The day I found out about my husband’s affair, my family hauled my numb body back home, all of them urging me to pretend that nothing had happened. “You’re a stay-at-home wife, what would you live on without him? You’ll forget about this soon enough.” A chill went through me, and the tears wouldn’t stop. I was a wreck. That was why, while my husband was away on a business trip, my parents had my cousin try to stand in for him. “Just try it a few times. If you get used to the proximity, you’ll accept it. Life will go on as before. Just try to be practical.” My cousin went through the motions of my husband’s routines. Their figures overlapped; everything seemed unchanged—still gentle, still attentive. But I couldn’t bear it. Every caring gesture he made brought back the image of her: them kissing on the street without a care, that same mouth having kissed me just that morning. I screamed with revulsion, shattering a vase, but the agonizing question still tore out of me: “Why did you cheat? Was I not enough? Is she really that much better than me?” I wasn’t being asked to forgive him just once. I was being asked to forgive him every single time the memory surfaced. Those images sliced me into pieces, like knives. I collapsed to the floor, helpless. Twelve years of a relationship. He was supposed to be the husband who loved me most. I’d quit my job to become a full-time wife so we could prepare for a baby. We were supposed to be having children. But he had cheated. How could I possibly pretend nothing happened? I was sobbing hysterically. When I looked up again, I pleaded with my parents. “Please, let me go. I can support myself. I promise.” … My parents exchanged a long, tense look, then sighed in defeat. “Fine, but you need to think this through. Divorce isn’t easy, and we don’t want to hurt you.” “Marriage doesn’t always need love to last.” They left, and the house fell into a terrifying silence. Before leaving, Mom told me to give both myself and him some time, to just try to make it work. Divorce, she insisted, wouldn’t be good for me. I mumbled a reply, then curled up in the corner, the cold seeping into me from all sides. I thought and thought, for hours. The sweet moments we shared flashed before my eyes like a slide show. How could a person so deeply loved change like that? How long had it been? Had they gotten a room? Gone further? What positions had they used? I even had the perverse thought: What if someone who looked exactly like him did it, that it wasn’t him? But no, we knew each other too well. That person was definitely him. A whirlwind of thoughts tormented me, driving me nearly insane. I tugged at my hair, pulling myself further into the corner. Maybe if I didn’t love him, I could pretend it hadn’t happened. But we had loved each other, deeply. I couldn’t accept his infidelity and then have to either pretend everything was fine, or have him say, I’m sorry, and me say, It’s okay, and somehow expect everything to go back to normal. Tears streamed down my face again at the thought. I didn’t sleep. I sat in that corner all night. The sound of the front door opening. Ronny Maxwell walked in. Seeing me on the floor, he rushed over, picked me up, and headed toward the bedroom. The unfamiliar scent of perfume was a loud declaration, making my nose sting with a mix of sadness and revulsion. There was a smear of uncleaned lipstick on the inside of his shirt collar. In that moment, everything was clear. The pain spread throughout my body. I had imagined so many reactions: I would lash out, I would force him to tell me why he cheated, I would make him swear on his knees never to do it again, I would drag that woman to my face, I would torment them like a lunatic, ending everything in mutual destruction… But the words caught in my throat, all of them. It seemed to make no difference. They all led to the same result. He was frantically checking to see if I was hurt or sick, when I finally spoke. “Ronny, let’s get a divorce.” Ronny’s face froze. “Wifey, what are you talking about? We’re not getting a divorce.” He quickly wiped my tears away. “Don’t say things like that. Have I been too busy lately, traveling too much, not paying enough attention to you? I’m sorry. I’m just trying to work hard now so I can spend more time with you and the kids later.” He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, acting as if his love for me was absolute. I pulled my hand back, cold and uninterested in even speaking. I was too tired… I fell into a heavy sleep. When I woke up, Ronny had already prepared dinner. He presented a delicate necklace—a matching couple’s piece I had mentioned wanting ages ago. He happily put it around my neck, but received no joyful reaction. He looked a little deflated. “You don’t like it?” I shook my head, my voice exhausted. “I like it.” If he had given it to me last month, I would have jumped up for a huge hug and a big kiss. But now, an overwhelming fatigue consumed me. Ronny returned to the kitchen to busy himself. The doorbell rang. I opened the door. The delivery person checked the house number. “Hello, package for Mr. Maxwell. Could you sign for it?” I took it. Driven by curiosity, I opened the box. Inside was an identical necklace. Ronny came out of the kitchen and saw me staring blankly at the necklace. He nearly dropped the bowl he was holding. He quickly took the necklace from my hand. “Look at me, I’m so forgetful. I accidentally bought two of the same one. I’ll return this one tomorrow.” When he lied, he instinctively touched his ear. That habit hadn’t changed. After twelve years together, I knew all his tells. He had no idea how transparent his lies were. I didn’t expose him. It was too meaningless. After dinner, I fell back asleep, my body inexplicably drowsy. Ronny went out late that night. As if to confirm a suspicion, I called out softly. “Ronny.” He paused, came back, and kissed my forehead. “Something came up at the office. I’ve been busy lately. I’ll be back soon.” He left quickly, not giving me time to react. I stood by the window, watching him walk in the complete opposite direction of his office. A suffocating ache tightened my chest. I tried desperately to make excuses for him. No, it’s just work… Ronny came home early the next morning, and his first stop was the shower. The heavy scent of sex on his clothes was sickening, and a massive wave of nausea hit me. I ran to the bathroom and vomited until I felt empty, the bitter taste of bile filling my mouth. I broke down and cried. Ronny and that girl… they had done everything. So dirty! I curled up in the bathroom corner. Even with all that noise, Ronny didn’t notice. He finished his shower and left the house again. I felt another surge of acid bile. Following a friend’s advice, I used a pregnancy test. Staring at the two clear lines, I was completely stunned. The baby I had longed for had chosen this moment to arrive. I touched my lower abdomen, thinking for a long time. My friend urged me. “Think about it carefully. It’s hard for you to get pregnant. You drank so much herbal medicine just to conceive. Maybe you should keep the baby and ditch the father.” I was lost. I never imagined giving my child an incomplete family. But if I terminated the pregnancy, would my body ever be able to conceive again? I remained in a daze. While chopping vegetables, I accidentally sliced my finger. Blood welled up, but I kept repeating the motion, as if I felt nothing. Until Ronny came back and quickly took the knife away. He seemed to finally take a good look at me. “Seraphina, your condition has been terrible lately. Was that trip not fun?” I answered coldly. “It was pretty awful.” To cheer me up, he took me out for a special candlelight dinner. I bumped into someone around a corner. We looked up, and in that instant, I felt the blood drain from my body. Ronny’s hand, which was holding my arm, tensed slightly. The young woman spoke first, breaking the silence. “Boss, I’m so sorry. Look at me, always walking without watching where I’m going.” She introduced herself with a natural poise. “Hello, Mrs. Maxwell. I’m Ronny’s secretary. I’ve heard so much about how much of a devoted husband the boss is. See how much in love you two are.” I dug my nails into my palm to keep myself from exploding. That necklace—the one Ronny claimed he would return—was now hanging around her neck. Ronny gave a cold, distant nod, even asking the young woman to return to the office to work overtime, making it seem like they were nothing more than employer and employee. At the dinner table, Ronny ordered a feast. The waiter brought out a plate of boiled crab. Ronny even pushed the crab closer to my side of the table. “Your favorite.” He had forgotten. I was severely allergic to crab. It was something that should have never appeared in front of me. Now, however… It seemed someone else liked it, and he was remembering her preferences. Feeling sick, I got up and headed to the restroom. I considered just leaving, turning the opposite way from the main dining area, but I heard voices coming from the corner. Ronny was coldly ordering Laney Vance to leave. “I told you, don’t cause a scene in front of Seraphina. Are you looking to get fired?” But his coldness shattered the next second. The young woman stood up and kissed him. “I know, I just miss you.” Ronny’s ears turned red, his emotional defenses completely broken. He wrapped his arms around Laney and deepened the kiss. Soon, I heard muffled gasps. My heart shattered into a million pieces. I stood rooted to the spot. Ronny pulled back slightly. “I have to go back to dinner. Don’t cause trouble. I’m yours tonight.” They finally emerged from the corner and made direct eye contact with me. The panic on Ronny’s face was unmistakable. “Seraphina, it’s not what you think. Let me explain…” His face was flushed. I gave a bitter smile, and oddly, I felt a heavy weight lift from my chest. I felt a sense of release. “Ronny Maxwell, let’s get a divorce.” It was too obvious. His infidelity was everywhere. He was so careless. I couldn’t pretend nothing had happened. Ronny was about to speak again, but Laney clutched her head, looking pained. Ronny immediately rushed to her side, picking her up and hurrying away. “Seraphina, wait for me to come back and explain.” Ronny didn’t come home the next day. He didn’t even call. I booked an appointment for an abortion and contacted a law firm. He probably hadn’t even realized it. Laney Vance was already his priority. As I packed my things, I found our old wedding video and couldn’t resist watching it again. The footage was blurry, and my eyes stung with tears. He had loved me so much then. But the scene changed in my memory, and that other figure appeared again, the unspoken understanding in their intertwined gazes. My hand started shaking uncontrollably. Seven years of marriage. He had been cheating for a long time. I was only just finding out now. Why? If he was cheating and didn’t love me, why did he marry me in the first place? The past seven years of ‘love’ felt like a stinging slap across my face. I was such a fool. Just as I was lost in thought, my phone pinged with a video message. I opened it. It was a montage of Ronny taking care of Laney in the hospital: rubbing her feet, massaging her back, feeding her soup with a spoon… Everything was done with practiced ease, every action something he had once done for me. Only the recipient of the service had changed. Their familiar intimacy was indistinguishable from that of a married couple. I was surprisingly calm. Seven years. A full seven years. They had done everything. It made sense. They might even have a child together already. I composed myself, saved the evidence, and headed for the law firm. Just then, a car sped toward me, driving the wrong way. I couldn’t dodge it in time and was slammed to the ground. As I fell, the world spun. The driver sped away. My abdomen hit the pavement hard. Blood flowed profusely. Excruciating pain shot through my entire body. But all I could think about was the baby. I regretted everything. The child I had suffered so much to conceive, the one I’d taken all those years of herbal medicine for. If I lost this gift from God, would I ever be able to be a mother? I no longer loved Ronny Maxwell, but I loved this tiny life. I wanted to keep the baby. I wanted to be a single mother. I desperately reached for my phone, which had been flung away. I intended to call for an ambulance, but due to the blood loss, my hand was shaking, and I accidentally dialed Ronny’s number, which was set to speed dial. The phone rang. It connected. It sounded like a bar VIP room, the loud noise drowning out my feeble calls for help. My consciousness began to fade. Until the other side went quiet. Ronny, sounding drunk, was encouraged by everyone around him to reveal his darkest secret. “The boldest thing I’ve ever done? Because Laney was afraid I’d have a kid, I put birth control pills in my wife’s food for three years. All her attempts to conceive failed. I even hired someone to fake her medical reports. She was in the dark, thinking she had fertility issues, taking herbal medicine for three years, and she even quit her management job because of it.” Laney kissed Ronny. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Ronny. I have great news too—I’m pregnant.” A burst of cheers erupted, everyone celebrating their sordid affair. I listened, stunned. My baby, as if sensing my despair, made its final attempt to leave my body. I was completely numb. I forgot to even ask for help. Until the call disconnected, and a passerby finally noticed my terrible condition. When I woke up again, I was in a hospital bed, my mind blank. The doctor followed protocol and tried to contact Ronny, but couldn’t reach him. He was probably drunk, passed out in Laney’s bed, ready for another post-drinking session of passion. The doctor’s face was full of regret. “We couldn’t save the baby, but thankfully, there was no damage to your uterus. Having another child later shouldn’t be a problem.” I thanked the doctor, then looked at the few-months-old fetus. Was he also completely disappointed in his father? The final tear escaped. I signed the divorce papers, copied the phone recording, and mailed them to Laney Vance’s address. Then I arranged for a real estate agent to sell our marital home. With everything taken care of, I boarded a plane, leaving the city behind forever. Ronny Maxwell woke up with Laney in his arms. They lingered together all morning. He felt a nagging uneasiness in his chest but dismissed it as the aftermath of too much drinking. Then, the delivery guy knocked on the door at the worst possible time. “Hello, Mr. Maxwell. I have a package here that needs signing.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390843”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was setting the bowl of iron-rich protein milk—the kind that smelled faintly metallic and never seemed to warm you up—on the kitchen counter for my sister when the blood gushed from my nose. I grabbed a paper towel and pinched my nostrils shut, bracing myself against the island. But it was too late. The crimson spill had already hit the white tile. And as it did, a strange, electric current of text flashed across my vision. It was The comments. “Perfect. Two more bleeds and the side character finally kicks the bucket.” “Thank God. Once she’s gone, the main girl won’t have to keep giving blood and choking down that nasty recovery sludge.” My hand, holding the blood-soaked tissue, froze. The side character? Was that me? Was I going to die? “Poor little Ella. She’ll be sad when her sister dies, but it’s a necessary sadness.” They were right. Ella cried if I just scraped my knee. “The sadness is temporary. Without her anchor sister dragging her down, she can go to the best schools, meet the hero who heals her, and live happily ever after.” Ella would be happy? She would have a good life? Then it was fine. If I was going to die, then it was all for the best. 1. Ella, who was hunched over her textbooks on the worn sofa, rushed over the moment she saw the blood. “Aria! What happened?” She was frantic, practiced. She deftly tilted my head, applied pressure, and guided me to sit at the small dining table. The Comments were mocking the scene. “My heart breaks for the sweet little thing. Born to be the sister’s blood bag, and still so devoted.” “Why won’t the side character just die already? Stop dragging the whole family down.” “Seriously. Ella’s a senior. It’s crunch time for college applications, and she won’t even board at school for evening study because of her.” Ella, a blood bag? No. She was the one we’d all waited for, the miracle baby born into a life of expectation and love. But they had a point: I was the weight that was sinking her future. I pulled my hand away from Ella, who was reaching for my clotting medication, and smiled a reassuring, tired smile. “I’m fine, El. Just rubbed my nose too hard.” My voice was soft, but steady. “I’m doing so much better, sweetheart. You don’t need to hover over me all the time.” I squeezed her hand. “You only have a few months until your exams. Please, go back to the campus dorms and focus.” Ella’s face hardened, her expression suddenly mature and stubborn. “Absolutely not. I went back for three days last month, and you nearly bled out. You ended up in the ER.” She wrapped her arms around me, holding me tightly. “You are the most important thing to me, Aria. Nothing comes before you. Nothing.” I didn’t argue. What was the point? Once I was gone, Mom and Dad would have no choice but to send her back. Later that night, Ella went to pick up Mom from her late shift. I slipped out to take the trash to the bins, but as I passed the fire exit stairwell, I heard their hushed, broken voices. “It’s all my fault. I was too sick to terminate the pregnancy back then. Why did I let our little Ella be born into all this hardship?” Mom’s voice, usually a fortress of strength, was choked with tears. “Your father and I would gladly take care of Aria for the rest of our lives, but we can’t let her ruin yours.” “We have to bank blood for your sister every month. How much is that draining you?” Her voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life tied to a burden? This is going to destroy your future.” I stood still, paralyzed, my chest contracting painfully. They were right. All of it was my fault. To stabilize my rare, crippling clotting disorder, my father, Rob, worked the hardest, longest construction jobs miles away, rarely coming home. Mom took every double shift she could get. And Ella—my brilliant, focused little sister—refused to apply to any college that wasn’t within commuting distance. My sister’s response was a fierce, audible roar. “Mom! How can you say that?” Ella’s voice was as clear and ringing as a bell. “I only have one sister. She is not a burden. She is my most important person.” Her tone softened but remained resolute. “Wherever Aria goes, I go.” My hand rested lightly on the cold stairwell handle. I will not ruin her. I closed my eyes and whispered a silent promise into the stale night air. I’m dying soon. And then, Ella, your life will finally be yours. 