The night before our wedding, my fiancée—a rising Colonel in the Army—was in bed with my sister’s boyfriend. She had been my sister’s best friend, the woman my parents treated like a second daughter, the “perfect” bride we all believed in. The scandal didn’t just break our hearts; it shattered our lives. My sister, Claire, was so devastated that she crashed her car that same night. She never woke up. My parents’ hair turned white overnight. I spent months drowning in a grief so heavy I looked for any way out. For a long time, the only sound in our house was the muffled, rhythmic sobbing behind closed doors. Eventually, it was my father who made the call. We moved cities, seeking a ghost-free zip code where we could breathe again. I found a good woman. We had a beautiful daughter, Maya. Five years passed, and I honestly thought I had cut the cord connecting me to Morgan West forever. Then came my birthday. I walked into my office to find a box of almond shortbread—my absolute favorite—sitting on my desk. Next to it was a note. Nate, it’s been too long. … 1 My knuckles turned white as I gripped the edges of the pastry box. My supervisor, Sarah—who knew enough of my history to see the blood drain from my face—hesitated. “Is it her?” I didn’t answer. I just went back to my tactical reports, my pen trembling. Sarah sighed. “I heard Morgan West requested a transfer back from the Western Command. Are you going to keep doing this, Nate? You’re going to be colleagues again. Besides, she was your sister’s—” “Sarah,” I snapped, the tip of my pen tearing through the paper. “My sister didn’t have a ‘best friend’ like that. Not in this life.” Sarah looked at me, her gaze softening. “It’s been five years. Do you still hate her?” “Yes.” I didn’t hesitate. The word felt like a shard of ice in my throat. She stared at me for a moment, then shook her head and walked out. On my way out, I ran into the Base Commander, who had been Claire and Morgan’s instructor back at West Point. After a brief debrief, his expression turned complicated. “The orders came through today. Morgan is officially joining the Eastern Command.” “Understood, sir,” I said, my voice flat. He remained silent for a few seconds. “Your sister was a soldier with a huge heart, Nate. If she were here, she wouldn’t want things to be like this.” Like what? Since when did the victim have to offer forgiveness just to prove they had a “big heart”? I didn’t understand why everyone was suddenly a spokesperson for letting go. Does time erase the physical reality of what happened? I was the one with the moral high ground, yet I was the one being held hostage by “the bigger picture” and “service camaraderie.” My peers, my superiors… why were they all suddenly on her side? I didn’t want to understand. I refused to. The early winter wind bit at my face on the walk home. I took a deep breath, smoothing the tension from my forehead before I opened the door. My parents and my wife, Elena, were in the kitchen making dumplings. My three-year-old, Maya, was perched on a stool, poking holes into a lump of dough with her tiny fingers. “Daddy!” Maya dropped the dough and lunged for me. I scooped her up, kissing her flour-dusted cheek. She held up her mangled creation. “I’m making these for Auntie Claire!” A lump formed in my throat. “You’re doing a great job, sweetie.” When dinner was served, I filled a bowl and placed it at the empty seat at the table. A neatly folded, older-style dress uniform sat there, undisturbed for five years. It was a ritual—as if Claire was just away on a long deployment and would walk through the door any minute. Maya tugged at my sleeve. “Daddy, why does Auntie Claire always stay in the picture frame?” “Why doesn’t she come out to eat with us?” “When is she going to play with me?” I looked at the photo on the wall. Claire was frozen at twenty-four, her shoulders straight, her smile radiant, her rank pins gleaming. The room went silent. My parents froze for a second before continuing to pleat the dumplings. Elena reached out and squeezed my hand under the table. I looked into my daughter’s clear, innocent eyes and stroked her hair. I didn’t have an answer. If Claire were here, she’d be a devoted daughter, a protective sister, and the best aunt in the world. But “if” is a cruel word. For five years, I thought I’d buried those memories deep enough that they couldn’t hurt me. I was wrong. All it took was a box of cookies to rip the scabs right off. 2 The next morning, I stepped onto the training grounds and walked straight into Morgan West. Five years hadn’t just changed her; they’d sharpened her. She’d lost the soft edges of her youth, replaced by the cold, lethal precision of a Tier 1 operator. She carried an aura of command that made the air feel heavy. Soldiers saluted as they passed. I was so stunned I forgot to return them. My eyes were locked on her face, and my chest felt like it was being crushed by an invisible hand. I couldn’t help but think: If only she had been the one buried in the national cemetery five years ago. If only it were my sister standing here today. “How have you been, Nate?” Morgan spoke first. Her voice was steady, unreadable. I turned to walk away, but she grabbed my wrist. Her grip was iron, her brow furrowed with a flicker of impatience she couldn’t quite hide. “Nate, look. I know what happened back then was wrong. But I’m not some ungrateful monster.” “My family did everything for you, and I’ve remembered that every day I was gone,” she continued. “Can’t we just let the past stay in the past?” I spun around, staring into her eyes. The heat of my rage was so intense it made my vision blur. “How dare you, Morgan? What gives you the right to decide when it’s ‘over’?” Her frown deepened. “Nate, I know you’re angry, but it’s been five years…” “Time doesn’t change what you did!” I shouted. Her expression shifted, a shadow of something—guilt, maybe, or just annoyance—crossing her face. She went quiet for a few beats. “What happened between me and Blake… I’m sorry. To you, and to Claire.” She looked at me with an agonizing sincerity. “I requested this transfer so I could apologize to your face.” That was the spark. The five years of repressed fury exploded. I shoved her hand off me so hard she stumbled back a half-step. “Don’t you dare say her name!” I roared, my voice echoing off the concrete. I didn’t wait for a response. I turned and stormed into the office. The door flew open a moment later. It was Riley, my best friend and Claire’s former teammate in the recon unit. She had just returned from a border rotation. She grabbed my arm, her eyes searching mine. “I heard she was back. I cut my leave short to get here.” She saw my bloodshot eyes. “You saw her?” I nodded. Riley started rolling up her sleeves, her face darkening. “That bitch actually showed her face? I’m going to go out there and break her arm.” I pulled her back, shaking my head. Riley stopped, looking at my pale face, her own eyes tearing up. “If it weren’t for your parents and Claire, she wouldn’t have even finished the Academy. They paid for her mother’s funeral. They treated her like blood.” “And she repays them by sleeping with Claire’s fiancé? She’s a goddamn parasite. She should have been court-martialed.” The pain in my chest was a dull, throbbing ache. Riley was right. People like Morgan West deserved a reckoning. Back then, Morgan was Claire’s world. They were inseparable at West Point. Morgan came from nothing—her father was killed in the line of duty, and her mother was chronically ill. When her mother passed away during their sophomore year, Morgan couldn’t even afford the burial. Claire went home and begged my parents for the money. My parents, being the people they are, didn’t just pay for the funeral; they became her benefactors. Later, Morgan worked herself to the bone to pay them back, every cent. She even spent two years tutoring me in military theory. We thought we had brought a grateful, loyal person into our inner circle. We never imagined that the person we called family would be the one to drive a knife into our hearts and push our entire world off a cliff. 3 The man who nearly became my brother-in-law—the man who became the wedge between me and Morgan—was Blake Montgomery. He was in the military band, a golden boy with a charming smile that my parents adored. Back then, Morgan and I were engaged. The invitations were already at the printers. But at every gathering, I started noticing the way Blake looked at her. It wasn’t right. It was a look of desperate, aching longing—a look he never gave my sister. I brought it up to Morgan a few times, gently. She’d always laugh it off. “Nate, stop being paranoid. He’s your future brother-in-law. Why would anything happen?” She’d even tease me: “If Claire heard you saying this, she’d think I was corrupting you.” Her innocence was so convincing that I buried my anxiety. But soon, the boundaries began to blur. They’d flirt and joke right in front of me. Once, Blake handed Morgan a half-empty water bottle he’d been drinking from. She didn’t hesitate. She took it and drank. My heart sank. That night, Morgan and I had a massive fight. “How could you do that? To me? To Claire?” Morgan was silent for a long time. Finally, she looked up and promised she’d keep her distance from Blake. For a while, she did. But I felt the temperature in our relationship drop to sub-zero. The fighting stopped, but the intimacy vanished. Three days before the wedding, I went to our new apartment with some decorations. I punched in the code and pushed the door open. The blood in my veins turned to ice. The bedroom door was wide open. On the custom red silk sheets we’d picked out together, two figures were tangled. Their uniforms were scattered across the floor like discarded skins. The decorations in my hand hit the floor with a deafening metallic clatter. The two on the bed jumped. Morgan bolted upright, her face draining of color when she saw me standing in the doorway. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t cry. She just snarled, “Get out!” I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. I turned and stumbled out into the hallway. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Blake: Sorry, man. Some people you just can’t keep. I collapsed in the stairwell, a grown man sobbing until I couldn’t breathe. How could they? To me? To Claire? Claire. She couldn’t stay in the dark. I fumbled for my phone to call her, but before I could dial, a notification popped up. Claire had been in an accident. My world didn’t just crack; it vanished. Claire was in a coma in the ICU for seven days. The military doctor stood beside me, his voice a low drone. “Her brain activity suggests she might be conscious, Nate. But the trauma is so severe her body can’t respond.” He adjusted his glasses. “Talk to her. If she has the will to live, there’s a chance.” I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. “The cause?” “The police report says excessive speed.” Excessive speed. The words looped in my head. Claire was the most disciplined driver I knew. She would never speed unless something had broken her. Three days later, the police returned her phone. It was cracked but functional. I hesitated, then typed in the passcode. It was Blake’s birthday. The last message was from Blake. It was sent the same day I found them. I pressed play on the voice memo, my hands shaking. The sounds that came out of the speaker—Morgan’s voice, Blake’s breath—were obscene. I ran to the trash can outside the ward and retched until I was dry-heaving. Tears mixed with stomach acid dripped onto the linoleum floor. The smell of bleach and antiseptic became a physical weight, pressing into my skull. So that was it. Claire had heard that recording. She was speeding back to confront them, to find me, to do something—and she crashed. They killed her. I wiped my face, deleted the recording, and cleared the trash. I told no one, not even my parents. They couldn’t take any more. I spent every day at her bedside, talking. I talked about our childhood, the Academy, everything. But I never mentioned Morgan or Blake. A week later, Claire’s finger twitched. Before I could even process the hope, Blake Montgomery walked in. Through the ICU glass, I saw him standing over her bed, whispering something. 4 When he saw me, Blake actually smiled. “Hey, Nate. I was just talking to Claire. We were talking about your wedding to Morgan.” “She needs to wake up soon,” he continued, his voice dripping with malice. “We all want to celebrate together.” The provocation was so blatant I felt a surge of pure, electric fury. I hadn’t made a scene yet, but that didn’t mean I’d forgotten his betrayal. It didn’t mean he got to stand by her deathbed and gloat. I didn’t even realize I was moving. I grabbed his arm and drove my knee into his gut. Blake wasn’t ready for it. He slammed into the wall with a dull thud. In that second, Morgan rushed in. “Nate, are you crazy?” she screamed, her voice echoing in the sterile hall. I tried to speak, but the words were stuck. Blake groaned, clutching his stomach. “Morgan, it hurts… God, it hurts.” Morgan glared at me, then leaned down to whisper to him. “It’s okay, honey. We’re going to get a doctor.” She helped him up and hurried him down the hall, their footsteps fading away. I was left standing there, alone. A few days later, after sending my exhausted parents home, I returned to the hospital. As I approached the ICU, I saw a scene through the glass that froze my soul. Morgan was in Blake’s arms. They were kissing—deeply, passionately—right in front of Claire’s bed. I was paralyzed. Then I heard Blake’s voice through the door. “When Claire wakes up, she’ll be happy for us. She’s always wanted us to be happy.” Morgan smiled. “As soon as she’s better, we’ll tell her.” As the words left her mouth, the heart monitor flatlined into a long, shrill, terrifying scream. Claire’s fingers curled once, sharply. The jagged peaks of the EKG vanished into a single, horizontal line. “Doctor! Doctor!” I screamed like a madman. The hallway exploded into chaos. Nurses and doctors swarmed the room, their white coats like the wings of panicked birds. The room was a blur of crashing equipment and tangled wires. The defibrillator hummed. “Clear! Two hundred joules! Everyone back!” “Again! Three hundred!” I charged into the room, shoving Morgan and Blake aside with a strength I didn’t know I had. “Get out!” I roared, my eyes wild. “Get the hell out of here!” Morgan’s face turned ashen. She saw the sheer madness in my eyes and backed away, dragging Blake with her. The door slammed shut. I collapsed in the corner, sobbing silently. The alarm kept ringing—a rhythmic stabbing in my heart. “Claire, please,” I whispered. “Don’t go. Please.” I knelt on the floor and prayed to a God I hadn’t spoken to in years. I begged Him not to take her. But He wasn’t listening. I watched as my big sister, the woman who had protected me since I was a boy, was wheeled into the crematorium. A short time later, all that was left of her was a handful of ash in a ceramic jar. … Being in the same Command as Morgan was proving to be impossible. I rubbed my eyes, preparing to put in for leave. The elevator dinked. Morgan ran out, nearly sprinting toward me. She grabbed my shoulders, her voice trembling. “Why is everyone saying… why are they saying your sister is gone?”

