Category: English

On the eve of our engagement, my father died on a construction site. It was a project owned by my fiancée’s first love. I wanted justice. I wanted blood. But Morgan, my lawyer fiancée, didn’t stand by me. Instead, she crossed the aisle to defend him—the man responsible for my father’s death. She didn’t just abandon me; she ensured my father would go to his grave with his name dragged through the mud and the truth buried under legal jargon. When I was at the edge of the ledge, Madeline appeared. She was the one who found the evidence Morgan had tried to hide. She was the one who forced a half-million-dollar settlement out of them. The betrayal and the grief broke me. I slipped into a depression so deep the world turned gray. Madeline gave up her career as a forensic pathologist to take me abroad, away from the ghosts of my past. In the darkest hours, when I begged for the lights to go out, she would hold me, her eyes red from weeping, and beg me to stay for her. She proposed to me a thousand and one times. She swore that even if the whole world turned its back on me, she would be my sanctuary. But today is our tenth anniversary. And standing outside the cracked door of our living room, I heard her laughing with her friends. “Half a million for a human life,” one of them said. “I still can’t believe you pulled that off, Madeline.” “His father could have been saved,” another voice whispered, chillingly casual. “Who would have guessed you’d just… perform the autopsy while he was still clinging to life?” “If Miles ever found out that you were in on it with them from the start, he’d lose his mind, wouldn’t he?” I froze. The air in my lungs turned to shards of ice. … 1 Then, I heard Madeline’s voice—cool, detached, and utterly unfamiliar. “Marrying him cost me my life,” she said. “I don’t owe him a damn thing anymore.” “But Miles is fragile, Maddie. The depression… if he finds out the truth, he’ll break. He’ll go nuclear.” Madeline’s response was a shrug I could practically hear. “I spent ten years babysitting him in Europe just to keep him from going back and making trouble for Trevor. It’s been a decade. Even if he finds out, where’s he going to go? He has nothing. He has nobody but me.” A single door stood between us, yet her words leveled the world I had built. I gripped the doorframe, my knuckles white, my body trembling so violently I thought I might shatter. “Trevor is the sun,” she continued softly. “I couldn’t let Miles be the smudge on his perfect horizon.” I backed away, one step, then two. I couldn’t listen anymore. I bolted into the study, locking the door behind me. My chest burned with a physical agony, a rhythmic thumping in my ears that sounded like a mockery of the decade I’d spent worshipping her. I thought of the “settlement.” I thought of the “accident.” My eyes fell on her laptop, still logged in. My hand shook as I gripped the mouse. I opened her messages—a secondary account I had never seen before. A secret life. There was a group chat with Trevor and Morgan. Ten years of history laid bare in digital ink. Ten years ago, my father was impaled by a falling rebar on Trevor’s site. Negligence. Plain and simple. Back then, Morgan—my fiancée at the time—dumped me the second the incident happened, stepping in as Trevor’s lead counsel to bury the evidence. That was when Madeline “coincidentally” appeared. She was the doctor on call. she was the one who drove through twelve red lights to get him to the hospital. And yet, by that afternoon, she was handing me a death certificate. She was a forensic pathologist. She knew exactly how to make a heartbeat stop and call it “procedure.” Then came the five hundred thousand dollars. She told me it was a “mercy gift” from Trevor, a way for me to move on. She told me to let it go. She took me to London, telling me we needed to start over. It was a setup. A decade-long con performed by the three people who had ruined me. I let out a jagged, hollow laugh. I reached up to wipe my face and realized I was soaked in cold tears. I stayed there for a long time, breathing through the nausea, until I managed to screenshot every single message and send them to my private cloud. Then, I called an old contact back in the States—a lawyer who had never stopped believing the original case was rigged. “I need the original autopsy report from my father’s death ten years ago,” I whispered into the phone. “I need to look at it again. All of it.” When I finally emerged from the study, I ran straight into Madeline. She looked startled, her eyes darting toward the study door. “What were you doing in there?” she asked, her voice sharper than usual. She seemed to realize she sounded defensive. She softened instantly, reaching out to hook her finger through mine—the familiar, intimate gesture that used to make my heart melt. “I couldn’t find you. I got worried. Did you take your meds today, Miles?” If I hadn’t seen those messages, I would have fallen for it. I would have leaned into her touch. Now, her skin felt like a snake’s. When I didn’t answer, she stood on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around my neck. Her breath brushed my cheek, making my skin crawl. “We’re moving back home next week,” she murmured. “I don’t want any more surprises.” That snapped me back to reality. I pushed her away, gently but firmly. “Why?” I asked, my voice flat. “We’ve lived here for ten years. Why move back now?” She hesitated for a fraction of a second. “My parents are getting older. And you’re stable now, Miles. It’s time to face the world again.” “Is it about your parents?” I asked, looking her dead in the eye. “Or is it about Trevor?” The smile on her face stiffened. She recovered quickly, though. “Don’t be like that. Trevor is like a brother to me. My parents practically raised him. He’s family. He’s going to be your brother-in-law, in a way.” She gave me a playful, dismissive pout and walked into the bedroom to start packing. I watched her back, knowing the truth. She didn’t want a brother. She wanted the man she had killed my father to protect. “Is he really worth all of this?” I whispered to the empty hallway. 2 I laughed at my own stupidity. Fine. If she wanted to go back, we’d go back. But it wouldn’t be the homecoming she imagined. The flight was the next morning. Madeline spent the whole trip in a state of barely suppressed electric excitement. The second we landed, I ceased to exist. She was already scanning the crowd, her pace quickening as we headed toward the arrivals lounge. I lagged behind, watching her run toward Trevor and Morgan. Trevor took her suitcase with an easy, practiced intimacy. He reached out and wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. Madeline didn’t pull away. She looked at him like he was the only source of light in the room. Morgan was the first to notice me. She arched an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. “Miles? Look at you. Ten years in hiding. Is the depression finally cured, or are you just better at faking it?” It was a verbal slap, delivered with all the cruelty of the woman who had left me when I was at my lowest. I clenched my fists at my sides, the bile rising in my throat. “Miles,” Trevor said, stepping forward. He looked pained, his voice dripping with performative guilt. “Ten years… I’ve wanted to say I’m sorry every single day. That accident with your dad… it was a tragedy. I hope you can finally find it in your heart to forgive me.” He looked so vulnerable. So “innocent.” It was the act that Madeline lived for. Before I could say a word, Madeline stepped in front of him, shielding him from me. She gave me a warning look. During the flight, she had told me a dozen times: The past is the past. Don’t bring it up. For my sake. “He’s already forgiven you, Trevor,” she said lightly, dismissing my father’s death like a spilled drink. “It’s ancient history. Don’t worry about it.” A sharp pain lanced through my chest. To them, it was just time passing. To me, it was the loss of the only man who had ever truly loved me. When I remained silent, Madeline nudged my arm, her eyes flashing with irritation. “Miles, what is wrong with you? You’ve had a sour face since we landed. You got the settlement money. It’s been ten years. The investigation cleared Trevor of everything! Why can’t you just be civil?” She hissed the last part into my ear. Whenever Trevor was involved, her logic evaporated, replaced by a fierce, maternal protectiveness. I stepped back, creating space between us. “If he’s so innocent,” I said, my voice cold and clear, “then a new investigation shouldn’t bother anyone.” Madeline’s face went dark. She opened her mouth to snap at me, but Morgan cut her off. “Anyway,” Morgan said, holding Trevor’s hand and flashing a massive diamond ring. “I’ve booked out the Heights for Trevor’s birthday. It’s also our engagement party. You two are just in time to celebrate with us.” I watched Madeline’s eyes drop to their joined hands. For a second, a look of pure, raw agony crossed her face. Her “Golden Boy” was officially off the market. “Congratulations,” she whispered, her voice sounding like it was being pulled through gravel. I looked at her and felt nothing but contempt. She had sacrificed her soul to save this man, only to hand him over to someone else. “I won’t be there,” I said. “I have plans.” Madeline and Morgan both looked offended. Trevor’s eyes turned watery. “I knew it. You still hate me. But Miles, I’m basically Madeline’s family. We’re going to be related. Why hold onto a grudge this long?” Madeline couldn’t take it. She turned on me, her voice trembling with rage. “Miles! Enough! What do you want? If you’re going to act like a child, then just leave. Go!” Every word she spoke was a needle in my heart. Trevor’s birthday. The date of the party. It was the anniversary of my father’s death. In London, she used to spend that day holding me while I cried. She hadn’t forgotten the date. She just didn’t care anymore. Not when Trevor was the one blowing out the candles. Madeline grabbed Trevor’s arm and led him away, not even glancing back at me. As Trevor passed, he leaned in, his voice a low, triumphant whisper. “The two women you’ve loved most in your life? They both chose me. You’re a loser, Miles. You always have been.” I went to the party anyway. Morgan had spared no expense. The ballroom was draped in gold and white. Madeline had contributed, too—I saw the massive digital billboard she’d rented outside, flashing Trevor’s face across the city skyline. All the power players of the city were there, clinking glasses and laughing. Trevor stood between Morgan and Madeline, looking like the king of the world. He spotted me and leaned into Madeline. “Maddie, look. Miles is here. But he looks so miserable. Is he… is he jealous of us?” Madeline stiffened. she walked over to me and dragged me into a quiet corner. “I don’t know what your problem is,” she hissed. “But it’s Trevor’s night. Can you please just put on a smile for once? Everyone can see you’re holding a grudge.” My heart felt like a dead weight. I looked into her eyes—the eyes I used to think were my North Star. 3 “I haven’t said a word,” I replied, my voice carrying further than she liked. People began to turn their heads. “If you love him so much, Madeline, why didn’t you just marry him yourself?” The room went silent. Trevor’s face went pale. He managed to squeeze out a few tears. “Miles, you can hit me, you can scream at me… but don’t insult Madeline. She’s like a sister to me. I just wanted us to be a family…” Madeline’s grip on my arm tightened until it bruised. “Are you insane?!” “Today is the anniversary of my father’s death,” I said, my voice shaking. “How exactly am I supposed to be ‘happy’?” Madeline’s hand froze. She let go of my arm, her expression flickering with a momentary, haunting regret. For ten years, she had been my anchor on this day. Today, she had traded my mourning for Trevor’s celebration. “Miles… I… I didn’t mean… Look, as soon as the cake is cut, we’ll leave. I’ll spend the rest of the night with you—” Before she could finish, a commotion broke out near the stage. Trevor had collapsed into Morgan’s arms. He was shaking, his eyes rolled back in his head. Madeline didn’t even look at me. She screamed his name and shoved through the crowd, leaving me standing in the corner alone. A moment later, Morgan was in my face. She didn’t care about the guests. She swung her hand and slapped me so hard my vision blurred. “Are you happy now?” she spat. “Trevor has a heart condition because of the stress from ten years ago! He’s living on an artificial heart because there are no donors! And you just keep pushing him! Your father has been dead for a decade, Miles. If you miss him that much, why don’t you just go join him?” The room spun. I looked toward the doors and saw Madeline cradling Trevor as the paramedics arrived. She didn’t look back. She looked at me with nothing but cold, sharp loathing. I stood there long after the room emptied. My phone buzzed. It was the private investigator I’d hired. He’d sent a video file—old, grainy CCTV footage from ten years ago. In the video, my father is lying on the ground, a mangled mess of blood and bone. And standing over him are Madeline and Trevor. They weren’t calling for help. They were talking. In that moment, every beautiful memory I had of Madeline turned to ash. I forwarded everything to my lawyer friend. He called me immediately. “Miles… this is heavy. I didn’t think they’d actually do it. But it’s been ten years. Are you sure you want to open this cage? Madeline will go down with him.” I gritted my teeth, my eyes burning. “Yes. I want them to bleed. I want them to lose everything.” Madeline didn’t come home that night. I didn’t text her. The woman I thought was my savior was actually the one who had held the blade. I packed my things and moved out of the house. I took every cent she had ever given me—every ‘allowance’ and ‘gift’—and put it all into a single bank account to be returned. While I was packing, Trevor sent me a string of photos. Photos of him and Madeline. The most recent one was of them kissing in his hospital bed. Miles, poor Madeline is so miserable with you, his text read. Whenever Morgan isn’t around, she’s all over me. To the world, she’s a refined doctor. To me, she’s just a dog begging for scraps. She’s happy to be my little secret. A month ago, this would have killed me. Now, I just felt a dull, echoing numbness. I printed the photo out and placed it next to the divorce papers on the kitchen table. I was walking out the door when a notification popped up.

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Fresh out of prep school and heading into my freshman year at NYU, my parents decided I needed a “support system.” That support system came in the form of Mrs. Albright, a live-in housekeeper they hired to make sure I didn’t subsist entirely on iced coffee and takeout. The arrangement imploded the day I brought home a new handbag. It was a sleek, limited-edition piece—retail price: seven thousand dollars. When Mrs. Albright found out the price tag, she didn’t just disapprove; she detonated. “You are spending my son’s money!” she shrieked, her face turning a blotchy red. “Seven grand for a bag? You’re ruining this family before you’ve even started.” I blinked, genuinely confused. “Excuse me? Your son makes, what, three grand a month? Why would you think I’m using his money? My quarterly trust fund distribution is twenty grand a month. I spend what I want.” Mrs. Albright stood there, chest heaving with indignation, unable to form a coherent argument but clearly furious. A week later, I noticed a few of my designer clutches were missing from the closet. When I called her, she didn’t even try to hide it. She sounded smug, almost self-righteous. “I sold them. If you want to marry my son, you need to learn how to be thrifty. I’m helping you save.” I hung up and dialed 911. Mrs. Albright stopped feeling so smug after that. 01 I’ve never been good with dorm life. The communal showers, the noise—it wasn’t for me. Since my parents, Richard and Catherine, were constantly jet-setting for business, they bought me a pre-war condo in the Village and installed Mrs. Albright to keep the place running. The day the dividend hit my account, I treated myself. I walked in the door, the Chanel shopping bag swinging from my arm. Mrs. Albright was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. She wiped her hands on her apron and zeroed in on the logo. “Blaire, honey, that looks expensive. How much did that set you back?” I kicked off my heels and collapsed onto the sofa, reaching for the remote. “About seven thousand.” The knife hit the cutting board with a violent thwack. “Blaire!” She spun around, abandoning the dinner prep. “How can you be so reckless? Seven thousand dollars on a bag? That is my son’s hard-earned money you’re throwing away! He busts his back for three thousand a month, and you blow twice that on leather?” I sat up, the remote dangling from my hand. I looked at her like she had grown a second head. “Mrs. Albright,” I said, my voice dropping to a cool, confused register. “I spent my money. What on earth does your son have to do with my finances? I get a five-figure allowance from the trust every month. If I want to burn it, that’s my business. You’re the housekeeper, not my financial advisor.” Her face went from pale to a deep, embarrassed crimson. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then turned back to the counter aggressively. “Just make dinner, please,” I said, turning on the TV. “Don’t stress yourself out over things that don’t concern you.” My parents really needed to vet their staff better. 02 Mrs. Albright had been with me for a month. In the beginning, she was fine—professional, even motherly in a distant way. But lately, the boundaries were blurring. She was sliding into my life in ways that made my skin crawl. She finally set a plate of pasta on the coffee table. “Blaire,” she chided, pointing at my feet. “Put some socks on. Walking around barefoot is bad for a woman’s constitution. You need to protect your fertility.” She fetched my slippers and placed them right in front of me. Despite her annoying commentary, she wasn’t bad at the job. The apartment was clean, the food was edible. I didn’t want the hassle of interviewing new candidates, so I let it slide. Halfway through dinner, she hovered near the sofa, wringing her hands. “Blaire, did I upset you earlier?” I looked up. Her eyes were wide, pleading. I softened. Maybe I had been too harsh. “Look,” she started, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m not trying to boss you around. But seven grand is… it’s a lot. The economy is terrible right now. Making money is hard. Your parents work themselves to the bone for every cent. You’re a college student now; you should learn some empathy. Your classmates aren’t buying things like that. They care about value. A bag that expensive needs maintenance. A nice hundred-dollar tote is just as good, and you can toss it when you’re bored.” She sounded so reasonable. So maternal. For a second, the guilt pricked at me. My parents were always working. Maybe I was being a brat. “You have a point,” I admitted, putting down my fork. “Okay. You know that extra two hundred a week I’ve been giving you for ‘inflation’ costs on groceries?” I looked at her with wide, innocent eyes. “I’ll stop giving you that. I should be saving, right? I asked around, and five hundred a week is plenty for one person’s groceries. I’ll start being thrifty right now.” Mrs. Albright’s face fell. The sympathetic mask cracked. She tried to stammer a protest, but I had already turned back to my pasta, my expression closed off. She shut her mouth, but I could feel her glaring at the back of my head. 03 The next morning, the vibe in the kitchen was frigid. Mrs. Albright slammed a plate of eggs onto the table. “Blaire, gather up your dirty laundry from yesterday. Put it in the machine yourself. You’re too lazy. If you keep acting like a princess, your future in-laws are going to laugh you out of the house.” She said it casually, like she was commenting on the weather. I frowned, looking up from my phone. “Mrs. Albright, that is literally your job description. Housekeeping, laundry, cooking.” She stared at me, eyes cold and hard as flint. “I’m teaching you a lesson.” I didn’t blink. I just pulled up the agency app on my phone and started scrolling through profiles. One more month, I told myself. Then she’s gone. She started washing the dishes, clanging the pots together with enough force to wake the neighbors. “Mrs. Albright,” I said without looking up. “Volume.” She grunted and stomped off to my bedroom to collect the laundry anyway. 04 By the next day, the mood swung again. Mrs. Albright was beaming, practically radiating sunshine. She insisted on eating with me. She had cooked enough food for an army—steaks, sides, three different salads. I could never finish it, and she always packed the leftovers to take home to her family. I had asked her to cook less, but she claimed she wanted me to have “options.” Consequently, the grocery budget was always maxed out. I wasn’t stingy, but looking back, I realized I was funding her family’s dinners every night. “Blaire,” she said between bites, “you can afford this place… your parents must give you a hefty allowance, right?” I raised an eyebrow. “It’s sufficient. Why?” She set down her fork, leaning in with that fake-concerned look again. “I’ve been thinking. You have all this cash, and clearly, you have a hole in your pocket. As a favor, I’ve come up with a system. You give the money to me. I’ll hold it for you. When you need something, you ask.” She paused, scanning my face for a reaction. Seeing none, she pushed her luck. “Of course, I won’t just give you whatever you want. Maybe… a hundred dollars a day? That’s three thousand a month. You’d save a fortune.” I dropped my fork. The clatter echoed in the silence. “Mrs. Albright,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “My money is my money. I don’t need a custodian. Especially not an employee.” “I’m just trying to help!” she snapped, her tone shifting to anger. “You spend money like water! Two thousand on shoes, seven thousand on a bag… if you keep this up, when you marry my…” She clamped a hand over her mouth. I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Marry who? What were you going to say?” “Nothing. I just meant… when you marry into someone’s family, you can’t blow your husband’s money. You need to plan for the future.” “My future isn’t your concern.” “Blaire, I care about you!” “I don’t need your care,” I said, standing up. “Finish out the month. Then you’re done. We’re clearly not a good fit.” Panic flashed in her eyes. She practically threw herself out of the chair and onto her knees. “No! Blaire, please! I’m sorry!” She actually slapped her own cheek, hard enough to leave a mark. Tears welled up instantly. “Don’t fire me! My whole family depends on this check! Please, I beg you!” She grabbed my leg. I recoiled, horrified. It was a performance, grotesque and desperate. I told her to get up, but she refused until I mumbled that I wouldn’t fire her immediately. I had hired a drama queen.

