My sister, born with a face only a mother could love, was determined to marry the Mayor’s handsome son. To become beautiful, she tried every trick in the book. One day, she brought home two pills, claiming they could transform a girl overnight. She didn’t take them herself. Instead, she crushed them into the dinner she served to me and our little sister. 1 Starved after a day of chores, my little sister, Daisy, devoured her dinner like a wolf. Even though my stomach growled and my mouth watered, I didn’t dare take a bite. I had seen it. I saw my older sister, Martha, bury the crushed pills at the bottom of our bowls. If these pills were so precious, so magical, why give them to us? “Eat up, Claire. Once I marry Caleb Thorne, we’ll all be eating steak and lobster every night,” Martha said, a rare, gentle smile on her face. Daisy looked up, her big, doll-like eyes shining. Her skin was already porcelain white, perfect without any magic. “I want pork chops for every meal!” she chirped. I played along. “Sis, whatever you’re using lately, it’s working. You look amazing. Caleb won’t be able to look away.” Martha grinned so wide I thought her face would split. Caleb Thorne was the Mayor’s son, the only boy in our backwater town who had gone to college in the city. He was handsome, educated, and completely out of our league. To keep him from leaving again, the Mayor announced he was finding Caleb a local wife. The moment he graduated, there would be a wedding. Every girl in town was fluttering with excitement. But none more than my unfortunate-looking sister. Daisy finished her bowl and licked her lips. When Martha turned her back, Daisy looked at my untouched food. “Claire, are you gonna eat that? Can I have it?” I frowned, hesitated, and then dumped my bowl into the pig trough. A spotted black piglet gobbled it up in three bites. The next morning, we found Daisy in the pigpen. Her chest had been torn open. She was dead. Martha said it was a wild boar. Daisy was young, so there was no funeral. Martha wrapped her in a straw mat and buried her in the backyard without a tear. I noticed the spotted piglet was missing, too. At the same time, a bag of red powder appeared in Martha’s room. Every day, she mixed it with water into a thick, blood-like paste and smeared it on her face. She told me it was a new, high-end facial mask from the city. 2 Every night, Martha painted her face with that crimson sludge. And every morning, she looked more beautiful. The pockmarks vanished. Her skin became smooth as glass. Even her small, beady eyes seemed to grow larger and brighter. The town gossips started joking that the Mayor’s son didn’t stand a chance against her. Martha soaked it up, swaying her hips that seemed slimmer every day. “We have to wait for Caleb to come back. The Mayor doesn’t decide everything.” She was stunning now, but there was a catch. She smelled. A faint, metallic stench of raw meat hung around her, no matter how much she scrubbed. It was overpowering when the mask was on, but it lingered even when her face was clean. I also noticed that as the sun went down, her beauty faded. By nightfall, she looked like her old, homely self. That was when she would retreat to her room, mix the powder, and apply it religiously. By sunrise, the beauty returned. The water she used was specific. I had to collect morning dew, boil it, and collect the condensation from the pot lid. Every morning, I stared at my reflection in the bucket—dirty, dark, plain—and wondered. If I used that mask, would I be beautiful too? One day, Martha went to town. I snuck into her room to steal a pinch of the powder, but the bag was empty. She must have gone to buy more. She didn’t return until the next evening, looking uglier than I had ever seen her. That night, I watched her silhouette in the window. She poured something out and began her ritual. I knew that by morning, the beauty would be back. I woke up early to collect the dew. As I opened the door, I nearly ran into our neighbor, Mrs. Gable. She looked frantic. “Claire, have you seen my Lana? She hasn’t been home in two days.” Lana? She was the prettiest girl in town, Martha’s childhood friend. She was missing? 3 Caleb Thorne came home. At first, he refused to even consider a local girl. But the moment he saw Martha, he froze. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” He couldn’t stop complimenting her scent. I thought she must have drowned herself in perfume, but when I got close, I nearly gagged. It was the same rotting, metallic stench. Martha got her wish. They were engaged. The day before the engagement party, Martha brought home a massive wooden tub. She dumped half a bag of the red powder into it. I had to stir it with a broom handle for an hour to mix it. It looked like a tub of coagulated blood. Martha soaked in it for hours. When she emerged, she was otherworldly. Her skin seemed to glow with a faint red light. She walked on her tiptoes, like a ballerina, wrapped in a towel, heading to her room. I followed like a servant, carrying her clothes. As we passed the kitchen, the glass terrarium by the stove started shaking. Inside, a small white snake was thrashing wildly, hissing and striking the glass. Caleb had given it to her. He said exotic pets were trendy in the city. I shrunk back. My woodshed was full of garden snakes in the summer; I didn’t see the appeal of keeping one in a box. Martha leaned down, tapping the glass with a blood-red fingernail. “You think I’m beautiful too, don’t you?” The snake went berserk, throwing its body against the glass all night. Around midnight, Martha stormed into the woodshed. “Take that thing out of here! It’s too loud!” “But Caleb said it needs heat. The box is plugged in. There’s no outlet in the shed…” “I don’t care! The whole town is coming tomorrow. If I don’t sleep, I won’t be beautiful!” She glared at me. “But an ugly thing like you wouldn’t understand.” I dragged the heavy box into the shed. The snake thrashed whenever Martha was near, but calmed down once we were away from her. I stayed awake all night, hugging the glass box to keep the snake warm with my body heat. I was woken up by noise. Mom was back from her job in the city. She was strutting around like a peacock, clinging to Martha’s arm, bragging to the neighbors about her gorgeous daughter marrying into the Thorne family. I watched through the cracks in the shed wall, feeling a hollow ache in my chest. When Daisy died, Mom didn’t even come home for the burial. Now she was beaming like she had never lost a child. The yard was full of food. For once, I got to sit at a table and eat my fill. After the guests left, I snuck a piece of pork knuckle and went to the backyard. Daisy had said she wanted pork chops. When I got to Daisy’s grave, I froze. There was a fresh mound of earth right next to it. 4 The wedding was set for a month later. On the night of the engagement party, Martha didn’t come home. The next morning, I heard her crying in the yard, telling Caleb he had to take responsibility and move up the wedding date. Lately, whenever I brought firewood into the house, the smell of blood was overpowering. The cold weather came early. By September, we could see our breath. Martha was afraid the snake would freeze, so she made me bring it back inside. The moment I stepped into the house, the snake went insane. It arched its back, striking the glass, its patterns swirling dizzyingly. My hands shook. I plugged it in and ran back to the shed. That night, I heard Martha and Mom arguing. “Who told you to use my mask?! I need it for forty-nine days!” “It’s just one day short!” Mom hissed. “I need to look good too. The Mayor has been a widower for years. If we snag both of them, we’re set for life!” “I know more about this than you! The first thirty days are critical!” I didn’t understand. What were they talking about? Curiosity pulled me out of bed. I crept to the main house window. The door was locked. I pressed one eye to a crack in the wood. I gasped. The white snake was dead. It had bashed its head open against the glass. The tank was smeared with blood. Inside, Martha was sobbing. “Don’t worry,” Mom said soothingly. “We still have Claire.” 5 The next morning, I brought the dew water. The door was still locked. “Sister, I have the water.” The door flew open, knocking me back. Martha’s head was wrapped completely in scarves, showing only her eyes. Her eyes… they were cloudy, like an old woman’s. The skin around them was sagging and wrinkled. “The mask is gone! What good is the water?!” “Why are you so ugly?! Useless trash!” She kicked over the bucket and started beating me. I curled up, protecting my head. After she stormed back inside, the wind carried her scent to me. It was the smell of a butcher shop. I gagged. “Hello?” A strange, accented voice came from the gate. I turned. A woman stood there. She looked foreign, but her English was perfect. “I am Serena. I practice the old ways. I sensed a strange