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When I saw the “Unattainable Queen” of my college years again, her empire had crumbled into dust. Her company was bankrupt, her daughter was permanently injured, and the “perfect” high-school-sweetheart husband she’d once worshipped had vanished into thin air. At a park in downtown Chicago, Margot Vance—now a shadow of her former self—approached my food truck with trembling hands. “Can I… can I just buy half a sandwich?” she whispered, her eyes avoiding mine. I didn’t say a word. I just nodded and handed her two full meals, on the house. Years passed. We built something new from the wreckage. We became a power couple, rising back to the top of the city’s elite. On the day Margot’s new firm went public and her daughter, Maya, received her acceptance letter to Harvard, a ghost appeared at the celebration. Sebastian looked exactly as he did in the old photographs—young, handsome, wearing a crisp white shirt that made him look like a tragic hero from a classic novel. He moved with a practiced, gentle grace. Ignoring my parked Rolls-Royce, he pulled out a stack of hand-drawn “Daddy Coupons” and handed them to Maya as a graduation gift. “Maya, remember these? You loved them when you were little. With these, you can have Daddy’s time whenever you want.” Then, he placed a heart-shaped river stone into Margot’s hand. “Margot, this represents my heart. It hasn’t changed. Not for a single second.” Only after this performance did he turn to me. His eyes were cold, dripping with effortless disdain. “During the years I was lost with amnesia, I appreciate you looking after my wife and daughter,” he said, his voice smooth. “But now that the original is back, the substitute can leave.” I raised an eyebrow and looked at Margot. When Sebastian first disappeared, she had spiraled into a clinical depression that lasted three years. She had tried to end her life seven times. I was curious. I wanted to see how the woman who swore she would never forgive him would choose today. 1 Margot stood there, the stone clutched in her palm, staring at Sebastian with an expression I couldn’t read. But I knew. The moment Sebastian appeared, the grip she had on my hand tightened so hard it bruised my skin. I smiled inwardly, keeping my face a mask of calm, and gently patted her hand. “Sebastian,” I said, my voice cutting through the tension. “You regained your memory right after Maya’s accident and just as Margot’s first company went under? That’s a hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?” I wasn’t just accusing him; I was throwing a lifeline to Margot’s logic. Margot set the stone down on a nearby table. “Sebastian, please leave. You aren’t welcome here.” The rejection hit him like a physical blow. Sebastian’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Margot, how can you do this to me? I had amnesia. I didn’t stop loving you. I didn’t stop loving our daughter.” He turned his gaze toward me, pointing a finger. “How could you betray me while I was lost? You’re only with him because he’s a vulture circling the family assets. Can’t you see that?” Before anyone could blink, the sound of a sharp crack echoed through the hall. Margot hadn’t hesitated. She had slapped him across the face. “George is my husband,” she hissed. “I won’t let anyone slander him.” Sebastian touched his cheek, tears streaming down. “You hit me for him? Fine. If this is how it is, I don’t want to live. I’ll give you what you want.” He turned and bolted toward the roof of the hotel. The guests gasped, some rushing to stop him, but Margot stood like a statue. “Let him go,” she said coldly. “Don’t stop him.” But Maya broke. “Mom! That’s my father! Do you want him to die?” In her rush to follow him, she knocked over the twenty-three-tier custom cake and the champagne tower I’d ordered for her. Glass shattered, and gold-leaf frosting smeared across the floor as she ran for the elevator without a second look at me. The party was a ruin. Margot insisted on seeing me to the car first, but I’ve known her long enough to see the cracks. She was already gone, her soul hovering somewhere on that rooftop. Sure enough, as soon as the valet closed my door, she leaned in. “George, I just remembered something urgent at the office. I need to handle it.” She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and ran back into the building. Ten minutes later, my contact inside the building sent a video to my phone. In a deserted stairwell, Sebastian had Margot pinned against the wall. He was kissing her—hard, desperate. Margot didn’t kiss him back, but she didn’t push him away either. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, her knuckles white. After a long, suffocating silence, Sebastian pulled back. “Admit it, Margot. You still love me. Why are you lying to yourself?” He grabbed her hand and forced it open. “Look at your palms. You’ve dug your nails in so deep you’re bleeding.” “Enough,” Margot whispered, pulling her hand away. “When you left me, you should have known there was no coming back.” Sebastian stared into her eyes. “Fine. Then I’ll go finish what I started on the roof.” As he turned, Margot’s hand shot out and gripped his wrist. “I thought you didn’t care?” he mocked. “Why are you holding me?” She didn’t answer with words. She pulled him in and kissed him back—an aggressive, hungry, devastating kiss. The wet, rhythmic sound of their breathing filled my earbuds. Finally, she pulled away, her hand moving to his throat, gripping it almost like she wanted to choke him. “Sebastian, hate lasts longer than love. I want you to spend the rest of your life drowning in the guilt of what you did to us.” I felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. The string I’d kept pulled taut since Sebastian appeared finally snapped. I turned off the feed. That night, I called my lawyer. I started the inventory of our shared assets and pulled out the divorce papers Margot had signed months ago as a “legal precaution” for the merger. I signed my name next to hers. I had always hoped this was a safety net I’d never need. I didn’t expect to fall into it so soon. 2 Eight years ago, Margot Vance was the undisputed titan of the Chicago tech scene. I was a nobody, a ghost in the back of the room. I remember watching her on a stage at a tech summit; she looked like an untouchable marble statue—cold, elegant, and brilliant. I was in the last row, clutching a brochure, not even brave enough to clap too loudly. Six months later, I found her in a crowded night market. I was running a food truck to scrape together seed money for my startup. Margot was pushing a wheelchair; Maya, with a heavy cast on her leg, sat inside. The glory was gone. She was so broke she had to ask if she could buy half a sandwich. From the whispers on the street, I learned the truth. Margot had been defrauded by a partner she trusted like a brother. Her empire collapsed in a month. Then Maya broke her leg in a freak accident, and Margot’s mother suffered a stroke from the stress. In the three days following the collapse, Sebastian’s family scrubbed any mention of the Vances from their lives. Sebastian himself vanished that same night. Margot broke. The depression hit her like a tidal wave. I couldn’t get the image of them out of my head. Every night, I watched for them. I started giving them “samples”—full meals hidden in small bags. Eventually, we talked. I brought her into my world—AI development. I had the vision; she had the sharp, serrated edge of a veteran CEO. We were a perfect match. Naturally, we fell in love. Or so I thought. While Sebastian was in Europe, reportedly marrying a French heiress and spending his days at spas, I was cleaning Margot’s mother’s bedpans. In the dead of a Chicago winter, my hands were cracked and bleeding from washing their linens in cold water when the heater broke. While Sebastian was learning floral arrangement and sipping Earl Grey, I was studying physical therapy techniques to massage Maya’s atrophied leg muscles. I carried that girl—already five-foot-five back then—up and down the stairs for her rehab sessions. While Sebastian was traveling the world for “inspiration,” I was sleeping two hours a day to keep our new company afloat, terrified to close my eyes because I was afraid Margot might try to hurt herself again in the middle of the night. And now, Sebastian’s heiress had gone bankrupt. After ten years of being a lapdog, he wanted to come back and harvest the fruit I had planted. He wanted me gone. The hell he does. I was pulled from my thoughts by the sound of the front door. Margot walked in, her phone on speaker. Her legal team was asking if she wanted to file a defamation suit against Sebastian for his comments at the party. I looked at her. Her eyes flickered away. She hesitated, then shook her head. “Forget it,” she said. “Let’s just let today go.” She noticed me then and hung up quickly. “George… I just don’t want any more drama with him. It’s cleaner this way.” “What if I say no?” I asked. “What?” She looked startled. I had never used that tone with her—cold, clinical. “What if I told you I don’t agree? What if I want him prosecuted for slander? What will you do?” “Do you have any idea how important today’s IPO was for our stock price?” I continued. “This isn’t just a ‘squabble.’ It was a calculated attack on our brand.” Margot sighed, looking at me with a touch of patronizing exhaustion. “George, it was a minor scene. Don’t blow this out of proportion. I’ve already handled the PR team.” Her voice was soft, but it made my chest tighten. “Come on,” she said, reaching for my hand. “Don’t be like this. I’ll take you to dinner.” She started pulling me toward the door, not waiting for my consent. 3 She took me to a bistro I hated. I had told her a dozen times the salt air there made me nauseous, but she never remembered. We hadn’t even looked at the menus when Maya walked in, leading Sebastian by the hand. “Mom, Dad didn’t have anywhere to eat, so I brought him,” Maya said, her voice defiant. I stood up to leave, but Margot grabbed my arm. “George, it’s just a meal. Don’t be petty.” Sebastian shot me a smirk that was gone in a flash, replaced by a humble, “house-guest” smile. He sat down and started arranging the silverware for Margot and Maya as if he were the master of the house. I sat back down. Fine. I wouldn’t starve myself for his sake. I pulled out my phone to scan the QR code for the menu. As I looked through the options, Margot and Maya began ordering in sync—both picking the heavy, cream-based dishes Sebastian loved. They caught each other’s eyes and shared a small, knowing smile before correcting the duplicates. I ignored them and ordered what I liked. Sebastian suddenly turned “thoughtful.” “This is so much food. The four of us can’t possibly finish all this, can we?” Margot glanced at the digital cart. Without a word to me, she deleted everything I had ordered. I snatched the phone back and added them back in. Margot looked embarrassed for a second, then rubbed her temple and stayed quiet. While we waited for the food, Sebastian leaned toward Maya. “Show me that school form you mentioned. The emergency contact one.” Maya pulled a paper from her bag. In the “Mother” column was Margot’s name. In the “Father” column, she had already written Sebastian’s. I stared at the ink. I remembered when Maya’s leg had finally healed, but she still walked with a limp. The kids at school called her “The Broken Doll.” The local bullies used to corner her after class. She never told Margot; she didn’t want to add to her mother’s stress. I found out when I saw the bruises. That day, I went to the park where those kids hung out. I didn’t even bring a weapon. I just stood there. They hit me with a wooden bat until my legs gave out, but every time I fell, I stood back up. I didn’t stop until they were terrified of me. They never touched her again. After that, I spent every evening helping Maya with her stretches, retasking her brain to walk without the limp. From that year on, her emergency contact had always been me. But Sebastian comes back, does nothing, and the world resets to his orbit. I ate my meal in silence. Sebastian took a bite of a spicy dish, and both Margot and Maya reached out simultaneously to stop him, knowing his stomach was sensitive. He laughed, took the half-chewed bite out of his mouth, and dropped it into Margot’s bowl. “Don’t want to waste it,” he said. Margot didn’t even blink. She just picked it up and ate it. After dinner, Sebastian said he wanted a private word with me. He told Margot and Maya to head to the car. I tried to walk away, but he followed me like a shadow. It turns out, the man was truly unhinged. We reached a Y-junction on the sidewalk, near the parking lot entrance. Suddenly, he shoved me. The two branches of the Y divided us. Margot’s SUV and Maya’s sedan were both pulling out of the lot, accelerating toward the street. When they saw us in the middle of the road, their headlights flared. The screech of brakes filled the night. To the left: me. To the right: Sebastian. In that split second, the laws of physics and the loyalty of hearts collided. Both cars veered. CRASH. It wasn’t a clip. It was a solid, bone-shattering impact. The pain was a physical wall that slammed into my senses. My body felt weightless, then impossibly heavy as I hit the asphalt. I heard the wet sound of my own bones snapping. Blood, warm and metallic, poured from my forehead, filling my mouth. Through a haze of red, I saw Sebastian standing perfectly fine on the other side of the road. He mouthed two words at me: “You lose.” I could hear Margot and Maya’s voices, frantic and high-pitched. They weren’t calling my name. They were screaming for Sebastian. I woke up in the hospital to the sound of an argument. “Sebastian, do you have any idea how dangerous that was? You can’t play games with traffic! I told you, I have a life now. Get out of my house!” “No! If I can’t have you, no one can. I only left because I was sick. It wasn’t my fault! You’re mine, Margot. You’ve always been mine.” “Admit it, Margot. You and Maya still love me.” The shouting went on for half an hour. Neither of them would back down. Maya was in the middle, playing peacemaker, trying to soothe them both. They looked like a family. A messy, dysfunctional, perfectly matched family. I tried to reach for the water glass on my bedside table. My hand shook, and the glass shattered on the floor. The room went silent. Margot finally walked over, taking my hand with a look of practiced concern. “George, you’re awake. Thank God. I was so worried.” “Get out,” I croaked. “All of you. Get the hell out.” My roar was enough to finally clear the room. For the next few days, Margot tried to “prove” her loyalty by making Sebastian act as my nurse to “atone” for the accident. He used the time to torture me. He put insects in my food. He “accidentally” tripped over my oxygen line while I was sleeping. He switched my meds. I ended up back in the ICU twice. Margot yelled at him, but she never kicked him out. I saw her then for exactly what she was. I banned all visitors, hired my own private security, and finally discharged myself. 4 The first thing I did was head to the office for the final asset split. But when I walked through the doors, the world had changed again. The minimalist, professional grey-and-glass interior I had designed was gone. It had been replaced by gaudy gold accents and velvet furniture. I walked toward the boardroom. Usually, I led these meetings. Today, Sebastian was at the head of the table. “I don’t care who you thought was the man of the house before,” Sebastian was saying to our senior leads. “From now on, I’m the one in charge. I’m the legal husband here. Certain people who stole what wasn’t theirs will be escorted out soon. I suggest you choose your side wisely.” When he finished, several industry titans—men who wouldn’t have looked at Margot if I hadn’t brokered the deals—started clapping. Margot had used her remaining social capital to buy him a seat at the table. I remembered when I was sick during our first year. I had a rare, agonizing nerve condition. I asked Margot to use her contacts to find a specialist. She told me she “didn’t want to call in favors” for something personal. I spent two months in agony, just white-knuckling through the pain. Love and indifference are two different universes. I reached for the door handle, but someone grabbed my arm. It was Maya. She handed me a legal notice. “This is from Mom. It’s a formal transfer of shares. My dad is going to be a founding partner, just like you.” She looked at me with a cold, detached pity. “Look, you don’t have kids. This company was always going to come to me anyway. My dad joining now is just moving up the timeline. There’s no point in fighting it.” “You don’t have kids.” I laughed. When we first married, Maya was so fragile I agreed not to have more children so she wouldn’t feel replaced. Later, as the company grew, the stress of the Vance family’s internal board-room wars took such a toll on my health that I missed two windows for IVF. By the time the dust settled, my body was too broken to try again. Margot had held me while I cried from the physical pain of my surgeries, swearing she would never let me suffer again. And all that sacrifice earned me was: “You don’t have kids anyway.” I shoved past her, went to my office, and started packing. Margot walked in as I was clearing my desk. “George, what are you doing?” “Taking out the trash,” I said. She winced at my tone. “Are you mad about Sebastian? Look, don’t misunderstand. Maya said his presence is good luck for the brand this year. It’s just branding. Think of him as a mascot. After the fiscal year ends, I’ll phase him out. Don’t overthink it.” “And the shares? Does a ‘mascot’ need voting stock?” Margot stammered. “He… he has no degree, George. He has no job. How is he supposed to survive in this city without an equity stake? It’s just…” “Stop.” I opened the door to escort her out. Suddenly, Sebastian came stumbling down the hallway. His clothes were torn, and there was blood on his face. “Margot! Save me!” he gasped, clutching her sleeve. When he saw me, he flinched, shrinking back. “George… I’m sorry. I’ll leave. I’ll leave Chicago. I’ll never see her again, I promise…” He let out a single, perfect tear. Then he turned and limped toward the exit, looking like the loneliest man on earth. I was stunned. His acting was so good I almost believed I’d hired a hitman to beat him. I looked at Margot. She was expressionless. “Do you really think I did that?” I asked. She stepped forward and hugged me. “I know you, George. You wouldn’t do that.” I felt a tiny spark of relief. At least she wasn’t completely gone. But the next morning, my lawyer called. “George, Margot just used her tie-breaking vote to remove you from the board. Your entire stake has been ‘temporarily’ reassigned to Sebastian under a loyalty clause. And… she’s issued a gag order. No one is allowed to tell you the time or location of the IPO bell-ringing. She’s taking Sebastian instead.” I sat in the silence of my empty apartment. The IPO was the culmination of a decade of my life. And she was giving my moment to a ghost. My heart didn’t break. It just went cold. The day of the IPO, Sebastian was dressed in a custom-made tuxedo that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. He looked every bit the victor as he led Margot onto the podium at the exchange. The host invited Sebastian to the center of the stage. Margot took his hand, lifting it toward the bell. Just as they were about to strike…