At our “Welcome Home” dinner, Bennett Miller suddenly stood up to leave. He’d just received word that the power had gone out in the dorm room of his student, Lexi. I caught him by the hallway, my voice low and pleading, trying to keep the peace in front of our families. “I’ll book her a suite at the Four Seasons,” I whispered, reaching for his arm. “I’ll send my assistant to pick her up right now. You don’t need to—” Bennett didn’t even let me finish. He shook his head, his expression hardening into that patronizing “professor” look he used when I was being ‘unreasonable.’ “She’s sensitive, Claire. She’s not like you. A hotel isn’t necessarily safe for a girl like her when she’s panicked. If something happens to her on my watch, it’s my professional failure.” A sharp knot tightened in my chest. The anger I’d been suppressing for months bubbled up, coated in acid. “Is she actually afraid of the dark, Bennett? Or does she just want you there to hold her hand?” His face went pale, then flashed with a cold, sudden fury. He turned to walk away. “Bennett!” I called out, my voice trembling but clear. “If you walk out that door today, we’re done. I mean it.” His gaze dropped to my stomach, where our child was barely a bump beneath my silk dress. “Calm down,” he said, his voice terrifyingly level. “High emotions aren’t good for the baby.” Then, he disappeared down the corridor. That night, Lexi posted to her Instagram story. It was a photo taken from the passenger seat of Bennett’s Volvo. She was holding two iced lattes, her face partially obscured by a stray blonde curl. The caption read: Huge thanks to Professor Miller for the midnight rescue! I’m such a klutz… I accidentally tripped the main breaker and lost my mind in the dark. 1 The table was filled with expensive food, steam rising in the quiet room, but no one moved their silverware. My father slammed his scotch glass onto the mahogany table. My mother gripped my hand, her face a mask of restrained outrage. Bennett’s parents tried to play the peacemakers, their voices frantic. “Claire, honey, you know how Bennett is. He has such an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. The girl was probably just terrified…” My mother cut them off. “What student is more important than his wife and unborn child? This was a family celebration. Does he have any respect for my daughter at all?” My father looked directly at me. “Claire, what do you want to do?” I sat down, my movements mechanical. I felt strangely hollow, as if the person who had been screaming inside me had finally run out of breath. “Let’s eat,” I said quietly. “The food is getting cold.” I began serving my parents, my hands steady. They didn’t know that this wasn’t the first time Bennett had abandoned me for Lexi. Last month, he was supposed to take me for my twelve-week ultrasound. At the last minute, he’d texted saying an “academic emergency” had come up. I told him it was fine, that I was a modern woman and could handle a routine check-up alone. I didn’t expect to see him at the very same hospital. He was supporting Lexi, whose arm was draped over his shoulders. He told me she’d been in a “horrific car accident.” Looking back, Lexi had been the one to describe the “crash” in such vague, dramatic terms that Bennett assumed she was near death. In reality, a teenager on a bicycle had clipped her shoulder while she was looking at her phone. But every single time, Bennett chose to believe her version of reality. My parents didn’t bother being polite to the Millers after that. Bennett’s parents left shortly after, looking small and defeated. The moment the front door clicked shut, the strength evaporated from my limbs. A wave of nausea hit me, and I swayed. “Claire!” My mother caught me, her eyes wide with worry. “I’m okay,” I whispered, leaning into her. “I’m just… I’m so tired, Mom.” Back in my old bedroom, I locked the door and checked my phone. There was a message from Bennett sent twenty minutes ago. She’s still pretty shaken up. I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up for me. Go to sleep. Not a single “I’m sorry.” Not a hint of remorse. A few minutes later, I refreshed Lexi’s feed. I’d added her a year ago when she was an intern at my design firm, back when she used to call me “Ma’am” with wide, admiring eyes. Now, her posts were nothing but thinly veiled provocations. We had been together for five years before we married. He was the brilliant academic; I was the entrepreneur building a luxury lifestyle brand. We were supposed to be a power couple—partners who admired and supported each other. I rarely bothered him with my problems. When I was sick, I drove myself to the doctor. When the water heater burst, I called the plumber. I thought this was what a mature, loving marriage looked like. I realized now I was just at the very bottom of his list of priorities. I pressed my hand against my stomach. It was still flat, yet it held a life. How ironic. He could leave his pregnant wife and his entire family for a girl who couldn’t find a fuse box. The low hum of an engine sounded outside. I walked to the window and moved the curtain an inch. Down on the street, Bennett was climbing out of his car, locking the doors while talking intensely on his phone. Under the glow of the streetlamp, his profile looked focused and tender. I didn’t need to guess who was on the other end. I let the curtain fall and walked into my home office. My inbox was full, but one email stood out—an invitation from the University Alumni Association. They wanted me to attend the Centennial Gala as a “Distinguished Alumna.” I heard footsteps in the hall. The door opened just as I clicked “Accept.” Bennett stood there, looking at me with a practiced, weary tenderness. “Still up? I told you not to wait. It’s not good for the baby to lose sleep.” He walked over and rested his hands on my shoulders—the same hands that had probably been steadying Lexi an hour ago. “About today… I’m sorry. But I couldn’t just leave her in that state. You understand, right?” I didn’t move. He leaned down, resting his chin on the top of my head. “Are you still working? Maybe you should step back from the firm for a while. You don’t need to work this hard, Claire. Your husband can take care of you.” I froze. In all the years we’d been together, Bennett had rarely used that “provider” tone. It felt less like a promise and more like a bribe. I tilted my head back to look at him. “You’re being awfully sweet tonight. Why?” He leaned down to kiss me, but I turned my face away. He laughed softly, unbothered. “I’m just telling the truth.” He headed into the bathroom to shower. As soon as the water started running, his phone on the desk buzzed twice. The notification popped up on the lock screen. Is she calmed down? See, I told you that line would work. You’re welcome! The breath left my lungs in a cold shiver. I closed my eyes and pretended I hadn’t seen it. 2 The night of the Alumni Gala arrived. I didn’t tell Bennett I was going; I just showed up. The grand ballroom was packed. From across the rows of velvet seats, I could see Bennett’s profile in the faculty section. Lexi’s performance was third on the program. Under the roar of applause, she walked onto the stage, looking radiant and ingenue-like in a white silk dress. She stepped to the microphone with a playful pout. “Good evening, everyone. I am so incredibly embarrassed, but there’s been a technical glitch with my backing track.” She scanned the front rows until her eyes landed on Bennett. “I don’t suppose I could convince my mentor, Professor Miller, to join me on stage and help me out with a live accompaniment?” The room went quiet for a beat, then broke into encouraging, indulgent applause. The lighting tech, clearly in on the joke, swung a spotlight onto Bennett. He looked surprised—but not too surprised. He looked up at the stage where Lexi stood bathed in light, her eyes shimmering as she watched him. “Go on, Professor!” a student shouted. Bennett stood up, giving a helpless, charming shrug to the crowd, and made his way to the stage. As he passed my row, he paused for a split second. He saw me. A flicker of genuine shock crossed his face, but he didn’t stop. On stage, she sang a soulful, yearning ballad while he played the piano. The lighting cast their shadows onto the backdrop behind them, silhouettes leaning toward each other, almost touching. When she reached the bridge—I want you by my side, through the dark and through the light—she turned her head to look at him, her expression one of pure, raw devotion. I sat in the darkness, my hand resting protectively over my stomach. I didn’t see Bennett again for the rest of the performance. At the after-party, I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows with a glass of orange juice. My old college roommate, Joanna, walked up and squeezed my arm. “That was quite the show,” Joanna whispered, her eyes narrowed at the stage. “Are you actually okay with this? Because the way that girl looks at him… that is not ‘purely academic.’” She stepped closer. “You’ve got a marriage certificate that’s barely dry, Claire. Does he know how this looks?” I forced a thin smile. “The Arts Department has a long history of… drama.” Joanna scoffed. “I’ve seen duets, but I’ve never seen a professor and a student perform a love song like they were auditioning for a rom-com. ‘I want you by my side’—spare me.” She mimicked Lexi’s breathy vibrato and rolled her eyes. I actually laughed, but the sound died in my throat. Bennett had appeared behind Joanna, his face tight. He’d clearly heard her. “Lexi was just saving the performance,” he said, his voice laced with warning. “There’s no need to project your cynicism onto a girl who’s six years younger than you.” Joanna glared at him, unimpressed. “Bennett, have you forgotten how hard you chased Claire? Are you losing your mind? For a student—” I reached out and caught Joanna’s hand, stopping her. “It’s the Gala, Joe. Let’s not do this here.” She shot me a look of pure pity and sighed. Bennett’s expression softened, seemingly satisfied that I had defended him. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, his voice dropping into that “concerned husband” register. “You’re pregnant, Claire. You shouldn’t be listening to petty gossip.” Suddenly, a burst of raucous laughter erupted from the other side of the hall. A group of theater students was gathered in a circle. Lexi was in the middle, holding a piece of chocolate cake. A male student had a glob of frosting on his finger and was trying to smear it on her face. She was laughing, dodging him, shrieking playfully, “Stop it! Please, don’t!” The boy caught her wrist, and as they struggled, they moved closer together. I felt Bennett’s breathing hitch. His chest began to rise and fall rapidly. Without a word to me, he dropped his arm and strode toward the group. Joanna nudged me, her voice sharp. “Claire, he’s literally running to play the hero. Are you going to just stand there?” I took a slow sip of my juice, my eyes following my husband. “That’s not a hero,” I said quietly. I paused, watching Bennett grab the student’s wrist, his face a mask of cold authority. A bit of frosting fell onto Lexi’s dress. She let out a small gasp, looking down at the stain with a devastated expression. “That,” I told Joanna, “is a man who is jealous.” Bennett pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket—one I had bought him for our anniversary—and handed it to her. When she looked up at him with those wide, helpless eyes, he actually leaned down and began dabbing the frosting off her skirt himself. I set my glass down on a passing waiter’s tray. “Claire—” Joanna started. “It’s fine. I’m going to the restroom.” I turned the faucet on and watched the cool water wash over my hands. The door swung open, and Lexi walked in. She froze when she saw me, then a sweet, triumphant smile spread across her face. “Oh, hi! I didn’t know you were here.” Her voice was like spun sugar. “Professor Miller was looking for you earlier.” I looked at her through the mirror. “Was he?” She bit her lip, tucking a lipstick into her clutch. “Yeah. He’s so sweet. My dress got ruined, and he was so worried. You shouldn’t be mad, though. He just feels like I’m young and need a little extra guidance.” 3 I turned off the tap and turned to face her. “Lexi.” “Yeah?” “You’re twenty-four, right?” She blinked. “Yes…” “When I was twenty-four, I had already finished my Master’s, launched my firm, and cleared my first seven figures.” Her smile faltered. “What’s your point? You just grew up with money. It’s easy to be successful when you’re born at the finish line.” “If I had your background,” she continued, her chin lifting with a newfound spark of defiance, “I’d be twice as successful as you. Besides, maybe it’s because I don’t have your perfect life that Bennett feels more protective of me. He sees the real me.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. “And tell me, Lexi, besides this ‘pathetic protection,’ what exactly do you have?” I took a step toward her. She flinched. “I suggest you stop trying to build your future on the back of a married man and start focusing on your actual coursework. You’re not a ‘delicate muse,’ Lexi. You’re a cliché.” Her face went bone-white. I pushed past her and walked back into the ballroom. Almost immediately, the Dean of the University spotted me. His face lit up, and he hurried over. “Claire! I was just looking for you. The endowment for the new scholarship… we are absolutely floored by your generosity!” His voice wasn’t loud, but in the quiet of the gala, it carried. Bennett, who was standing nearby, whipped his head around. The Dean took my hand. “A full-ride scholarship for the Arts Department? You’re going to change so many lives. The University is honored to call you one of our own.” I smiled graciously. “I just wanted to give back to the place that gave me so much.” The Dean beamed. “The signing ceremony is next week. We’ll have a full press release. We want the students to see what real excellence looks like!” After the Dean moved on, Bennett approached me, his eyes wide with shock. “A scholarship? In my department? Why didn’t you mention this to me?” “I just decided.” He frowned, his voice dropping. “Claire, you should have consulted me. People are going to talk. You setting up a fund in my department? It looks…” “It looks like what, Bennett?” I looked him dead in the eye. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face. “Let’s talk about this at home.” “There’s nothing to talk about. The funds have been wired. Are you suggesting I ask for them back?” He grabbed my wrist, his grip tighter than usual. “You know I’m up for tenure this year. It’s a sensitive time. People will think—” “Think what? That I have too much money? Or that the ‘great’ Professor Miller needs his wife to buy his department’s loyalty?” He took a sharp breath, trying to stifle his anger. “It’s a nice gesture, Claire, but you need to think about my position before you act on impulse.” I looked at him, and for the first time, I felt a deep, soul-crushing exhaustion. “What is your position, Bennett? Are you worried about the school’s politics, or are you just worried that your ‘sensitive’ student will realize who actually holds the power in this family?” His pupils contracted. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Claire, don’t be so small-minded. Not everything is about your insecurities.” I nodded slowly. “You’re right. You’re not ‘small-minded,’ are you? Then prove it.” Before he could respond, I turned to leave. Joanna caught up with me at the valet. “Claire, let me drive you.” In the car, Joanna gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white. “Is he blind? That little sociopath was practically marking her territory on his lap, and he thinks he’s just being a ‘good mentor’?” My phone buzzed. Claire, we need to talk. I didn’t reply. A moment later, another one. How many times do I have to tell you? We are perfectly professional. She actually just told me she wants to apologize to you in person for the misunderstanding… 4 I didn’t expect him to actually bring her to our house. After the Gala, I’d moved back to my parents’ estate for a few days. My mother was helping me pack some essentials when Bennett showed up—with Lexi in tow. The moment they walked through the door, Lexi’s eyes filled with tears. “Claire, please,” she sobbed. “Professor Miller and I… there is nothing going on. Please don’t be mad at him because of me.” She looked like a Victorian orphan. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have called him that night. I shouldn’t have ruined your dinner. You can hate me, you can resent me, I don’t care.” “In the future,” she gasped, “even if I’m dying, I won’t call him. I promise.” Bennett looked pained. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder briefly. “Don’t say things like that, Lexi. You’re my student. It’s my job to look out for you.” Lexi was supposedly there to apologize to me, but her eyes never left Bennett’s face. She looked like she was sacrificing herself for him, playing the martyr to my “villain.” Bennett looked at me with a touch of reproach. “Claire, everything is out in the open now. Can we please stop this drama?” My mother stepped in front of me, her voice trembling with rage. “Bennett Miller, what is the meaning of this? You bring this girl into my daughter’s home? This isn’t an apology. This is a slap in the face.” Lexi spoke up, her voice trembling. “Ma’am, you misunderstand. I just want them to be happy. Claire’s sudden scholarship… it’s made things so difficult for the Professor at work. If she keeps being this impulsive, it will—” Slap. The sound echoed through the foyer. My mother’s hand had connected with Lexi’s cheek. Lexi stumbled back, falling—quite gracefully—into Bennett’s arms. Bennett’s face went dark. He looked at Lexi’s reddening cheek and then turned a cold, murderous gaze on my mother. “I have always respected you as an elder,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “But Lexi is an innocent kid. She doesn’t deserve this. You will apologize to her. Right now.” “Innocent?” my mother spat. “An innocent girl doesn’t follow a married man into his home in the middle of the night. What kind of self-respecting woman behaves like this?” Bennett let out a harsh, cold laugh. “If we’re talking about self-respect… Lexi is trying to fix a marriage she didn’t even break. What does that say about your daughter? Getting pregnant to lock down a man before the wedding? Is that what you call ‘good parenting’?” “Bennett!” I screamed, staring at him in horror. He seemed to realize what he’d said, flinching slightly, but he didn’t take it back. My mother clutched her chest, her face turning a terrifying shade of gray. She began to gasp, her breath coming in short, ragged hitches. “Mom!” I lunged for her. “Bennett, call 911! She has a heart condition!” Bennett didn’t move. He just stood there, holding Lexi. I scrambled for my phone on the hallway table, but Bennett stepped forward and snatched it out of my hand. “You want an ambulance?” he said, his eyes hard and glassy. “Then she apologizes to Lexi first.” I looked at him and realized I was looking at a stranger. Lexi, tucked against his side, had a flicker of something that looked like triumph in her eyes. Bennett watched my mother’s face go pale as she slumped against the wall. “I’ve seen your mother’s theatrics before, Claire. She’s fine. She just wants a way out of the embarrassment she caused. This ‘heart attack’ is just a cheap trick to make me feel guilty.” “Claire,” he said, his voice steady. “The ‘victim’ act doesn’t work on me anymore. Apologize.” Suddenly, a high-pitched ping came from my mother’s wrist. Her Apple Watch had detected an irregular, dangerously high heart rate and had automatically dialed her emergency contact—my father. The moment I heard my father’s panicked voice coming from the watch’s speaker, I screamed, “Dad! Mom collapsed! Get the paramedics to the house now!” Within ten minutes, a medical team was swarming the foyer. I didn’t breathe until my mother was stabilized and loaded into the ambulance. As they wheeled her out, I turned to Bennett, who was standing paralyzed in the corner. I took my phone back from his limp hand. I didn’t look at him. I dialed my firm’s head of legal. “This is Claire. I want Bennett Miller ruined by morning. Pull every cent of investment from the Miller family’s holdings. Cancel the contracts. I want every single person with the last name Miller out of this city’s business circles within thirty days.”