2. I pushed the door open, trying to mask the tremor in my hands. The two of them jumped, their faces registering a fleeting moment of guilt and panic. I forced a cheerful grin. “Mom, El, what are you two doing out here?” Seeing that I hadn’t overheard anything, they relaxed slightly. Ella came forward and grabbed my hand. I watched Mom quickly wipe the corners of her eyes behind Ella’s back. “We were just talking about Dad,” Ella chirped, her eyes shining. “He’s coming home soon! Aren’t you excited, Sis?” I looked at the genuine excitement in her eyes. It was pathetic how little time my father got to spend with his favorite daughter because he was constantly chasing money for my care. “Let’s celebrate,” I suggested lightly. “We should bake him something. A surprise.” Mom and Ella walked with me to the trash cans. The Comments immediately sprang to life, a fresh wave of vitriol. “Wouldn’t it be nice? If she wasn’t a leech, Ella and her parents could have a normal, happy life.” “It’s a pity. Why isn’t the side character dead yet?” “I curse her to an early grave.” “Curse her to an early grave +1.” “+10,000.” I curse Aria Sullivan to an early grave +1. I silently added myself to the list. I walked a few paces behind them, watching Mom and Ella under the flickering streetlight. From a distance, they looked like any ordinary, happy mother and daughter. But look closely, and the truth was heartbreaking. Ella was pale and too thin. Mom, barely in her early forties, was already hunched and silver-haired. I remembered the pictures from the factory Christmas parties—Mom, the undisputed “Factory Rose,” the one Dad was always playfully jealous of. Now, she was a frail, hollowed-out woman, worn down by worry and financial strain. I was the reason. I was the wreckage. In our shared bedroom, I lay on the bottom bunk, watching the halo of light spill from the top one, listening to the soft scratch-scratch of Ella’s pen. She was brilliant, disciplined, and infinitely better than me in every way. The local State University, where I was enrolled, was beneath her. She deserved so much more. “Ella,” I whispered into the dark. “I’m sorry. You could have gone to Stanford.” The sound of her writing stopped. I heard a sharp, suppressed sob above me, followed by the soft sound of a book closing. A minute later, the light went out, and the mattress creaked. Ella was climbing down. Like we used to when we were kids, we curled up together in the same small bed, whispering our deepest secrets. “Aria, you’re the most important thing,” she said, her voice muffled against my shoulder. “Once I start college, I can go to the library with you, we can get part-time jobs together, we can shop, we can build a future that belongs just to us. Any other future, no matter how good, is worthless if you’re not in it.” Her voice cracked. “Besides, medical science is advancing so fast. In a few years, they’ll probably have a cure for you.” We gripped each other’s hands, our tears soaking the same pillow. But I knew I wouldn’t make it. The only comfort was that time heals all wounds. Once I was gone, once Mom and Dad and Ella were finally free of this terrible weight, they would forget this difficult time. They would move on. The next Saturday afternoon was Ella’s birthday. I took the cash from my part-time job and paid for a proper photoshoot for her. When the photographer suggested we take one together, I quickly agreed. Deep down, I was selfish. I wanted to leave them something, a memory, so they wouldn’t forget me entirely. I was in the changing room when my legs suddenly gave out. I stumbled, barely catching myself on the vanity. The floor was instantly splashed with vivid, startling blood. I frantically wiped it up with a towel and swallowed two clotting pills. “Second time! Second time!” The Comments were celebrating. “Universal rejoicing. The third time has to be soon.” “It does. If the side character dies before Ella’s next blood donation, it won’t affect her exams.” “Die! Die! Die!” One more time? At this rate, I had maybe a week. I wouldn’t need Ella’s blood donation. That really was good news. But then, a raw, cold spike of fear pierced through me. The fear of oblivion. Tears, hot and traitorous, spilled down my cheeks. My hands started to shake uncontrollably. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. I huddled on the floor, trying to soothe the panic. Knock, knock, knock. “Aria? Are you ready?” I scrambled up, desperate to clean the last traces of blood, but Ella pushed the door open just as I stood. 3. “Aria, what is it?” She saw my tear-streaked face, my hand clamped over my bleeding nose, and the other hand desperately trying to hide the crimson-stained towel. She rushed forward and gently helped me to my feet. “What’s going on? Is the bleeding constant? We’re going to the hospital! I have to give you blood right now, or you’ll die!” Massive blood loss meant no oxygen to the brain—you either end up severely disabled or dead. I knew the drill. But I held her back, pulling the blood-soaked tissue away from my nose. “It’s okay, El. It stopped. Let’s just finish the pictures, then we’ll go.” Ella’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. I smiled weakly. “No, really. It still happens easily, but it clots much faster now. Maybe… maybe I’m actually getting better?” It was a lie. I was just so anemic that there wasn’t much blood left to bleed. Her eyes instantly flooded with delighted surprise. “Really? Oh, thank God! That’s amazing!” After the shoot, we were walking down a quiet side street on our way home, Ella excitedly going through the photo proofs, when two stumbling, drunken men appeared from the shadow of a nearby corner bar. “Well, well. Look at the two little ladies.” “Come on, girls. Come have a drink with the boys.” They moved toward us. I quickly shoved Ella behind me and turned to run toward the main road. The men yelled curses behind us. “Why are you running? We were being nice calling you over.” “Fucking ungrateful little bitches.” I kept pulling Ella, but one of the men hurled a beer bottle. It hit Ella’s shin with a sickening thud. “Ah!” Ella screamed, collapsing to the ground. As the two men closed the distance, I snatched up the broken neck of the bottle. My hand was shaking as I held the razor-sharp glass out toward them. “Stay back!” I screamed. The men sauntered closer, savoring the fear on our faces, like predators toying with their prey. Ella used her good leg to frantically shove me away. “Aria, run! Go! Don’t worry about me!” I couldn’t leave her. The men were close enough that I could smell the stale beer and sweat radiating off them. I saw a hand clamp down on Ella’s arm. Without a second thought, I plunged the jagged glass neck into the attacker’s throat. He screamed and stumbled, shoving me to the ground in his desperate flailing. My wrist landed hard on a patch of broken ceramic, slicing open the skin above my artery. Bright, shocking blood immediately began to stream out. The screams brought out neighbors and passersby. Someone called the police. Someone else called 911. I woke up in a hospital bed to the sound of Ella’s desperate sobs beside me. I tried to smile, though my lips felt numb. “Don’t cry, El. I finally got to protect you, didn’t I?” Then, the world went dark. Had I died? The next second, The comments scrolled again. “Too bad. She didn’t die.” “The evil that men do lives after them. The side character has nine lives.” I slowly focused on the fluorescent light of the hospital room. A nurse was changing the dressing on my arm. She sighed sympathetically when she saw I was awake. “You have a severe clotting disorder. You were this close to not making it.” She shook her head. “It’s a good thing your sister fought to give you a transfusion. Honestly, it was a life-for-a-life scenario.” My heart lurched. I grabbed the nurse’s hand. “Where is my sister? How is she doing?” “Calm down,” the nurse said gently. “She’s next door, still sleeping, but your mother just arrived.” I immediately tried to struggle out of bed, managing to walk the few unsteady steps to the room next door. Through the glass, I saw Mom sitting by Ella’s bedside, gently stroking her hair, her eyes glistening with tears. As if sensing my presence, Mom looked up. I pushed the door open and started toward the bed. “Mom…!” The sound of my name was cut short by the sharp, stinging slap of my mother’s hand across my face. I gripped the edge of Ella’s bed to keep from falling, looking up at the furious, exhausted expression on her face. 4. Mom’s hand was still shaking. She looked at me, her voice a raw, desperate rasp. “Why couldn’t you just stay put?” She was hysterical, her breath catching in her throat. “You knew you were sick! Why did you have to go out? Were you trying to make your sister risk her life for you?” Tears streamed down her face. “She has done so much for you. Why can’t you have a little pity on her?” She sank onto the chair, covering her eyes. “Why did I give birth to a parasite?” she whispered, the words like shattered glass. “Why can’t you just die? Why are you still alive?” I stood frozen, staring first at my sister’s pale, lifeless face, and then at my mother, who looked a thousand years old. She’s right. Why am I still alive? I drew a deep, shuddering breath and sank to my knees at my mother’s feet. I bowed my head until my forehead met the cool tile floor. I heard my mother’s choked sobs stop abruptly. “Mom,” I said, my voice barely audible, thick with genuine emotion. “I’m so sorry. I know how hard you, Dad, and Ella have struggled these past years because of me.” I looked straight at her, engraving her tired, loving face in my memory, as if I’d never see it again. “It was my luck to have you. But I have only brought you misfortune. I am truly sorry for being born.” I pushed myself up and walked out. The moment the door clicked shut behind me, blood gushed from my nose again. I pressed my thin sleeve to my face, but it was immediately soaked through. The comments was back, jubilant. “The final one! The final one! Thirty minutes, tops! The side character is done!” Thirty minutes? That was enough time to do one last thing. I found the doctor who had managed my case for years. I signed the organ donation agreement and the consent form for my body to be used for medical research. The doctor looked at me with profound pity. “Are you absolutely sure, Aria?” I nodded. “Please, wire the payment to my mother’s account. Ella is still out, so please don’t tell Mom yet. She won’t be able to handle it.” A few minutes later, I was floating above the operating theater, watching my own lifeless body being placed on a gurney. I watched the team prepare the recipient who was waiting for my heart. The successful donation would bring in a hundred thousand dollars—enough to clear our family debt and finally send Ella to the prestigious university she deserved. I followed my body, now covered by a sheet, toward the operating room, but a new movement caught my attention. Mom. “Excuse me, which room is my daughter, Aria Sullivan, in?” The nurse checked her records, confused. “Aria Sullivan? Her records have been cleared. She must have been discharged.” I saw the sudden guilt and panic on Mom’s face. “Discharged? How could she be? It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have yelled at her. She must be angry.” Mom, I’m not angry. Just then, Mom passed the gurney. The white sheet had somehow lifted at the edge, revealing my ashen face. Mom’s footsteps faltered. I tried to float forward and block the view, forgetting I was just a transparent soul. 5. “Ella… I mean, Ella Sullivan’s relative? Ella’s awake.” The nurse watching Ella called Mom away. Mom, startled, glanced at my gurney one last time, then rushed off in the other direction, heading with relief toward Ella’s room. I followed them, feeling a massive wave of relief that Mom hadn’t seen my body. The shock of my death, following her outburst and the fear for Ella, would have been too much for her. My body was wheeled into the operating room. The organ harvest was about to begin. Anxious about Ella, I drifted into her room, where Mom was sitting by the bedside, listening to her recount the events of the previous night. I took a seat across from them. Ella’s face was still a deathly white from blood loss, and she was shaking, reliving the terror. “Aria took me out for birthday pictures, and we ate at my favorite bistro,” Ella explained, grasping Mom’s hand. “But on the way home, two drunk thugs cornered us.” Mom’s face was a mask of shock. She hadn’t known the full story, only rushing to the hospital straight from her shift. “And… and then?” Ella squeezed her hand for reassurance. “They hurt my leg first, then they rushed up to drag me away. But Aria protected me.” I sat by her side, gently running my incorporeal hand through her hair. I was the one who was dying. Of course, I protected you. “I told her to run, that I was already hurt, that we couldn’t both die there.” Ella started to sob. “But she wouldn’t. She pulled me behind her and fought them.” “She stabbed one of them, but then she got pushed, and her wrist hit the broken glass. The blood… it just poured out. If those people hadn’t called the police, we both would have died.” Ella looked frantically at Mom. “Mom, where is Aria? Is she okay? What happened to her?” Mom’s eyes filled with shame. “Aria woke up before you. She came to see you, but I… I made a mistake.” She buried her face in her hands. “I was so angry and scared, I yelled at her. I didn’t even let her explain. She must have been so weak, and she checked herself out and walked home. What if she collapsed on the street?” “Go home, Mom,” Ella urged. “I’m awake now. You need to go find Aria and bring her back. And maybe bring me some lunch.” Mom nodded, preparing to leave, when the hospital room door burst open. Two police officers strode in, their expressions grim. The leading officer spoke in a cold, professional tone. “Who is Ella Sullivan?”

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It was at the Actor’s Guild Awards ceremony. During the required group photo, some viral TikTok star took my center spot. The organizer shifted uncomfortably. “He’s Ms. Lowell’s—Bianca Lowell—boyfriend. She called and asked us to take care of him.”
“Would you… mind moving?” I nodded and moved. After the ceremony, my agent, Rhonda, leaned in to whisper a reassurance. “You did the right thing. The Lowell family is too powerful. We can’t afford to cross them.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie. You didn’t deserve that.” I paused.
I shook my head. During my years with Bianca, she’d done more than a few unreasonable things to elevate me.
Now the tables had turned. What goes around comes around.
It was only fair. 1
The day I walked away from Bianca Lowell, I knew this day would come. Everything she had once given me, she would eventually give to someone else. I’d flown too high on her private jet, moved too fast on her borrowed power. When we broke up, every resource that had bent my way snapped back to its original alignment. I vanished into a three-year silence, practically a ghost in the industry. It’s only been in the last few years, clawing my way through a string of supporting roles, that I’ve managed to rebuild a name for myself: Jude Ellison. Kellan Brooks, the kid who stole my spot, was the same story. A total unknown, a social media personality who hadn’t shot a single legitimate film. Yet, here he was, at a gala of industry titans, occupying the space I’d spent a decade fighting for. Coincidentally, at the pre-ceremony dinner, Kellan was seated right next to me. As he was trying to capture the perfect selfie, his teacup—a delicate, steaming porcelain thing—tipped sharply backward. The scalding liquid flew toward me. If I hadn’t quickly blocked it, it wouldn’t have just been my arm and neck blistering, but a vintage, eight-figure custom-tailored suit. It was a small disaster. The host was horrified and immediately rushed me to the nearest emergency clinic. Kellan followed, his face a mask of performative guilt. The burn was bad. They needed to drain the blisters and dress the wound. I hate needles. I hate pain. In a situation like this, I used to grab the arm of whoever was nearby, shaking. That person would look at my pathetic display, chuckle, and call me a coward. The joke now was that the person standing next to me was her new pet. Kellan was already on the phone, his voice shaking. “Ms. Lowell… I’m so sorry I caused trouble.”
“I didn’t mean to spill the tea, I promise. I’ll apologize, but the online chatter is starting to get bad…” He went on for an embarrassingly long time, utterly pathetic and desperate. The woman on the other end answered in a voice as flat and distant as a faraway coast. “This is hardly a crisis, Kellan. Don’t bother me with it.” Kellan lowered his voice, whining.
“But his profile isn’t small, and the burns are serious. If his fans blow this up, it could look terrible for us…” Her impatient voice cut him off.
“Who is it, Kellan?”
“Jude… Jude Ellison.” A beat of absolute silence hung in the air. Bianca’s tone was barely a whisper.
“I see.” 2
Kellan hung up and visibly sagged with relief. He managed an awkward, apologetic smile. “About the C-spot… I really didn’t know.” He rushed to explain, clearly trying not to make an enemy. “I just mentioned to Ms. Lowell that I wanted to attend and maybe get some press… I had no idea she’d assign me your seat. I am so sorry.” He didn’t know Bianca’s style. For someone of her stature, the moment she decides to “handle” something, the staff automatically delivers the absolute best. It was over. I gave him a polite, practiced smile.
“It’s fine. Just a small misunderstanding.” I used to be the beneficiary of those misunderstandings. Now I was on the other side of the wheel. I had no right to feel wounded. Rhonda came to the hospital later that evening after the event had wrapped. She brought bad news: the Best Actor award had gone to a complete surprise—a newcomer whose work and acting chops were clearly inferior to mine. A blatant back-room deal. Rhonda looked at me with genuine hurt. “If you were still with Bianca, who in Hollywood would dare steal your award?” I said nothing. Some things are just not built to last. I was the one who ended it. By then, she was coming home later and later. Her attitude toward me was ice. Rumors were everywhere about the Lowell Group CEO marrying a foreign conglomerate’s heir. I wanted to save myself some dignity before I was publicly thrown out. Yet, even while I was with Bianca, I swallowed plenty of indignities. She was the physical manifestation of resources and power. Whoever owned her, owned a fast pass to fame. I once worked on a set where the lead actor was her old flame. I was the supporting character. The scene where the lead “angrily slaps” the scheming supporting character took twenty-something takes. I walked out of the studio with a face like a swollen pumpkin. Similar incidents piled up, but I endured them. In her eyes, I was no different from any of the other men who flocked to her for the access and the fame. I told Rhonda the story, trying to make it sound like a funny anecdote. She stared at me, dumbfounded. “How can you think that? You were with her when she had nothing. You were her rock.” I just smiled. What did that even matter? 3
We both thought that after the boardroom coup, Bianca Lowell had lost. Her father had died suddenly, and the vultures—the Lowell uncles and cousins—swooped in, seizing the assets and forcing the young heiress out of the company. Everyone scattered. In that entire, dark period, only I remained by Bianca’s side. I began to take on any acting job I could find. The stress was immense. I was plagued by nightmares, often waking up screaming, reaching for Bianca. She would open her sleepy eyes and gently pull me into her arms, her voice soft as she asked what was wrong. I remember sobbing, “I dreamt you killed yourself.”
