“Your mother left you an item.” The lawyer’s voice was calm, reciting a standard legal script. My brother received one point five million dollars. My sister received one point five million dollars. Then, my turn. The lawyer paused for three seconds, looking directly at me. “A photograph.” I froze. “What kind of photo?” She slid an envelope across the mahogany table. I opened it. Inside was a twenty-year-old snapshot. In the picture, I was seventeen, standing in the overgrown yard of our old house, wearing a stupid, lopsided grin. On the back, a line in my mother’s messy handwriting— “Hang in there, kiddo. Go get that degree.” Cameron and Madeline exchanged a glance. No one spoke. 1. I stared at the photo for a long time. Seventeen-year-old me, a buzz cut, a worn high school jacket, standing beneath the sprawling branches of the old oak tree in our yard. It was a month before my college entrance exams. Mom had made a rare trip home and insisted on taking my picture. “The minute you get into State U., I’m going to blow this up and hang it right over the mantel.” She’d been smiling that day, even changed into a clean, white blouse just for the occasion. It was the only photo she ever took of me. And the last time she ever told me, “Hang in there.” “Rory?” Maddie’s voice broke the silence of the memory. “Are you okay?” I looked up at her. Her expression was complicated, a mix of pity and awkwardness. She wanted to comfort me, but didn’t know how. “I’m fine.” I slipped the photo back into the envelope and stood up. “Is the probate done? I’m leaving.” “Wait.” Cam called out. “Rory, aren’t you going to say something?” I turned and faced him. My older brother, Cameron Whittaker, was wearing a black leather jacket and shoes that looked like they cost more than my monthly rent. He’d been back from the UK for two years, living in a penthouse condo in the city; I heard his in-laws paid the down payment. “Say what?” “I mean…” He hesitated. “Don’t you think Mom’s distribution is a little…” “No.” I grabbed my cheap backpack. “It was Mom’s estate. Her call. The will is final. What’s there to talk about?” “But—” “Cam.” I cut him off. “You got your million five. I got my photo. We’re even. Let’s move on.” Cam’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Maddie stood beside him, looking down, trying to be invisible. I didn’t look at either of them again. I pushed the door open and walked out. A cold, biting rain was falling outside. I stood in the doorway of the office building and lit a cigarette. I had quit three years ago. Today, I was smoking again. One point five million dollars. One point five million dollars. One photo. I laughed, a sharp, dry sound that tasted like regret. I didn’t know what I was laughing at. Twenty years. From seventeen to thirty-seven, I had given everything to that family. In the end, all my mother had left me was a photo from twenty years ago. My phone rang. It was Dad. “Rory, is the reading over?” “It is.” “Where are your brother and sister?” “I don’t know. I left.” “Why didn’t you wait for them?” “Dad.” I took a deep drag on the cigarette. “I’m tired. I want to go home and rest.” “Home? Which home are you going to?” I paused, the air suddenly thick and cold. He was right. Which home? The old house, the one she’d promised to hang my picture in? Mom had clearly willed it to Maddie. My own place was a cramped, north-facing fifty-square-foot rental, two hundred miles away, costing me $1,800 a month. I didn’t own anything. I was thirty-seven, five years divorced, no kids, and my total savings amounted to less than twenty thousand dollars. The start of all this was that photo. The start was that summer when I was seventeen. I had scored in the top three percent in the state. My plan was the State Flagship University, English Literature major. My mother glanced at the acceptance letter and said one sentence— “Your brother’s college is already bleeding us dry, and your sister needs tutoring to get her scores up. We don’t have that kind of money for you.” That night, I cried myself sick under my blanket. The next morning, I ripped up the acceptance letter and signed up for a job at the local textile mill. I was seventeen. Cam was nineteen, already away at his expensive university. Maddie was sixteen. From that day on, my paycheck went straight to my father. I kept three hundred a month for bare necessities. The rest I sent home. To pay for Maddie’s tutoring. To pay for Cam’s university. To help with Maddie’s house down payment. To help with Cam’s wedding. It went on for fifteen years. “Rory? Are you still there?” Dad’s voice crackled on the phone. “I’m here.” “Your brother said he wants to take everyone out for dinner, a sort of way to honor your mother’s…” “I won’t be there.” “Rory!” “Dad, I’m tired.” I hung up. Standing in the rain, I smoked another cigarette. The photo was still in my bag. I touched the envelope, but didn’t pull it out. Twenty years. I finally knew what I was worth to my mother. Not one point five million. Not fifty thousand. Not even five thousand. One photo. One she hadn’t looked at in twenty years. 2. I took a cab back to my rental. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Everything alright, bud? You look rough.” “I’m fine. Just got soaked in the rain.” “Watch out for a cold. Nasty weather.” I nodded, leaning back and closing my eyes. My mind was a whirlpool of the past. I remembered the day the test scores came out. I had a 3.9 GPA and the kind of scores that got you a full-ride scholarship—the kind of kid the town pinned its hopes on. My homeroom teacher called, ecstatic: “Rory Kincaid! You are the best student to come out of this district in a decade! State U. is a lock!” My parents were thrilled for a few days. Relatives streamed in, congratulating them. My uncle said, “Bob, your boy is going to make something of himself! He’s getting out!” My aunt added, “A flagship school! That’s a first for this side of the county!” Dad was beaming, shoving chips and beer at everyone. Mom just sat on the porch, smoking, quiet, but I could tell she was proud. They were the happiest days I could remember. Then the acceptance letter arrived. I remember the day exactly: August 15th. The mail carrier drove his beat-up sedan into the driveway, shouting, “Rory Kincaid! Your letter is here!” I ran out and took the thick, beige envelope. My hands were shaking. I tore it open. Inside, a heavy, embossed red card. “State Flagship University, Department of English Literature.” I stared at the words, tears blurring my vision. I had done it. I had actually done it. Then Mom took the letter and looked at it. Her expression shifted. “How much is the tuition a year?” “Four thousand eight hundred dollars.” “Room and board?” “Eight hundred.” “How much for living expenses?” “…Maybe three to four hundred a month.” Mom didn’t say anything. She placed the letter on the kitchen table and the temperature in the room plummeted. That night, Mom and Dad talked for a long time behind their closed door. I put my ear to the crack to listen. Dad was pleading, “Let Rory go. The kid’s smart. He’ll make something of himself.” Mom’s voice was hard. “Where is the money, Robert? We don’t have it. Look at the Millers’ boy—he graduated and never came back. That money will be wasted.” Dad said, “But…” “Maddie needs to get ready for next year,” Mom interrupted. “Rory goes to school, that’s ten thousand a year. What about Maddie? She can’t fail, or she’ll be stuck here forever, just like us.” Dad fell silent. Then, the final surrender: “How are we going to tell Rory?” “I will.” The next morning, Mom called me out to the yard. She stood beneath the oak tree, looking out at the fading town behind our fence. “Rory.” “Mom.” “Your sister’s college prep next year, your brother’s tuition… the money’s short. You need to…” She didn’t finish the sentence. I understood everything. “You want me to stay home, don’t you?” She didn’t answer. She just dropped her cigarette butt, grinding it out with her heel. “You’re a man, Rory. School isn’t the only path. Get a steady job. That’s more important.” I stood there, paralyzed, unable to speak. Tears dropped onto the dusty ground. Mom looked at me, frowning. “Stop crying. I’m doing this for your own good.” For my own good. That night, I placed the acceptance letter deep in the bottom of my desk drawer. I didn’t tear it. I didn’t burn it. I just hid it there. Twenty years. I never opened that drawer again. The taxi stopped. The driver said, “We’re here, pal.” I snapped back to reality, paid him, and got out. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still an oppressive gray. I looked up at the window of my rented box. Fifth floor, north-facing, perpetually dim. I had lived here for five years. Five years ago, I moved from our small town to this city. Why? Because Mom had a stroke. The doctor said she would need long-term, intensive care. Cam was overseas. Maddie had just bought her first home. Dad was too old and frail to handle it alone. So, I came. I was thirty-two. I had worked at the local mill for fifteen years, finally making it up to Shift Supervisor. I quit the job. I sold the beat-up eight-year-old sedan. I rented this tiny apartment and became my mother’s full-time caregiver. Five years. 3. I unlocked the door. The apartment still held the distinct, inescapable smell. Disinfectant, old age, and a slight, persistent mildew. Five years. The scent was embedded in the drywall; it would never truly air out. I sank onto the couch and pulled the photo out of my bag. Seventeen-year-old me, smiling so brightly. I didn’t know that in three days, my life would be fundamentally redirected. I still thought that getting into college was the starting line of adulthood. I flipped the photo over and looked at the handwriting. “Hang in there, kiddo. Go get that degree.” My mother’s hand was clumsy, the script of a woman who hadn’t finished middle school. But I remembered those words for two decades. Wasn’t it ridiculous? The woman who barred me from college told me to “Go get that degree.” Then, I remembered the context. It was a month before the exam. Mom had come home for a few days—she worked long hours out of town, only making it back a few times a year. She brought a disposable camera—a cheap point-and-shoot someone had given her. “Rory, come here. Mom’s going to take your picture.” I stood beneath the oak tree, and she held the camera up. “Smile, son.” I smiled. She pressed the shutter. Then she said, “The day you get your acceptance, I’m blowing this up and hanging it over the mantel.” I nodded, feeling a warmth I hadn’t felt in months. But what happened next? I did get into college. No, I got in, but I didn’t go. The photo was never blown up. It never hung over the mantel. I assumed it was lost or thrown away. Now, twenty years later, it surfaced in her final will. It was my sole inheritance. My phone chimed. A text from Maddie. “Bro, about the way Mom divided things, I agree it wasn’t fair. I want to split my portion with you. You take half of my $1.5M.” I stared at the screen, motionless. Half. Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Enough for a small condo in this city. Enough to secure my future. I typed a short reply. “No, thank you.” Send. Seconds later, Maddie’s name flashed on the screen. “Rory! Don’t be stubborn! I’m serious!” “I’m not stubborn.” “Then why won’t you take it?” “Because it’s not your money to give.” Maddie was silent. “What do you mean?” “That $1.5 million is what Mom left you. Since she was so clear on the division, she must have had her reasons. You keep it.” “But—” “Maddie.” I cut her off. “Do you remember who paid for your college tuition?” Silence from the other end. “I did,” I said. “Three years of high school tutoring, four years of college, three years of grad school. Your tuition, your living expenses, even the prep classes you took—it all came from me.” “Rory, I know! I’ve always remembered—” “Good. But I don’t need you to pay it back. That money was my gift to you back then. Consider it your older brother covering you.” “Rory…” “Do you remember how much your down payment and wedding fund came to?” Maddie didn’t answer. “Two hundred thousand dollars,” I supplied. “I contributed fifty thousand. The other hundred and fifty came from Mom and Dad, and sixty thousand of that was my money I’d been sending home for years.” “Rory, I…” “And what did Mom and Dad give me when I got married?” She stayed silent. “Two hundred dollars,” I answered for her. “An envelope full of bills, handed to me in front of all the guests.” “Rory, the family was tight on cash then—” “Tight on cash?” My voice finally rose. “The year you bought your house, Mom and Dad handed over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The year I got married, the family could only spare two hundred?” “I didn’t mean it like that…” “Maddie.” I took a deep breath, letting the smoke out slowly. “I’m not telling you this to demand payment. I’m telling you that I have paid my debt to this family, a thousand times over.” “Rory…” “Keep your $1.5 million. You and Cam can handle Dad and all the rest of it. I’m done.” “What are you saying?” “I’m tired.” I hung up the phone. I leaned back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Tired. God, I was exhausted. 4. I picked up the photograph again. Seventeen-year-old me, standing beneath the oak, smiling so brightly. Back then, I believed that hard work was all it took to change my destiny. Back then, I believed my parents wouldn’t let me go to college because they truly had no money. But what happened later? The year Maddie started college, my parents not only paid her tuition but bought her a brand-new laptop. That was 2008. A new laptop cost four or five thousand dollars. I had been working at the mill for five years, making barely eighteen hundred a month. The year Maddie graduated with her Master’s, Mom and Dad paid the down payment on her condo in the city. Two hundred thousand dollars. It was the money I had been sending home, combined with what they had saved. I told myself then that things had finally gotten better, that they were finally in a position to help her. I never thought about how much of that “help” was my sweat and blood. Now, I understood. From the start, Mom never intended for me to go to college. It wasn’t about money. It was about me being the middle child. “Can’t you just help the family out?” Her expression when she said that was perfectly calm. As if she were stating a simple, self-evident truth. The middle child should step aside for the eldest. The middle child should pay for the youngest. The eldest was the family’s face in the world. The youngest was the darling, who needed to be protected. The middle child? I was the anchor, the utility player, the one who kept the engine running. That was her logic. And, I realized, the logic of many people. I looked down at the photo. “Hang in there, kiddo. Go get that degree.” A bitter laugh escaped me. That was the extent of my mother’s hope for me. A four-word instruction. Hang in there. And then what? Then she told me to stay home. I placed the photo on the coffee table, stood up, and walked into the kitchen for a glass of water. Outside, the sky had darkened. The rain was beginning again. I thought of five years ago. Maddie called me, hysterical, saying Mom had collapsed and was hospitalized with a stroke. “Rory, the doctor says it’s serious. Can you come home?” I took the first overnight train. When I arrived at the hospital, Mom was lying in bed, half of her body paralyzed. Dad sat beside her, his face a mask of worry. Cam? In the UK. He called and said he “absolutely couldn’t get the time off,” and told Dad to “take care.” Maddie? She was in the hall, talking on the phone, anxious. I overheard fragments— “The mortgage is due next month. With Mom like this, I just don’t have the cash…” That night, the doctor called us into his office. “Her condition is not good. She needs long-term rehabilitation and constant care. Your family needs to discuss who will be the full-time caregiver.” I looked at Dad, in his sixties and not well himself. I looked at Maddie, newly married, with a baby on the way. Cam in the UK was a non-starter. “I will do it.” I said the words without hesitation. Because I knew there was no one else. Since childhood, whenever a crisis hit this family, I was the one who was expected to absorb the impact. “Rory, what about your job back home?” Maddie asked. “I’ll quit.” “But—” “No buts.” I said. “You focus on your new life. Dad’s too old, Cam won’t come back. I’ll take care of Mom.” Maddie opened her mouth but said nothing. Dad took my hand, tears in his eyes. “Rory, I’m so sorry to ask this of you…” “Dad, I’m your son. Taking care of Mom is what I should do.” When I said it, I believed it. Now, I realized the absurdity. Taking care of Mom was “what I should do,” but what part of Mom’s estate was mine? Five years. Eighteen hundred-plus days. I turned her, bathed her, fed her, and managed her physical therapy. I drove her to appointments, picked up her medication, and managed the hospital stays. I got up every two hours at night to make sure she hadn’t kicked the blanket off or messed with her catheter bag. I never slept a full night. I never took a trip. I never made a new friend. I quit my job at thirty-two. At thirty-seven, I was practically unemployable. Who hires a thirty-seven-year-old with no college degree and a five-year gap on their resume? And the origin of all this was that photo. That summer I was seventeen. That moment my mother asked, “Can’t you just help the family out?” Now what? My mother was dead. The estate totaled $3 million. Cam got $1.5 million. Maddie got $1.5 million. Me? A twenty-year-old photo. I stood at the window, cup in hand, looking at the rain. I finally understood. That photo was the last testament to my mother seeing me. Twenty years ago, she remembered to take my picture and tell me to “Hang in there.” Twenty years later, she only saw my siblings. Her inheritance wasn’t a gift. It was a reminder. A reminder that I was never the priority.