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My grandfather left the villa to my older brother in his will, and the only thing he left me was the advice to be a decent person. “Be a decent person.” The estate lawyer finished reading the final four words, then looked up. For two seconds, the living room was dead silent. Then, my brother smiled. My sister-in-law smiled, too. Uncle Paul slapped his thigh, letting out a dry chuckle. “Even at the very end, the old man couldn’t resist giving his granddaughter a little lecture.” My dad sat on the sofa nearby. He didn’t look at me. He hadn’t looked at me once since we walked in. The lawyer closed the leather folder and pushed the will to the center of the coffee table. Black ink on crisp white paper, spelling it out with absolute clarity: The sole real estate property under the name of Arthur Gallagher, namely the Lakefront Drive estate, is to be inherited by his eldest grandson, Derek Gallagher. What was left to his granddaughter, Tina Gallagher, were four handwritten words. Be a decent person. I stared at those four words. It was Grandpa’s handwriting. Every stroke pressed deep and hard into the paper. I knew that handwriting. Over the last seven years, I had seen it countless times. On the pillbox: Take after meals. On the fridge: Tina, don’t forget the milk. On the nightstand: Blood pressure 138 today. The exact same handwriting. Only now, it spelled out: Be a decent person. Around me, everyone started gathering their coats and bags. Like an audience leaving a theater after the curtain falls. No one asked if I had any objections. No one thought they needed to. 1. My sister-in-law, Monica, was the first to stand up. She grabbed the photocopy of the will, folded it sharply, and shoved it into her designer tote. Her movements were quick, almost frantic, like she was afraid someone might snatch it back. “Derek, we need to find time to go to the county clerk’s office this week and get the deed transferred.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried perfectly across the living room. My brother nodded. The look on his face was one of serene entitlement—not surprise, just the calm acceptance of a man getting exactly what he believed he was owed. “Dad, we’ll need you to sign a few release forms for the transfer.” My dad kept his eyes on the floor. “Sure.” From start to finish, just one word. Sure. Uncle Paul took a slow sip from his coffee mug, then finally glanced my way. “Tina, honey, don’t be upset. Your grandpa leaving the house to your brother—that’s just how things are done. Derek is the eldest grandson. He’s the one who has to carry the Gallagher family name. You? You’ll get married eventually, and your husband’s family will provide a house.” I just looked at him. He offered a patronizing smile and added, “Besides, your grandpa told you to be a decent person. That’s a beautiful sentiment, isn’t it? Worth far more than a house.” Aunt Carol chimed in from the hallway. “Exactly. Character is more important than anything. Your grandpa loved you, that’s why he left you with wisdom. He gave your brother brick and mortar, but he gave you a moral compass. A moral compass takes you further than any house.” My lips parted. I wanted to say something. But Derek beat me to it. “Alright, Uncle Paul, Aunt Carol, let it go. Tina isn’t the kind of girl to be unreasonable about this.” He turned his gaze to me. “Tina, you know what Grandpa meant. I’m the eldest grandson. This house was always going to be passed down to me. You’ve worked hard taking care of him these past few years. Tell you what, I’ll take you out for a nice dinner sometime soon to say thanks.” A nice dinner. Seven years. And he was offering to buy me an appetizer and an entree. Monica was already by the front door, slipping on her heels. She didn’t even look up as she spoke. “Let’s go, Derek. We have to be at the zoning office first thing tomorrow.” As she walked past me, she paused for a fraction of a second. “Don’t take it to heart, Tina. Grandpa’s last words to you were really sweet. Be a decent person. So practical.” She laughed. It was a light, airy sound. Like she was brushing a speck of dust off her sleeve. One by one, they filed out. As my aunt and uncle walked down the driveway, I could hear them murmuring, “The old man was sharp right up to the end. It’s the right call.” My dad was the last to leave. He stood in the doorway, his back to me. He hesitated. For a second, I thought he was going to say something real. Instead, he said, “Make sure you pack up Grandpa’s room.” Then, he shut the door. I was left alone in the living room. The photocopy of the will was still sitting on the coffee table. I sank into the worn armchair by the window. The wicker frame groaned under my weight. It was Grandpa’s favorite chair. The fabric on the cushion was completely frayed at the edges; it was the third cushion I had bought for him just last year. His favorite mug was still on the side table. There was a dark ring of tea stained into the ceramic, built up over years of use. I had tried to scrub it out so many times. It never faded. Grandpa used to tell me, Stop scrubbing, Tina. A cup with a good stain makes the best tea. I picked up the mug and held it in both hands. It was freezing cold. The whole house was freezing cold. 2. It started seven years ago, when Grandpa lost his ability to take care of himself. He was seventy-nine. He slipped on the icy porch that winter and fractured his hip. After the surgery, the doctor told us the recovery would take at least six months, requiring round-the-clock care. That night, my dad called Derek. I heard my brother’s voice through the receiver. “Dad, I’m in the middle of a huge expansion at the store right now. I can’t get away. Have Tina cover things for a bit. Once things settle down, I’ll come back and take over.” Once things settle down. I waited seven years. It wasn’t that I didn’t ask. The first year, I called him six times. He was always too busy. By the second year, I stopped calling. Three days after Grandpa’s surgery, he needed help getting to the bathroom. At 2:00 AM, he called my name. I dragged myself up from the folding cot I’d set up in his living room. I helped him sit up, then pulled him to his feet, and we shuffled, inch by agonizing inch, toward the bathroom. He was incredibly heavy. I weighed a hundred and ten pounds. He weighed over a hundred and fifty. When he leaned his weight onto my shoulder, I could hear his bones grinding. That winter, I woke up at least twice every single night. Eventually, I learned to keep a urinal by the bed. But Grandpa hated using it. He said he hadn’t lost his dignity entirely yet. So, I kept lifting him. Every night. Every winter. Over those seven years, Grandpa was hospitalized four times. First, the hip. Second, pneumonia. Third, a bowel obstruction. Fourth, the end. Every time he was admitted, I used up all my paid time off to sleep in the chair next to his bed. During his third hospitalization, my department director called me into his office. “Tina, the firm is selecting someone for the executive leadership track. It was going to be you, but… you’ve taken twelve days off this month alone.” He didn’t need to finish. I just nodded and said I understood. The promotion went to Brittany, a girl who had been hired two years after me. I never told anyone in my family about it. Who was I supposed to tell? My mom died when I was young. My dad didn’t care. My brother was a ghost. Every month, the moment my paycheck hit my account, the first deduction went to Grandpa’s pharmacy runs. In the beginning, it was just blood pressure and cholesterol meds. Then, stomach pills. Then, sleeping pills. In the last year, heavy painkillers. His pharmacy bill climbed from $200 a month to over $800. Add in the nutritional shakes, the adult diapers, the waterproof bed pads, the seasonal clothes. My take-home pay was $4,500. After his medical supplies and groceries, I had maybe $1,500 left. My rent was $1,100. The rest was for me to survive on. For seven years, I didn’t buy a single piece of clothing that cost more than fifty dollars. Once, my coworkers organized a weekend trip to Napa. I told them I couldn’t go because my stomach had been acting up. The truth was, I couldn’t afford the $300 split for the Airbnb. I never kept a running tally of these things with my family. Not because I didn’t want to. But because even if I did, no one would listen. One Thanksgiving, I finally gathered the courage to bring it up at the dinner table. I looked at my brother and said, “Derek, do you think you could start chipping in a little for Grandpa’s medical expenses?” My dad answered before Derek even opened his mouth. “Taking care of your grandfather is your duty as a granddaughter. Your brother is out there building a business, making real money. Stop nickel-and-diming him over groceries.” Nickel-and-diming. Derek didn’t say a word. He just kept eating. Monica looked down at her plate, a faint smirk playing on her lips. I saw it. Later that evening, when it came time for holiday gifts— Derek’s son got a crisp hundred-dollar bill inside a glittering card from my dad. I got nothing. Not a twenty. Nothing. From the year I turned twenty-three and started taking care of Grandpa, the gifts stopped. My dad’s reasoning? “You have a full-time job now. You don’t need presents.” Derek’s kid was four that year. He didn’t even know how to spell his own name yet. I was twenty-three, waking up in the dead of night to haul a grown man to the toilet. One of us got a hundred dollars. The other got nothing. Who actually needed the money more? No one asked that question. They didn’t have to. In their minds, the answer was already set in stone: This is just how it is. During Grandpa’s most dangerous hospital stay, his oxygen levels suddenly tanked to 85 at three in the morning. He was gasping, his chest heaving. I had to pull him upright by myself and pound on his back to clear his lungs, frantically mashing the call button with my other hand. When the nurse rushed in, she yelled at me to go find the resident doctor. The corridor was endlessly long. As I sprinted, one of my flats flew off. I didn’t stop. I ran the rest of the way to the on-call room with one bare foot slapping against the freezing linoleum. That night, I made eleven phone calls. My dad—sent to voicemail. My brother—sent to voicemail. Uncle Paul—phone turned off. In the end, it was a stranger—the exhausted daughter of the patient in the next bed—who helped me push Grandpa’s gurney down to the imaging wing. My dad finally showed up the next afternoon. He looked at Grandpa, then looked at me, and frowned. “Why didn’t you call sooner?” I looked him dead in the eye and said, “I called eleven times.” He didn’t say anything to that. He sat in the plastic chair for twenty minutes, then left. 3. Word about the will spread fast. I didn’t tell anyone. It was Aunt Carol. She was the kind of woman who couldn’t let a piece of gossip sit overnight. The next morning, I ran into Mrs. Higgins from down the street while taking out the trash. She grabbed my arm. “Tina, honey, I heard your grandpa left the whole Lakefront property to your brother?” I didn’t answer. “Well, you know how it is. Derek is the boy. The older generation is just traditional like that. Don’t let it eat you up, okay?” She patted my arm and walked away. That afternoon, Uncle Paul called me again. “Tina, don’t cause any trouble with the deed transfer. Your dad made it clear—this was your grandpa’s final wish, and we have to respect it. Just keep your head down and live your own life.” Live your own life. Just like Be a decent person. They were both just polite ways of telling me to shut up. Three days later, I went back to the office. In the breakroom, Brittany—the same Brittany who took the promotion that was meant for me—slid into the chair across from mine. “Hey Tess, I heard your family is dealing with an inheritance thing?” Gossip travels at the speed of light. I took a bite of my salad. “Yeah.” “So, what’d you get?” My fork stopped mid-air. “My grandpa told me to be a decent person.” Brittany blinked, confused. Then she let out a bark of laughter. “Wait, seriously? Just a quote? What about your brother?” “The house.” Her jaw dropped. “Holy shit… your brother is a total—” She didn’t finish the sentence, but I could read her expression perfectly. It wasn’t sympathy. It was the thrilling, popcorn-eating entertainment of “Wow, that sucks for you, but this tea is piping hot.” That afternoon, my dad sent me a text. “Tina, we’re doing a family lunch this weekend. Derek’s treating. Don’t cause a scene. Stop being so emotional.” Stop being so emotional. I took care of Grandpa for seven years. I drained my meager savings on his copays and adult diapers. To be close to him, I moved into a dump of an apartment just ten minutes from his house, paying $500 more in rent than I would have further out. To manage a full-time job and round-the-clock caregiving, I turned down every happy hour, every networking event, every chance at a promotion. I hadn’t taken a vacation. I hadn’t been on a date. From twenty-three to thirty, I spent my prime years in total isolation. And my grand reward was a four-word sticky note. Meanwhile, my brother Derek— In seven years, he had visited exactly five times. First time: Grandpa’s hip surgery. Stayed for an afternoon. Second time: Christmas. Stayed two hours, then left. Third time: Grandpa’s birthday. Didn’t show, just Venmoed him fifty bucks. Fourth time: Grandpa’s final hospital stay. Stood in the doorway for ten minutes before Monica called to complain that their son was late for soccer practice. Fifth time: The funeral. Five visits. Totaling less than ten hours of his time. And he walked away with a $1.5 million estate. That was the Gallagher family way. I went to the lunch that weekend. I don’t even know why. Habit, maybe. The ingrained reflex of a stray dog that still comes when called. At the restaurant, Monica ordered half the menu. “Dad, I ordered the sea bass specifically for you. I know you love it.” My dad actually smiled. A rare occurrence. Derek placed a flaky piece of fish directly onto my dad’s plate. “Dad, whatever you need from here on out, just say the word. I’m planning to gut the first floor of the Lakefront house and totally remodel it. Once it’s done, you should move in. There’s plenty of room.” My dad nodded eagerly. Monica leaned in. “We’ve already been looking at floor plans, Robert. We’re giving you the south-facing master suite. We’re even going to put a massage chair in there for you.” A massage chair. While Grandpa was alive, neither of them ever mentioned buying him a massage chair. When his spine ached, I was the one who massaged his back with my fists. Half an hour at a time. Until my arms burned and went numb. Eventually, I bought a cheap $20 vibrating massager from Amazon. It burned through batteries so fast I had to replace them every two weeks. I barely touched my food. Monica raised her wine glass. “Come on, it’s rare we get the whole family together. Tina, raise your glass.” I lifted my water glass. She smiled warmly. “Tina, honey, let the past be the past. Grandpa is gone, and from now on, we need to stick together. You shouldn’t dwell on all that ugly stuff anymore.” All that ugly stuff. That’s what she called seven years of my life. My dad chimed in. “She’s right. We’re family. Your brother will look out for you from now on.” Derek grunted in agreement. Monica laughed. “Exactly. If you ever need anything, just ask Derek. He’s a homeowner now.” She said it so lightly. But under the table, her hands were busy. I saw her texting Derek. I caught a glimpse of the screen. Two words: The deed. After dessert, I got up to use the restroom. On my way back, I walked past an alcove near the private dining rooms and heard Monica whispering furiously to my brother. “You need to push the deed transfer through this week. Don’t drag your feet. Your sister looks quiet, but you never know what she’s scheming.” Derek scoffed. “What’s she gonna do? She makes four grand a month. You think she can afford a lawyer to contest a will?” “I don’t care,” Monica hissed. “Just don’t wait. Make sure your dad signs the waivers by Friday.” I stood in the shadows of the hallway. I didn’t move. When they stepped out, they nearly bumped into me. Monica’s face froze. But only for a second. The mask slipped right back on, bright and cheery. “Oh, there you are, Tina! Come on, they’re bringing out the cheesecake.” After that lunch, I went straight back to Grandpa’s house. The deed hadn’t transferred yet, so technically, my keys still worked. Grandpa’s room was exactly as we’d left it. The quilt was still folded the way I had arranged it on his last morning. The half-empty pill bottles still sat on the nightstand. I began to pack his things. The closet. The drawers. The bookshelves. Piece by piece. On the second shelf of the closet was an old, heavy flannel-lined barn coat he had worn for thirty years. The elbows were patched over patches. He could never bear to throw it away. I didn’t either. On his bookshelf were three editions of the Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. All gifts he had given me over the years. Elementary school. Middle school. High school. On the inside cover of each one, he had written the exact same inscription. Read well, Tina. And be a decent person. Be a decent person. Those four words again. It felt like it was the only phrase the man knew. I slid the dictionaries back onto the shelf. As I did, my fingers brushed against a cold metal box pushed to the very back. It was an old tin of Earl Grey tea. I popped the lid. The tea was gone. Inside was a manila envelope. Thick paper, sealed tightly with two layers of clear packing tape. Written across the front in thick black marker: For Tina. My breath caught. The envelope was incredibly light, but I didn’t dare open it. Because it was late. And because… I was terrified of what was inside. Was it just another note telling me to be a decent person? Or was it something else entirely? I slid the envelope under my pillow. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. 4. Twenty-seven days after Grandpa’s funeral. I received a call from an unknown number. “Is this Tina Gallagher? Hello, my name is Thomas Harrison. I’m an attorney, and an old friend of your grandfather, Arthur.” “Hello,” I managed, my voice tight. “Arthur instructed me to contact you exactly one month after his passing. We are three days shy of that, but given certain circumstances, I felt I couldn’t delay any longer. Can we meet?” I gripped my phone, my heart pounding against my ribs. “You knew my grandpa?” “I did. Arthur was my high school English teacher. After he retired, we kept in touch. Three years ago, he came to me and asked me to handle something for him.” “Handle what?” “We need to discuss this in person. It’s not something for a phone call.” That afternoon, I took a half-day off work and drove to Mr. Harrison’s law firm downtown. He was in his late fifties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. Sitting perfectly center on his mahogany desk was a framed photo of him and Grandpa. They were standing outside my old high school. Grandpa was wearing that patched-up barn coat. “Tina,” Mr. Harrison said gently, folding his hands on his desk. “Three years ago, your grandfather asked me to do two things for him.” He pulled a thick, sealed file folder from his drawer. “The first thing was to notarize his Last Will and Testament.” I froze. “A will? But… the estate lawyer already read the will at the house.” “The document that was read to your family,” Mr. Harrison said, looking me dead in the eye, “was not Arthur’s final will.” He let that hang in the air for a moment. “Arthur executed a new will in my office three years ago. It is dated two years after the document your family currently possesses.” He pushed the thick folder across the desk toward me. “The second thing… Arthur asked me to tell you that ‘Be a decent person’ wasn’t just a piece of advice.” He watched my face closely. “It’s a key.” My hands began to shake. Mr. Harrison leaned forward. “Arthur kept an old steel floor safe in the back of his closet. The combination is a four-digit number.” “What numbers?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “He never told me. He said you would know how to figure it out. He said the code is hidden inside those four words.” Be a decent person. Four words. Four digits. I stared at the thick folder resting between us. I couldn’t bring myself to touch it. Mr. Harrison softened his tone. “Arthur said something to me that day, Tina. He said, ‘My granddaughter hasn’t uttered a single word of complaint in seven years of lifting my dead weight. I’ll be damned if I let her walk away with nothing.’” His voice was perfectly steady. But my vision blurred, the edges of the room swimming in tears. I didn’t cry. I bit the inside of my cheek and stared down at the framed photo on the desk. Grandpa was smiling in the picture. Wearing that old coat. Seven years. He knew. He knew everything. 5. I drove straight from the law firm back to the Lakefront house. Monica hadn’t finalized the deed transfer yet. I still had the keys. I locked myself in Grandpa’s bedroom. The safe was buried under a pile of old shoeboxes in the deepest corner of the closet. I had seen it while cleaning over the years but always assumed it was empty. Grandpa used to say he kept his cash in it during the eighties, but that it had been hollow for decades. I knelt on the floorboards. The safe was rusted, the green paint chipping away. It had a heavy mechanical dial with numbers from 0 to 9. Four digits to unlock it. Be a decent person. I sat there for a solid minute, staring at the dial. How do you turn words into numbers? Syllables? Be (1). A (1). De-cent (2). Per-son (2). 1-1-2-2? I spun the dial. Click, click. The handle didn’t budge. I sat back on my heels. Grandpa was an English teacher. He spent forty years hammering grammar and vocabulary into teenagers’ heads. His favorite punishment for kids who slacked off was making them sit in the corner and count the letters of every word in a chapter. Count your letters, check your dictionary.