“Please, don’t ever give up. No matter what happens, I will be here for you.” That was the first time I saw Bianca genuinely freeze. She narrowed her eyes, cupped my face, and stared at me in silence. I also saved her life once. When that out-of-control sedan barreled toward us, I instinctively shoved her out of the way. Lying in the ambulance, I clutched her hand, terrified and crying. “Bianca, am I going to die?” When I woke up, a simple, faded red thread was tied around my wrist. It was a charm Bianca’s mother had brought back from a pilgrimage, a token meant for protection. Bianca had always worn it close to her skin. Now, inexplicably, it was on mine. She seemed to change after that. This woman who existed on an untouchable pedestal was suddenly making me bland, unsatisfying hospital meals by hand. When I lost my appetite, she would bring the bowl to my bedside and spoon-feed me. While I was recovering, the Lowell Group saw its second, more brutal, round of purging. Everyone said Bianca had completely re-established her dominance. I was ecstatic for her. Until one day, I went to a high-end club to drop off a watch she’d requested. Outside the private room, several socialites surrounded a handsome man, sitting opposite Bianca. “Congratulations, Bianca. You finally cleaned out those old fossils.”
“We were terrified when you had that crash, actually thinking those old cronies were trying to take you out. Never thought the whole thing was a self-directed masterpiece.”
“That poor guy who shoved you out of the way, what was his name? A life debt like that, maybe you should marry him?” Bianca’s voice was cool, dismissive.
“Him? He was just… the useful idiot.”
“Men like that are the best actors. They mix in just enough genuine emotion to make you fall in love, and in the end, they expect you to hand over your entire kingdom.” The socialites fell silent.
“So… what are you planning to do with him?” She didn’t answer. She sat in the dim light, looking down. Then, a few of the men, highly attuned to the atmosphere, moved closer, whispering against her shoulder. I didn’t want to see any more. I turned and walked away. 4
Rhonda is one of the few people who knew about my relationship with Bianca. She was Bianca’s executive assistant when we first met, witnessing our entire saga unfold. Years later, when Bianca and I split and I hit a professional low, Rhonda quit her lucrative, high-profile job with Bianca to become my agent. When I asked her why she’d do it, she laughed.
“I’m betting on a grand reunion. If you two get back together, I’ll be your boss’s boss.” Rhonda is the smartest person I know. She only ever lost one bet. It’s been three years since the breakup. Bianca has had more boyfriends than I can count. I, on the other hand, have a wife in name only: Camille Stone. She’s a cardiothoracic surgeon, gentle, and utterly level-headed. We have a contract marriage. At the time, I was under surveillance by Bianca’s scheming family members, and I had a child—a daughter born prematurely whom everyone believed had died of complications, but whom I had quietly hidden away. I desperately needed a new identity to create a shield. Rhonda connected us. Camille needed an officially married status to quiet her family’s demands for a husband; I needed a wife to deflect the press and the Lowell family’s curiosity. For three years, we have lived together more like courteous roommates. To Bianca Lowell, I was a stranger. 5
The next day, I was on a video call with Camille. She had just finished a grueling surgery, and the fatigue was visible in her eyes. Noticing the bandage on my jaw, she frowned. “I’ve bought a flight. I’m coming over to take care of you.” I smiled and shook my head, about to tell her not to bother. That’s when Kellan Brooks walked in, clutching a massive bouquet and followed by a throng of production assistants and cameramen. My heart sank. I quickly ended the call. Kellan spent a long time offering scripted, earnest condolences. I played along with the required formalities. There was no point in arguing now. The organizers had released a statement claiming the seating chart was a mistake. Public opinion was already swinging Kellan’s way, giving him a massive follower boost. The strength of capital. I smiled politely, shaking my head internally. The mood had been artificially harmonious until the door to the hospital room was pushed open. A man in a sharp suit bent low, ushering in a tall, slender figure. I froze. Bianca Lowell. How could she be here? Yesterday, the financial news was reporting she was in Warsaw finalizing a massive deal. Kellan was just as surprised. “Ms. Lowell, you…” Bianca, her expression utterly detached, took his arm. “I wasn’t comfortable leaving you alone. I came to check on you.” I managed a strained smile and spoke first. “Ms. Lowell.” She glanced over the hospital bed, her cool gaze sweeping over my face without lingering. “How is your injury?” I was slightly stunned. “It’s fine. I’ll heal up in a few days.” Kellan, finally recovering from his delight, formally introduced me. “Ms. Lowell, this is Jude Ellison. He’s played in a lot of really famous things.” After a few seconds of heavy silence, Bianca curved her lips into a slight, practiced smile. “I’ve heard the name.” She produced a check and held it out, her voice level. “Mr. Ellison, I apologize on behalf of my boyfriend.” “He is spoiled, I admit, and rather careless. Please don’t hold it against him.” Kellan was looking up at her with a sickeningly worshipful, small-bird-like gaze. I shook my head, declining the offer. “Mr. Brooks has already covered my lost wages and medical expenses.” Bianca stood directly in front of me, her still presence like a mountain. She lowered her eyes, letting her gaze rest on my face. “Mr. Ellison, the reality show Kellan is about to film? You’re in it too.”
“I’d appreciate it if you could look out for him.” The money wasn’t an apology; it was a payment for Kellan’s smooth sailing. I accepted the check with a brief, humorless smile. It was surprising that Bianca was still this involved in her latest boyfriend’s career. Though, I should have known. Before I ever walked onto a set, Bianca would read every one of my scripts herself. If the romance was too involved, the intimacy too explicit, or the plot too weak, the script was out. The most telling incident was when she read a script I was genuinely excited about. After finishing the final act, she raised an eyebrow. “Why would the female lead beg the male lead to take her back?” I patiently explained. “Because she finally realizes she loves him. She has all the money in the world, but she’s miserable without him, so she makes a desperate plea…” My voice faded under the intensity of Bianca’s increasing, cold derision. “Don’t ever mistake rich people for fools.” She tossed the script casually into the trash, a slight, chilling laugh escaping her lips.
“Someone like me? I would never debase myself for a man.” “Daddy!” The hospital room door was abruptly shoved open. A tiny, bounding pink blur launched herself toward my bed. It was my daughter. Our nanny followed her in, offering a helpless, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, sir. The little one insisted on seeing you. I couldn’t stop her.” I was filled with surprised joy and sat up quickly, pulling her into my arms. My daughter, Daisy, was wearing a pink princess dress, her cheeks plump and round. Her eyes, her entire face, were an undeniable, perfect mirror of Bianca Lowell. Kellan was utterly shocked. “Jude, you have a kid?” I looked up, smiling, and unexpectedly locked eyes with Bianca.

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I was the true daughter, found after eighteen years, and the System was telling me to cause a scene. My birth mother, Penelope, clutched the fake daughter, Brooke: “Even though you’re my blood, Brooke has been with us for eighteen years. We can’t just lose her.” The System shrieked: [Quick! Flip the table! Call them out for blatant favoritism!] I nodded. “That’s perfectly normal. Eighteen years of emotional investment versus eighteen years of biological probability. I’d choose the emotional investment, too. Blood is just science; attachment is a sunk cost.” My mother froze. My ex-fiancé, Preston, threw a check in my face: “Take the money and disappear. I don’t love hillbillies.” The System screamed: [Quick! Shred the check! Tell him he’ll regret crossing the poor youth!] I calmly picked up the check. “That’s also perfectly normal. You can’t force love, and getting a severance package for a canceled engagement is just smart business. Frankly, he’s an industry benchmark for conscience.” My ex-fiancé was dumbfounded. The System crashed: [Host, please, I’m begging you—just one small meltdown! The plot is stuck!] Me: “I’m fine. The drama is just… excessive.” 1. The air conditioning in the Shaw Estate living room was running full blast, but I could still smell the thick, cloying scent of forced sweetness and toxic drama. My biological mother, Penelope Shaw, was tightly hugging the girl who’d occupied my life for eighteen years, Brooke Shaw. Brooke was weeping hysterically, her shoulders hitching with dramatic sobs that made her look seconds from collapse. Penelope patted her back and looked at me with an expression of agonizing complexity. “Kendall, while you are our biological daughter, Brooke has been with us for eighteen years. That bond isn’t something we can just break.” She paused, her eyes pleading. “We can’t lose her. I hope you can understand your mother’s difficult position.” Richard Shaw, my father, stood nearby, sighing deeply with his hands clasped behind his back, an unspoken endorsement of his wife’s stance. The System in my mind detonated. [Host! You’re going to tolerate this? Hurry! Rush up and curse these fools! Overturn the coffee table! Tell them blood is thicker than water! You are the ONLY true daughter!] The incessant noise gave me a headache. I lifted a hand to my temple, and under the three Shaws’ tense scrutiny, I nodded. “I understand. Completely.” Brooke’s sobs cut off immediately. Her mascara-stained lashes fluttered; clearly, she hadn’t prepared for this response. Penelope looked stunned. “You… you don’t blame me?” I located a single-seater armchair and sat down, my posture relaxed, as if I were discussing a non-critical project with a client. “It’s perfectly normal. Eighteen years of emotional capital versus eighteen years of biological probability. I’d choose the emotional capital, too. Blood is just a statistical accident in biology; emotion is actual, quantifiable sunk cost.” I gestured to Brooke’s couture dress, then to my own Target clearance top. “You’ve invested eighteen years of money, time, and energy into her. You’ve raised a premium-tier account. To suddenly delete that and start over with a fresh account—no one would want to. It’s basic economic principle. I get it.” A heavy silence descended upon the room. Penelope’s expression was an awkward blend of guilt and confusion. She wanted to explain, but my cold, hard logic had blocked every possible emotional exit. The System was screaming in my head: [Host, what in God’s name are you talking about? You need to fight for affection! You need to make a scene!] I ignored it and turned to Brooke, my tone genuinely reassuring: “Please, continue crying. Don’t mind me. I’m just the new intern, still familiarizing myself with the company’s… I mean, the family’s environment.” 2. Brooke was clearly a professional-grade player. After a brief pause, she immediately adjusted her tactic. She broke free from Penelope’s embrace and walked toward me, her eyes red, timidly extending a hand. “Sister, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I stole your life. If you’re unhappy, I can move out…” In the original plot, I would have slapped her or launched a vicious verbal attack, only to be chastised by my parents. The System roared again: [Opportunity! Call her a toxic drama queen! Tell her to get lost!] I looked at Brooke’s carefully manicured hand. I didn’t take it. Instead, I pulled a packet of antiseptic wipes from my bag and offered it to her. “Don’t say that. The deed to this house is in Mr. and Mrs. Shaw’s names. Legally, we are both merely occupants here.” I paused, continuing with the tone of an academic discussing a thesis. “Furthermore, where would you go? You have no independent assets or income stream. Renting an apartment will expose you to predatory brokers, and hotels are too expensive. As a rational actor, staying here maximizes your self-interest. If I were in your position, I’d also stay put.” Brooke’s hand froze mid-air. The entire script of “I’ll sacrifice everything for love” she’d prepared had been choked by my stark reality check. Her dramatic martyrdom had been ruthlessly reduced to rational, self-serving realism. My father, Richard, finally spoke up, frowning: “Kendall, what kind of talk is that? Brooke is your sister. What’s all this ‘staying put’ business? This is her home, too.” I immediately nodded, compliant as a top employee taking direction from the CEO. “Understood, Mr. Shaw. I’ve noted that Ms. Brooke Shaw has permanent residency. Now, where is my workstation… I mean, my room?” Richard winced at my detached use of “Mr. Shaw.” His face tightened. “The estate manager will take you to a guest room.” 3. The estate manager, a man in his fifties, eyed me with thinly veiled contempt. Clearly, the power structure in this house was non-negotiable. He led me to a small room at the end of the second-floor hallway. “Miss Kendall, space is tight. Miss Brooke requires two rooms for her belongings, so we’ll have to make do with this one for now.” The room was north-facing, with a tiny window, just a bed, and a wardrobe—not even a proper desk. I had passed Brooke’s room on the way; I’d glimpsed a walk-in closet, a large private balcony, and a full set of designer furniture. The System sizzled with fury: [This is an outrage! This is the maid’s quarters! Host, go smash up Brooke’s room! Demand your birthright!] I looked around the small space, nodding with genuine satisfaction. “Perfect. Poor lighting means better sleep, and the small space saves on electricity. It’s also far from the main staircase, so it’s quiet.” All the subtle insults the manager had prepared fell flat, like a bad joke. He stared at me in disbelief. “Miss Kendall, you… you’re not angry?” I put down my travel bag and pulled out my laptop. “Why would I be angry? I’m an air traffic controller, an entry-level addition to the company… to the family. No track record, no seniority. I’m lucky to have a private office at all. Did you expect me to immediately take the CEO’s suite?” I looked at him sincerely. “By the way, what’s the Wi-Fi password? And is the connection reliable? I have some deep-work deadlines tonight.” The manager opened his mouth, but only a string of numbers came out before he shuffled away, defeated. I closed the door. The System was still relentlessly nagging: [Are you insane? They are humiliating you!] I opened my laptop, connected to the Wi-Fi, and checked the stock market. “System, you’re too emotional. Will humiliation cost me money? No. But if I smash something because I’m angry, I’ll have to pay for it. I currently have two hundred dollars to my name. I can’t afford that.” 4. At dinner, the atmosphere at the dining table was so fraught it was difficult to digest. Penelope, determined to demonstrate her motherly love, constantly piled food onto Brooke’s plate, even peeling shrimp for her. “Brooke, you’ve lost weight. Eat this.” Brooke shot a triumphant look at me, then simpered, “Thank you, Mom. You’re the best.” Richard occasionally topped up Brooke’s soup. The three of them were a picture of domestic bliss, and I was the anonymous stranger who’d been seated with them. System: [Flip the table! Quick! Pour the soup over Brooke’s head!] I kept my head down, eating my meal quickly but politely. Years of working long hours had trained me to finish a meal in five minutes, as lunch breaks were precious. Penelope eventually seemed to have a pang of conscience and put a piece of spare rib onto my plate. “Kendall, you eat too. Don’t just eat the rice.” The rib was covered in bell peppers, which Brooke detested. I looked at the piece of meat but didn’t touch it. Brooke immediately piped up: “Does Sister look down on Mom’s food? Sister, I guess you didn’t get quality spare ribs back in the countryside, did you?” I put down my chopsticks and wiped my mouth with a napkin. “It’s not disdain. I’m full.” I stood up and offered a slight bow to Richard and Penelope. “Thank you for the meal. The food was very satisfactory. If there are no further instructions, I will return to my room to handle my work.” Richard looked startled. “Work? You just got back. Don’t you want to spend time with us?” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s 7:30 PM, which is private time. Also, you seemed to be enjoying your conversation, and my interjection would disrupt the atmosphere. As a new hire… as a newcomer, I need to be considerate.” I turned and walked away, leaving three stunned faces behind me. I faintly heard Penelope complain: “That child is like a robot. No warmth at all.” A faint smile touched my lips. Warmth? That’s something you can only expect from people you care about. In their eyes, I was merely a blood relative who had trespassed. Discussing warmth was a luxury; discussing rules was far easier. 5. Early the next morning, an uninvited guest arrived at the Shaw Estate. Preston Rhodes, Brooke’s fiancé, and the man who was originally supposed to be mine. He certainly looked the part—tall, handsome, in a tailored suit, his hair perfectly coiffed—but his judgment was clearly faulty. The moment he walked in, he spotted me, just preparing to leave for the day (actually heading to the library to use their free A/C and save on my electric bill). Without a word, Preston pulled a check from his inner pocket and lightly tossed it at me. It fluttered to the floor. “Five million. Take the money and get lost. I’m not marrying some hick.” Preston looked down on me with an attitude of arrogant superiority. Brooke was standing on the staircase, covering her mouth to hide a triumphant smirk. The System’s voice cracked with excitement: [Tear the check! Quick! Throw it in his face! Tell him not to underestimate a poor man! Thirty years west of the river, thirty years east of the river!] I bent down and picked up the check. I meticulously checked the amount, the signature, and the bank’s seal. It was genuine. Then, I pulled out a small, pocket-sized notebook and a pen from my bag. “Mr. Rhodes, one moment.” I quickly scribbled a few lines, tore the page off, and handed it to Preston. He instinctively took it, glanced at it, and froze. “What is this?” “A receipt,” I smiled, professionally and perfectly. “Since you’ve paid the severance fee, we must follow due process to avoid future financial disputes. It clearly states that I, Kendall Shaw, have received five million dollars from Mr. Preston Rhodes, voluntarily relinquishing the engagement. All accounts settled. No refunds or exchanges.” Preston stared at me as if I were an alien. “You… you just took it?” “Why wouldn’t I?” I carefully folded the check and tucked it into a book. “This is perfectly normal. Why force a relationship that doesn’t work? And this failed relationship came with a five-million-dollar severance package. He’s an industry benchmark for conscience. Mr. Rhodes, you truly are a generous client.” I even added a helpful suggestion: “Would you like me to send a thank-you note to your company? Or perhaps clarify on social media that I was simply not good enough for you?” Preston’s face instantly flushed crimson. All the cruel, insulting words he’d prepared were rendered meaningless by my receipt. 6. With the five million dollars in hand, I instantly felt more secure. But I didn’t waste it as the System had hoped. Instead, I immediately bought into a few stocks I’d been watching. That evening, the atmosphere at the Shaw house was even heavier than before. Richard and Penelope were sitting on the couch, and Brooke was wiping away tears. When they saw me return, Richard slammed his hand on the table. “Kendall Shaw! Do you have no shame? How could you take Preston’s money?” Brooke choked out a sob: “Sister, did you only come back for the money? If you’re short on cash, I can give you my allowance, but why would you insult Preston’s feelings for me?” System: [Curse back! Call them hypocrites!] I changed into my slippers and walked into the center of the living room, pulling a custom-printed banner from my bag. I had ordered it that afternoon. Gold lettering on a red background, bearing eight bold characters: [In Gratitude for Filial Service, May You Be Happy Ever After] I solemnly handed the banner to Brooke. “Sister, I took this money with a clear conscience. Think of it this way: this engagement was originally mine. It’s now yours. The five million is the transfer fee for the fiancé. These days, taking over a storefront requires a transfer fee. How much more for a premium asset like Mr. Rhodes?” Brooke stared at the banner, unable to accept or refuse it. Her face was pale green. Richard was shaking with fury. “You… you treat marriage like a business transaction?” “Marriage is essentially an economic contract,” I stated matter-of-factly. “Since Mr. Rhodes was willing to pay for his true love, if I, the one who facilitated this true love, didn’t accept the money, wouldn’t it make his genuine affection look cheap?” I looked at Brooke, offering an encouraging smile: “Sister, your love is valued at five million dollars. You should be pleased.” Brooke let out a wail and ran upstairs. Penelope pointed a finger at me. “You… you are going to be the death of me!” I blinked innocently. “Mom, I’m just defending my sister’s valuation.” 7. Perhaps to compensate for Brooke’s wounded pride, Penelope decided to take us shopping that weekend. The stated goal was to buy me clothes; in reality, Penelope dragged Brooke straight into the high-end boutiques. “Brooke, this dress would look great on you. Go try it on.” “Brooke, this new handbag is stunning. It suits you.” I trailed behind them, little more than a bag carrier. System: [Grab her card! Max out all their credit cards! Show them who the biological daughter is!] I calmly watched Penelope swipe her card, feeling completely detached. In fact, when Brooke was trying on a bright yellow dress, I stepped forward. “That color is too bright; it washes you out. I suggest you switch to the muted cobalt blue one. It will complement your skin tone and enhance your figure.” Brooke looked at me suspiciously. “Why are you being nice?” “It’s for the Shaw family image,” I said seriously. “You are the public face of the Shaws. If you look bad, it reflects poorly on the family brand. As a member of the Shaw family, I have an obligation to protect the family’s image.” Brooke, half-believing, switched to the cobalt blue dress. The effect was surprisingly good. Even the sales associate complimented my eye: “This young lady has excellent taste.” Penelope, seeing how beautiful Brooke looked, felt a sudden wave of guilt after trying to ice me out. She picked up a clearance-rack t-shirt and handed it to me. “Kendall, you try this on.” It was an outdated, slightly pilled shirt from the discount section. System: [Throw it on the floor! Stomp on it!] I took the shirt and checked the tag. “No need to try it on. The high cotton content means it’s sweat-absorbent and breathable, perfect for work around the house. Thank you, Mom. I love it.” Not only did I not get angry, but I thanked her sincerely. Penelope’s hand froze mid-air, her expression a spectacle of complex emotions. Guilt is like a spring: the more you push back against it, the more the other person feels justified; the more compliant you are, the more they feel like a monster. In that moment, Penelope clearly felt like a monster. 8. Back at home, Brooke was clearly still bitter that I had stolen the spotlight (though I certainly didn’t feel like I had). She deliberately pulled Penelope’s favorite pearl necklace apart in the living room. The pearls scattered everywhere. Then she shrieked: “Sister! How could you push me!” I was at least two yards away from her, drinking water. Richard and Penelope rushed in, saw the mess, and saw Brooke weeping. Brooke pointed at me: “Sister said she was jealous of Mom buying me things, so she pushed me and broke the necklace…” This low-effort setup was an insult to my intelligence. Richard glared at me. “Kendall! You disappoint me greatly!” System: [Explain! Quickly! Tell them you have an alibi!] I put down my glass and sighed. Then I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “Hello, Police Department? I need to report a felony. We have a dispute involving the deliberate destruction of property and assault, with a high estimated value of damages. Please dispatch an officer.” The whole family went silent.

