Category: English

My husband, a decorated undercover agent, was on a mission to dismantle a drug cartel. To rescue a hostage girl, he endured a month of torture at the hands of drug dealers. When he was finally rescued, his body was not only covered in scars, but he also developed a severe physiological disorder. The doctor said it was psychological trauma and couldn’t be forced. My heart ached for him. For three years, I didn’t even dare to breathe loudly in my sleep, afraid of disturbing his fragile nerves. I not only spent all our savings on his treatment but also supported the poor rescued girl through school. On the day of the police commendation ceremony, the large screen mistakenly played an unreleased surveillance video. In the footage, the man who was so meek and mild with me was pinning the girl to a table, wildly unleashing his frustrations. His mouth was full of obscenities, and his movements were as violent as a beast. He frantically covered my eyes. “Don’t look! That was just an act to gain the drug lord’s trust!” “Tech team! Who put that video on?! Shut it down immediately!” Chief Miller’s roar echoed through the auditorium. The blinding white light vanished from the large screen, and the entire hall plunged into a dead, silent darkness. I was frozen in my seat, my hands and feet icy cold. The hand covering my eyes carried the familiar scent of his tobacco. But it was this very hand that, moments ago on the screen, had been fiercely clutching another girl’s hair. “Eleanor, don’t look.” Ethan’s voice was in my ear, as steady as ever, but with a hint of imperceptible tension. I didn’t move, nor did I speak. My fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of my dress, wringing the soft fabric into a hard knot. This was my nervous habit. The lights flickered back on with a ‘snap’, stinging my eyes. The gazes of colleagues, family members, everyone around me, focused on me like spotlights. Pity, curiosity, disdain, schadenfreude. Ethan released my eyes, his face pale under the lights, but his gaze remained calm. He took off his crisp police jacket and draped it over me, shielding my slightly trembling shoulders. “It’s a misunderstanding. Just a special tactic during an interrogation.” He explained to the people around him, his voice not loud, but clear enough for the first few rows to hear. “Everyone, please continue. Don’t let this little interruption affect the commendation ceremony.” His tone was calm, as if the video on the screen, which bordered on explicit, was truly just an inconsequential work recording. Chief Miller hurried over, his face etched with apology and concern. “Eleanor, are you okay? Those tech guys messed up; I’ll deal with them later!” His gaze towards me was one of pure, elder-like concern. For three years, the entire police force knew about Ethan’s condition. They also knew that to care for him, I had quit my job and stayed by his side constantly. In their eyes, I was a great, enduring, self-sacrificing police wife. But now, that greatness had become a huge joke. “I’m fine, Chief Miller.” I spoke, my voice dry. Ethan put his arm around my shoulder, his grip firm, with an undeniable force. “I’ll take her back to rest first.” He didn’t give anyone a chance to ask further questions, moving through countless complex gazes and leaving the auditorium. Cold wind gusted into the hallway, and I shivered. It wasn’t until we were in the car that he released me. The space in the car was narrow. The scent of sweat and wildness mixed on him now smelled incredibly nauseating. I turned to look out the window, my stomach churning. “That was fake.” He started the car, finally speaking. “What was fake?” “What happened in the video was an act for the drug dealer, to gain trust.” His explanation was exactly as I had expected: calm, rational, and flawless. “That girl, Maya, she was deeply entrenched at the time. Without some special tactics, she wouldn’t have spoken.” “I thought that kind of material had been destroyed long ago. I didn’t expect the tech team to make such a mistake.” He drove, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. “I know it’s hard for you to accept, but that’s my job.” “Eleanor, you need to understand me.” Understand. Those two words again. For three years, I had understood the trauma he suffered from his failed mission, understood his physiological disorder, understood all his sensitivities and vulnerabilities. I cared for him like a fragile porcelain doll. But I couldn’t understand how he could, with a poker face, be intimate with another woman on a table. In front of me, even a touch felt like torture. The car stopped downstairs. I didn’t move. Ethan unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned over. His face was very close to mine. The eyes that once captivated me were now filled with fatigue and a complex emotion I couldn’t decipher. “Don’t sulk, okay?” His voice was gentle, coaxing. “Maya is still waiting for us upstairs. She was terrified today.” This sentence was like a bucket of ice water poured over my head. I suddenly turned, staring intently at him. “Why is she in our house?” Ethan’s brows furrowed, and a hint of impatience flashed in his eyes. “She’s scared to live alone. She just moved in a few days ago.” “I thought I told you.” He said it as if it were a given, as if this wasn’t my home, but just a hotel that could take in anyone. I clenched my fists, my nails digging deep into my palms. He hadn’t said anything, he hadn’t said a word. I pushed open the car door, stumbling upstairs. The key slid into the lock, taking several turns before it clicked. As the door opened, an unfamiliar perfume scent wafted out. In the entryway, a pair of pink high heels, not mine, stood. On the living room sofa, a woman’s jacket was tossed. On the coffee table, half-eaten snacks and a fashion magazine lay. Everything here announced the presence of another mistress. Maya emerged from the master bedroom, wearing my pajamas. That silk nightgown was something I had bought for my birthday, gritting my teeth, never daring to wear it. Now, it hung loosely on Maya’s slender body, the neckline wide, revealing large patches of intimate red marks. “Ethan, Eleanor, you’re back?” She saw us, her face showing a terrified, rabbit-like expression, and instinctively pulled at her neckline. “I’m sorry, Eleanor, your pajamas… all my clothes were in the wash. Ethan told me to wear yours for now.” She looked at me timidly, her eyes watery, as if I were the villain who had usurped her place. Ethan walked in, naturally taking the water glass from Maya’s hand and taking a sip. “Scared, weren’t you? It’s okay now.” He patted Maya’s head, a gesture intimate and natural. That kind of tenderness, I had only seen in him when he first returned from his mission, when he was at his most vulnerable. “I’m going to cook.” I dropped the words, fleeing into the kitchen. Cold water rinsed my hands, but I felt no coolness at all. My body was like a ball of lit cotton, burning from the inside out. I could hear them talking in low voices in the living room. “Ethan, is Eleanor angry? It’s all my fault.” Maya’s voice was tearful. “Don’t overthink it, she’s just having trouble processing it.” Ethan’s voice was heavy. “You’ve been through a fright today. Go back to your room and rest early.” “But I’m scared. The moment I close my eyes, I see the images from the surveillance footage.” “Then I’ll keep you company for a while.” The door closed softly. I turned off the tap, leaning against the cold countertop, trembling all over. So, he wasn’t unable to perform. He just… couldn’t perform for me. For dinner, I made three dishes and a soup, all of Ethan’s favorites. At the dinner table, for the first time, I didn’t serve him as usual. The atmosphere was terribly stifling. Maya kept her head down, picking at her rice in small bites, her eyes red. Ethan’s face wasn’t good either. He put down his chopsticks after only a few bites. “I’m full.” He stood up, pulled a wad of money from his wallet, and placed it on the table. “This month’s living expenses. Let me know if it’s not enough.” I looked at the stack of crisp red banknotes, finding them incredibly jarring. Since when had our relationship been reduced to this? “Maya’s tuition and rent, are they also coming from this?” I asked on a whim. Ethan’s movements paused. He turned to look at me, his eyes turning cold. “She’s just a girl, alone and helpless. It’s only right that I help her.” “Eleanor, I thought you weren’t so petty.” Petty? I had spent all our savings on his so-called “illness.” I had sold the jewelry my mother left me to support the “poor” girl he spoke of through school. In the end, all I got was being called petty. My heart felt as if an invisible hand was squeezing it, aching to the point of breathless. “Yes, I am petty.” I looked up, meeting his gaze. “Ethan, make her move out.” “This is our home.” Maya’s chopsticks clattered to the floor. She flinched, her shoulders hunched, and tears fell. Ethan’s face completely darkened. He didn’t look at me. Instead, he walked to Maya, bent down, and picked up the chopsticks. “Don’t be scared.” He pulled Maya up, shielding her behind him, as if facing some heinous enemy. “Eleanor, have you made enough of a scene?” I looked at him protecting another woman, and let out a laugh, though tears streamed down my face against my will. “Ethan, who’s making a scene?” “For three years, because of you, I’ve lived like a ghost.” “I didn’t dare to speak loudly, didn’t dare to sleep with the lights off, afraid of disturbing your fragile nerves.” “I treated you as my world, my everything, but what about you?” “You were intimate with other women outside, then came home and told me it was for work!” “How can I believe that? How can I understand?” My voice grew louder and louder, almost a scream. Three years of accumulated grievances and pain completely erupted at this moment. Maya trembled even more violently behind him, crying, “Eleanor, don’t blame Ethan. It’s all my fault. If it weren’t for saving me, he wouldn’t have…” “Shut up!” Ethan suddenly roared, cutting Maya off. The coldness in his eyes almost froze me. “Eleanor, do you think I’m lying to you?” I bit my lip, not speaking, but the distrust in my eyes said it all. He suddenly smiled, a smile filled with self-mockery and an indescribable weariness. “Fine, since you don’t believe me, I’ll show you the evidence.” He took out his phone, rapidly tapped the screen a few times, then threw the phone in front of me. On the screen was a hospital diagnostic report: severe PTSD, accompanied by serious physiological dysfunction. The words, stark black on white, stung my eyes. Below it were several videos, recordings of his psychological hypnotherapy sessions. In the videos, he was like a helpless child, curled up in a ball on the sofa, covered in cold sweat, babbling words I couldn’t understand. It was a side of Ethan I had never seen, his most vulnerable. “Did you see?” His voice was extremely hoarse. “The doctor said my trauma stemmed from that month of torment. I have an instinctive aversion and fear of all intimate contact.” “The reason for the ‘accident’ with Maya.” He paused, seemingly searching for the right words. “The doctor analyzed that it might be because she went through the same hell as me; my subconscious saw her as safe, so it deactivated its defense mechanism.” “This is a pathological reaction, not a betrayal.” His explanation sounded flawless, even with scientific rigor. It turned out I wasn’t his exception. I was the unsafe factor that was excluded. “So, I’m the cause of your illness, am I right?” I mumbled. Ethan seemed not to expect me to say that, and he paused. He walked over, tried to hug me, but I abruptly took a step back. His outstretched hand froze in mid-air, his expression complex. “Eleanor, it’s not what you think.” “I love you. I just want to live a good life with you.” “Give me some time, okay? I’ll cure myself.” His voice was very soft, with a hint of pleading. I felt like I was going crazy. That night, for the first time, Ethan didn’t sleep in the study. He lay beside me, his body rigid, but our hearts were separated by an uncrossable chasm. The next morning, I woke up, and Ethan was already gone. I listlessly packed a few clothes into my suitcase. I needed to leave here and cool down. I sent Ethan a message, telling him I was going to stay at my mother’s for a few days. He didn’t reply. I dragged my suitcase downstairs. At the community gate, I saw Ethan’s car parked not far away. He hadn’t left. A mix of emotions flashed through me. I pulled my suitcase, walking step by step towards his car. The car window rolled down, but it wasn’t Ethan’s face that appeared. It was Chief Miller. “Eleanor, where are you going?” Chief Miller’s expression was very serious. “I… I’m going home to stay for a few days.” Chief Miller sighed and opened the car door. “Get in, let’s talk.” The car didn’t head towards my parents’ house. Instead, it circled the city’s most congested main road, round and round. “That kid, Ethan, he’s stubborn and difficult.” Chief Miller said, driving. “I know you’ve been wronged, but you also know what he’s been through these past three years.” “That month was hell; if it were me, I might have gone crazy long ago.” I lowered my head, my fingers again unconsciously twisting the hem of my dress. I had heard these words countless times. “I know.” “Not only do you know, but you’ve done very well.” Chief Miller glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Everyone in the team says Ethan accumulated good karma for eight lifetimes to marry such a good wife like you.” “But Eleanor, some things can’t be solved just by being ‘good’.” My heart clenched sharply. “Chief Miller, do you know something?” Chief Miller was silent for a long time, so long that I thought he wouldn’t speak again. He parked the car by the river and lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag. “Regarding Maya, what Ethan told you wasn’t entirely true.” My stomach suddenly cramped, and a wave of nausea washed over me. This physical reaction was even faster than my brain. I didn’t expect his next words to completely push me into the abyss.

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Walking past the stairwell, I overheard two interns whispering about their salaries. “Take a guess, what did I get? $85,000!” “Not bad! I just cleared $75,000.” I froze in my tracks. I have been at this company for exactly seven years. My first year, my starting salary was $35,000. My second year, it bumped to $36,000. The boss called it an “exceptional exception.” My third year, I started leading teams independently. My salary went to $39,000. Years four, five, and six… my salary didn’t budge a single cent. During that time, I personally closed eight major enterprise contracts for the company. This year, my seventh year, the boss said the macroeconomic environment was tough, and my salary was cut to $36,000. Those two new hires, the ones I personally trained, were making more than double what I was making after seven years of bleeding for this place. I let out a bitter laugh and walked straight to the HR Director’s office to hand in my resignation. The HR Director, Brenda, looked shocked. “Why?” “The pay is low, and I’m not happy.” Brenda sighed, her tone heavy with manufactured grief. “Chloe, I know you’ve worked hard these past few years. But the company has its struggles too. The market is brutal right now. Just surviving is an achievement. You’re a veteran here; you, of all people, should be more understanding.”