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A pristine, lace dress now hung in my closet. It was a jarring, almost offensive presence among my simple, worn clothes. I ran a hand over the soft fabric, a smile—one I hadn’t realized was missing—spreading across my face. “Getting all romantic with the surprise birthday gifts, are we? After all these years, Alistair?” I was giddy. I excitedly slipped it on. I didn’t even glance in the mirror before I heard the front door open. I hurried out of the bedroom, laughing. “Honey, it’s a little snug, but I haven’t taken the tag off! Can we exchange it for the next size up?” But Alistair wasn’t alone. His student was with him. The young woman looked me up and down, a nasty little smirk twisting her mouth. “Professor Wells’s wife,” she drawled. “You’re wearing my dress.” She burst into an ugly, high-pitched laugh. “How did you even manage to stuff yourself into that? It’s hilarious. You look like a sausage about to burst its casing. Please tell me you haven’t stretched it out.” My face flushed crimson, the heat stinging my cheeks. I turned to Alistair, expecting him to deliver a sharp rebuke to her insolence. Instead, he scanned me with a look of cold indifference, then spoke. “Take it off, Cathy. It’s pretty repulsive.” The words were a physical blow. I stared at him, my world silent as something immense and central within me collapsed into dust. When he returned from walking the student out, I fixed him with a hard, unwavering gaze. “Do you have anything to say to me?” I demanded. Alistair rubbed his temples, his expression already weary. “She’s just a kid, Cathy. A little tactless, maybe. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” I gave a short, bitter laugh. “Professor Wells, you’ve missed the point.” “I’m not angry at her. I’m angry at you.” … 1 Standing in the entryway, with both of them staring at me, I felt more exposed than if I had been fully naked. The shame burned. I bolted back into the bedroom, not stopping until I was behind the locked door. This time, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Yes, the dress was a struggle. It strained across my middle, pulling tight over my belly. But that strain wasn’t just fat. It was the result of Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, a condition I’d developed years ago. When Alistair and I were kids, we both lived in Red Clay Creek, a smudge of a town we desperately wanted to escape. I only had my aging grandmother. He only had his mother, sick and struggling. The kind of tight bond that forms when two people are all the other has kept us close. Alistair was brilliant. The only way out for a kid like him, the local teacher said, was a college scholarship. I made sure he got it. I left town and moved to Amesport, a brutal port city, to work. I needed to keep him in tuition, books, and food. Amesport winters were vicious. To maximize my pay, I’d rush to the freezing coastline before dawn, when the tide was out, to dig for clams. By afternoon, I was cleaning the hulls of cargo ships, the arctic wind tearing through my clothes. Year after year. The constant exposure, the raw, chapped hands and the cold water, eventually destroyed my health. My doctor said my uterus was damaged, and the stress triggered the PCOS. I might never carry a child. Alistair has clearly forgotten all of that. He has played the role of the esteemed, morally immaculate Professor Wells for so long that he’s forgotten his rough beginnings. Forgotten that it was his ‘plain’ wife who sacrificed her body and her future to put him on this pedestal. My chest tightened with an agonizing clench. I quickly changed into my own clothes, then grabbed the crumpled lace dress and walked out. Grace took it, held it up against her own slender frame, and pouted. “Do you think it’s stretched out?” Alistair shot me a quick, chiding glance, then turned back to Grace. “Throw that one out. I’ll replace it and get you something else.” Grace’s eyes lit up. She smiled at him, a dazzling, genuine smile. “Oh, thank you, Professor!” Then she tossed the dress at me. “Here, Mrs. Wells. You keep it. Maybe if you lose some weight, you can finally wear it.” It landed on the hardwood floor. I didn’t reach for it. They turned and walked downstairs, Alistair saying he’d see her off. I moved slowly to the window. Below, the girl was smiling brightly, waving at Alistair. His frame was straight and tall as he watched her go, and I saw the undisguised fondness in his eyes. He hadn’t looked at me like that in years. A spreading bitterness filled my throat. I pressed my lips together. Thirty years with Alistair. In that moment, I knew it was finally, irreversibly over. When Alistair returned, I was still sitting at the dining table, my head bowed. He glanced at the clock, acting as if nothing had happened. “What are we having for dinner?” I spoke flatly. “Do we need to eat?” Alistair frowned. “Are you really taking up dieting now, like those silly college girls? Cathy, you know your body can’t handle that.” I looked up, my eyes cold. “You know my body can’t handle it, and yet you let her humiliate me?” Alistair sighed, a sound of manufactured patience, and walked toward me. “You’re right, the dress didn’t suit you. Do you want me to lie? Besides, Grace is just a young woman with no filter. Stop being so sensitive.” I watched him approach and offered a cold, brittle laugh. “I’m not being sensitive about her.” “I’m talking about you.” “Alistair Wells, how long have you been in love with your student?” 2 Alistair froze mid-step, his face instantly darkening with indignation. “Cathy! It was a dress! A stupid, meaningless dress! Do you have to be so paranoid after all this time?” He held his hands out, his voice rising. “We have thirty years of history. How could you possibly think I’d just throw that away for someone else?” I stood slowly, still staring into his angry eyes. “Alistair, do you remember, so many years ago, the first white dress you ever bought me?” That year, Alistair had finally made it to the city university and earned his first substantial check from a summer job. He used it to buy me a simple white summer dress. My skin was tanned and rough from the fieldwork. When I wore it, the dress looked stark and odd, like a swatch of white cloth tossed over black dirt. I wanted to take it off, feeling ugly and exposed, but Alistair held my hand. “Don’t take it off, Cathy. You look beautiful in everything.” “Wait for me,” he’d whispered. “Just wait until I make something of myself, until I’m a tall, strong oak. Then I’ll give you back the country flower you are.” Today, I’d believed—foolishly—that he’d remembered that memory and bought me a white dress to mark the occasion. Instead, he’d forgotten completely. And with one word—”repulsive”—he proved how fragile that memory was. Sure enough, Alistair was frowning now, struggling to recall. “Why drag up ancient history?” he muttered. “If you want that dress so badly, I’ll just take it back and exchange it for a bigger size.” He bent down, annoyance radiating off him, and picked up the lace dress. But he didn’t realize that in his rush back earlier, he had unconsciously stepped on it. The pure white lace now bore the smudge of a black footprint. It was ruined. Unreturnable. I watched the hand holding the stained garment. “Don’t bother,” I said, my voice low. “I wouldn’t want to wear something that offends your eyes.” Alistair’s control finally snapped. He exploded. “Cathy, you are being utterly impossible!” “You think I’m cheating? Fine! I’ll bring Grace here and let her explain everything right to your face!” He strode toward the door. Then his phone rang. He snatched it up, and as he listened, his face went alarmingly pale. He hung up and rushed out the door. Less than an hour later, the door flew open. Alistair walked in, closely followed by Grace. The girl’s eyes were red, and her cheeks still seemed to have streaks of tears. Alistair’s mood was black. My heart gave a little lurch. I briefly wondered if he had lashed out and made the girl cry. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they weren’t involved. Maybe his comment was just a bad joke. Then, Grace stepped around Alistair and gave me a deep, theatrical bow. “Mrs. Wells, I am so sorry. I was completely out of line earlier. I apologize.” She straightened up, her voice trembling slightly. “I just… I have a terrible filter. I say whatever comes to mind. Please, please don’t hold it against me.” I watched this polished performance, remembering the version of myself that used to beg for cents just to get by. A pang of unexpected softness hit me. I spoke slowly. “It’s fine.” The girl immediately wiped away her tears and grabbed Alistair’s arm, beaming. “That’s wonderful, Professor! Mrs. Wells forgave me!” She lowered her voice, a sudden, conspiratorial note in it. “So, you can let me stay, right?” Alistair looked at her approvingly and nodded. “Of course. Where else would you go? You’re staying here.” He turned to me, his expression hardening as he saw the rigidity in my posture. “Grace’s roommates were using a faulty appliance and it started a fire in their dorm. The girl is alone in Amesport, Cathy. We’ll put her up for a few days.” 3 So, the dramatic apology was just the prelude to this arrangement. I stared at them in disbelief. “Alistair, you can’t bring a female student to live in our home! You could get her a hotel room, or a temporary transfer to another dorm…” He cut me off with a sharp frown. “The university has no spare rooms. And besides, it’s not safe for a young woman alone in a hotel.” Grace, seeing my resistance, brought the tears back. “Mrs. Wells, are you still mad at me? I’ll apologize again, okay?” She started to bend at the waist. “I really am afraid to stay in a hotel by myself. I’m scared…” Alistair stopped her. “This is my house. If I say you are staying, you are staying.” He turned back to me, his voice rough with impatience. “Stop being so petty, Cathy. She apologized. What more do you want?” I stood rooted to the spot, reflecting on Alistair’s earlier denials. His blatant favoritism was sickening. Could his feelings for her be any clearer? A furious mixture of grief and indignation began to churn in my stomach. A reckless, brilliant plan suddenly took shape. I looked at them both and didn’t argue further, simply taking a step back. Alistair led Grace inside, then clapped a condescending hand on my shoulder. “Good. Glad you’re being reasonable. I was a little harsh earlier, too.” I kept my lips pressed shut, but Alistair took my silence as submission. “Go tidy up the guest room,” he ordered. “Grace is our guest. We can’t neglect her.” I smoothed out my features, offering the placid, gentle look he was accustomed to seeing. “Of course. I’ll go clean it up now.” That night, Grace slept in the room right next to ours. The next morning, I woke up early. I started doing the cleaning, my usual daily routine, scrubbing and mopping. I made sure to be loud. The noise eventually roused Grace. She emerged from the guest room, her face crumpled with irritation. “Auntie, why are you up so early cleaning? It’s so noisy.” I froze, looking up from the mop. Grace blinked the sleep from her eyes, saw my face, and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry, Mrs. Wells! I was half-asleep and thought you were my cleaning lady.” She gave a nervous laugh. “But honestly, you’re even more diligent than my maid. I should really tell her to step up her game.” I simply continued dragging the mop, ignoring her completely. Grace gave a forced, weak smile and retreated back into her room. She and Alistair eventually woke up around noon. Alistair was habitually an early riser; I wondered why he’d slept so late today. I didn’t ask. He spoke frankly enough. “It’s nearly lunchtime. Did you get the groceries yet?” I shook my head. Alistair frowned, then picked up a shopping bag. “I’ll come with you, then.” Grace, hearing this, immediately bounced out of her room, announcing she wanted to join. I watched their easy familiarity, feeling a stab of pure irony. I just silently followed them out the door. At the farmer’s market, Alistair picked up a tomato. “Grace loves sweet-and-sour tomato scramble,” he said. “We should get a few of these.” Passing the seafood stall, he pointed to the crabs. “Grace loves steamed crab. Grab a couple.” I looked at the crabs struggling in the tank, a cold smirk forming on my face. “You’re quite familiar with your student’s tastes.” 4 Alistair stiffened, then rushed to explain. “I have a good memory. I picked up on it when we went out to dinner a few times. I remember all my students’ favorites.” I nodded slowly, then turned to him. “And do you remember what I like to eat?” Alistair chuckled, relieved. “How could I forget! You love fish. Hey, owner, give me that big trout.” I immediately stopped him. “Don’t bother.” “Alistair, I’ve hated the smell of seafood my entire life. It makes me sick.” Alistair stared at me, dumbfounded. “But… you always buy fish! You cook it all the time!” I lowered my eyes, my voice laced with self-contempt. “I used to buy the near-dead fish for free when I worked on the docks.” “Later, I cooked it because you love it.” “Alistair, didn’t you ever notice that I never once reached for a single piece of fish?” Alistair fell silent, utterly stunned. A short distance away, Grace was standing, clutching her nose. As we approached, still silent, she seemed oblivious to the thick tension. “This market is so dirty and smelly,” she complained. “Mrs. Wells, you come here every day? You’re so brave. How do you stand it?” Alistair looked at Grace, his expression softening with sympathy. “I told you not to come. I said the environment here was unpleasant.” “Do you come here often, Professor?” Grace asked innocently. Alistair never came. He hated that the market was dirty, and he was embarrassed when I haggled over a few cents. Today, he was slumming it—coming here only to ensure Grace got her favorite ingredients. He avoided Grace’s question, awkwardly changing the subject. As we left the market, we passed a small stall selling cheap clothing. Grace pointed to a garish, black polyester floral dress. “Mrs. Wells, you like wearing dresses, right? This one really suits you.” She nudged Alistair. “Professor, don’t you think?” Alistair glanced at it and nodded. “Yes. It’s very appropriate for her.” The vendor, seeing a potential sale, hurried over, smiling. “Buying for your mother figure?” she asked Alistair and Grace. “A nice gift for your long-time family elder?” The “long-time elder.” It reminded me of the time I first met Alistair’s college roommates. One of them had asked if I was Alistair’s aunt. Alistair hadn’t defended me that night. His face had just gone beet red with shame, and he’d made an excuse to rush me home. After that, I rarely saw his friends. Even now, Alistair couldn’t acknowledge me as his wife. The bitterness intensified. I heard the vendor continue her pitch. “They’re $99, buy one get one free. Great deal.” I clearly remembered the tag on the white lace dress: $1,999. Alistair thought this cheap, ugly, clearance-rack polyester was what was appropriate for me. My eyes hardened. I spoke flatly. “I don’t like it.” I turned and walked away quickly. Alistair rushed to catch up, bewildered. “What are you mad about now? I was trying to be nice and buy you a dress! What did I do wrong?” I took a deep breath, quickening my pace. “Are you deaf? I said I. Don’t. Like. It.” Grace caught up and tried to mediate. “Professor, don’t argue with Mrs. Wells. Maybe it’s inconvenient to wear a dress while working? My cleaning lady never wears them at our house.” The word ‘cleaning lady’ was another sting, deep in my heart. Alistair didn’t deny it. He certainly didn’t scold Grace. He simply agreed. “That’s a good point.” My heart plummeted. In that instant, thirty years of shared history, even the last faint warmth, went ice-cold. When we got home, I immediately went into the kitchen to cook. Grace loved home made opened sandwich? I made it a simple cheese ham sandwich. She loved roasted ribs? I made them spicy and heavily roasted. Her favourite cabbage salad? I doused it in chili and vinegar. When the dishes came out, Alistair’s face was thunderous. “Cathy Wells, I told you what dishes to make!” I ate my food calmly. “My apologies, Professor Wells. My memory isn’t as sharp as yours.” It was a quiet meal. I was the only one who ate with any appetite. Alistair finished quickly, his face dark, and took Grace to the university. I slowly cleaned the kitchen. Then, I went to Alistair’s study and found our marriage certificate. I took out a pen and paper and began to write a letter. But I was interrupted by Alistair calling me. “I’m taking some students out to dinner tonight, and I’m going to introduce you to them.” His voice was dripping with forced patience. “Cathy, I’m doing this much. Can you please stop this childish sulking?” He spoke as if he were bestowing a monumental gift upon me. Yet, for thirty years, it had been my sacrifices that gifted him this life. I swallowed the bitter irony and agreed to the dinner. That evening, I arrived at the restaurant as planned. Just outside the private dining room, I heard Grace’s voice, sharp and distinct. “Yes, I’ve met Mrs. Wells. She wasn’t what I expected. I thought she’d be intellectual and elegant.” A cruel little laugh. “I was surprised. She’s a bit heavy, you know? Definitely the solid, working-class type.” The group erupted in laughter. “What an awful way to describe her, Grace! Aren’t you afraid of getting scolded?” Grace scoffed, her voice smug. “The Professor would never scold me. I’m his favorite student.” Alistair, as expected, only chuckled softly, saying nothing. Suddenly, Grace’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Professor, you and Mrs. Wells don’t have kids, do you? And she has that big belly… do you think she might be pregnant?” Alistair paused, then laughed lightly. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s just heavy.” The table dissolved into fresh, low laughter. I stood in the doorway, watching the scene unfold, my expression cold. I pulled out my phone. Without a moment’s hesitation, I posted the fully edited message to the university’s private forum. I watched for the “Post Successful” notification, then, poker-faced, walked into the dining room. The students saw me. Their faces registered shock, curiosity, and disbelief—and yes, distaste. I ignored it all and walked straight to the seat beside Alistair. The group quickly masked their surprise, forcing on polite expressions as they greeted me. I met their eyes, one by one, acknowledging them calmly. Alistair, too, instantly reverted to his role as the doting husband. The dinner began, filled with forced cheer and chatter. Only I remained silent. Suddenly, one of the students gasped in surprise. “Professor! There’s a viral post about you on the school forum!” Alistair immediately snatched the phone. As he read, his face went from pale to sickly gray. He looked up at me, his eyes blazing. “Cathy, are you insane?!”