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My grandmother died because of a phone call that was never answered. She’d had a massive stroke. The kind where every second counts, where you need the best neurosurgeon in the city on the line immediately. I was desperate, drowning in a sea of hospital bureaucracy, so I called the one person who had the power to save her: Charlotte, the woman I’d loved for five years, the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar empire. But Charlotte didn’t pick up. Sebastian, her “creative director” and the flame she’d never quite extinguished from her past, intercepted the call. He didn’t just ignore me; he blocked my number. I raced to her office, winded and trembling, hoping to plead my case in person. I was met by a wall of security guards—men Sebastian had personally instructed to keep me out. I begged. I screamed until my throat was raw. I was met with nothing but cold, corporate silence. Five hours later, a nurse placed a hand on my shoulder and told me my grandmother was gone. When Charlotte finally emerged from the building, looking radiant and polished after a long day of “closing deals,” she saw me slumped on the curb. She didn’t offer a hug. She didn’t ask why my eyes were bloodshot. She just narrowed her eyes in distaste. “You’re missing work to sit on the sidewalk? What is this, Nate? Some kind of performance?” I looked up at her, and for the first time in half a decade, I didn’t see the woman of my dreams. I saw a stranger. I let out a dry, jagged laugh. “Charlotte, we’re done. Don’t ever call me again.” — “I just got out of a five-year nightmare,” I said, looking across the small café table. “Are you sure you want to deal with someone like me? I’m still… processing.” The girl sitting opposite me, Sophie, didn’t flinch. She just offered a soft, genuine smile that reached her eyes. “It’s okay. I’m not looking for a perfect version of you, Nate. I’m looking for you. I don’t care about your past.” I stared at her for a long beat, feeling a strange, unfamiliar warmth settle in my chest. I nodded, my voice thick. “Give me one week. I need to settle things there. Then we leave this city. We get married. We start over.” I waved goodbye and stepped down into the subway entrance. It had been four days since my grandmother’s funeral. I’d spent them in a haze of grief, navigating the cold machinery of city departments to file the death certificate and settle her meager estate. Everyone in my small circle knew the woman who raised me was gone. Everyone except Charlotte. She’d never bothered to learn the details of my life. My world was a “distraction” from her trajectory. Since she’d inherited her family’s conglomerate, her time had become a currency too valuable to waste on someone as ordinary as me. She didn’t know that while she was signing a merger, the only person who ever truly loved me was dying in a cold hospital room because I couldn’t reach the “right” people. The moment the hospital called with the time of death was the moment my heart finally went cold for Charlotte. As I climbed out of the subway station, the sky turned a bruised purple, and a sharp wind began to howl between the skyscrapers. My phone buzzed. It was Sebastian. Charlotte’s “right-hand man.” Her childhood sweetheart. My constant shadow. “Nate,” he said, his voice dripping with that casual, high-society arrogance. “We’re out of umbrellas at the office. Head back to the penthouse, grab two of the large ones, and get them here in twenty minutes. It’s about to pour.” He always spoke to me like I was the help. Even now, with my soul feeling like it had been scraped hollow, his voice felt like a serrated blade against my nerves. For five years, Sebastian had been the third person in our relationship. Charlotte shared everything with him—including the intimate details of our life. He knew things he shouldn’t; he made jokes about our private time right in front of me. When I’d blow up at her about it, Charlotte would just look at me with that patronizing “you’re so small-minded” expression. “He’s just joking, Nate. Don’t be so fragile. It’s embarrassing when a man has no sense of humor. I asked him to look out for you because you’re clearly overwhelmed by the city. Try to be grateful for once.” I used to apologize. I used to think I was the problem—the “country boy” who didn’t understand the sophisticated boundaries of the elite. Sebastian was educated, polished, and indispensable to her business. I was just… Nate. But today, I just smiled at the phone. If she wanted Sebastian so badly, she could have the whole package. “I’m on my way home, Sebastian. I don’t have time to be your delivery boy. If she needs an umbrella, call an Uber or send an intern. You know the code to the penthouse anyway.” There was a stunned silence on the other end before Sebastian let out a sharp, nasty little chuckle. “Bold move, Nate. I’ll make sure Charlotte hears exactly how much you ‘care’ about her comfort.” He hung up. I squeezed the phone until my knuckles turned white, forcing down the bile. I was the “official” boyfriend, yet I was treated like a footnote in my own life. I stepped out into the rain. Three hours later, I arrived at the penthouse, soaked to the bone and shivering. My mind was eerily calm. The grief had moved past the stage of tears and into a quiet, cold resolve. I kicked off my shoes and headed for the master bathroom, needing a hot shower to wash away the city’s grime. The door swung open before I reached it. Charlotte stepped out, a cloud of expensive steam trailing behind her. She was wrapped in a plush white towel that hugged her curves, her skin glowing. For a split second, that old familiar ache of attraction hit me. Then, a man stepped out behind her. “Charlotte, babe, you should blow-dry your hair or you’ll catch a chill,” he said softly. The steam cleared. It was Sebastian. He was standing there in a pair of leather slippers—my leather slippers. They were a cheap pair Charlotte had bought me during our first year together. I cherished them because they were the first gift she’d ever given me. Now, they were damp and ruined, stretched out under his feet. I actually laughed. It was the most absurd thing I’d ever seen. “I see the ‘after-work’ activities have already started,” I said, my voice steady. “I’ll leave you two to it.” I turned to walk away, but Charlotte grabbed my arm, her face twisting into an angry mask. “Nathaniel, stop it. Don’t start with the jealousy. We’re only here because you refused to bring the umbrellas. We got caught in the downpour, we were freezing, and I let him use the guest shower. What is wrong with you?” I didn’t want to fight. I was there to pack a bag and leave a ghost. But seeing him stand there, literally treading on the only sentimental thing I had left, snapped something inside me. “Is that why you have those marks on your neck, Charlotte?” Her hand flew to her collarbone. She and Sebastian had clearly been distracted. I knew those marks. I’d spent five years putting them there. Charlotte’s face hardened. Sebastian stepped forward, his voice a practiced silk. “Nate, I know you’ve always been insecure about us, but this is low. Charlotte was bitten by something at the garden party today. Don’t be disgusting.” He was good. He made himself the victim and me the villain in three sentences. Charlotte’s eyes flashed with ice. “Apologize to him, Nate. Right now. You have no right to slander our friendship with your pathetic imagination. If you don’t, I swear, I’m done with you.” I looked at her, really looked at her. “I’m not apologizing. Not now, not ever.” I walked into the bedroom and slammed the door. She didn’t come to bed that night. It was her favorite weapon: the cold shoulder. She expected me to crawl to her office the next morning with flowers and a tearful apology, begging for her “forgiveness.” But she was playing a game I’d already quit. The next afternoon, she did something unusual. She brought home a bouquet of roses and left them on the dining table. She pointed to a vase, her tone clipped and haughty. “I saw them on the way back. They were pretty. Fix them.” This was her version of a peace offering. A command disguised as a gift. In the past, I would have been so relieved by the “thaw” that I would have jumped to do it—ignoring the fact that I’m deathly allergic to pollen. I didn’t move. I called over the housekeeper. “Mrs. Higgins, could you put those in the trash? Or take them home? I don’t want them here.” Charlotte’s head snapped up. She marched over and shoved the bouquet into my hands. “I am trying to move past your tantrum, Nate. Don’t be petty. Sebastian is my most vital asset; he knows secrets that could sink this company. If your ego drives him away, do you have any idea what that would cost me?” My heart gave one last, final throb of pain. We had met in college. She was the heiress; I was the scholarship kid with a tattered resume. She’d been kind once. She’d brought me dinner when I worked late. She’d driven me home in the rain. When I proposed a “real” relationship on Valentine’s Day, she’d said yes without hesitation. I thought we were building a life. But the moment Sebastian returned from his “consulting firm” in London, I became the inconvenient roommate. I dropped the roses on the floor. “If he’s so vital, marry him. Maybe then he’ll stop charging you by the hour for his ‘loyalty’.” “How dare you—” “Charlotte, I’m leaving.” My voice was drowned out by the front door opening. Sebastian walked in like he owned the place. “Charlotte, the gala starts in three hours. We need to move.” Charlotte stood up immediately, grabbing her coat. She didn’t look at me. She treated me like a piece of furniture as she followed him out the door. I waited until the elevator chimed, then I took my resignation letter to the office. My manager looked at me with genuine pity when I walked in. “I’m so sorry, Nate. I tried to fight for you. I thought for sure you’d get the Director position after I moved up, but the executive board said your ‘performance metrics’ weren’t there.” I wasn’t surprised. I’d worked eighteen-hour days for five years. Charlotte had told me once that if I made Director on my own merit, she’d finally agree to a wedding date. I’d chased that carrot until my feet bled. I was the top salesperson every single month. But every year, my review came back “Inadequate.” I’d asked Charlotte to look into it, thinking it was a glitch. She’d just looked at me with disdain. “Don’t blame the system for your own lack of talent, Nate. I’m your girlfriend, not your shortcut. I won’t give you a handout.” Now I knew the truth. “It’s okay, Sam,” I said, handing him the envelope. “I’m done. I’m moving on.” As I walked toward HR to finalize my exit, I heard voices around the corner. “Nate’s review came back as a fail again,” a voice whispered. “He’s probably going to quit.” “He should,” Sebastian’s voice replied, sharp and mocking. “Did he really think he could climb his way into her bed and her boardroom? As long as I’m her chief of staff, that social climber stays at the bottom. If he doesn’t take the hint, keep cutting his year-end bonuses like I showed you. Let’s see how long he lasts on a basic salary.” A hot wave of fury crashed over me. The missed bonuses, the “lost” gift cards, the snubbed promotions… all of it. Sebastian had been strangling my career while Charlotte watched, convinced I was just “untalented.” I didn’t think. I rounded the corner and swung. My fist connected with Sebastian’s jaw. He tumbled back, his eyes wide with shock. “You’ve been sabotaging me for five years,” I spat. “I don’t care about Charlotte anymore, Sebastian. You want her? Take her. But don’t you ever talk about my career again.” Sebastian looked past me, his expression shifting instantly from shock to terrified fragility. He dropped to his knees. “Nate, please! I was just following Charlotte’s orders for the reorganization! I didn’t mean to upset you! Please, don’t hit me again!” The change was so fast it made my head spin. A second later, a stinging slap landed across my face. Charlotte stood there, trembling with rage. “Nathaniel! What is wrong with you? This is a place of business! You do not get to come here and assault my staff because you’re throwing a fit!”