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The notary’s voice was perfectly calm, as if he were reading from a completely ordinary document. My older sister received five million dollars. My younger brother received five million dollars. Then it was my turn. The notary paused for three seconds and looked up at me. “A photograph.” I froze. “What photograph?” He slid a manila envelope across the polished mahogany table. I opened it. Inside was a picture taken twenty years ago. In the photo, I was seventeen, standing in the backyard of our old house, smiling like an idiot. On the back, written in my father’s handwriting, was a single line— “To my middle girl: Good luck on your SATs.” My sister and brother exchanged a look. Nobody said a word. 1. I stared at that photograph for a very long time. Seventeen-year-old me, hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing my high school track jacket, standing under the old oak tree in our backyard. It was a month before the SATs. Dad had come home from his construction job out of state—a rare occurrence—and said he wanted to take a picture of me. “When you get into a good college, I’m going to blow this picture up and hang it right in the living room.” He was smiling so brightly that day. He had even put on a clean white button-down shirt specifically for the occasion. It was the only photograph he ever took of me in his entire life. And it was the last time he ever said “good luck” to me. “Hey,” my brother’s voice pulled me back to the present. “Are you okay?” I looked up at him. His expression was complicated. He looked like he wanted to comfort me, but had no idea what to say. “I’m fine.” I slid the photo back into the envelope and stood up. “The reading is done, right? I’m going to head out.” “Wait,” my sister called out. “You’re not going to say anything?” I turned around to look at her. My sister was wearing a beige cashmere coat and a pair of heels that looked incredibly expensive. She had moved back from Europe two years ago and bought a condo in downtown Seattle. Supposedly, her in-laws covered the down payment. “Say what?” “I mean…” She hesitated. “Dad splitting it up like this… don’t you think it’s…” “No. I don’t.” I picked up my purse. “It was Dad’s estate. He got to decide what to do with it. The legal work is done. There’s nothing left to say.” “But—” “Look,” I cut her off. “You take your five million, I’ll take my picture, and we all go back to our own lives. Sounds good to me.” My sister opened her mouth but didn’t say anything. My brother stood to the side, looking down at his shoes, lost in thought. I didn’t look at them again. I pushed the door open and walked out. It was drizzling outside, the damp cold biting straight into my bones. I stood under the awning of the law firm and lit a cigarette. I had quit three years ago. Today, I started again. Five million. Five million. A photograph. I let out a short laugh, though I didn’t even know what I was laughing at. Twenty years. From seventeen to thirty-seven, I had sacrificed exactly twenty years of my life for this family. And in the end, what my father gave me was a twenty-year-old picture. My phone rang. It was my mother. “Are you done with the lawyer?” “Yeah, it’s done.” “Where are your sister and brother?” “I don’t know. I left.” “Why didn’t you wait for them?” “Mom.” I took a deep drag of my cigarette. “I’m exhausted. I just want to go home and rest.” “Home? Which home are you going to?” I froze for a second. Right. Which home was I going to? The family house back in our hometown—Dad had written it out crystal clear in the will: it went to my brother. The apartment I rented in the city was five hundred square feet and cost me two thousand five hundred a month. I didn’t own a home. I am thirty-seven years old. Divorced for five years. No kids. My total life savings amount to less than twenty thousand dollars. And the starting point of all of this was that exact photograph. It was that summer when I was seventeen. I had scored in the top one percent of the state on my SATs. My dream was to go to the state’s flagship university and major in English Literature. My dad took one look at my acceptance letter and financial aid package, and said a single sentence— “What does a girl need to read so many books for? Your brother is going to college next year too. Where is this family going to find the money to put two kids through college?” That night, I hid under my covers and cried until dawn. The next morning, I ripped up my acceptance letter and walked down to the local textile factory to apply for a job on the assembly line. That year, I was seventeen. My brother was sixteen. From that day forward, I handed my paycheck directly to my mother. I kept fifty bucks a month for my own living expenses. The rest of it, I sent home. To pay for my brother’s SAT prep courses. To pay for my brother’s college tuition. To pay for his master’s degree. To pay for the down payment on his house. To pay for his wedding. I funded his life for fifteen straight years. “Hello? Are you still there?” My mom’s voice came through the speaker. “I’m here.” “Your sister said she wants to take everyone out to dinner tonight. Sort of a memorial dinner for your dad…” “I’m not going.” “What do you mean you’re not going?!” “Mom. I’m tired.” I hung up the phone. I stood in the rain and lit another cigarette. The photograph was still in my purse. I touched the manila envelope from the outside but didn’t take it out to look at it. Twenty years. I finally knew exactly how much I was worth in my father’s eyes. Not five million. Not fifty thousand. Not five thousand. I was worth a single photograph. A photograph he hadn’t looked at in twenty years. 2. I hailed a cab back to my apartment. The driver asked, “Where to?” I gave him the address. He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You alright, miss? You look a little pale.” “I’m fine. Probably just caught a chill in the rain.” “You gotta take care of yourself in this weather.” I hummed in response, leaned back against the seat, and closed my eyes. My mind was a chaotic mess, flooded entirely with the past. I thought about the day my SAT scores came out. I scored a 1550. My high school guidance counselor called the house, practically screaming with excitement. “Maya! You have the highest score this town has seen in years! You’re a lock for the state university!” My parents were genuinely thrilled for a few days. During that week, a lot of relatives stopped by the house to congratulate us. My uncle said, “Mark, your daughter is going places! She’s gonna make something of herself!” My aunt said, “The flagship state university! She’s the only kid in our whole neighborhood to ever get in!” My mom couldn’t stop grinning, constantly offering everyone slices of watermelon and snacks. My dad just sat on the porch smoking his cigarettes, not saying much, but I could tell he was proud. Those were the happiest few days of my entire memory. And then, the acceptance letter arrived. I remember it vividly. It was mid-April. The mail carrier pulled up in his truck and yelled from the street: “Maya! Your thick envelope is here!” I ran out of the house and took that manila envelope from him, my hands literally shaking. I tore it open. Inside was the formal acceptance packet. “State University, Department of English Literature.” I stared at those words, tears welling up in my eyes. I did it. I really did it. Then my dad took the letter from my hands and looked at the financial aid breakdown. His expression shifted. “How much is the tuition?” I said, “Twelve thousand a year after the scholarships.” “Room and board?” “Eight thousand.” “Living expenses?” “…Probably another few hundred a month for food and books.” My dad didn’t say anything. He set the letter down on the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. That night, my parents stayed in their bedroom talking for a very long time. I pressed my ear against the crack in the door to listen. My mom said, “Let her go. The kid is smart, she’s definitely going to have a good career.” My dad said, “What good is a career? A daughter eventually belongs to another family anyway. Look at the Miller’s girl down the street—she graduated college and still just ended up getting married and staying home. Wasn’t all that tuition money just thrown in the trash?” My mom said, “But…” “Leo has his SATs next year,” my dad interrupted her. “If Maya goes to college, it’s gonna cost us twenty grand a year minimum. What about Leo? If he doesn’t get into a good college, his life is ruined. Maya is a girl. She can just find a husband even if she doesn’t get a degree.” My mom fell silent. Then she asked, “So… how are we going to tell her?” “I’ll tell her.” The next morning, my dad called me out to the backyard. He stood under the oak tree, a cigarette pinched between his fingers, looking out at the distant hills. “Maya.” “Yeah, Dad.” “Your brother has his SATs next year. We don’t have enough money. You…” He didn’t finish the sentence. I understood everything immediately. “Dad. You’re telling me I can’t go, aren’t you?” He didn’t answer. He just dropped his cigarette butt onto the dirt and crushed it with his boot. “You’re a girl. Reading all those books won’t do you any good. Finding a good family to marry into down the road is better than any degree.” I stood there, unable to force a single word out of my mouth. The tears fell, drop by drop, onto the grass. My dad glanced at me and frowned. “What are you crying for? I’m doing this for your own good.” For my own good. He actually said “for my own good.” That night, I put my acceptance letter in the deepest corner of my bottom drawer. I didn’t tear it up. I didn’t burn it. I just left it there. It has been twenty years. I have never opened that drawer again. The cab came to a halt. “We’re here, miss,” the driver said. I snapped out of my daze, paid the fare, and got out. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still an oppressive, heavy gray. I stood outside my apartment building and looked up at my window. Fifth floor. Facing north. Terrible natural light. I’ve lived here for five years. Five years ago, I moved from my hometown to this city. Why did I move? Because my dad got sick. A massive stroke. The doctors said he needed long-term, round-the-clock care. My sister was living in Europe. My brother had just bought a house. My mom was too old to handle the physical labor of caring for a paralyzed man. So, I came. I was thirty-two that year. I had worked at the textile factory in my hometown for fifteen years, finally clawing my way up to shift supervisor. I quit my job, sold the beat-up used Honda I had driven for eight years, moved to this expensive city, rented this cramped apartment, and dedicated my life to taking care of my father. And I took care of him. For five straight years. 3. I unlocked the door. The apartment still smelled exactly the same. Rubbing alcohol, the distinct scent of an elderly invalid, and a faint undertone of mildew. Five years. The smell had seeped into the drywall; it was never going to wash out. I sat down on the cheap futon and pulled the photograph out of my purse. Seventeen-year-old me, smiling so happily. I had no idea back then that three days after that picture was taken, my entire destiny would be derailed. I actually thought getting into college was going to be the beginning of my life. I flipped the photo over and looked at the handwriting on the back. “To my middle girl: Good luck on your SATs.” My dad’s handwriting was sloppy, the penmanship of a man who hadn’t spent much time in school. But I memorized those words for twenty years. Isn’t it hilarious? The man who shattered my dream of going to college was the same man who wrote “Good luck on your SATs” to me. I suddenly remembered exactly how this picture came to be. It was a month before the test. My dad rarely came home from his out-of-state contracting jobs. That day, he came home carrying a camera. It was one of those cheap point-and-shoots. Someone had given it to him; I didn’t even know if it was bought used. “Come here. Let your old man take a picture of you.” I stood under the oak tree, and he held the camera up. “Smile.” I smiled. He clicked the shutter. Then he said, “When you get into a good college, I’m going to blow this picture up and hang it right in the living room.” I nodded, my heart practically bursting with pride. But what happened after that? I didn’t go to college. No, I got in. But I didn’t get to go. The picture was never blown up. It was never hung in the living room. I didn’t even know where it had ended up. I assumed it was lost to time decades ago. Twenty years later, it reappeared in my father’s last will and testament. As the sole inheritance he left me. My phone buzzed. It was a text message. From my brother, Leo. “Maya, the way Dad split things up… I don’t think it’s fair either. How about this, I’ll give you half of my five million?” I stared at the text message, unmoving for a long time. Half. Two and a half million dollars. Enough to buy a nice house in this city. Enough to live comfortably for the rest of my life. I thought about it, then typed out a reply. “No need.” Send. A few seconds later, my phone started ringing. It was Leo. “Maya! Don’t do this out of spite, I’m being completely serious!” “I’m not doing it out of spite.” “Then why won’t you take it?” “Because it’s not your money to give.” Leo fell silent. “What do you mean?” “That five million was left to you by Dad. If Dad decided to split it that way, he obviously had his reasons. You keep it.” “But…” “Leo.” I cut him off. “Do you remember who paid your tuition when you went to college?” Dead silence on the other end of the line. “I paid it,” I said. “Three years of high school test prep, four years of undergrad, two years of your master’s program. Your tuition, your rent, your groceries, even the expensive LSAT prep courses you took. I paid for all of it.” “Maya, I know, I’ve always remembered—” “As long as you remember, that’s enough,” I said. “But I don’t need you to pay me back. I gave you that money willingly back then. Consider it a gift from your big sister.” “Maya…” “When you got married, do you remember how much the wedding and the down payment on your house cost?” Leo didn’t say anything. “A hundred thousand dollars,” I said. “I gave you twenty thousand out of pocket. The other eighty thousand came from Mom and Dad, and forty thousand of that was from the paychecks I had been sending home for years.” “Maya, I…” “And what about when I got married? How much did Mom and Dad give me?” Leo still didn’t speak. “Four hundred bucks,” I answered my own question. “In a red envelope. And they only gave it to me at the reception in front of the extended family so they wouldn’t lose face.” “Maya, things were really tight for the family back then—” “Tight for who?!” My voice rose involuntarily. “The year you bought your house, Mom and Dad magically produced eighty thousand dollars in cash. But the year I got married, things were so ‘tight’ they could only scrape together four hundred bucks?” “I didn’t mean it like that…” “Leo.” I took a deep breath. “I’m not bringing this up to demand money from you. I’m telling you this so you understand: I have already given enough to this family for one lifetime.” “Maya…” “You keep the five million. From now on, you and Chloe can figure out what to do with Mom. I wash my hands of it.” “What are you talking about?” “I’m tired.” I hung up the phone. I leaned back against the futon and stared at the water stains on the ceiling. I’m tired. I am so, incredibly tired. 4. I picked up the photograph again. Seventeen-year-old me, standing under the oak tree, smiling so radiantly. Back then, I truly believed that as long as I worked hard, I could change my destiny. Back then, I truly believed my parents wouldn’t let me go to college because we were genuinely poor. But what happened later? The year my brother got into college, my parents not only paid his tuition in full, but they also bought him a brand-new MacBook. That was in 2008. A MacBook cost almost two thousand dollars. I had been working at the textile factory for five years at that point, and my monthly salary was barely six hundred dollars. The year my brother graduated with his master’s, my parents paid the down payment on his house in the city. Eighty thousand dollars. Half of it was the money I had been sending home for years, combined with whatever my parents had saved. Even then, I still naively thought: Oh, the family’s financial situation has improved, Mom and Dad have more breathing room now, so they can help Leo. I never let myself think about how much of that money was built on my own blood, sweat, and tears. Now, I understand. From the very beginning, my dad never intended to let me go to college. It wasn’t because we didn’t have the money. It was because I was a daughter. “What does a girl need to read so many books for?” When he said those words, his eyes were perfectly calm. Like he was stating a universal law of nature. A daughter is meant to step aside for her brother. A daughter is meant to be sacrificed for her brother. A daughter is meant to marry someone and have kids. That was his philosophy. And it’s the philosophy of a lot of people. I looked down at the photo. “To my middle girl: Good luck on your SATs.” Heh. That was the absolute limit of my father’s expectations for me. Good luck. And then what? Then he told me I wasn’t allowed to go. I tossed the photo onto the coffee table, stood up, and went to the tiny kitchenette to pour a glass of tap water. It was pitch black outside, and the rain had started up again. I thought back to five years ago. That day, my brother called me in a panic, saying Dad was in the hospital after a massive stroke. “Maya, the doctors say it’s really bad. Can you come home?” I took a red-eye Greyhound bus back that same night. When I got to the hospital, my dad was lying in the ICU, the entire right side of his body paralyzed. My mom sat next to the bed, her eyes swollen from crying. Where was my sister? In Europe. She made a five-minute phone call saying she “absolutely couldn’t get time off work” and told my mom to “take care of herself.” Where was my brother? Pacing the hallway outside the room, aggressively whispering into his phone. I walked closer and caught snippets of his conversation: “The mortgage is due next month… with Dad being sick like this, I literally do not have the cash flow right now…” That night, the attending physician called us into his office. “The patient’s prognosis isn’t great. He’s going to require long-term, intensive rehabilitation and 24/7 care. Your family needs to discuss who will be assuming the role of primary caregiver.” I looked at my mom. She was in her late sixties and her own health was failing. I looked at my brother. He had just gotten married, and his wife was pregnant with their first child. My sister was in Europe, so she wasn’t even an option. “I’ll do it.” When I said those words, I didn’t hesitate. Because I knew there was no one else. Growing up, whenever anything went wrong in this family, I was always the safety net. “Maya, what about your job at the factory?” my brother asked. “I’ll quit.” “But—” “There’s no ‘buts,’” I said. “You focus on your new family. Mom is too old, and Chloe can’t come back. I’ll take care of Dad.” Leo opened his mouth but didn’t say anything to stop me. My mom grabbed my hands and cried. “Maya, I’m so sorry to put this burden on you…” “Mom, I’m his daughter. Isn’t taking care of him my duty?” When I said that, I actually believed it. Looking back now, it’s hilarious. Taking care of him was my “duty,” but when it came to his estate, what exactly was my share? Five years. Over one thousand eight hundred days. I rolled him over in bed to prevent bedsores. I sponge-bathed him. I spoon-fed him. I did his physical therapy exercises with him. I dragged him to the hospital for check-ups, for physical therapy, for prescription refills, for emergency admissions. I woke up every two to three hours every single night to make sure he hadn’t kicked his blankets off, or accidentally pulled out his catheter. I didn’t sleep through the night once in five years. I didn’t take a single vacation or travel anywhere. I didn’t make a single friend in this city. I quit my job at thirty-two. Now, at thirty-seven, I found out I was completely unemployable. —Who wants to hire a thirty-seven-year-old woman with no college degree and a massive five-year gap on her resume? And the origin point of all of this was that photograph. It was that summer when I was seventeen. It was my dad asking, “What does a girl need to read so many books for?” And now? My dad is dead. His estate was liquidated for ten million dollars. My sister got five million. My brother got five million. And me? A twenty-year-old picture. I stood by the window holding my glass of water, watching the rain hit the glass. I finally understood. That photograph was proof of the very last time my father ever truly “saw” me. Twenty years ago, he still remembered to take a picture of me and tell me “good luck.” For the next twenty years, the only people he saw were my sister and my brother. What he gave me wasn’t an inheritance. It was a reminder. A reminder that said: You were never important. ***