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The $1,250.00 deduction. Success. I stared at the paycheck stub, reading the line item three times. The memo read: Dept. Retreat – Split Cost. But I never went. I didn’t request time off; I wasn’t even told it was happening. I opened my phone and scrolled through the department group chat. Nothing about a trip. Not a single notification. I switched to Instagram, where my feed was already saturated with colleagues’ posts. Blue skies, ocean waves, grilling, bonfires. The captions were all variations of the same saccharine sentiment— “The Department Family! Love these guys!” The family. I managed a small, dry laugh. 1. I’d worked in this department for three years. Three years. I hadn’t taken a single sick day, and I’d never once been late. I was the one who logged the most overtime, the one who handled the messiest, most tedious tasks. But now, looking at that deduction, I suddenly felt like a punchline. “Paige Miller, could you sign off on your pay stub, please?” Ms. Davis from Accounting handed me the paper, her expression utterly neutral. I pointed to the offending line: “What is this $1,250.00 for?” “The department retreat. Split cost.” “I didn’t go.” Ms. Davis paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “You didn’t? Wasn’t it mandatory for the whole team?” I stayed silent. She checked her computer. “The system shows your manager submitted a full roster, including your name.” “Who submitted the roster?” “Gillian Shaw. Your manager.” I nodded slowly, took the stub, and walked out of the accounting office. Gillian was our Department Head, promoted to Associate VP just this year, five years ahead of me on the corporate ladder. I stopped by her cubicle. She was sipping yogurt, and when she saw me, she offered a practiced, bright smile. “Paige, everything okay?” “Gillian, why wasn’t I notified about the department retreat?” Her spoon froze halfway to her mouth. “You were notified, sweetie. It was in the group chat.” “I didn’t receive a notification.” “You didn’t?” She put the yogurt down and pulled out her phone, scrolling rapidly. “See? It’s right here.” She tilted the screen toward me. It was a separate chat, labeled The Insiders’ Club. I scanned the member list. Twelve people. Our department had thirteen employees. The one missing was me. “Gillian,” I pointed to the chat. “I’m not in this group.” She blinked, then laughed, a slightly too-loud sound. “Oh, really? My bad, Paige. Must have slipped through the cracks when we set up the chat. So sorry about that.” “But the money was deducted from my paycheck.” “What?” She paused, genuinely surprised this time. “Well, then you need to talk to Accounting and get a refund.” “Accounting said the roster came from you.” “Then…” She hesitated for a moment. “I’ll make a note of it. I promise I’ll include you next time.” “Next time?” “Yes, next time we have a department outing, you’ll definitely be invited.” I just looked at her, saying nothing. She capped her yogurt container, stood up, and patted my shoulder—a gesture that always felt more like a dismissal. “Paige, don’t take this so personally. It was just an oversight. We’re all colleagues, after all.” “What about the money?” “The money is an Accounting matter. My end of things was just the standard paperwork.” With that, she grabbed her yogurt and headed toward the break room. I stood there, the pay stub clutched in my hand. $1,250.00. Not a fortune, but not insignificant either. It was the equivalent of three full weekends I’d traded my life for. Now, it was paying for a beach I’d never set foot on. I returned to my desk and opened my laptop. An unread email from last week was sitting in my inbox. Subject: Department Retreat – Travel Details. I clicked it open. Recipient: All members of The Insiders’ Club. I was not on the CC list. Attached was the itinerary: a three-day, two-night trip to Nantucket. The per-person cost was $1,250.00. It covered the charter bus, the seaside hotel, the dinners, and a special evening gala. I scrolled down to the attendee roster. My name was there. “Paige Miller—Fee Paid.” Who paid my fee? I scrolled to the very bottom. There was a line in small print: Fees will be collected via automatic payroll deduction. I understood. No one paid for me. It was simply taken from me. The notification went to a group I wasn’t in, and the expense was deducted from a paycheck I’d earned. It was all perfectly “normal.” So normal it was absurd. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. A memory flashed into my mind. Last Wednesday, lunchtime. I was finishing a proposal, so I skipped the cafeteria. Later, hungry, I headed to the lobby for a snack. As I passed the break room, I heard voices. “I booked the hotel in Nantucket. Ocean view, it’s going to be amazing.” “What day are we leaving?” “Next Friday. Back on Monday.” “Perfect, finally a getaway.” I froze outside the door. A trip? What trip? I was about to walk in and ask, but then I heard a warning— “Keep it quiet, though. Let Gillian handle the rollout.” It was Tiffany Brooks speaking. She was the newest hire in the department, fresh out of college, but she was sharp and highly skilled at ingratiating herself with Gillian. I stood at the doorway and walked away without going in. I waited three days. No one said a word to me. I assumed the plans had fallen through. Now I knew the truth. It wasn’t canceled. I was. I minimized the email and opened Instagram again. I scrolled through the photos. Tiffany had posted a carousel, all vacation shots. The first was a group picture. Sunlight, sand, twelve people laughing. No me. The caption: “The Insiders’ Club, family forever!” I tapped the comments. Gillian’s comment was at the top: “Our team is the most united!” Tiffany replied: “All thanks to Gillian’s leadership!” A stream of back-patting followed. I kept scrolling and saw one comment from Scott Lewis: “Seriously had the best time. Hope we can do it again soon.” Someone asked: “Where to next?” Tiffany replied: “Whatever Gillian plans! I’m tagging along!” I put my phone down. Three years. I’d been here for three years. No one asked if I was going. No one even seemed to notice I was missing. I looked at the group photo and felt an odd kind of emptiness. Three years. I’d written the most proposals, worked the most overtime, and taken the most undeserved criticism. Yet, in that picture, I was completely absent. I had never truly been a part of it. The office suddenly came to life. My colleagues were filtering in from lunch. Tiffany’s voice was the loudest. “Hey, everyone, I finished editing the pictures. Sending them to the chat now.” “Great, send them over!” “Me too! Me too!” They clustered around her, chattering about the trip. Seafood dinners. Sunrises. The beach bonfire. Sand volleyball. No one looked my way. I put my head down and forced myself to work. The proposal I was working on was still open on my screen. I had rushed to finish it last Friday. I’d worked until 2 a.m. When Gillian presented it on Monday, she’d said: “This proposal is the culmination of our team’s hard work. Great effort, everyone.” Team. Culmination. Everyone. I looked up at her. She was shaking hands with a client, beaming. I looked back down. A notification popped up in the bottom right corner of my screen. It was a message from Tiffany in The Insiders’ Club group chat— “A-Team, let’s aim for Cabo next time!” A cascade of “Yes!”, “Count me in!”, and “Can’t wait!” followed. I wasn’t in that chat. But my name would probably still appear on the expense sheet. Wouldn’t it? 2. The next day, I went back to Accounting. “Ms. Davis, can I get a refund for the $1,250.00?” She checked her system and shook her head. “I can’t process it, Paige. Your department filed for mandatory attendance. We don’t have a process for individual refunds.” “But I didn’t attend.” “Then you’ll need a letter from your manager, confirming you were physically absent. Only then can we initiate an exception refund.” I nodded. “Understood. I’ll ask her.” I went straight to Gillian’s desk. She was chatting with Tiffany. Seeing me, she gave me a dismissive smile. “Paige, something else?” “Gillian, I need a letter certifying that I did not attend the department retreat.” “A letter?” “Yes, Accounting requires it to process my refund.” She paused, her smile turning brittle. “Paige, that… that’s going to be difficult.” “Why?” “Look, your name was on the roster. The bus was chartered, the hotel was booked. You say you didn’t go—how can I prove that?” “I definitively did not go.” “I know, I know,” she waved a hand dismissively. “But you’re putting me in a difficult position here. I submitted the official roster. If I certify that you didn’t go, it makes it look like I messed up my job.” I just stared at her, waiting. She sighed. “How about this? I’ll reach out to Ms. Davis and see if there’s another way to handle it, okay?” “When will you have an answer?” “The…” She glanced at her watch. “Things are crazy busy right now. I’ll try my best.” “How long is ‘try my best’?” Her forced smile finally cracked. “Paige Miller, I said I’ll try my best. Why are you being so difficult about this?” Tiffany chimed in from the side. “Seriously, Paige, it’s $1,250.00. Is it really worth this drama?” I turned to Tiffany. She was wearing a new dress, one she’d showcased in her Instagram stories, likely purchased on the trip. “$1,250.00,” I said, my voice even. “Is what I earned by working three full weekends straight.” Tiffany pursed her lips and looked away. Gillian put a hand on Tiffany’s arm and smiled at me again. “Paige, I understand, truly. But you need to understand me too, okay? I’ll try to handle this. Now, please, get back to work.” I stood there for a few seconds, then turned and walked away. Back at my desk, I opened my computer. One thought kept looping: Who put my name on the roster? I pulled up the email and reviewed the attendee list again. Next to every name was a detail: Registration Date. Tiffany Brooks: April 15th. Scott Lewis: April 15th. … I scrolled down to my name. Paige Miller: April 20th. April 20th. What was I doing that day? I remembered. It was a Thursday. I was rushing to finish the quarterly presentation deck. I worked until after 10 p.m. I had no time to check messages. More importantly, I wasn’t in the group chat. April 20th. The day before registration closed. Someone had “registered” me. Who? I checked the email sender again. Sender: Gillian Shaw. She submitted the roster. I took a deep breath. I remembered another incident. This past March. The department had a dinner to celebrate meeting the quarterly targets. I was working late that night and missed it. The next day, there was a receipt on my desk. For the dinner. Split cost: $75.00. I asked Gillian about it. She said: “Oh, you didn’t come? I thought you were. I already included you in the count. I’ll be sure to check next time.” I’ll be sure to check next time. I paid the $75.00 and let it go. Now, I wondered: Was I “forgotten” that time, too? I opened my phone and scrolled back through my texts. The notification for that dinner had also been posted in The Insiders’ Club group. I wasn’t in it. I scrolled back further. Last December. The company holiday party. The department was putting on a skit and rehearsing ahead of time. I remember seeing them huddled in the break room often. I’d asked once: “What are you all up to?” Tiffany had said: “Nothing, just messing around.” Later, at the party, the department performed the skit. Twelve people. I wasn’t one of them. I thought then that I just wasn’t involved enough, that they were too polite to ask. Now I knew the truth— I was “forgotten” then, too. I leaned back, staring at the ceiling tiles. Three years. How many times had I been “forgotten”? Dinner. Team-building. Rehearsals. The retreat. But the deductions were never forgotten. I picked up my phone and opened my contacts. I found Scott Lewis’s name. Scott was a peer, the closest thing I had to an ally, though even that was a stretch. I sent him a message: “Scott, quick question.” “What’s up?” “The Insiders’ Club chat. Do you remember when it was created?” He sent a thinking emoji, then replied: “End of last year, I think. Gillian started it.” “Why?” “She said it was for internal department-only communication.” “Why not use the existing department chat?” He didn’t reply immediately. After a moment, he wrote: “Paige, why are you asking?” I didn’t answer him. I already knew the answer. End of last year. What happened then? I remembered. That was when I completed a major project. I finished it single-handedly. The client was thrilled and signed a huge contract. When the annual reviews came around, I thought I was a lock for the “Outstanding Employee” award. The award went to Tiffany Brooks. I asked Gillian about it. She said: “Paige, your work ethic is fantastic. But you need to improve on team collaboration. Tiffany, on the other hand, is great at connecting with everyone. She has real team spirit.” Team spirit. My project involved countless nights of solitary overtime. While they were team-building, eating dinner, and rehearsing, I was working. Therefore, I “lacked team spirit.” I understood. I finally, truly understood. I wasn’t forgotten. I was cut out. Since the end of last year. Or maybe even earlier. I sat at my desk, looking at the computer screen. A new proposal was open, due today. Gillian’s morning assignment. She’d said: “Paige, you’re the most efficient. This one’s for you.” Most efficient. So I got the heavy lifting, the thankless tasks. The retreats and team-building? Those were for the “team.” I wasn’t part of the team. My phone vibrated. It was Scott. “Paige, don’t overthink this. She probably just forgot to add you when she created the chat.” Forgot. Always forgot. I replied with two words: “No problem.” Then I put the phone down. And I kept working. What else was I supposed to do? What could I do? I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keys. $1,250.00. Three years. A group photo of twelve people. I wasn’t in it. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming weariness. Not physical fatigue. A deep, profound exhaustion that settled in my bones. Too tired to move. Too tired to speak. Too tired to pretend nothing was wrong anymore. I saved the document and shut down my computer. I stood up. “Where are you going?” Tiffany asked. “Restroom.” I left the office, but I didn’t go to the restroom. I went to the roof deck. The office was on the 18th floor. I went up to the rooftop terrace. The wind was strong. I stood by the railing, looking down at the city. Traffic, people, skyscrapers. I’d been here for three years. Three years. No days off, no tardiness, no complaints. I thought if I just did my job well, I would be recognized. I thought if I just worked hard, I would be integrated into the team. I was wrong. Wrong from the very beginning. Some circles don’t let you in just because you try hard. If you’re not in the chat, you’re never in the club. I took a deep breath. $1,250.00. I was getting that money back. Not because of the money. But because I refused to be the one who was “forgotten” anymore. Refused to be the one who was “easygoing.” Refused to be the one everyone could walk over. I turned and went back downstairs. Back in the office. Tiffany gave me a strange look. “That was a long trip.” “Mhm.” I sat down and opened my computer. Not to work. But to open my email. I searched and found every email related to department activities for the past three years. I went through them, one by one. Date, location, attendees, cost breakdown. I built an Excel spreadsheet. I logged every instance of being “forgotten.” Dinners: 4 times. Team-Building: 3 times. Rehearsal: 1 time. Retreat: 1 time. Total: 9 times. Total cost: $3,250.00. (Adjusting total cost to reflect the new per-event cost) Times I actually participated: 0. Times I actually paid: 9. I stared at the number, a small, cold smile touching my lips. Three years. I had paid over three thousand dollars for a place that didn’t exist. A hefty fee, indeed. 3. When it was time to leave, I didn’t stay late. Gillian looked at me. “Paige, that proposal—” “Due tomorrow.” “Tomorrow? The client is pressing.” “Then let Tiffany handle it,” I said, standing up and gathering my things. “She has team spirit.”