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Marrying into the Montgomery family was supposed to be a business transaction, but my new husband, Bennett, was the king of contradictions. He was the type of man who’d rather choke on his own pride than admit he felt a single human emotion. To ensure my family’s legacy—and my own survival—I had to make sure he fulfilled his “marital duties” every single night. In the beginning, he complained to his friends: “That gold-digger? She doesn’t know anything except how to spend money. She wants my heart? In her dreams.” “If my parents weren’t breathing down my neck, I wouldn’t have even looked at her.” But fast forward a few months, and the man was showering and dousing himself in expensive cologne by 8:00 PM every night, waiting obediently in bed for me to show up. That’s when I decided to slap the divorce papers on the nightstand. He broke down right there, sobbing like a tea kettle at full boil. “Maddie, please! Is it because of last night? Was I… was I not good enough? I can take classes! I can improve! Just please, don’t leave me!” … I was standing outside the private dining room of a high-end steakhouse in Greenwich with my parents. Before we could even push the door open, the shouting from inside reached a fever pitch. “You want me to marry into the Beckett family? To that human mannequin whose only brain cells are dedicated to handbags and contouring?” “Not a chance! Marry her yourselves if you love the deal so much!” “If you force me into this, I’m jumping off the roof of the Montgomery Building!” I caught my parents’ eyes. My mother winced, and my father’s face went pale. It wasn’t exactly the warm welcome we were hoping for. Suddenly, the door was yanked open from the inside. I didn’t even have time to blink before a tall, imposing figure stormed past me. The wind of his movement ruffled my hair, but he didn’t even spare me a glance. Inside the room, the elder Mr. Montgomery looked mortified. He forced a smile, offering frantic apologies. My parents, desperate to save our failing empire, nodded and bowed, terrified of offending the man holding our financial lifeline. My chest tightened. If it weren’t for the Beckett Group’s latest tech project imploding and our credit lines drying up, I wouldn’t be reduced to selling myself to save the family name. Regardless of Bennett Montgomery’s tantrum, the marriage was a done deal. I heard rumors that he smashed a vintage whiskey set at his penthouse and threatened to move to London. On the day we were supposed to sign the papers at City Hall, he didn’t even show up. He sent his assistant with his ID and a power of attorney, using a private entrance to avoid the press. A wedding? Not a chance. Armed with a marriage license and a heavy heart, I dragged my suitcases into Bennett’s sprawling estate in the hills. His father had given me the gate code. As I stepped into the foyer, I heard voices drifting down from the second-floor study. The door was ajar. “Ben, man, it’s your wedding night. You’re really just gonna sit here and play Call of Duty with us?” “Shut up,” Bennett’s voice snapped. “It’s a business merger. She doesn’t deserve to be called a wife. I, Bennett Montgomery, will never acknowledge her.” “You can’t hide forever, though. You have to go to bed eventually.” “Help me brainstorm. I don’t want to touch her. How do I gross her out so much she leaves on her own?” “Maybe… tell her you’ve got a ‘performance’ issue? You know, technical difficulties downstairs?” I didn’t wait for the punchline. I pushed the door open. “Shhh—” The room went silent instantly. Half a dozen guys stared at me, their mouths hanging open. I could actually hear someone suck in a breath. Bennett froze in his Herman Miller gaming chair, looking at me like I was a ghost. “Who are you?” he blurted out. One of his friends nudged him, looking pained. “Ben… I think that’s your wife.” Bennett jumped as if the chair were on fire. “What? You’re Madeline Beckett?” I scanned him calmly, my expression unreadable. “I am.” The tips of his ears turned a violent shade of red. His friends, sensing the impending explosion, muttered some excuses and bolted out of the room faster than a tech stock crash. Then it was just the two of us, staring each other down. I crossed my arms, taking him in from head to toe. He was undeniably attractive—broad shoulders, lean waist, and a face that looked like it was carved from cold marble. He had that brooding, old-money intellectual vibe that was infuriatingly handsome. Good. He fit the plan. Before I left, my mother had pulled me aside. “The Montgomery genes are legendary, Maddie. Generations of geniuses. If you can just get pregnant, even if you divorce him later, that child belongs to the Becketts. That’s our leverage. That’s how we rebuild. It’s a win-win.” I was the only child, spoiled since birth. I knew nothing about high finance, and I’d barely scraped through college, but I was an elite-level athlete. I was a “socialite,” sure, but I wasn’t fragile. My mom’s plan was cold, but practical. Bennett and I had no feelings for each other. Divorce was inevitable. Since I was legally “on the clock,” I might as well get what I came for—an heir for the Beckett legacy. “Which room is mine?” I asked bluntly. Bennett’s brain seemed to be lagging. “The guest suite, obviously! This is a business arrangement. No emotional foundation. Separate rooms is standard procedure.” “Oh.” I grabbed my suitcase and turned to leave. A flicker of confusion crossed his face, as if he expected more of a fight. “Hey! The guest suite is that way!” I ignored him and pushed open the double doors to the primary suite. Bennett chased after me, looking horrified. “Why are you in the master bedroom?” I ignored him, sliding open the massive walk-in closet. I started shoving his bespoke suits and crisp white shirts to the side, making room for my dresses. “I don’t do ‘marriages in name only.’ The whole ‘lonely widow’ vibe doesn’t interest me.” “What?” Bennett’s eyes widened, his face flushing. “How can you be so… so shameless?” I turned to him, my voice flat. “Do you want to shower first, or should I?” “No! I am absolutely not… doing that with you! Give up on that idea right now!” He kept rambling, his voice rising in pitch. I found him too noisy, so I grabbed my silk slip and headed straight into the bathroom, locking the door. When I came out, the master bedroom was empty. He’d bolted. I dried my hair and tracked him down in the guest room. He’d just showered too, the scent of sandalwood clinging to his skin. When he saw me enter, he backed away like a startled cat. “What are you doing here? You aren’t seriously trying to force this, are you? Do you have any dignity?” “I’m telling you, I’ve already had my lawyers draft a post-nup. As soon as the merger is stable, we’re done! Whoever clings to the other is a loser!” I didn’t care about his agreements. That wasn’t my priority. I walked right up to him, stood on my tiptoes, and silenced that moving mouth with a kiss. The world finally went quiet. Bennett’s eyes were wide as saucers. I pulled back for a second. “Close your eyes.” He shivered, his eyelids fluttering shut reflexively. A second later, he realized how weak that made him and snapped them back open. Too late. I’d already shoved him back onto the bed. All those years of powerlifting and CrossFit paid off. Pinning a six-foot-two man to the mattress was surprisingly easy. “Madeline, are you insane?!” I straddled his waist, leaning down to seal his lips again. His body temperature was skyrocketing. I slid my hand under the hem of his pajama shirt, undoing the buttons. Bennett was crimson, gasping like he’d just finished a marathon. “Maddie, you aren’t my type! I will never, ever like you!” My family was on the verge of eating out of trash cans; I didn’t care about being his “type.” Getting those Montgomery genes was the only business that mattered. “I’m not interested in you either,” I whispered against his skin. “Just stay still. Think of it as a very attractive sleep paralysis demon.” I glanced down at the very obvious physical reaction he was having and smirked. “Bennett, your body is much more honest than your mouth.” He went silent, unable to find a comeback. I took a moment to appreciate the view. The man was built—refined collarbones, firm chest, well-defined abs. He was a prime specimen. Even if we divorced, the kid would be easy on the eyes. I gave myself a mental pep talk and kept going. A moment later, Bennett let out a low groan, looking at me with pure panic. “Wait! Are you serious?” I winced as the reality of the moment hit. Bennett wasn’t having an easy time either. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his voice raw. “Maddie, stop… we haven’t… we don’t have a condom!” I caught my breath and looked at him with a half-smile. “A what?” “Protection! You aren’t on anything!” he hissed. “It’s fine,” I lied. “I took a pill.” It was a prenatal vitamin, but he didn’t need to know that. Bennett’s eyes darkened. “You’re a lunatic.” I narrowed my eyes, leaning into the lie. “What can I say? It’s our first time. I wanted to feel you, not a layer of cold latex.” And then… Wait, that was it? I looked at him in disbelief, then glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was over already? “Bennett… did your friend mean it? Is there actually a… technical difficulty?” The man looked like he wanted to die of shame. He grabbed a pillow and buried his face in it. “It was my first time too! This doesn’t count! I was nervous! Usually… I mean, I’ll be better next time! I swear!” I was already climbing out of bed, disappointed. I didn’t give him a chance to explain. “Home by 9:00 PM every night,” I commanded, sounding like a ruthless CEO. “In my room by 10:00 sharp.” I threw on my robe and headed back to the master suite. Behind me, I heard Bennett’s impotent rage: “Madeline Beckett! What do you think I am? A stud horse? You think I’ll just come home because you told me to? Am I your dog?” “I’m not listening to you!” “Tomorrow, I’m staying out at the clubs until sunrise! I’m not coming back!” The next night. Bennett walked through the front door at exactly 9:00 PM as the clock chimed. He glanced at me, faking a struggle with his tie, his eyes darting everywhere but my face. “I forgot an important file at home. That’s the only reason I’m back early.” I stepped closer and sniffed the air. My brow furrowed. “Have you been drinking?” Bennett lifted his chin. “Yeah, I had a drink. So what? A man can’t have a drink at a business meeting without his wife’s permission? You’re overstepping, Maddie.” Drinking was a disaster for sperm quality. This was basic biology. I waved him off with a look of disgust. “Tonight’s cancelled. Go sleep in the guest room.” Bennett jumped as if I’d slapped him. “What? Cancelled? Why?” “Wait… when did I even agree to do this again?” “Maddie, don’t get ahead of yourself! I don’t even want to touch you! I’m not letting you win!” He was so stubborn it was almost impressive. I yawned, ignoring him, and turned toward my room. I didn’t see the flash of genuine frustration and disappointment that crossed his face. Day three. Bennett had learned. He walked through the door at 8:50 PM. He looked at me and let out a dramatic “Tsk,” looking annoyed. “I was supposed to have dinner with a client, but my car broke down on the way. Such bad luck.” “If it wasn’t for that piece of junk car, I’d be out drinking until dawn.” I walked over slowly, circling him like a bloodhound. I sniffed. My eyebrows knit together again. Bennett’s pulse visibly jumped in his neck. “What now? I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol today!” “Cigarettes,” I said, pointing at his shirt. “You’ve been smoking?” “It wasn’t me! I don’t smoke!” he shouted, almost raising his hand to take an oath. “It was a client during the meeting! It’s just second-hand smoke!” “Doesn’t matter. Second-hand smoke is still smoke.” “Are you serious? Maddie, you’re being ridiculous! I’m your husband, not your prisoner!” I shook my head regretfully. “Quality control, Bennett. Second-hand smoke affects the ‘vibrancy.’ Not tonight.” “What?” Bennett’s face turned various shades of red and white. “It’s not like I’m begging you! You’re a lady—what is going on in your head all day? It’s… it’s indecent!” That night, my best friend, Sarah, called to invite me to the gym. She was a total gym newbie and begged me to come show her the ropes. “Hey, babe,” Sarah asked over the phone. “How long did you last during your first back-day workout?” “The first time is always a disaster,” I said, pushing open my bedroom door. “Maybe five minutes? It was just too exhausting.” I bumped right into Bennett, who was standing outside the door. On the other end of the line, Sarah was complaining: “Only five minutes? That’s so short! Even if it’s the first time, you should at least hit ten minutes to be ‘average’!” Bennett’s face went blacker than a New York City blackout. I stepped around him to grab my sneakers. “Going out?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. “Friend called,” I said shortly. At the gym, Sarah had brought her boyfriend along. The two of them were in terrible shape—barely five minutes on the incline and they were gasping for air. I ended up calling a personal trainer over to use a Graston tool—a fascia scraper—on their tight muscles. Right then, my phone buzzed. It was Bennett. “What time is it? Why aren’t you back? We said 9:00.” I had just finished a set of pull-ups and was breathing heavily. “Tonight’s not great, Ben. Let’s raincheck.” Bennett’s voice was actually shaking. “What are you doing? Why isn’t it ‘great’?” Just then, Sarah’s boyfriend—who was a total drama queen—let out a blood-curdling scream from the massage table nearby. “AHHH! Stop! Gently! I can’t do it anymore!” “Please, man, slow down! Too fast! I can’t take it!” There was a dead silence on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of Bennett’s heavy, ragged breathing. “Madeline! What the hell are you doing?” “I’m working out with a friend, why?” “You… how could you just go out with some random guy and… ‘work out’?” I caught the tone in his voice. He sounded like he was about to snap his phone in half. “What’s wrong with working out? If you’re free, you’re welcome to join us.” “In your dreams! Madeline, you just wait!” Click. He hung up. I stared at the phone, bewildered. What was his problem now?

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My brother has always had the pathological habit of reading my diary. To cure him of it once and for all, I decided to lean into his worst nightmare. I sat down and penned a masterpiece of pure fiction: “I think I’m falling for my brother. This forbidden pull… it’s agony, but I’m addicted to the pain of loving him.” The result? My brother looked like he was having a literal stroke. He spent the next forty-eight hours trying to build a metaphorical Berlin Wall between us. But just when he was about to lose his mind avoiding me, a pair of luxury SUVs pulled up to our driveway. A couple draped in old-money couture burst through our front door, threw their arms around him, and sobbed, “Oh, thank God! We finally found our son!” Me: ??? So… we aren’t actually related? In that case… does the stuff I wrote in the diary still count as a prank, or is it a prophecy? 1 For as long as I’ve had memories, Beckett Miller has been there. When I first learned to speak, his was the first name I called out. My dad loves to tell the story of how I said “Beck” before I even said “Dada,” like I’d been practicing the name in a past life. At my first birthday party, dozens of relatives tried to pass me around like a prize, but I wouldn’t have it. I screamed until my tiny fingers were wrapped firmly around Beckett’s thumb. I wouldn’t let go for anything. As far as brothers go, Beck was the gold standard. When I was six, I mistook a bottle of orange-scented dish soap for juice and ended up in the ER. Beck stayed by my hospital bed for two days straight. He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep; he just sat there looking like a ghost, guarding me. When I was ten, I decided it was a good idea to try and ride the neighbor’s Golden Retriever across a busy street. My dad was halfway across the yard with a belt in his hand when Beck stepped in. He shielded me like a mother hen protecting a chick. Dad’s hand slipped and caught Beck across the face, but he didn’t even flinch. He just stood his ground. When I was fourteen, we were watching some teen drama where the main characters stole their birth certificates to run away and elope. Beck looked at my dad, genuinely curious. “Why would they bother stealing a piece of paper?” My dad laughed, leaning back in his recliner. “Because they wanted to get married, son. Getting married means putting both your names on the same legal documents forever.” By then, Beck was already pushing six feet, with that clean-cut, athletic look that made every girl in his high school class trip over their own feet when he walked by. He took in my dad’s words with a look of sudden, profound realization. “Oh, I get it,” Beck said seriously. “Then I should just marry Sloane.” My dad nearly choked on his beer. “Excuse me?” “Well,” Beck continued, completely unfazed, “our names are already on all the same papers. We’ve lived in the same house since she was born. It’s efficient.” My dad stared at him for a long beat, then slowly reached for the nearest throw pillow to hurl at Beck’s head. Beck ducked, laughing, and turned to me. “What do you think, Sloane? Makes sense, right?” I was young and naive, so I just nodded enthusiastically. “Whatever Beckett says is right!” My dad stopped mid-swing, sighed deeply, and muttered something about needing a stronger drink and a locked door for his daughter’s room. 2 Fast forward twenty-some years, and we were still the “perfect” siblings. At least, on the surface. Last week, Beck and I had a blowout fight because he wouldn’t “allow” me to go to a guy’s birthday party at a lake house. When he realized he was losing the argument, he did the unthinkable: he started quoting a private entry from my diary to mock my “immaturity.” That was the moment I realized the bastard had been snooping for years. I was so livid I kicked him in the shin and stormed upstairs. Sure, I had sneaked a peek at his journals a few times in high school, but I wasn’t a sociopath—I didn’t throw it in his face! I’d read his secrets under my covers and giggle to myself. He, on the other hand, was using my private thoughts as tactical weaponry. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted blood. To get my revenge, I went out and bought a brand-new journal—one with a pathetic little heart-shaped lock that I knew he could pick in seconds. I filled the first few pages with mundane nonsense about work and coffee. Then, I dropped the nuclear bomb. I wrote: “I’m a horrible person. How can I feel this way about my own brother? People say this kind of obsession is a sickness, that it’s immoral, and I know I should stop.” “But I can’t help it. Every time he looks at me, I feel like I’m suffocating. Maybe the internet is right—maybe we were meant for each other in another life…” To finish the masterpiece, I took a red felt-tip pen and drew a messy, dramatic heart right after the final period. Beckett didn’t disappoint. The next afternoon, he came into my room with a bowl of fruit, acting like a peace offering. He immediately saw the diary lying “accidentally” open on my desk. I watched from the crack in the door. He stood there for five seconds. Just five. Then, those long, familiar fingers reached out and expertly flipped the page. He had this smug, “I’m just checking on you” look on his face—the look of a man who thought he held all the cards. By the second line, his smugness didn’t just fade; it evaporated. His jaw dropped so hard I thought it might hit the floor. His fingers started trembling, the veins in his forehead popped, and his eyes went wide with pure, unadulterated horror. I stayed hidden, clutching my stomach to keep from howling with laughter. That’s what you get, you creep. 3 Beckett didn’t just leave the room; he practically teleported out of there. For a guy who’s six-three, he moved with the frantic, uncoordinated grace of a panicked rabbit. He didn’t even notice me standing in the hallway as he bolted past. He slammed into the bathroom, turned the faucet on full blast, and started splashing ice-cold water onto his face. When the splashing stopped, I strolled over and leaned against the doorframe. “Everything okay, Beck?” The silence from inside was deafening. After a long pause, his voice came out strained and shaky. “Fine. Everything’s fine.” “Okay,” I said airily. “I’m going back to my room then.” “Wait!” The door flew open. Beck stood there, water dripping from his chin, looking at me with an expression so complex it could have been a modern art piece. “Sloane… have you, uh… been seeing anyone lately? Like, is there someone you’re into?” I feigned total confusion. “Not really. I’m buried in my internship. Why would I have time for a boyfriend?” Beck went dead silent. He searched my face for what felt like an eternity, trying to see if I was lying. When he decided I was telling the truth, he let out a breath so heavy it sounded like a balloon deflating. He probably convinced himself the “brother” in the diary was some K-pop idol or a fictional character. I hid a smirk. “Anyway, I’m going to go read.” I turned around and “accidentally” let a book slip out of my bag and onto the floor. The title was printed in bold, unmistakable letters: The Step-Brother’s Secret. I heard Beck’s breath hitch. Then, I saw him literally press his fingers to the bridge of his nose as if trying to keep his brain from exploding. 4 He lunged for the book, snatching it off the floor before I could touch it. “Sloane! If I catch you reading this trashy, brain-rotting garbage again, I’m telling Mom!” he snapped, his voice cracking slightly. “Sure thing, Beck,” I said, playing the part of the dutiful sister. He huffed, turned on his heel, and ran upstairs. His retreat was anything but dignified. I was practically vibrating with silent laughter. To really twist the knife, I knew he’d be back for a “midnight inspection” of the diary. So, I added a few more lines: “Beck is avoiding me. Is he disgusted? Does he want to leave? What do I have to do to keep him by my side forever?” Then, the clincher: “108 Ways to Make Him Stay. I want us to be together for the rest of our lives, no matter what it takes…” I closed the book, went downstairs to heat up some milk, and when I came back, the journal had been moved exactly two inches to the left. Success. That night, around 2:00 AM, I heard a muffled groan from the room next door. “Oh God… I’m a monster… why me?” 5 The next morning, I tried to keep things normal. “Morning, Beck!” Beckett didn’t even look at me. He kept his head down, shoved past me, and practically sprinted to the kitchen. My dad watched him go, brow furrowed. “Did you two have another fight?” Before I could answer, Beck jumped up from his chair like it was electrified. “Dad, she’s her own person and I’m mine. Let’s stop lumping us together, okay?” My mom blinked, startled. “But you two are usually inseparable.” Beck’s face was a mask of grim seriousness. “Mom, we’re adults now. There should be boundaries. Space. Dignity.” He turned to me, his tone ice-cold. “Sloane, you hear me? Stop hovering. I have my own life to live, and so do you. Don’t follow me today.” I knew exactly what he was doing—the classic “distancing” maneuver. I just didn’t realize my fake diary entries had enough power to make my overprotective shadow of a brother want to file a restraining order. He finished his coffee in one gulp. “I’m out. See you.” As he walked to the door, he threw one last warning over his shoulder. “Do. Not. Follow. Me.” 6 For the next few days, Beckett treated me like I was radioactive. He left before I woke up and came home long after I was in bed. If we happened to cross paths in the living room, he’d stare at the wall as he walked past, refusing to acknowledge my existence. If it weren’t for the fact that I could still hear him pacing in his room at night, I would have thought he’d moved out. I decided I’d had my fun and it was time to come clean. But then, I realized my “prop”—the diary—was missing. I searched everywhere, but the little heart-locked book was gone. While I was tossing my room looking for it, my best friend called to invite me out to a bar. Usually, Beck would have a list of twenty reasons why I shouldn’t go, but today… I went downstairs and found him sitting on the sofa, staring blankly at a book. He looked miserable. “Hey, Beck. I’m going out with the girls tonight. Might stay over at Maya’s.” Beck’s hand tightened on the edge of his book. He didn’t look up. “Beck? Can I go?” It took a long time for him to answer. When he did, he forced a tight, brittle smile. “Why are you asking me? We should both have our own lives. I’m not your keeper.” His voice was quiet, hollow. “Really? Awesome! Bye, Beck!” I grabbed my purse and bolted. Beck didn’t say another word. He just let the fake smile drop and stared out the window into the twilight.