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The day the earth shook, my fiancé’s “charity case,” Daisy Miller, insisted on finishing her last bite of Beef Wellington. Dominic Blackwood’s voice was like ice as he issued the order to our security detail: “No one moves until she’s finished. We leave together.” My hearing has always been unnaturally sharp—a curse of hyper-sensitivity. I heard it before anyone else: the sickening crack of structural stone deep within the foundation. I didn’t wait. I signaled the guards to grab Dominic and evacuate the VIP lounge immediately. When Daisy finally stood up to chase after him, crying out his name, a massive slab of the ceiling mirrored her movement, pinning her to the polished marble floor. She died instantly. Months later, during what was supposed to be our honeymoon, Dominic dragged me to the edge of a jagged cliff. He didn’t use a gun. He used stones. He pelted me, his face twisted in a mask of grief-driven rage, until I broke. “It’s your fault!” he screamed as I fell. “If you hadn’t forced me out, Daisy would still be alive. She was just a girl who liked nice things! What was her crime? Being hungry?” He knew I was three months pregnant with his child. He didn’t care. I woke up with a gasp, the phantom pain of stones crushing my ribs still echoing in my chest. I was back in that high-end restaurant. The air smelled of expensive wine and buttery pastry. This time, if he wants to wait for her to finish her steak, he can wait until the world ends. 1 “What’s the rush?” Dominic snapped, his eyes scanning the room with arrogant dismissal. “We aren’t in a major fault zone. It’s just a tremor. We wait until Daisy finishes her meal.” He leaned back, adjusting his silk tie. “If anyone tries to sneak out before then, consider your career with Blackwood Industries over.” He was used to being a god, a man whose word could stop the rotation of the earth. I sat across from him, my heart hammering against my ribs, the memory of my own death still burning in my veins. I quietly reached into my clutch and hit the record button on my phone. The sound of fracturing stone was getting louder. I knew the rhythm of this disaster. In exactly two minutes, the ceiling would come down. At a nearby table, a service dog began to whine and pace, its hackles raised. Its owner looked panicked. “Mr. Blackwood, please. We should get to the street. The steak can wait.” The Beef Wellington was still steaming. Daisy sliced a piece, her eyes wide and innocent, the very picture of a waifish girl who had never known luxury until Dominic plucked her from a community college scholarship pool. “The meat is so tender,” she whispered, looking at Dominic with hero-worship. “I’ve never had anything like this in my life.” Dominic’s expression softened into something sickeningly doting. “It’s top-shelf Wagyu, flown in from Japan this morning. It would be a tragedy to let it go to waste.” In my last life, I had obsessively tracked the shipping records of that “imported” beef, wanting to leave some at her grave out of a twisted sense of guilt. I never found a record. It wasn’t until much later that I learned Dominic had raised that cow himself on a private estate—a strange, obsessive project. He had slaughtered it specifically for her. The restaurant manager looked at me, pleading. “Ms. West, please. Talk to him. If this is a real quake, lives are at stake.” I took a slow, deliberate sip of my Cabernet, feeling the cool liquid coat my throat. I wasn’t going to save him this time. I wasn’t going to save anyone. Before Daisy entered the picture, Dominic and I were the “it” couple of the city—the power duo. But the moment he started “mentoring” her, the dynamic shifted. I became the cold, demanding corporate shark, and she was the soft, “pure” light he needed to protect. I looked up at the ornate ceiling, my voice calm. “The CEO said we wait. Everyone stay in your seats. I’m sure everything is under control.” As the guests began to murmur in protest, the first major jolt hit. A massive ornamental medallion tore free from the ceiling, crashing between two tables with a sound like a bomb going off. A shard of flying plaster sliced across Daisy’s calf, leaving a thin red line of blood. She let out a piercing, theatrical sob. “Dominic! It hurts… I think my leg is broken!” “Hold on, I’ve got you,” Dominic moved faster than I’d ever seen, his movements frantic and tender. He scooped her up like she was made of glass. Then, he turned on me, his face contorted with fury. “Margot! You’re supposed to have those ‘super-ears,’ aren’t you? You heard the ceiling cracking! Why didn’t you tell us to move? You let her get hurt!” I lowered my gaze, masking the cold smile touching my lips behind my wine glass. “I’m so sorry. I must have misjudged the frequency. I’ll hold myself accountable.” It seems I was the only one who came back. What a wonderful, terrifying gift. Dominic reached out and slapped the wine glass from my hand. The red liquid sprayed across my white Dior gown like a fresh wound. “Stop acting like a statue and get out! Move! Before something else falls!” A tremor shook the floor, causing me to lose my balance on the debris. I slipped, my ankle twisting sharply. Dominic didn’t even look back. He carried Daisy toward the emergency exit, casting one final, icy glance over his shoulder. “Stop being dramatic, Margot. It’s just a fall. If you don’t want to die, get up.” I sat on the floor, my palms pressed into the grit and dust, watching his back disappear. My fingers curled into fists. Dominic seemed to have forgotten that we were here for our engagement party. I was supposed to be the lead, but I had been relegated to a background extra in the story of his “pure” obsession. That was fine. This time, the ending wouldn’t be a cliffside in the rain. It would be something much worse. 2 I hauled myself up using the edge of the table, my white dress ruined by wine and soot. Outside, the air was thick with sirens. Dominic had already commandeered the only available ambulance for Daisy’s “scratch,” taking all his bodyguards with him. His last words to me before slamming the door were, “Find your own way home, Margot. I have a crisis to handle.” He drove off into the chaos. I didn’t have my keys, and the restaurant was on a secluded ridge—miles from the city center. In the wake of a tremor, Uber was non-existent. The remaining guests were trickling out, snapping photos of the damage for Instagram, whispering as they passed me. “What is Margot West still doing here? This was her engagement night, wasn’t it?” “Did you see her just sitting there drinking while that girl was bleeding? She’s a sociopath. I heard Dominic’s been looking for a way out of the engagement for months.” I ignored them. My phone buzzed. It was a notification from Instagram. Daisy had tagged me in a post. It was a photo of her in the back of the ambulance, leaning her head on Dominic’s shoulder. The caption read: I never imagined someone would be willing to stay in a collapsing building just so I could finish a meal. Thank you for choosing me, Dominic. My hero. I almost laughed. The girl was an amateur. If the press got hold of the fact that the CEO of Blackwood Industries risked a hundred lives for a steak, the stock would plummet by morning. As I began calculating exactly how to ruin him, a black SUV pulled up. Three men in suits stepped out. “Ms. West. You’re coming with us.” “Where?” I took a step back, my pulse quickening. “Mr. Blackwood’s orders. We’re taking you to the hospital.” I started to refuse, but they didn’t give me the chance. They gripped my arms, one on each side, with a bruising strength that told me this wasn’t an invitation. “Let go of me! I can walk!” When we arrived at the ER, Dominic was standing by the entrance. The look on his face wasn’t relief. It was pure, unadulterated disgust. Daisy was slumped against him, limping theatrically. “She’s here, Dominic,” Daisy whispered, her voice a fragile reed. I gritted my teeth. “Why am I here, Dominic?” “Because you love to put on a show, don’t you?” He stepped toward me, his voice a low hiss. “The scene tonight felt incomplete without your brand of calculated ice.” He swung his hand. The slap was so hard my ears rang. My lip split instantly, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. “You have ‘gifted’ hearing, Margot. You knew that ceiling was coming down. Why didn’t you speak? Why did you sit there and watch her get hit?” My swollen ankle gave out. I stumbled, tumbling down the three stone steps leading to the hospital entrance. I landed in a heap, my ruined dress Tangled around my legs. Dominic loomed over me. “You wanted her dead, didn’t you? Or maybe you rigged the damn ceiling yourself. It’s exactly the kind of cold-blooded move you’re famous for.” The speed of his turn made it clear: someone had been whispering in his ear. In my previous life, the “friends” who wanted to stay in Dominic’s good graces had lined up to trash my reputation the moment they saw him favor Daisy. I looked up at him, my eyes shimmering with fake tears. “If I had told you to move, you would have called me a killjoy. You told the room that anyone who left would be fired. You remember that, don’t you?” In my last life, saving him was a crime. In this life, letting him stay was a sin. There was no winning with a man who had already decided you were the villain. Daisy’s eyes welled up. “Dominic, look at her… she always has an excuse. I just wanted one nice meal, and she wanted me to die for it. Why do you hate me so much, Margot?” I didn’t think. I hauled myself up and delivered a stinging slap across Daisy’s face. “Daisy, shut up. I am still the woman who holds the contracts to his name. I am still his fiancée.” Daisy gasped, clutching her cheek. “Dominic… she hit me…” 3 “Margot!” Dominic’s voice was thick with hatred. “You dare lay a hand on her in front of me? Have you lost your mind?” I laughed, a jagged, cold sound. “She opened her mouth first. I’m just reclaiming my dignity. And you? You should check the news. There was an actual earthquake. I don’t control the tectonic plates, Dominic. I’m not that powerful.” “Fine,” he said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly soft register. He turned to Daisy. “Hit her back.” Daisy blinked, stunned. “Hit her,” he repeated. “She thinks she can touch what’s mine without consequences. Don’t be afraid. I’m right here.” Daisy looked at me, a flicker of triumph dancing in the depths of her “innocent” eyes. She stepped forward, pretending to be hesitant, but as she reached for me, she didn’t aim for my face. She grabbed the neckline of my dress, yanking downward. The delicate silk shredded. The front of my gown tore open, exposing me to the crowded hospital entrance. Dominic didn’t stop her. He didn’t even flinch. I scrambled to cover myself, my face burning with a mix of fury and humiliation. “Daisy! What the hell are you doing?” “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Daisy squeaked, her hands flying to her mouth. “I was just trying to talk to her, and she got so aggressive… she must have torn it herself to make me look bad…” “You lying little—” “Enough!” Dominic roared. “I saw everything. You’re pathetic, Margot. Tearing your own clothes to frame a girl who has nothing? You’ve lost your shame, and I’ve lost my patience.” “Dominic, it’s my leg,” Daisy moaned, clutching her calf where the tiny scratch had long since stopped bleeding. “The stress… I can’t breathe… it hurts so much…” “We’re going,” Dominic said, immediately draping his suit jacket over her shoulders. “I’m getting you a full trauma sweep.” Before they turned away, Dominic’s eyes lingered on my swollen, purple ankle for a split second. A shadow of a frown crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He turned to a nearby hospital administrator. “This woman is not to be treated. Not tonight. Consider it a lesson in humility. If I find out a single doctor touched her, I’ll pull my funding from this wing.” I watched them disappear into the private elevators. I ended up buying a tube of ointment from a 24-hour pharmacy and limping back to the apartment I paid for with my own salary. Late that night, the sound of a key in the lock startled me. It was Dominic. He smelled of Scotch and bitterness. Before I could speak, he was on me. His hands were heavy, roaming over me with a possessiveness that felt like an assault. “Dominic! Stop!” My voice trembled. “What are you doing?” He pinned my wrists to the headboard, his weight crushing the breath out of me. “That little performance at the hospital? That was about being desperate, wasn’t it? You’re starved for attention.” I struggled, screaming for him to get off. “Let me go!” He laughed against my neck. “Why the act? You’ve been in my bed for three years. You think you’re a virgin now because you’re mad at me?” He forced a kiss on me, his mouth tasting of expensive liquor and resentment. Memory hit me like a physical blow. In my previous life, he had come home drunk after Daisy died, sobbing her name while he forced himself on me. That was the night I got pregnant. But in this life, Daisy was alive. Why was he here? I bit his lip, hard. The metallic tang of blood filled the air. “You bit me?” The pain seemed to ignite something darker in him. He pressed down harder. “Fine. I like it when you fight. It makes it feel like you actually have a soul.” I screamed, my hand fumbling blindly on the nightstand. My fingers closed around a heavy crystal water glass. I swung it with every ounce of strength I had left. CRACK. He slumped to the side, dazed. I pushed him off with a guttural cry, grabbing a shard of the broken glass as I scrambled off the bed. I backed into the corner, clutching my torn robe, my ankle throbbing. “Touch me again,” I hissed, “and I will end this. For both of us.” Dominic wiped a smear of blood from his forehead, staring at me with a mix of shock and mounting rage. “You hit me. You actually hit me.” He stood up, his voice trembling. “We’re done, Margot. The engagement is over. You won’t get another dime, another contract, or another second of my time. You’re nothing without the Blackwood name.” 4 The next morning, my phone chimed. It was a DM from Daisy. It was a photo of her and Dominic in bed—a mess of tangled sheets and smug smiles. He came to me last night, Margot. He was calling your name at first, but by the end, he knew exactly who he was with. It was my peak ovulation window. Maybe I’ll be the one carrying the Blackwood heir soon. Good luck with the ‘ex’ title. I didn’t bother getting angry. I just replied: Keep him. He’s a depreciating asset. By noon, the media was in a frenzy. [BREAKING: Dominic Blackwood Calls Off Engagement to Tech Heiress Margot West] [Who is Daisy Miller? The Mystery Girl Set to Become the New Queen of Blackwood Industries] My social feeds were a graveyard of my past life. Photos of me were being cropped out of gala shots, replaced by blurry candids of Daisy smiling. I was the “scorned woman,” the “cold-hearted ice queen” who had finally been thawed out of the picture. I didn’t care. I was waiting. At 10:00 AM, I received a call from a blocked number. “Ms. West? It’s the firm. There’s an auction tonight at The Obsidian Room. It involves a major transition project for Blackwood Industries. Mr. Blackwood insisted you attend as a ‘special guest.’ We’ll have a car for you.” After my father died, I had funneled almost my entire inheritance into Blackwood stock to help Dominic build his empire. Even if we were over, I still owned a significant chunk of that company. I figured I owed it to my bank account to show up one last time. But I knew Dominic. He didn’t do “special guests” out of kindness. I made a phone call of my own first, setting a different set of wheels in motion. When I arrived at the auction, the atmosphere was predatory. The auctioneer took the stage, his voice booming: “Tonight’s first item is a gift from Mr. Blackwood to Ms. Miller. A pair of rare Qing Dynasty vases. Opening bid: three million!” Dominic didn’t even look at the catalog. “Ten million.” Daisy sat beside him in a champagne gold gown that looked three sizes too small for her dignity. She looked like a child playing dress-up, radiating a desperate, nouveau-riche energy that made the old money in the room cringe. A Tang bronze censer. A Song Dynasty tea bowl. A Ming era hairpin. For every item, Dominic raised his paddle without blinking. “Item number 48, sold to Mr. Blackwood for Ms. Miller.” “Item 72, sold.” “Item 89, sold.” Daisy clutched a gold hairpin, her eyes gleaming. “Dominic, are you really going to buy me 99 items?” He squeezed her hand, his voice loud enough for the front three rows to hear. “I promised you a ‘House of Gold,’ didn’t I? You deserve a legacy that isn’t built on ice.” I sat in the shadows of the back row, my knuckles white. He had said those exact words to me four years ago. I waited for the “business” portion of the evening, but it never came. It was just a public humiliation ritual. I stood to leave, but a waiter blocked my path. “Ms. West, you can’t leave. You’re the grand finale. Mr. Blackwood’s orders.” “The grand finale?” The waiter looked uncomfortable. “You’ll see.” A cold pit formed in my stomach. Suddenly, the house lights dimmed, and a single, piercing spotlight hit me. The stage floor beneath me began to rise, lifting me up until I was center stage, exposed to the entire elite of the city. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer announced, his voice tinged with a cruel mirth. “Our 100th and final ‘item’ of the night. A special surprise curated by Mr. Blackwood himself… the lovely Ms. Margot West.” The room erupted in hushed laughter and mocking whispers. “Is he actually auctioning off his ex-fiancée?” “Look at her face. From CEO to a charity lot. Talk about a fall from grace.” Daisy was preening, leaning into Dominic’s chest. “Oh, Dominic, she looks so sad. Do you think anyone will actually bid on her? It’s almost a mercy killing at this point.” My watch vibrated. A text from my contact: It’s done. I looked down at Dominic. I let a slow, predatory smile spread across my face. The game was over. “I’m afraid,” I said, my voice amplified by the stage mic, “that this auction is officially cancelled.”