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The screech of twisting metal was still echoing in my skull when I opened my eyes to find a man kneeling by my hospital bed, his face a mask of practiced devotion. He was holding a ring—a cheap, thin band that looked like it had been salvaged from a discount bin—and asking me to spend the rest of my life with him. “Say yes, Mara!” a voice chirped from the bedside. “You’ve been waiting seven years for this. Don’t keep him hanging!” My head throbbed, a dull, rhythmic ache behind my eyes. For a moment, the world blurred, and then the memories hit me—not just the crash, but the suffocating weight of a life already lived. In my first life, I had nodded. I had been dazed, my memory a fractured mirror, and I had reached for his hand like it was a life raft. Because of that one choice, my best friend, Jade, had stepped into my shoes. She became the long-lost heiress, the miracle daughter of a billionaire couple from Chicago, while I was whisked away to a dead-end town in rural Ohio to become Grant’s dutiful wife. I spent thirty years in that town. I spent thirty years bleaching the stains of his indifference out of his shirts and nursing his paralyzed mother while she cursed my name. Grant would leave for “work” months at a time, sending back barely enough money to keep the lights on. I remembered the end. I remembered lying in a bed that smelled of damp and old age, my lungs failing. Grant had looked at me then, his eyes sharp with a terrifying kind of relief. “You know,” he’d whispered, leaning close enough for me to smell the expensive bourbon on his breath—the bourbon my ‘parents’ had likely paid for. “The couple who came looking for their daughter back then? They were yours. They’re worth hundreds of millions. But look at you, Mara. You were always so plain, so ordinary. You would have been miserable in that world. So I gave the DNA results to Jade. She was born for that life. She’s beautiful, she’s smart. She deserved it more.” As the monitors flatlined, he’d actually smiled. “I felt guilty sometimes, watching you rot here. But now that you’re finally dying, I can let it go. My conscience is clear.” The rage had been the last thing I felt before the darkness claimed me. And now, I was back. The antiseptic smell of the hospital was the same. The cheap ring was the same. And Grant was right there, waiting for me to forfeit my life again. 1 “Mara! Mara! Come on, don’t just stand there—say yes!” My friends’ voices were a blurred cacophony of excitement, pressing in on me from all sides. They kept reminding me that I’d been waiting seven years for this moment, that I should just grab my happily-ever-after while it was being handed to me. Looking at the scene before me, a violent shudder ripped through my body. The sterile smell of the hospital, the cheap bouquet of carnations, the expectant faces—it was all too familiar. The realization hit me like a physical blow: I was back. I had actually come back. In my previous life, my parents had tracked me down at the orphanage. They had run DNA tests on several girls, myself included. But before the results came back, the accident happened. I woke up with my memories shattered, a blank slate for Grant to write his lies upon. I’d spent thirty years as a ghost, a shell of a woman in a dead-end town, scrubbing floors and caring for his paralyzed mother while he spent “working” months in the city, barely sending back enough for bread. I had died in a cold bed, gasping for air, while Grant leaned over me and whispered the truth: that my parents were billionaires, that he’d swapped my DNA results with Tessa’s because “a girl like me” didn’t deserve that life. He said Tessa was the one who belonged in high society. He said he felt “guilty” watching me suffer, and he was glad I was finally dying so he could have a clean conscience. I felt a surge of bile rise in my throat. I looked down at Grant, who was still hovering on one knee, his face a mask of practiced devotion. “Mara, honey, you must be in shock,” Grant said, his voice smooth as oil. “I get it. You don’t even have to say it. I know what’s in your heart.” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed my hand, eager to slide the ring onto my finger. It was a pathetic thing—a thin, silver-plated band with a cloudy stone, likely picked up from a pawn shop on his way here. It was two sizes too small. He didn’t care. He just gripped my knuckles, forcing the metal over my skin with brutal, clumsy strength. “Enough!” I wrenched my hand back, the movement so sudden that the ring went flying. It hit the linoleum floor with a sharp, hollow ting and rolled under a cabinet. The room went silent. Grant’s face froze, his expression caught between a fake smile and genuine irritation. I looked him dead in the eye, my voice cold and steady. “I don’t know who you are. Get out.” Grant’s jaw tightened, but he quickly pivoted to his “doting boyfriend” persona. His eyes turned glassy with forced tears as he reached for me again. “Mara, I know the accident scrambled things, but we’ve been together for seven years. I’m your only family. I’m the man you love. You have to trust me.” He looked so sincere that the people in the room started whispering, casting judgmental looks my way. In their eyes, I was a girl from nowhere—an orphan with no degree and no future. Grant, though not rich, was “handsome” and “loyal.” They thought I was the one winning the lottery by having him. But I remembered. I remembered the seven years of “devotion” that had preceded the accident. I remembered washing his grease-stained clothes by hand, even his socks and underwear. I remembered him forbidding me from eating out, bringing home half-eaten leftovers from dinners with his friends as if they were a prize. I remembered the cramped, moldy apartment where I used his lukewarm bathwater to save on the utility bill. He didn’t do it because we were poor. He did it because he despised me. He wanted to strip away every ounce of my dignity until I believed I was worth nothing. He told me I was plain, that I was lucky a man like him would even look at a girl with no parents. And then, when the chance came for me to be found, he stole my life and handed it to Tessa on a silver platter. 2 “Even if you had gone back to the city, a girl as mediocre as you would have been a laughingstock. I was doing you a favor.” Grant’s parting words from my deathbed echoed in my mind. He’d spent decades gaslighting me, and even as I was dying, he was still framing his treachery as an act of mercy. He was a parasite who had convinced himself he was a savior. “If you actually cared about me,” I said, my voice cutting through his performance, “why would you pressure me the second I wake up? If you were truly looking out for me, you’d wait until I had my bearings. You’d wait for me to remember.” Grant flinched, his brow furrowing. He looked at me the way a master looks at a dog that has suddenly stopped obeying commands. Suddenly, Tessa stepped forward. She took my hand in hers, her touch light and feminine, her face a picture of concerned friendship. “Mara, sweetie, Grant is just so happy you’re okay,” she cooed. “He knows how much you’ve always wanted a real home, a family. That’s why he wanted to make it official right away. You two are perfect together. If you don’t believe us, just look at the photos on your phone.” I almost laughed. I knew why Tessa was so desperate. We had grown up in the same foster system, but she had always looked down on me. Anything I had, she wanted. If a teacher gave me a sticker, it would be on her notebook the next day. In my last life, after she stole my identity, she came to visit me once. She was draped in designer silk, her skin glowing from expensive treatments. I had greeted her with cracked lips and hands calloused from labor. She had recoiled as if I carried the plague. “God, Mara, you look so old,” she had sneered. “Poor Grant. He really got the short end of the stick marrying a townie like you.” That was the day after I had miscarried. I was alone, bleeding, and forced to cook dinner because Grant “needed to eat.” I had looked at him, hoping for a shred of defense, but he had just smiled at Tessa. “She can’t help it,” he’d said. “You’re a princess, Tessa. She’s just a farm girl. It’s just her nature.” But I knew better now. It wasn’t nature. It was theft. I pulled my hand out of Tessa’s grip. “I don’t know you either. Please leave. I need to rest.” Tessa’s hand hung in mid-air, a flash of pure venom flickering in her eyes before she masked it with a tight smile. “Fine. If that’s how you feel… rest up.” Grant tried to argue, but Tessa grabbed his arm and hauled him toward the door. The rest of the “friends” followed, sensing the shift in the air. Finally, I was alone. My head throbbed, but I couldn’t sleep yet. I needed the DNA results. I managed to limp down to the records office, but the nurse behind the counter looked confused. “The results for Mara Vance? A young man picked those up an hour ago.” The floor felt like it was tilting. Grant. He was moving even faster this time. My parents were supposed to arrive tomorrow, and he couldn’t even wait twenty-four hours to secure his lie. 3 I made it back to my room just as Grant was waiting by the door. “Where were you?” he demanded. I dodged his hand as he tried to steady me. “You took my DNA results, didn’t you?” The hallway went dead silent. Grant’s eyes darkened, his lips thinning into a hard line. For a second, he looked like he might actually strike me. “Who told you about the DNA tests?” he hissed. I stayed calm, feigning indifference. “I overheard some nurses talking. They mentioned I was part of a screening. So, what did it say?” Grant visibly relaxed, the tension leaving his shoulders. “I checked for you. It was a bust. You weren’t a match.” He adopted that condescending, “teaching” tone he loved so much. “Don’t get your hopes up, Mara. Life isn’t a fairy tale. You need to keep your feet on the ground.” He stepped closer, gripping my shoulders. “What I love about you is that you aren’t vain. You aren’t like those other girls. Let’s just focus on our life together and stop chasing things that don’t belong to us.” I looked at him, feeling a deep, visceral disgust. He had stolen my birthright and then had the audacity to call me “unambitious” for not having it. In my previous life, he’d tricked me into a quick courthouse wedding and then disappeared to the city for “work.” Years later, I’d saved every penny to take a bus to see him, only to find him at a lavish wedding—marrying Tessa. When I tried to confront him, his security guards threw me into a literal dog kennel. Afterward, he didn’t apologize. He screamed at me. “Why do you have to be so difficult? I keep you fed in that house, isn’t that enough? I’m trying to climb the ladder for us, and you’re just dead weight!” He’d given me a few hundred dollars to shut me up and sent me back to the middle of nowhere. Now, Grant started packing my hospital bag as if the matter was settled. “The room is too expensive anyway. You don’t have much in savings, and we need to save for a down payment. Let’s go home and—” “I’m staying,” I interrupted. “And don’t come back.” I grabbed the suitcase from him. Grant’s face turned a bruised purple. “What is wrong with you? I’m doing this for your own good! Once your memory comes back, you’ll see how much you need me. You’re penniless and alone, Mara. Don’t be stupid.” “I don’t know you,” I repeated, my voice like ice. “Get out before I call security.” Grant looked like he’d been slapped. “Are you breaking up with me?” I shrugged. “If that’s what helps you understand. Goodbye, Grant.” Before he could respond, the door swung open and Tessa rushed in, looking frantic. “Mara! What are you doing? You can’t break up with him, you’re practically married!” I ignored her. I pulled up my phone and showed her a notification. “Did you use my card for a two-hundred-dollar salon appointment this morning?” Tessa froze, her hand instinctively going to her fresh, honey-blonde highlights. She forced a laugh. “Oh, that? We’re best friends, remember? You gave me your backup card ages ago. You’re always so generous, Mara. Don’t be petty.” I opened my Venmo app and held up the QR code. “Cash or transfer?” They both stared at me. “What?” “The two hundred dollars. Pay me back. Now.” 4 Tessa’s eyes welled up with tears, her “victim” act kicking into high gear. Grant exploded. He lunged for my phone. “You’ve gone insane! You’re really going to shake her down for a couple hundred bucks? Have you no shame?” I stepped back, dodging him. “Is she a beggar? If she can’t afford it, she shouldn’t spend it. If you’re so generous, Grant, you pay it.” “Enough!” Tessa shrieked. She dropped the sweet act, her face contorting with elitist disdain. “Fine! I’ll tell you the truth. I’m the heiress to the Whitaker estate. My parents are coming for me tomorrow. Once I’m in New York, I won’t just have hundreds, I’ll have millions. You’re just a pathetic loser, Mara. You have no right to talk to me like this!” She turned and ran out of the room. Grant turned back to me, his expression grim. “Happy now? You’ve chased off your only friend. You really did hit your head too hard. Pack your things. We’re leaving.” “I’m stayng.” “What are you trying to do?” Grant roared, losing his composure. “Are you trying to ruin everything for everyone?” He stopped abruptly, realizing he’d said too much. I tilted my head. “Ruin what, Grant?” “Nothing! Just… just come with me!” “No. If you touch me again, I’m calling the police.” The room went deathly still. Grant’s teeth were gritted so hard I could hear them grinding. He turned on his heel and slammed the door so hard the framed hospital charter rattled on the wall. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Tomorrow, when the Whitakers arrived, I would dismantle Tessa’s lie. Nobody was stealing my life again. But the next morning, my door didn’t open for my parents. It was kicked open by Grant’s mother. She charged at me like a bull, grabbing my wrist with nicotine-stained fingers. Her sharp nails dug into my skin, drawing blood. “Get up! You’re coming home!” “Let go of me! Help! Somebody help!” I screamed. A crowd began to gather in the hallway. Grant’s mother immediately pivoted, her eyes overflowing with crocodile tears. “Please, she’s my daughter-in-law! She lost her memory and doesn’t recognize her own family! We raised her since she was a girl—we gave her every scrap of food we had!” The onlookers softened. One man even stepped forward to lecture me. “Young lady, they’ve done so much for you. Don’t be ungrateful.” I was panicking. “She’s lying! I’ve never taken a cent from her!” In reality, I had spent thirty years being her servant while she screamed at me and cursed my name every time I didn’t fluff her pillow correctly. Grant appeared then, pulling a beat-up van around to the hospital entrance. He hopped out, his face dark, and helped his mother shove me toward the vehicle. He clamped a hand over my mouth, stifling my screams, while his mother produced a length of rope to tie my hands. Then, I saw it. A sleek, black sedan pulled into the lot. Two people stepped out—the Whitakers. My parents. They looked exactly as they did in my memories, rushing toward the hospital entrance with frantic hope in their eyes. They were getting further away. My heart hammered against my ribs. I did the only thing I could—I clamped my teeth down on Grant’s hand as hard as I could. “Argh!” He screamed, his grip loosening. I kicked his mother in the shins and threw myself out of the van, stumbling onto the pavement. “Mara! Get back here!” Grant was on my heels like a demon. I didn’t stop. I sprinted through the crowd, my lungs burning. Up ahead, I saw Tessa. She was already throwing herself into my mother’s arms, sobbing hysterically. Grant caught up to me, grabbing me by the throat from behind, trying to drag me back into the shadows. The rage finally boiled over. I dug my nails into the open wound on his hand, and the moment he flinched, I screamed with every bit of air I had left. “Mom! Dad! I’m your daughter!”