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It was New Year’s Day dinner when my wife, Sienna, slapped the debit card for our joint bank account down on the marble table in front of me. Her face was stony. “You are going to explain this to me. Why is there only thirty-two cents left in this account?” “I deposited half a million dollars this year. Where is the money?!” I stood up slowly, keeping my voice level. “Take a breath, Sienna. I have the statements right here…” I reached for my phone. My mother-in-law, Carol, interrupted me with a voice dripping in sweet venom. “Your sister just bought a brand-new luxury SUV. Where do you think she got the cash? You clearly took my daughter’s money and handed it over to your family!” I ignored Carol and placed the detailed bank statement in front of Sienna. She glanced at it, then violently swatted my hand away. … “Enough. Get your sister to return the five hundred thousand dollars before the end of the week, or we’re getting a divorce!” A cold, hard laugh escaped me. I picked up my phone, sending the entire year’s expenditure report directly into the Richard family group chat. In the accompanying draft divorce agreement, I demanded that Sienna and her family repay me eighty thousand dollars. The family group chat instantly exploded. People who hadn’t spoken to me in months suddenly started begging me not to go through with it. A surge of icy rage hit me. I looked at Sienna and smirked. “Are you sure you want to go through with this divorce?” Sienna barely glanced at me. “If your sister returns the money, I might drop it.” “But let me be clear: starting next year, I will never put another dollar into that joint account!” My smile became openly mocking. I nodded slowly. “Fine. Let’s get divorced, then.” Carol shrieked, slamming her chopsticks down. “Cameron Mitchell! I’m telling you, even if you divorce my daughter, you will return that money! Otherwise, I will sue you!” I looked at her calmly, speaking each word distinctly. “Don’t worry, before we divorce, I will account for every single penny.” I paused, my voice dropping an octave. “Just one question, though: Are you saying that whoever spent the money is the one who has to pay it all back?” Carol snorted, her chin lifted high. “Exactly! You spent my daughter’s money on your family, and you’ll repay every cent of it.” I nodded. With that statement, I was set. I went back to our bedroom, grabbed my phone, and sent one simple message into Sienna’s family group chat: “I have decided to divorce Sienna.” The group had been a flurry of cheerful holiday emojis and gift card links moments ago. My message dropped into a silence that was deafening. I didn’t care if they replied or not. I tossed the phone onto the bed and started packing a suitcase. Sienna burst through the door. “Are you insane?!” “It’s a holiday, and you’re sending that kind of garbage in the chat? It’s bad luck! Recall it immediately! Say it was a mistake!” I didn’t look up. “I won’t recall it.” I was only telling the truth. Why would I take it back? Besides, it was just a divorce. What was so unlucky about finally being free? My phone suddenly began pinging relentlessly. Messages were pouring into the family chat. Carol was wailing in text: “What kind of life does my daughter live? My heart aches, seeing this!” “He does nothing all day and steals Sienna’s money to buy his sister a car! Sienna simply asked a question, and now he’s demanding a divorce!” “Have you ever met such a shameless son-in-law? That was five hundred thousand dollars! Since he didn’t earn it, he doesn’t care about it!” “I don’t care if you laugh at me, but I have been sick of this man for a long time. Divorce is fine! I’ll take care of my daughter myself from now on!” I curled my lips into a sneer of contempt. If it hadn’t been for her constant meddling, Sienna and I might never have reached this point. Besides, I thought about the account statements. I honestly couldn’t comprehend how Carol could claim she hadn’t touched a penny of that money. The moment she discovered Sienna was depositing a large amount into the joint account every month, she started hitting me up for cash. Today, she needed fifty thousand for a couples’ cruise with my father-in-law. Tomorrow, her distant cousin was getting married and needed twenty thousand for a down payment. The day after, she needed a quarter of a million to ‘lend’ to a struggling former classmate. And Sienna herself… Her colleagues would chip in fifty dollars for a wedding gift. But Sienna insisted that, as a team leader, she had to save face and send a check for ten thousand dollars. Five colleagues got married in one year; that was fifty thousand dollars just on cash gifts. On top of that, there were expensive holiday gifts for her senior executives. Two or three thousand dollars minimum per holiday. She had no idea that her fifty thousand dollar deposits hadn’t even covered the family’s actual lifestyle expenses. I had always told myself we were family. I wasn’t a man who counted every penny. I simply covered the difference, quietly transferring money from my personal account whenever the joint one ran dry. But I never imagined my generosity would be so deeply misunderstood and warped. I thought, out of the eighteen people in the family chat, someone would have the decency to speak up for me. I was wrong. As soon as Carol’s messages came out, the chat erupted in a chorus of condemnation. “What?!” “How could he take all of Sienna’s money for his own family? That’s disgusting!” That was Helen Sawyer, Sienna’s aunt. Six months ago, she told me her nephew needed a hundred thousand for a house down payment. To put my mind at ease, she’d given me a signed IOU, promising to pay it back as soon as possible. I had transferred the money from my own personal funds. I never pressed her, and she never paid it back. “A guy like him will never make five hundred thousand dollars in his life. The old saying is right: the worst thieves are the ones in your own house!” That was Brett Harris, Sienna’s cousin. Three months ago, he came to me asking for two hundred thousand for a startup. I refused, but Carol stepped in, guaranteed the loan, and I begrudgingly transferred the money. As far as I knew, he’d blown through the entire two hundred thousand within a month. He hadn’t said a word about a repayment plan. There were a few attempts at mediation. “Cam, I’m not judging, but you were being insensitive. My sister is busy working all year. Your job is to handle the logistics. Spending her money on your sister—what’s that about?” “Listen to me, man. Go get the five hundred grand back right now, apologize properly to my sister, and this will all blow over.” That was Jamie Richard, Sienna’s younger brother. He was currently in college. Last month, he’d hit me up for three thousand dollars for a trip to Cabo for the holidays. All year, he’d demanded money from me with an air of entitlement. “I’m spending my sister’s money, not yours. What right do you have to refuse me?” I reminded myself he was young, he was Sienna’s brother. Even knowing the money was a dead loss, I transferred it without question. Now, as I watched the messages jump up and down in the family chat, the contempt in my eyes sharpened. Ever since I married Sienna, I had been the one managing all their social and financial dramas. When they needed loans, they were full of sweet talk. Now, they were calling me a shameless thief. I slowly typed and sent a message: “The money was not spent by me or my family. I will not be repaying it.” At that, the rest of the relatives who had been silently watching suddenly jumped in. “Cameron! It’s the holidays, stop causing drama! Everyone knows your sister doesn’t have a real job. How did she buy a car?” My sister, Paige, didn’t have a nine-to-five job. But she wasn’t a freeloader, either. She managed my parents’ domestic businesses. My parents are entrepreneurs who are constantly busy, often traveling abroad to scout for investments. They’d set up a private holding company for Paige to manage our US interests. My parents gave Paige a monthly allowance of two hundred thousand dollars as a formality. So, her new Rolls-Royce—she could easily afford that after saving for a few months. I scoffed. “My sister’s car cost over a million dollars. Sienna’s joint account only had half a million. How could it possibly have been Sienna’s money?” I hadn’t wanted to say anything. Even after marrying Sienna, I had only ever told her that my parents were business owners and financially comfortable. I never told her that their net income was in the tens of millions annually. But Sienna refused to believe it. She was convinced I’d spent the joint funds on my sister. Sienna stood at the door, clutching her phone, reading my message in the chat. She gave a cold laugh. “Still lying? If it wasn’t for my five hundred thousand, how else could your sister have cobbled together enough cash to buy that car outright?” She looked disappointed. “Cam, I told you when we got married, you could help your sister, but you had to ask me first.” “How could you just take the money without a word and give it to an outsider?” I suddenly found her profoundly ridiculous. I put down my phone, looked up, and took a deep breath. “I’m saying it one more time. My family didn’t touch a single cent of your money.” Just as I spoke, Carol burst back in, slamming the door. “Sienna! Don’t waste your breath on him! Your Aunt Helen just told me she saw Cameron’s parents at the airport last month!” Carol glared at me, pointing a finger at my face. “Your parents went on vacation, didn’t they? That was my daughter’s money too, wasn’t it?” “If I had known you were capable of such shameless behavior, I never would have let Sienna marry you!” I recalled the conversation. My mother had mentioned running into Helen at the airport. The Richards were going on a family trip and Helen had bragged about flying first class. I curled my lip. They had money to travel, but no money to repay their loans. It was clear my easygoing nature had made them believe I was a pushover. I zipped up the last item of clothing in my suitcase. I stood up, giving Carol a fake, chilling smile. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have married Sienna.” “I’ll send you the final accounting and the divorce papers as soon as possible.” With that, I grabbed my suitcase and walked out. Sienna’s face paled. She yanked the suitcase handle. “What do you mean? You’re serious about the divorce?” I gave a light laugh. “You know I don’t make jokes like this.” Carol yelled from inside the apartment. “Let him go, Sienna! I’d like to see where he finds a woman as good as you once you’re divorced!” She faced me, speaking with a defiant, arrogant tone. “You walk out that door today, and you can forget about ever coming back—even if you get on your knees and beg me!” I looked at her deeply. I sincerely hoped she would keep that promise once I finished sending out the rest of the statements. It was New Year’s Eve, and late at night, making it difficult to get a cab. I called my sister, Paige, to come pick me up. On the way home, I told her everything. When we arrived, Paige’s eyes were red. She rushed over and hugged my mother. “Mom, you didn’t see how pathetic Cam looked! On a holiday, he was standing alone downstairs with his suitcase in the cold wind!” She gritted her teeth in fury. “That woman didn’t even offer to help him leave!” My mother, having heard the whole story, put an arm around my shoulder. “Get the divorce. You absolutely must!” All the accumulated frustration and humiliation I’d endured at the Richards’ house instantly vanished. Home truly was the warmest harbor. My brother-in-law, Tyler, came over to me. “So, Cam, you’re just going to let them get away with this?” I gave a slight, cold smile and shook my head. “Let them get away with it?” “I’m going to make every single one of them regret this. I’m just getting started.” I began the process of exporting every single bank statement for the year. Every expense was documented clearly and precisely. The joint account received five hundred thousand dollars. But my total personal expenditure this year was one million three hundred thousand dollars. After Sienna and I married, she told me to quit my job and focus on managing the household. Sienna always thought she was providing for me. What she didn’t know was that my mother gave me an annual allowance of three million dollars, which was even more than she gave Paige. It wasn’t that my mother favored me. It was because I had moved into Sienna’s home after we married, and she was worried I would be mistreated. Sienna’s family was comfortable, but they were worlds apart from mine. When I married Sienna, my mother hadn’t objected. She only had one condition: don’t tell the Richards the true extent of our family’s wealth. I had agreed. Now, it seemed my mother had been right all along. My phone vibrated. Sienna had sent a message to the group chat. “Cameron Mitchell! I’m giving you one last chance. Get your sister to give me back the money, and I won’t divorce you!” I gave a dry laugh. “I won’t.” “Fine! You won’t return it? Then don’t blame me for not respecting our marriage!” “Wait for the court summons!” Carol was also screaming in the group. “See? This man is a disaster waiting to happen! Any woman who marries him is doomed!” Helen Sawyer chimed in: “Don’t worry, we’ll all go to court and testify for you!” “Why should our Richard family money go to outsiders?” I laughed mockingly. She seemed to forget she wasn’t a Richard. Even Jamie, Sienna’s brother, chimed in from his vacation in Cabo, supporting her. “Go for it, Sis! Divorce him!” “I’ll introduce you to a younger guy with six-pack abs! Who needs this old man of a husband!” I didn’t reply again. I called the lawyer who often handled my parents’ corporate issues. I asked her how to draft the divorce agreement and how to reclaim the eight hundred thousand dollars I had spent on the Richards. “I have the transfer records, the IOUs, and the signed guarantees from the person who vouched for the loan.” The lawyer replied, “That’s all we need. Furthermore, the allowance your parents give you is a personal gift, transferred directly to you. That does not count as marital property.” I let out a sigh of relief. Sienna, I’m going to settle this debt, item by item. Ping. The annual bank statement export was complete. The next day, my lawyer came to my house, ostensibly to wish us a happy new year, but she brought the finalized divorce agreement. The last item was a demand for Sienna’s family to repay my personal funds of eight hundred thousand dollars. I signed my name first. Then, I forwarded the exported bank statements directly to the Richard family group chat. Every expense was listed in excruciating detail. Every penny lent to them was documented as coming from my personal savings account. Now that I was divorcing Sienna, I was demanding that the entire family, including Carol and Sienna, repay the eight hundred thousand dollars they owed me. Five minutes later. The group chat exploded.

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My wife was a scientist of renown. A public figure. In interviews, when the subject of emotion came up, she’d say: “I don’t believe I am a suitable partner.” “I would never prioritize love. Under no circumstances.” “I am only willing to dedicate my finite time to the infinite pursuit of science.” After the segment aired, the world was full of praise for her fearless devotion to her work. I, meanwhile, quietly tucked away my medical report. I had cancer. Stage four. The days she spent in London, accepting her prestigious award. Those were my last days on this earth. 1 The final sensation before my consciousness dissolved was the blinding, searing light of the operating room lamp. When I felt my spirit detach and rise, I was able to see the operating theater in its entirety. I saw the monitor next to my bed—the line that tracked my heart rate had flattened into a single, merciless stroke. In that moment, I realized with startling clarity. I was dead. 2 I don’t know why, but I had become an invisible presence, able to drift freely. Just this morning, I had been coherent enough to talk to Serena Ashworth. She was taking a flight at noon for a major academic conference overseas. So, I had gotten up at seven to make her breakfast. For someone so outwardly minimalist and detached, Serena had very specific tastes. Her sourdough toast had to be just a little crisp, and her milk had to be steaming, not scalded. My daughter, Paige, used to joke: “Dad, you’ve spoiled Mom with all this meticulous care.” I never argued with her. After taking care of Serena so thoroughly for two or three decades, even the most troublesome tasks had simply become habit. 3 “Serena, I heard the temperature is going to drop sharply in London because of that Arctic front.” “I packed an extra down vest for you.” “Your gum is in the left pocket of your carry-on. You always get altitude sickness on the plane; chew a piece, it helps.” “And don’t stay up too late. Your heart’s been bothering you, hasn’t it? Get some rest…” “It’s a Polar Continental air mass.” Her voice cut me off, sharp and sudden. I looked up dully, meeting her clear, bright eyes. The phrase beauty unmarred by time fit Serena perfectly. Her features were exquisite; she was nearing middle age, yet the years had left no trace on her. That coldness, which she had carried since she was a young woman, could still reach straight to the core of my heart. She was correcting the imprecision of my opening statement. The “Arctic front” I’d mentioned was precisely a “Polar Continental air mass.” But I was only trying to show concern. I lowered my gaze, smoothing down the lapel of her jacket. “I know.” “Travel safe, Serena.” She turned and walked past me. She assumed I had the afternoon free. That wasn’t true. She was heading across the Atlantic for a major academic presentation. I also had a meeting to attend. It was my pre-operative consultation. The doctors said the success rate for the surgery was only twenty percent. 4 When the doctor informed me that my gastric cancer had been discovered too late and had already metastasized throughout my body, I sat in the hospital corridor for an entire afternoon. A television mounted in the corner was playing a rerun of Today’s Talk, the interview Serena had done a few days prior. The woman with the chillingly cool gaze didn’t want to waste much time on anything besides research. Even when asked about her husband, she only offered a terse dismissal. “I am an obtuse person.” “I don’t understand love. My husband… he is a responsibility, mostly.” “Anniversaries? They’re mere formalism. I’d rather spend that time running a few more experiments than preparing for such a thing.” It was precisely the kind of thing Serena would say. Forget anniversaries; she didn’t even celebrate birthdays. When I was younger, I used to cling to the hope that she might one day surprise me and wish me a happy birthday. But I never waited long enough to see her arrive. The brain that could memorize countless data points was stubbornly unwilling to remember the four digits of my birthday. Eventually, I stopped waiting. I’d sit alone at the table and prepare a bowl of long-life noodles, marking the day myself. Serena was an iron tree; she would never bloom. It took me over twenty years to finally admit that truth. It was only in the last few years that I began to feel differently about myself. Call it exhaustion, or surrender. Funnily enough, she was she, and I was I. This truth, which she had laid out plainly for me decades ago, I was only now truly understanding. I folded the prognosis into a crease-covered square, put it in my pocket, and only called my daughter. 5 Paige and I were close. Because Serena never really liked children, and her only daughter showed absolutely no aptitude for science. After listening to my detached, emotionless account, Paige’s voice caught in her throat. “Dad…” “Did you tell Mom…” “I didn’t tell her.” I looked down at the granite floor. “I don’t want to tell her.” She was her, and I was I. Besides, what difference would it make if she knew I was sick? Would she set aside the research she was madly pursuing day and night to care for me? “Paige.” “Dad doesn’t know how much longer he has to live.” “When I’m gone, don’t tell your mother.” I lowered my head to smooth out the creases in my shirt. Why should I bring something that Serena was utterly indifferent to, to clutter her life? “Okay.” Paige answered from the other end of the line. “But Dad, honestly, Mom doesn’t deserve you.” “She truly doesn’t deserve someone as good as you.” … 6 My spirit drifted through the hospital corridor. I saw the surgeon exit the operating room, shaking his head regretfully. Paige was slumped, sobbing by the bedside. She had brought me to the hospital at noon and had stayed outside the OR until night, but her father had failed and would not open his eyes again. She was crying so hard, and I was fluttering frantically right next to her, but she couldn’t see me. I wanted so badly to hold her, to tell her not to cry, just like when she was little. Paige had done so well. She hadn’t become a scientist, as her mother wished, but her paintings were loved by many, and she was scheduled to have an exhibition in Italy later that year. I sat next to her, looking up at the night sky, singing to her as I used to do when she was a child. She couldn’t hear me, but I felt that somehow, she would know her father was there. … Suddenly, I was swept away by a current, carried to a place very far away. The senses of a spirit after death are bizarrely unique. I could perceive what was happening at the hospital after my death, yet at the same time, I arrived at the conference hall where Serena was presenting. Her conference was scheduled to last seven days. A woman like her could easily become the focal point of any gathering. Young, beautiful, with a resume that was practically unprecedented and unlikely to be repeated. In truth, Serena had always been the center of attention since childhood. In college, the boys who chased her were as numerous as fish in a river. In that slightly more traditional era, boys would boldly wait outside her dorm building. Each time, she would look at them with that same look of absolute distance. Dressed in the simplest white blouse, textbooks tucked under her arm, she would look down at them with a restrained, detached air: “I’m sorry, I don’t like you.” The words were utterly without mercy. What many girls proudly saw as “being popular,” for her was nothing more than a simple nuisance. She was already winning national awards left and right back then. Her name was frequently on the lips of professors. I was one of the students who looked up to her, always on the absolute periphery. I only dared to glimpse the edge of her shirt when we exited the dining hall. Serena had no idea that I had been secretly crushing on her for three or four years before we met through an arranged introduction. And I certainly never expected that three years after graduation. The woman my family arranged for me to meet would be her. “I won’t have a person I like.” That was the first thing Serena said to me when we met. “If I have to say I like anything, I like experiments, mathematics—nothing to do with people, in short.” She frowned slightly, yet even this couldn’t diminish her dazzling beauty. She explained herself concisely. “We are not discussing romance.” “We are simply ensuring the existence of an heir. Do you understand?” … She was very clear back then. It was I who decided I could accept it. It was I who wanted to be with her. I kept thinking that we had all the time in the world, that one day her clear, unflinching gaze would finally land on me. I kept thinking that she— would fall in love with me. Was it sheer arrogance? To pin the hope of all my daily, tireless efforts on that slim chance of love emerging over time? My spirit drifted to her side. I watched her exchange serious words with the scholars opposite her. She was tall, cool, and elegant. “Wasn’t I foolish?” I rested my hand in my pocket, looking at her. “They say smart people look at ordinary people the way ordinary people look at fools.” Meanwhile, my body was being driven away in a hearse to the crematorium. The academic symposium was buzzing with life. “Serena, do you think I was truly a fool?” 7 Serena took a photo of the London night view and sent it to my phone. Of course, I could no longer reply. Paige really hadn’t told her mother about my death; she had even blocked Serena from seeing the obituary I’d sent out via text. That was fine. I’d clung to her for too long when I was alive; I didn’t want to trouble her in death by making her change her flight. Besides, I didn’t think she particularly wanted to see me one last time. The London night view was beautiful. But for some reason, that night, she stared at her phone for a long time on the windy balcony. I drifted closer to see, and I suddenly realized: In the past, whenever she sent me a message, I always replied instantly. When she traveled abroad, she would casually send me a few photos. I would reply with an emoji I’d saved from Paige—a big thumbs-up, or two, with the words “So awesome!” written on them. This time, she waited a long time. I didn’t reply. “Dr. Ashworth, it’s raining again outside.” “Please come back in, you’ll catch a chill.” A young man’s voice called out behind her—one of her students. In the academic world, some things are silently understood. The student stepped forward, a little too intimately, to drape a jacket over her shoulders, but she gently pushed him away. 8 “Fish and chips.” “It’s awful.” Serena sent me a picture of the restaurant. My remains were being placed into the cremation furnace. “Raining again.” Serena sent a picture of the view outside her hotel window. Friends and family were attending my burial service. “Presentation tonight.” “Flight back tomorrow.” Serena stood on the stage, the lenses of many cameras focused on her. I used my somewhat rusty memory of technical English to understand the presentation. Her research achievement seemed to have added a brilliant new chapter to human development. There she was, standing in the spotlight, shining in her domain, never failing to exceed expectations. I suppose that was the reason I had loved her for so many years. But that was my love for her; it wasn’t her love for me. The spring rain fell softly. As my ashes were being buried next to a simple square tombstone, I finally understood this truth. 9 That night, when the conference ended, Serena tried calling my number. When the third call went unanswered, she changed her flight to one leaving at midnight. She frowned the entire flight; her face was even colder than usual. It made sense. For years, I had been available to her whenever she called. It must have been disorienting to suddenly be unable to reach me. Normally, I would always pick her up at the airport whenever she returned home. I would be sure to arrive an hour or two early and just wait there for her. These were also habits. A person can’t bear to see their beloved inconvenienced. I always did my utmost to make her life comfortable and perfectly arranged. But this time, she had to walk through the deserted terminal alone and hail an expensive cab at four or five in the morning. She arrived home at six a.m. She knocked first, but no one answered. She used her fingerprint to unlock the door and pushed it open. The house was empty. Everything was just as she had left it. The sink was spotless, the dining table bare. Only, the slippers I usually wore were sitting by the entryway. She unfastened the jacket she’d been too rushed to change out of, walking around the unlit house, circle after circle. The bedroom, the balcony, the bathroom. Finally, she pulled open the door to the washing machine. … Finding nothing, she paused, pulled out her phone, and called me. After a long wait, she was met with a busy signal. She sighed, sliding her thumb down the list to another number. Paige’s. Their relationship had been strained since before Paige was a teenager. In recent years, Paige only came home to see me, with no intention of engaging with her mother. Serena’s attitude was much the same: she was consumed by her research, which essentially meant she didn’t want to be bothered with raising a child. She had been absent during the most crucial stages of her daughter’s development, so Paige never had a kind word for her. “What do you want?” “Where is your father?” Both of their voices were sharp, but Paige hesitated. Then came a strange laugh, an indescribable sound. She repeated the question in a low murmur. “Where is my father?” “My father is gone.” “Gone where?” Serena’s frown deepened. The morning sun had just begun to fall on her brow. I heard the raw, choked edge in my daughter’s voice on the other end of the line. “He didn’t go anywhere.” “Dad passed away, Mom.”