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After the fake heiress died, her diary—left at a local shelter—was leaked online. It chronicled her silent suffering, her resilience, and her “selfless” love for the family. In an instant, the internet was in tears, and my family was drowning in regret. I, the one who had hidden the fact that she had terminal cancer, became the ultimate villain. My brother screamed at me: “I would have stayed broke for the rest of my life just to keep Maya alive!” My parents were livid: “Who gave you the right to choose for us? We didn’t want the money; we wanted our daughter!” I was blacklisted, cyberbullied, and kicked out of the house. I eventually died on the streets, cold and alone. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day Maya received her terminal diagnosis. 1 “Promise me, Chloe. Don’t tell anyone I’m sick, okay?” Maya was clutching my hand, her eyes swimming in tears. Her voice trembled with a humility that bordered on begging. Even with the bitterness of my past life, seeing her look this fragile made me hesitate for a heartbeat. “Dad lost everything in that venture capital deal. The house is gone, Mom is confined to her bed with depression, and Caleb is working three jobs just to keep Dad out of legal trouble. If they find out I have cancer, it will destroy them. I can’t be another burden… I just can’t.” What a tragic script: the bankrupt father, the fragile mother, the protective brother, and her—the dying saint. In my last life, I fell for it. Shortly after she told me this, she “ran away.” To make sure the family wouldn’t look for her, she rebranded herself as a shallow gold-digger. She posted photos partying at clubs with questionable men, told Caleb she was done with being poor, and was seen on the arms of wealthy older men at high-end galas. She broke their hearts to “save” them. And she made sure every single detail of her “noble sacrifice” was recorded in that diary. Three years after she died, Caleb became the new titan of the tech industry. My parents got new investments and rebuilt their lives. And I, who had worked double shifts in silence to support them through the dark times, finally took my place as the “real” daughter of the Vance family. But the good life lasted only a few days. A famous “missing persons” influencer found her diary and read it live to millions. Overnight, Maya became a martyr. My parents and Caleb, unable to handle their own guilt, turned their grief into a weapon and aimed it at me. “Why did you hide it? I don’t care if she’s gone; you will never replace her! I only have one sister, and it’s Maya!” Caleb had shouted during a press conference where he publicly disowned me. I had tried to argue: “Maya begged me! She didn’t want to be a burden! I wanted you guys to have a future! We only had enough money left for one of us to start over, and I respected her choice!” Caleb threw me aside, roaring, “Did you respect my choice? You knew how much she meant to me! Don’t pretend you did it for me—you did it for the money! That money could have bought her more time! Who gives a damn about a career?” I turned to my parents, but the locks were already changed. My suitcases were tossed onto the sidewalk like trash. “If it wasn’t for Maya, we never would have brought you home from the foster system,” my mother hissed. “You’re a curse. If it weren’t for you, she’d still be here. Get out before we do something we won’t regret.” The hatred in their eyes was seared into my soul. That was the moment I realized: no matter how hard I worked, I would never belong. Success makes people forget the grit of the past; they prefer to believe their glory is due to talent, not the luck of someone else’s sacrifice. But this time, I won’t let them live with “what ifs.” 2 “What’s going on in here?” Caleb pushed the door open and walked toward us. Maya tightened her grip on my arm, whispering one last time, “Please, Chloe…” I didn’t let her finish. I shook her hand off. Maya froze, confused. “Chloe, why…” Because I know you’re a diary writer, and I’m tired of being the villain. I turned to Caleb and blurted out, “Maya is sick. It’s stage four cancer.” Caleb stopped dead, the exhaustion on his face replaced by sheer terror. Maya started shaking her head frantically. “No, no, I’m fine. Chloe is just stressed, she’s joking…” I stayed cold and clinical. “She has the biopsy results in her pocket. Look for yourself. We need to tell Mom and Dad immediately. She needs treatment now.” Maya instinctively clutched her pocket. Caleb lunged forward and snatched the crumpled medical report from her hand. As his eyes scanned the words “Malignant” and “Metastasized,” he actually swayed on his feet. Maya burst into tears. “Please, don’t tell them! Mom can’t handle this, and Dad is already at his breaking point with the bankruptcy… Caleb, please,姐姐 (Sister), please…” She sobbed until she couldn’t breathe, and then, a spray of blood erupted from her nose, staining the floor. Caleb’s face went ghost-white. “We’re going to the hospital,” I said. Maya kept protesting, saying it was a waste of money, but Caleb scooped her up in a protective, commanding hold. “Maya, enough. We’re going.” First, they ran a full diagnostic panel. The results were undeniable. “It’s aggressive,” the oncologist explained. “It’s spread to multiple organs. We can try a combination of surgery, radiation, and chemo, but she’s young—it’s hard to say how she’ll respond. And frankly, the costs will be astronomical.” Caleb didn’t hesitate. “We’ll do whatever it takes.” The doctor nodded and handed over the admission forms. “You’ll need to pay the initial deposit at the billing office. She’ll need 24-hour care.” Caleb took the stack of papers and led Maya to the inpatient wing. “The initial deposit is $5,000. Will that be card or insurance?” the clerk asked. Caleb’s jaw tightened. Our insurance had lapsed after the company went under. “Give me a minute. I need to make a phone call.” I sat with Maya on a plastic bench, watching Caleb pace outside. I saw him looking desperate, then forced to smile, then kicking a trash can in rage. It took him until the office was nearly closed to scrape together that $5,000. I knew exactly what he did. He had to swallow his pride and beg the “trust fund kids” he used to look down on for a loan. In my last life, he would have starved for a week before asking them for a dime. This time, his “noble pride” was the first thing to go. “Don’t worry,” Caleb told Maya, his voice thick with emotion. “Money isn’t an issue. As long as you’re okay, I’ll handle everything.” Maya looked at him with worshipful eyes. I looked at the hospital walls, smelling the bleach. To the rich, this is a place of healing. To the poor, it’s a meat grinder for your soul and your bank account. 3 The $5,000 was just the cover charge to get into the game. From here on out, every breath Maya took inside those walls would cost a fortune. The bed, the IV, the saline, the oxygen—it would all add up to a mountain of debt a ruined family could never climb. When we arrived at the hospital, we took an Uber because it was an “emergency.” When we left, we walked to the bus stop. On the cramped, smelly bus, Maya cried again, begging Caleb to let her die. But Caleb, fueled by the “hero” narrative, just poured more “never give up” rhetoric into her head. “We’re family, Maya! We don’t quit on each other! You just fight the cancer; I’ll fight the world!” “Caleb… I don’t deserve a brother like you…” They hugged. It was like a scene from a low-budget soap opera, if you could ignore the smell of the city bus and the tired commuters staring at them. When we got back to the cramped apartment we were renting, my parents were sitting on a small cot. On the table was a stack of cash—$300,000. My dad had sold his vintage Rolex collection; my mother had sold every designer bag and pair of heels she owned. It was exactly $300,000. In my last life, this was the seed money. Caleb used this $300,000 to invest in his college roommate’s startup, “RiceTech.” That company eventually went public, making my brother a billionaire and saving the Vance legacy. Dad looked at Caleb with weary eyes. “Caleb, we got the money. Take it to your friend, Sam. Invest it in RiceTech. We’re betting everything on this. We need this win to get back on our feet.” Caleb looked at the money, then at the hospital forms in his hand. He walked over and handed the medical reports to Dad. “What is this?” Dad asked. As they read the words “Stage IV,” the room went silent. Mom started to wail. Dad’s lips thinned into a hard line. Maya’s tears fell onto the floor. “Dad, Mom… we can make money later,” Caleb said, his voice cracking. “But Maya is running out of time.” Dad looked at the $300,000—their last hope of ever being “important” again. Then he looked at Maya. “We treat it,” Dad said, his voice dead. “We have to.” 4 With that one sentence, the “Vance Family Renaissance” was dead. The “Maya Recovery Project” began. Dad got a job at a construction site. Mom started waitressing at a diner. Caleb went to work at RiceTech, but not as a partner—as a lowly entry-level salesman on commission. And me? In my last life, I dropped out to work three jobs to keep the lights on while they grieved. This time, I took a formal leave of absence from college to be Maya’s 24-hour hospital companion. “Chloe, since I got sick, everyone has cried. Even the nurses. But you haven’t. Why?” Maya asked me one day from her hospital bed. I was busy organizing her meds. I didn’t look up. “Crying doesn’t pay the bills, Maya. Why waste the energy?” She gave a sad little smile. “I know you’ve hated me since you came home. I just don’t understand why you told them. If I had just disappeared, you all would be rich by now. You’d be the only daughter. You’d be happy.” I used to think that too. But I’ve learned that the “unloved” child is never happy, regardless of the money. But what about the “beloved” child? Let’s see how that goes. “Don’t overthink it,” I said, tucking her in. “Just focus on the ‘heroic battle’ everyone expects of you.” I stayed on the tiny cot in her room every night. Not out of love, but because I had to make sure she didn’t try to pull her “disappearing act.” Every time she tried to crawl out of bed to run away, I “caught” her and called the nurses to “save” her. The first surgery cost $100,000. Then came the targeted radiation. Then the experimental chemo. The “pure love” of the family was at its peak during the first month. They visited every day with flowers and prayers. But the bills kept coming. By the second month, Maya’s organs started to fail. She needed a kidney. Mom and I weren’t matches. Dad and Caleb were. Dad was too old for the stress of the surgery, so Caleb, the “noble brother,” went under the knife. Maya woke up to Caleb’s missing kidney. She cried with gratitude. The family was “united.” Only I heard the surgeon’s hushed warning in the hallway: “Kidney failure is just the beginning. Next will be the liver, then the heart. You’re pouring money into a sinking ship. You’re mutilating a healthy young man to give a terminal patient a few more months of agony. I strongly suggest hospice.” 5 Once Caleb recovered, he went back to work. But things at RiceTech were moving fast. The company was hitting its stride, but Caleb couldn’t keep up. He couldn’t go to the late-night networking drinks because of his health. He couldn’t travel for the big deals. He was grumpy and exhausted. Eventually, his friend Sam had to hire someone else to lead the sales team. Caleb was sidelined. His dreams of being a “tech mogul” were dying in a cubicle. “It’s not fair!” he roared one night in our cramped kitchen. “My vision was right! I should be the one on the cover of Forbes! Instead, I’m selling software for peanuts just to pay for another round of chemo!” The resentment was starting to rot the “noble” facade. Mom, who used to have weekly manicures, now had cracked, bleeding hands from scrubbing floors. She had to dig out clogged drains with her bare hands. She started bringing home leftover scraps from the diner for our dinner. Dad, the former executive, was being belittled by a foreman half his age. Every cent he made went into the black hole of Maya’s medical bills. By the fifth month of treatment, their memories improved. They finally started “remembering” what the doctor said about the chances of success. “Maya, the doctors… they say it’s not looking good,” Mom whispered during a visit. “Maybe we’re just making you suffer for nothing.” “We did our best, honey,” Dad added. “We really did. We gave everything.” Maya couldn’t even speak. She had lost her hair, her skin was yellow, and she was skeletal. She just watched them with tears leaking from her eyes. During those months, she had been “washed” five times—full blood transfusions. Every major organ had been poked and prodded. She was in a living hell. She had begged to stop. She had begged them to let her go. But back then, they were “too noble” to listen. They had forced her to stay alive. Now, she was a vegetable with a price tag. Caleb held her hand, crying—but they weren’t tears of love anymore. They were tears of mourning for his lost life. “I’m sorry, Maya. I can’t do this anymore. Next time your heart stops, I’m signing the DNR. Go to heaven, okay? Be happy there. I love you.” Maya nodded weakly. She was ready to die. But the universe has a sick sense of humor. Maya didn’t die. She started to get better. Against all odds, the experimental treatment worked. She stabilized. She could eat. She could sit up. She could talk. The doctor was amazed. “It’s a miracle. She can go home. She’ll need years of expensive rehab, and she’ll never be 100% independent, but she’s alive.” Maya cried with joy. She thought she had been given a second chance. But when I looked at my parents and Caleb… I didn’t see joy. I saw the look of people who had just been told their life sentence was being extended. 6 “How is she still alive?” I heard my mother whisper it in the middle of the night. We were all squeezed into a one-bedroom apartment. Parents on the bed, Caleb on the sofa, Maya and I on a mattress on the floor. Dad sighed heavily. “I don’t know. We prayed for her to live, and now she is. But how do we pay for the $10,000-a-month rehab? We’re already a million in debt.” “She’s a burden,” Mom hissed. “A million dollars to keep a cripple alive. If we had just invested that money three years ago, we’d be in a mansion in the Hamptons right now.” “Don’t say that,” Dad muttered. “But… yeah. Life is over for us. We’re just ATMs for a ghost.” They didn’t realize Maya was awake. I saw her shoulders shaking. I saw the silent tears soaking the pillow. The “Saint” was finally seeing the “noble” family for what they were. I patted her shoulder and mouthed: “It’ll get better.” She nodded, trying to believe me. The next morning, Mom didn’t make her usual sad oatmeal. She went to the bakery and got expensive donuts and coffee. “Everything looks so good,” I remarked, reaching for a donut to give to Maya. But Mom pulled the tray toward Dad and Caleb. “Let them eat first. They have to go work twelve hours. Maya can have the leftovers.” Maya saw the coldness in Mom’s eyes. She shook her head and said she wasn’t hungry. “You have to eat to get better,” Mom said, her voice sharp. “If you don’t get better, you can’t work. We need another income. We can’t support two freeloaders forever. Chloe needs to go back to work too.” Caleb frowned. “Mom, Maya can barely walk. And who’s going to take care of her if Chloe works?” “We’ll rotate,” Mom said firmly. “I’ll do Mondays, Dad will do Tuesdays, you do weekends. We have to make this work. We need the money.” Maya whispered, “Was it a mistake to save me?” No one answered. Dad just bit into his donut and said, “We’ve made a lot of mistakes. We can’t afford any more.”

