze. “Izzy… why are you wearing that? Weren’t you supposed to register at the dorms today?” My heart ached, but I forced a reassuring smile and lied. “My classes don’t start for another two weeks, Mom. I’m just doing some food delivery to earn extra pocket money.” I pushed the pouch back into her hands. “I have money. And you’re my mother. Even if I leave, I’m taking you with me.” Tears welled in her eyes. “You’re such a good girl, sweetheart. I’m so sorry I ruined your life.” “If there is a next life, promise me you’ll be born to a better mother. Don’t choose someone like me.” I frowned, cutting her off gently. “Mom, stop talking like that. I’m going to the cafeteria to get us some dinner. Stay here and be good, okay?” She nodded, looking small in her bed. But as I walked back down the hall with a tray of food, I ran straight into Ruby. She was resting her hand on her flat stomach, a smug, venomous smile on her lips. “Izzy. I have wonderful news. You’re going to have a little brother.” “Charles hasn’t stopped trying for eighteen years, and all those fertility treatments finally paid off.” I stared at her coldly. “Congratulations. Now get out of my way, I need to feed my mother.” Ruby covered her mouth, letting out a soft, mocking laugh. “Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about that anymore.” My chest tightened. She let out a cruel, airy giggle. “Your mother is in the ICU right now. I don’t think she has much of an appetite.” The plastic tray slipped from my hands, shattering on the tile floor. I bolted toward the emergency wing. Just as I arrived, the double doors swung open, and the doctor stepped out, removing his surgical mask. He offered me a grim, apologetic bow. “Isabel… I’m so sorry. The blunt force trauma to her skull was too severe. We did everything we could.” My world shattered into a thousand silent pieces. In a blind, suffocating rage, I lunged forward, grabbing Ruby by her collar and screaming, “What did you do to her?!” She didn’t even flinch. She just smiled, her voice dripping with artificial innocence. “I only told her the truth, Izzy. I told her that I tore up your college acceptance letter and took all your money. I told her you had to drop out of school to pay her bills. She got so hysterical she threw herself headfirst against the concrete wall.” My fingers trembled, every fiber of my being wanting to strangle the life out of her. “Isabel! Stop it right now!” A heavy hand ripped me away. My father stood there, shielding Ruby, his eyes blazing with fury. “Is is how Margot raised you? To assault your elders? To have absolutely no respect?” “If I had known you’d turn out like this, I would have never let her give birth to you.” His words were a jagged blade, twisting into the last remaining pieces of my heart. This face—the face my mother had loved more than her own life—was utterly monstrous. I let out a wet, hollow laugh, tears burning my eyes. “Dad… she killed her…” “Oh, Charles, my stomach… it hurts so much. I think I’m losing the baby!” Ruby gasped, collapsing into his arms. Panic seized my father. He scooped her up in his arms, running down the hall without looking back, leaving me alone with my mother’s ghost. A nurse stepped up beside me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Isabel… right before your mother lost consciousness, she asked me to give you a message.” “She said she didn’t want to be a burden to you anymore. She hid a life insurance policy in the second drawer of her bedside table. She wants you to take the payout and go to college.” I wheeled my mother’s sheet-covered body toward the morgue, sobbing uncontrollably. Suddenly, my phone rang. On the screen, the eighteen-year-old version of my mother was pale, her face stripped of all color, but her jaw was set with fierce determination. “Izzy, you were right. Charles told me he had to work late tonight.” “I was planning to surprise him with some homemade soup. That must have been how I caught them in your timeline.” “I threw the soup out. I’m at the airport. My flight to Austin, Texas leaves in thirty minutes.” I wiped my tears, a broken, hysterical laugh escaping my throat. “That’s wonderful, Mom! You’re free! You’re finally free!” But as she looked at me, she noticed the white sheet draped over the gurney behind me. Her eyes widened in horror. “Izzy… what is that?” I told her the truth. I told her everything. Her voice shook with a terrible, violent grief. “Sweetheart, don’t worry. I swear to you, I will never let that happen again.” Suddenly, the gurney was blocked. A sharp, stinging slap cracked across my face, sending me stumbling. I looked up to see my father, his face contorted in absolute rage. “Isabel, did your mother tell you to poison the cake? Is that why Ruby is having an allergic reaction?” “Ruby is hemorrhaging. Call your mother right now. We need her for a blood transfusion.” I cupped my burning cheek, staring at him. With all the strength I had left, I pushed the gurney directly into his chest. “Here,” I whispered, my voice dripping with venom. “Here she is. Take her.” My father’s scowl deepened, his teeth grinding together. “Do you think I’m an idiot? Your mother was just spotted out with another man, and now you’re playing dead?” He pulled out his phone, shoving a social media post in my face. On the screen, a photo from today showed my mother smiling radiantly, snuggled into the arms of a handsome man. The caption read: Snuck out of the psych ward. Finally realized what real happiness feels like. In my earbud, my mother’s voice was sharp with panic. “My body is right there! How could I post that? That’s Ruby’s doing. She must have used AI to fake that photo!” “Izzy, pull back the sheet! Show him! Show him my body!” I let out a tired, cynical laugh. It was always the same tricks. Ruby had used them for eighteen years. Whenever my mother went to therapy, Ruby rumored she was sleeping with her therapist. When my mother got into a car accident, Ruby claimed she was too busy staring at a handsome pedestrian to watch the road. And Charles believed every single lie. He was the one who personally signed the papers to put her on the electroshock table. “You like men so much? Let’s see if a few hundred volts can cure your cravings,” he had sneered. My mother had screamed all night. And I had sat outside the steel door, listening to every single volt tear through her brain. My chest burned with the memory of that agonizing pain. Charles stood before me, laughing coldly. “What’s the matter? Forgot to coordinate your stories? Or did Margot forget to give you your script?” In my ear, my young mother was crying out. “Izzy, pull the sheet down! No matter how much he hates me, he won’t be able to deny the truth when he sees me!” She was still so young. She still held onto a shred of naive hope that there was a shred of humanity left in him. I sighed and pulled the white sheet down. Charles froze. Every muscle in his body turned to stone. “Margot?” His hand trembled, his fingers reaching out to touch her cold, grey cheek. Suddenly, a hand yanked at his sleeve. Ruby was sitting in a wheelchair, pushed by a nurse. Her face was pale, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Charles… the nurse told me a few days ago that Margot ordered a hyper-realistic silicone doll of her own corpse. I didn’t believe it, but she actually did it… just to get out of saving me.” “Even if she hates me, she didn’t have to curse herself like this…” “Charles, let her go. My baby and I don’t need her blood. I’d rather buy a coffin and bury us both.” Ruby sobbed, trying to turn the wheelchair away, but Charles grabbed her. His eyes turned incredibly cold as he looked back at me. “I didn’t think your mother could stoop this low. If she won’t give her blood, then you will.” “She claims to love you so much. Let’s see how long she can hide while her daughter bleeds for us.” He grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the clinic room. In my ear, my young mother’s screams were deafening. “No! Charles, don’t touch my daughter! Let her go!” But he didn’t hear her. He pinned me to the chair, and the cold needle slid into my vein. He took my blood and rushed back to Ruby. I collapsed onto the cold, tiled floor, draining of strength. In my ear, my mother was weeping, her heart breaking over the static of eighteen years. A generic airport announcement crackled in the background of her call. “Final boarding call for Flight 442 to Austin. All remaining passengers please proceed to gate 12 immediately.” As my vision began to fade into black, a small, genuine smile touched my lips. “Congratulations, Mom,” I whispered. “You’re finally free.”

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