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The tenth time I caught her. Cordelia “Delia” Jennifer in our bed, with a new man. My reaction was less of an eruption, more of a clinical observation. I glanced at my watch, then, with a strange gentleness, offered the young man in the bed a jacket. “Isn’t your prenatal appointment scheduled for the afternoon? Why the early return?” When I didn’t answer, Delia kissed the new face next to her and subtly positioned herself between us, her body a shield. “He’s just a kid. Whatever your issue is, take it up with me.” She fully expected the hysteria. The screaming, the broken glass, the spectacle she’d grown accustomed to. But what she didn’t know was that the ten-year wager was up. I was finally free to leave her. 1. Two distinct, slightly sweaty handprints marred the pristine white of our bedside wedding photo. They were placed perfectly over Delia’s face and mine, making it chillingly easy to visualize the casual intimacy that had just taken place. I inhaled deeply, a long, steady breath, and turned to look at Delia. “We had one rule, Delia. No one in this house.” My voice was a flat monotone. “And for God’s sake, do you remember what day this is?” Delia scoffed, an indifferent smirk playing on her lips. She lit a cigarette, drew deep, and blew the acrid smoke directly into my face. “Drunk. Too many champagne bubbles to remember dates.” Her new boy, a soft-faced kid named Caspian “Cas” Miller, flinched. He fumbled with his clothes, eyes wide with panic as he looked at me. “Mr. Sinclair, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Seeing him struggle to zip his shirt, I stepped forward and calmly pulled the zipper up the back for him. “It’s fine. You can go.” I gave him a dismissive nod. “I know exactly who Delia is.” This was nothing new. Drunk. Moody. Bored and needing entertainment. Any excuse would do for her. And the kid? He wasn’t the first, the third, or even the eighteenth. Why bother being angry at the wallpaper? Cas scrambled out, terrified, and I called the housekeeper to sanitize the room. The mess, the scattered wrappers—it was repulsive. I pinched the bridge of my nose, pulled out a can of disinfectant spray, and covered the area. That’s when Delia wrapped her arms around my waist from behind. Her head, soft and heavy, nestled into my back. “Good husband. So domestic now, aren’t you?” She squeezed me playfully. “Afraid I wouldn’t come back, or have you finally mastered the art of being a society wife’s accessory?” She seemed satisfied with my silence, then pinched my cheek. “This is better, Wes.” She chuckled. “As long as you stay compliant, I promise no one will ever replace you.” She reached into a pile of glossy gift bags and pulled out a gold wristwatch, strapping it onto my wrist with practiced ease. “There. A reward. Now stop sulking. I know it’s our ten-year anniversary. Wipe your tears, and let’s go celebrate.” She spoke casually, unaware that in the decade we’d been married, my tears had long since dried up. I sidestepped her touch, reaching instead for the crisp document I’d prepared days ago and placed it in her hands. “Delia. We’re getting a divorce.” Her face froze for a beat, then she burst into laughter, loud and jarring. “Stop the drama, Weston. You know perfectly well we can’t get divorced.” She gripped my jaw, her eyes sharp. Her hand traveled down my chest, landing firmly over my heart. “Go get ready. You’re coming with me to the appointment. Don’t start a fight you know you can’t finish.” Years ago, my love for Delia had led me to a scorched-earth break with my family—the powerful Sinclair dynasty of the San Francisco Bay Area. My father, the Magnate, had banished me, forbidding my return home. To punish my impulsive defiance, he leveraged his deep connections to ensure a legal agreement that kept Delia and me locked together: No separation. No divorce. For better or worse, we were bound for life. Back then, Delia knelt before me, swearing she would spend that life proving my choice was worth the exile. Two years later, she cheated for the first time. She stood there, arms around her lover, looking me dead in the eye. “Yes, I’m cheating. What are you going to do about it?” she’d challenged. “Weston, you’re homeless. You’re family-less. You will be stuck with me forever!” I called home, sobbing, begging my family to let me back in. My father hung up. My mother averted her gaze. You made your bed, Wes. Now lie in it. Knowing I was legally and financially trapped, Delia grew bolder, her conquests more public and frequent. Until now, she simply brought them home. She had no idea that when I walked out that day, my father and I had an unstated agreement: A ten-year wager. It was a gamble on the longevity of my “true love.” If I won, he would bring us home and back us fully. If I lost, I was to return and accept a prearranged, politically advantageous marriage. Because of Delia. I had lost the marriage, the bet, and my decade. I had lost everything. While Delia drove, I discreetly dialed a familiar number. “Dad. I lost.” My voice cracked on the final word. “I honor the terms. I’ll be back in the Bay Area in three days for the engagement.” 2. My father, a man who never lost a bet, offered no surprise at the inevitable outcome. He simply gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment and a brief instruction. “Weston, you are my eldest son. This empire still requires its heir. The past is the past, I won’t debate it. But remember one thing.” His voice was a cold, quiet threat. “Don’t bring what shouldn’t come. Don’t leave what shouldn’t stay.” Don’t bring what shouldn’t come: Delia’s child. Don’t leave what shouldn’t stay: The business empire I had built for her. My ten years of pain were to be my final lesson. “I understand, Father.” I hung up as Delia’s impatient horn blasted from the driveway. I climbed into the passenger seat of her car, the seat I’d bought for her, the one that now smelled faintly of another man’s cologne. The drive was silent. She pretended not to notice my profound distance. I pretended not to notice the cloying scent of cheap perfume. As we arrived, Delia habitually reached for my arm to steady herself. Her sleeve pulled back, revealing a long, jagged scar running down her forearm. For a moment, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. She had taken eighteen stitches for me once, ready to give up her life just so we could be together. The woman who once loved me enough to bleed for me… how had she become this? Before I could dwell on the thought, Cas, her lover, rushed over and brazenly hooked his arm through hers. “Delia, babe, you haven’t visited me in forever.” He pouted. “What brings you here? Did your kept man throw a tantrum, or can your new guy not cut it?” It was Caspian Miller, Delia’s current favorite and her longest-running pet project. He rubbed himself against her, acting the spoiled child. Delia merely smiled, ignoring me completely. She pulled a velvet box from her purse. “Don’t be silly, Cas. I’d never forget my little pet.” She showed him the contents: a heavy, antique gold wristwatch. “I flew to the Bay Area just for you. Now, go play. I have an appointment. I’ll come find you after.” She finished by giving him a familiar, proprietary pat on his backside. My eyes landed on the familiar timepiece. I nearly laughed. A woman who clawed her way up from nothing never wasted a dollar. An authentic watch for the lover; a passable forgery for the husband. The cheap metal of the watch on my wrist suddenly felt scalding. I ripped it off and tossed it into the nearest public trash receptacle. As I turned, I heard a group of people nearby, gossiping about us. One tried to move closer, but his friend pulled him back. “Are you crazy? You don’t see the guy next to her?” “That’s… the Magnate’s eldest son.” The Magnate’s eldest son. It had been a long time since I’d heard that title. Cas overheard it too and scoffed. He looked me up and down, pure contempt in his eyes. “’Magnate’s son’? Please. He’s just a useless leach who got kicked out of his rich daddy’s house and sponges off Delia. A lazy gigolo. I hate parasites.” Parasite. What did that make Delia, who built her business on my money and connections? What did that make Cas, who was supported entirely by her? When did these two connect, anyway? Was it during my first car crash? Was it when I drank myself into the ER to close a deal for Delia? Or was it the time I took a bullet for her, ending up in a coma while she was being hunted by rivals? It was so long ago, the memory was a blur. I just remembered that while I was recovering, pale and alone in the hospital bed, Delia started sleeping with the little nurse. While I was struggling to heal, Cas was crawling all over my wife. Years later, Cas was still this brazen. Clearly, Delia had spoiled him rotten. But soon, they would be free to be openly together. My task now was simpler: address the inconvenience in her womb. 3. I ignored the two of them and walked straight into the clinic. Dr. Lee already knew Delia was pregnant. Before he could offer congratulations, I slid the medical reports across his desk. “I need you to terminate the pregnancy.” Dr. Lee stiffened, then reviewed the file with a grim expression. “Mr. Sinclair, are you certain? The baby appears perfectly healthy. You and your wife have been trying for years…” Delia’s first miscarriage was at twenty, early in our time in Dallas. We were poor, living in a cheap, rundown apartment. She complained I couldn’t give her the life she wanted, terminated the pregnancy, and threatened to leave me. I worked myself to exhaustion to build a life for her. When our business finally gained traction, Delia crossed a local crime boss and was kidnapped. To save her, I liquidated everything and got myself hospitalized in the process. I was young, I could have recovered, but I couldn’t bear to see Delia suffer. I pushed my body past its limits just so she could live the good life. The moment I finally paused, Delia started cheating. I spent years chasing lovers and cleaning up her messes. In the process, I ignored my own health, which led to our current inability to conceive naturally. Initially, Delia would kneel at my bedside, saying, “Wes, I see everything you’ve done. I’ll take on the burden and make up for your sacrifice.” But soon after she took over the business, she’d look at me while holding another man. “Wes, I know what you did, but that’s in the past. I promised you I wouldn’t let anyone replace you, and I’ll leave all our wealth to our child. But you need to be a good boy and stop questioning my choices.” Now, I looked out the window at the two of them embracing below. I shook my head, a bitter smile touching my lips. “Prescribe a gentle course of medication. I’m returning to the Bay Area soon, and a child would be inconvenient.” I added, my voice hardening, “Besides, given Delia’s smoking, drinking, and reckless lifestyle, there is no guarantee that a child born into this chaos will be healthy.” My father’s fortune was built on my mother’s family money. Once established, he acquired a rotation of mistresses and a brood of illegitimate children. That history made me crave a pure, honest relationship. But the first time she cheated, Delia showed no remorse. She was indignant. “Weston, what the hell is wrong with you?” she’d yelled. “Your father has dozens of mistresses. Why are you acting like a psycho when I step out once or twice? Think about what your mother did! You grew up in that world—why haven’t you learned how to be a proper rich man’s husband yet?” She used my deepest, most private wound—my childhood trauma—as a weapon against me. In that moment, I knew our love was dead. But because of the ten-year agreement, I couldn’t leave. I was forced to watch her violate my dignity and trample my devotion. The marriage I fought to secure became my prison. The love I desperately protected became her tool for abuse. I had tasted enough of the family and relationship poison. I would not allow an innocent child to repeat the cycle. I would end this irreversible marriage myself. I took the prescription, called Delia, and waited for her to pick up. Though we couldn’t part as friends, I could at least attempt a final show of decency. The phone connected. I heard the muffled sounds of Delia and Cas, mid-embrace, already engaged in suggestive banter. A sudden, sharp pain struck my heart. I looked up at the sprawling Dallas cityscape, slowly being swallowed by the night. I wondered, for a final time, how Delia and I had ended up here. Was it Cas? Or was it… that one incident? 4. It didn’t matter. No reason, no excuse, could negate the concrete reality of the betrayal and the hurt. I flagged a taxi, intending to go home and finish packing. While I waited, I spotted Delia and Cas across the intersection. They were walking hand-in-hand, two figures strolling the busy streets like a couple hopelessly in love. Cas gently caressed Delia’s abdomen, his face alight with affection. “Babe, we’re going to be parents soon. When are you finally going to divorce that old man?” he murmured. “I don’t want my son calling anyone else Dad!” Delia leaned into his shoulder and kissed his cheek. “Not yet. Weston still controls some core information about the company. Once I have everything completely secured, then we’ll file the papers.” She then spoke at length about their future: their plans, their life together, how hard she would work to protect this child and give Cas the best life possible. The words, mixed with the cold December air, felt like a thousand tiny cuts. Finally, Delia reached up, unclasped the custom-engraved St. Christopher medal—the very one I had begged and knelt in the snow to acquire, swearing it was a talisman for our future and a symbol of my unending commitment—and fastened it around Cas’s neck. “I’ve named our child Pax,” she said softly. “Peace and prosperity. A beautiful, whole family.” Pax… The child wasn’t mine. The last flicker of love was a lie. I had felt such guilt over her words years ago, losing sleep for days. To prove my love, I had literally humbled myself, walking miles in a blizzard for that piece of jewelry, vowing to make a success of myself. That unborn child was supposed to be the proof of our love. Now, she was giving that medal, my sacrifice, to a pet, a gigolo, transferring the debt she owed me and our first child to him and his child. I took a deep breath, trying to summon indifference. But Cas spotted me. He smirked. “Delia, your sugar-husband is checking up on you again. Look, pal, why are you still trying to be relevant?” He fiddled with the custom locket around his neck, his eyes full of sneering superiority. “If you can’t satisfy your woman, don’t blame other men for stepping up. Instead of standing there looking miserable, go home and figure out what you’ll do when she finally kicks your worthless butt to the curb!” He was trying to provoke a scene, hoping I’d explode and give Delia another excuse. But I was past caring. By sunrise, I would be gone. Back to the Bay Area. And someone else would be taking care of the inconvenience in her womb. I looked at Delia one last time, devoid of any feeling. “You’ll regret it, Delia.” I told her. “Because you forgot who gave you the keys to the kingdom.” Delia started to speak, but Cas cut her off. She looked from him to me, hesitant, before finally turning back. She left me with a half-hearted, “Wait for me. I’ll explain tomorrow.” There would be no tomorrow. The moon cast a cold, silver light. I dragged my exhausted body toward the port. In the final hours before dawn, I paid the housekeeper and instructed her to dispose of all my and Delia’s shared belongings. Then, I simply waited. As the sun began to rise, a sleek private jet descended and stopped directly in front of me. “Young Master. I’m here to take you home.” The plane climbed above the city, condensing a decade of struggle and memory into a single, distant aerial view. From this moment on, Delia and I were separated by an ocean. Never to meet again. … Delia was violently awakened, dragged from the bed in a flash of black suits and efficiency. A cup of foul-tasting liquid was forced down her throat. The child she had anticipated so eagerly soon became nothing more than a painful memory. Furious and terrified, she glared at the dark-suited men who had invaded her hotel room. Before she could demand an answer, a newspaper was thrown at her. The headline screamed: THE MAGNATE’S ELDEST SON WEDS SHIPPING HEIRESS IN SAN FRANCISCO. MAJOR BAY AREA INVESTORS PULL FUNDS; JENNIFER GROUP FACES CATASTROPHIC LIQUIDITY CRISIS.