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On the very first day the “real” heiress, Chloe Miller, returned to the family, she threw all my belongings out of my bedroom. “I am Mom and Dad’s biological daughter. You’re just a fake. You can pack your bags and get out.” “Oh, by the way, before you leave, I need you to refund all the money you’ve spent in our house for the past twenty years. Let’s call it $500,000 a year. That’s ten million dollars total. Just wire it directly to my account.” I silently handed her a QR code for the “Family Reunion Queue.” “Understood, Miss Miller. But before we get to that, you need to scan this, join the queue, and wait for your identity verification.” Chloe slapped the QR code out of my hand. “Evelyn Vance! Who the hell do you think you are?! How dare you block me from reuniting with my family?!” I sighed helplessly, trying to explain. “I’m not blocking you. You just need to wait in line.” But Chloe, desperate to claim her billionaire status, refused to listen. “You think I need to wait in line?! Just wait until I find Mom and Dad! You’re going to be kicked out on the street, you imposter!” However, what Chloe didn’t know was that before her, exactly 499 other people had shown up claiming to be the long-lost daughter. My parents were so overwhelmed they had long since delegated the entire “Family Reunion” department to me. … Chloe ambushed my mother by the elevator just as she finished a board meeting. “Mom!” She dropped to her knees right there in the lobby. “I’m your real, biological daughter!” My mother didn’t even bat an eyelid. Her assistant, Mark, immediately stepped forward. “Miss, if you are here for a family reunion, please make an appointment online.” Tears streamed down Chloe’s face on command. “Mom! Look at me! I’ve suffered so much all these years…” My mother finally looked up. She glanced at her Rolex. “Thirty-six seconds. You started crying five seconds slower than the girl last month. You didn’t break the record, kid.” Chloe was dumbfounded. “What?” My mother pulled out her iPad and swiped a few times. “Applicant YM-37. Chloe Miller, twenty-two years old. Lives in a low-income housing complex on the East Side. Parents deceased. Finished college on financial aid.” Chloe’s face paled. “You… you investigated me?” My mother patted her shoulder. “Kid, your acting isn’t bad, but your lines are too cliché. I recommend you go watch Season 2 of The Crown. Their dramatic monologues are much better written than yours.” With that, she stepped into the elevator and left. At 3:00 PM, my dad went to inspect one of the Vance department stores. Chloe showed up again. This time, she changed her strategy. “Dad!” She held up a photograph. “Look, I looked exactly like you when I was a kid!” My dad took the photo and inspected it. “Nice Photoshop,” he said. “But next time, remember to make the ears a little smaller. Nobody in the Vance family has ears that big.” Chloe panicked. “This is a real picture of me as a baby!” “Kid, last year we had someone bring in a highly sophisticated AI deepfake video claiming to be my daughter.” My dad sighed. “Their tech was way more professional than yours.” He handed the photo back to her. “Go find Evelyn. She handles this department.” Chloe stomped her foot in frustration. “Dad! How can you be so heartless?!” My dad didn’t even look back. “Call me Mr. Vance.” At 8:00 PM, my grandmother’s private jet landed. Chloe had been squatting in the VIP arrivals lounge all afternoon. “Grandma!” She literally threw herself onto the floor. “I am your real granddaughter!” Grandma Vance had just gotten off a transatlantic flight and was still severely jet-lagged. She squinted at her. “What number is this one for the year?” Her bodyguard replied, “Fifty-seven, Ma’am.” Grandma nodded. “Do you have an appointment?” Chloe was stunned. “N-No…” “Then I can’t help you.” Grandma waved her hand dismissively. “Last year, a girl camped out at the airport for three days before we made an exception and squeezed her in.” She gestured for her bodyguard to help Chloe up and shoved a business card into her hand. “This is my granddaughter’s contact info. Make an appointment with her first.” Chloe looked down at the business card. It read: Evelyn Vance – Director of True Heiress Verification Project. Her face turned a sickly shade of green. The next day, Chloe stormed into our family estate. “I want a DNA test!” She slammed her hands on the table. “Right here! Right now!” My parents exchanged a look, both looking a bit exhausted. “Kid,” my mom said, “It’s not that we don’t want to…” “You’re guilty, aren’t you?!” Chloe sneered. “You’re afraid the test will prove I’m the real one!” My dad rubbed his temples. “Last year, I had blood drawn thirty times. It’s only the beginning of the year, and I’ve already had blood drawn fifteen times. My doctor told me if I give any more blood, I’m going to become severely anemic.” Chloe choked on her words. I walked over, carrying a cup of tea. “Actually, there’s another way.” “What way?” She looked at me suspiciously. “We can use hair or nail clippings,” I said. “The technology is very advanced now; we don’t strictly need a blood draw.” Chloe’s eyes lit up. “Then let’s do it right now!” I smiled. “Sure, but you still have to wait in line.” “Wait in what line?!” “My parents only have a limited quota of hair and nail clippings to give out each month, and this month’s quota is already maxed out. There are over two hundred samples ahead of yours waiting for lab results. The earliest we can get to yours is next month.” Chloe exploded. “Evelyn Vance! You’re doing this on purpose!” I shrugged. “Just following protocol.” Chloe couldn’t wait a single second. She paid a scalper twenty thousand dollars to buy an expedited VIP queue ticket. Then, she was escorted to the third floor, into the “Heirloom Authentication Room.” She strutted in, chest puffed out like a proud peacock. “I have an heirloom!” She pulled out half of a jade pendant. “The nurse at the hospital gave this to me back then! It’s one of a kind!” The authentication clerk, Sarah, took the pendant and scanned the barcode on Chloe’s VIP ticket. “Applicant YM-37, Chloe Miller. Heirloom Category: Jade Pendant.” Sarah read from her screen, “Currently, there are 287 jade pendants registered in our database.” Chloe’s smile froze. “How many?” “287.” Sarah pulled up the data visualizer. “Among them, 143 are half-pendants, and 144 are complete pendants.” Chloe flipped out. “That’s impossible!” Sarah smiled politely. “In the beginning, it was just two halves that could fit together. Later, people started bringing in quarter-pieces.” She clicked open a web browser. “Now there’s even a ‘Jade Pendant Fragment Puzzle’ service on Amazon. Only $9.99, free shipping.” Chloe looked like she was going to be sick. I spoke to her through the intercom from the surveillance room. “Miss Miller, your pendant is a standard mass-produced model. Retail value is about thirty-eight bucks at the flea market.” Chloe looked up, searching for the camera. “Evelyn! You set me up!” I laughed. “It’s called market research.” Chloe refused to give up. “I have a birthmark!” She aggressively pulled her collar down. “A butterfly shape on my left shoulder! One of a kind!” Sarah sighed and opened another database. “Out of the 500 ‘heiresses’ who applied this year, 108 claimed to have a butterfly-shaped birthmark.” Chloe’s eyes widened. “How many?!” “108.” Sarah zoomed in on the pie chart. “76 on the left shoulder, 32 on the right shoulder.” Chloe panicked. “My birthmark is different! It has a unique shape!” Sarah nodded. “Yes, Applicants #43, #87, and #201 said the exact same thing.” She clicked open a photo gallery. “Number 43’s butterfly has polka dots. Number 87’s has tiger stripes. Number 201’s is a 3D optical illusion.” Chloe’s lips trembled. “Impossible…” I delivered the final blow over the intercom. “Miss Miller, maybe you should try getting a tattoo? Tattoos are accepted as heirlooms now too.” Furious, Chloe grabbed the teacup off the table and smashed it on the floor. “That’ll be a damage fee,” Sarah immediately printed an invoice. “Custom imported porcelain. Two hundred and eighty dollars.” Chloe still wasn’t dead yet. “I look exactly like Mrs. Vance when she was young!” She pointed at a vintage family portrait on the wall. “Look!” Sarah sighed heavily and turned on the projector. “Please observe this ‘heiress.’” A photo of a girl appeared on the massive screen. She didn’t just look like my mom. She looked like my dad, and she even looked like my grandma. “We call her the ‘Family Portrait Chimera,’” Sarah said. “She won the ‘Most Resembling the Vance Family’ award last year.” Chloe stayed quiet for three days. But I knew she wasn’t just sitting around twiddling her thumbs. Sure enough, she showed up at the Vance Family’s quarterly gala. Halfway through the banquet, Chloe suddenly let out a piercing scream. “My necklace is missing!” She covered her face and sobbed loudly. “That was the birthday present my adoptive mother gave me! Sob!” The entire ballroom went dead silent. Everyone turned to look at her. Chloe sniffled and hiccuped. “It was just here a minute ago…” Her gaze swept across the room and landed perfectly on me. “Miss Vance,” she said timidly. “You went to the restroom just now, didn’t you?” I raised an eyebrow. “I did.” “Then…” She hesitated dramatically. “Could I please look inside your purse?” The crowd erupted in shocked murmurs. My mother frowned. “Young lady, what are you implying?” Tears streamed down Chloe’s face perfectly on cue. “Mom, I don’t mean anything by it! I just want to find it…” I laughed. “Sure.” I handed her my purse. “Look all you want.” Chloe took the purse and pretended to rummage through it. Then, she “accidentally” dumped the entire contents onto the floor. Clatter— Lipstick, keys, and my phone scattered across the marble. And sitting right in the middle was a diamond necklace. “I found it!” Chloe gasped in shock. “This is it!” She snatched the necklace up, looking at me with tear-filled, betrayed eyes. “Miss Vance… why would you…” I cut her off. “Miss Miller. Do you know why the Vance family banquet hall is equipped with 128 high-definition security cameras?” Chloe froze. “What?” I pulled out my phone and cast the security feed to the massive screens around the room. The footage clearly showed Chloe sneaking up behind me and slipping the necklace into my open purse. “Over the past three years,” I scrolled through the incident database, “exactly 47 ‘heiresses’ have tried this exact trick.” My assistant chimed in through the PA system: “This is the 48th time. Can we please get some new material?” I bent down and picked up the necklace. “Also… I bought this necklace last week at Cartier. I still have the receipt.” I looked at her. “Where’s yours?” Chloe’s face turned green. “Is this how the Vance family treats its biological daughter?!” Grandma Vance let out a cold laugh. “The last person who said that to me is currently serving three to five in federal prison.” Chloe fled the ballroom in absolute humiliation. The next day, Twitter exploded. #VanceHeiressSecretMidnightRendezvousWithRivalCEO# The post included a blurry photo of me helping a man into a car. The angle was incredibly deceptive; it looked exactly like we were kissing. I checked the account that posted it. A notorious paparazzi blog. I clicked into the comments. “Here we go again. Which number is this one for the year?” “The last guy who spread rumors about her got sued for five million dollars.” “Sis, delete the post. The Vance family’s cease-and-desist letters arrive faster than Amazon Prime.” I posted a tweet of my own: “Thank you, Miss Miller, for helping me promote our new clean energy project, and for helping me break my personal record for ‘Fastest Defamation Lawsuit Filed.’” Attached was a photo of the filed court documents. Chloe panicked and immediately deleted her post and deactivated her account. On the third day, Chloe somehow managed to forge a security pass and infiltrated the corporate headquarters. She walked into my office carrying a cup of coffee. “Miss Vance,” she said, looking down submissively. “I’m so sorry about yesterday…” I didn’t take the cup. “Put it on the desk.” She set the coffee down but didn’t leave. “Did you need something else?” I asked. She bit her lip. “Can you ever forgive me?” I smiled. “You can leave now.” She turned to leave, clearly unwilling. I picked up the coffee, sniffed it, and pressed a button under my desk. “Miss Miller is suspected of attempted poisoning,” I said into the intercom. “Please escort her to security for questioning.” Chloe exploded. “You’re making baseless accusations!” I pointed at the coffee mug. “Did you know that all the mugs in the Vance executive suites are custom-engineered?” She froze. “The bottom of the mug has a built-in chemical detection sensor.” I showed her the notification on my phone. “It can identify common drugs and toxins.” The screen read: Laxative compounds detected. Incident #23 of the fiscal year. Chloe went ghost pale. “Y-You’re lying!” Security guards burst into the room. “You have no right to arrest me!” she shrieked. I pulled out a thick binder of legal files. “Based on this,” I said calmly. “Over the past five years, exactly 89 people have tried to drug me. Every single one of them went to jail.” As the guards dragged her away, she was still screaming: “Evelyn Vance! Just you wait! I’ll be back!”