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I came home early from my business trip, desperate to surprise my wife. After fumbling through the dark, I realized the person in my bed wasn’t my wife at all. At that exact moment, my wife walked in. There was no defense I could offer. She demanded a divorce. I refused. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. Then, she drove off and got into a terrible accident. The guilt nearly ate me alive. In the depths of my despair, I discovered the truth: None of this was an accident. It was a carefully orchestrated lie… 1. The Homecoming My name is Mark. Today was my fifth wedding anniversary with Sarah. Originally, my trip to Chicago was scheduled to last another three days. But to surprise Sarah, I pulled a series of all-nighters, crushing a week’s worth of work into seventy-two hours. I skipped the celebratory drinks, cancelled the networking dinner, and sprinted for the last train out of Union Station. Four hours on the tracks. My heart was racing faster than the wheels. In my head, I played the scene over and over like a favorite movie clip. I’d open the door. Sarah would look up, eyes wide, startled like a deer. Then, the recognition would hit. She’d jump into my arms, burying her face in my neck, murmuring that classic line: “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home?” I could almost feel it—the scent of her signature gardenia body lotion enveloping me, washing away the grime and exhaustion of the travel. Click. I unlocked the front door as quietly as a ghost. The house was pitched in darkness, save for a sliver of pale moonlight spilling from the slightly ajar bedroom door. It felt like a beacon, guiding me home. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder. My pulse was hammering in my throat. I crept through the living room, shoes off, moving like a burglar in my own home. Silly girl, I thought, a smile tugging at my lips. She left the door open. Was she waiting for me? I congratulated myself. These little surprises were the oxygen of a marriage. The air in the hallway was thick with familiarity. It was the scent of home. It was the scent of Sarah. That faint, sweet floral note. The door was cracked open. From inside came the sound of soft, rhythmic breathing. The gardenia scent grew stronger, intoxicating. For five years, Sarah had used that same wash. By now, I couldn’t tell where the perfume ended and the woman began. I pushed the door open, my palms sweating, that deep, primal ache in my chest ready to burst. I saw the shape under the duvet. “Babe, I’m home,” I whispered, my voice rough with emotion. “God, I missed you.” I kept it quiet. The surprise had to be perfect. If she woke up before I got there, the magic would be broken. I reached the bedside. She was facing away from me, deep in dreamland. A wave of warmth crashed over me. I couldn’t stop myself. I slid into bed and wrapped my arms around her from behind. It was muscle memory. The curve of her waist, the warmth of her skin. I closed my eyes, inhaling that familiar scent. She shifted slightly. Probably startled. She hadn’t expected me until Friday. A groggy, muffled sound came from her throat—“Mmm…”—and her body went rigid for a split second. “It’s me, babe. I’m back. I missed you so much…” My heart rate was pushing three hundred. The woman in my arms trembled violently. Her breathing hitched, becoming shallow and erratic. I felt something different—she felt slighter, more fragile than usual. But my brain wasn’t processing logic. Who else would be in my bed? In my house? It wasn’t like a celebrity had broken in to take a nap. I didn’t overthink it. “Do you have any idea how much I need you right now?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I kissed her, and in the rush of reunion, everything else faded into the dark. 2. The Wrong Woman Three hours later. The storm had passed. The room was heavy with silence and the scent of intimacy. Click! The sound of the light switch was as loud as a gunshot. Blinding white light flooded the room. I squeezed my eyes shut, flinching against the glare. Then came the voice. A voice I knew better than my own. “What the hell is going on in here? Why are you making noise in the middle of the night? Are you hiding someone?” My eyes snapped open. The light stung, blurring my vision for a second, but my heart simply stopped. It didn’t skip a beat; it froze. As my vision cleared, the world ended. Standing in the doorway was my wife. Sarah. She was wearing her favorite silk nightgown, holding a glass bowl of strawberries. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the bed. Fixed on me. Her face drained of color, turning a sickly sheet-white. Her lips trembled, trying to form words that wouldn’t come. I could see her chest heaving, fighting for air. Crash! The bowl slipped from her fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor. Red strawberries rolled like severed hearts. She pointed a shaking finger at me, then at the woman beside me. “Mark… Emily…” “You… You two…” I was paralyzed. I turned my head slowly, terrified, to look at the woman lying next to me. She was scrambling, pulling the duvet up to her chin with frantic, clumsy hands. I saw the face. It was five or six years younger than Sarah’s, familiar, yet terrifyingly different. Her pale skin was flushed with panic, shame, and horror. Oh, God. It was Emily. Sarah’s younger sister. Why was she in my bed? Her hair was a mess, her eyes squeezed shut as if closing them could make this nightmare disappear. Holy shit. What had I done? I had just… with my sister-in-law? I wanted to die. Right there. Just cease to exist. “Mark… You… Emily… You guys…” Sarah’s voice broke, shattering into a million pieces. The anger on her face was terrifying, but beneath it lay a cold, crushing disbelief. A despair so deep it looked like physical pain. My head was spinning, a high-pitched ringing deafening me. It felt like someone was taking a power drill to my temple. This was absurd. How could I… How could I mistake her? When did Emily get here? Why was she sleeping in the master bedroom? Why hadn’t I turned on a damn light? I didn’t have time for answers. I scrambled up, snatching my clothes from the floor, hopping on one leg as I tried to jam my pants on. “Sarah, it’s not what you think. Please, listen to me,” I stammered, my voice shaking. “I had a few drinks on the train. I wanted to surprise you. I thought it was you! I swear to God, I had no idea it was Emily. I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to…” “You thought it was me?” Sarah’s face twisted. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she forced out a harsh, jagged laugh. She pointed at Emily, who was shivering under the sheets, and then at me. Her finger was trembling violently. “Who is that? That is Emily! Mark! How could you… How could you do that to her?” “We’ve been married five years. Even in the dark, you’re telling me you can’t tell the difference? You expect me to believe that?” “You did this on purpose. Mark, I never thought… I never thought you were this kind of monster. Even Emily? You wouldn’t even spare my sister?” She couldn’t finish. The betrayal was too absolute. Her husband. Her little sister. It was a double strike that no one could remain standing after. Sarah collapsed against the wardrobe, sliding down slightly as if her legs had turned to water. “Sarah… it was a mistake. Mark didn’t know.” Emily suddenly looked up. Her face was stained with tears, flushed with humiliation. I was shocked she was defending me. It made the guilt worse. “Sis, you know I just went through that breakup… I was so upset, I took those sleeping pills… I was out cold. I didn’t even hear him come in…” “He… He thought I was you. He kept saying your name. I was so groggy, I couldn’t… He definitely didn’t do it on purpose…” Emily’s words hit me like a splash of cold water. Yes! Sarah had texted me yesterday. She mentioned Emily had a bad breakup and was coming to stay for a few days. I was in a meeting, glanced at it, typed “Okay, take care of her,” and completely purged it from my memory. I was so focused on the surprise, so focused on Sarah, that I forgot Emily was even in the state, let alone the house. And in the dark… she hadn’t spoken. A perfect storm of disaster. “Sarah, please! You have to believe me,” I pleaded, reaching for her. “I didn’t know it was Emily. I missed you so much. I smelled your lotion… the gardenia. I just assumed… I never would have…” I looked at her, begging for a shred of understanding. I had never cheated. I never wanted to. Sarah slapped my hand away. She recoiled as if I were contagious. She stumbled back, her eyes burning with a mixture of rage and heartbreak that cut me to the bone. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed. The sound was raw, guttural. “I don’t care if it was a mistake! Mark! You and Emily… inside my house… in my bed!” “How am I supposed to look at you? How am I supposed to look at her? How do I face this family again?” She was hyperventilating, choking on her sobs. She glared at me one last time, the disappointment in her eyes heavier than the anger. Then she spun around and ran. Bang! The door to the guest room slammed shut. The lock clicked. I stood there, a statue carved out of shame. On one side, Emily, curled in a fetal position, sobbing into the sheets. On the other, a locked door and a shattered marriage. The helplessness washed over me. How did this happen? How could I mistake her? Was it subconscious? Was I that much of a scumbag deep down? Self-loathing surged through me. I wanted to punch myself in the face. I took a deep breath, trying to steady the room. I turned back to the bed. I didn’t know how to look at Emily. “Emily… I… God, I’m so sorry. I really… I wasn’t trying to… I had no idea. I’m a bastard. I’m so sorry.” Words were useless. They felt like cheap bandaids on a bullet wound. I saw the smear of blood on the sheets. I felt the urge to vomit. “…Don’t,” Emily sobbed, burying her face in the pillow, her shoulders shaking. “Don’t say anything.” The shame radiating off her was palpable. We sat in a suffocating silence. I wanted to run to the guest room and bang on the door, but I couldn’t leave Emily like this. She looked like she might shatter. Finally, she lifted her head, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s a misunderstanding. I don’t blame you… It’s my fault… I shouldn’t have been sleeping in your bed… I’ll go… I can’t let Sarah be in pain like this… It’s all my fault…” She started grabbing her clothes. I took a sharp breath and turned my back to give her privacy. When she was dressed, she grabbed her purse from the nightstand. She walked toward the door, her gait unsteady, slightly limping. Seeing her struggle to walk… it was a visual confirmation of what I’d done. She looked broken. She paused at the doorway, looking back at me. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but she stopped. She bit her lip, let out a shaky sigh, and left. Sarah locked in the guest room. Emily gone into the night. Thud. The front door closed. The sound was heavy, final. I spent the rest of the night pacing the living room like a caged animal. I watched the guest room door, praying for the handle to turn. Every creak of the floorboards made me jump. But the door never opened. I walked up to it a dozen times, hand raised to knock, but I couldn’t do it. I was a coward. What could I say? “It was an accident” sounds like a lie when you’re caught in bed with her sister. So I waited. Waiting felt like standing under a guillotine, looking up at the blade, just waiting for gravity to do its job. 3. Blood Red Dawn The gray light of dawn started to bleed through the curtains. The sky outside shifted from ink-black to a bruised purple. Finally, the guest room door opened. Sarah walked out. She was dressed in street clothes. Her eyes were swollen, red-rimmed, looking like two bruises on her pale face. She didn’t look angry anymore. She looked dead inside. That expression hurt worse than the screaming. “Sarah, please, let me explain. Please.” I scrambled up from the sofa, my legs numb from sitting all night, nearly tripping over the coffee table. “Honey, please…” My voice was hoarse, pathetic. She didn’t look at me. She walked past me like I was furniture. She sat on the bench by the door and put on her sneakers. Then she stood up and glanced at me. A flat, indifferent look. As if I were a stranger she’d just met in an elevator. “I’m going to stay at my mom’s for a few days,” she said. Her tone was terrifyingly calm. “You… You need to cool off too.” Then she looked me right in the eyes. The warmth, the love, the five years of history—it was all gone.

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In the sixth year after I went blind for Adrian, he stepped out of a luxury car with his pregnant wife in his arms. He completely ignored my mom being kicked out of the hospital. He gripped my chin with a cold laugh. “What a pathetic sight. When you abandoned me, did you ever think you’d have a day like this?” I was used to his cruel words, until he turned and scooped up another woman. “There are steps ahead. You can’t see, so I’ll carry you.” I froze. Why was Lily blind too? The person who donated corneas to Adrian was me! Ava’s POV In the sixth year after I went blind for Adrian, I ran into him at the hospital entrance. My vegetative mother and I had been kicked out of the hospital for unpaid bills. Meanwhile, Adrian was helping a radiantly happy Lily out of a luxury car for her prenatal checkup. After six years apart, he suddenly rushed up to me, his voice filled with disbelief. “Ava? You… why didn’t you tell me you went blind?” My whole body stiffened as I clutched my white cane in embarrassment. “It’s none of your business.” Just then, a familiar female voice came from beside me. “Honey, who is it?” Adrian’s tone instantly became incredibly gentle. “Someone unimportant.” Listening to his familiar inflection, my heart felt like it was being pricked with needles, a dense, pervasive pain. He had always been this tender only with people he loved. He lifted Lily into his arms. “There are steps ahead. You can’t see, so I’ll carry you.” I raised my head in shock. Why couldn’t Lily see either? Before I could figure it out, several security guards came running out with batons, barking at me. “What are you still doing here? Get lost!” I immediately shielded my mother’s stretcher behind me. “What right do you have to kick us out? Years ago, I donated my eyes to Adrian, and his mother personally promised that my mom could stay at the hospital for the rest of her life!” The security guards burst out laughing as if they’d heard the joke of the century, spitting at me. “You lying bitch! It was Miss Lily who donated her eyes to Mr. Reed!” “That’s impossible!” My body trembled uncontrollably. A crowd of onlookers gradually gathered around. “This girl looks pretty pitiful. What’s going on?” “Pitiful?” A shrill female voice rang out. “I heard she was Mr. Reed’s mistress for four years, and now that he’s married, she’s pretending to be the benefactor who donated eyes! Everyone knows Miss Lily loved Mr. Reed so deeply she donated her perfectly good eyes without hesitation!” “What a shameless whore!” The vile insults stabbed into my heart like knives, followed by foul-smelling garbage being hurled at me. Suddenly, a worn shoe slammed hard into my forehead. Searing pain shot through me as I cried out through bloody tears. “I’m not! I’m not pretending!” Just then, Adrian, who had turned back, grabbed me by the collar and yanked me up, his voice laced with poison. “What a pathetic sight.” “When you abandoned me, did you ever think you’d have a day like this?” My heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, the sourness making my eyes burn. That year, my mother and I were fishing when we found a handsome blind man. He said his name was Adrian Reed and that he’d run away from an arranged marriage. He was irritable and extremely proud, but I happened to have a temper too. The two of us bickered from the moment we met, and somehow, we fell in love. Until our second year together, a wealthy woman found me. “Five million dollars. Leave my son.” That’s when I learned Adrian was the sole heir of the wealthy Reed family, and he’d jumped into the sea to escape his arranged marriage. And now, the Reed family was dragging him back to complete the wedding! The first time Adrian was forced home, he furiously smashed up the entire mansion. The second time they brought him back, he destroyed the house again. The third time, he held a knife to his own throat and declared to everyone. “In this life, I only recognize Ava as mine!” But everything changed the year we graduated from college. Mom was tricked into going to the border, and Adrian had an accident while rescuing her. In the end, Mom became a vegetable, and Adrian nearly lost his life. At the hospital, Adrian’s mother threw money in my face again. “Leave my son! You’re not on the same level. He nearly died for you. He’s done more than enough! Your mother’s in a vegetative state. The medical bills must be astronomical, right?” I understood her implication. “Fine. I’ll leave.” I looked at Adrian lying unconscious in the hospital bed. “I heard… his eyes can be treated, they just need suitable corneas.” I smiled bitterly as tears fell to the floor. “I’ll donate my eyes to him. I don’t want to owe him anything. This way we’ll be even.” Adrian’s mother looked at me with unexpected attention. “Alright. In that case, the Reed family will take care of your mother for the rest of her life.” But in just six short years, she’d completely forgotten about us! “Back then, I promised your mother I’d take good care of you.” Adrian’s voice pulled me back from my thoughts. He gripped my chin, barely concealing his hatred. “You’re coming back with me!” I bit my lip, struggling. “I won’t!” Adrian suddenly laughed. “You don’t have a choice! If your mom doesn’t get back on life support soon, she’ll die.”