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I went to the hospital to visit my boyfriend, Nate. Instead, I became the silent audience to another woman’s confession of love. It was one of those raw, cinematic moments. She was falling apart, trembling as she threw herself into his arms, sobbing out her heart. I watched Nate’s eyes go red with a complicated mix of emotions. His hand hovered in the air, trembling, before he finally let it drop. When he finally pushed her away, his face was a mask of agonizing guilt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I have a girlfriend.” The woman looked up, her eyes swimming in tears. “If it weren’t for her… would you have loved me?” He went silent. 1. A long beat passed before Nate took a step back. He shook his head slowly. “There is no ‘if.’ I’m with someone. Even imagining that feels like a betrayal to her.” I stood in the doorway, clutching a thermal container of homemade soup. I couldn’t quite name the sensation in my chest. My heart had settled, yet a bitter, suffocating knot remained lodged in my throat. Today wasn’t the day for a reunion. I turned to leave, but as I pivoted, my shoulder bag clipped the doorframe with a sharp thwack. The door hadn’t been fully latched. It swung open with a slow, agonizing creak. Two pairs of eyes snapped toward me. Nate’s expression shifted instantly to shock. “Jordan?” He was at my side in three strides, his eyes shining with a relief he couldn’t hide. “When did you get back?” “The red-eye this morning.” I glanced at the heavy cast on his arm. “I couldn’t stay away knowing you were hurt.” Nate offered a small, tentative smile. But his gaze flickered, just for a fraction of a second, to the woman behind him. Then, with a sudden, almost performative stiffness, he led me toward her. “Jordan, this is Mia. Dr. Mia Rossi, my attending physician.” He turned to her, his voice turning cold, as if trying to overcompensate. “Mia, this is Jordan Cole. My girlfriend.” I reached out to shake her hand, offering a polite nod. The woman just stood there, looking hollowed out. Her gaze was fixed on our joined hands—Nate’s fingers gripped mine with an intensity that felt like a plea. She looked lost, a ghost haunting her own life. By the time she looked up, tears were streaming down her face again. Before I could even process the shock of it, Nate’s grip on my hand tightened so sharply it bruised. I winced, a small sound of pain escaping me, but he didn’t even notice. Mia stared at Nate with a look of pure, unadulterated longing. The two of them stood there, locked in a silent, heavy dialogue that I wasn’t a part of. Suddenly, I felt like a trespasser in my own relationship. Mia turned her gaze to me. “Ms. Cole, I assume you heard everything.” I opened my mouth to respond, but she cut me off. “Don’t bother pretending you didn’t. I don’t hide who I am. I’m not ashamed of my feelings.” I felt my brows knit together. The audacity was almost impressive. “I’m not trying to ruin what you have,” she continued, her voice trembling with a desperate kind of honesty. “It’s just… sometimes I’m human. Sometimes I get jealous.” She looked back at Nate, her eyes wide and hopeless. For a moment, Nate’s gaze wavered before he forced himself to look away. “I’m jealous that I didn’t find someone as good as him first,” she whispered. Then, she looked back at me, her tone shifting to something that sounded like praise but felt like an insult. “Nate told me about you. Ivy League grad, youngest Senior Editor at the Chronicle… you’re so accomplished. So perfect.” She wiped a tear away with a bitter laugh. “Knowing he’s with someone like you… I guess I know when I’ve lost.” Suddenly, a voice boomed from the hallway. “Dr. Rossi, don’t say that! You’re the best!” “Yeah, Doc! Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a literal angel in a white coat!” I turned to see a group of Nate’s fellow firefighters crowded in the doorway. They must have been hovering there for a while. They were glaring at me, their faces full of righteous indignation on Mia’s behalf. Mia straightened her spine, playing the part of the tragic martyr perfectly as she was escorted out by her cheering section. “Where was the ‘perfect girlfriend’ when Captain Miller was bleeding out?” one of them muttered loud enough for me to hear. “Dr. Rossi was the one who stayed by his side while she was off chasing stories.” They blamed me for my timing. They blamed me for her tears. I looked back at Nate. His hand, hanging at his side, was clenched into a white-knuckled fist. He was vibrating with a tension he couldn’t name. It took a long time for him to actually look at me, and when he did, I saw it. Guilt. Not for what she said, but for the fact that he agreed with a part of it. In the heavy silence, I finally spoke. “And you? Do you think I shouldn’t have come, either?” 2. I didn’t go back to the hospital after that. Part of it was work. When the news of the warehouse fire broke and I saw Nate’s name on the casualty list, I was on an assignment in the middle of a rural dead zone. By the time I got the messages, a week had passed. Seeing the footage of him—covered in soot and blood, being loaded into an ambulance—had shattered my professional composure. For the first time in my career, I’d handed off a closing story to my subordinates and caught the first flight home. It wasn’t until I landed and saw the flurry of “I’m okay” texts that the stone in my chest finally dropped. But the other reason I stayed away was Nate himself. In this relationship, we were both hyper-sensitive. We had built our life on the idea that without total trust and transparency, we wouldn’t survive the pressure of our careers. That flicker of guilt in his eyes… I didn’t want to dissect it yet. Nate was a good man. A good partner. I chose to believe he could handle this. On the day he was discharged, I waited in the car. I saw him standing at the hospital entrance, his hair freshly buzzed, looking sharp and lean. Then I saw Mia. She came running out, breathless, reaching for his arm. Nate pulled away, sharp and decisive. Even from a distance, I could tell the conversation was jagged. I sat there, the engine idling, watching them through the windshield. I lit a cigarette, let it burn down to the filter, then finally stepped out. They were so absorbed in each other that they didn’t notice me until I was standing right there. “Jordan.” Nate looked startled, a flash of panic crossing his face. Before he could explain, Mia spoke up. “Ms. Cole, please don’t misunderstand.” “I’m just here to give him his medication,” she said, pulling a few boxes from her pocket. Her head was bowed, her fingers twitching nervously. “Nate is always in such a rush. He forgets to take care of himself.” Her voice cracked on the last word. She sounded like a worried wife, not a doctor. The air between Nate and me grew thick. I felt a surge of cold, sharp irritation. “Ms. Cole, please… take care of him? Don’t let him get hurt again.” She looked at me, her eyes shimmering with that same “poor me” moisture. It was a beautiful, heartbreaking image. I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Nate is a firefighter. Getting hurt is the job description. For her to ask me to “ensure he doesn’t get hurt” was either delusional or a direct provocation. “Is Dr. Rossi this devoted to all her patients?” I asked, my voice smooth as glass. She blinked, confused. My smile vanished. “He’s my boyfriend. I don’t need a tutorial from you on how to look after him.” “Tell me, Mia—was your degree in medicine, or relationship counseling?” 3. The drive home was suffocating. Nate sat in the passenger seat, radiating a restless energy. Every time he opened his mouth to speak and then closed it, my patience thinned. “Nate,” I said, my voice flat. “My fuse is very short today. Just say it.” He winced and looked down at his lap. “You shouldn’t have talked to Mia like that.” I didn’t answer. I just kept my eyes on the road. “I know you’re upset about the confession,” he continued. “But you have to trust me. I love you. I’m completely devoted to you. You know that.” I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. I could see the sincerity in his eyes. He meant it. My anger began to ebb, replaced by a weary sort of calm. He sighed, sensing the shift. “She’s had a hard life, Jordan. Her parents were a disaster—she never knew what it felt like to be safe. She thought she found a way out with her ex-husband, but the guy was a monster.” Nate’s voice grew heated, his jaw tightening. “One month after the wedding, he started hitting her. She was in her own ER every other week. He cheated constantly, then he’d get on his knees and beg for forgiveness…” I noticed Nate’s hands were shaking. Nate loves to tell stories. He’s a rescuer by nature. He once told me about a boy he pulled from a house fire—the sole survivor of a family of eight. The boy had third-degree burns over eighty percent of his body. Nate had been devastated for him, yes, but he had maintained a professional distance. But this? His reaction to Mia’s “tragic backstory” was different. It was visceral. It was personal. In my line of work, we call this “emotional over-identification.” Whether it was pity or a misplaced sense of heroism, it was dangerous. The warmth I’d felt a moment ago vanished. I felt the old journalistic instinct kick in—the need to strip away the fluff and look at the ugly truth. “That’s enough, Nate. Stop.” I pulled over to the curb and looked at him. “Is this pity, or is it sympathy?” There’s a world of difference between the two. In the dim light of the car, Nate’s expression was unreadable. I leaned back, a cynical smile touching my lips. “She’s still married, isn’t she? You might want to keep your ‘devotion’ in check. If you keep playing the white knight, her divorce is going to get a lot more complicated.” 4. Nate’s face went cold. “Jordan, that’s out of line.” “As a journalist, I thought you valued the truth,” he said, his voice low and hard. “Not everyone is a target for your next exposé.” I didn’t argue. The atmosphere in the car hit absolute zero. Halfway home, Nate couldn’t take it anymore. “Pull over. Let me out.” He grabbed his bag with his good hand. Before he closed the door, he looked at me with a profound sense of disappointment. “We both need to cool off. Clearly.” After he left, I sat in the car for a long time. I’ve never been someone who does intimacy well. My meeting with Nate had been born of conflict—I’d been assigned to do a deep-dive profile on his station, and he’d hated the idea. He thought it was a PR stunt. We clashed for weeks, nearly shouting each other down in the bay. Then, one day, he stopped fighting. He asked me to a movie. Then a hike. He started doing all the small, seemingly meaningless things that build a life. I got used to him. I liked the way he listened. I liked that he didn’t mind being “trained”—that he accepted my boundaries and my sharp edges. I loved him. But my mother always said: A man is only as good as his loyalty. And loyalty is like a well-trained dog. It’s blind. It’s unconditional. A good dog sees anyone outside the pack as a threat. It doesn’t wag its tail for every stranger with a sad story. 5. We spent a few days in silence. Eventually, Nate shifted back into his routine. He started texting me his schedule, sharing little bits of his day, acting as if nothing had happened. He didn’t mention Mia. Neither did I. But I was watching. I was measuring how much the air between us had changed. That weekend, his station was holding an Open House for families. He’d been asking me to go for months. Even though things felt fractured, I went. Nate was waiting at the gate, his eyes lighting up when he saw me. My heart softened. I had invested so much time in “domesticating” this man. I had spent years building this foundation. Nate had always been a “good boy.” I parked the car, but as I went to open the door, I saw a familiar figure. It was October in Chicago, and the lake breeze was biting. Mia was there, wearing a delicate, sleeveless silk dress that looked ridiculous in the wind. Nate didn’t even hesitate. He stripped off his heavy uniform jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The size difference was comical. She looked swallowed by his coat, her hands disappearing into the sleeves. She laughed, a playful, flirtatious sound, and gave him a light shove on the chest. “It’s too big! I look like a child in this!” I stepped out of the car, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Here. Take mine.” They both jumped. Nate’s smile froze. “Jordan… you’re here.” There was a note in his voice—a tiny, flickering spark of resentment. He hadn’t expected me. He hadn’t wanted me to see this. I smiled, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “You spent a month begging me to come. You forgot?” I handed my windbreaker to Mia. Throughout the tour, I was the picture of grace. I was kind to Mia. I didn’t flinch when she leaned into Nate or touched his arm. Nate was a nervous wreck. He pulled me aside toward the end, his voice a frantic whisper. “I thought you were too busy with the deadline. I only called Mia because I didn’t want to be alone today.” He saw that I wasn’t exploding, so he kept going. “Her ex has been stalking her again. She’s terrified, Jordan. She needed to feel safe. You understand, right?” I looked into his hopeful, pleading eyes. I nodded and smiled. My mother’s voice echoed in my head from our phone call the night before. “If you want to know if the dog is truly yours, you have to let go of the leash.”