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The day of the client dinner, my boss insisted we go to The Sterling Steakhouse, a place where the tasting menu starts at $300 a head. When the check came, he had me put the $1,250 on my personal card. But when I submitted the receipt for reimbursement, the finance department told me the absolute maximum they could approve was $500. I went back to my boss, Walter, to explain. He just glanced dismissively at the receipt in my hand. “That extra $750? That’s on you for being incompetent.” I didn’t get angry. I smiled. Then I walked out of the office and called the client to split the remaining $750 with me. 1 “Now, Jessica, I see your potential, I really do,” Walter began, his tone dripping with condescension. “But you know the company’s expense policy. The limit is $500. Anything over that is a clear violation.” I stared at the $1,250 receipt in my hand and the notification on my phone confirming a $500 deposit from the company. Suddenly, the memory of myself in the restaurant bathroom last night, forcing myself to throw up so I could go back out and keep drinking for the deal, felt like a sick joke. “Mr. Davis, you were the one who insisted on The Sterling Steakhouse,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “A place that costs $300 per person. There were three of us from the company. We were over the limit before we even ordered appetizers.” “You’re also the one who told me to pay for it, who promised the company would reimburse me in full. Why the sudden change of heart?” I clutched the receipt, my hand trembling with barely suppressed rage. Walter just tapped his pen impatiently on the polished surface of his desk. “You know the rules. If I make an exception for you, what kind of message does that send to the rest of the staff? Don’t think that landing one big account puts you on my level.” He leaned forward, his voice turning sharp. “Don’t blame the system for your own incompetence. Now, it’s working hours. You should be at your desk, not wasting my time.” He buzzed his assistant to show me out. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, a final, unceremonious dismissal. My mind was a whirlwind of fury, replaying the scene from the night before. Walter, expansive and magnanimous, slapping me on the back. “Jess, my girl! You landed us the biggest account of the year! As a reward, we’ll take Mr. Grayson to The Sterling Steakhouse tonight! Time you saw how the big leagues operate.” Even then, I had tried to stop him. “Mr. Davis, that place is $300 a head. Even if we’re careful, we’ll blow past the $500 reimbursement limit.” He acted as if he hadn’t heard me. He was already on the phone with the client. “Robert! All set for tonight. The Sterling… yes, that’s the one. See you at eight!” He hung up and immediately texted Mr. Grayson the location, following up with a string of voice notes confirming the restaurant, as if our most important client was incapable of reading a map. I tried one last time. “The reimbursement limit is $500. Will the company cover the overage? Besides, The Sterling is almost impossible to book on short notice…” He cut me off, slamming his hand on the table. “I already told the man where we’re going. Are you going to make me a liar? Make the reservation!” I’m just an employee. I did what I was told. The Sterling was impossible to book. I had to call in a massive favor, begging and pleading until a private room was miraculously made available. And this was my reward. A passing coworker saw me standing outside Walter’s closed door and sidled up to me, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, your commission on that deal is over three grand, not to mention the bonus. The company’s been good to you. Is it really worth fighting over a few hundred bucks? You’re starting to sound greedy.” Before I could even respond, the sharp voice of Linda from Finance cut through the air. “Jessica. We need to discuss your last expense report. There are some… discrepancies.” 2 Being summoned by Linda was never a good thing. My coworkers were already rubbernecking, sensing drama. I was about to follow her to her office, hoping to plead my case about the dinner again, when she stopped in the middle of the open-plan floor and decided to make it a public execution. “Jessica Pierce!” she shrieked, her voice echoing off the cubicle walls. “How dare you submit an expense report for $1,800 for a three-day trip! Who do you think you are, the CEO?” The entire office fell silent. Her voice was a drill in my ear. “So young, and already trying to cheat the company! You think this is your personal piggy bank? First, you try to expense a $1,250 dinner you knew was over the limit, and now I find this? An $1,800 travel bill? You’ve got a lot of nerve!” A murmur rippled through the office. “Wow, she seems so innocent, but she’s skimming off the expense reports?” “I know, right? Tacky. And who spends $1,250 on one dinner?” Walter emerged from his office, a cigarette dangling from his lips, drawn by the commotion. He saw me, and his eyes narrowed in annoyance. “You again? What’s this about $1,800?” Linda seized her moment. “Mr. Davis! It’s her! Three days on the road! The train tickets for her and the client were $650! Shipping for the samples was another $150! And the hotel… she submitted a bill for $750!” Her voice rose to a screech. “Were you staying in a hotel made of solid gold?” At the mention of the hotel bill, Walter’s face darkened. He stalked over and flicked his cigarette onto my shoe, grinding the embers into the leather with a look of utter contempt. “A $750 hotel bill, you say?” He smirked. “Fine. We’ll approve a payment that starts with a seven.” Linda understood immediately. She scribbled on an approval form and handed it to me. The approved amount was $75. “Company policy is company policy,” Walter said, his voice dripping with fake sincerity. “You’re a smart girl, Jessica. Don’t think landing one big deal means the rules don’t apply to you. You need to learn to think before you act.” A bitter, hysterical laugh escaped my lips. That “one big deal” was worth millions. Walter’s personal cut alone would exceed the company’s profits from the previous year. My commission was a paltry $3,100—the “over three grand” my coworker had mentioned. To close that deal, I had pulled a month of all-nighters. I’d lost count of the weekends I’d worked. When the contract was finally signed, all Walter said was, “Good job. This is what you’re paid for.” He never saw the endless revisions, the canceled plans, the nights I spent sleeping at my desk. I’d been to the doctor three times for a stress-induced stomach ulcer, but I still showed up to every client dinner, smiling and drinking until the deal was done. Before that business trip, I had followed protocol. I had specifically requested approval for the higher hotel costs. “Mr. Davis,” I’d said, “the client has very specific accommodation requirements. It’s going to be more expensive than our usual rate…” He had cut me off before I could finish. “Rules are for schmucks, Jessica. People are what matter. You land this deal, and I’ll approve whatever it takes. Just keep the client happy. Money is no object!” I had the entire conversation recorded, just in case. But it didn’t matter. He was denying it anyway. Every single receipt was legitimate. Every expense was pre-approved, verbally at least. $1,800 was two months’ salary for me. After rent, my last paycheck was almost gone. Now, with the dinner bill added on top, my bank account was practically empty. 3 Just as I was about to argue, to play the recording, Linda slid my monthly pay slip onto my desk. I looked at the number. $75. I felt my mind go blank. “Linda, is this a mistake?” She didn’t even look at me, already moving on to the next person. The other employees shot me pitying, scornful looks. I was now officially the office pariah, the greedy grifter. “A mistake?” she said without turning around. “Don’t you remember what you did last month? Or do I need to humiliate you in front of everyone again? I’m doing you a favor by not making a scene. Don’t push it.” I crumpled the pay slip in my fist, the last of my control snapping. I threw it at her head. “What did I do?” I snarled, my voice shaking. “I worked every single night for a month on that deal. I was on the road, visiting construction sites. I ended up in the emergency room with a bleeding ulcer! You told me yourself to take it easy! Did you forget? We can check the security footage if you need a reminder!” Linda was not one to back down. The sight of the pay slip fluttering to the floor sent her into a rage. She slapped me, hard, across the face. “Don’t you dare, Jessica! Your monthly salary is $4,000! That includes a $500 attendance bonus and a $1,000 performance bonus!” Right. A $2,500 base salary. After taxes, it came to just over three thousand a month. I could accept losing the attendance bonus; I had been sick. My head was ringing from the slap. I stared at the floor. “What about my commission for closing the deal?” Linda snorted. “Commission? Has the client even paid the first invoice? You don’t get a bonus until the money is in our account. And since that deal was your only performance metric last month and it hasn’t paid out yet, you get zero for your performance bonus. You were also absent, so that’s another five hundred gone.” “Oh, and you broke a printer. That’s a deduction for damaging company property. You’re lucky to be getting seventy-five bucks at all. I was being generous.” Her voice echoed in the silent office. My coworkers stared at their own pay slips, not daring to breathe, lest their own meager salaries be targeted next. “That printer was broken before I got there,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “I told you, it started smoking the second I walked near it. I never even touched it.” “And my expense report… every single item is within company guidelines. Every receipt is accounted for. You’re refusing to reimburse me?” My final question was so calm it seemed to unnerve her. She froze, at a loss for words. But Walter stepped in from behind me with a cold laugh. “Reimburse you? You’re lucky you still have a job.” I turned slowly to face him. “Oh, I’m not quitting. In fact, Mr. Grayson said he wants me to personally handle his next project. I wouldn’t want to miss out on that bonus.” I gave him a smile that was all teeth. It worked. He nodded, his mood instantly shifting. He even patted me on the shoulder. “See? That’s the spirit. Look, Jess, don’t take it personally. But rules are rules. I can’t bend them, even for a star employee. You understand, right?” He shoved a copy of the company’s official expense policy handbook into my hands. I took it, my smile widening. “Of course, Mr. Davis. I understand completely. Rules are rules.” The moment I stepped out of the building, I took the handbook, drove straight to Mr. Grayson’s office, and laid it on his desk. “Mr. Grayson,” I said. “About dinner last night. The bill came to $1,250. My company’s policy only covers $500. I was hoping we could split the difference.”

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1 The first thing I did after being diagnosed with late-stage brain cancer was to sleep with my husband’s brother. Liam burst through the door, his foot crushing a discarded ultra-thin condom. I’d never seen such a deranged look on his face. He’d beaten a man to a bloody pulp, then gripped my throat, his voice trembling. “Why would you do this? Have you lost your mind?” I gasped for air, nearly suffocating, but a laugh still escaped my lips. Why? Because I was dying. Before I faced the end, I wanted to taste that forbidden pleasure, the one that drove him so mad. … The ambulance’s red lights vanished completely outside the window. A suffocating silence hung in the room, the mingled stench of blood and lust nauseating. Liam still stood in the living room’s center, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his clenched fists onto the floor. His eyes, bloodshot and furious, were fixed on me. Yet, beneath the rage, something else within them shattered. “Why?” His voice was raspy, broken. “Why would you do this to me?” I didn’t flinch, just pulled the torn silk robe tighter around myself. “Why?” My voice was barely a whisper. “Shouldn’t that be my line, Mr. Weston?” “Because you enjoyed sleeping with my once-best friend so much.” I took a step closer, the metallic scent of his blood mingling with the lingering notes of the expensive cologne Scarlett adored. “So much that you crawled into her bed again and again, like a desperate dog.” “So, I wanted to try it, too. See just how ‘good’ my husband’s brother was.” I watched his face drain of all color, each word a poisoned dart. “You’ve slept with her how many times? Well, I’ve slept with just as many men. Tonight was just bad luck, you walking in on me.” Liam’s face went utterly white. “The past… I was a bastard. Can we just move past it?” He looked at me, his eyes bloodshot, pleading. “I know you’re saying all this to provoke me. I promise I’ll never see her again. We can go back to how things were when we first got married, please?” “Go back to how things were?” I numbly glanced down at my trembling fingertips. The doctor’s words were still etched in my mind. “You’ve missed the optimal treatment window.” Meaning: no cure. So there was no “after” for me, only a countdown. Liam knew nothing of this. Just as he’d never know that Scarlett shared every intimate detail of their affair with me, day after day. And of course, his promises were hollow. No sooner had the words left his lips than his phone chimed with Scarlett’s custom ringtone—a soft, suggestive melody. Liam stiffened. “Go on, answer it,” I said, leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette. “Put it on speaker. Let me hear what earth-shattering crisis my ‘best friend’ is facing this time.” Liam hesitated, then answered. Even without speakerphone, Scarlett’s fragile, tearful voice was distinct. “Liam, Chase is banging on my door again… I’m so scared.” The veneer of composure and guilt Liam wore instantly crumbled, replaced by frantic worry. “Don’t be scared! Lock the door, I’m on my way!” he yelled into the phone, turning to grab his jacket without even a glance at me. “Liam.” I called his name. He turned back, his eyes alight with undisguised urgency and impatience. “Eliza, you know Chase is a lunatic. I have to go!” I couldn’t help but laugh, and as I did, a sharp pain spread through my chest. But you just said you wouldn’t see her again. You said the same thing when you abandoned me on our anniversary. When I was writhing in cramps from my period, you held her, startled, and called me to say: “Scarlett needs me right now. It’s just your period, Eliza, can’t you just tough it out?” Time and again, I believed, only to be drenched in disappointment. I was beyond sick of it. “Call the cops,” I said. “Are 911 services broken? Does it require your personal intervention, Mr. Weston?” “Eliza!” Liam’s face was a mixture of disbelief and profound disappointment. “That’s Scarlett! Your best friend! Are you really going to let me abandon her? How did you get so cold-hearted?” “Yes, I’m cold-hearted.” My expression remained detached, but my clasped hands trembled slightly. “I’m also wicked, shameless, and I just slept with your brother. If you leave me alone here, aren’t you afraid I’ll find another Julian?” Liam’s face was a mottled canvas of white and green, his breathing ragged. Scarlett’s tearful pleas on the phone continued, an urgent death knell. He stared at me for a few agonizing seconds, the conflict in his eyes finally hardening into resolve. “I love you, but I genuinely don’t have time for this drama right now.” The sigh escaped him, and he snatched his jacket, heading for the door. It slammed shut. My phone screen lit up. A message from Scarlett. “I’m truly sorry.” “But compared to you, I really do love him more.” “And he really does love me more.” If someone had told eighteen-year-old Eliza, that one day Scarlett would sleep with Liam, she would have furiously denied it. It was too absurd, how could it be? Scarlett and I were both orphans, growing up together in the same foster care facility, leaning on each other. She worked three jobs to put me through college. I put her name on my property deed, to give her a sense of security. And Liam? He’d secretly loved me for over a decade. Handwritten love letters, rooftop confessions—everyone knew it in high school. They were the two people who loved me most. I still remembered our wedding day, Scarlett crying and cursing in front of all the guests: “You dog! If you dare make Eliza shed even a single tear, I swear I’ll never forgive you!” My heart had swelled with so much gratitude for their love back then. The truth, when it was finally laid bare, was far more brutal. In my second month of pregnancy, Scarlett was beaten by her abusive husband and hospitalized. Two broken ribs, her face swollen like a balloon. I stayed by her bedside for three days, begging Liam to find her the best doctors and lawyers. After she was discharged, Scarlett had nowhere to go. I begged Liam again to let her stay in our guest room temporarily. “Just for a little while, until she finds her own place, okay?” I pleaded, tugging on Liam’s hand. He frowned, looking reluctant. “Scarlett and I don’t really get along. I don’t want to turn our home into a circus.” But ultimately, he couldn’t resist my persistent nagging and nodded. It was me who pulled strings to get Scarlett’s son into a good preschool. It was me, again, who asked Liam to find her a low-stress job at his company. I ran around, doing everything I could to make her life easier. While I, with my growing belly, was helping her fight her abusive ex-husband, Scarlett and Liam were busy in a passionate affair. The day the appeal came through, sentencing her ex-husband to five months in jail, I burst through the door, excited to share the good news. And that’s when I saw Scarlett, naked, perched on the coffee table, moaning as if at death’s door. Liam was kissing her neck, their lower bodies pressed