energy in this house.” “I think you need help.” Martha ran out, desperate. She begged Serena for a reading. Serena frowned, sniffing the air. She stared at Martha with suspicion. “I will return at midnight.” She came back that night. She laid out a cloth with letters on it—a spirit board. She held a dagger over it, chanting. Her hand moved on its own, spelling out words I couldn’t read. She did this three times. Each time, blood seeped from her fingertips. She clutched her chest in pain. Finally, she looked up, pale. “Someone is looking for something lost.” “Did a dead person leave something here?” Martha and Mom shook their heads frantically. Serena narrowed her eyes. She pulled a small tin from her bag and handed it to Martha. “Use this. It might help your face.” Martha grabbed it, hiding her covered face. She hadn’t shown her skin all day. How did Serena know? 6 Martha ran inside to apply the balm. I stood there, watching Serena pack up. A minute later, Martha ran out, ecstatic. “You’re a goddess! It works! Do you have more?” Her scarves were gone. Her face was beautiful again. Her eyes were bright and youthful. Serena ignored her. She stared at the corner of the yard. “How did the snake die?” It was pitch black. How did she see the dead snake in the shadows? Mom scoffed. “My son-in-law gave it to her. Dumb thing just bashed its head in last night.” Serena looked from Mom to Martha, then to me. “Just two daughters?” “Yeah. The youngest one got eaten by a wild boar a while back,” Mom said casually. “A child spirit. Taken too soon.” “You should perform a rite for her if you can.” Martha and Mom rolled their eyes. Seeing Serena wasn’t going to give them more balm, they turned and went inside. Serena watched them go, smiling faintly. Then she turned to me. “I summoned a vengeful spirit just now.” “It won’t stop until it finds what it lost.” 7 “Tonight, no matter what happens, do not make a sound.” That was the last thing Serena said to me. Two days until the wedding. The Mayor sent over gifts. The house was festive. Even I got a new dress. But I couldn’t smile. Serena’s warning echoed in my head. Night came. Mom and Martha went to sleep early. I lay in the shed, wide awake. Creak. The shed door opened. I tried to sit up, but I couldn’t move. Sleep paralysis? A cold wind blew in. Someone sat down next to me and started to weep. Drip. A cold drop landed on my eyelid. A wave of overwhelming sadness washed over me, drowning out my fear. I forced my eyes open. It was her! The scream rose in my throat. No matter what happens, do not make a sound. I swallowed the scream. “Are you okay?” she asked. I couldn’t move my head. I could only stare at her, tears streaming down my face. Her eyes couldn’t focus. She stared blankly at me. Drip. Drip. Drip. It wasn’t tears falling from her eyes. It was blood. 8 She raised a hand that looked like a withered branch and closed my eyes. “I’m going to find my things.” Silence. I tried to move, but I was frozen. I couldn’t even hear anymore. What was she looking for? I lay there, stiff as a corpse, until dawn. “MOM!” Martha’s scream broke the spell. I could move. Nothing was missing from the house. But Mom was dead. She was staring at the ceiling, eyes bulging. Her face was purple. Her hands were rigid claws, one of them digging into her own throat. The wedding was tomorrow. The Mayor came and shook his head. “We have to cancel.” “No!” Martha screamed. “Mom’s dying wish was to see me marry Caleb!” Caleb arrived. He looked possessed. He insisted the wedding happen or he would leave the country forever. The house was chaos. The wedding prep continued around a corpse. I helped the local women clean Mom’s body. When we took off her shirt, everyone gasped. There was a purple handprint on her chest. “It’s Daisy,” one woman whispered. “She’s come back.” “They say she died getting her heart torn out.” But they didn’t notice one thing. The handprint was adult-sized.