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The day the long-lost true heir showed up on the Ashton doorstep, I demanded a paternity test. Any rational person could see that my features were a perfect blueprint of the Ashton line, while the supposed “true daughter” was a stranger. I was certain I would expose the imposter, but the man who loved me most—my grandfather, Senator Harrison “Harry” Ashton—refused without a second thought. He studied me for a long time, and the familiar, doting look in his eyes chilled to something hard and clinical. “The Ashton name carries a thin, fragile bloodline, Clare,” he declared, his voice a low, heavy rumble. “When we raised such a vibrant, healthy granddaughter as you, I thought our luck had turned. I was wrong. You were a cuckoo in the nest.” He gripped the ivory head of his cane. “You have taken from Tori for all these years. The debt you owe her must be repaid.” The next day, I—Clare Ashton, the celebrated darling of the Ashton dynasty—became nothing more than a personal assistant and glorified maid to Victoria “Tori” Harrington. My intended fiancé became her intended husband. When the delicate Tori decided she wanted a child, I was simply repurposed as an incubator. The day of the C-section, everyone crowded around Tori, who cradled the newborn and accepted the congratulations. No one paid any mind to me, bleeding out on the operating table. Only the doctor, clutching the laboratory report, went pale. The results confirmed it. I was the true heir of the Ashton family. … 1 The hemorrhage alarm blared in the operating room. A blankness washed over me, a sensation of my consciousness drifting away. A strange thought surfaced: This is fine. I’m fine dying like this. In the hallway, Senator Ashton’s face was the color of slate as he listened to the doctor’s urgent report. He glanced toward the surgical theatre, then gave a sharp, quiet order to his assistant. “Seal off all information.” “No one speaks a word of what happened today. Let it rot with you.” They saved me. But when the anesthesia faded, the incision burned with a relentless, liquid fire. The doctor couldn’t meet my eyes. He kept his head bowed, his voice a low murmur as he explained the damage. “Ms. Ashton,” he said softly, “your uterus bled out during the procedure. We… we had no choice but to perform a hysterectomy.” He paused, then delivered the final, crushing blow. “You will never be able to have children again.” I didn’t speak. The only sounds were the loud, celebratory noises drifting from the VIP suite next door. Tori was laughing. Many people were laughing with her. The sound sliced through the wall and hammered into my ears. They were celebrating the birth of the Ashton family’s first grandson. Senator Ashton finally entered my room. He wore his customary, impeccably tailored cashmere coat, but the aura of statesman-like calm was gone. He looked at me as if I were a piece of inert property. “Clare Ashton, the life you have is a gift from the Ashtons.” He stepped closer. “I have no interest in debating who the ‘true’ daughter is. I only know that the Ashton name cannot endure another scandal.” “I trust you understand what I mean.” I met his gaze, my silence a wall. He quickly looked away. The hospital’s lab reports were destroyed. To the outside world, I remained the cuckoo, the hired help. The child I had borne was officially Tori Harrington’s son. My biological parents—the couple who had swapped me—came to see me. They looked at my face, then quickly lowered their heads. The man I was supposed to call “Father” nervously wrung his hands, his voice trembling. “Clare, I failed you… but the Senator has spoken. You must be sensible, clear-eyed. Think about the family’s reputation.” The woman I was supposed to call “Mother” stood behind him, dabbing at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. She said nothing. The family’s reputation. Whose family? Holden Becker stood at the doorway. He was Tori’s nominal husband and the child’s father. He looked at my pale face, the still-attached blood bags by the head of the bed, and then toward the noise next door. There was an indecipherable emotion lurking in his eyes, but I didn’t care to explore it. People came and went, but I remained mute. I simply stared out the window. A single, desiccated leaf hung precariously from a bare branch. A gust of wind made it tremble. I felt like that leaf. My life was just as fragile. 2 The day I was discharged, a black sedan waited at the hospital entrance. I was driven directly to a secluded Long Island estate. “The Senator wishes for you to recover here, in quiet,” the butler informed me. “Quiet” was a euphemism for house arrest. None of the windows could be opened from the inside. Aside from a housekeeper assigned to cooking and cleaning, my only company was a handful of silent security guards. I made one request. “I want to see my child.” The butler’s face was expressionless, like a piece of carved granite. “That is Ms. Harrington’s son, the Ashton heir,” he said flatly. He paused, then added: “He is not your concern.” For the first few days, I couldn’t eat anything. My stomach felt like it was packed with stones; the smell of food made me nauseous. Every night, I dreamed of a baby’s frantic cry. Holden, however, visited often. He always brought expensive supplements, silently handing them off to the housekeeper. Then he would make polite, stilted small talk, though he was the only one speaking. I never answered him. One afternoon, he looked at my wrists, tracing the shallow, discolored scars left by the needles from when I was used as a test subject for Tori’s fragile health. He suddenly choked up. “I’m so sorry, Clare. I never imagined they would go this far.” He started explaining, his words tumbling out disjointedly. The marriage alliance between the Ashton and Becker families had originally been intended for me. We had grown up knowing each other, and I hadn’t been opposed to the idea of marrying him. But after Tori was brought home, I hadn’t seen him again. The next time I saw him was the day of Tori’s wedding, when I was pushed into the honeymoon suite. Tori’s nominal husband was Holden Becker. I had resigned myself to my fate and allowed him to do as he wished, never noticing the flicker of love he claimed to have for me. He said he had always loved me. But what did any of that matter now? Among the things he brought were cans of formula, but my baby was nowhere near me. Wherever Holden was, Tori always arrived quickly. She followed behind two towering bodyguards and a nanny clutching a blanket-wrapped bundle. When she saw Holden and the things on the table, her face contorted instantly. She lunged forward, and her open palm landed a stinging, sharp slap across my cheek. “You trashy little incubator! Crawl off the operating table and try to steal my husband? You were born to be a cheap piece!” I didn’t flinch. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even look at her. I simply gazed past her at the bundle, at the tiny, exposed sliver of a face. My silence enraged Tori further. She raised her hand for another strike. Holden caught her wrist, stopping her. It was the first time I’d ever seen him truly furious with her. “Tori, that is enough!” She shrieked. “Holden Becker! You’re defending her? You’re defending this breeding tool? Have you forgotten I’m your wife?” Holden seemed about to say more, but the noise startled the infant, who began to cry. The focus instantly shifted back to the child. Everyone crowded around the baby and ushered him out of the room. Before leaving, Holden glanced back at me. His lips moved, but he said nothing. The door shut. I walked to the mirror. I stared at the woman with the red, swollen cheek and the dead eyes. That was Clare Ashton. That was me. I told the reflection that I had to live. I had to survive so that one day, I could openly and proudly hold my own son. 3 Tori soon found a new way to torment me: she used my child. She would have the nanny bring the baby out onto the estate’s lawn. I would stand at the second-floor window, watching through the cold iron bars as my son lay cradled in her arms. So small. So soft. And utterly beyond my reach. She would talk loudly to the baby, ensuring her voice carried up to my window. “Look, baby,” she’d coo. “That woman up there. She’s just a tool who lent us her stomach, a jar of meat that made you.” She would then turn her back to the window, smiling in triumph, before leaving. I made a quiet request to the housekeeper who looked after me. I didn’t want anything else. I just wanted a photograph of the baby. The housekeeper looked at me with a flicker of pity, didn’t answer, and left. A few days later, a photo was tucked beneath my pillow. It was creased and crumpled, as if it had been hidden and clutched for a long time. The picture was a blurry, stolen snapshot. All I could make out was a small, plump side profile of an infant. I tucked the photo deep into my clothing, keeping it close to my heart. Holden’s visits became increasingly secretive. He no longer used the main entrance. Once, he climbed the perimeter wall late at night, a fresh scrape visible on his face. He told me he had found a lead. “I found the nurse who delivered you and Tori all those years ago,” he whispered. “She quit years ago and went back home. My people are on their way to her.” He looked at me with an emotion I couldn’t quite place—guilt, perhaps, or something more. He made a solemn promise. “Clare, just give me a little more time.” “I swear, I will get you and the baby out of this hell.” His words became my only lifeline. I started counting the days. Then, Senator Ashton called. The estate’s only landline was in the butler’s office. The butler handed the receiver to me and stood nearby, watching. On the other end, the Senator’s voice was as commanding and devoid of warmth as ever. “Stay quiet and compliant. This estate is the best end you can hope for.” “Don’t forget, you owe Tori. This is your lot in life, and you will accept it.” “The Ashton family has been generous enough. Do not presume to ask for more.” Generous? I gripped the cold receiver, my knuckles white. I whispered into the phone. “If one day she asks for my life, must I accept that, too?” There was a dead silence on the line. Then, a sharp clack as he hung up. Holden finally got what he was after. He visited me late one night, a suppressed excitement radiating from him. He played a recording on his phone. It was a woman’s tearful confession. The nurse. She admitted that two decades ago, a woman claiming to be a distant Ashton relative had given her a massive sum to switch the two infants shortly after birth. Holden said he had given her more money and a plane ticket out of the country in exchange for her full testimony. “The evidence is secure,” he said. “Just hold on a little longer.” Meanwhile, Tori must have sensed the massive threat posed by Holden’s cold, distant attitude. Her eyes when she came to the estate were no longer purely envious or smug. There was a dangerous new edge. The security staff at the estate was replaced. Among the new guards were some of the men who always shadowed Tori. 4 Tori brought a document to Senator Ashton. It was a “Psychiatric Fitness Report.” The report claimed that I had suffered a mental breakdown following the trauma of childbirth and the revelation of my true identity, and that I had severe violent tendencies. She wept, kneeling dramatically before the Senator. “Grandpa, I’m so afraid. I’m scared she’ll hurt the baby.” “The way she looks at me… it’s like she wants to murder me. I can’t sleep, and the baby cries all the time because of her.” Senator Ashton looked at her for a long moment before speaking. “You have everything she had. What more do you want?” Unlike me, Tori appeared fragile but was fearlessly ambitious. “As long as Clare Ashton is alive, the Ashton family has a time bomb,” she insisted. “We will always be vulnerable to gossip and ruin.” The air in the library hung heavy with the scent of old wood and hushed secrets. Senator Ashton closed his eyes. After a long silence, he opened them, adjusting his silk tie. “The peace of the House is paramount, Tori.” “Do not overstep yourself on this matter.” This wasn’t a refusal. It was an endorsement. It was my death warrant. The next day, the housekeeper was gone. The only people left at the estate were me and the two guards. Even the butler who usually supervised me vanished. My three daily meals were replaced by cold, packaged containers, left by the guards outside my door. My every request to walk in the yard was refused. The internet was disconnected. I had no way to contact the outside world. Holden came several times, but was blocked, told I was “resting and unable to receive visitors.” He finally understood something was terribly wrong. He began using the full force of the Becker family to investigate my condition. But the Ashton sphere of influence, a tightly woven, impenetrable net, kept him out. The nights stretched long. I lay in bed, unable to sleep. In the small hours, I smelled it. Gas. I immediately tried the door. It was locked from the outside. The windows, permanently sealed, wouldn’t budge no matter how desperately I hammered the glass. Through a small gap in the curtains, I saw a black car parked some distance away. A shadow sat inside. Tori Harrington held a pair of binoculars, pointed directly at my room. She was waiting. Waiting for me to vanish. 5 The temperature in the room was rising. The dark night outside was now illuminated by a pulsing orange glow. Tori must have grown impatient. The fire arrived faster than I had anticipated. A thick plume of smoke, heavy with the stench of gas, instantly poured under the door. I coughed violently, my eyes streaming. I tore a bedsheet, soaked it in the bathroom sink, and pressed it tightly over my nose and mouth. I curled up in the corner farthest from the door, feeling the heat surge toward me in waves. The wall began to radiate warmth. I wasn’t afraid. I was only regretful that I had never truly held my son. Just as I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness, I heard a massive impact. “CRASH—!” The estate’s heavy, wrought-iron gate was brutally smashed open by a speeding SUV. A figure burst out of the car. It was Holden Becker. Several people followed him, immediately turning their attention to fire suppression. Holden drenched himself, then kicked the villa door off its hinges and plunged into the smoke-filled house. He found me, huddled and barely conscious, in the corner. He lifted me from the floor, holding me tightly, so tightly that my ribs ached. When I was finally coherent, I was in his arms, standing on the grass outside. The clearing beyond the estate was lit up by camera flashes. The crowd surrounding us was a chaotic mix of Ashtons, Beckers, and countless journalists. Holden stood directly in front of the cameras, holding my frail body. He raised a phone and pressed a button. The nurse’s tearful confession echoed clearly across the night air. “…I took the money. I’m a monster, I switched the two children…” “The true Ashton daughter, the one they called Clare Ashton…” The journalists went wild. The shutters clicked in a blinding, deafening staccato. Holden had an assistant distribute a stack of papers to the crowd. They were copies of the long-destroyed paternity test. Everyone gasped when they saw the results. In the black sedan, now surrounded by reporters, Tori let out a piercing scream. She desperately tried to shield her face, but it was too late. Countless microphones and lenses were pressed against her window. Everyone knew exactly who she was. Senator Ashton arrived. His car stopped just outside the riot of people. He stepped out and saw the irrevocable damage, saw me held in Holden’s arms, and heard the constantly replaying recording. His body swayed violently. He nearly collapsed. Holden carried me through the crowd, step by step, toward the Senator. His gaze was fixed, unwavering, on the old man. “Holden, my boy. Don’t overdo this. It won’t look good. I’ll go to your father’s office tomorrow and we’ll talk.” The Senator coughed, attempting to regain control and calm Holden. But Holden wasn’t having it. He looked down at me gently, then back at the Senator. “Senator Ashton.” “Before we all go home, you need to answer one question.” “Who, exactly, owes whom?”