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After three straight years working through the holidays—Christmas, New Year’s, Easter—I finally had the time off. I was driving my trusty, pink car home for the break. On the highway, there was this one male driver, an absolute pest. Seeing a woman at the wheel of a bright pink vehicle, he started deliberately tailgating, then cutting me off, then tailgating again. It was a calculated form of intimidation. I didn’t get angry, and I certainly didn’t engage in a shouting match. I just stayed behind him until we reached the service plaza, where I quietly slipped on a yellow reflective vest. I grabbed my handcuffs, stepped out, and walked over to the smug asshole who was standing beside his car. His face went from triumphant to sheet-white in an instant. I allowed myself a cold smile. “You just volunteered me for overtime, buddy. And you’re not going home. You’re coming police station with me.” 1. It was the day before the holiday, and the line for the toll booths stretched back for miles. Cars were bumper-to-bumper, moving slower than a snail race. I was behind a dark SUV, with that white sedan—let’s call the driver Dustin—right on my bumper. At first, I barely noticed. I was used to heavy traffic. Then he laid on his horn three times. “BEEP—BEEP—BEEP!” The sound was sharp and grating under the metal roof of the toll plaza. I instinctively checked the rearview mirror. The white sedan’s hood was practically kissing my rear bumper. The distance was exaggeratedly close, aggressive. My professional instinct was to frown, but it was the holidays, and I wasn’t looking for trouble. To create space, I nudged forward a few feet. He stopped for a second, then, seeing I didn’t move more, he hit the horn again. The noise drew annoyed glances and complaints from surrounding drivers. “What the hell is going on? Why is that horn blowing nonstop?” “I don’t know, but the traffic is bad enough!” “Hey, just let the guy through! Hurry up, whatever is holding us up!” Even the toll attendant glanced up. I frowned, a slow burn of resentment starting in my chest. Where am I supposed to go? It wasn’t like I was the only one in line. I decided to ignore him, turning up the satellite radio. Outside my window, holiday lights were strung up along the fence lines, and the radio was playing festive, upbeat music. But the pit in my stomach was growing. This was the first time I’d been home in three years. My job was structured so that the busiest times always fell over the major holidays. This year, new hires meant we “veterans” finally got a break, and I was desperate to get home. Spring traffic was already a nightmare, and this aggressive prick behind me was making it worse. I forced myself to take a breath, focusing only on getting through the toll booth. The honking finally stopped, muffled by the rising chorus of complaints from the other drivers. Maybe Dustin realized he was only drawing negative attention to himself. He seemed to grudgingly suppress his rage. The line inches forward. The toll light was green, and I slowly coasted to the window. I pulled up the digital toll pass on my phone. And then, the system lagged. The payment page spun, stuck on a loading screen. Nothing happened. I tapped the screen again. Still nothing. The toll attendant glanced at me. “Holiday traffic, signal gets slow, don’t worry about it.” I nodded, about to refresh my data connection. But that small pause was all the excuse Dustin needed. In the rearview mirror, the white sedan instantly glued itself to my bumper again. Zero space. The horn blared, sharp and aggressive. “BEEP!” It wasn’t a prolonged drag, but a series of short, frantic jabs—intentionally directed at me. I kept my head down, focusing on my phone. This brief hold-up seemed to ignite the collective frustration of the drivers around me. But this time, they aimed it at me. “What is the delay up there? How long does it take to pay a toll? Get moving!” “Can you hurry up? People are waiting!” “If you can’t operate the machine, pull over! Don’t hog the lane!” The voices came from all directions. Dustin’s horn kept sounding. The toll attendant frowned, leaning out to look back at the line. “Stop with the honking! She’s having a network issue,” he called out. Then to me: “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” I handed him my phone. He fiddled with it, and finally, the network connected. The successful payment chime sounded. I sighed in relief, ready to hit the gas. The horn behind me immediately sounded again. The attendant’s face darkened. He shouted back at the white sedan: “Last warning! Maintain order, or I’m calling highway patrol!” The noise stopped instantly. I nodded my thanks and pulled away. Just past the gate, before I could accelerate to highway speed, a flash of white shot out from the left. The white sedan flooring it, swerving around me without signaling, cutting me off aggressively. I slammed on the brakes. My car lurched. The seatbelt locked tight across my chest, digging in painfully. Dustin’s car was now settled directly in front of me, straddling the lane lines. 2. He kept his speed agonizingly low. My speedometer needle barely climbed before he slammed his brakes again, forcing me back down. I had to drop my speed. The cars behind me started blaring their horns. The first was a gray van. I saw the driver lean out his window and shout a swear word, clearly looking for the culprit. But when his eyes found my pink car, his voice cut off. He shook his head, pulled back into his car, and immediately increased the distance between us. The anger hadn’t vanished, but its target had settled. The white sedan, Dustin, seemed to take a perverse pleasure in this. He accelerated for a moment, then abruptly let off the gas. His car wobbled but settled firmly, blocking my path. I swallowed my frustration and tried to signal a lane change. He caught it instantly. As soon as my car drifted, he shifted too. His speed wasn’t fast, but his movements were precise—like he was staring right at me. Traffic in the other lanes moved normally, but our lane was a slow-motion catastrophe. Drivers who were annoyed enough to pass sped up beside me. One driver yelled: “Can you just get off the highway if you can’t drive, or what? Stop blocking the damn entrance!” He didn’t bother to check the facts and sped off. Hearing the public insult, the driver’s window of the white sedan rolled down halfway. Dustin stuck his hand out, drummed his fingers on the door, and then flipped me off. His eyes were full of blatant, malicious satisfaction. I took a deep breath. Given we were still near the on-ramp, I increased the distance between us slightly. This kind of cat-and-mouse game on the highway was dangerous for everyone. But the male driver clearly wasn’t done. A few minutes later, he braked hard again, dropping to barely thirty miles an hour. The drivers behind me were furious. Horns were sounding in a continuous stream. “What the hell is the hold-up? This is a highway, not a side street! We’re going thirty miles an hour!” “That stupid woman is dragging ass! Get off the road if you can’t handle a highway!” A passing driver leaned out his window and started screaming. “What is with that sickening pink? And a woman driver? Pure road killer!” “If you don’t care about your life, we do! Stop causing this backup!” The shouts weren’t loud, but every word cut through the air. My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I didn’t respond. I looked up at the dashcam. The red light was on, the mic was active. Everything was recording. I scanned the overhead signage. Ten miles to the next service plaza. I finally had a clear idea. As the white car continued its pattern of bullying me, I tapped the brake lightly. My hood dipped. The car behind me—a large pickup—had to slam on his brakes, the screech dragging along the asphalt. Luckily, my previous low speed meant everyone was already cautious. I breathed a silent sigh of relief. As Dustin’s car slid a few feet ahead of me, I didn’t immediately try to pass or speed up. I waited for the cars behind me to reposition, then slowly brought my speed back up. My gaze was on the upcoming sign. The service plaza logo was getting closer. Confirming the direction, I opened my car’s navigation app. I located the blue symbol and pressed a speed-dial number on my phone. The call connected quickly. “Metro East Precinct. How can I help you?” “Kenji, it’s me.” My voice was steady. “Are you guys running the patrol detail on the East Loop today?” A beat of silence. “Stella? What’s going on? Why are you calling? You’re on vacation.” “I have a situation. Aggravated reckless driving on the highway—serious public safety risk. I’m going to lead him into the next service plaza. I need you guys to pre-stage some units there.” I heard a muffled flurry of movement on the other end. “Understood, Stella. You keep your distance and stay safe. I’m dispatching two cars now.” “Thanks, Kenji. I owe you.” I hung up, flicked on my signal. The direction wasn’t for the homebound lane. It was for the service plaza exit ramp. 3. My hood drifted toward the service plaza ramp. Dustin, who had been deliberately pacing me, noticed immediately. He hesitated for two seconds, realizing I was no longer following the main highway traffic. Then, he signaled, too. He followed. I remained calm, my only immediate focus on keeping a safe distance from the surrounding traffic. I also kept making small feints, small movements that suggested I was about to speed past him. That kind of bully is terrified of losing “control.” I gave him a chance to continue his harassment, and he didn’t pass it up. The white sedan suddenly veered left, trying to get ahead. I anticipated it, a slight correction of the steering wheel, keeping my position within the legal lane lines. His driving wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t get around and was forced to drop his speed with me. The sudden slow-down threw the following traffic into chaos. Screeching brakes sounded again. Drivers started yelling at the white sedan. “What are you doing? Cutting people off on the highway?” “I almost rear-ended you! If you want to harass a female driver, go to the city! Don’t risk my life on the freeway!” Dustin rolled his window down and yelled something back. The words were lost to the wind, but the furious expression made the content clear. I used the momentary distraction to create distance and smoothly enter the exit ramp. The service plaza ramp was narrower than the main highway, and the speed limit was much lower. Perfect. If Dustin wanted to continue his outburst, he had to follow. He probably thought I was running away, trying to wait him out until he left. His impatience took over. He crossed the line and drove right up my bumper again. His hood was inches from my tail. The drivers behind him were appalled. One rolled down his window. “Hey, white sedan! Are you trying to get yourself killed? Slow down!” “Is that guy using us as speed bumps?!” Dustin ignored them. He even floored the gas for a second, attempting to pass me on the right. But the ramp was curved, and there was a guardrail. His technique was poor; his previous success was due only to my deliberate avoidance and the natural caution of others on the highway. He had to slam the brakes and pull back in. His car swayed violently from side to side, then settled. No accident. The swaying gave the trailing drivers a clear view. Some started to realize their previous anger was misdirected. “What is wrong with that white car? His driving is atrocious, who taught him that?” “He was doing the same thing back on the main road! I thought that girl in the pink car was the problem…” “Well, she is a woman driver. Who told her to get on the road and upset people?” The arguments and murmurs traveled between the cars, but this time, it wasn’t a unanimous attack on me. I still didn’t look back. My focus remained fixed on the road ahead. I knew that a single misstep now would ruin everything. The service plaza sign appeared. I activated my right turn signal. The white sedan practically followed me into the parking lot. There were speed bumps at the entrance. I slowed down. Dustin didn’t anticipate it. His car dipped hard, and he had to jam his foot on the brake. The tires let out a muffled groan. The drivers behind him exploded in rage. “Are you kidding me? You can’t slow down for the speed bumps in a rest area?!” “So many people are here! Are you trying to kill us?” Someone pulled out their phone and started recording. Dustin was getting desperate. He fully lowered his window. “It’s none of your damn business! If that woman wasn’t blocking me, I wouldn’t be doing this!” He shouted back at them, then glared at my car. His eyes were burning. I ignored him, slowly pulling into the service plaza. I was actually faster than the white car once we were off the highway. He was clearly surprised by how abruptly I stopped. His car swerved slightly in front of me, then he cranked the wheel. He stopped, tight against my door. The driver’s door was violently shoved open. SLAM. A tall man, red-faced and furious, stepped out. 4. I remained in my car for a moment. I rolled the window all the way up and pulled the privacy screen across the front windshield. Then, ignoring the shouting man outside, I turned and reached into the back seat for my gear.