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My husband, Julian Vance, had a secret romance when he was young. His first love died tragically, leaving behind only the dog they raised together to keep him company. We’ve been married for three years, and that dog has hated me from day one. It shreds my clothes and has sent me to the ER multiple times. When my friends tried to stand up for me, Julian’s voice was cold: “It’s just a nip. Why are you holding a grudge against a dog?” After I found out I was pregnant, I suggested boarding the dog somewhere else. Julian snapped: “Live with it or leave. Do you ever get tired of being so petty?” In the past, I would have felt ashamed and backed down. But this time, looking at the mess on the floor, I stayed silent for a long time. The bite mark on my shoulder was freshly scabbed and still throbbing. I said, “Then let’s divorce.” 1 On my third day in the hospital, Julian finally came to see me. I sat on the edge of the bed, eyes downcast, waiting for the doctor to change my dressing. Outside the door, my friends were arguing loudly on my behalf. “Julian, how many times has Snowball bitten Lydia? This time it was her shoulder—any higher and it would have been her throat!” Snowball was Julian’s Rottweiler. Fierce, loyal, and aggressive. This wasn’t the first time. I got bitten on the calf the week after our wedding. But this was the worst. Half my shoulder was a bloody mess, flesh torn open. It was gruesome. “If you ask me, a dog that dangerous should be put down or rehomed. Lydia treats it like gold, and it acts like a wolf.” “Exactly. Careful, Julian, next time it might turn on you. Some dogs just can’t be tamed.” The voices were a chorus of condemnation against the dog. When Julian pushed the door open, his face was dark. The doctor’s movements were gentle, but the pain still made me pale, a sheen of cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. Julian stood by the door, watching in silence. When the doctor left, his first words were: “It’s just a bite. Why are you holding a grudge against a dog?” He frowned, looking at me like I was being unreasonable. “Lydia, you’re twenty-five years old. Tattling to my mother? Have you no shame?” Someone had told his mother I was hospitalized. The Vance and Sterling families go back generations; Julian and I grew up together. His mother was furious and demanded he get rid of the dog. Julian thought I was the one pulling strings behind his back. I suddenly understood why he hadn’t come for three days. He was punishing me. I wanted to laugh, but the movement pulled at my wound. It hurt, a deep ache that settled in my bones. I remembered when we first got married. That was my first meeting with Snowball. I knew Julian had a dog, so I bought premium treats and toys. But Snowball growled the moment he saw me and sank his teeth into my leg. When my mom visited me in the hospital back then, I covered for him. “It’s fine, he’s just scared of strangers. Don’t blame the dog.” I was afraid my family would hurt the dog, and afraid they would think less of Julian. I was young and naive, full of hope for my marriage. I never imagined that lie would become my nightmare. When Snowball shredded my dresses, Julian told me to stop making a scene. When Snowball dragged mud all over our bed, Julian scolded me for being fussy. And now, with my shoulder chewed to pieces, Julian said the same thing. Don’t be petty. Don’t hold a grudge against a dog. I used to tell myself that Julian wasn’t a stone; he was just slow to warm up. He made me brown sugar tea when I had cramps. He drove ten hours overnight to see me on my birthday when I was away for work. But now, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. In three years of marriage, I had never been his priority. 2 After I was discharged, I took a cab straight to my parents’ house. My mom was thrilled to see me, then horrified by my shoulder. I lied again. I said it was just a scratch. During my recovery, Julian didn’t call once. I don’t know how he convinced his mother, but he kept the dog. In the middle of our cold war, he posted a photo on Instagram: [She didn’t leave much behind. Just Snowball, and me.] “She” was Clara. Julian had a secret relationship when he was a teenager. She was his first love, the love of his life. She died in an accident two years later. The comments section was full of sympathy: “Clara was an angel. If she were still here, she and Julian would be married by now.” “Julian is so loyal. I heard he tried to follow her when she died.” Someone asked: “What about Lydia? Why did he marry her?” The replies came fast: “Lydia who? If Clara were alive, Julian wouldn’t even look at her.” “Exactly. He’s just trying to move on. Clara would want him to have a normal life.” Amidst the ridicule, I saw Julian’s reply. One word. [Settling.] A few days later, Julian started being seen with a girl. Her name was Sophie, an intern at his company. She looked terrifyingly like Clara. In the photos, Sophie was kneeling, hugging Snowball’s