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The year I learned to hate my father, he served up his business partner—a man two decades his senior, a man he called his protégé—as a twisted olive branch, a peace offering to keep me quiet. He delivered him right to my bed. I was reckless. I was seeking oblivion. I let the night happen. One night led to a three-month blur of infatuation, and by the end of it, I had forgiven my father. Four months in, I was pregnant. Overnight, I became the most protected woman in Newport. At every prenatal appointment, the City’s richest men—my father, Harrison Bellwether, and my husband, Brooks Wellington—were there. Everyone said I was a princess, pampered by my father and husband. But the day of my anatomy scan, they both sent their regrets. “A massive deal came up,” my father said, patting my head. Brooks gently rubbed my bulging stomach. “When it’s over, I’ll bring back gifts for you and the baby.” I smiled and waved them off. Yet, just before the appointment, an anonymous video landed in my inbox. My father, in a tuxedo, was standing next to Dahlia Shaw, the woman who’d destroyed my mother. His illegitimate daughter, Savannah Bellwether, her own belly protruding in a wedding gown, clung to Brooks’ arm. “Double the happiness!” a voice cheered as someone raised a glass. “Congratulations, Harry, on finally welcoming your true love, and congratulations, Brooks, on marrying your true soulmate!” The video’s end brought my father’s voice, chillingly detached: “What about the fake marriage certificate with Delaney, and the baby? The child will be illegitimate.” Brooks’ low, amused voice replied: “Delaney has everything. Savvy’s been treated like a bastard her entire life. I won’t let her child suffer the same fate.” I bit down hard on my lip and stumbled out of the clinic. The phone in my hand vibrated incessantly. A new text message appeared: it was a copy of a vasectomy surgery report. Below it, a line of text: “If you agree, the child in your belly will be my only heir, my last legacy.” 1 I walked aimlessly through the streets after leaving the hospital. On the City’s biggest Jumbotron, a segment was playing: the exclusive family interview from three months ago, when I’d first announced my pregnancy. My father held up a massive, auctioned diamond for the camera. “The ‘Ocean’s Heart’ is for my future grandchild, a girl. Its value doesn’t matter. It’s the lineage, the legacy, that matters.” Brooks gently squeezed my hand. “The hardest part is Delaney’s. I will spend the rest of my life taking care of my girls.” The screen froze on the image of us exchanging loving smiles. Beneath it, a rolling banner declared: “Newport’s Happiest Family.” Rain mixed with tears, blurring my vision. That’s when my phone rang. Brooks. Before, that exclusive ringtone would have made me snatch up the phone immediately. Now, I hesitated. I finally answered just before it went to voicemail. On the line, I heard the smug laughter of Brooks’ friends: “Brooks finally got what he wanted! He chased Savvy all over the world. Now, to get her the majority of the Bellwether assets, he had to play this ‘doting husband’ charade with the heiress for two years.” “Ha! Brooks still has the magic touch! The last time Delaney was with him, she was so weak in the knees she was practically hanging onto him. No wonder he didn’t even need a real marriage license to knock her up!” “Tsk tsk. She despises illegitimate children, yet now, her own kid is a bastard!” “The most genius move was today! Savvy saying, ‘My mother won’t marry, so neither will I,’ and Brooks convincing Harrison to marry Dahlia. Mother and daughter marrying into power on the same day! The City hasn’t seen this kind of drama in decades!” My knuckles were white as I gripped the phone, tears raining down. Suddenly, Brooks’ voice cut through the noise, colder than I’d ever heard it. “Who touched my phone?” The commotion stopped dead. “Baby? Why aren’t you talking? Are you feeling unwell?” Brooks’ tenderness was flawless. It was as if those hateful words had been my hallucination. I opened my mouth, wanting to demand a divorce. Then I realized the terrible truth: our marriage license was a sham. I didn’t even have the legal standing to file for divorce. At that moment, a soft, sugary voice cut in from his end. “Hubby, my back is so sore. The baby is kicking me again…” Brooks clearly panicked for a second. “Baby, I have an urgent matter here. I’ll come back to you later.” Before I could respond, he hung up hastily. I don’t know how long I sat in the living room before I heard the front door open. My father and Brooks walked in, their faces still flushed with the residual excitement of a wedding celebration. “Laney, I specially had this customized for you in Switzerland. All natural ingredients,” my father said. Brooks knelt before me and massaged my swollen ankles. “Why didn’t you go for the scan? Are you mad we didn’t go with you? I’ll have the head of the department come here personally to check on you tomorrow, okay?” They showered me with affection, then froze when they realized I hadn’t said a word. Brooks subtly shook his head, signaling that the wedding news had not leaked. I handed him a document. “Sign this.” My father played the jealous parent. “Does my daughter only want things from her husband now? Not her daddy?” Brooks didn’t even glance at the paper, scribbling his signature with a flourish. “We’re one, darling. What’s mine is yours. No need to be so formal.” He smiled, handing the paper back to me. Just then, both their phones chimed simultaneously. My father patted my shoulder: “Company emergency. We need to handle something in the B Wing.” Brooks kissed the top of my head: “I expanded the B Wing for you. We can work there and still be close to you.” They hurried off. Two forgotten groom pins—one slipping from my father’s jacket pocket, the other from Brooks’—were all the reminders I needed: Tonight was their wedding night. I looked down at the paper. “Voluntary Surrender of All Paternal Rights” was clearly stated above Brooks’ signature. A tear rolled down my cheek, followed by a quiet laugh. With this, the child in my womb had no ties to Brooks Wellington. I, Delaney Monroe, could love deeply, and let go completely. Wiping away the last tear, I called Mr. Ellis, my attorney. “Mr. Ellis, I need to terminate the escrow agreement immediately. Also, terminate all resource allocations to Wellington Group.” 2 “Miss Monroe, once the inheritance process is activated, 72% of Bellwether Group shares will be transferred to your name within ten days.” Mr. Ellis paused before adding, “Your mother ensured there was a very thorough asset isolation protocol before she passed… Mrs. Shaw can’t touch a dime of the Bellwether assets.” I murmured an acknowledgment and hung up. The year my mother died, my father knelt at her coffin, wailing. He slapped himself repeatedly, saying his drunken weakness had betrayed her and me. I hid in my room for days, refusing to eat. It was Brooks who patiently brought me porridge, spoonful by spoonful, coaxing me to swallow. “Your mother would want you to be happy, even up there.” That one line pulled me back. It also made me give him my entire heart. Now I understood the calculation behind that gentle facade. My phone kept vibrating. Photo after photo appeared. A young Brooks, embracing Savannah on a yacht, kissing her; holding her hand in a snowy park. Each photo was signed, “To My Beloved Savvy.” I realized my honeymoon route had been a twisted trip down their memory lane. “Sis, the sheets in that hotel suite you stayed in? We’d just left our mark on them.” “Brooks swore he had to hold you all night, right? Do you want to bet I can call him, and he’ll leave you right now?” Savannah’s voice note made my stomach churn. “Ugh—” Before I was done vomiting, the door was flung open. Brooks. “Laney? Is the morning sickness worse? I’ll make you something bland right away!” He was fast. He returned moments later with a steaming bowl of bird’s nest congee. He’d specifically learned this pregnancy recipe from a Michelin-starred chef. He’d cancelled three major acquisitions just to master this dish. His eyes held an expectant light, waiting for me to fall into his arms with gratitude, as I always did. When I remained impassive, he paused, then expertly began to massage my temples. “Brooks,” I suddenly said. “Have you lied to me about anything? If you tell me now…” Brooks, after all you did—you broke three ribs shielding me when I jumped out that window five years ago. I was giving him one last chance. “Nonsense. You and our child are the great loves of my life.” His perfect performance made me want to laugh. Brooks studied my expression, then chuckled softly. “I know what this is. You always say things like this when you want me to dote on you.” He leaned in to kiss me. A sudden clap of thunder rattled the windows. I instinctively shrank beneath the covers. It had been years since a thunderstorm made me cry. Since I met Brooks, I thought I had found security. But now, tears flowed uncontrollably. Brooks immediately wrapped me in a hug. “Don’t be scared, I’m here.” His embrace was still warm, yet I shivered with cold. Just then, a house manager rushed in and whispered something in Brooks’ ear. His face flashed, but he forced a steady demeanor. “Can’t you see the lady of the house is resting?” He gave my back a perfunctory pat, his eyes darting toward the door. “Sleep, I’ll stay here with you.” But as soon as he thought I was ‘asleep,’ he bolted without a backward glance. My phone screen flickered in the darkness. Savannah’s latest photos were even more graphic. Rumpled sheets, Brooks’ naked, muscled back, and a suggestive rabbit tail toy, damp with liquid. The last voice note was filled with triumphant gasps. [Sis, Brooks hasn’t touched you since you got pregnant, right? But he can’t resist me. He just took me three times…] [I heard Brooks hasn’t named your baby yet? Ours is going to be called ‘Nicky’ ] As she spoke, Savannah exposed a tattoo on her chest, identical in placement and style to the one on Brooks. Boom! My ears rang. I remembered my wedding night, weeping with gratitude as I traced the word “Laney” tattooed over his heart. The complex look in his eyes wasn’t emotion; it was guilt. Every time he called me “Laney” with such deep affection, he was thinking of another woman. For three years, I had been the butt of a colossal joke. I sat there, frozen, until dawn. Finally, I replied to the number that had been waiting: [I accept your offer to be the baby’s nominal father. Let’s cooperate.] 3 The next morning, I woke to a cacophony. The hall was packed with Newport’s elite, all here for my birthday celebration. I was stunned. I hadn’t celebrated my birthday since my mother died a decade ago. I looked around. My mother’s portraits on the walls had all been replaced by photographs of Dahlia Shaw. The butler, oozing sycophancy, explained, “Mr. Wellington personally arranged it. He said Miss Savannah would be pleased.” The guests began to whisper. “Did you hear? The golden properties left by the former Mrs. Bellwether have all been transferred to Mrs. Shaw.” “Tsk tsk, the original wife works her entire life, and the mistress walks away with the prize.” “Shh! Keep it down. She’s the legitimate wife now.” Dahlia, limp and tearful, leaned on my father’s shoulder. She dabbed her eyes as she addressed me: “I know the young lady doesn’t care for me, but today is a joyful day. I only have one small wish: let me serve Harrison for the rest of his life, and help look after this home for your mother.” She deliberately omitted the fact that today was also the anniversary of my mother’s death. Seeing the redness in my eyes, my father dismissed it lightly: “Dahlia is your elder now. She’s only showing kindness by throwing you a party. Try to be magnanimous, Laney.” Before he finished speaking, Savannah entered, linked arm-in-arm with Brooks. “Happy Birthday, my princess.” Brooks’ voice was full of manufactured adoration as he handed me a black and gold box. “Good heavens! That’s the exclusive ‘True Love Heart’ packaging from Casdair Auctioneers!” a guest gasped. “A mysterious buyer paid a fortune for it last month! I can’t believe it was Brooks!” “What a devoted prince! Delaney Monroe has all the luck!” I didn’t care. The centerpiece auction item, the devoted prince—none of it mattered. I only cared about the maternity dress Savannah was wearing. It was the gown my mother had sewn, stitch by stitch, with her last breath. “Take it off.” My voice trembled as I stared at her. Savannah’s eyes immediately welled up, and she hid slightly behind Brooks. The guests gasped, shocked by my blatant disrespect for Brooks. Brooks’ tone was gentle, but laced with dominance: “Laney, stop making a scene. If you like the style, I’ll hire the designer tomorrow to customize a new one for you, okay?” I couldn’t hear anything. I lunged at Savannah. Brooks clamped his hand around my shoulder. “Delaney! Calm down! You’re pregnant!” “Ah!” Savannah suddenly dropped to her knees, frantically tearing at the neckline of her dress. “I know you look down on my mother and me! You’ve always bullied me!” She’d done this in high school, too—self-mutilation, then crying that I’d attacked her. Since then, everyone believed Delaney Monroe, the Bellwether heiress, was a spoiled brat who loved to torment others. The guests whispered, their eyes filled with contempt. “The original wife’s daughter is so vicious…” “The illegitimate child is still her sister. Why be so cruel?” Brooks ripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it around Savannah’s shoulders. He looked at me, cold for the very first time. “Delaney, apologize.”

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My twenty-year-old stepsister, Poppy Sinclair, suffered from a severe case of “Adult Baby Syndrome.” A grown woman, yet she insisted on crawling around in diamond-studded training pants, demanding to be spoon-fed, carried everywhere, and only drinking from a novelty sippy cup. Each time, she’d offer the same self-satisfied pout: “I’m Poppy, the precious little baby! It’s totally normal for me to be completely helpless, duh!” My parents and my husband, Brock, adored this act, calling her “pure” and “unaffected.” So, when the news broke that I had been bonded with the ‘Irresistible Charm System,’ Poppy threw a tantrum, rolling on the Persian rug and wailing: “Sister, give that system to Baby! Baby wants to be the most captivating little princess in the whole world!” Brock pressed his hand down on my shoulder, his expression full of protective tenderness—for her, not me. “What do you need charisma for, Theo? You’re pregnant,” he sneered. “Hand it over to your sister before she ruins her vocal cords crying!” My parents—Richard and Candace Sinclair—backed him up, threatening to disown me if I didn’t comply, all so they could forcibly strip the system from me and give it to her. I was about to fight them, to claw my way out, when the fetus, only three months old in my womb, suddenly spoke in my mind: [Mom, just give it to her! The zombie apocalypse starts in three days, and a MAX Charisma System is a fatal magnet for the infected. Whoever binds it, dies!] … 1 The fight instantly drained out of me. I slumped back onto the sofa, my gaze disturbingly calm. Brock Hastings gave a cold chuckle and increased the pressure, forcing me back into the cushions. “That’s better, Theo. As the older sister, you need to be the adult here.” “Poppy might be twenty, but she’s psychologically a toddler. She’s the baby in the house.” “How could you ever compete with a baby?” I looked up at the man I’d married. On the rug, Poppy was perched on her hands and knees in the pink, frilly training pants, her backside sticking out. She sucked noisily on a jeweled pacifier, rubbing snot and tears all over the hem of my skirt. Seeing I was no longer resisting, she spat out the pacifier and spoke in a sickeningly high-pitched voice: “Bad, bad sister! Not giving Baby the sparkle! Baby is going to be super mad now-now!” “Unless Sister gives Baby the system right now,” “And gives Baby a horsey ride! Then Baby will forgive you!” With that, she rolled over, her two pale, chunky legs kicking wildly in the air. My mother, Candace, rushed over, scooping Poppy into her arms and patting her back. “Oh, my precious heart, don’t cry, don’t cry.” “Your sister is just being selfish, darling.” “Once you get that sparkle, you’ll be the most captivating little princess in the whole world!” “You’ll have anything you want!” My father, Richard, glared at me, holding a stack of legal papers. “Theo, sign the transfer documents.” “Give the system to Poppy, and we’ll still be a family.” “Refuse, and you’re out of the Sinclair house. Brock will divorce you, and that… thing in your belly will never be born!” Thing? This was Brock’s child, and just because I wouldn’t surrender a system, it was a thing? My baby snorted inside me. [Mom, these idiots. Don’t worry about them. The zombies will teach them a lesson soon enough. Just toss out that ticking time bomb so we can stock up on supplies for our getaway!] I took a deep breath, smothering the chill in my eyes, and spoke softly: “Fine. I’ll give it to her.” “If Poppy wants it so badly, how can I, as her sister, deny her?” Poppy immediately peered out from my mother’s embrace, pouting again. “Hmph, it was always Baby’s anyway. Sister kept it for so long, so embarrassing-bad!” Brock released my hand, his expression softening into approval. “See? Wouldn’t that have been easier? You always have to make things so difficult.” “Wait.” I spoke up suddenly, my voice weak but carrying an undeniable firmness. “If you force the full transfer now, Poppy will die.” That single sentence succeeded in freezing everyone in the room. Brock’s face darkened, and he leveled a vicious glare at me. “Theo Wells, what game are you playing now?” I lowered my gaze and spoke slowly. “The Irresistible Charm System carries a massive amount of energy. A normal body can’t withstand the instantaneous infusion.” “The energy has to transition slowly, bit by bit. Otherwise, the recipient will explode from an energy overload.” I raised my head, looking at Brock, a faint smile curving my lips. “The system requires a controlled process of exactly three days.” “Of course, if you don’t care about Poppy’s survival, you can try to force it right now. I won’t stop you.” “No!” My mother shrieked, rushing over with a look of pure terror. “We can’t risk it! My Poppy can’t take that kind of risk!” “Three days it is! For Poppy’s safety, we’ll wait!” I quietly accepted their decision, hiding the mockery in my eyes. Three days. Exactly when the apocalypse hits. This Charm System amplified the host’s allure by ten thousand times. In peacetime, it might be a miracle. But in the end times, it would be a beacon for every infected creature within range. Since my sister wanted to be the most captivating little princess in the world, and she wanted a gentle, three-day transition period… Then I wished her well. May she be the star of the show in the coming hell, until her very last, glorious moment. 2 The system stripping process began. A faint pink progress bar floated between Poppy and me. With every passing hour, the glow on my skin dimmed, and Poppy’s presence became increasingly, disturbingly alluring. While they fussed over Poppy, I claimed I had a craving for something sour, grabbed my phone, and slipped out. With only three days left, I had to secure provisions for myself and the baby. [Mom, start with water and high-calorie rations. And formula! I’ll need that when I’m out!] I drove straight to the nearest big-box store. My cart quickly filled with protein bars, canned goods, bottled water, and every type of baby formula and diaper. “The total is thirteen hundred and eighty dollars.” I handed the cashier the platinum card Brock had given me. “BEEP. Insufficient funds.” The cashier glanced at me. “Ma’am, this card has been frozen.” I froze. This was the household card and my primary source of funds, with a half-million dollar limit. I immediately pulled out my personal debit card, the one linked to my savings. “BEEP. Transaction failed.” What the hell? Before I could call the bank, Brock called. Over the phone, I could hear Poppy’s whiny cry and Brock’s furious interrogation. “Theo Wells! What is all that trash you’re buying??” “Poppy said she ran out of her specialty goat’s milk—the kind that’s air-freighted from Australia.” “Don’t sign anything! All the money needs to be saved for Poppy’s Baby Fund!” My hands were shaking with rage. “Brock, I’m pregnant! I’m buying essential supplies!” “And that was my debit card! How dare you freeze my own money?” Brock paused, then roared even louder. “You belong to me, so your money belongs to this family. The baby in your belly is only three months old—what’s the rush?” “Poppy is the baby who needs the most care in this house!” The line went dead. The baby kicked me fiercely. [Mom! Dump the trash-dad! When the end comes, I’ll deal with him first! Don’t get mad, I have a plan.] My baby’s voice was clear. [Since they froze your cards, we’ll buy things a different way. Mom, go open several high-limit credit cards. Max out any fast loans you can get.] [Borrow as much as possible!] [The world order collapses in three days. Money will be worthless paper. We don’t have to pay it back!] My eyes lit up. Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that? I abandoned the cart and drove to the financial district. Using my property deeds and perfect credit score, I pulled out nearly three hundred thousand dollars in cash advances and loans by the end of the afternoon. I rented a large moving truck and drove it to a secluded warehouse on the outskirts of town. I bought crates of rice, flour, oil, first-aid supplies, a commercial generator, a high-quality tactical axe, and body armor from an outdoor store. My baby directed me from inside. [Buy extra candy! Sugar will be hard currency in the apocalypse! And feminine hygiene products, those are crucial too!] It was late when I finally stuffed the warehouse full. Looking at the stacked boxes of provisions, I finally felt a sense of security. I got home close to midnight. The moment I walked in, I saw Poppy, still in the training pants, riding on Brock’s shoulders. She was holding a lollipop, tangling his hair into a sticky mess. My parents were clapping and cheering. “Aww, Poppy is so cute! Ride the horsey, darling!” Poppy saw me, her lips curling into a sneer. She tossed the lollipop, wet with her saliva, right onto my face. “Bad sister! Late, late! Baby is hungry! Baby wants warm milk!” “Go make Baby’s formula now!” “It has to be exactly 98.6 degrees! If it’s even one degree off, Baby will throw up, ‘kay?” The sticky candy residue slid down my cheek. Milk, is it? Fine. I’ll make you milk. These will be the last few bottles you ever drink in this life. 3 I was woken the next morning by the sound of hammering and glass shattering. I sat up, instinctively protecting my stomach. “What is going on?” My baby yawned. [What else? My brain-dead father is taking the house apart.] I rushed out of the bedroom. The custom, high-security window bars I had secretly paid a fortune to install yesterday were being ripped out by contractors. I had lied and said I was worried about the recent crime wave, insisting on reinforcing the windows and doors “for Poppy’s safety.” I’d even installed the best soundproofing and ballistic glass. Now, those expensive materials were scattered on the floor. My father was directing the workers. “Tear it all out! I want frameless, floor-to-ceiling glass in here!” I ran over to stop the workers. “Dad! What are you doing? I paid for those for security!” He turned, looking at me as if I were insane. “Security? These iron bars are too depressing! Poppy says they ruin her mood!” “Poppy is a princess, she needs sunlight and openness!” “Throw out this trash and replace it with borderless glass. That way, people downstairs can clearly see her beauty when she stands by the window!” Poppy was on the rug playing with blocks. Hearing the commotion, she looked up and made a face at me. “Na-na-na-na-boo-boo! Sister is a scaredy-cat!” “Baby has the Charisma System! The whole world will fall in love with Baby now.” “Who would ever hurt Baby?” “Those bars are so ugly, they stop Baby from radiating sparkle!” As she spoke, she crawled toward me, backside wiggling. When she reached my ankle, she suddenly opened her mouth and sank her teeth into my calf. A jolt of pain shot up my leg. I instinctively tried to pull away. Before I could move, Brock rushed over and shoved me aside. I hit the wall, my stomach muscles clenching in distress. “Theo Wells! What do you think you’re doing? Trying to kick Poppy?” Brock tenderly picked up Poppy, checking her teeth. “Poppy was just playing with you!” “This is how the baby shows affection, can’t you understand that?” “You have thick skin. What’s the big deal if your sister bites you? You won’t lose a limb.” Poppy sobbed in his arms, pointing at me in accusation. “Sister is mean! Sister doesn’t like Baby! Wah-wah-wah…” “Baby just wanted to taste if Sister was sweet…” I covered my belly, cold sweat breaking out. I looked at the haphazardly demolished windows, at the house now open to the elements. I’d briefly considered that if they didn’t commit suicide, I might lend a hand. Fortify the house enough to withstand the initial wave. But now… Hah. Since you are so determined to seek death, I won’t stand in your way. [Mom, let it go.] My baby’s voice came through. [This house is a lost cause. We’ll pack tonight and hide in the vault. It’s small, but that special steel door is unbreakable. It’ll be safe.] I nodded, leaning against the wall as I slowly stood up. I walked past the family, who were all immersed in their own version of bliss, and quietly returned to my room. The apocalypse was only 24 hours away. System Stripping Progress: 99%. Outside the window, a strange red mist was starting to shroud the otherwise clear sky. 4 The final moment arrived on the third day, precisely at noon. The whole family was gathered in the living room, waiting in anticipation. Poppy sat in the center of the sofa, clutching her sippy cup. “Hurry, hurry! Baby can feel it! The sparkle is coming!” Brock had me pinned in a corner chair. My face was pale. As the final millimeter of the progress bar disappeared, I felt something massive being forcibly extracted from my body. The rush of weakness nearly made me pass out. At the same instant, a pink light shot out from my chest and fused with Poppy’s body. [BEEP! Irresistible Charm System successfully bound! Host: Poppy Sinclair. Charisma level elevated to MAX!] In an instant, Poppy transformed. A strange, compelling magic radiated from her, forcing everyone’s eyes to stay on her. “Oh my God! My Poppy!” My mother, Candace, sank to her knees. “Mama has never seen such a captivating baby!” My father murmured to himself: “Is this the Charisma? She’s perfect. This is the true Sinclair daughter!” Brock crawled over and kissed the top of Poppy’s foot. “Poppy… you are my goddess, my heart…” Poppy stood up and twirled, her ridiculous training pants shifting with her movement. She looked down at me, her eyes full of contempt. “Sister, see? This sparkle was wasted on you.” “Only a natural beauty like Baby deserves it, tee-hee~” “Now Baby is the most irresistible person in the whole world. Are you so jealous, Sister?” I leaned weakly against the chair, observing the dense, sickly pink aura surrounding her. “No, I’m not jealous.” I spoke softly, my voice hoarse. “I just hope you can live with the consequences of that charisma.” “Pff, sour grapes!” Brock shot me a look of disgust. He stood up, ready to shove me toward the door. “Now that the system is transferred, we don’t need this old hag around anymore.” “Get out! Don’t stand there ruining Poppy’s view!” “Poppy gets upset when she sees your face!” My parents watched coldly, making no move to stop him. Just as Brock’s hand was about to make contact with my arm. “ROAR!!!” A deafening shriek erupted outside the window. It was immediately followed by the sound of breaking glass, car alarms, and people screaming. “What was that?” My father frowned and walked toward the enormous, frameless window. The next second, he froze solid. In the street outside the villa, dense crowds of people were running in a grotesque, twisted fashion. They were covered in blood, their skin rotting, biting anyone in their path. But at that moment, as if they had caught the scent of the finest delicacy. They stopped, all at once. Hundreds of pairs of grey, dead eyes fixed themselves on the direction of our house. Poppy hadn’t grasped the severity of the situation. She ran to the window, seeing the frantic mob rushing toward the house, and clapped her hands in delight. “Wow! Daddy, look!” “The system is so good! Baby just got the sparkle,” “And already so many fans have come to see Baby! Open the door, Daddy! Baby wants to sign autographs!” I watched the horde of terrifying, decomposed faces and listened to the mind-numbing sound of them colliding with the glass. The first infected person pressed its face against the window. “BAM!” My father, however, straightened his collar, his face beaming with pride. “That’s my precious girl! Even these avant-garde performance artists are drawn to you! That makeup is so realistic!” “Since they’ve shown us so much respect, we can’t keep them waiting.” To my horror, my father smiled and reached for the front door handle.

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The day he walked out, my fiancé slammed a heavy financial ledger onto the coffee table, calling me greedy and ungrateful. The reason? I had asked to withdraw thirty-three thousand dollars—the exact amount I needed to buy back my mother’s vintage Gibson guitar. He’d sneered, crushing the last shred of my hope. “Sadie, those hands are for scrubbing floors, not strumming chords. Why on earth would you buy that?” “Besides,” he added, his voice chillingly practical, “thirty-three thousand? If I sold everything you own, it wouldn’t cover half of that.” Later, I gave him exactly what he wanted. I took the fifteen thousand dollars he offered and sold myself into a marriage of convenience with the Maxwell family across town. Their son, Cullen, was rumored to be… slow. An eccentric. But it didn’t matter. He promised me that if I agreed to marry him, he would pluck the moon from the sky for me. I didn’t want the moon. I just wanted that guitar. 1 Gary Harrington called me into his home office for a final lecture before he left on his business trip. The cause of his annoyance was my unforgivable audacity: asking to borrow thirty-three thousand dollars. The manager at the Downtown Pawn Shop had reached out. Someone was sniffing around the rare vintage Gibson—the only physical thing I had left of my mother—and it was going up for auction the day after tomorrow. Panic had driven me to ask. I had spent the entire winter working three miserable jobs, scrubbing floors and washing linens for high-end clubs. My hands were cracked and bleeding, and all I had managed to save was barely a thousand dollars. I had no other choice but to ask Gary. He took the handwritten promissory note I offered, meticulously logging it in his ledger, but he refused to hand over the cash. He didn’t even look up. “Sadie, thirty-three thousand could buy you twice over. Stop dreaming.” I left the Harrington mansion, wiping my eyes, and ran straight into Auntie May, the neighborhood’s most well-connected matchmaker. Auntie May took one look at my red, tear-streaked eyes and clucked her tongue, slapping her own thigh in exasperation. “The Maxwells are serious, sweetheart. I told you, they’ll pay any price. Forget money; if you asked for the stars, that family would hire a crew to build a ladder!” I sniffled, the echoes of Gary’s words still stinging. You’re worthless. I worried the Maxwells would feel the same way. I timidly held up three fingers. “Auntie May, I don’t want the stars or the moon.” “I just want an old guitar. Thirty-three thousand dollars. Is that acceptable?” Auntie May was stunned. She had expected me to demand trust funds, real estate, a new car. “Silly girl, what good is that pittance?” She poked my forehead in loving frustration. “You’re about to become Mrs. Maxwell. Don’t you want a nest egg? How will you survive?” I drew my head back. I was afraid to ask for more. Gary had always told me I was a liability. I was terrified that if I asked for too much, the Maxwells would follow Gary’s lead—they’d get disgusted and rescind the offer. Auntie May sighed, about to leave, then paused. “Does the Harrington boy know you’re marrying Cullen Maxwell? If he gets upset and comes after you, I won’t be able to hold him off.” I shook my head. “Don’t worry, Auntie. Gary will be relieved to see me gone.” Six years ago, during the City Lights Festival, I saved Gary from a terrifying situation—he’d been cornered by a group of older teens. As a gesture of “gratitude,” the Harrington family paid fifteen thousand dollars to get me out of the terrible foster home I was living in. Gary had been a wreck after the incident, traumatized and unable to sleep alone. The expensive therapists and medication didn’t help. Only when I sat by his bed, holding his hand, could he finally rest. He used to whisper, Sadie, I’m going to marry you. You’ll be my wife, not a maid. But then Gary recovered. He got his nerve back, and the family business exploded. I—the sixteen-year-old rescue who cost them fifteen thousand—became an embarrassing fixture, an inconvenient liability in his gilded life. Mrs. Harrington went from calling us “The Golden Couple” to sighing and suggesting the Harrington threshold was now “too high” for a girl like me to cross. Whenever the subject of our engagement came up at dinner, I’d just focus on my plate of plain rice, saying nothing. Gary never defended me. He’d just condescendingly slide a piece of dry chicken onto my plate and smile coolly. “Why the act? Your appetite is massive. You’re becoming an expensive burden.” I thought he was struggling financially. I thought he genuinely believed my meager appetite was hurting his bottom line. So I started rationing. Two small meals a day, no meat, and I wore the same patched-up coat until it was threadbare. Gary was a born businessman, with an eidetic memory for numbers. He kept a perfect record of my expenses while I lived there. “The price of groceries has skyrocketed, clothing costs are up—this marriage is a net loss for the Harringtons.” His words made my stomach clench. I figured if I ate one less bite, the Harringtons would lose a little less money. That was until I saw my mother’s guitar at the pawn shop two weeks ago. I carefully wrote out a legal agreement, calculated the interest, and finally went to Gary. The family jet was waiting on the tarmac for his flight to the coast. Gary held the promissory note, his brow furrowed as if it were a complex math problem. “Sadie Reed, you can barely write your name. Why are you suddenly pretending to be cultured?” I offered a pathetic, hopeful smile. “If my mother were alive, she would have taught me.” “Your mother’s dead,” Gary cut me off, his voice impatient. “Hiring a music tutor costs money. Where does that land on the ledger?” I swallowed the words I already know how to play. “Thirty-three thousand is too expensive.” Gary folded the note and tucked it into his jacket. He looked at my hands, chapped and red like frozen carrots, and his tone softened slightly. “I’m a businessman. That guitar isn’t worth the asking price. Let’s talk when I get back from the West Coast.” When you get back, it will be gone. Desperate, I grabbed the sleeve of his expensive blazer and blurted out a half-truth. “Auntie May brought me an offer. The Maxwells will pay for the guitar as a dowry. I… I haven’t said yes yet.” Gary stopped flipping through his travel documents. He looked up, his eyes locking onto mine like hooks. “Oh? If it’s better for both you and the Harringtons, then why haven’t you left?” Before I could explain, he stood up and walked out. The glass beads on the door curtain clattered violently behind him, each noise a slap across my face. The next day, Auntie May arrived to pick me up. It was spitting rain. I had lived in the Harrington house for six years, but my belongings fit into a single duffel bag. Gary was gone. Mrs. Harrington was “napping” and didn’t show her face. Only Lila, the longtime family housekeeper, saw me off, wiping her eyes. “Mr. Cullen is a wild card, child. He doesn’t have the young master’s business sense. Sadie, you’re in for a hard time.” I pulled my patched-up coat tight and smiled at Lila. “It’s okay, Lila. I’m already used to hardship.” My life was like this old coat. Once you’re down to the bare thread, it can’t get much worse. “What will the young master say when he returns and finds you gone?” A bittersweet feeling swelled in my chest. I was marrying someone else. That meant I was saving the Harringtons money on food, clothing, and a dowry. Gary would be proud of my financial sense. He would finally see me as an asset. 2 Gary’s yacht cut through the water, heading south. He was on the deck taking a call when a shout came from a neighboring, equally luxurious vessel. “Harrington! Get over here! Come share a drink! It won’t hurt your bottom line!” It was Ben Wallace, an old childhood friend. Their families had been close business associates, but they hadn’t seen each other much since Ben’s family moved to the coast. The two boats tied up, and the men shared several rounds of expensive whiskey. Ben, a friendly man with a wide smile, still looked nervous when he brought up the past. “Those people were monsters, man. They only went after soft city kids like us. If we hadn’t been so damn lucky to run into those girls, we’d have been goners.” The moon hung in the sky, cold and distant. Gary tightened his grip on the glass, silent. Six years ago, he was terrified. He’d been starved for days, beaten for a week, and his leg was broken. The exploiters had tossed him a beat-up cup and told him to beg. Gary lay on the cold pavement, gazing up at the indifferent moon. Then, a little girl had knelt beside him and simply stared. When no one was looking, she pulled a piece of stale bread from her pocket and pressed it into his hand. “Eat fast. This is all I have left.” It was eight-year-old Sadie. Thirteen-year-old Gary was too terrified to take it. “Were you kidnapped, too?” “Where are your parents?” “Are you mute?” Sadie rubbed her frozen, chapped hands. “My mom said never to go with strangers. But Mom died, and I was looking for her, and they tricked me.” “They said they’d take me to her. It was all a lie.” Hearing the word “Mom” broke thirteen-year-old Gary. He started sobbing uncontrollably. Sadie memorized his name and the Harrington address and told him to wait. Seven days later, she returned with Gary’s desperate parents. To evade the exploiters, she had slept in barns, crawled through fences, and begged her way across two state lines to find help. Gary remembered the moment Sadie burst in, covered in mud and grime, but with eyes that shone with terrifying brightness. “See? I told you I could save you!” Those eyes were brighter than the moon tonight. The Harringtons paid fifteen thousand dollars to bring Sadie home. Gary had clutched her hand, swearing, “Sadie isn’t a servant. She’s my wife. My real wife!” But a vow, Gary learned, has a painfully short shelf life. Ben was slurring his words now. “Oh, man, I still think about the girl who saved me—Tess. She was skinny and tough as nails. Ugly, frankly. I swore if my parents tried to make me marry her, I’d run away from home!” Gary offered a weary smile. Yes, gratitude was one thing. Marriage was another. Who wants to marry a country girl from the wrong side of the city? Just then, a young woman emerged from the cabin. She was dressed in sharp designer clothes, gold and silver jewelry chiming with every step. She looked expensive and authoritative. She put her hands on her hips, her brows furrowed, and marched over to Ben, grabbing his ear. “You fat drunk! How much did you drink?” Ben, who had just been bragging, instantly crumbled, falling to his knees and pleading. “Wifey, I’m sorry! It was Gary! He forced me to drink it!” Gary stared, stunned. The woman was dressed lavishly, but her eyes and jawline were unmistakable. It was Tess. Far from being dismissed, Ben had obviously spoiled her. Her skin was soft, and she looked healthy and vibrant—no trace of the poor girl Gary remembered. Her outfit alone was worth thousands of dollars. Tess spotted Gary and her eyes lit up. “Oh, Mr. Harrington! Is Sadie with you? Did you two finally get married? Why didn’t you bring her so we could say hello?” Gary’s hand tightened around the glass. Sadie wasn’t with him. She was wearing a patched-up coat and had asked him, with frozen hands and tears, for thirty-three thousand dollars. Ben, sobered by the mood, gently pushed Tess’s hand away. Leaning on the railing, he spoke the truth in his heart. “Honestly, Gary, I’ve always been jealous of you. You’re smarter, and your business is bigger. The girl who saved you was even prettier than my Tess.” “But watching Tess wear nice clothes, yelling at me whenever she wants… I feel like a success.” “My wife is well cared for. That proves I’m the man I think I am.” The wind over the water seemed to cut through Gary’s buzz. He watched Ben and Tess playfully argue, and a sudden, sharp emptiness hit him. Thirty-three thousand dollars. To the current Harrington empire, it was the cost of a mediocre dinner. Yet he had thrown it in the face of the one person who risked everything to save him, driving her to a desperate choice. Gary put down the whiskey glass and called over his personal assistant, Stewart. “Send an immediate wire home. Tell the estate manager to go to the pawn shop and buy that guitar.” Stewart, ever the meticulous assistant, instinctively pulled out the small leather-bound ledger. “Sir, should I log this expense under Miss Sadie’s account, as usual?” Looking at the densely written columns, Gary felt a sudden, violent stab in his gut. “…No. Don’t log it.” “From now on, none of her expenses are to be logged.” “When I get back to the city, I’m going to go and get her.”