tightly together. For a full minute, lost in their love-haze, they didn’t notice me, standing there, my face chalk-white. The fool, I had invited a wolf into my home. I had believed in a sisterly bond, strong as steel, believed true love could never spoil. Even God must have found me laughable. And so, I was punished. Punished to be betrayed by my only friend and my beloved husband. Punished to have only a few dozen hours left of my life. Liam slammed the door and didn’t come back. The next day, he sent a text. “Urgent company matter, out of town for a few days. Rest well at home.” Urgent matter? Was it an urgent roll in the hay with Scarlett, or an urgent parent-teacher conference for her son? Well, it was for the best. With only a few days left, I wouldn’t have to see that repulsive face. I pushed myself up, my legs weak and trembling, and began to tie up loose ends. A coffin, it turned out, was surprisingly heavy. Or maybe it was just that I had no strength left. The funeral home director probably hadn’t encountered a client so young and composed, and seemed hesitant. I simply looked down and said, “It’s for myself.” Next, I found a lawyer to draft my will. Finally, the letter. My pen hovered for a long time. Images flickered through my mind: Scarlett’s innocent smile as a child, Liam’s fervent declarations of love in our youth. They all coalesced into two entwined bodies. I smiled bitterly, writing only one sentence: “Please scatter my ashes in the ocean.” By the time I finished, night had fallen. My head throbbed violently, like a drill boring into my brain. The doctor had warned me: the final stage would bring pain, blindness, loss of consciousness. I almost wished it would come quickly. But one lingering desire tugged at me, a last thread of defiance. I wanted to ride the Ferris wheel one more time. I’d only ridden it twice in my life. The first time was when I was ten. Scarlett and I collected scrap metal in the hills behind the orphanage for three months, saved up enough money, and hand-in-hand, climbed into that old, rickety Ferris wheel at the rundown amusement park. At the very top, we swore to the city laid out beneath us like a box of matches: “Scarlett and Eliza will be best friends forever, never to be separated!” The second time was my twentieth birthday. Liam rented out the entire Ferris wheel. As we reached the highest point, he pulled out a ring, his voice trembling with nerves: “Eliza, marry me. I’ll love you, protect you, and be good to you for the rest of our lives.” How ironic. But I still wanted to go. Because it was the only joy left in my absurd life. The amusement park was crowded on the weekend. I stood in the long queue, my head splitting, my vision beginning to blur. I squeezed my hand tightly, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass. Then, I saw them. Liam, Scarlett, and her son, Leo. Scarlett brushed a strand of hair from Liam’s forehead, a picture of domestic bliss. They looked like any ordinary family of three on a weekend outing, taking their child to the park. I stood there, my blood instantly frozen. I thought my heart was dead, that nothing could hurt me anymore. But seeing that tender scene, I broke. Her child was growing up happily. My child was a bloody mess on a hospital floor. That night, sticky blood had spread beneath me, and the doctor had regretfully announced: “I’m sorry, your uterus ruptured. We couldn’t save the baby.” It was after I discovered their affair that I went mad, throwing all of Scarlett’s things out. Liam, rushing to protect her, accidentally pushed me in the chaos. Just that one push. My baby was gone. Later, I asked Scarlett why she did this to me. She just looked at me, smiling gently as she always had. “Eliza, don’t blame Liam. He’s just soft-hearted, he felt sorry for Leo and me.” “But honestly, Liam is so much better in bed than Chase, and much more… forceful. He never did that to you, did he? He always said you were like a dead fish, so boring.” “He said he’d put Leo’s name on the deed for the school-district apartment. It’ll be our home. You can’t have children anyway, so there’s no point in you holding onto it.” “Oh, and remember when you had those terrible cramps and went to the hospital? Liam was going to go, but I told him I was scared, and he said you wouldn’t die from a little pain…” Breathing became difficult. An invisible hand squeezed my heart, the pain so intense I doubled over. The line moved slowly forward. They were getting closer, close enough to hear Leo’s joyful laughter. Finally, it was their turn. Liam carefully placed Leo into a gondola, then helped Scarlett in. The door closed, and they began to ascend. I dragged my heavy steps, entering the gondola right behind theirs. As we reached the highest point, I saw it in the gondola ahead. Liam leaned down and kissed Scarlett. A soft, tender kiss. Leo, sitting between them, clapped his little hands, giggling happily. In that moment, all sound vanished. My pale, distorted face was reflected in the glass. The pain in my brain reached its peak. I clutched my head, screaming, but it brought no relief. Let this be it. At the highest point of the Ferris wheel, where my love began and my friendship was buried. My life, too, reached its end. Fireworks exploded, their joyous cracks drowning out the wail of an ambulance. Liam, holding Scarlett’s and Leo’s hands, walked towards the exit, a strange restlessness in his heart. Scarlett looked at him, concerned. “Is Eliza faking sick again to get you to come back? Maybe you should go be with her.” “No, we promised Leo we’d celebrate his birthday.” Liam suppressed the unsettling feeling, driving to buy Leo his favorite Ultraman cake. When the candles were blown out, Scarlett gently asked, “What did our little darling wish for?” “I wish that bad woman would hurry up and die.” No sooner had the words left his lips than Liam sharply smacked the boy’s backside, sternly saying, “Don’t say such things!” Leo burst into tears, and Scarlett protectively pulled the child into her arms. “What was that for? Kids say the darndest things,” she said. “Besides, wasn’t it Eliza who was unreasonable, throwing out all our things and scaring Leo?” The memory of that day was too painful; the feeling of indirectly causing his own child’s death was not easy to bear. Liam irritably went out to the balcony to smoke. Scarlett walked over and leaned into his embrace, playfully. “You promised Leo that school-district apartment. You can’t let Eliza’s little tantrums mess up Leo’s big future.” The man was silent for a moment, then conceded. “I know.” That night, Liam, as usual, held Scarlett as he fell asleep, but an unreasoning dread clung to him. He sent many messages. But his wife didn’t reply to a single one. Had she gone to find another man to provoke him again? At four in the morning, Liam’s head throbbed, unbearable. He decided to go home. He thought, maybe I should buy some flowers to appease her. Eliza loved lilies, he wondered if he could even find them at this hour. Liam was distractedly pondering this when his phone suddenly rang urgently. “Who is it?” Scarlett frowned, opening her eyes. Liam pressed the answer button. In the darkness, the voice on the other end was grave and clear. “Hello, is this Mr. Weston? Your wife, Eliza Weston, passed away half an hour ago after surgery failed to save her. Please come to the hospital as soon as possible to identify the body.”

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When my parents separated, they made a deal: Dad would take care of my sister, and Mom would raise me. So, Dad poured all his energy and money into my sister. Meanwhile, no matter what I needed, he’d wave me off impatiently: “You’re your mother’s responsibility. Go ask her.” But my mother had a different philosophy: “You and your sister are both my children. Whatever I give to you, I must also give to her…” After college started, Mom only gave me a few hundred dollars a month for living expenses. If I asked for more, she’d say it was to teach me independence. I drank water to fill my stomach and skipped classes to work part-time jobs. But it still wasn’t enough. Just as I was crying over my inability to pay exam fees, I saw my sister’s Instagram post. It was her Sweet 16. Dad gifted her a month-long trip to Europe. Mom bought her a stunning gold bracelet. I stared at the receipt visible in the photo. It clearly read $980. This month, Mom had only given me $100. 1 My sister’s glamorous life stung my eyes. In a fit of rage, I called my mom and demanded: “Why did you buy her a $980 bracelet when you only gave me $100 to live on?” “Do you have any idea how hard it is to survive on a hundred bucks in college?” I was furious. I unleashed all my firepower on my mother: “You’d rather I starve for four months and work myself to death…” “Than buy a slightly cheaper gift for your precious little daughter?” “How can there be a mother like you in this world…” Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. I clutched the phone and wailed. I was so tired. To save up for living expenses, I delivered food on campus, climbing stairs while everyone else napped. Often, my hands and feet would tremble involuntarily when I lay down to sleep. I never dared to go to roommate gatherings. Even spending twenty dollars meant skipping meals for a week. I was studying pre-med, a major my mom loved, which required constantly buying materials and paying exam fees. I had zero leisure time. Even study time had to be squeezed out. To save money and time, I survived on “human feed”—cheap, bulk protein powder shakes. I thought I was being considerate of my mom. But she casually dropped nearly a thousand dollars just to give my sister a meaningless accessory. I cried and screamed. But my mom just sounded helpless: “What can I do? You’re both my flesh and blood. I can’t just care for you and ignore her!” “You grew up with me; I barely raised her!” “It’s her sixteenth birthday. I sent her a gift, and you’re going to hold that against me?” She spoke righteously, the picture of a good mother. But I wasn’t accepting her pity party anymore. “Send a gift if you want, but why so expensive?” “She lives with Dad! She doesn’t lack anything!” Resentment filled my voice: “Dad said each of you takes care of one…” Before I could finish screaming, my mom shouted back: “Your dad is a deadbeat father, so you want me to be a deadbeat mother too?” “You’re both my children. Why should I raise one and abandon the other?” “You ungrateful girl, how can you be so vicious?” “If I had known, I would have taken your sister and left you behind.” My unwillingness and resentment exploded with that sentence: “Who begged you to take me? Dad originally wanted me!” “It was you! You left my sister with Dad to live the good life and dragged me along to suffer with you!” 2 I’m two years older than my sister, Chloe. When our parents separated, I was ten, and she was eight. Dad thought I was older and easier to manage, so he wanted to take me. Mom originally wanted to take Chloe because she was cute, sweet, and clingy. But my grandma stopped her, scolding: “How can you work if you take the little one?” “The older one is sensible. She can help you with chores and work.” “The little one is spoiled. She can’t handle a hard life with you.” That’s why Mom “reluctantly” chose me. At the time, although sad, I calmly accepted moving from a big house to a tiny apartment. I thought even if I lived with Mom, Dad would still care for me. But no. Dad cut off my allowance, tutoring, and extracurriculars. He said: “Your mom and I each take one. If you need something, ask your mom!” “Isn’t she so tough, demanding equality with me? Why are you asking me for money?” He humiliated my mom completely. For her sake, I never asked him for a dime again! Living with Mom, I took over the chores and cooking so she wouldn’t worry. To save money, we ate cabbage and turnips every meal. I didn’t cry or fuss. In the summer, when temperatures hit 100 degrees and our tiny apartment had no AC because we couldn’t afford electricity, I stayed awake all night from the heat. I accepted all of it. But it turned out she had money. She just saved half of it for Chloe. Chloe already had a full glass of water. But Mom, ignoring that I was dying of thirst, insisted on “fairness” and would only give me her half-glass. What kind of laughable fairness is this? I cussed my mom out. I called her a saboteur, ruining my childhood and college life. I called her delusional and shameless: “You think you deserve to talk equality with Dad?” “How much does he make a month? How much do you make?” “My sister lives like a princess, while I live like a maid with you. Don’t you have a clue?” I blocked her and posted on social media, vowing to cut ties. Any relative who dared to persuade me got blocked instantly. I also applied to drop out of school. I was starving; I couldn’t afford this education! The news of me dropping out to work soon reached my dad’s ears. He called. I blocked him too. He didn’t care about me, so why keep his number? My professors tried to keep me, so I agreed to “think about it” and took a week off. But I turned around, packed my bags, and found a place to shake boba tea. Who wanted to go to that crappy college anyway? The one who wanted to be a doctor wasn’t me! 3 My uncle and aunt from my mom’s side came to find me, urging me to go back to school. They “apologized” on behalf of my mom: “We scolded her. She knows she was wrong.” “In the future, before buying things for your sister, she’ll make sure you’re fed first.” I just sneered: “She keeps screaming about fairness. Why doesn’t she provide me with the life my sister has?” “We came out of the same womb. Why is my life so cheap?” “Dad originally wanted to choose me…” Thinking of this, I hated my mom’s betrayal even more. I chose her. I gave the good life to Chloe. But she took it for granted, feeling that because Chloe was with Dad and rarely seen, only Chloe was owed anything. I refused to go back to school and even dropped a harsh line: “When my mom dies and my dad lets me live the good life with him…” “Or at least when I don’t have to deliver food on an empty stomach, I’ll go back to college.” I made it clear I was going to be an unfilial wretch. I heard my mom cried hysterically when she heard that. I didn’t care. I cared about her so much before; did she care about me? If she had just given me enough money to eat before buying expensive gifts for Chloe, I wouldn’t hate her this much. Chloe found out and actually came to the boba shop to confront me: “How can you say that about Mom?” “Do you know how much I envy living with Mom?” Seeing her righteous indignation, I grinned: “Then let’s switch?” “From now on, I’ll go be a princess with Dad.” “You go do chores for Mom and be her emotional trash can.” Chloe’s face stiffened instantly: “This, this…” She didn’t dare, nor did she want to give up her pampered life. I rolled my eyes and ignored her without hesitation. She rambled for a long time before finally saying: “Grandma and Grandpa want you to come home for dinner tonight.” That was what I wanted to hear. That night, I went back to my dad’s side. My dad just didn’t give me money. But he let me eat there and stay there. Sometimes, Grandma and Grandpa would call me over for a good meal. Then at the dinner table, they’d talk about me persuading Mom to come back. Before, I respected my mom and refused to help. But now, I chewed on my chopsticks and said directly: “Mom and Dad have been separated for so many years. Dragging it out isn’t a solution.” “Either divorce or end the separation.” Grandma quickly said: “Exactly.” “Talk to your mom.” I chuckled: “Chloe should be the one to say this!” “She’s Mom’s precious darling. Mom would rather starve me than miss her birthday gift.” “Mom will listen to whatever she says.” “But Mom won’t listen to a word I say.” I had made such a scene recently. Who didn’t know why I cut ties with my mom? My words made Chloe look like she was about to cry. Dad slammed the table in rage: “Stop with the sarcasm!” “Your mom starving you is because she’s sick in the head. What does it have to do with your sister?” “Besides, I didn’t give you money because your mom was screaming about equality and fairness first. Didn’t you support her?” “Your mom and I each take care of one kid. Chloe will take care of me when I’m old, and you take care of your mom. Isn’t that great?” “Even if I gave you money, you wouldn’t be grateful. You’ve always sided with your mom. When you’re old, you’ll definitely take care of her.” “I might as well focus on your sister…” He spoke with such conviction, as if it made perfect sense. He felt that whoever raised the child gets the care in old age. He didn’t give me money, but he didn’t expect me to care for him either. If I wanted to blame someone, I had to blame my mom! But… “The logic is fair.” “But what about feelings?” I looked at him and asked: “Just because I went with Mom, I’m not your daughter anymore?” “You buy Chloe new phones, bags, luxury goods whenever.” “Have you ever thought that if you even sent me a $20 red envelope occasionally, I could work 20 fewer hours?” 4 I was resentful. If my parents had actually divorced, I might not have been so bitter. After all, divorced couples usually don’t want to support the child living with the ex. But my parents weren’t divorced. They just separated because of some conflicts. The conflict was simply that my mom wanted a life where the couple shared chores and decisions equally. My dad felt that since he made big money doing business outside… Why couldn’t he rest at home? Why did he have to do chores? He had money; he could just hire a maid. But my mom exploded. She felt my dad looked down on her, etc. It was a huge fight back then, and my dad said some really nasty things. So, a small matter turned into a big one. And I stood by my mom’s side without hesitation. But really, if they had decided to separate long ago, why not divorce? Why just separate? Why make me live like a fatherless child? What I wanted to know most was: “If Chloe had gone with Mom back then, Dad, would you have ignored her like this?”