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I had the distinct misfortune of transmigrating into a trashy CEO romance novel. And because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, I woke up in the middle of labor, pushing out baby number two. That alone was absurd. But what truly sent me over the edge was that the moment the second infant slid into the world, it looked me in the eye and called me “Mommy.” My eyes rolled back in my head. I passed out cold. When I came to, the newborns were already crawling. 01 I sat there, paralyzed, watching two cherubic little monsters scurrying across the hardwood floor like they were possessed. It dawned on me then: I hadn’t even given birth in a hospital. This was a home birth. “Mommy… uppie!” The voices were synchronized, sugary sweet, and absolutely terrifying. My mental dam broke. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed. “I am not your mother! I’m single! I have a cat!” “Waaah! Mommy doesn’t like me!” The girl’s face crumbled. She let out a wail that could shatter glass. Naturally, panic is contagious. The boy, apparently possessing the lungs of an opera singer, joined in. It was a symphony of chaos. I was numb. Accepting my fate, I grabbed a child in each arm, stiffened my expression, and barked, “Stop crying.” Silence. Instantaneous silence. They looked up at me with wide, tear-filled doe eyes. The girl blinked, her lashes wet and heavy, then lunged forward and planted a wet, slobbery kiss on my cheek. “Mommy… don’t be mad.” God help me. They were disgustingly cute. Who could resist that? My icy demeanor cracked. I sighed, defeated, and pressed a finger to my lips. “Shh. Just… give me a minute. Let me breathe.” To their credit, the little terrors went quiet as mice. I ran a hand through my sweaty, matted hair, trying to process the impossible reality before me. I had read a few of those trending “genius baby” romance novels as research—ironic research, mind you—and now here I was. Waking up in the delivery room. Birthing twins was wild enough. But twins who could talk and crawl minutes after birth? I couldn’t decide if I was in a CEO romance or a Marvel origin story. I set the kids down and dragged my exhausted body around the room. I found an ID card on the dresser. Margot Lane. Mystery solved. I had become the protagonist of The Tycoon’s Secret Heirs: The Runaway Bride. The plot was standard garbage: The heroine has a one-night stand with a mysterious man, flees the country, gives birth to genius twins, and returns five years later to shock the corporate world. There’s revenge, a love-hate relationship with the CEO, a “groveling arc” where he begs for forgiveness, and eventually, a happy ending with a second pregnancy. While I was still reeling from this revelation, the demonic duo started chanting again. “Mommy hungry. Mommy hungry… Milk!” I froze. Breastfeeding? Absolutely not. Not in this life, not in the next. I was a twenty-four-year-old virgin in my real life. That level of intimacy was way above my pay grade. Ignoring their pleading gazes with a heart of stone, I bolted for the kitchen to find formula. I was fumbling with the instructions on the tin, hands shaking, when a piercing scream cut through the house. “Help! Mommy, help! Bad man!” 02 I dropped the bottle and sprinted to the living room. My heart hammered against my ribs. A wall of men in black suits blocked the doorway. Home invasion? Kidnapping? My brain stalled. “Mommy, save us!” The cry snapped me back to reality. I turned stiffly to see a tall, broad-shouldered man holding the twins by the backs of their onesies, lifting them into the air like they were stray cats. The kids were flailing their chubby limbs helplessly. I didn’t like these kids, strictly speaking, but child abuse was where I drew the line. “Put them down!” I shouted, adrenaline spiking as I lunged forward. The man froze. He lowered the children to the floor, his back still to me. His posture was rigid, and when he spoke, his deep, cold voice carried a strange tremor. “You… you already gave birth?” “What is it to you if I gave birth or not? Who the hell are you?” I checked the kids for injuries, firing back without thinking. “Margot… now that the children are here… what do you plan to do?” The man turned around slowly. I gasped. The air left my lungs. His face was a masterpiece of genetic engineering. Chiseled jawline, piercing eyes—he looked like a composite sketch of every “Sexiest Man Alive” cover from the last decade. I narrowed my eyes. “You are?” “I’m Harrison Sterling. One year ago, at the Empire Hotel, Penthouse Suite 901…” “So you’re the scumbag!” For a second, the original host’s tragic memories flooded my brain. Rage, hot and irrational, surged through me. I launched myself at him, ready to scratch that perfect face, but two bodyguards intercepted me with practiced ease. The twins, bless them, waddled toward me on their short legs, screaming, “Bad man! Let Mommy go!” A weird warmth bloomed in my chest. At least they were loyal. Harrison looked at me with a bizarre expression—half confusion, half scrutiny. He waved a dismissive hand at his guards. “Let her go.” I stumbled back, shielding the twins behind me. My mind raced through the plot. In the book, the reunion wasn’t supposed to happen for five years. Why was Harrison here now? Had my arrival butterflied the timeline? This guy was supposed to be the most powerful man in the city, wealthier than God. I couldn’t fight him. Not with two toddlers hanging off my legs. I was playing on Hard Mode. I decided to bluff. “What… what do you want?” “Margot, what do you want?” We spoke at the exact same time. Wait. Why did he sound so unsure? He sounded less like a titan of industry and more like a guy who forgot his wallet on a first date. If he had no confidence, then I had all of it. I shoved the two bewildered toddlers toward him. “They’re your kids. You raise them.” 03 Harrison frowned, looking at the two small humans as if they were alien artifacts. Then he looked at me, a complicated expression on his face. “They aren’t just mine. Why should I raise them?” I blinked. This… wasn’t following the script. In these novels, doesn’t the possessive CEO usually try to steal the heirs immediately? Why was he going off-book? “Excuse me?” I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “They are literally your flesh and blood. You’re a billionaire. Are you seriously suggesting a struggling single mother should raise two kids while you sit on your pile of gold? Do you have a conscience?” I was a twenty-something single woman trying to survive a transmigration event. I couldn’t raise two kids. The thought of these clingy “velcro babies” sticking to me for eighteen years made my brain short-circuit. I had to offload them. Now. Harrison pondered this for a few seconds. “That’s… actually a fair point. Looking at your current living situation, you probably don’t have the capacity to care for them properly.” I glared at him. Rich people and their casual insults. But I swallowed my pride. “Exactly. Yes. You are absolutely right. You are the perfect candidate.” Harrison seemed to accept this logic. He glanced at his bodyguards. “Take the children.” The guards nodded and stepped forward. But before their hands could graze the fabric of the onesies, a sound like a banshee’s wail ripped through the room. “WAAAAH! Mommy, save me!” The girl, Luna, bolted back to me and latched onto my thigh like a limpet. Before I could peel her off, the boy, Atlas, clamped onto my other leg. The stereo crying was deafening. “Mommy doesn’t want us anymore! Boo hoo hoo! We’re just trash babies now!” “Mommy doesn’t love us! She’s giving us to the villain! We’re like weeds in the wind, so pitiful…” I listened to their melodramatic wailing, feeling a migraine coming on. “Like weeds in the wind”? What kind of newborn talks like this? This was impossible. Harrison looked equally pained, rubbing his temples. “It seems they’re attached to you. Look, just… come back with me. I have a villa. We have nannies. You won’t have to do anything.” I paused. Wait. A villa? Nannies? No responsibilities? Maybe this Harrison guy wasn’t the tyrannical monster from the book. He was actually being quite reasonable. “Deal,” I said. And just like that, I moved into the Sterling estate. I have to admit, the man had taste. The villa was obscene—in a good way. Marble everything, art that cost more than my student loans, and a staff of twelve. Best of all, I didn’t have to lift a finger. I ate Michelin-star meals and lounged by the pool. This was the life. This was the dream. But, of course, paradise never lasts. 04 “Margot!” Harrison’s voice was frantic. “Get in here! Atlas and Luna are refusing the nannies. They won’t stop crying!” I groaned. I had named them Atlas and Luna because I wanted them to carry the weight of the world and live on the moon—far away from me. Or maybe it was just poetic. “Waaaah…” “Margot, seriously! Hurry up!” The fantasy of a peaceful life shattered. I dragged myself upstairs to the nursery. The scene was chaos. The twins were swatting away the terrified nannies, tears streaming down their faces, screaming for Mommy. And their father, the mighty Harrison Sterling, was standing by the window, pressed against the glass as if trying to merge with it. Rage flared in my chest. I marched over and smacked his arm. “What are you doing over here? Why aren’t you holding them?” “Me?” Harrison looked horrified. “You’re the father, aren’t you? Trying to be a deadbeat dad while living in the same house?” He looked desperate. “I’ve never held a baby. Can’t you… go comfort them?” “Like I’m an expert?” I scoffed. “They’re your kids too. We go together.” Harrison looked at the screaming demons, swallowed hard, and nodded. “Okay.” We approached the cribs like we were defusing bombs. Stiffly, we each picked up a child. Miraculously, the crying stopped instantly. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I rocked Luna for a minute, then tried to pass her to a nanny so I could go back to my spa day. The second my grip loosened, the siren wailed again. I was going to lose my mind. Why were they designed to be instruments of torture? I looked at Harrison to complain, but his face had gone pale. He was staring at me with pure despair. “I think… he pooped.” Happiness really is relative. I burst out laughing. The cold, ruthless CEO of the novel had just been pooped on by a newborn. 05 “Margot, stop laughing!” Harrison yelled, his face a mask of misery. I looked at the stain spreading on his bespoke Italian suit and smirked. “Laughing isn’t illegal. It doesn’t hurt you. Why can’t I laugh?” Seeing the high-and-mighty protagonist brought low by a bowel movement was therapeutic. Harrison opened his mouth to argue, but the baby in his arms tugged at his sleeve. “Daddy,” Atlas squeaked, “clean pants now?” Harrison froze. He looked at me, eyes pleading. “I… I don’t know how to do this.” “You don’t? And you think I do?” I shot back. Did he expect me to handle the dirty work? Dream on. “But…” “No buts!” I cut him off. “Atlas pooped on you, not me. Don’t even think about pawning this off.” “You gave birth to them! This is irresponsible!” Harrison was sweating now. I shrugged, examining my nails. Yes, I birthed them physically, but I didn’t choose this. I was a twenty-four-year-old modern woman. I barely knew how to keep a succulent alive. Transmigrating was hard enough. Was I expected to change diapers too? “Say whatever you want. Handle it yourself. Or don’t. Maybe just… don’t wash it? Live like that forever?” I cuddled Luna close and walked out, leaving him to his doom. Back in my room, the adrenaline faded, and a nagging thought surfaced. Something was wrong. Over the next few days, the feeling grew stronger. Harrison Sterling… wasn’t acting like a CEO. I remembered the book. The original character was domineering, cruel, and radiated “alpha” energy. But this guy? We argued constantly about the kids, but he usually just looked helpless, sighed, and then did whatever I said. He wasn’t domineering. He was… reasonable. Almost pushover-ish. The more I watched him, the more I became convinced. This Harrison was a fake. 06 A few nights later, Harrison came home drunk from a business dinner. People say drunk words are sober thoughts. The universe was handing me an interrogation opportunity on a silver platter. I cornered him in the hallway. “Hey… Harrison. You okay?” He swayed. “Did something happen?” I pressed. “Or did you hit your head recently? Because you don’t act like a CEO at all.” I was fishing, trying to see if he had amnesia or a brain tumor. Instead, he loosened his tie and shouted at the ceiling. “I’m struggling here!” I blinked. “Excuse me?” “I’ve never done anything bad! I return my shopping carts! Why is God doing this to me?” He wailed, his voice cracking with genuine despair. “Harrison, what are you talking about?” He didn’t answer. He just mumbled incoherent complaints, and then—I kid you not—he started crying. I stood there, arms crossed, watching a billionaire sob into his hands. If the tabloids saw this, stock prices would crash. Realizing I wasn’t going to get a straight answer, I sighed and dragged him into his bedroom. I dumped him onto the king-sized mattress and turned to leave. Suddenly, a hand grabbed my wrist. He yanked me down. “Harrison! What the hell?” I panicked. Was this the part where the “drunken CEO forces himself on the heroine” trope kicked in? I pushed against his chest, but he was heavy—dead weight, really. He wrapped his arms around me like I was a teddy bear, trapping me. I struggled for ten minutes. He didn’t move. Eventually, exhaustion won, and I fell asleep right there in his iron grip. 07 I woke up the next morning to a scream. I opened my eyes to see Harrison staring at me, horrified. His handsome face was contorted in pure terror. Before I could speak, he scrambled backward, fell off the bed, and landed hard on his butt. He held up three fingers, swearing an oath. “I swear! I swear I didn’t do anything last night! I’m still a virgin!” I choked on a laugh. “You’re a virgin? Then where did the kids come from? Did the stork drop them via Amazon Prime?” Harrison turned beet red. He looked around wildly, then scrambled to his feet, aiming for the door. “Oh no, you don’t.” I lunged, tackling him in a classic wrestling move, pinning him to the carpet. “Harrison Sterling! Talk! What did you mean by that?” He squirmed beneath me. “Nothing! It was sleep talking! Get off!” He looked at my hands like they were weapons. “Get off? If you don’t tell the truth, I’m never letting go.” My suspicions had hit critical mass. The weird behavior, the crying, the virginity comment. “I told the truth!” he insisted. “Fine. Have it your way.” I grinned, wiggling my fingers. “Then prepare for… The Tickle Monster.” I went for the ribs. “HAHAHA! NO! MARGOT! STOP! HAHAHA!” He shrieked like a schoolgirl. It was pathetic. It was definitely not CEO behavior. Finally, limp and breathless, he surrendered. “Okay! I’ll talk! I’ll talk!” “Good boy.” I sat back. Harrison caught his breath, sat up, and looked at me with the eyes of a kicked puppy. “If I told you… that we are inside a book… would you believe me?” Inside a book? My eyes widened. He was a transmigrator too.