head. The vicious dog looked as gentle as a lamb. Julian stood watching them, a tenderness in his eyes that I had never seen. It rained on our wedding day. The sky turned black in an instant. Maybe that was the omen. My marriage was damp, cold, and forever in Clara’s shadow. But it turned out I couldn’t even compete with an intern who just looked like her. I was the only one who had been naive enough to think, “Clouds pass. The sun will come out.” I finally understood that the living can never compete with the dead. Because Clara wasn’t here, it didn’t matter who he married. I was stupid to think I could heal him. Julian never wanted my healing. And now, stripping away the fake warmth, Julian delivered his verdict. Three years of marriage. Just “settling.” Just my wishful thinking. 3 Two weeks later, Julian finally cracked. He called, his voice full of accusation: “Have you made your point? When are you coming home?” Maybe he remembered my injury, because his tone softened slightly. “Don’t be mad at Snowball. That breed is just loyal. When Clara brought him home, it took ages to train him…” He stopped abruptly, realizing he’d slipped. He changed the subject clumsily. “Anyway, I’ve trained him. Pack your things. I’ll pick you up this afternoon.” The ride back was suffocatingly silent. Julian handed me a bag, his voice stiff. “I bought you spicy rice cakes. Your favorite.” I didn’t take it. The doctor said no spicy food while the wound was healing. But Julian clearly didn’t care to remember. Seeing I didn’t take it, he assumed I was still sulking. He scoffed and threw the bag into the backseat trash bin. “Eat or don’t. I don’t care.” The air in the car dropped another ten degrees. No one spoke until we got home. 4 “I bought the new season from that brand you like. It’s all in the closet.” To be fair, Julian wasn’t a terrible husband on paper. He remembered birthdays and anniversaries. He wasn’t stingy with gifts, and I had unrestricted access to his cards. Whenever we fought, he would smooth things over with expensive presents. So I always thought he was just emotionally constipated, that deep down, he cared. I hated myself for still having a shred of hope. I clutched my stomach and opened the bedroom door. But instead of designer clothes, I was greeted by chaos. The bed, the sofa—everything was covered in shreds of fabric. Our wedding photo in the center of the room had been smashed. Red fabric scraps floated in the air like bloody feathers, mixing with the shattered glass on the floor. Snowball was lying in the middle of the bed, covered in mud from the garden. He had deliberately rolled in the dirt before jumping onto the sheets. Julian froze. He frowned and called the dog over. Turning to me, he looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t know he’d do this. It’s just clothes. I’ll buy you more. Don’t yell at him.” Snowball trotted over slowly, bumping his heavy head against my leg as a provocation. He dropped something from his mouth. It was a bracelet. Julian’s face went pale. He kicked the dog instinctively. “Why do you chew everything?! Do you know whose that is?!” Snowball didn’t know, but I did. It was the bracelet Clara gave Julian. He treated it like a holy relic. Unlike our wedding rings. Several pieces of the bracelet had rolled into the glass shards. Julian was on his knees, frantically picking them up. He didn’t even look at me. I walked over and picked up our wedding ring from the debris. “Snowball is too destructive. We need to board him.” I took a deep breath. “You want me to stop being mad? Send the dog away.” I could tolerate it when it was just me. But I was pregnant. I wouldn’t risk my child. Julian looked up, his eyes icy. “Lydia, there’s a limit to my patience. You’re being petty. It’s not like you…” I pressed my hand over my stomach, cutting him off. “Either I go, or the dog goes. Pick one.” My ultimatum snapped whatever patience he had left. He stood up and kicked the chair over. “Live with it or leave! Lydia, I’ve given you enough face. You target that dog every day. Are you annoying or what?” In the past, I would have apologized. But looking at the ruins of my bedroom, I stayed silent. My shoulder throbbed. I said, “Then let’s divorce.” I pressed my hand flat against my belly. He didn’t need to know about the baby. This child wasn’t wanted. Its father didn’t love its mother, so he wouldn’t love it either. 