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During a game of Truth or Dare, I asked my boyfriend: “If you met a girl who was younger than me and liked you, what would you do?” My boyfriend glanced down at the underclassman sitting next to him and answered without hesitation: “What do you think? I’d obviously choose the younger one.” “Why are you asking me this all of a sudden? Did you really think I’d choose you?” “Chloe, people need to know their place.” After he said that, he smiled and wrapped his arm around the underclassman’s waist. I didn’t respond. I just thoughtfully looked at his young, successful best friend sitting behind him. Because just moments ago, that very friend had confessed his feelings to me. His messages were still on my phone screen: [Have you thought about it?] [Why aren’t you saying anything?] [Chloe, am I really not as good as him?] 1. The pointer of the spin-the-wheel game stopped in front of my boyfriend. He chose “Truth.” As the person with the most points, I had the right to ask the question. Driven by some inexplicable impulse, I looked up at Julian, who was acting ambiguously close to the underclassman: “If you met a girl who was younger than me and liked you, what would you do?” The moment the words left my mouth, the entire room went silent. Everyone seemed eager to hear his answer. After all, lately, Julian had been taking Mia, a direct underclassman from his major, everywhere he went, using his status as her senior as an excuse. It made his intentions hard to read. Julian slowly lifted his eyelids, looking straight at me. His voice, slightly slurred from the alcohol, sounded exceptionally gentle: “Chloe.” “Do you even need to ask that?” I felt a wave of embarrassment. He was my boyfriend of three years, yet I found myself needing to ask a question that shouldn’t even have another option. But the next second, he let out a mocking scoff: “Of course I’d choose the younger one.” “Chloe, people need to know their place.” The gazes of the people around us shifted to me, filled with a mix of pity and contempt. Julian and I had been together for three years. He pursued me for over six months. Back then, he had nothing, but I stayed by his side anyway. Let alone the fact that a year ago, the wealthy Vance family had finally found him, turning him into a famous, wealthy heir in the city overnight. Everyone was waiting for my anger or my silent endurance. Instead, all I could think about was three days ago. I had acute gastroenteritis and called Julian, crying. He told me I was being too delicate, that it was just gastroenteritis, and it wasn’t my first time having it. Later, his best friend, Ethan, took me to the hospital. While I was there, I saw Julian taking care of Mia, who was suffering from menstrual cramps. During the six months he pursued me, he would stand under an umbrella in the rain, tilting it entirely toward me while half of his own shoulder got soaked. He used to smile and say, “Chloe, I will always treat you so well.” After three years of dating, in this very moment, Julian completely rotted away in my heart. 2. Seeing my expression, Julian frowned slightly. He reached out and grabbed my hand: “It’s just a game, Chloe.” “Is it really that hard to hear?” “If you chose someone younger, I wouldn’t be mad.” I blinked. “Really?” The corners of Julian’s mouth curled up slightly. “Of course.” I looked down, thoughtfully gazing at my phone vibrating in my palm: [Have you thought about it?] [Why aren’t you saying anything?] [Baby, am I really not as good as him?] I looked up and saw the elegant, refined man standing behind Julian. His burning gaze was fixed on me. That was Julian’s roommate of three years, and his best friend. Just moments ago, he had confessed his feelings to me. My face flushed red. I couldn’t even imagine someone like him calling me “baby.” Looking back up, I said softly: “Then let’s break up.” “I choose someone younger too.” Julian scoffed, looking at me like I was a child throwing a tantrum. “Sure.” “Do you have someone in mind? Need me to introduce you to someone?” Looking into Ethan’s slightly shining eyes, I shook my head: “No need.” Julian clearly didn’t take my words seriously and went back to playing the game with the others. Only Ethan, sitting opposite me, stared at me with burning intensity. My phone vibrated again: [Baby, so good.] Me: … I was starting to regret this. In my mind, even though Ethan was the youngest in Julian’s dorm, he was the definition of an untouchable, aloof ‘ice prince.’ I didn’t expect him to be like this on the inside. The tips of my ears instinctively turned red, and I got up to go to the restroom. When I came out, Ethan was leaning against the wall in the hallway. Seeing me, he immediately pulled out a tissue and meticulously dried my wet hands. … “Baby, I’ll take you home later.” His voice was low, raspy, and magnetic. Saying things like that didn’t feel out of character for him; it just added an intense aura of desire. My ears tingled, and I nodded instinctively. I let him hold my hand as we walked back to the private room. But as soon as we stepped inside, I snapped back to reality and pulled my hand free. When I looked up, I caught a fleeting glimpse of hurt in his eyes. 3. Seeing Ethan and me return together, Julian didn’t think much of it. He just stood up and grabbed his jacket: “Let’s go.” I noticed his lips were wet. I glanced at Mia. Yep, hers were wet too. Without a doubt, that “Dare” must have been very exciting. On the way back, Mia familiarly slid into the passenger seat of Julian’s car. “Mia gets carsick, so you sit in the back.” I shook my head: “No need, I’ll ride in Ethan’s car.” For the past month, Julian had been extremely “busy.” Whenever I looked for him, he would impatiently tell Ethan to keep me company. So this time, Julian didn’t overthink it either. He just let out a cold laugh: “Chloe, Ethan only kept you company before as a favor to me.” “How can you keep bothering Ethan? He’s a slight germaphobe and hates people riding in his car. It’s hard to catch a cab here, so be reasonable.” Ethan looked at me with deep, dark eyes: “It’s fine. She’s the exception.” Julian’s face turned ugly. He didn’t look at me again and drove off. 4. On the ride back, I didn’t dare look at Ethan. I could only aimlessly stare at the steering wheel. But then I saw his long, pale fingers. The defined knuckles. I swallowed hard. Hitting a red light, Ethan stopped the car and handed me a bottle of water: “Thirsty?” I shook my head, feeling a sudden wave of embarrassment. I didn’t dare tell him I had a thing for hands. He chuckled softly, put the water bottle down, and took a sip of sparkling water himself. When he tilted his chin up slightly, his sharp, clean jawline was perfectly defined. My gaze was drawn to him again. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed slightly. He reached out and covered my eyes: “Chloe, don’t tempt me. We’re moving too fast.” I hurriedly explained: “I just wanted to taste what it’s like.” He suddenly turned right, parking the car by the side of an empty park. He cupped the back of my head and kissed me. At first, he held back, keeping it light and tentative. But when his slightly heavy breathing brushed against my cheek, I instinctively parted my lips. His breathing hitched, and then he began to passionately plunder. A long time passed before he finally let me go. His gaze landed on my lips, his voice husky: “Have you tasted it now?” I didn’t dare look at his slightly red, incredibly sensual, thin lips. I turned my face away to avoid his gaze. I noticed the sparkling water had spilled onto the leather seat, leaving a wet patch. “The seat got dirty.” I remembered Julian saying Ethan was a slight germaphobe. He pulled out a tissue and reached over to wipe it: “It’s fine. Chloe can get anything dirty she wants.” We hadn’t even done anything, it was just a kiss. But the atmosphere felt overwhelmingly romantic and intimate. … 5. On the way back, Julian called me several times. I didn’t answer any of them. On the final call, I regretfully told him: [If I had known your best friend was this handsome…] [I wouldn’t have bothered dating you in the first place.] [The way he calls me ‘Chloe’ makes my heart ache for him.] Him: [?] I didn’t wait for his reply; I just hung up. And blocked all of his contact information. … Ethan parked the car right in front of my dorm building. The Vance family had donated 50 million to the university, so he naturally had some privileges. Once the car stopped, I instinctively pulled the handle to get out. It wouldn’t open. Ethan saw the surprise in my eyes but didn’t explain. He just leaned in close to my nose, his voice magnetic and raspy: “Baby, does it really make your heart ache when I call your name?” The tips of my ears burned. I didn’t know how to explain. Ethan curled his lips into a smile, as if he understood something. “So this is how baby likes to play.” The car doors unlocked. I scrambled out and ran toward the dorm building. Ethan grabbed my hand and pinned me against the wall. “Chloe, I feel so uncomfortable.” I definitely felt it. He seemed… a little restless. Remembering his broad shoulders, I sighed. Those few drinks at the club seemed to be hitting my head right now. My mind went foggy. I reached out and patted it. “Be a good boy.” Ethan let out a soft laugh and bit my earlobe: “You really do have a soft spot for younger guys, don’t you?” Me: … Can’t you just talk normally? How did I never realize he was such a flirt? The dorm matron, walking out in her pajamas, sneered: “You young people sure know how to have fun.” “Three minutes until curfew.” I immediately pushed Ethan away and sprinted inside. 6. When Julian got hung up on by Chloe, he and Mia were dining at a Michelin-starred romantic restaurant. Mia said she wanted black truffle steak, so he brought her here. She smiled and asked him: “How did you know about this place?” “Did you bring Chloe here before?” He shook his head. “A friend recommended it.” Thinking about it… In their three years of dating, he had never brought Chloe to a place like this. He was an orphan, and his college tuition was barely covered by financial aid. To survive, he took on three part-time jobs starting his freshman year. That was when he fell in love with Chloe at first sight. She was a freshman just like him. On the first day of orientation, Chloe’s picture was posted on the university’s confession page. Everyone saw her delicate, beautiful face, and so did he. In almost an instant, he fell for her. At that time, he was insecure and poor. But when he saw her wearing faded, washed-out jeans, he only felt a sense of relief. Later, he pursued Chloe for over six months. After they got together, he continued working his part-time jobs. During a heavy winter snowstorm, when he walked out of the western restaurant where he worked, Chloe was standing at the door holding an umbrella, waiting for him to get off work. Later, the Vance family found him and brought him back. But he never brought Chloe to a restaurant like this. Subconsciously, he felt that since Chloe had eaten street food and cheap diners with him for three years, it didn’t really matter if they came to a place like this. But instinctively, he brought Mia here. Besides the fact that he was no longer short on money, the more important reason was that the niche designer dresses Mia wore weren’t suited for street food stalls. Remembering Chloe’s words… He felt a sudden, inexplicable panic. Mia, sitting across from him, noticed and comforted him: “She’s probably just still angry and saying things to make you mad.” He thought about it and agreed. He knew exactly what kind of person Chloe was—pure and conservative. There was absolutely no way she would ever do anything with his best friend. But what was that momentary panic? He couldn’t explain it. “Should we go find her and explain things right now?” Feeling irritated, he looked out at the rain: “No need. Let her be.” He knew Chloe’s family situation better than anyone. A child of divorce, with both parents remarried to other people. She had no home, which made her exceptionally terrified of loss. She needed security more than anyone else. Without him, she had nowhere to go. He was absolutely certain that within seven days, Chloe would come looking for him with red, tearful eyes. Thinking of this, his panicked heart settled down. 7. When Julian returned to the dorm, the others were already asleep. Only Ethan was still sitting at his computer, reviewing the latest government bidding projects. He knew Ethan had recently started a company, but he didn’t pay it much mind. After all, with their family backgrounds, most of them only had two paths after graduation: return to the family business or start their own. Whichever path they chose, with their families backing them up, they couldn’t fall too hard. He didn’t understand why someone like Ethan, the only heir to a massive conglomerate, would want to start his own business instead of taking the easy route of inheriting his family’s empire. But it wasn’t his place to say anything. Seeing Ethan in the dorm made him breathe a sigh of relief. When Ethan saw him, he instinctively furrowed his brow. Julian realized that Ethan was a germaphobe, and the cloying, sweet women’s perfume on his own clothes was indeed quite pungent. Feeling slightly guilty, he pinched his nose. After all, his roommates all knew Chloe. She never wore this kind of perfume. And although Ethan was always very cold towards Chloe whenever he saw her, he had still known her for three years. Knowing Ethan wasn’t the type to gossip, Julian relaxed. The next second, he grabbed his clothes and headed to the bathroom. When he came back out, he saw Ethan on the balcony, talking to a girl on the phone. His voice was low and deep: “Baby, what are you doing right now?” It was the first time Julian had ever seen the usually aloof “ice prince” Ethan show an expression like this. In the quiet night, the girl’s soft, clear voice came through the receiver exceptionally clearly: “I’m taking a shower.” The girl’s voice was accompanied by the sound of running water. He couldn’t hear it very clearly. He only saw Ethan’s Adam’s apple bob slightly. When Ethan saw him, he immediately adopted a coaxing tone and said: “Baby, text me after you’re done showering, okay?” “It’s a little… inconvenient right now.” The other side murmured an agreement, and the call ended. Julian looked at Ethan, knowing this was just male possessiveness acting up, and didn’t say much. Honestly, through the screen, what could he even see anyway? But it did show that Ethan cared deeply about this girl. Julian asked casually: “Got a girlfriend? Is this the girl you’ve been texting every day recently?” “Could it be that girl you’ve had a crush on for three years?” Ethan sat back down at his laptop and gave an affirmative “Mhm.” Seeing that Ethan didn’t want to elaborate on his relationship with the girl, Julian didn’t press the issue. After all, the whole dorm knew Ethan had a girl he’d been secretly in love with for three years. From the looks of it, he had finally gotten what he wanted. Then, he suddenly remembered Chloe saying his best friend was more handsome than him. He had panicked a little at the time. But thinking about it now, Ethan was the only one in the dorm more handsome than him. And Ethan was already with the girl he’d loved for three years. This made him even more certain that Chloe was just throwing a tantrum. Julian let out a breath of relief. Remembering Chloe’s words, he still felt a surge of anger. He decided to give her the cold shoulder for a while. He needed to teach her a lesson.

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