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

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Seven years of a sexless marriage. In a desperate, pathetic attempt to save what was left of us, I finally agreed to his request for “something adventurous.” Outdoor sex. In the car. A thrill to jumpstart a dead heart. But an hour before our designated time, I scrolled past a thread on a popular confession site. The prompt: What’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done for “love”? The top comment, glowing with thousands of upvotes, read: “I have to tell you about my ex-boyfriend’s current wife. Tonight, she’s ‘sacrificing’ herself for love. They’re going to be ‘cooking’ in the very car he bought for me! And get this—he’s live-streaming the audio to me. He promised me he’s staying ‘pure’ for me. He’s only using his hands on her.” The comment section was a furnace of outrage, but the poster just slapped down a photo of a luxury car in response: “A Rolls-Royce Phantom. Have you peasants even seen one in person?” “That frigid bitch is lucky to even sit in those seats. It’s the highlight of her miserable life.” The moment the high-res photo loaded, the blood in my veins turned to ice. That car… was parked right in front of me. 1 The cold glow of my phone screen felt like a blade in the dim light of the parking garage. I refreshed the page, praying my eyes were deceiving me, hoping for a different license plate, a different color—anything. But there it was. A tiny, almost invisible scratch on the hood, right where the light hit it. It matched the photo in the post perfectly. The post was timestamped three hours ago. The comments were still exploding: [OP, you’re toxic as hell. Why are you even still talking to this guy?] [Live-streaming? No way. Drop the link!] [This is sick. That poor wife is being humiliated and she doesn’t even know it.] My hands were shaking so violently I almost dropped the phone. I checked the time. Ten minutes until our “date.” I took a numb step forward, peering through the driver’s side window. In the shadows of the passenger seat, I saw them. Cartoon plushies. Pink, fluffy, and incredibly juvenile. They looked utterly ridiculous in a car this expensive, and they were the polar opposite of Bennett’s cold, stoic aesthetic. Looking at them, a memory surged up like bile. Two years ago, when I bought my own car, I had decorated it with cute, cozy accessories. Bennett had looked at them and uttered five words that killed my joy: “Cheap, tacky, and incredibly immature.” I had cleared the car out that same night. But now, here were these pink rabbits and star stickers, plastered all over this Rolls-Royce like a shrine to someone else’s whims. The keys bit into my palm. My eyes burned. The elevator chimed. Bennett stepped out. He had traded his white lab coat for a casual cashmere sweater, though he still carried that air of effortless, high-society arrogance. He saw me and gave a curt, professional nod, as if we were meeting for a board or a surgery rather than an intimate encounter. He pulled the door open. “Been waiting long? Get in.” His voice was flat. He wasn’t looking at a wife he wanted to seduce; he was looking at a task he needed to complete. I didn’t move. My voice came out as a brittle whisper. “When did you buy this car?” He stiffened for a fraction of a second. “A while ago. It’s been in storage. I lent it to a friend for a bit.” He slid into the driver’s seat. I fought back the sob rising in my throat and climbed into the passenger side. The air hit me immediately—a thick, cloying perfume. Sweet, floral, and nauseatingly familiar. As soon as the engine purred to life, Bennett hit a button. The privacy curtains slid shut, sealing us in. The world outside disappeared, leaving us in a tomb lit only by the ghostly blue glow of the dashboard. The darkness felt heavy. Suffocating. I thought about the “live-stream” mentioned in the post and my heart hammered against my ribs. “Why is it so dark?” “It’s for the mood, Elena,” Bennett said, his hand reaching across the center console. His breath hitched as he leaned in. I instinctively recoiled, my hand sweeping nervously across the gap between the seats. My fingers brushed something. Bennett frowned, his annoyance flashing in the dim light. “What is wrong with you today?” I didn’t answer. I reached down, feeling into the crevice of the leather seat until I grasped a piece of fabric. I pulled it out. A sliver of light escaped through a gap in the curtain, just enough for me to see what I was holding. Black lace panties. Worn. Stained in the center with a dark, dried patch that left nothing to the imagination. 2 I threw the door open and stumbled out of the car, retching against the concrete wall of the garage. Bennett was out a second later, his face contorted with suppressed rage. “Elena! What the hell is this performance?” I wiped my mouth, my vision blurred with tears, and held up the lace. “Whose are these, Bennett?” His expression flickered—a flash of guilt instantly paved over by cold indifference. “It’s a friend’s car. How should I know what they leave in it?” He took a step toward me, his voice softening into that manipulative, ‘reasonable’ tone he used to quiet difficult patients. “Look, I’m here, aren’t I? I agreed to do this for you. Isn’t that enough? What more do you want from me?” “A friend?” I started to laugh, a jagged, ugly sound. “What kind of ‘friend’ leaves this in a car you’re borrowing?” “Elena, stop,” he snapped, his patience evaporating. “I am sacrificing my limited free time to play these games with you, and you’re going to throw a tantrum over a piece of trash?” Sacrificing. The word felt like a physical blow. To him, intimacy with his legal wife was a chore. A charitable donation. My heart felt like it was being shredded. Seven years. I had given this man seven years of my life, my health, and my devotion. I had loved him through the shadow of the girl he never forgot—the ghost of the one who got away. I remembered the accident, three days after our wedding. A car had come out of nowhere and slammed into me. Three broken ribs. A shattered pelvis. A severely damaged reproductive system. Bennett was the surgeon who saved me. He had operated on me himself. But after the surgery, something went wrong. He told me the trauma had caused “complications.” My body had essentially locked itself shut. I became a “stone woman”—physically unable to experience pleasure, anatomically scarred in a way that made sex an agonizing impossibility. I had wanted to die. But Bennett had held me, over and over, whispering, “Elena, it doesn’t matter. I’ll take care of you forever.” I believed him. I was grateful for that accident because I thought it had forged a bond that transcended the physical. I spent seven years trying to be the perfect wife, the perfect shadow, just to earn the right to grow old with him. And all it earned me was a “sacrifice.” My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. The thread had been updated. “Oops, the stream got cut off. Looks like someone found the little surprise I left in the seat (blushing emoji). I guess he’s not as good at hiding things as he thought. Oh well, there’s always next time. We’ve got forever.” Attached was a screenshot of a receipt. A pair of luxury black lace panties. $300. I looked up at Bennett. He was holding something in his hand—a beige, rubbery device he’d pulled from the glove box. The packaging was torn. It looked cheap, clinical, and insulting. Meanwhile, his own belt was still buckled tight. He hadn’t even intended to touch me. “So that was the plan, Bennett?” I whispered, nodding toward the toy. “That was your ‘sincere effort’?” I let out a breath that felt like a death rattle. 3 He followed my gaze and dropped the device back into the car as if it had burned him. The exhaustion hit me then. A weight so heavy I couldn’t even feel the anger anymore. I turned away. “We’re done, Bennett. I’m leaving.” I walked out of the garage and didn’t look back. By the time I got back to the house and started pulling suitcases out of the closet, Bennett was already there. He was holding a bouquet of red roses. They were wrapped in crinkly plastic, the petals already wilting at the edges, bruised and blackening. He tossed his jacket on the sofa and set the dying flowers on the coffee table. “Elena, let’s be rational. We need to talk.” “There’s nothing left to say,” I said, my voice empty. He rubbed his temples, looking like the victim of a great injustice. “I know you’re upset. But you’re… you’re ‘locked,’ Elena. You know that. I can’t be expected to ignore my own needs forever just because your body failed. As for the car, I told you, it belongs to a friend. You’re making a scene over nothing.” “What’s this friend’s name?” He paused. “That’s not important.” The dam broke. I lunged forward and swept the roses off the table, scattering them across the floor. “What is important, then? The fact that our seven-year anniversary gift was a live-streamed humiliation? Or the fact that you planned to fake an intimate moment with a piece of plastic?” “Enough!” Bennett stood up, his voice booming. “Stop being so hysterical! What do I have to do to make you believe me?” “Sell the car,” I screamed. “Sell it right now!” He looked at me like I was a lunatic. “Are you insane? That’s a three-hundred-thousand-dollar vehicle!” “So?” “So, it’s a car, Elena! You want me to throw away a fortune because you’re having a mood swing? Look, I get it—you’re frustrated because you’re broken. But don’t take your inadequacy out on me.” It felt like a jagged blade had been driven into my chest. I was trembling so hard I could barely stand. “I wasn’t born this way, Bennett! The accident—” “I KNOW!” he roared. “And I married you anyway! I’ve spent seven years playing nursemaid to a woman who can’t even be a wife. Isn’t that enough? Do you want me to get down on my knees and beg for your forgiveness for being a human being with human desires?” The sight of his distorted, angry face flicked a switch inside me. The rage died, replaced by a terrifying, hollow calm. I spoke one word. “Leave.” Bennett’s face went from white to a mottled, ugly red. He didn’t say another word. He grabbed his coat and slammed the front door so hard the windows rattled. I sank onto the sofa, staring at the dying roses. The silence of the house began to scream. I don’t know how long I sat there before the doorbell rang. I thought it was Bennett, coming back to finish the fight. I opened the door, ready to scream. But it wasn’t him. It was a woman. Young, beautiful, with long chestnut waves and a soft, sugary smile. She was wearing a pale pink manicure. She tilted her head. “Hi there. You must be Elena. I’m Jasmine, a… close friend of Bennett’s.” Jasmine. The jasmine stickers in the car. The cold returned, sharper than before. This was her. The girl from the post. The ghost who had finally taken on flesh. 4 “What do you want?” “Oh, just a few things,” she said, dangling a set of Rolls-Royce keys from her finger. “Bennett said I could stop by and pick up some of my stuff. He mentioned I might have left a few personal items around here.” She moved to step past me into the foyer. I blocked her. “There’s nothing of yours here.” Jasmine blinked innocently. “Are you sure? I think I left them in the master bedroom. Last month, when Bennett was… stressed. I came over to help him relax. I think I dropped a Tiffany earring by the nightstand. They’re quite expensive.” She watched my eyes, her smile widening as she saw the realization hit me. “Honestly, Elena, I feel bad for you. Keeping up this hollow marriage… it must be exhausting. Bennett hasn’t loved you in years. He wanted to leave right after the accident, but he’s such a softie. He felt sorry for you. He’s stayed out of pure, agonizing pity.” “What are you talking about?” Jasmine took a step closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you even know what kind of car hit you seven years ago?” My breath hitched. She giggled. “It was a Rolls-Royce Phantom. Brand new. My dad’s car. Bennett was so terrified I’d go to jail that he bought the car from my father, had it repainted, and hid it. That’s why the police never found the hit-and-run driver.” The world tilted. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. “Oh, and one more thing.” She pulled a folder from her designer bag. “You’ve always wondered why you were ‘locked’ after the surgery, haven’t you?” She pulled out a medical report. “Bennett performed a little extra procedure while you were under. He ‘fixed’ you so you could never be with anyone else. He told me it was the only way he could ensure he stayed ‘faithful’ to me—by making sure his wife was biologically unavailable.” The papers fluttered to the floor. I stared at the technical diagrams, at Bennett’s familiar, elegant signature at the bottom of the surgical notes. The words blurred into a dark abyss, pulling me down. It was all a lie. The accident. The “complications.” The seven years of “care.” He hadn’t saved me. He had dismantled me. A primal, guttural scream tore out of my throat. The world went red. I lunged at her, my fingers tangling in her perfect hair as I dragged her to the floor. She shrieked, her nails clawing at my face, but I didn’t feel it. I just wanted to tear the truth out of her. I pinned her down, my hand cracking across her face again and again—years of repressed pain and betrayal fueling every blow. Jasmine cried out, shielding her face, and suddenly, a dark red stain began to spread across her pale skirt. The metallic scent of blood hit the air. The door burst open. Bennett charged in. He saw me on top of Jasmine and his eyes turned murderous. “ELENA! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” He didn’t pull me off. He kicked me. Hard. The blow landed in my side, sending me sprawling across the room. I hit the edge of the coffee table, my head snapping back. The roses were everywhere now, their petals mixing with the blood on the floor. Bennett was on his knees beside Jasmine, his hands trembling as he pressed them against her stomach. “Jasmine? Talk to me! Oh god, the baby…” “Bennett… the baby… my baby…” she sobbed. A baby. They had a child. I lay on the floor, paralyzed, watching Bennett’s back as he cradled her like she was his entire world. I wanted to cry, but I was empty. There was nothing left in me but ash. Bennett turned his head, his gaze falling on the scattered medical files on the floor. His face went deathly pale.

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“You’re pregnant.” I was halfway through a sip of water when the words hit. I nearly choked, my throat seizing as I forced myself to swallow and maintain a mask of icy composure. The only reason I didn’t spit it out was because the doctor sitting across from me, looking clinical and professional in his white coat, was my ex-boyfriend. 1 “Ow, hey. Take it easy.” I was lying on an exam bed in the ER, letting a certain someone poke and prod at my abdomen with more clinical detachment than I found strictly necessary. “How long has the pain been localized in the lower right quadrant? From what I can see, it’s not appendicitis.” Silas West withdrew his hand—his long, elegant fingers that I once knew so well. He looked at me like I was a stranger off the street. If it weren’t for that familiar, infuriatingly arrogant edge in his voice, I wouldn’t have believed this was the man I’d shared a bed with for three years. “Since last night,” I muttered, turning my face away. It had only been a month since the breakup. Apparently, thirty days was all it took for some people to become completely unfazed. Cold-hearted prick. “Have you been sexually active recently?” “…” He knew damn well we hadn’t been. Suddenly, a nurse burst in with two ultrasound reports. They were clearly mine. Silas took the sheets, and I watched his handsome face go from clinical neutral to a shade of dark, thunderous brooding. “You’re pregnant,” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. I nearly died right there on the crinkly exam paper. “Excuse me?” “A ten-week-old fetus,” he said, his eyes flashing with something that looked suspiciously like hurt masked by rage. Ten weeks ago, Silas and I were still very much together. But in the three years we’d dated, we had never actually… gone all the way. We’d been “intimate,” but there was always a line he didn’t cross, a ghost of someone else always lingering in the room. “Riley Miller,” he growled, “Did you cheat on me?” As a woman who was, quite frankly, still a member of the V-club, I knew this was a massive clerical error. But seeing him this worked up? It felt too good to pass up. I wanted to burn his composure to the ground. “Well, since you’ve figured it out, I guess there’s no point in lying,” I said, my voice dripping with fake nonchalance. I didn’t just stop at the verbal jab; I sat up and crossed my legs with an air of sophisticated mystery. “I was actually surprised to see you here, Silas. Did you drive all the way from Seattle to Boise just to attend my wedding? I haven’t sent out the invites yet.” Honestly, seeing Silas at Boise Memorial was a shock. He was the golden boy of the University of Washington’s surgical department. Why would he sabotage a brilliant career to move to a mid-sized city in Idaho? As for me, I was only here because after our explosive breakup a month ago, I’d packed my life into a U-Haul and fled back to my parents’ house. I couldn’t stand the sight of the Seattle skyline if he was under it. “Riley!” He stepped closer, his breathing heavy. “I’m right here. No need to yell. I left the house in a rush today, so I don’t have the save-the-date on me. I’ll be sure to mail you one, though. For old times’ sake.” I stood up, ready to make a grand exit. If I stayed another second, I was fairly certain Silas might actually bite me. The look in his eyes was feral. As I tried to brush past him, his foot “accidentally” caught mine. I tripped, and he pivoted instantly, blocking my path. I tumbled straight into his chest. To keep from eating the linoleum floor, my arms instinctively flew up and wrapped around his neck. The scent of his cologne—something crisp, like cedar and rain—hit me like a physical blow. Even through the layers of his shirt and white lab coat, I could feel the radiating heat of his body. “Already a ‘married woman,’ yet you’re still throwing yourself into my arms?” he whispered, his voice dangerously low. 2 Gaslighting. Incredible. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I hissed, trying to untangle myself. “My fiancé owns several properties here in Boise. My future mother-in-law adores me. She’s already talking about helping with the baby so I can focus on my career. With a setup like that, I don’t need to throw myself at an ex.” “Riley, you really are something else.” A cold draft hit my back as the door swung open again. It was the same nurse from before, looking frantic. “I am so sorry! The charts got swapped at the desk. Dr. West, this is Ms. Miller’s report.” I should have run when I had the chance. The silence in the room was deafening. Silas took the new report, read it, and then a slow, terrifyingly beautiful smirk spread across his face. “Well,” he said, handing me the paper. “I can prescribe you some high-grade laxatives.” “What?” “You aren’t pregnant, Riley. Your ‘abdominal pain’ is just a severe case of being full of it. Literally. You’re constipated.” I wanted the earth to swallow me whole. I looked at the nurse, who was doing a heroic, if failing, job of not laughing. “Fix the filing system,” Silas said to the nurse, his voice tight with suppressed amusement. “We can’t have this happening twice.” Just as he was about to tuck the report away, the nurse spoke up again. “This other one—the pregnancy report—it belongs to a Ms. Blake. She’s waiting in the lounge.” My heart did a painful somersault. After the breakup, the name “Serena Blake” was a trigger. “Which Ms. Blake?” I asked, my voice suddenly small. “Serena?” The nurse nodded, surprised. I looked at Silas. So, that was it. Why would a top-tier surgeon move to a “flyover” city? Because his “White Moonlight”—the one who got away, the girl he’d never truly moved on from—lived here. He hadn’t come for me. He’d come for her. Then the second realization hit me like a freight train. “That’s Serena’s pregnancy report?” The nurse, blissfully unaware of the emotional carnage she was causing, nodded again. “Dr. West has been her primary since she arrived. The girls at the desk were gossiping… they said since Dr. West and Ms. Blake are old friends, maybe the baby is—” “That’s enough,” Silas snapped, cutting her off. The nurse scurried out, but the damage was done. Serena Blake was the reason Silas and I were over. She had spent the last six months of our relationship weaving herself back into his life, and now, here she was. Pregnant. 