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As an experienced lead in the smut fiction genre, I had been diligent, fighting through the night with the male protagonist. When the System finally came online, it shrieked: [What in God’s name are you doing, Host! This is a Pure Redemption Romance! You two are supposed to be virgins until marriage!] In a panic, the System took advantage of the male lead’s deep sleep and frantically wiped all his memories. It was only then that I learned the truth. The System had malfunctioned and sent me to the wrong world. And the real heroine of the Redemption story was already knocking outside the flimsy apartment door. The next second, my wrist was clamped in an iron grip. Cain, his memory forcefully scrubbed clean, opened his eyes and looked at me, cold and lethal: “Who are you?” 1 I froze, completely thrown. I had no idea how to answer. The System was screaming in my head: [I told you to run! I told you to leave! Now look! He’s awake! How are you going to explain this mess?!] Feeling a wave of injustice, I mumbled back, “It’s your fault for sending me here! I thought Cain was my target.” The System’s voice went impossibly high: [And you slept with him?! Are you insane! This is the broody, pathologically obsessive male lead with a severe germ complex! In the early plot, if the heroine touched his finger, he’d scrub himself raw! [Do you think every world is like your trashy smut novels where everyone just sleeps around? He’s tainted! What is the actual heroine supposed to do now?!] I opened my mouth to respond. The knocking at the door became more insistent. “Cain? Are you home?” A gentle, sweet female voice. It was Delaney. The original, designated heroine of this timeline, Cain’s canonical partner. Cain’s brow furrowed. The grip on my wrist eased slightly, but only slightly. “Delaney…” He whispered the name, his expression shifting into one of profound pain. He seemed to be fighting to recall something, or maybe fighting something that was being recalled. After a moment, his expression slowly settled. A soft, almost unconscious tenderness crossed his features. “Hold on a second, I’m getting dressed,” he called out, raising his voice for the person outside the door. Delaney’s clear, light laugh sounded through the thin door. “No worries! I brought you breakfast. Hurry up and get ready, didn’t we plan to go sketching today?” “Sketching…?” Cain rubbed his temple, a flash of pure confusion in his eyes. He looked at the scattered art supplies and paints strewn across the floor. The easel was still standing, holding an unfinished canvas. A woman in a white dress was lying on the grass, propped up on her elbow reading a book. Only, the woman’s face was a blank space, unpainted. Cain stared at the canvas for a long, silent moment. Then, he abruptly turned and gave me a chilling once-over. He spoke one final, frigid sentence: “Take it off.” 2 I blinked. “Take… take what off?” Cain pursed his lips in annoyance and pointed at the dress I was wearing. It was the gift he’d bought me during our date yesterday. Working for minimum wage at a corner store, he must have saved for ages to afford it. The System shrieked with renewed urgency: [Take it off, Host! That dress is the official ‘memento’ of the heroes’ first meeting! He cherishes it!] In the original plotline, Delaney, a bright and vibrant girl, was meant to approach the brooding hero, gradually warming his cold heart. Cain was meant to be distant, only giving her the white dress as a courtesy for her birthday. The pivotal scene was when they went sketching outdoors. Cain set up his easel, ready to paint the landscape, and Delaney, in the white dress, would start dancing nearby. Cain, catching her figure in his peripheral vision, was meant to fall instantly and eternally in love. From that moment, Delaney’s one-sided crush would evolve into a mutual, destined love. Thus, this white dress was critically important to the cannon. Caught between the System’s frantic demands and Cain’s cold, utterly alien gaze, I started to panic. My hands fumbled as I tried to pull the dress off. I turned around, only to realize the hem of the white dress was thoroughly stained with paint—a large, ugly smear of dried color. My mind went blank. Oh no. 3 The System nearly went ballistic: [You, you, you… I have never worked with such a profoundly inept Host! Do you know how important that dress is? Later, when he’s rich, he spends a fortune at an auction to buy it back after the villain steals it! The heroine herself protects it like a relic! And you stained it?!] “I’m… I’m so sorry,” I stammered, giving Cain a weak, awkward bow. “I’ll buy you a new one. I promise.” My hands were suddenly stilled by his. “…Forget it. Don’t bother.” Cain frowned. “It’s just a dress. It doesn’t matter.” Delaney knocked again. “Ready yet? The pastry I brought you is getting cold!” Cain inhaled sharply, calling out to the door: “Sorry, Delaney, I… I twisted my ankle. I won’t be able to go sketching today.” Hearing this, Delaney immediately sounded worried: “Oh no! Is it bad? Should I take you to the clinic? “Just open the door so I can see!” Cain lied without batting an eye: “…No need. I haven’t even washed my face yet. I’m sorry you wasted a trip.” “Okay, I’ll leave your breakfast outside the door. Eat it, okay? I’m heading out now!” The sound of quick footsteps retreated down the hall. My shoulders, which had been tight with tension, finally relaxed. Cain tossed me a cheap, worn-out jacket of his own. “Put this on, and get out.” 4 I held his jacket. It smelled of that generic, cheap laundry detergent—a familiar scent from the real six weeks we had spent together. Seeing me hesitate, Cain gave a cold, cynical laugh. “Planning to walk out like that without a jacket? You’ve got hickeys all over your neck. Don’t you want the whole city to know you just left a man’s bed?” I looked at him. He was completely, utterly a stranger. So this was Cain’s true self, the person beneath the love-lorn mask: coldly detached, bordering on cruel. 5 My fate, I suppose, has always been a bit rough. For as long as I’ve been a “Host,” I’ve been relegated to the shallowest of smut worlds. The higher-level Systems wouldn’t touch me. I was too slow, too prone to making mistakes. The only missions they assigned me were the “no-brainers”—the spicy, low-stakes erotica where I just had to show up and perform. The Systems told me, “You don’t have to think, just lie there.” When I finally got the script for a Redemption Romance, I was genuinely elated. I read the script over and over and executed every key event perfectly. Cain’s affection for me grew exponentially. I started to daydream: Maybe someone as ordinary as me… could be a savior, a light in someone else’s darkness? Then came the novel’s climax. The hero and heroine had a fight, and the heroine was scripted to fake her death to “test” him. The night before the “death,” the script went blank—it was meant to be an open-ended scene. As an experienced smut-world Host, I took the initiative. I spiked Cain’s drink and claimed him for the entire night. That’s when the System finally showed up, late and frantic. It told me it messed up. I was in the wrong world. The real heroine was Delaney, not me. When it found out I had slept with the hero, it lost its mind, screaming at me for ruining everything. Cain opened the door to see Delaney was long gone. The pastry she brought was still steaming on the ground. I looked at the wisp of white steam and felt a wave of dizziness. So that’s how a Redemption Romance works. The heroes wait, they fall deeply in love over time, and they have a gentle, beautiful first night in a rose-petal-covered penthouse. But last night, in this shabby apartment, I had rushed and ruined it with Cain. It was his first time. He was clumsy and inexperienced, and he hurt me. But he was also deeply, profoundly moved. He had tears in his eyes, sobbing that he would be devoted to me forever. I was moved, too. I had finally met a real love interest, and I wanted to stay in this world forever. But it was all a mistake. The System had to forcefully wipe Cain’s memory to salvage the plot. My efforts were undone. He had forgotten me completely. 6 The System dragged me back to reality: [Stop wallowing! Look at your new script!] It threw a new section of the narrative at me. To explain my presence in the apartment—the “bug”—the System had forcefully implanted a new memory into Cain. The new story went like this: Cain loved Delaney but didn’t know it yet. He saw Delaney out with another guy (a “Rival”) and got jealous. He went to a bar to drink his pain away and ran into a cocktail waitress—me. I happened to have a slight resemblance to Delaney. Cain, drunk and confused, slept with me. Afterward, he was overwhelmed with shame and disgust, scrubbing himself repeatedly. But this terrible mistake helped him realize his true feelings for Delaney. [See? Not bad, right?]The System preened. [Thank God I’m an old-timer; I managed to cover the tracks for you.] I sniffed, not saying a word. I silently wrapped the jacket around me, ready to leave. My stomach, however, chose that moment to let out an embarrassingly loud growl. Cain, who was getting dressed, paused and glanced at me. “Jeez. You’re such a pain.” I rubbed my stomach and muttered under my breath, “It’s your fault. You kept me up all night…” “…” He tossed me a stale pastry. “Eat it, and then go.” Cain finished dressing and stood in front of the mirror, examining himself. He touched the hickeys on his neck, looking confused. The System crowed in my head: [He’s surprised by his accidental loss of virginity! He must feel horribly guilty! Delaney’s affection score is about to skyrocket!] [Wait… no!]It suddenly shrieked. [I rewrote his entire memory file! Why is his affection score for Delaney still zero?!] The System was completely stunned. It went offline to contact its superiors to check the data. I quietly bit into the pastry, and my face immediately crumpled. Seeing Cain reach for another one, I lunged and snatched it away. “Don’t eat that! “It has carrots! You can’t eat carrots!” 7 Cain was violently allergic to carrots. He’d once accidentally consumed a small piece and suffered anaphylactic shock. I had spent night after night at the hospital at his bedside. Cain immediately dropped the pastry, his expression one of pure bewilderment. “How… how did you know I’m allergic to carrots?” “…I guessed.” I was afraid the System would come back online and berate me if I delayed any longer. I finished getting dressed and quickly yanked the door open. Cain followed me, insistent. “Who are you? Do you know me?” Suddenly, a voice rang out from the side: “Cain, you finally came out! Oh, who is this?” A fresh-faced girl with a high ponytail was standing at the threshold. It was Delaney. She had circled back for some reason. Delaney stood tall in her crisp white dress, pure and innocent. I was bundled in Cain’s oversized jacket, disheveled and frantic. Cain frowned. “Why are you still here?” I used the brief moment of distraction to slip past them, running without looking back. Behind me, Delaney’s voice was breaking: “Cain, who was that? Why was she coming out of your place? “You need to explain! “Talk to me! Aren’t we friends? Why are you being so cold to me today?” I ran, head down, my heart aching. I knew my part was over. This was a Redemption story, meant to be beautiful, innocent, and pure. And I, a heroine from a smut novel, had no business here. I darted into the street. A large truck suddenly swerved around the corner and smashed into me. I was thrown violently into the air. In the distance, Cain paused for a split second, then bolted toward me, screaming like a madman. “Noooo!” I closed my eyes. The System’s voice rang out in my head, a sound of profound relief: [Mission accomplished. World narrative repaired. Host, you will now be sent to your next smut world.] 8 I think I was unconscious for a long time. When I woke up, I was in a shabby, familiar rental apartment. I bolted upright, a gasp of emotion escaping my lips: “Cain! Are you here?!” The room was empty. No one was there. My fevered brain slowly started to calm down. I realized this wasn’t Cain’s apartment now. I looked around. The familiar closet, the faded curtains… And the small, slightly chipped trinket on the bedside table. This was the subterranean apartment I lived in when I first arrived in this world. Wait a second. That means— I was still in Cain’s world?! [Yes, that is correct, Host. You’re still here.] The System suddenly came back online, startling me. It huffed, [I was trying to send you to the next world, but after you were hit by the truck, that boy, Cain, went absolutely insane. He wouldn’t let go of your body. His obsession was too strong; I couldn’t extract you.] “So where… where am I now?” The System continued: [Cain’s obsession interfered with the transport. Instead of sending you out, I accidentally sent you forward—six years ahead.] I was silent. Six years. [For the sake of the mission, I had to completely wipe Cain’s memory again. That finally settled him down. But my energy is completely depleted, I can’t send you anywhere else.] I asked urgently, “What about Cain? How is he now?” [He’s great. Two memory wipes and the constant presence of Delaney, the proper heroine—he’s thriving. He’s a tech mogul now. [Oh, his affection score for Delaney is at 99. Once it hits 100, Delaney completes the mission, and you’ll finally be released from this world.] I finally understood. I was redundant. I just had to wait for Delaney to finish the job. All I had to do was lay low. 9 Having lost my heroine status, I was just an ordinary person in this world now. Regardless, life had to go on. The System fixed my injuries. I rested for a few days, then went out to look for a job. I walked the streets all day with no luck. I was, however, struck by the sheer number of advertisements. Delaney. She was now a huge movie star, famous across the country. Her giant digital billboards were everywhere, even in this small, overlooked section of the city. In the picture, she was impeccably made up, smiling radiantly into the camera. The System, viewing her through my eyes, sighed contentedly: [This world is almost over. Good.] [Those two little lost souls, Cain the tech new-money genius and Delaney the sweetheart actress, finally got their happy ending. They’ll be blissfully happy for the rest of their lives.] My throat felt tight. “Yes… they will be very happy.” I wandered for a long time. As the sky darkened, I finally realized where I was. This was an abandoned warehouse district, slated for demolition. It was deserted and dilapidated. I stood in front of an entrance marked “Antiques & Salvage,” next to a dark, descending stairwell. The floodgates of memory burst open— This used to be a hidden underground fight club. And this was where I had first met Cain.

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Damon Blackwood’s first love—the one he was always meant to have—was finally back in New York. They had been locked in a volatile, toxic dance of love and hatred for over a decade, their relationship all-consuming and messy. And me? I had been Damon Blackwood’s gilded cage pet for three long years. On Day One, Tori Harrington publicly humiliated me by trying to tear my dress off. Damon’s eyes shifted slightly, but he said nothing. On Day Two, Tori slapped me across the face, left, then right. Damon simply asked her if her hand was sore. On Day Three, Tori aimed a gun at my stomach, threatening to shoot the child I carried. Damon cupped her hand, guiding her aim. When I demanded to know why he was doing this, he said: “Using you to keep Tori happy is a price I’m willing to pay. You’re worth the trade.” Honestly, I was pretty happy too. I never wanted the baby anyway, and I knew a five-million-dollar wire transfer would hit my account the moment it was over. Damon didn’t know I was actually on his mother’s payroll. My real job was to be the irritant—the perfect foil to push him and Tori back into their destructive, passionate embrace. My contract was up in one month. I was almost free. … 1 I squeezed my eyes shut, but the searing pain I expected never arrived. When I opened them, I saw it: Tori Harrington’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smirk, her eyes fixed solely on Damon Blackwood. “You think if you pretend not to care, I’ll let her off the hook so easily?” Damon didn’t respond. They stood there, framed in the tension of their years-long standoff. I managed a strained, bitter smile. He wasn’t pretending not to care. He truly didn’t. I was just the hired shield, a pretty, disposable distraction he used to keep other casual flings away. Three years hadn’t managed to warm his stone-cold heart one degree. Expecting him to save me now was just delusional. “I’m going to kill this baby, no matter what!” Bang. The bullet struck my lower abdomen. Shit. That actually hurt. Blood instantly welled up, pouring through my clutching fingers. I was slick with sweat from the shock and the sudden, wrenching agony. “Damon Blackwood, if you have any shred of a soul, get me to a hospital, now!” He finally frowned, and that minimal sign of distress was enough to make him move. He stripped off his tailored suit jacket and draped it over me. I saw it clearly in his eyes: a deep, unmistakable flash of disgust. “Stop right there!” Tori’s voice sliced through the haze. “Walk out that door, and the only thing left between us is hate!” Damon froze. He started to turn, preparing to abandon me. I reached out, my trembling fingers catching the edge of his sleeve. He scowled, probably assuming I was about to beg or plead for him to stay. But I just managed to whisper through cracked, dry lips, my voice barely a thread: “Re-re-remember… to wire… the money…” He raised an eyebrow, a strange, almost amused smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Fine. Sierra Vaughn, you truly are a piece of work.” Right there, right in front of my face, he transferred five million dollars to my account. Finally satisfied, I let my eyes drift closed. I was loaded onto a stretcher and rushed toward the nearest trauma center. But the security guard at the emergency entrance stopped us. “Sorry, we can’t admit her here.” Too weak to argue, I could only manage to peel my eyes open slightly. Damon’s men were arguing fiercely with the hospital administrator, but it was useless. We were turned away. It happened at five hospitals in a row. Not a single one would take me. Through the fog of pain, I heard someone say: “Ms. Harrington gave the order.” Tori Harrington. Always Tori Harrington. That woman was trying to murder me, and Damon was letting her. Ruthless. Cold-hearted. Men really couldn’t be trusted. A sickening, twisting pain shot through my stomach again and again. The white blanket they’d wrapped me in was completely saturated, dyed crimson. I couldn’t even bring myself to look down. For the first time, I felt something close to despair. I used the last reserves of my strength to grasp a bodyguard’s hand. “Take me… to the Blackwood… estate…” 2 The next time I woke, I was staring at the familiar, tight-lipped, not-quite-smiling face of Mrs. Blackwood, Damon’s mother. I tried to sit up, and she gently steadied me. “Easy, easy now. Don’t strain yourself, dear. You’ve been badly hurt.” I took a deep breath, marshaling all my training, all my professional gold-digger finesse. When I looked up again, my eyes were glistening, brimming with manufactured tears. “Madam… I truly can’t do this anymore… Please, I’m begging you, let me go!” Mrs. Blackwood’s expression shifted. She offered a few perfunctory words about how hard I’d worked, then the subject turned quickly. “Your father’s gambling debts to the Blackwood family aren’t settled yet, you know.” I gripped the bedsheet, my knuckles stark white. “A debt-ridden father, a sick mother, a younger brother needing school tuition. When I first met you, I thought, Surely, no one can be this tragic.” I pressed my lips together, offering a weak, self-deprecating smile. She was right. Life was a cruel joke. Fate loved to toy with the desperate. And it was exactly people like me who were so easy for them to manipulate. Mrs. Blackwood patted my shoulder, sighing dramatically. “Tori is only fighting with Damon because of you. That’s a sign that she cares, my dear.” “Just hold on a little longer. The contract ends soon, and then you’ll be free. Otherwise… you know what will happen.” I lowered my head and nodded softly. I had zero leverage to refuse. … I’d only been recuperating at the estate for two days when Damon’s call came through. “Are you well enough yet? You got paid, now you need to do your job.” “There’s a high-stakes real estate tender on the West Side. Get over here.” I pouted. One of the main functions of a cage pet was to be an attractive accessory at the master’s various social functions. Thinking about the bullet wound Tori gave me, I felt a deep reluctance. Damon must have sensed my hesitation. An instant notification popped up on my phone. “One million. That’s a rush fee.” Money makes the world go round. God, I loved money. My face instantly transformed into a dazzling, professional smile. I chirped into the phone: “I’m on my way, sir! I can’t wait to see you!” There was a rare, brief pause on his end. After a beat, he simply said: “Stop being so glib.” I ignored his baffling mood swing and sped over to the tender meeting. I arrived to find him and Tori locked in a tense, public argument over a key parcel of land. “I just got back, Damon, and you’re already trying to spite me?” Tori crossed her arms, her gaze sharp and cutting. Damon was equally unyielding, slamming the base of his glass on the table with a dull thud. “The Blackwood organization has planned this land for years. You think you can just show up and claim it?” I hid in the back, happily sampling a plate of hors d’oeuvres. I never imagined I would be dragged into their mess again. The lights suddenly cut out. The last thing I felt was a dull, sickening crack against the back of my skull. When I opened my eyes again, I was suspended hundreds of feet in the air. “Damon Blackwood, are you deliberately fighting me because of her?” Tori’s voice crackled through a one-way speaker. A digital screen lit up inside the iron cage I was trapped in. I could clearly see Damon’s face—completely emotionless. I glanced down. The ground was impossibly far away, an untouchable abyss. Falling from this height would mean nothing but a messy splatter. I shuddered instinctively, and the cage groaned, a loud, protesting screeech. That was when I realized the horrifying truth. Tori had deliberately put me in a rickety, rusted, ancient cage. A sudden gust of wind tore past, and a sheet of metal ripped away from the cage floor and plummeted downward. “Ah!” I couldn’t stop the scream from ripping out of my throat, and I immediately curled into a fetal position in the corner. The wind whipped my hair around my face. The absolute terror of the situation made me cry, not the acting kind, but real, silent, panicked tears. “Damon, your little pet is weeping. Doesn’t that make you feel sorry for her?” Tori’s voice returned, laced with malice. I stared at his cold, detached eyes through the electronic screen. His dismissive voice finally came through the speaker. “No.” 3 Tori sneered. The rigging above the cage emitted a sharp ding sound. Then I started to fall. Rapidly. This is it. I’m going to die. These rich people are genuinely insane. The expected impact didn’t happen. A massive air cushion had been rigged up at the last minute to catch the cage. But the relief was momentary. My heart slammed back into my throat the next second. I was in an enclosed sanctuary. And all around me were wild wolves. The broken, flimsy cage was the only barrier I had. The camera inside was still streaming my ordeal to the other location. The pack was tearing at my party dress. I managed to avoid one, only to find another closing in. They surrounded me, drool dripping from their jaws. My heart plummeted. All the glib banter was gone. These animals looked genuinely starved. They worked the gaps in the cage, making them wider and wider. I heard Tori’s laughter in the speaker, right next to my ear. “Aren’t you going to save your little beauty, Damon?” A massive wolf finally squeezed through a large gap and lunged straight at me. I threw a desperate, pleading look at the screen. But Damon Blackwood just watched my terror, calmly taking a sip of his tea. The wolf clamped down on my leg. More and more injuries appeared on my body. The stitches in my abdomen, the ones from the shooting, finally gave way, and the pale gown was soaked in fresh red blood. My consciousness faded in and out. I still don’t know how I was ultimately rescued. I only vaguely heard Damon talking to one of his subordinates. “Does she really care for me that much? She’s been through all this and still won’t leave?” The subordinate’s voice was shaky. “It… it appears so, sir. Ms. Vaughn seems genuinely devoted to you.” Damon laughed. “No. She only loves money.” … I had modern medical science to thank. When I woke up again, half my injuries were already healing. But I didn’t get more than a few days of rest before Damon summoned me again. Another partner’s birthday gala. Another compulsory appearance as his arm candy. Rich people always have too many parties. It was exhausting. The room was lit by warm chandeliers, a sea of clinking glasses and chatter. It was a scene I’d witnessed countless times during my three years with Damon. I was leaning down to grab a dessert when Tori’s voice, sharp and sudden, cut in. “I heard Ms. Vaughn used to work in a nightclub. Why doesn’t she perform a dance for us?” Before I could reply, Damon spoke. “She doesn’t dance.” Right. I don’t dance. My primary skill was mixology. For a moment, I actually felt a flicker of gratitude toward him. Tori pressed her lips into a thin line and stared intently at Damon. “To save you years ago, I was forced to drink until I was incoherent, humiliated by those men. And now you won’t even let her dance for me?” Damon fell silent. He tightened his grip on his wine glass, then turned to me and only said two words. “Go dance.” “But my wounds haven’t healed… I’m still in pain,” I pleaded. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes conveyed a cold, non-negotiable command. I had no choice but to change into the revealing costume and take my place among the professional dancers. Countless sticky, judgmental eyes stabbed at me from the crowd. The whispers were crude and cutting. “Jeez, Blackwood was hiding this little firecracker?” “When can I borrow her for a night?” My body was covered in bruises and raw sutures; to them, it probably had some perverse, abusive kind of beauty. I felt like a slab of meat on a cutting board. Like the cheapest commodity. In three years as a cage pet, this was the most profoundly humiliating moment I had endured. In a flash of blinding light and noise, a gunshot rang out. Screams erupted, and the crowd scattered. Someone was attempting a hit in the middle of the party! I instinctively tried to flee, to save myself. But someone shoved me hard from behind. I stumbled, falling directly toward Damon Blackwood. Pfff. A dull thud. I knew that sound intimately. It was a bullet ripping into flesh. It hurt. Badly. Shot in the chest. My ribs were probably shattered. As I lost consciousness, Damon caught me in his arms. His brow was furrowed. His voice, for the first time, held a disbelieving tremor. “You… you love me that much?” I tried to open my mouth to deny it, but my body failed me, and I passed out. 4 This time, I was given proper medical attention. For several days, Damon didn’t bother me. He just stood silently at the foot of my bed, his eyes holding a strange, unreadable quality. A mix of conflict, maybe even a struggle of conscience. But what did his internal drama matter to me? My contract had five days left. I was about to walk out the door forever. I slept soundly, fully embracing the sick leave. Until Tori came calling. She tossed a stack of photos onto the bed in front of Damon. They were pictures from my old life working as a bartender at a high-end club. In every shot, the back of the same man’s head—a regular customer—was visible. “Damon, I checked. She’s connected to the same people who tried to ruin you.” Tori stood, arms crossed, waiting for his response. Damon only glanced at the photos, one after the other. He said nothing. Tori frowned, then, for the first time, lowered her defenses. She knelt beside his chair, her eyes damp. “I almost lost you this time. I realized, in that moment, how much you mean to me.” “Damon, let’s stop fighting, okay? Deal with her, and we’ll get married.” I watched as Damon reached out a hand to her. It trembled slightly. But the words he spoke next plummeted my mood into a deep, freezing trough. He said: “Alright.” He had me dragged to the Blackwood Annex—the Vault—the dark, high-ceilinged room where family business was settled, and punishments were meted out. He spared me only one look as I was taken away. It was icy. Whatever faint trace of emotion I thought I saw in his eyes was instantly extinguished. My hands were bound behind my back. Whip after whip lashed across my skin. My flesh tore, bleeding freely. When I passed out from the pain, they woke me with buckets of ice water. “Tell us! What is your relationship with the Sullivan family?” My mind was hazy. “Sullivan family? I don’t know what you’re talking about…” My interrogator sneered and started a new round of lashing. My wounds, which had only just begun to heal, burst open, festering and oozing. When it was clear I was failing, he grabbed me, bringing a searing hot iron to my chest. “Ahhhh—Stop! It hurts!” I screamed, the pain bringing me instantly, violently back to consciousness. The man smiled, a terrifying grin. “This mark will stay with you forever. Every man who touches you will know exactly what kind of filth you are!” I struggled to look down. Branded into my skin was a single word, a symbol of utter shame. My eyes flinched away as if scorched. Tears streamed uncontrollably down my face. I regretted it. I shouldn’t have gotten involved in the world of the ultra-rich. I should never have gotten close to Damon Blackwood. I had barely an inch of uninjured skin left. Three of my fingernails had been ripped out. My breathing was ragged and wheezing, like a broken bellows. I knew I was dying. The interrogator chuckled and tossed me out onto the street like a piece of trash. In the throes of fading consciousness, I heard Mrs. Blackwood’s voice. “Oh, my. She looks utterly ruined.” “The contract is up. You can go now.” … Damon Blackwood had been unusually agitated lately. He was about to marry the woman he’d yearned for for years, yet he couldn’t stop thinking about Sierra Vaughn. He kept recalling her lazy indifference. Her cunning, fox-like sharpness. And the image of her in his arms, bleeding, having taken a bullet for him. He summoned his subordinate. “Where is Sierra Vaughn? It’s been days. Is she complaining that the Vault is too dark and boring?” The subordinate’s face went white with panic. He immediately dropped to his knees. “Mr. Blackwood, Ms. Vaughn… she died…” Damon Blackwood’s expression froze instantly.

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My wife came home late that night, looking like a ghost. Her stockings were shredded, her dress barely clinging to her hips, and her skin was a road map of angry, crimson bruises. The moment she crossed the threshold, she bolted for the bathroom, locking the door. I heard the shower immediately—she scrubbed until her skin was raw, desperate to erase what had happened. I wanted her to call the police. I begged her. But after hours of relentless scrubbing, the police said there was no physical evidence left. When the district attorney’s office reviewed the case, the surveillance cameras in her boss’s office were, coincidentally, “under maintenance.” Eventually, the case was dropped due to insufficient evidence. Rage consumed me. I drove straight to her office and beat her supervisor into the floor. My reward was seven days in a local detention facility for assault. It wasn’t just the jail time. After the incident, Veronica developed severe psychological distress. For two agonizing months, she flinched away from my touch—any touch. I finally reached my limit. I called her family over, sat them down in our living room, and announced I wanted a divorce. Veronica stared at me, disbelief warring with pain in her eyes. “Is this my fault? Am I to blame because I was assaulted? And you’re leaving me over this?” I looked at her, my voice flat, hollowed out of all emotion. “Yes. Precisely because you were assaulted, I am divorcing you.” 1 Veronica’s face was slick with tears, her gaze full of shock and betrayal. “Nick, is this what you’ve wanted for months? Did you just use what happened as an excuse?” “You’ve wanted to leave me since day one, haven’t you? You think I’m dirty now.” I met the gaze of the sobbing woman in front of me, but I felt nothing. My heart was a stone. “Whatever you think, this marriage is over today.” Veronica gasped, startled by the finality in my voice. She hadn’t expected me to be so firm. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Peterson, immediately scowled. She started to speak, but Mr. Peterson squeezed her arm, stopping her. “Nick, son, I know this is hard for you to swallow, but Veronica is the victim here,” Mr. Peterson said, his tone softening in a bid for peace. “She didn’t ask for this. She’s suffering enough. This is the test of your vows, isn’t it? As husband and wife, you get through this.” Mrs. Peterson jumped in, her voice shrill. “That’s right, Nick! Veronica has been a good wife! Look at her—she’s beautiful, she’s successful. You got lucky marrying her! This is the kind of man you’re going to be? Abandoning your wife when she needs you most? Grow up, apologize to her, and stop this foolishness!” Veronica, recovering slightly, reached for my hand, playing the supportive wife. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I know you’ve been hurting, too.” “You don’t have to apologize. Let’s just put this behind us and move forward. Please?” The other Peterson relatives who had gathered in the living room chimed in, leaning into the pressure. “Nick, this is wrong. No one wanted this for Veronica. You’re the man, you need to be bigger.” “And honestly, you have some blame here. She was working late—why didn’t you go pick her up? If you had, none of this would have happened!” “Come on, forget the divorce talk. You two are young. This is nothing in the grand scheme of things. Your lives are just beginning.” Hope flickered back into Veronica’s tear-stained eyes. “Sweetheart, I know the last two months have been so hard on you.” “I promise I’ll adjust. We can just pretend it never happened, okay?” Her voice caught on a sob. If you didn’t know the full story, you’d think she was making the biggest sacrifice in the world. I took a step back, breaking her grip on my hand, ignoring the chorus of judging relatives. “Veronica.” My voice was ice. “I am going through with this divorce.” 2 Veronica froze, her whole body rigid with shock. Mr. Peterson’s face went dark with anger. “Nick! You are an animal! Divorcing your wife over something like this? You are no man!” I glanced at my father-in-law and gave a cold, short laugh. “You’re a man. If your wife came home after cheating on you, could you live with her?” Mrs. Peterson’s hand trembled as she pointed a finger inches from my nose, her voice cracking. “That’s not the same! Was she willing? Did she want this to happen?” I didn’t answer her. I looked down at Veronica. I remembered that night two months ago: Veronica floating into the house, lost, her stockings torn, her dress hanging like a rag. She didn’t see me, just went straight to the shower. The next day, she told me she was forced by her supervisor, Clay. She fought, she said, but it was no use. I was blind with rage. I dragged her to the police station. But all evidence had literally gone down the drain. The company cameras were “down,” and the police told us we had nothing. Case closed. Watching Veronica exist as a shell, dissolving into tears every day, I felt a desperate, helpless pain. I went to her company and gave Clay the beating of his life. I spent a week in custody. Two months had passed. The truth of what happened that night—whether she was forced or not—was known only to Veronica and Clay. A cynical smile touched my lips. “Veronica, why do I want this divorce?” “Don’t you actually know the reason?” She flinched, a flash of guilt flickering in her eyes. I stepped further away, putting distance between us. “After it happened, I told you to quit. I told you I could support us, cover the mortgage and the bills. I told you to stay home and heal. But you refused. You insisted on going back to that office every single day, to face the man you claimed was disgusting.” Veronica visibly relaxed at my words. She immediately played the martyr, tears streaming down her face. “We’ve only been married for two years! We have the mortgage, the car payment, all our debt. How could I let you shoulder all that alone?” “Nick, do you really think I’m an embarrassment? Do you think I’m ‘throwing myself out there’?” “I was doing it for you. For our family.” I scoffed. “You know exactly who you were doing it for.” Hearing our exchange, the relatives reached a fever pitch. “Nick, you are unbelievable! Veronica suffered a trauma, and you’re not even thinking about her feelings, you’re worried about her throwing herself out there?” “She’s pushing through all that pain to keep working for you and the family! She has to face that monster every day. Don’t you think she’s hurting more than you?” “You are the monster! The sheer ingratitude!” Mr. Peterson had heard enough. He grabbed Veronica’s arm, ready to pull her out. “Come on! You’re coming home with your mother and me! We don’t need to talk to this kind of filth!” Veronica pulled her arm away, tears still flowing, but her face set in a look of grim determination. “It’s okay, Dad. Nick and I are married. Whatever happens, we have to face it together.” “He’s just struggling right now. You two go home. I’ll talk to him. Please don’t worry about me.” Mr. Peterson’s face twisted with helpless anger and pity for his daughter. He wanted to scream at her, but looking at her tear-streaked face, he couldn’t find the words. He turned his fury on me instead. “Listen to me, Nick! You better think this through very carefully!” “You’re a stray! An orphan who only got a shot because we let you marry our daughter! If you leave her, you’ll be on your own—see how far you get then!” With that, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson and the other relatives stormed out, not looking back. The living room fell silent. I took one long, assessing look at Veronica, then turned and walked upstairs to the master bedroom. I locked the door and pulled out my phone, dialing my cousin, Danielle, who was an attorney. “Danielle, any progress on what I asked you to check?” Hearing her answer, a heavy weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying finally shifted. “Good. We may need to go to court in a few days. I need your full support.” 3 I got home late the next night after work, and stopped dead in the doorway. The dining table was set with an elaborate, beautifully plated dinner. Candles flickered softly, and Veronica was sitting there in a revealing, silky nightgown. When she saw me, her face lit up. “Honey, you’re home! Come sit down, look what I made for you.” When I didn’t move, she rushed over, took my hand, and gently led me to the table. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. I thought everything through. I realized that I wasn’t the only one suffering these past two months—you were, too.” “I was so deep in my own pain, I didn’t consider your feelings. I won’t do that again. We can start fresh, together.” “Sweetheart, let’s stop fighting. Please?” As she spoke, Veronica deliberately straightened her back, pressing her chest forward. Two years of marriage meant I knew exactly what that gesture meant. Since that night two months ago, she had completely shut me out. Forget intimacy, even a simple arm around her shoulders would make her shriek in panic. She must have convinced herself that my demand for a divorce was purely about her physical rejection. She thought this elaborate setup would fix everything. How small she thinks I am. I slipped my hand free and flicked on the bright overhead lights, shattering the cozy atmosphere. “Veronica, stop the theatrics.” “I told you: this divorce is happening, no matter what.” She froze, stunned that I hadn’t crumbled. Before she could form a reply, two figures burst out of the guest room. Mr. and Mrs. Peterson stood there, faces contorted with rage. Mr. Peterson pointed a finger at me, but his words were directed at his daughter. “How did I raise such a foolish, blind daughter! How could you choose a man like this? Look at you, doing this for him, and he still wants a divorce! He is making a fool out of you!” Mrs. Peterson stepped forward, shielding her daughter behind her back. “I know what’s going on! This animal has been cheating on you!” “It’s the 21st century! No man leaves his wife over something like this unless he has someone else waiting in the wings! And why now? Why not two months ago? Why the sudden urgency?” “Nick, tell me the truth. Do you have a mistress?” Veronica looked at me, her tears suddenly stopping, her eyes wide with shock. “Sweetheart, is this true?” She didn’t wait for an answer, muttering to herself, “It must be. It absolutely is.” “You’ve been coming home late every night for two months, and you always brush me off when I ask where you’ve been.” “You really did find someone else! Nick, how could you do this to me?” I almost laughed at the sheer gall of the accusation. “Who is cheating? Who has a secret life outside this house?” “Veronica, your parents are right here. Do you dare tell them—” I was cut off. My mother-in-law, driven by righteous fury, lunged at me. “I’ll kill you! You bastard! You’re not even human!” “My daughter has been through hell, and you have the audacity to find someone else? You’re a pig!” I hadn’t anticipated her physical attack. She raked her nails across my cheek, leaving stinging, bloody lines. But she was an elder. No matter how much I despised her daughter, I wouldn’t hit her. I backed away quickly, putting space between us. Veronica, startled, grabbed her mother’s arm. I looked at Mr. Peterson, who still had a shred of composure. “Take her home,” I said, pointing to his wife. “I’ll say it one last time: If you don’t want me to make this ugly, agree to the divorce immediately.” 4 Mr. Peterson glowered at me, his expression one of pure, unrestrained hatred. Finally, he regained control, turning to his wife and daughter. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!” Three days later, Veronica came back. The moment she saw me, her eyes welled up. “You won’t answer my calls. You won’t reply to my texts.” “Nick, what are you trying to do? Why are you punishing me like this?” I didn’t look up, instead busy packing her remaining personal items into boxes. “We’re getting a divorce. There’s no reason to communicate.” Veronica’s face hardened. She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and spoke slowly, biting off each word. “Nick, I am asking you for the last time. Are you absolutely determined to end this marriage?” I didn’t reply. I didn’t even lift my head. Mr. Peterson’s patience snapped. He slammed a folder onto the floor at my feet. “Fine! We’ll divorce!” “But Veronica did nothing wrong in this marriage. Since you insist, you’ll walk away with nothing! You leave completely empty-handed!” I put down the box, picked up the settlement papers, and gave a cold smile. “Whether she did anything wrong is a question you should ask your precious daughter.” “And you expect me to walk away empty-handed? You people are sickening.” The second my words left my mouth, Mrs. Peterson darted out from behind her husband, raising her designer handbag like a weapon. “I should have never let my daughter marry you! I knew you were a rotten heart! You think you can claim she’s the fault? I’m telling you: either you sign these papers and leave with nothing, or we’ll see you in court. You won’t take a single penny of my daughter’s!” I grabbed her swinging arm, simultaneously feeling a rush of satisfaction. Court is exactly where I wanted to be. Mrs. Peterson, thinking I was intimidated, yanked her purse back and continued her tirade. “You’re a leech! An ungrateful stray! You’re an orphan with no family name! If the Petersons hadn’t given you a chance, you’d be nothing!” “Now you’ve got your girlfriend on the side, you want to throw my daughter out and pin the blame on her? I’m telling you, it won’t be that easy!” I was tired of the noise. “Since we can’t agree, we’ll settle it in court.” “Talk is cheap. We’ll let the judge decide.” A week later, the divorce proceedings began. Veronica’s family and a host of relatives filled the gallery, a wall of support and hostility. Their eyes burned with contempt and fury aimed squarely at me. Before the hearing began, Veronica walked up to me, her eyes red-rimmed. “Nick, do we really have to do this? We can still go home. We can be a family. We can forget everything that happened. Please?” I ignored her, walking straight into the courtroom. Once the initial paperwork was reviewed, the judge looked up at me. “Mr. Hayes, the incident involving Ms. Peterson was a tragic accident. You are entitled to file for divorce, but your secondary conditions are unreasonable.” (I had asked for a split that factored in her ‘at-fault’ behavior). “Under these circumstances, you cannot demand Ms. Peterson walk away with nothing.” I stood up, meeting the judge’s gaze. “Your Honor, I have additional evidence.”