Ava’s POV At the mention of my mother, I instantly deflated. I opened my mouth, and after a long moment, forced out a single word. “Fine.” Adrian raised his hand in satisfaction, and the bodyguards behind him immediately carried my mother’s stretcher back to the VIP ward. The late autumn wind scraped across my face. I was so cold I clutched the corner of my coat, my cane trembling slightly in my hand. Until Adrian’s voice rang out again. “Get in the car.” I moved toward his voice, but just as I reached the car, Adrian suddenly stuck out his foot in front of me. “My shoe’s dirty. Clean it.” As he spoke, he casually pulled something from the car and tossed it to me. I caught the long, thick piece of fabric, and suddenly felt a pattern. My breathing came to an abrupt halt. This wasn’t just any fabric-it was the first scarf I’d ever knitted for Adrian, and the only one! A sharp pain lanced through my heart. My eyes burned, but I bit down hard on my lip. “What are you standing there for? Hurry up.” Adrian urged impatiently. I forced down the sourness and crouched down, each wipe feeling like self-torture. After the final swipe, I stood and handed the scarf back to Adrian. He frowned as he took it, didn’t even glance at it, and casually tossed it into a nearby trash can. “Dirty thing. Might as well throw it away.” Along with the scarf, the last remnants of my feelings for Adrian were also tossed into the garbage. I lowered my eyes, hiding my tears. Back at the Reed mansion, Adrian sat on the sofa, mocking me. “Explain. What exactly happened to your eyes? Did you catch some disease messing around abroad and go blind?” The sharp words pierced my heart like needles. I’d long grown used to his harsh tongue, but my heart still contracted painfully beyond my control. I clenched my fists tightly, instinctively shouting. “I didn’t! My eyes were clearly donated to…” Before I could finish, the sound of the door opening came from the entrance. Lily walked in with empty, unfocused eyes, surrounded by several maids. “Lily.” Adrian immediately stood to greet her. “Why didn’t you call me to pick you up?” Lily glanced in my direction with her hollow eyes, which trembled slightly, then smiled weakly. “I can manage on my own.” She paused. “Honey, I think I left the medicine the doctor prescribed in the car. Could you go get it?” Adrian agreed without hesitation. “Sure, I’ll go right now.” As he turned, he didn’t even glance at me and quickly left the living room. The maids tactfully retreated. The moment they were gone, Lily’s previously weak and harmless demeanor vanished. She walked straight up to me and snorted coldly. “Ava, why won’t you just go away?” My body shook. “You’re faking? You can see?” Lily burst out laughing. “That’s right. Thanks to your eyes, I’m now the benefactor who saved Adrian, while you’re just a hypocritical woman who abandoned him for money!” My chest tightened. Trembling, I lunged forward and pinned Lily to the ground, screaming. “How could you do this?” Lily only laughed harder. “I’m warning you. Keep everything that happened back then to yourself. Otherwise, tomorrow will be the day your mom stops breathing!” I suddenly fell silent and collapsed to the floor, releasing my grip. Just then, a brutal force yanked me up. “Ava! What the hell are you doing?” I was thrown down hard. Then Adrian tenderly gathered Lily from the floor into his arms. “Lily, are you okay?” Lily said tearfully and pitifully. “Honey, is she a new maid? I only asked her a few questions and she tried to hit me!” “I…” I tried desperately to explain, but Adrian cut me off. “That’s right, she’s newly hired help.” Adrian’s lips curved up as he shouted at me. “What are you standing there for? Get back to the servants’ quarters!” I flinched in fear-this was the first time Adrian had ever spoken to me so harshly! Late that night, I lay on a cramped bed crying. After a long while, I fumbled for a phone designed for the blind and made a call. “It’s me. You once promised me three favors. Does that still stand?” The voice on the other end immediately responded. “Of course.” I took a deep breath. “First, help me and my mom leave this place. Second, I need ten million dollars. Third…” I paused. “I want Adrian to know the whole truth. I don’t owe him anything!” The voice on the other end didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Alright. Give me one week. I’ll arrange everything.”

Ava’s POV The next day, after being bossed around all morning, I walked into the dining room. A familiar smell hit me, and I stopped in my tracks. Chicken soup! I knew this smell all too well. That year I had a terrible cold and was burning with fever, deliriously mumbling that I wanted my mom’s soup. Adrian panicked and fumbled his way into the kitchen despite being blind, only to get his hands covered in blisters from the stove. When I woke up and saw the injuries on his hands, I was both heartbroken and angry. I could only pull him along, teaching him over and over to recognize ingredients by touch, to judge the heat by sound… When the soup was finally done, he excitedly took my hand. “I learned it! Ava, from now on I’ll only make this for you.” In a daze, I heard Adrian’s voice again. “Lily, does it taste good?” My fingers gripping the cane tightened sharply. Right. He didn’t love me anymore. How could his promises still count? “Ava.” Adrian’s voice suddenly turned cold. “Come serve Lily some soup.” I steadied myself and carefully moved toward the sound, gripping my cane. Following the steam rising from the soup bowl, I found the dining table. My fingertips had just touched the rim when Lily said sweetly. “Thank you. Please be careful.” I frowned and slowly scooped up the soup with a spoon. Just as the spoon was about to reach Lily, I suddenly felt her shift her head slightly. Adrian immediately snapped. “Ava, you’re just blind, not handless! Can’t you even feed someone properly? Hurry up and wipe Lily’s mouth!” I clenched my fists secretly and patiently pulled a tissue from my pocket, fumbling to wipe Lily’s mouth. The moment my fingers touched Lily’s face, she suddenly screamed and jerked away. The soup bowl completely overturned, scalding soup spilling all over me. I gasped sharply. Lily threw herself into Adrian’s arms, her voice breaking with tears. “Honey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. It’s just that this maid’s hands are so rough they hurt my face.” Adrian held her, gently patting her back. “Silly girl, no need to apologize. You’ve been pampered since childhood-don’t I know how delicate your skin is?” Lily nuzzled into his embrace. “Honey, stop…” Adrian’s gaze suddenly turned on me, cruel and cutting. “Unlike some people who are born lowly. No amount of money can change that poor fate!” The moment he finished speaking, I felt my heart being violently torn open. My hands really weren’t delicate. I’d worked with my mother fishing by the sea since childhood, weathered by wind and sun, gradually developing calluses on my palms. But the Adrian of the past had held my hands and kissed those calluses tenderly. “How could I ever find them ugly? I only regret not meeting you sooner, letting you suffer so much…” So had he stopped loving me, or had all those words been lies from the very beginning? “Apologize to Lily right now!” Adrian snarled viciously. “I’m sorry…” I dug my nails into my palm, feeling the warmth in my heart gradually dissipate as cold wind howled through, the pain making it almost impossible to breathe. Just then, the phone in my pocket suddenly rang. I grabbed onto it like a lifeline, hastily fumbling to answer. “Is this Miss Ava? This is the hospital. Your mother is showing signs of waking up. Please come as soon as possible.” The words struck like thunder in my ears. Instantly, all the sourness that had built up in my heart vanished. I trembled with excitement. “Really? That’s wonderful… I’ll come right away!” Suddenly, a hand clamped around my wrist. The phone was violently snatched away and smashed on the floor. Adrian gripped me. “You’re not going!”

Ava’s POV “Give me back my phone!” I lunged at him frantically. “What right do you have to stop me? My mom is waking up!” With just a light push, Adrian sent me stumbling to the floor. He looked down at me without an ounce of pity. “You think I’d give you another chance to leave? You’re not going anywhere except here.” I clutched desperately at his pant leg. “Adrian, you can’t do this! That’s my mother!” I cried and pounded on his back. “Please, let me go see her…” But the next second, Adrian violently yanked his pants free, the force making me stagger back and slam hard into the corner of the dining table. “Tired? Let me take you to rest.” He tenderly lifted Lily into his arms and kissed her forehead. As he passed me, his eyes turned brutal. “If you dare make a scene, I’ll turn off your mother’s ventilator right now.” Lily lazily leaned against Adrian and glanced at me triumphantly, saying softly. “Pathetic.” My whole body trembled. Clutching my cane, tears streamed down my face. Heavy rain fell that night. I secretly felt my way to the door, only to find all the exits locked. No. I had to go see my mom… I fumbled to the window and without hesitation grabbed the frame and jumped down. Fortunately it was the first floor. I bit down hard and slowly stood up against the wall, gripping my cane tightly as I headed in the direction I remembered the hospital to be. The rain was too heavy, blurring my hearing and sense of touch. I carefully shuffled forward, constantly murmuring. “Excuse me, which way to the hospital? Please help me…” All along the way, car horns blared constantly. “Are you blind? Can’t you watch where you’re going!” “If you’re blind, don’t go outside!” “I’m sorry…” I kept apologizing. I don’t know how long I walked. Suddenly I tripped, my cane hitting a hard object. Before I could react, my forehead slammed hard into a lamppost. A dull thud, then blunt pain exploded instantly. My vision was already pitch black, but now my ears were ringing and even the surrounding car sounds became muffled. I staggered back two steps, lost my balance and fell to the ground. My knees hit the concrete-another piercing pain. All the grievances and fear completely collapsed in that moment. I couldn’t hold on anymore. I covered my face with both hands, my shoulders shaking violently. In a trance, I remembered when Adrian’s mother talked to me years ago. After returning, I packed my things and moved from our apartment back to my dorm. Unable to sleep that night, I suddenly received a message from Adrian. “Come down. I’m outside your dorm.” I ran downstairs to find Adrian soaked through in the pouring rain, his face covered in obvious scrapes. Through the rain, not knowing how many times he’d fallen, he’d walked step by step to find me! I softened and hugged him. The usually sullen Adrian cried pitifully. “Ava, don’t leave. Without you I’ll go crazy…” Suddenly the sound of an ambulance siren reached my ears. I jerked my head up, joy flooding my heart. I’d actually made it! I quickly scrambled up, but just as I lifted my leg, someone grabbed me. A familiar scent enveloped me. My whole body stiffened. “Well, well. You’ve really grown some nerve, Ava.” Adrian threw me roughly into the car. The door slammed shut with a bang. “Drive!” I frantically pounded on the window. “Let me out! I need to see my mom! Please, Adrian, just one look!” Adrian pressed down hard on my flailing hands and bit down viciously on my lip. “Let go of me!” I kept twisting my body until I tasted thick blood, and only then did Adrian slowly release me. “You like running away so much? Fine.” He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, enunciating each word. “Tomorrow you’ll go to the cathedral for Lily and pray.” “Do that, and I’ll let you see your mother.”

Ava’s POV I froze, tears of bitterness streaming down my face. The year Adrian and I first got together, I heard the nearby cathedral’s prayers were especially effective, so without telling him, I went to the cathedral alone early one morning to pray. I only asked God to have mercy and let Adrian regain his sight, to see me with his own eyes. When Adrian found out, he went on a hunger strike for three days, refusing even water, and finally landed himself in the hospital. He gripped my hand desperately, his voice breaking. “Ava, why are you so foolish? Promise me you’ll never go again, okay? I’d rather be blind forever than have you suffer…” But now? He was actually making me walk that path again-for another woman! I raised my hand and roughly wiped my eyes with my sleeve. “Fine. I agree.” The next day, before dawn, I was already standing at the cathedral entrance. Adrian lit a cigarette, and through the swirling smoke, mocked me. “It’s not too late to back out now.” I ignored him, gripping my cane, and slowly began. The cathedral’s prayer bells rang, as if returning me to years ago. My eyes had been full of hope then. “May the one I love regain his sight soon…” But this time, I closed my eyes. “I only ask to have nothing more to do with Adrian Reed.” Many passersby walked past the cathedral, curious and pitying gazes constantly falling on me. “This girl is blind, right? What’s she praying for so devoutly?” “Isn’t it obvious? She must be praying for sight.” “Maybe her love life is rough and she’s praying for romance?” I ignored them all, mechanically repeating my actions. An elderly priest happened to come out. He remembered me. Seeing my bedraggled state, he could only pray with compassion. “May the Lord bless you. I hope you can escape this suffering soon.” I pulled my lips into an ugly smile, my voice weak. “You’re teasing me again…” By afternoon, I was so exhausted I was nearly ready to pass out, but images of my mother lying in a hospital bed kept flashing through my mind. “Ava, almost there. You’re almost there…” My legs trembling, I took the cross the priest handed me. In that instant, the small cross felt as heavy as a branding iron, burning my palm. I fumbled to stand, staggering down the mountain. The path down was even harder than going up. By the time I returned to the Reed mansion, it was deep into the night. I was covered in mud, utterly disheveled. Voices drifted faintly from the living room. I paused mid-step, instinctively lightening my movements as I headed toward the sound. “Her mother’s been responding well to the new medication lately.” Adrian’s cold voice filtered through the half-open door. Joy leaped in my chest. Suddenly nothing hurt anymore. But the next second, Adrian sneered coldly. “Stop using it. Switch back to the old one. Just keep her alive. It doesn’t matter if she never wakes up.” “Only if Ava’s mother stays in the hospital forever will Ava obediently do what I say for the rest of her life.” How dare he do this! I slammed the door open, the force making it crash against the wall with a loud bang.

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I traded three years of my youth for a love that was nothing but a complete mistake. I was the one who saved Lucas from that kidnapping chamber. I was the one whose wrist bears the scar from protecting him. But he kept my words close and worshipped my sister as the light in his darkness. My father forced me to marry into a wealthy family, to a useless man in a vegetative state, to plug the holes in our family business. I thought Lucas would refuse on my behalf. Instead, he said. “Hurry up and marry him. Don’t hold up my wedding to Vivian.” When I turned around and married into the Quinn family, becoming Mrs. Quinn, only then did he frantically search the world for me. But he’ll never know that I never bowed to fate. I came to collect every blood debt he owes me, with my own hands. Jade’s POV “The vegetable from the Quinn family. I’ll marry him.” Vincent froze for a moment, then a delighted smile spread across his face. “Jade, you’ve come around? The Quinn family may have a comatose heir right now, but they’re true old money. Once you marry in for this business alliance, the capital injection…” “I have conditions.” “Name them.” Vincent’s mood lifted as he settled back into his leather ergonomic chair. “Mother’s shares-I want them liquidated.” I held up one finger. “Ten billion dollars.” “Ten billion? That’s all of the Reynolds family’s liquid assets! Right now Vivian’s venture has some losses…” “Those are her losses.” I looked at him coldly. “Pay me what I’m owed, and I’ll marry him. If not, let Vivian marry him herself.” Vincent slammed his hand on the desk, about to lose his temper, then held back. He needed the Quinn family’s money. “Fine.” He gritted his teeth. “What else?” “Transfer Lucas’s employment contract to Vivian.” This time Vincent was genuinely stunned. The whole city knew I protected my bodyguard Lucas above all else. Three years ago when he was kidnapped, I went crazy trying to find a way to rescue him. “Can you really bear to?” Vincent narrowed his eyes. “Weren’t you saying you’d marry no one but him?” The scar on my left wrist throbbed with phantom pain. “As long as you pay what I’m owed, you can take him.” I sneered. “Reassign him as Vivian’s bodyguard, or whatever else she wants-she’s been eyeing him anyway.” Vincent stared at me for a long moment, as if trying to determine whether I meant it. In the end, he compromised in the face of such massive capital and the temptation of currying favor with the Quinns. “Fine. Once the Quinn family’s betrothal gift arrives, I’ll transfer the money.” I turned to leave. My hand had just touched the doorknob when Vincent’s voice came from behind me. “Jade, can you really bear it? That’s Lucas we’re talking about.” My right hand on the doorknob trembled slightly as I remembered the devout look in Lucas’s eyes when he gazed at Vivian. I only felt it was ridiculous. I didn’t answer. I slammed the study door with force. Downstairs, the living room was brightly lit. The floor was covered with pink balloons and various luxury gift boxes. This was the warm-up for Vivian’s celebration party. My marriage was a bargaining chip in a ten-billion-dollar transaction-no one cared. The illegitimate daughter’s fake nomination was worth the whole family decorating with lights and colors. A pink balloon drifted to my feet. I lifted my heel expressionlessly and crushed it down hard. Pop. The sound of the balloon bursting echoed through the empty living room. I walked through the corridor to Lucas’s quarters. Because of his severe photophobia, all the lawn lights in this area had been specially dimmed. The door to his meditation room was ajar, with no lights on inside, only a faint red glow seeping through. I didn’t go in. I just stood quietly at the door. Heavy breathing came from inside, carrying a sickly oppression. Through the gap in the door, I saw Lucas sitting on the carpet, holding an exquisitely mounted manuscript in his hands. He buried his face in that calligraphy, breathing deeply, like a dying person inhaling oxygen. His fingers traced over the ink marks on the paper bit by bit. “Vivian…” “Only your writing can save me.” That piece of calligraphy was signed “Vivian Reynolds,” but the handwriting was actually my unique script. Three years ago, he and I were locked in adjacent cells. I slipped notes to him through cracks in the wall, using this handwriting style to write encouraging words to keep him alive. The day we were rescued, I was carried away in a high fever and delirium. Vivian stood before him holding a stack of my manuscripts. So he decided that the person who gave him light in the darkness was Vivian.