3 Two months ago. That was when she’d flown to Seattle to “reconnect” with him. “Riley, it’s not what it looks like—” Silas started. “We’re over, Silas.” “I can explain the timeline—” “I don’t care about your timeline. I’m not interested.” I turned on my heel and slammed his office door so hard the glass rattled in the frame. He was on my heels instantly. As we reached the hallway, the noise must have drawn attention. Serena emerged from the waiting area, her hand instinctively resting on her stomach. We came face-to-face. I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a glance. My only goal was to get out of this hospital and out of this town. I’d only taken a few steps when Serena let out a sharp gasp. She crumpled toward the floor, clutching her belly and whimpering in a way that screamed for attention. Silas, it hurts, her silence screamed. I saw him hesitate. Just for a second. That split-second of indecision was all I needed to know where I stood. He stayed. He went back to her. I walked out of the hospital doors alone, clutching my ultrasound report—the one that said I was just a girl with a stomach ache, not a woman with a future. Who was playing who? When I got home, my parents were staged in the living room like a firing squad. I knew that look. “Mom,” I said, closing the door quietly, trying to maintain the peace. Neither of them looked at me. They sat stiff-backed, faces set in grim lines. I decided to just sit down and take whatever lecture was coming. “Don’t you dare sit down!” my mother barked. “It’s my house too, Mom.” “You’re nearly thirty!” she shouted, ignoring me. “I set up three dates for you this week and you blew off every single one! Do you want to kill me? Even the neighbor’s golden retriever has a partner and two litters of puppies by now!” She shoved a stack of glossy papers into my hands. I looked down. In bold, horrific letters, it read: HUSBAND WANTED. My jaw dropped. “Mom, what is this? And why is my photo printed upside down?” It looked less like a dating profile and more like a ‘Missing Person’ flyer or a funeral notice. “I wanted to see if I could attract a man by making you look like a project,” she snapped. “I’ve already coordinated with my friend Mrs. Higgins. You’re going on a blind date with her son tomorrow. If you blow this one off, I’ll have your father post these flyers on every telephone pole from here to downtown. Do you understand?” My mom was a lost cause when she was in a “Matchmaker” frenzy. I turned to my dad, hoping for a shred of fatherly solidarity. “Dad, come on. I’m your little girl. Don’t you want me to stay home a few more years? Keep you company?” My dad stood up, took off his favorite cardigan, walked to the window, and threw it outside. “Go find a nice man to take care of you, Riley,” he said solemnly. 4 I caved. The thought of my “funeral-notice” dating flyer plastered all over Boise was too much to bear. I followed my mother’s instructions and took an Uber to a high-end French bistro downtown. It was actually quite nice—dim lighting, velvet booths, very romantic. My mom had already scurried off to “meet the guests” at the door. I was sitting at the table, scrolling through my phone, when I saw them. Mrs. Higgins, my mom… and Silas West. The world is a cruel, tiny place. The seating arrangement was a nightmare: Me, my mom, Silas, and his mother. Silas sat directly across from me, looking like the picture of a perfect gentleman. He smiled at my mother, a sweet, charming expression that made my skin crawl. “It’s so good to see you again, Mrs. Miller.” “Oh, Silas! Look at you! You’ve grown into such a handsome man,” my mom gushed. She was already mentally picking out her dress for the wedding. I stabbed at my salad, glaring at Silas with enough venom to kill a cobra. “I don’t know what happened with the last guy she was seeing,” my mom sighed, leaning toward Silas’s mom. “Three years down the drain. He must have been a real loser.” “Oh?” Silas leaned forward, his interest piqued. “What did she tell you about him?” A cold dread settled in my stomach. When I’d come home crying and angry, I hadn’t told my mom the truth about the cheating or Serena. I’d told her something much more… emasculating. Something that wouldn’t make her pity me, but would make her glad he was gone. “Well,” my mom whispered, not very quietly. “Riley said the poor boy had… performance issues. Medical ones. You know, ‘failure to launch.’ Extremely premature.” The sympathetic look Silas’s mother gave him was legendary. “Oh, bless his heart. It’s good she found out before marriage. That’s a lifetime of frustration.” “Exactly,” my mom agreed. I watched Silas’s face. His calm, “perfect gentleman” mask was beginning to twitch into something much darker. I buried my face in my wine glass, chugging the Chardonnay. I didn’t dare look up. I could feel his gaze burning holes into my forehead. Needing an escape, I mumbled something about the restroom and bolted. I was halfway to the lounge when a hand gripped my wrist and pulled me into the shadows of the hallway near the coat check. “You,” I gasped, backing up. Silas didn’t say a word. He just kept stepping forward until my back hit the wall. “Premature?” he whispered, loosening his tie with one hand. “Performance issues? You seem to have a lot of opinions on my anatomy, Riley.” The scent of cedar and rain enveloped me. He was so close I could feel the heat of his breath against my neck. It sent a traitorous shiver down my spine. “Riley,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration. “How can you claim I’m ‘inadequate’ when you never even let me try?” My heart was hammering against my ribs. He was the one who cheated! Why was I the one feeling guilty? Just then, I heard the clicking of heels. Our mothers were coming toward the restrooms. If they saw us like this, my mother would have the priest on speed dial before dessert. “Let go! They’re coming!” I hissed. I tried to push him away, but he grabbed both my wrists with one hand, pinning them above my head, while his other hand cupped the back of my neck. He didn’t hesitate. Silas kissed me—a deep, possessive, “I’m-going-to-prove-you-wrong” kiss that tasted like red wine and years of suppressed longing. He broke into my senses with practiced ease. By the time I could think to pull away, the two “Best Friends” were standing five feet away, clutching their pearls and grinning like they’d won the lottery. Game over. 5 “I’d love to get Riley’s new number,” Silas said with a boyish grin. My mother didn’t even wait for me to agree; she grabbed my phone, unlocked it, and pulled up my QR code. So much for blocking him. But Silas wasn’t done. He was a shark in a tailored suit. “The only problem is,” Silas sighed, looking at my mom with puppy-dog eyes, “I’m staying in my mom’s guest suite, but it’s actually just a studio. I’ve been sleeping on a loveseat for a week. My back is killing me.” His mother nudged him, looking confused, but my mom took the bait hook, line, and sinker. “Well, stay with us! We have plenty of room, and I haven’t seen your mother in ages. You can both move into the guest wing for a few days!” And just like that, the next morning, Silas arrived with three suitcases, looking like he planned to move in permanently. I had never met a more shameless human being. Over brunch, I learned the backstory I’d forgotten. Silas’s mom was a Boise native who had moved to Seattle after a messy divorce when Silas was six. Apparently, our families had been close back then. I’d met him when I was three, but I had zero memory of the scrawny boy who had apparently decided way back then that I was his. While my mom was busy fawning over him, Silas’s phone buzzed on the table. The notification read: Serena. I pretended to be intensely interested in my toast, but I was watching him like a hawk. Thanks for taking care of me. Dinner tonight? the message read. That little snake. Silas was literally in my house, and she was already trying to lure him away. Suddenly, a competitive fire ignited in my chest. I wasn’t going to let her win. Not this time. I pulled up a local app and booked tickets for the most intense, multi-hour experience I could find. “I actually booked us something for tomorrow,” I said, interrupting their conversation. “An escape room followed by a three-hour movie marathon. Silas, I hope you’re free?” Silas looked surprised, then his lips curled into a smirk. He checked his phone, saw Serena’s message, and typed back a single word: Busy.

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I couldn’t help myself. Watching the live stream, I tapped the screen and sent fifty virtual supercars—a five-thousand-dollar flex in a matter of seconds. I expected a thank you, or at least a smile. Instead, Preston blew up. He sent me a scathing text, threatening to end things—again. As I sat there, reeling from the confusion, glowing lines of text suddenly began to drift across my vision like a digital hallucination—a live commentary on my own life. [Is this bitch for real? Does she think having a trust fund and paying for the lead’s tuition gives her the right to own him? Dropping those cars was a total power move to humiliate him. Such a desperate, territorial move.] [No wonder he’s pissed. Our sweet Daisy finally worked up the courage to send him her first ‘Rose’—a literal symbol of her pure love—and this rich girl just had to swoop in and drown it out with her tacky display of wealth.] [Old money, new money, it doesn’t matter. Women like her will never understand. A single rose might only cost a dime, but to him, it’s worth infinitely more than a dozen Ferraris bought with daddy’s credit card.] [When is Preston finally going to make enough from his streaming group to dump this nightmare socialite? I’m dying for him and Daisy to finally start their ‘struggling artists in love’ arc! Ugh!] I froze. The truth hit me with the force of a physical blow. I wasn’t the leading lady in this story. I was the obstacle. The “Other Woman.” The villainous ex-girlfriend standing in the way of a fated romance. Every gift, every cent I’d spent on him, wasn’t a gesture of love. In his eyes—and the eyes of the “audience”—it was an insult. Fine. I nodded to the empty room, a cold clarity settling over me. I accepted the breakup. I turned my back on the man I’d spent three years bankrolling and set my sights on his teammate instead. Later, I didn’t even blink when I dropped five hundred “Universe” gifts on his rival’s stream. Preston, watching from the sidelines, completely lost it. In front of his entire following, with his eyes bloodshot and voice cracking, he begged me for a second chance. 1 It took me a long time to process what was happening. In the narrative of this world, Preston was the “Hero.” Daisy, my roommate, was the “Heroine.” And me? I was the “Rich Girl Villain”—the one who had been foolishly pouring her heart and bank account into a man who secretly despised her. As I sat there dazed, the floating comments continued to flicker with indignation. [God, poor Daisy. She skipped dinner for three nights just to save up enough for that digital rose. I’m literally crying for her.] [The villain is so toxic. Preston told her a thousand times not to be so flashy, but she just has to show off. She made poor Daisy feel so small she probably cried herself to sleep.] [They’re both kids from the same small town, chasing the American Dream together. Only they can truly save each other.] [The villain might have helped him win the streaming battle, but look at his face. He’s not smiling. He’s just thinking about how much Daisy is hurting.] [The script was supposed to be: They share a secret glance of love amidst the crowd. This bitch ruined their first real moment!] I closed my eyes, trying to clear the static from my brain. This “plot” was absurd, but the reality was undeniable. If this was the truth of his heart, I was done playing the role of the benevolent benefactor. “Why aren’t you saying anything? Trying to ignore me again?” Preston’s voice barked through the phone, pulling me back to the present. “Daisy has a lot of pride. She’s probably hiding somewhere crying right now. If you want to keep this relationship, you go to her and apologize. Once she forgives you, then maybe we can talk.” I didn’t hesitate. “Okay,” I said. Thinking he might misunderstand, I added firmly, “I agree. Let’s break up.” “Then get over there and apologize! Be sincere for once—” Preston started, his voice overlapping mine. He stopped mid-sentence as my words finally registered. “Wait, what? Blair, what is this? Another one of your little tantrums?” I cut him off, my voice steady. “I said, you wanted a breakup. You’ve got it. We’re done.” The silence on the other end lasted three full seconds. Then, he let out a sharp, condescending laugh. “Fine. Great. Have it your way. Keep acting out, Blair. But don’t come crawling back when you realize I’m actually serious this time. I’m done with your drama.” I didn’t want to argue. I just gave a muffled “Mm-hmm” and moved to hang up. Before I could, his voice came through the receiver, a low, venomous threat. “Think carefully, Blair. Don’t call me crying tomorrow begging for another chance!” 2 I didn’t bother responding. I never knew how to love “correctly,” I suppose. My version of love was simple: if I cared for someone, I wanted them to have the best of everything. I thought Preston was struggling, that he needed the money, that he was only doing these group streams—something he used to call “beneath him”—out of necessity. Now I knew. To him, my money was just a shallow, golden cage. The moment the call ended, I paged my housekeeper and told her to go to the local drugstore and buy two of those massive, cheap plastic moving bags. All the luggage in this apartment was custom-made, hand-stitched leather. Preston didn’t deserve to touch them. I watched as the housekeeper packed his things. I made sure she didn’t include a single designer item I’d bought him—those were too “vain” and might “hurt his fragile pride.” I looked around the penthouse. It was in the heart of the city, every square inch costing more than most people made in a year. I had decorated it ourselves, tailoring every detail to Preston’s tastes. If I had known he felt “humiliated” living here every day, I would have let the unit sit empty. I felt a surge of anger, but my eyes betrayed me, stinging with tears. Three years. You don’t just switch off three years of feelings, no matter how much of a bastard the guy turned out to be. He had threatened to leave a dozen times before, but this was the first time I was the one walking away. As I packed, the comments flared up again. [Why isn’t the villain apologizing yet? Does she think this silent treatment will work on him? So manipulative.] [Is she seriously acting like she’s moving out? She’s so obsessed with him, she’d die before she actually let him go.] [If her family didn’t have money, would a guy like Preston even look at her? He only stayed because she paid his tuition at the acting conservatory. She bought his time, not his heart.] [She’ll never understand that every cent she spent on him felt like a slap in the face. He despises her ‘charity.’] [He hates the ‘capitalist filth.’ He dreams of a tiny, one-bedroom apartment with Daisy. Simple meals, three seasons, four directions. That’s real happiness. The villain will never get it.] I tried to ignore them, but the sheer delusion was suffocating. If Preston hated my family’s help so much, he shouldn’t have accepted the tuition. He shouldn’t have accepted the black card. He was the one who pursued me for an entire year when we first met. He was a scholarship student from a small town; I was a girl with a trust fund that could buy the town. I had paid for everything. His fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year allowance, his skincare, his wardrobe, his travel for auditions. I never made him ask. I just put the money in his account because I wanted him to focus on his “art.” In return, he kept me a secret at school. He said he didn’t want people thinking he was a “gold digger.” He refused to be seen with me in the cafeteria or the library. He chose streaming because it was “quick money,” but every time I supported him with a gift, he acted like I’d spit on his grave. It all made sense now. My support was his “burden.” My love was his “humiliation.” Fine. Let him be free. I was sitting on the floor, crying despite myself, when the front door clicked open. Preston stood there, his face tight with fury. 3 “Blair, what is this?” He pointed at the cheap plastic bags in the foyer, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. Oh. I forgot to change the door code. He saw my tears and his expression softened into a look of weary annoyance. He rubbed his temples. “It’s five in the morning. I just finished a ten-hour stream. I’m exhausted. Stop with the theatrics.” He started to walk past me, carrying the limited-edition designer duffel I’d given him for his birthday. I stood up and blocked his path. The comments surged: [Look at her, trying the ‘breakup’ move to get his attention. We all know she’s terrified he’ll actually leave.] [He’s not falling for it. She could crawl on her knees and he’d still choose Daisy. Their love is pure.] I cleared my throat, wiping my face. “Your things are packed. The bags are by the door. You can check them if you want.” “Give me the car keys,” I added. “And I’m changing the codes. As for the money I’ve spent on you… consider it a donation to the needy. I spend more on my dog’s grooming anyway. I think we’re done here. Blocked and deleted.” Preston’s greatest weakness was his “high self-esteem”—or what I now recognized as fragile ego. My words hit him like a physical barrier. He looked at me with pure disbelief. “Blair, you’re really going to blow this out of proportion?” he sneered. “Have you thought about the consequences?” “I think I was pretty clear on the phone,” I said, my voice finally finding its cold edge. “We’re over.” He laughed, a bitter, mocking sound. “Do you realize that because you wouldn’t apologize, Daisy cried all night? I had to drive to her dorm after my stream just to sit with her. You have no idea what you’ve done, do you? But that’s you. Always the same.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a hiss. “To you, fifty supercars is just the price of a Chanel bag. You have a closet full of them, so it means nothing. But Daisy… she skipped three days of meals just to support me. Do you know how many shifts she had to work at the tea shop to save that money? And you just had to mock her. You had to drop fifty cars right after she sent her rose.” “You’re a spoiled little princess who knows nothing of the real world,” he spat. “That’s why I’m angry.” I was stunned. The streaming studio was an hour away from Daisy’s dorm. He finished at 2 AM and drove all that way to “comfort” her? And he still claimed they were “just friends”? I didn’t even know which account was Daisy’s. I didn’t know their “digital rose” was some sacred ritual. I only stepped in because he was losing the “Live Battle” and I didn’t want him to look bad. I wanted to scream all of this at him. But looking at his self-righteous face, I just felt… tired. Preston saw I wasn’t responding and, in a fit of pique, grabbed the plastic bags and headed for the elevator. Before the doors closed, he threw one last line at me: “Blair, remember this. You’re the one who pushed me to her.” 4 I didn’t understand. He was the one who asked for the breakup. Now it was my fault for “pushing” him? It was always like this. He was the saint; I was the sinner. My kindness was “hatred,” and my help was a “seed of resentment.” I lay in bed as the sun began to peek through the curtains, tossing and turning. I pulled up my phone. At 6:30 AM, Daisy had posted a new update on social media. “Thank you for never giving up on me. Thank you for understanding my heart. And thank you to a certain someone for finally giving you back to me.” The photo was a “Live” shot in front of a floor-to-ceiling window at a five-star hotel. In the reflection, you could see the city lights. In the foreground, Daisy was wrapped in a passionate embrace with a man. He was shirtless, his back to the camera, but I knew those shoulders anywhere. Daisy was in a sheer lace nightgown, Preston’s arms wrapped tightly around her waist. The “Live” photo captured the movement of the kiss—lingering, hungry, and far from “just friends.” Strangely, I wasn’t even angry. I just felt a wave of nausea. How did I ever fall for this ungrateful parasite? The comments were throwing a party. [OMG! The sugar! My ship has sailed!] [Finally, they belong to each other. No more obstacles.] [We have to thank the villain. Her jealousy finally made the lead realize he couldn’t live without Daisy.] [He’s going to work so hard now to give her a future. True love wins!] I didn’t feel like crying anymore. I felt like doing math. If they wanted to “work hard” and “rely on themselves,” why was the bill for that twenty-thousand-dollar-a-night presidential suite being charged to the black card I’d given him? I looked closer at the photo. On the nightstand, “accidentally” caught in the frame, was a custom Hermes handbag. My handbag. The one my mother gave me for my birthday. Preston probably thought I had so many I wouldn’t notice one missing. I called my assistant. “Cancel the black card I gave Preston. Effective immediately.”