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A bizarre accident connected me with my seven-years-younger self. Hearing that the future me was about to get engaged to Nolan Shaw, she rolled around on her bed in excitement, declaring herself the happiest girl in the world. Happy? I offered a bitter smile and silently showed her the full extent of my own brutal reality. The gentle “Senior Shaw” she knew was long gone. In his place was the Nolan who repeatedly allowed others to call me a conniving opportunist, the Nolan who, right before our engagement, demanded I kneel and apologize to his first love’s entire family. “So, do you still want this future?” The light in the eyes of my younger self dimmed. The past was rewritten. Nolan, this time, we will never meet again. 1 At my engagement party with Nolan Shaw, the famous actress Skylar Brooks arrived with his family. Instantly, all eyes were drawn away from us. Nolan let go of my hand and, along with his mother, went to greet them. Mrs. Shaw, who had been wearing a stony expression a moment ago, immediately smiled and took Skylar’s hand warmly. “Skylar, you finally made it.” Skylar smoothly engaged them in conversation. Around us, confused guests began to whisper about our relationship. One of Nolan’s friends pointed at me and chuckled, “Oh, her? She’s the one who slept her way into the family.” It wasn’t a new story. Whenever someone didn’t know, they made sure to broadcast my “history.” In college, Nolan and I were in the same club. I pursued him for two years. He ended up dating his childhood sweetheart, Skylar Brooks. Seeing he was taken, I gave up. But then, at a club gathering, I somehow ended up in bed with him. That night, Skylar was overly enthusiastic about toasting Nolan and me. My tolerance for alcohol was low, and I got drunk quickly. I distinctly remember checking the room number; I was sure I was going back to my own room. The next morning, the door was thrown open. Skylar brought people in to “catch us in the act.” I was naked in Nolan’sbed, covered in bruises and hickeys. Skylar immediately burst into tears. Nolan quickly put on clothes and furiously interrogated me. In everyone’s mind, Nolan was the epitome of integrity and respect, while I was just a lovesick underclassman. No one believed my explanation. They all called me shameless, a manipulative opportunist. When I returned to campus, the rumors spread like wildfire in the school group chats. Later, Skylar broke up with Nolan and went abroad, and I became public enemy number one. Everyone rallied to defend Skylar, calling me a “homewrecker” and a “slut.” They successfully got my scholarship revoked and my graduate school recommendation canceled. Nolan initially planned to ignore me, but when he found out I was unexpectedly pregnant, he felt forced to take responsibility and be with me. But as everyone predicted, though he was with me, his heart wasn’t. The label of “opportunist who slept her way up” became an indelible stain on my life. Upon hearing the story, all the guests sighed. “I knew it. Why else would the Shaws marry a commoner?” “Look at her and her mom, so cheap. Without dirty tricks, they’d never get close to people like us.” My mom stood by me in the corner, her expression helpless. She whispered, “Maya, I’m so sorry. I wish I were more capable.” My nose stung, and my eyes welled up instantly. Mom worked as a server; she’d spent her life bending her back for others. That’s why she pushed me to study hard, hoping I’d never have to bow down to anyone again. Yet, here I was, at my own engagement party, dragging her into public ridicule. I wished she would just yell at me, but Mom never did. She just squeezed my hand tenderly, sighing over and over again. I had nothing to do with the actual engagement party; they were busy securing endorsements and resources for Skylar Brooks. It wasn’t until the end that Nolan and I returned to the Shaw residence. Once home, he went to bed early. I stepped onto the balcony. The night wind chilled me to the bone. I pulled out my phone and asked, “So now what? Do you still want me to stay?” On the other end was Maya from seven years ago. One of us was full of hope for the future; the other’s heart was already a dead husk. “Well, because of the misunderstanding, maybe Senior Shaw is just having a hard time letting go. You finally got engaged, shouldn’t you try to hold on a little longer?” The truth was, I had kept the phone line open the whole day. Even after hearing everything, she was still weakly trying to convince me. It was understandable—a story heard is never as deep as an experience lived. The Maya of seven years ago knew only the Senior Shaw who patiently tutored me and chased away the creeps. After a long pause, I let out a soft sigh. “Oh, you mentioned that Senior Shaw and I had a child, right? That baby should be seven now. Can I hear their voice?” Her voice was filled with excitement, but my reply was ice-cold: “He died years ago.” Skylar had debuted by then, and she had a few loyal fans on campus. They deliberately waited until I was heavily pregnant and pushed me down a flight of stairs. The child who was about to be born died. Nolan planned to seek justice, but Skylar, who was abroad, called and pleaded for her fans. Nolan dropped the case and forbade me from calling the police. He said it was my own karma that killed the child. The matter was ultimately dismissed. I stayed in the hospital alone, watching the sun rise and set, my eyes vacant. The doctor said I had severe depression and told me to relax and communicate more with my family. I nodded but told no one. For five years, no one ever noticed. 2 When I woke up the next day, I found Mrs. Shaw dining with Skylar Brooks downstairs. Skylar had returned to the country two years ago. The moment she did, Nolan mobilized all of the Shaw family resources to make her a star. Mrs. Shaw went further, bringing her home right in front of me, lamenting that she had been betrayed by an unscrupulous person like me. The two were deep in conversation when I approached. Skylar suddenly said, “I heard the Shaws have an heirloom bracelet passed down to the daughter-in-law. Auntie, why haven’t you given it to Maya?” Mrs. Shaw snorted. “Does she deserve it? A low-class opportunist. She’d contaminate the Shaw family’s heirloom.” Skylar looked troubled, though her eyes betrayed a hidden joy. “Auntie, she and Nolan are engaged. Isn’t that a bit harsh?” “What’s harsh about it? Skylar, rest assured, you are the only daughter-in-law in my heart. I will never recognize that woman.” Mrs. Shaw was likely quite angry. Despite the child being gone and Skylar having returned, Nolan still hadn’t dumped me and was even engaged to me. I was long used to this. I silently moved aside and started scrolling through my phone. The moment I opened an app, the top headline read: “Hot Actress Skylar Brooks Rumored to be the Future Daughter-in-Law of the Shaw Group.” Skylar had even liked the post with her private account. The comments section exploded with excitement; everyone was gushing about the perfect couple. Skylar’s fans were especially smug. “Our Skylar is simply the best! She even bagged the CEO, Mr. Shaw!” I quietly posted a comment: “But I often see Mr. Shaw with someone else. That must be his girlfriend.” The moment I posted, Skylar’s fans descended on me. “What kind of nobody is this, trying to steal our Skylar’s man?” “Sweetie, you must be mistaken. If he had a girlfriend, why would this trending topic stay up for so long?” “Exactly! Our Mr. Shaw must be jealous of all the handsome guys around Skylar and is secretly asserting his claim.” The replies multiplied. I scrolled down, losing strength with each one. I thought I had gotten used to this over the years, but my chest still felt heavy and suffocated. They were right. Wasn’t all this happening with Nolan’s silent permission? On the phone, seven-years-ago Maya kept trying to comfort me in a soft voice. She said those fans were talking nonsense and that Senior Shaw would definitely handle it if he knew. Nolan used to have many admirers. Once, when I was targeted by vicious rumors, he took me up to the person and slapped them. But that was a long time ago. “Senior Shaw…” I let out a short, cynical laugh. “Do you really think your Senior Shaw will care?” My past and future selves made a bet. The bet was simple: if Nolan made me suffer for Skylar one more time, she would lose. I demanded she stay away from Nolan and Skylar from now on. I was going to change the future from the past. A week later, the five-years-ago me would refuse the party invitation, cut off all contact with Nolan, graduate successfully, and secure my spot in grad school, never again having to live under a cloud of shame. 3 That evening, Nolan returned smelling heavily of alcohol. I immediately confronted him and demanded an explanation. He glanced at me. “Do you have to make a scene over something so trivial?” The hand hidden beneath my sleeve was trembling uncontrollably. In five years, this was the first time I couldn’t help but shout at him, “Nolan Shaw, if you can’t let her go, then just be with Skylar Brooks openly!” As soon as I finished, Nolan sneered. “Skylar and I have always been honest. It’s you who loves to play games and resort to cheap tricks behind people’s backs.” “Senior…” Nolan suddenly froze. It was the younger Maya’s voice calling out. Exhausted, I continued, “I don’t want to be trapped in the past anymore, trapped here.” I didn’t want to be plagued by nightmares every night, filled with the sound of a baby’s cries. I didn’t want to live like a criminal, subject to abuse from anyone. I had told them I truly went back to my own room, so why did no one believe me? Unexpectedly, Nolan’s face darkened menacingly. “Maya Shaw, you low-class tramp who slept your way into a man’s bed back then, what are you trying to prove now with this innocent act?” He gripped my wrist tightly, pinning me down on the bed. I struggled, begging him to stop, but Nolan’s movements became increasingly brutal. Everything only stopped when my lip was bitten through, and a tearing pain ripped through my body. Nolan, drunk, fell asleep quickly. I forced myself to get up, a bitter smile on my face, and announced, “Maya, you lost.” The other side was silent. After a long moment, she replied softly, “I understand. I will honor the bet.” … The next day was Mother’s Day. I went to my mom’s workplace, planning to pick her up to go out. I never expected three thugs to storm in and beat my mom to the ground. I rushed forward in a panic, trying to shield her. The leader of the thugs shouted, “You old fool! You raised a daughter who’s a homewrecking opportunist! I’ll beat you to death!” Bystanders who were about to help stopped, eyeing my mom and me strangely. The other two thugs dragged me away, pinning me to the floor, as the first one started landing punches on my mom. “Take it out on me! Let go of my mom!” I watched my mom get beaten, covered in blood, pleading until her voice faded. I cried, desperately yelling for help, but no one would intervene until security guards finally arrived and chased them off. Trembling, I called 911. At the hospital, a nurse told me they were short-staffed and the lead surgeons were all tied up in operations. I remembered the Shaw family knew several doctors. I rushed to find them, only to discover they were all gathered in one area. Skylar Brooks had an incident on set—she’d suffered a minor cut and was severely shaken. Nolan, worried sick, had summoned everyone to examine her. Outside the room, I watched Skylar tremble in Nolan’s arms. He was whispering reassurances, his expression filled with intense worry. I burst into the room, my voice hoarse. “Nolan, my mom is dying. Please, I need one doctor.” Skylar’s eyes immediately welled up. She clutched Nolan’s sleeve. “My heart feels so bad.” Nolan’s gaze was as sharp as a knife. “Maya, Skylar is like this, and you have to act out of jealousy now? Even using your mom as an excuse?” I dropped to my knees, grabbing his sleeve, pleading, “It’s true! I’m not lying! My mom is in critical condition!” Nolan said impatiently, “Wait.” Time ticked by agonizingly slowly. My heart was on fire. Skylar was completely unharmed but kept saying she felt unwell. Finally, I saw a doctor free up. Just then, the alarm for the emergency room blared. Ignoring everything, I sprinted toward the sound, but when I arrived, I watched the nurse slowly pull a white sheet over a body. The doctors and nurses apologized to me. I collapsed, looking at my mom lying motionless in a pool of blood. It was Mother’s Day. I was supposed to take her out to celebrate. After a while, Nolan arrived. He froze at the sight, realizing I hadn’t lied. He walked over to apologize, but I couldn’t hear a word. Just then, I received a call from the police station, notifying me that the three thugs involved in the assault had been apprehended. I wiped my tears and rushed over. I wouldn’t let them get away with it. Nolan also promised to help me seek revenge. But when we got there, we found Skylar Brooks already present. The moment she saw me, she rushed forward and knelt before me, crying. She claimed the man was her brother, who only wanted to defend her, and was then incited by others to do such a terrible thing. “Maya, I will compensate you. Please, let my brother go. He’s applying for a government job.” I shoved her hand away, feeling only absurdity. When she realized pleading with me was useless, she turned to Nolan. Nolan agreed. “Maya, let it go.” I screamed in complete breakdown, “How dare you tell me to let it go! I’ll never forgive any of them!” “Maya! If you hadn’t caused those problems years ago, your mother wouldn’t have been attacked!” My mind went blank. For the last time, I explained weakly, “How many times do I have to tell you, I went back to my own room that night!” 4 In the end, Nolan forced me to sign a letter of forgiveness. He said from now on, everything that happened in the past was to be forgotten. But what kind of sin requires the lives of my child and my mother as compensation? I walked alone, recounting what just happened to the Maya of seven years ago. This time, she didn’t say a word. If she had been reluctant at the start of the bet, now only a similar deathly silence remained in her heart. I hung up and found myself at the riverbank, where a drowning child was struggling in the water. Without a second thought, I jumped in and pulled him out. But as I reached the bank, my body gave out, and I passed out. I was unconscious for six days. When I woke up, I found Nolan by my bedside, his face haggard from lack of sleep. “Maya, I told you, let the past go. I will take good care of you, in your mom’s stead.” I paused, realizing he thought I had deliberately tried to drown myself to blackmail him. But who wanted his care? Who agreed to forget the past? Nolan signaled, and his and Skylar’s friends entered. They chatted with me in a friendly way and wished me happiness. But as soon as they left, I heard them gathering in the hallway to comfort Skylar: “Skylar, don’t let that manipulative opportunist get to you.” “Yeah, pulling a suicide stunt for sympathy. Disgusting.” “We’ll never forgive her for the nasty things she’s done.” It was ridiculous. Who needed their forgiveness? Under the guise of avenging Skylar, they mocked and abused me, got my scholarship and grad school recommendation canceled, and led the entire school to isolate me. After I started working, they would show up at every company I worked for and cause a scene, preventing me from getting promoted for five years, leaving me permanently in the lowest-level jobs. If I showed the slightest resistance, they would run to Nolan and play the victim. They called me a “green tea” (a phrase I’d translate as a ‘faux-innocent drama queen’), but they were the truly hypocritical and disgusting ones. Thankfully, I was about to be rid of them all. I checked the date. Tomorrow. It was finally going to end. I was discharged that day after being cleared by the doctors. Back at the Shaws’, the servants were much more respectful, and even Mrs. Shaw grudgingly spoke to me. Nolan probably thought this was the happy ending he was giving me. He and Skylar had forgiven me, and my social circle was willing to accept me. But for me, this was just the beginning. That night, after Nolan fell asleep, I made a phone call. The voice on the other end was relaxed. “Skylar Brooks has invited me to that gathering many times today, but I keep refusing. Don’t worry, I’m staying away from Nolan, from all of them.” She let out a long breath and finally said, “So, Maya, go forward.” My mother named me Maya, which means “awakening.” She wanted me to always have the resilient courage to endure winter and thrive in the spring. I shouldn’t be trapped here, carrying this heavy chain. That night, I stood on the balcony, watching the dawn break. In the final moments, I turned, looked at Nolan sleeping on the bed, and said calmly, “Nolan, goodbye. We will never meet again.” The next day, Nolan woke up and frowned at the empty space beside him. He’d had a nightmare yesterday. He dreamed I was disappearing, and he couldn’t hold onto me no matter what. Nolan quickly got up, looking around the room, feeling like something was significantly missing. He went downstairs and saw Mrs. Shaw elegantly eating breakfast at the dining table. “Mom, where’s Maya?” Mrs. Shaw looked at him strangely. “Who are you talking about, Maya?” He looked up at his mother, his voice laced with anxiety. “Mom, Maya Shaw is my fiancée. We’ve been together for seven years. Do you really not remember her at all?” Mrs. Shaw frowned, walking over to check his forehead. “Son, are you running a fever? Where did you get a fiancée?”

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