5 The divorce was quick. Julian looked furious until he realized I was serious. Then he signed the papers with a flourish. “I didn’t know you were such a shrew, fighting with a dog.” His voice was cold, laced with disappointment. “If I had known, I never would have married you.” Three years of devotion, repaid with the word “shrew.” I packed my bags that night. Before I left, Snowball blocked the door. Julian called him, but the dog wouldn’t move. Snowball was staring at the bag in my hand. I realized it was a toy I had bought to bribe him. He hated it, so I never even opened the package. Since I was leaving, I was taking everything I paid for. I’d donate it to a shelter. I was done trying to please ungrateful beasts. Julian dragged the dog away by its collar. As I walked out, I heard Snowball whine. I didn’t look back. I heard Julian scolding him: “She’s heartless. She dumped you. Stop begging. Have some dignity.” I was the heartless woman in his narrative. 6 Outside the operating room. When the doctor asked me one last time if I was sure, my hand twitched on my stomach. It felt like the little life inside was high-fiving me through my skin. My mother had health issues; I was an only child. My grandmother only had one daughter too. This baby might be the only family I would ever have. I wavered. I told the doctor I needed to think about it. I called my best friend, Mia, to pick me up. As I walked out of the clinic, I ran straight into them. Sophie was clinging to Julian’s arm, laughing. Julian saw me. He frowned and stepped forward. “What are you doing here? Are you sick?” I slapped his hand away. “None of your business.” His eyes darkened. Before he could speak, Sophie shimmied over. “Julian, the movie is starting. Let’s go.” She pretended to notice me for the first time. “Oh, hi! Do you know Julian? I’m Sophie, his girlfriend.” She emphasized the word girlfriend. She knew exactly who I was. Mia arrived just in time to hear that. She exploded. “Girlfriend? They were married! You’re a homewrecker, and you’re bragging to the ex-wife?” Sophie’s face fell. She looked at Julian with teary eyes. “Julian…” With that face so like Clara’s, Julian melted instantly. He looked at me coldly. “We’re divorced. I didn’t know what love was until I met Sophie. She is my partner now. Show some respect.” Mia gasped, staring at me. I hadn’t told her about the divorce yet. “Julian, are you crazy? You divorced her? Do you know Lydia is…” I tried to stop her, but it was too late. “…Lydia is pregnant! You divorced a pregnant woman to be with a mistress? Are you human?” Silence. Sophie froze. Julian’s head snapped up. He stared at my stomach. He grabbed my wrist, ignoring my struggle. “Lydia, is it true?” He touched my belly, his voice trembling. “Is our child in there?”

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After losing a bet, I was forced to confess to the school’s ice-cold genius. [Text: “Need a girlfriend? I promise I’m a good girl.”] A second later, I was blocked. Just as I was about to give up in despair, I stumbled upon him choking himself, veins popping on his forehead. He was arguing with himself, switching between cold and manic: “Let go. Get a grip, man!” “Get a grip? You blocked my girlfriend! I’ll kill you!” Me: …Girlfriend? Me? Suddenly, a stream of floating comments appeared before my eyes: [OMG! It’s dual personalities! We’re saved!] [Hehe, does this mean the golden retriever personality will cook while getting jealous of himself?] [Lucky girl! Two for the price of one…] Me: ??? 1 [Text: “Need a girlfriend? I promise I’m a good girl.”] Staring at the red exclamation mark indicating a failed message, my world collapsed. The great Academic God, Caleb Thorne, minoring in mood swings? Two minutes ago, he added me! [Text: “How should I catch you? A sack or sweet talk?”] Looking at that blatant flirtation now, the irony was thick. Why did I think he’d be interested in a chubby, plain girl like me? But did he have to prank me? Tears pricked my eyes. I couldn’t help but curse him out: [Text: “I don’t like perverts who wear pink leopard-print boxers anyway!”] If it wasn’t for his weird fetish, I wouldn’t have lost the bet in the first place. I wanted to keep typing, but I realized the message had gone through. The embarrassment was physically painful. I curled my toes. Did he block me by accident? I tried to save it: [Text: “I wasn’t finished! I meant I don’t like perverts, I only like you.”] Ugh… That message bounced back with a red exclamation mark. My roommates burst out laughing. “I told