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My mother had gone to the bank to collect a “Customer Appreciation” gift, a small gesture for long-time account holders. Instead, the clerk had shoved a half-torn bag of premium rice across the counter with the grace of someone tossing trash. In the clumsy hand-off, the bag slipped. It hit the polished marble floor with a sickening pop, white grains skittering in every direction like tiny, panicked insects. Instead of helping, the clerk crossed her arms over her chest. She leaned into her microphone, her voice booming through the lobby speakers, distorted and cruel. “Pick it up. Every single grain. I want this floor spotless!” “You’re pathetic, you old bat. If you don’t clean this up, don’t even think about walking out that door.” I walked in just as that last sentence echoed off the high ceilings. My mother’s eyes were rimmed with red, her hands trembling as she stood frozen in the middle of the lobby, surrounded by the mess. I stepped forward, pulling her behind me, my heart hammering a cold, rhythmic beat of fury. Seeing me intervene only seemed to embolden the clerk. She adjusted her name tag—Madison—and sneered. “Perfect timing. Why don’t you teach your mother some manners? This is what happens when people are too cheap for their own good.” “If you don’t apologize and get out of here right now, don’t bother coming back for that loan. My father is the Executive Vice President of this branch. Consider your family blacklisted.” I looked at Madison’s smug, porcelain-doll face, then glanced at the branch manager standing beside me. He was already mopping sweat from his forehead, bowing slightly as he tried to offer a weak, conciliatory smile. Blacklisted? I looked back at Madison. If I actually walked out of here with the three billion dollars currently sitting in my private accounts, this branch wouldn’t just be blacklisted. It wouldn’t exist by tomorrow morning. … I frowned, my gaze shifting to Howard, the manager, whose collar seemed to be getting tighter by the second. “Howard,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “Is this the new standard of service? Skimping on promotional gifts and insulting seniors?” “If a client of my standing is treated like a beggar over a bag of rice, I can’t imagine how you plan on attracting any new business.” At the mention of the gift, Madison’s expression flickered with a hint of guilt—likely because she’d been skimming the “premium” inventory for herself. But before Howard could stammer out an excuse, she exploded. “Stop acting like you’re somebody! It’s a bag of rice. You’re making a scene over groceries? God, talk about low-class.” My mother flinched at the word low-class. That small movement, that tiny collapse of her shoulders, snapped something inside me. “Madison,” I said. “Originally, I would have accepted an apology and a replacement gift. But it seems your father never taught you the meaning of the word ‘professionalism.’” Madison slammed her hand onto the granite counter. “Who are you to mention my father? You think you’re entitled to an apology from me?” “Look at you. You look like you crawled out of a clearance rack. A family of grifters causing a scene for freebies. You should be embarrassed.” “Madison! Enough!” Howard’s voice was sharp, his face ghostly pale. But she was on a roll, completely blind to the frantic warning in his eyes. Her voice climbed another octave. “Am I wrong, Howard? Look at them! They’re probably here to scan for a predatory loan. We shouldn’t even be processing their paperwork. It’s bad for the bank’s image.” Howard was practically vibrating with anxiety. “Shut up, Madison! This is—” “This is what? A small-time business owner?” she interrupted, her lip curling. “Howard, please. I brought in a three-million-dollar deposit last month. Why are we catering to people who fight over rice? Just kick them out.” I felt the corner of my mouth twitch into a cold smile. Three million. That wouldn’t cover my corporate travel expenses for six months. I had three billion in liquid cash sitting in their vaults, not counting the gold bullion and the offshore holdings. Howard’s face had turned a bruised shade of purple. “Stop it, Madison. Elena is—” I raised a hand, silencing him. I reached into my leather briefcase and pulled out a file. “Howard, let’s skip the pleasantries. Replace the gift. Finish the paperwork. And tell me—is the fifty-million-dollar bridge loan for the development project ready for signature today?” Truthfully, my firm didn’t need the money. I was only taking the loan as a favor to Howard—an old college acquaintance—to help him hit his quarterly targets. Howard wiped his brow, nodding frantically. “Yes, yes, of course! Right away. Madison, process the documents for Ms. Montgomery immediately!” “Wait a second!” Madison lunged forward, snatching the file before Howard could touch it. She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Fifty million? Are you kidding me? You couldn’t get a fifty-dollar limit on a store card with that attitude. Let’s see what we’re really looking at.” “Madison! Give that back! That is confidential!” Howard’s voice cracked as he reached for the papers. Madison danced back, hugging the file to her chest, her eyes gleaming with malice. “I’m doing my job, Howard! Auditing client viability. Preventing fraud. Isn’t that what we’re trained for? Who knows if these documents are even real?” She began flipping through the pages, her voice rising so everyone in the lobby could hear. “Wait… look at this. Meridian Group transferred two million dollars into your personal account last month? Why would a CEO send a girl like you that kind of money?” She paused, a poisonous smile spreading across her face. “You’re pretty enough, I guess. Is that the trick, Elena? What kind of ‘special sacrifices’ did you have to make for that check?” My fists clenched, my knuckles turning white. Before I could speak, she kept going, her voice like a serrated blade. “Oh, it gets better! Bright-Tech, eighty thousand a month for three months. Maritime Trade, one point five million. God, Elena, you’re a busy girl. How do you find the time to service so many ‘clients’ without catching something incurable?” The air in the bank felt thick, suffocating. “You… you liar! Don’t you dare speak about my daughter that way!” A voice, trembling but fierce, cut through the room. My mother, pale as a ghost, stepped in front of me. She put her frail body between me and that girl. “My daughter is a good woman! She worked for every cent she has! You have no right to spit these lies!” Madison let out a bored sigh. “Move it, lady. This doesn’t involve you.” She leaned back, crossing her arms. “Actually, I get it now. No wonder the mother is so protective. I bet this is how you made your way up back in the day, too. Like mother, like daughter. The apple doesn’t fall far from the trash heap.” “You…!” My mother’s face went from white to a sickly grey. “Madison, shut your mouth!” Howard roared, his entire body shaking. “You are violating every privacy protocol in the book! This is gross misconduct!” Madison didn’t flinch. She looked at him with a sugary, fake pout. “What are you going to do, Howard? You promised my dad you’d look out for me. You think he’s going to let you fire me over a couple of nobodies?” Howard looked like he was about to have a stroke. My patience, which had been frayed to a single thread, finally snapped. Just then, my assistant, Jordan, hurried through the glass doors, leaning in to whisper in my ear. “Elena, I just got word. The escrow for the Eastside lot needs to be settled early. We have a temporary liquidity gap—that fifty-million-dollar loan needs to hit the account today or we lose the land.” I took a deep breath, forcing my heart rate down. I looked at Howard. “Howard. Can you close this loan today? Yes or no? Give me a straight answer.” “Yes! Absolutely! I’ll handle it personally!” Howard stammered. He turned to Madison, his voice booming. “Madison, give me those files. Now!” Instead, Madison pulled the folder further away. “Not so fast! I found a discrepancy! Look here—Montgomery Holdings has an outstanding thirty-million-dollar line of credit from last year. Per regulations, we cannot issue new high-risk loans to entities with unresolved debt.” She lifted her chin, looking at me with pure triumph. “Howard, I’m flagging this for internal review. I suspect predatory borrowing. Until the audit is complete, this loan is frozen. In fact, I’m recommending we freeze her corporate operating accounts for suspicious activity.” “Are you insane?” Howard’s veins were bulging in his neck. “Do you have any idea what that would do? This is a multi-million dollar land deal! If you freeze those accounts, the entire project collapses. You can’t take that responsibility!” “Watch me,” Madison sneered. “My dad and you run this place. We make the rules. I say we audit, so we audit. Let her wait.” I looked at her, and for the first time today, I felt a strange sense of calm. The kind of calm that comes right before a storm levels a city. “Madison,” I said softly. “You want an audit? Fine. But before you pull that trigger, I suggest you look at who signed off on that thirty-million-dollar credit line last year.” I took a step forward, pinning her with my stare. “It’s right there on the signature line. Robert Miller. Your father.” “If you want a full internal investigation, go right ahead. I have nothing to hide. But the first person the regional board is going to call into a dark room for questioning… is your ‘dear old dad.’” Madison’s smirk froze. But after a second, she puffed out her chest again. “Liar! You probably tricked him or forged his signature. You think you can scare me? Once those assets are frozen, we’ll see who comes crawling for a favor.” Jordan checked his watch, his voice urgent. “Elena, we have thirty minutes. If the funds aren’t in escrow, the seller is moving to the backup bidder.” The silence in the lobby was heavy. Madison let out a derisive snort. “Scared now? Tell you what, Elena. I’ll be generous. Get down on your knees, apologize for your attitude, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll find a way to skip the audit.” Before I could move, a soft, broken sound came from beside me. “Please… please don’t do this…” My mother had stepped forward, her posture bent and humble. She began to bow toward Madison. “Young lady, I’m so sorry. It was my fault. I’m clumsy. I’ll clean up the rice right now… I’ll apologize for my daughter. Just please, don’t hurt her business. Please.” “Mom!” I grabbed her shoulders, my heart breaking. Madison recoiled as if my mother were a leper, shoving her back. “Ugh, get away from me! You’re pathetic. No wonder your daughter is such a disaster; she was raised by a beggar.” As I caught my mother, feeling her small frame shaking against me, the last of my mercy evaporated. I stood tall, shielding her. “Madison, you wanted an apology? You aren’t worth the breath it would take. You want an audit? Do it. Start the process.” Howard looked like he had been struck by lightning. “Elena! Please, no!” He knew. He knew I didn’t care about a fifty-million-dollar loan. But he also knew that once the bridge was burned, I would take my entire empire elsewhere. He turned to Madison, his voice a guttural scream. “Madison! Apologize to Ms. Montgomery! This is your last chance! Do it now!” Madison remained defiant, her head held high. “Why should I? She’s the one breaking the rules! Whose side are you on, Howard?” “Fine,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “Howard, it’s clear your authority here is a joke. Don’t worry about the internal audit. I’ll save you the paperwork.” I turned to Jordan. “Call the National Risk Management head and the Ethics Committee. Tell them Elena Montgomery is requesting a full forensic audit of the Miller family’s dealings at this branch. I’ll wait right here.” Jordan nodded and stepped away, phone already at his ear. Madison rolled her eyes, ignoring Howard’s terrified face, and pulled out her own phone to text. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. The heavy glass doors swung open. A group of men and women in dark, tailored suits marched in, their expressions grim. They wore the silver pins of the Federal Regulatory Oversight. In the center of the group was a man whose face was a mirror image of Madison’s, though far more weathered. “Dad!” Madison’s face lit up. She put on a tearful, victimized expression and ran toward him. “Dad! You’re finally here! They’re all ganging up on me! That woman, Elena, she—” She didn’t get to finish. The sound of the slap echoed through the entire bank. Robert Miller had swung with every ounce of his strength. Madison was sent sprawling onto the marble floor, her hand flying to her cheek. She looked up at her father, her eyes wide, the arrogance replaced by a hollow, terrifying confusion.

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