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I was a twin. I made it out—took the first breath, got the first coo. My brother, Ben, didn’t. He was gone before they even cut the cord. My mother, unable to have more children, gave me every ounce of the love she had saved for two. It was a beautiful, crushing kind of devotion. On my birthday, Mom and Dad bought two cakes: one pink, one blue. When it came to toys, if I chose a Barbie, they would always insist on getting a G.I. Joe. For school pictures, I’d be dressed like a sweet princess one year, and then like a handsome little prince the next. Later, I wanted to learn piano, and they bought a Steinway, but they also scoured the entire Boston area to enroll me in the most competitive private basketball camp. They gave me a double life. Double the love, double the expectations, double the roles to fill. It was during the Lunar New Year dinner, on the year we would have both turned twelve, that Dad insisted on a “family portrait.” Mom took my picture, used a photo-editing app to gender-swap my face into an image of a solemn boy, and placed it next to the original photo of me. Because I hadn’t managed a convincing smile—my face was tired, my heart heavy—Mom snapped. The breakdown was swift and violent. She slammed her hand across my cheek. “Why couldn’t you have been born one second sooner? If it wasn’t for you, your brother would be alive!” “You stole his identity and his love. Now you stand here, sulking, poisoning our memory of him!” “I wish it had been him who survived! He wouldn’t be cold and heartless like you. If you don’t want to be here, then get out! I am done with you!” She threw the steaming dinner onto my chest and shoved me out the front door, wearing nothing but a thin sweater. This time, I didn’t beg forgiveness. I just closed my eyes and made the only wish a ghost-in-training could make: Send me back twelve years. Let me trade places with him. … The familiar, reassuring pressure of the womb surrounded me, but a sudden, terrifying squeeze made me thrash instinctively. “Push! The baby is crowning!” “Wait! Something’s wrong. The position of the first one is bad. If she doesn’t get out now, the smaller one behind her will suffocate!” The words hit me like a physical blow. This was it. This was the moment of my birth, and the weak, struggling pressure next to me—that was Ben. My brother. I turned. I reversed the direction of my desperate crawl, enduring the sudden, crushing feeling of suffocation. I strained, pushing Ben outward, toward the light. But he was too weak. Even without sight, I could feel how frail his movements were. Even if he made it out, his life would be a struggle. I hesitated—should I just let him go first? Suddenly, my mother, Caroline, screamed through her pain. I heard her voice, ragged with panic and determination: “Save my son first! The boy—he’s weaker!” The doctor sounded frantic: “Ma’am, we can’t choose who comes out first!” Outside, my father, Jonah, his voice hoarse, insisted: “You must save my son first! If my son dies, every one of you will pay the price!” “Save my son, do you hear me!” A cold dread settled in my heart, colder than the New England winter air. They were back, too. They had returned to this moment, and their priority hadn’t changed. Fine. If that was the case, I wouldn’t stand in their way. Ben weakly lifted a hand, trying to scramble forward. I strained harder, creating space for him. “The head is out! The head is out!” Perhaps sensing the rush of fresh air, Ben’s kicking became stronger. He pummeled me, contorting my body, causing a blinding, internal pain. I started to flinch, to struggle back. But Mom suddenly tensed her abdominal muscles, stopping the progress. “Is it a boy or a girl? Save my son! If the girl comes out first, it will kill my son!” A nurse tried to restrain her: “Ma’am, if you do that, both babies will die!” From the other side of the room, another voice, frantic, cut through the tension: “The smaller baby’s heart rate is dropping! It’s getting too weak!” In that instant, Mom relaxed. “Oh, my baby… I’m so sorry, Ben. Even with a second chance, I can’t save you.” My own heartbeat was growing faint. I wanted to rub against her, to tell her not to grieve. Ben was fine. He was healthy. It was me who was dying, so please, don’t be sad. But I was a fetal ghost. I had no voice. Outside, Dad’s voice was choked with tears: “If I could, I would trade my life for the life of that baby. He was so small, he never got to see the world.” “Lottie, how could you be so cruel? How could you leave nothing for your brother?” As the air thinned, a crippling, dying pain washed over me. My parents had wanted him so badly. How much pain they must have felt when only I survived in our first life. I remembered the christening blankets. They had bought one for each of us. Mine was threadbare, patched in places. Ben’s was immaculate, kept in a satin pouch, which Mom would hold while she cried herself to sleep. She was a gifted seamstress. She’d make me a dress, and then meticulously make a tiny, matching vest and bow tie for the brother who was never there. “Ben would be calling me ‘Mommy’ by now,” she would whisper to the sewing machine. Don’t worry, Mom. Soon, you will hear him call your name. As Ben kicked and climbed over me, I gently lifted my own form, giving him purchase, letting him use my twisted, cord-wrapped body as a stepping stone. My limbs warped, my neck squeezed tight by the umbilical cord. But I didn’t regret it. When Ben’s head finally slipped through, I felt a deep, peaceful relief. It’s you. You survived. My parents wouldn’t have to look at me and see only a shadow, wouldn’t have to imagine a boy’s face on my own. I wouldn’t have to be the freak who was a girl on pink days and a boy on blue days. When the release came, I saw him: wrinkled, small, but letting out a tiny, weak cry. I wanted to touch him, but I was dead, and I didn’t want my touch to bring him sorrow. The nurse holding him smiled kindly: “What a strong boy. Ma’am, would you like to see him?” “Get out! Take him away! Don’t let that… that thing near me!” “But… he’s…” “I don’t care what it is! Get her away! I don’t want to see her!” Hearing my mother’s hysterical voice, the nurse nodded quickly and retreated. I froze. Ben had survived. Why was Mom reacting like this? I desperately drifted towards her: “Mom, look! It’s Ben! He’s alive! He’s strong and healthy. You will love him.” But she didn’t hear me. Her eyes were glazed over, and she was stroking the dead weight in her belly. “Lottie, you are a menace. You even tried to kill your own brother—your own flesh and blood!” She suddenly gasped, eyes wide with horror. “Doctor, please! Save my son! He’s so small! He can’t die before he even takes a breath! Please, save him!” The doctors exchanged uneasy glances. One said, softly: “We’re so sorry, ma’am. The other child… the girl… she passed away. It’s been too long. We are… very sorry.” Mom couldn’t contain it anymore. She screamed Ben’s name, a raw, primal sound of grief. Outside the operating room, Dad collapsed to the floor, not even glancing at the healthy baby boy the nurse held. “Ben, I would trade my life for yours.” I sat next to him, a faint smile on my lips, tears streaming from my unseeing eyes. Mom and Dad, neither of you will have to be hurt. Inside, the doctors removed my tiny, deceased body. Mom reached out and carefully, tenderly, took the bloody, unrecognizable fetal remains into her arms. “My Ben, my precious Ben… I didn’t even get a chance to love you.” She gently kissed my forehead, her face ravaged by grief. The nurse tried to take me—the remains—but Mom held on tighter. “Let us have a moment. He grew in my belly for ten months. If you take him now, he’ll be scared.” The other nurse, holding the healthy, crying boy—Ben—stood awkwardly, unsure what to do. Ben’s wails intensified, a robust, healthy sound. Mom looked at him with revulsion: “Stop that noise! You have no right to cry! You just killed your brother and now you want our attention? You are an animal!” “How could I have a daughter like you?” The nurse quickly interjected: “Ma’am, you’re mistaken, this is actually a…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Mom screamed hysterically: “I’m mistaken about nothing! She is a monster! You are holding a murderer! You expect me to love her?” The nurse’s mouth gaped in disbelief. She turned to speak to my father. But Dad was on the phone, his expression shattered: “Ben is gone… arrange the funeral. Get the plot ready—the one I bought next to ours.” He heard the person on the other end say something about the survivor. “She survived, so what? Do you think Ben wasn’t your grandson, too? He’s dead! Can’t you show him some compassion?” “Leave Lottie to the hospital staff. She’s strong. She’ll be fine!” Dad rubbed his temples, then called his assistant. The assistant’s tone was cautious: “Sir, the person who owns the plot right next to yours is finally willing to sell it. It’s perfect for you, the missus, and the young master and miss…” Dad cut him off, his voice flat. “I don’t need it. The plots are for me, Caroline, and Ben. As for Lottie, she will certainly outlive us all. She can be buried wherever she damn well pleases.” Seeing the paralyzed nurse, Dad snapped impatiently: “Get that… that menace out of here. She’s an eyesore.” I stood there, paralyzed, unable to weep. Mom had just given birth; she was frail. I remembered in the first life, she never recovered from the illness she caught during her month of confinement. I wanted to tell her to rest. Dad walked over, draping his coat around her shoulders. “It’s cold. Stay inside, don’t get sick.” Mom clutched my dead, unrecognizable form—the remains she thought were Ben—closer. Her eyes were red-rimmed. “I’m staying right here. Ben was so small. He needs me to stay with him.” “Last life, I grieved too much, and I let Lottie distract me. Ben left this world so lonely. This time, I’m going to make it up to him.” My heart felt like it was being ripped apart, twisted tight. But Mom. Last time, you cried for three full months. You visited the grave every day. If that wasn’t enough, what possibly could be? Dad held Mom tightly, his voice rough with emotion. “Carly, some things are just missed. But we still have Lottie. We promised her double the love. You lost control at dinner the other night. She must be devastated.” Mom closed her eyes and fresh tears spilled out. “I know. But I can’t help it. Every time I see her, I think of Ben. She killed him twice, Jonah. How can I love her?” “Am I a terrible mother? To wish my own living child dead just to bring Ben back?” Dad remained silent, but I knew what he was thinking. But even with their warped sense of reality, I couldn’t deny the love they had shown me. When I was little, I was always sickly in the winter. They would scold me for not taking care of myself, but then patiently sit by my bed for days until my fever broke. When I struggled with school, they hired the best tutors, sitting next to me during every session. Watching them struggle with the calculus problems, I always felt loved and secure. The first time I left home for summer camp, they drove 200 miles, watched me walk into the gate, and stood outside, crying like two lost children. I often thought the same thing: If Ben were alive, how happy our family of four would be. But fate was cruel. They couldn’t accept Ben’s death, couldn’t let go of the impossible expectation of their lost twin. I had become Ben’s shadow. When Ben’s remains—my remains—were cremated, Mom held the weightless urn. She looked at the nanny: “Is Lottie asleep?” The nanny nodded softly: “Just went down. The little boy…” Mom raised a hand to cut her off. “Don’t worry about the boy. Take care of Lottie. She’s cold-natured. Make sure she stays warm.” I looked up in surprise. I drifted toward her, wanting to tell her I wasn’t cold anymore. She was the one who was throwing caution to the wind, risking her health again. But she didn’t see me. She just held the urn, an expression of profound sorrow on her face. “Ben, don’t blame your sister. She only wanted to live, too. I’ll get healthy, and maybe… maybe you can be my child again someday.” She gently stroked the small box. Her voice was soft and quiet. “Ben, I’m sorry. I haven’t been able to let you go all these years. Your father and I did terrible things to your sister. This life, I’ll spend three years with you, and then… I’ll be Lottie’s mother alone.” “Don’t resent me. I still can’t forget the look in her eyes the night I kicked her out.” “My heart is too small. I have to learn to let you go.” I sat next to her, powerless. She refused to see the real, living child they had left in the nursery. She was consumed by her delusion, holding my ashes, mistaking me for the boy she’d lost. She didn’t know we had no “afterwards.” Her remorse and regret had no chance for repair. I watched Mom walk into her room, pull out the pristine, unused christening blanket, and drape it over the urn. Then she sat at the sewing machine, beginning to stitch clothes for Ben’s second, third, fourth—up to twenty-fourth—birthday. Dad saw the light on. He frowned, gathering up the materials and putting them aside. “If not for Lottie, then for yourself. You’ll collapse if you keep this up.” Mom offered a bitter smile and reclaimed her work. “Ben took half my life with him.” She looked at a small, recently finished shirt. She sighed. “Lottie always loved music. We didn’t take it seriously back then. We finally got her a piano later. This time, we need to find her a teacher right away.” “She’s too soft. She always gave in to our demands. We need to teach her to be stronger, to have confidence.” Dad nodded, his eyes pained. “I’m having Lottie sent to Dad’s house for a few years. Ben is gone. She’s young. We don’t want the… the bad luck to follow her.” “I heard that Elder Zhang’s amulets are powerful. We should go get one for Lottie. And a guardian pendant. We were too busy grieving last time to get her the right things. This time, we’ll let Dad compensate her. We can properly bond with her when she’s three.” His eyes reflected a profound, deep pain. Twelve years later, and the grief was just as agonizing. I used to be so foolish, throwing tantrums, screaming at them: Who am I? I’m Lottie! Why can’t you just love me for me? Each time, Mom would lock herself in her room and cry for three days straight. Dad would drink, nearly causing car accidents more than once. But they never once said I was wrong. I never argued again. All that mattered was that they loved me. Dad and Mom left, taking my remains. They never once glanced at the living child. I followed them on their travels. All those familiar tourist spots were places they had taken me in the first life. Only now, the photos they took were edited, transforming my face into the boy they dreamed of. The family albums had two separate sections: one for me, and one for Ben. I used to feel such fear. But my fear was for the person they missed, the person they were mourning. “Ben, the snow is so heavy here. Are you cold? I made you a new sweater; I’ll burn it for you today.” “Ben, this is the ocean. This is the aquarium—look, blue jellyfish! Your sister loved them.” “We’re traveling abroad. Are you scared? Don’t worry. Mommy is here. If you’re afraid, just hold on tight.” I hugged Mom’s ghost in return. Thank you. I’m not scared anymore. They traveled for three years. When they returned home, Grandfather Arthur called. “If you’re back, then leave those ridiculous girl clothes behind. They’re piling up, and no one is going to wear them.” Mom was stunned: “What do you mean, no one? I made those for Lottie.” Grandfather Arthur laughed, a harsh, humorless sound: “Why would he wear a dress? You can be delusional, Caroline, but there’s a limit!” Next, he texted them a picture of the boy—the living twin—and his medical report. Seeing the gender and blood type, Mom’s eyes widened in horror.

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