Jade’s POV In this family, Vivian was the treasured jewel. I was the tool used to fill holes. After Mother died, Vincent cultivated a philanthropic wealthy persona for himself to seem refined. He didn’t understand architecture, but he knew Vivian needed a talented woman’s reputation to marry into even higher society. And I was that shadow. Since childhood, whenever there was a design competition, I was locked in the attic to draw. The winner’s list always bore Vivian’s name, and those trophies would be displayed in the most prominent spot in the living room for Vincent to brag about how outstanding his younger daughter was. If I didn’t draw, Mother’s belongings left to me would mysteriously disappear or get damaged. For the sake of those mementos, I lived my life as Vivian’s shadow. The private phone on the desk vibrated, breaking the suffocating silence. It was Lucas’s private number. Only a handful of people had it. He reluctantly set down the calligraphy he’d been holding, his brow furrowing slightly. When he answered, his voice instantly returned to its usual cold nobility. “Hey.” I stood in the shadows by the door, in no hurry to enter. The voice on the other end was probably his psychologist Dr. Xu, faintly audible through the receiver, asking about his recent condition and why he still endured my bad temper. Lucas’s fingers unconsciously tapped the table-his tell for irritation. “She’s just someone who knows how to draw blueprints.” His voice was cold, as if evaluating a defective product. “She’s a gold digger. Apart from money and scheming, what does she know about design?” I stood outside the door, my nails digging into my palms. So this was his assessment of my countless all-nighters and endless discarded drafts. Then his tone changed, becoming extremely tender. “Only Vivian’s calligraphy has spirit. Doctor, you don’t understand-what I saw in the darkness was exactly that kind of light. To protect Vivian’s purity, enduring that woman is worth it.” In that instant, I felt something shatter inside me. Since you’re so noble, don’t blame me for showing you what real gold-digging looks like. I pushed the door open. The loud sound of the door opening shattered the meditation room’s silence. Lucas reacted quickly, immediately turning to block the safe behind him, his brow furrowed, his eyes full of disgust at my intrusion. “Who gave you permission to come in?” he demanded coldly. I leaned against the doorframe, my gaze falling on the corner of the safe visible behind him, and let out a cold laugh. “Obsessing over a piece of paper-Mr. Hayes, what refined taste. Since you like it so much, why not go find the real person with all that ‘spirit’?” Lucas’s expression darkened, and he barked sharply, “Shut up! You don’t understand art, and you’re not worthy to speak Vivian’s name. Her calligraphy is priceless, unlike you-all you think about is business.” I ignored his rebuke and casually pulled a gold-embossed invitation from my bag, tossing it onto the table. “Tomorrow night, you’re coming to the gala with me.” The invitation slid across the table and stopped beside that piece of calligraphy. Lucas didn’t even glance at it, refusing without hesitation. “I’m busy. I have no interest in that kind of social climbing. Go by yourself.” “Is that so?” I adjusted my cuffs, my tone flat. “I heard Vivian will be there too. As the lead designer of the Holy Infant Cathedral, she’s going to accept an award.” The air froze for a second. Lucas’s previously cold expression instantly softened, his eyes relaxing, even taking on a hint of pride. “Holy Infant Cathedral… That’s Vivian’s life’s work.” He picked up the invitation, his slender fingers caressing the gold lettering. “What time do we leave?” Watching him like this, I only felt it was ridiculous. “Seven tomorrow evening.” With that, I turned and left the meditation room. Back in the attic, my room had no lights on. By the moonlight from the window, I could see a sketch still clipped to the easel. It was a discarded draft I’d drawn in a burst of inspiration late one night two years ago. I walked over and tore the sketch down. The sound of ripping paper was especially harsh in the quiet attic. I crumpled it into a ball and casually tossed it into the trash can by my feet. Since I was selling out, I might as well sell out completely. The next morning, servants delivered two evening gowns. One was the latest season’s white haute couture, with layers upon layers of skirt, studded with tiny crystals-ethereal and clearly prepared for Vivian. The other was black, an outdated style, not even the right size. The servant set down the clothes, her eyes evasive. “Mr. Reynolds said Miss Vivian is accepting an award and needs to look presentable. This black one is suitable for you to sit in the audience.” I said nothing and waved her out. That evening, Lucas was already waiting by the car. Because of his photophobia, he wore sunglasses and a haute couture suit, his posture straight and commanding. Such a man who could make waves in the city was now willing to act as my driver for Vivian’s sake. I walked over in my heels and pulled open the door to sit in the passenger seat. We didn’t exchange a single word the entire ride. The air pressure in the car was frighteningly low. Only when Lucas occasionally glanced at the rearview mirror would the corners of his mouth unconsciously lift slightly. I knew he was anticipating that “spirited” Vivian.

Jade’s POV I watched Lucas through the rearview mirror. His fingers rested on the steering wheel, long and defined. I looked down at my own hands. These hands had once held his in that sunless chamber, leading him out of despair. Now, those hands eagerly turned the steering wheel, rushing toward another woman. This was the last time I’d ride in his car. Once I got the Quinn family’s money, he would belong entirely to Vivian. Whether the man himself or that lie about salvation-I’d package it all up and send it to her. The car stopped at the gala hotel entrance. Media crowded both sides of the red carpet, flashbulbs creating a continuous white daylight. Lucas quickly unbuckled his seatbelt and got out. He didn’t come around to open my door. Instead, he stood by the car, his gaze urgently searching behind us. That car held Vivian. I pushed open the car door myself. The altered black gown wrapped around my body, my heels clicking on the ground. Vivian arrived. She wore that white haute couture gown, linking her arm through mine, smiling sweetly, posing for the cameras in a display of sisterly affection. I pulled my hand back in disgust, avoiding her touch. “Don’t dirty my clothes.” Vivian’s movements stiffened. She immediately turned to Lucas, her eyes reddening. “Lucas, is Jade still blaming me for borrowing her inspiration? I just thought that style was beautiful…” Lucas stepped forward in one stride, shielding her behind him, removing his sunglasses to look at me coldly. “Inspiration is just inspiration. Someone has to realize it to give it value.” He spoke matter-of-factly. “Vivian gave it soul. You should feel honored.” Vivian broke into a smile, pulling a miniature model of the Holy Infant Cathedral from her clutch. She held it up to Lucas like a treasure. “Look, the light and shadow design here-this is the divine light I imagined.” Lucas looked down at the model, his eyes instantly softening with a trace of devotion. “This is the world I saw in the darkness. Vivian, only you understand.” I laughed inwardly. Who was it that described that scene to him bit by bit through the wall in the detention cell? Vivian seemed to remember something and turned to look at me with concern. “Jade, are you still having trouble with your designs lately? You should rest more.” I looked at the design in her hands that belonged to me and said flatly, “My discarded drafts can win you major awards. What troubles could I possibly have?” A giant in the architecture world happened to walk by. He stopped, pointed at a support structure on the model, and asked Vivian curiously, “That load-bearing point is quite bold. How did you calculate it?” Vivian froze, unable to answer for a long time. Her eyes darted around evasively. “Well… by feel. For aesthetics, I thought this looked good.” The old professor frowned. “Architecture is rigorous science. Going by feel alone will make buildings collapse.” The atmosphere grew awkward. Just as Lucas was about to intervene, I spoke first. “It uses a hyperbolic tension structure.” I looked at the model. “It disperses thirty percent of the vertical load, which is why it appears lightweight.” The professor looked at me in surprise, nodded approvingly, and walked away. Vivian bit her lip, looking at Lucas with grievance. Lucas glanced at me with displeasure. “What good is memorizing textbooks? Vivian has an artist’s intuition.” The curator walked over, holding the final confirmation list. “Excuse me, we need to confirm the design attribution. Currently it’s registered under Reynolds Design Department.” I spoke up firmly. “Change it to Jade Reynolds.” Vivian panicked. “Jade, Dad and the sponsors’ intention is to promote new talent…” “New talent?” I sneered. “Show me your draft sketches! What are the core parameters? What are the light angles? Can you even answer?” Vivian opened her mouth, looking to Lucas for help. Lucas pulled a black card from his suit pocket and handed it to the curator. “I’m adding a hundred million in sponsorship for the Holy Infant Cathedral project’s startup fund.” Lucas’s voice wasn’t loud, but loud enough for those nearby to hear clearly. “The condition is that the lead designer’s name must be-Vivian Reynolds.” Vivian covered her mouth in excitement, looking at him with deep affection. I looked at Lucas in disbelief. “That’s my heart and soul!” He looked down at me from his height, his eyes cold as ice. “Jade, only Vivian deserves it. This hundred million is to buy your silence.” The big screen flickered. The host’s voice rang out loudly. “Now announcing this year’s Gold Award winner-Vivian Reynolds!” That name appeared huge and blood-red. I stood in the shadows, clutching the useless draft in my hand, crumpling it into a ball of garbage. That black card was a symbol of power, and the final straw that crushed me. In the face of capital, talent was so fragile. Three years of my work couldn’t match his one card.

Jade’s POV Thunderous applause hurt my eardrums. On the big screen, the three bright red characters of Vivian Reynolds seemed to flow down like blood, stinging my eyes. I turned and pushed through the crowd, fleeing. Leaving the hotel, I drove to a suspended Reynolds family construction project. I carried a bottle of dark liquor I’d bought at a roadside convenience store and sat on the high-level steel beams without any safety protection, letting the wind blow. The city lights spread out below my feet like a giant net. I looked at my calloused hands, wondering how much longer these hands could draw, how much longer I could struggle in this cesspool reeking of money. Suddenly, the roar of an engine came from below. A car door opened. Vivian pulled Lucas out. She walked across the uneven ground in her heels, stumbling with each step. Lucas patiently supported her waist, as if caring for a fragile piece of porcelain. What timing. Vivian insisted on visiting the site of her award-winning work in person. Ridiculously, she didn’t even know where the construction elevator was and had to rely on Lucas for directions. We ran into each other at the construction elevator. The elevator door closed. Three people crammed into the narrow iron cage. The air instantly thinned, mixed with Vivian’s sickeningly sweet perfume and the dust from the construction site. Vivian didn’t seem to mind my presence. She excitedly pointed at the night sky, beginning to envision the future. “Lucas, I want to build the tallest building here. I’ve even thought of the name-I’ll name it after you. Do you like it?” Lucas looked at her, his eyes so tender they could drown someone. “As long as you designed it, I like it.” Vivian turned to look at me provocatively, then asked Lucas, “What if Jade designed it?” Lucas didn’t even spare me a peripheral glance, coldly spitting out a sentence. “A building without soul is just a pile of garbage.” A pile of garbage. So that was his definition of the blueprints I’d drawn around the clock for three years. My sleepless revisions were worthless in his eyes. I gripped the liquor bottle in my hand tighter, my knuckles white. Since it’s garbage, let’s burn it. Burn it completely clean. Then none of us can have it. “You’re standing in a garbage heap right now.” I said coldly. Vivian shrank into Lucas’s arms pitifully. Lucas frowned, about to scold me, when the elevator stopped. As soon as we exited, several dusty workers surrounded us. They were subcontractor workers who’d been owed wages for half a year. Seeing people come up, their emotions instantly flared. “Pay us! Nobody leaves until we get paid today!” The lead foreman recognized me at a glance. After all, I was usually the one running around sites solving problems. That so-called genius designer Vivian couldn’t even read blueprints, let alone come to such dirty places. “She’s in charge! Get the money from her!” I was shoved, lost my footing, and fell hard onto a pile of rebar nearby. The sharp threaded steel cut through my arm, burning with pain. Instinctively, I looked toward Lucas. In the first second of the chaos, Lucas had pulled Vivian behind him, protecting her seamlessly within his safety circle. He watched coldly as I was surrounded by a group of angry men, as if this were just a farce unrelated to him. “You’re the Reynolds heiress. You should handle this.” His voice cut through the noisy crowd, reaching my ears clearly. I climbed up from the ground and didn’t look at him again. Grabbing a rusty iron rod from the ground, I stared viciously at the approaching workers. In the chaos, no one noticed the change in the corner. A worker’s cigarette butt fell onto a mountain of foam insulation boards. Flames instantly shot up, igniting the polystyrene boards. Black smoke silently snaked out from the corner. A pungent smell drilled into my nostrils. It was the characteristic toxic smell of burning polystyrene-suffocating. I whipped around to find the only escape route completely sealed by a wall of fire.

Jade’s POV The fire spread incredibly fast. Black smoke poured in through the ventilation ducts. The alarm shrieked piercingly, as if trying to puncture eardrums. Vivian covered her mouth, half her body draped over Lucas, tears streaming from the smoke. “Lucas, I’m scared…” Lucas said nothing, just held her tightly, his brow furrowed deeply. He searched for an exit in the chaos. So did I. But we quickly discovered the only escape route was half-blocked by collapsed debris, with the remaining gap filled with fire. The emergency box on the wall was red, especially conspicuous against the gray and black. Lucas was faster than me. He yanked open the glass door of the emergency box. Inside lay a single smoke mask. Only one. In that instant, time seemed to freeze. Around us were the crackling sounds of burning and workers’ shouts, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat. Lucas grabbed the mask. Without any hesitation, he fastened it over Vivian’s face. “Cover your mouth and nose. Don’t move.” The smoke seemed to come alive, rushing into my throat. I coughed violently. My throat felt like I’d swallowed a handful of red-hot coals, the burning sensation instantly spreading to my lungs. “Lucas…” I tried to call him, but my voice came out only as broken gasps. Lucas picked up Vivian, who wore the mask and was quietly sobbing. He turned his head and glanced at me through the swirling black smoke. “Cover your mouth and nose and keep up!” Keep up? In this smoke density, without protection, every step was stealing time from death. I clutched my collar, trying to filter out some of the poison, but that suffocating smell was still pervasive. My head began to spin. My vision gradually blurred. I watched Lucas’s retreating figure. He walked so quickly, so steadily, Vivian in his arms protected impenetrably. I tried to catch up, but tripped on something and fell heavily onto the scalding concrete floor. The figure ahead didn’t pause, didn’t even look back. The footsteps grew more and more distant. I lay on the ground, gripping tightly the iron rod I’d used for self-defense earlier. Heat from the floor seeped through the fabric. My consciousness began to fade. In his heart, my life wasn’t even worth a single hair on Vivian’s head. When the firefighters rushed in, I’d already lost consciousness. … When I woke again, I was in the hospital’s nebulizer room. My throat felt like it was stuck with countless knife blades. Each breath came with tearing pain. I wore an oxygen mask, trying to speak, but could only make a hoarse, ugly “heh-heh” sound. In the next bed, Vivian sat in a wheelchair. She was actually completely unharmed, not even a scratch, but that didn’t stop her from putting on a weak, post-trauma appearance. Lucas sat by her bed, holding a bowl of warm pear soup, scooping a spoonful, blowing on it to cool it, then bringing it to her lips. “Jade inhaled so much smoke trying to save me…” Vivian’s eyes reddened, her voice soft, “Lucas, am I a burden?” Lucas’s expression was indifferent. He used a tissue to wipe the soup from the corner of her mouth. “It’s not your fault.” He said. “She was just too slow.” I stared at them, my fingers gripping the bedsheet tightly. Seeming to sense my gaze, Lucas turned around. He looked at me, his eyes completely devoid of warmth. “In that situation, there was only one mask.” He explained coldly. “Vivian’s hands are for writing and drawing-they’re works of art. They couldn’t risk any fire damage. But you…” He paused, his gaze sweeping over my bandaged neck. “What’s wrong with Jade?” Vivian asked on cue. Lucas withdrew his gaze, placing the spoon back in the bowl with a crisp sound. “Your voice being hoarse doesn’t matter. You don’t say anything good normally anyway.” I didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. To protect that impostor’s hands, he destroyed the real creator’s voice. The burning in my throat was nothing compared to the chill in my heart. “Don’t say anything good normally”? So these past years, all my reminders and care sounded like noise to him. I yanked out the IV, grabbed a glass medicine bottle from the table beside me, and hurled it at the floor with all my strength. Crash! The sound of shattering glass was especially jarring in the quiet hospital room. “Ah!” Vivian dramatically shrank into Lucas’s arms like a startled little rabbit. “Jade, don’t be angry, it’s all my fault…” I pointed at the door, forcing out a single hoarse word from my throat. “Get… out…” The sound was so ugly even I found it foreign. Vivian covered her face, crying, pulling at Lucas’s sleeve. Lucas stood up, his brow furrowed, clearly having lost patience with my unreasonable tantrum. He put his arm around Vivian and walked out. At the doorway, he stopped and looked back at me coldly. “Your voice is ruined, but your temper’s gotten worse.” He warned. “Reflect on yourself.” Not long after, a nurse came in to change the dressing. Seeing the glass shards all over the floor and medicine dripping from the IV tube, she frowned and complained. “So difficult to deal with.” I closed my eyes. Two tears slid from the corners down into my temples. Lucas, you win.

Jade’s POV The day I was discharged, no car from the Reynolds family came to pick me up. I took a taxi back to the hillside villa myself. My throat was wrapped in thick bandages. My left hand carried a large bag of anti-inflammatory medication from the hospital. My right hand still ached faintly. The villa was silent. A few maids polishing vases saw me, their eyes evasive, quickly lowering their heads as if seeing something unlucky. I ignored them and went straight upstairs. The moment I pushed open the study door, I froze. This was my private domain, originally filled with my architectural models, blueprints, and that drafting table I’d used for five years. Now the room was empty. Everything was gone, replaced by several huge packing boxes labeled “To Be Cleared.” I rushed over and tore open a box. Inside, my life’s work was stuffed haphazardly. Only the vintage crystal inkwell was missing. I frantically tore open the tape with my fingernails. The boxes were a mess of my heart and soul. Broken models, crumpled design drawings, and carelessly discarded professional books. I searched through every box. The inkwell was gone. That was the bottle I’d used to dip ink and write letters in the dark chamber. Beneath the heavy crystal base, my initials were engraved. It was the only physical evidence that could prove my identity. I grabbed a passing maid, pointing at the empty room, making urgent sounds from my throat. The maid was startled by me and shrank back timidly. “Mr. Hayes ordered the clearing.” “Mr. Hayes said Vivian needed a south-facing studio. This room has the best light, so it was cleared for Miss Vivian.” I stared at her, my hands tracing a square in the air. The maid understood. “You’re looking for that old inkwell?” Her eyes wandered. “Mr. Hayes said even though it’s old, it’s still an antique, so he gave it to Miss Vivian for calligraphy practice.” Gave it to her for practice? My name was engraved on the bottom of that inkwell. If Vivian used it, if she cleaned it, that engraving would be exposed. Then all her lies would collapse. But if she discovered that engraving… She would destroy the evidence. This was my last chance. I pushed past the maid and ran toward the studio at the end of the hallway. Even if I had to fight for it, I had to get that evidence back.

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