you! With eyes like that, there’s no way he’s blind.” “Mia, just getting him to notice you enough to block you is a victory over 99% of the girls here.” “It was just a joke anyway. You didn’t actually think Caleb would like you, right?” I forced a bitter smile and waved my hands. “Of course not.” But my chest felt like it was stuffed with wet cotton. I couldn’t breathe. If he didn’t like me, he could have just ignored me. Why toy with me? Is being fat and ugly a sin? I hid in a tree deep in the campus woods to cry. Suddenly, I heard a violent argument. I wiped my eyes and looked down. Caleb Thorne was gritting his teeth, choking his own neck, veins bulging on his forehead. He slammed himself against the tree trunk, switching between icy cold and manic rage: “Let go! Get a grip, man!” “Get a grip? You blocked my girlfriend! I’ll kill you!” Me: …Girlfriend? I pointed a finger at myself. “Me?” Suddenly, floating comments appeared in my vision like a Twitch stream: [OMG! It’s dual personalities! We’re saved!] [Hehe, does this mean the golden retriever personality will cook while getting jealous of himself?] [Lucky girl! Two for the price of one…] Me: ??? Frozen, I watched as Caleb looked up. 2 Startled by his sharp gaze, I panicked and grabbed two branches to hide my face. The comments popped up again: [Girl, stop hiding! He already saw you. Your face is redder than a stop sign.] [Uh oh, his eyes changed again! Murderous intent!] [Doomed. The two personalities disagree. Run, girl!] I stiffened. I looked down nervously. Our eyes met. His gaze was deep, like a black hole threatening to swallow me. I panicked. I was about to yell “I’m blind!”, but then his eyes changed. They became clear, shy, and full of obvious affection. Yay! The negotiable personality! I smiled and was about to wave, but before I could speak, his expression turned cold and mocking again. Back and forth. My face mirrored his, switching between fear and smiles until my muscles ached. I was afraid his split personality was contagious! Suddenly, Caleb grabbed his own collar and growled: “I’m going on a date with my girlfriend. Don’t scare her again. Get lost!” Then, one of his hands slowly, painfully pried the other hand off: “Why should I?” “Why don’t you ask her whose girlfriend she wants to be?” Me: “…” Is there a difference? The comments went wild: [Seen guys fight for a girl, never seen a guy fight himself. Surprise! The other man is you.] [How about this: try one personality for a few days, then the other. Pick the best one. Our girl is fair.] [Just live happily as a throuple. 1v2 is the optimal solution.] Me: “?” I’ve heard of people awakening systems, but usually, the comments give helpful advice. Why are mine just instigating chaos? Before I could process it, Caleb was eager to climb the tree. “Babe, don’t be scared! I’m coming to save you! I’ll show you what boyfriend material looks like!” But the next second, he leaned lazily against the tree, arms crossed. “Go ahead. Let’s see you save her.” Then he punched himself in the face and fell to the ground. “Give me back my body! If you stop me from saving her, I’ll kill you!” “Kill me then.” He wiped the blood from his lip, forcing a sinister smile. “If I die, you disappear too. Then your ‘babe’ will be with another man. They’ll hold hands, kiss, sleep together…” Caleb’s words made me overheat. “Enough!” I shouted in embarrassment. In my agitation, I didn’t notice I had scooted onto a thin branch. Snap. The branch broke. “Ahhh!” I fell. 3 The pain I expected never came. I tentatively touched what was underneath me. Hm, soft. Touch again. Whoa, hard. The comments doubled their scrolling speed: [This belongs on AO3, not here.] [Look at his dazed eyes. He says no, but his body says yes.] [So who saved her? And who did she just grope?] [Judging by the way he dove to cushion her fall, it must be…] “Done touching?” Caleb’s voice came from below. Three parts cold, seven parts strained. I shivered. That was the Caleb who didn’t like me. Ignoring the comments, I scrambled up and bowed repeatedly. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I’m heavy. Even though the tree wasn’t high, I must have hurt him. His hand stayed on his chest, brows furrowed. “Thank you for saving me. But don’t do that again. It’s dangerous.” “I have lots of padding, it doesn’t hurt when I fall—ahhh!” Caleb reached out and pinched my cheek. “Hurt?” I rubbed my cheek and nodded. “Yes.” He wanted to say more, but his hand suddenly clamped around his own throat. “You touched her! I didn’t even dare, how dare you?” He let out a muffled groan. Gritted his teeth. As if fighting a powerful force, he slowly moved his hand toward my face. “I—will—touch!” “You—want—to—die!” Caleb’s bright eyes turned dark. One hand choked himself, the other stubbornly reached for my face. Seeing him get closer, I panicked and dodged to the side. But I tripped on a rock. Before I fell, I grabbed at anything I could find. I didn’t have time to choose. I pulled Caleb’s pants down. White legs flashed before my eyes. The atmosphere froze instantly. Even the comments went silent for a moment before exploding: [His underwear is so flashy! Tsk tsk, surprised he found his size.] [Look at the puppy’s blank face. Both of them are stunned. Didn’t know our girl was so bold.] [Go, girl! Besides being handsome, he has a lot of hidden treasures waiting to be discovered.] My face was burning red. I scrambled up to apologize. I looked up into that expanse of pink leopard print and lost my voice. I lowered my head and ran for my life. 4 I couldn’t sleep. The comments were still scrolling. From the fragments of information, I pieced together that this world is a romance novel. Caleb is the male lead. The female lead… Yes, it’s me! My heart pounded. [Look at her smile! She’s definitely thinking about the puppy.] [Crush turned reality. If I were her, I’d wake up laughing.] [Her face is red. Is she thinking about the… hehehe…] I covered my hot cheeks, breathing fast. I couldn’t get the image of Caleb in those pink leopard boxers out of my head. He was… kind of cute. I hid under the blanket. But I swore I’d seen that pattern somewhere before. Outside, rain started to fall. My memory rewound to the day I first met Caleb. It was raining, and I was the only one in our dorm with an umbrella. But as soon as I opened it, my roommates snatched it. They squeezed under it, laughing like it was their right. “Mia, this umbrella is perfect for the three of us. You can let us have it.” “You’re so sturdy, a little rain won’t hurt.” “Think of it as a weight loss sauna. You’ll thank us.” They walked away without waiting for an answer. The rain got heavier. I jogged after them to get my umbrella back. I stepped in a puddle and twisted my ankle, falling into the mud. Mud splashed everywhere. People walked around me with looks of disgust. My roommates were long gone. I tried to stand up, but the pain was blinding. I fell back down. Pain and humiliation overwhelmed me. I started to cry. Just as I couldn’t tell rain from tears anymore, the rain stopped over my head. A pair of white shoes appeared. Then, Caleb’s face—so handsome it made my heart skip—leaned in close. “Biomechanical studies prove that when body mass distribution exceeds the golden ratio of 0.618, the torque on the ankle joint becomes pathological. With a BMI over 28, you not only increase joint stress but also cardiovascular risk by 47%.” Caleb’s cold voice cut through the rain. That was the last thing he said to me that day. Thinking of that, my excitement vanished. I deflated like a balloon. I missed the sunnier personality. If only he were the real Caleb. Too bad. I poked my belly fat. Male lead and female lead? So what? Fat blocks the protagonist’s halo. After much thought. I decided— Diet! 5 The next morning, I swapped meat buns for veggie ones. And five for two. My roommate looked surprised, then sneered. “Mia, Caleb really hurt you, huh? Dieting now?” “You don’t think losing weight will make him like you, do you?” “Didn’t you hear? He rejected the school beauty. You think you have a shot?” Her mockery stabbed me like a knife. This wasn’t my first diet. But every time, their teasing made me lose confidence, and I gave up. Just like liking Caleb. I never dared to let anyone know. I only watched from afar. Using the bet was the only way I could muster the courage. They wanted to see me fail. But I just wanted to be closer to him, even as a joke. But once you get a taste, you get greedy, right? I clenched my fist to retort. Ding. My phone buzzed. Caleb: [AHHHH sorry babe I just saw this!] Caleb: [Babe, that message was for me, right? Only for me, right? Just for me, right?] My heart raced. My face heated up. I forgot I sent Caleb a “Goodnight” sticker before bed. I didn’t expect a reply. I just wanted to see if I was still blocked. Silence all night made me think he wouldn’t respond. But he… The comments popped up out of nowhere: [Don’t be mad, girl. He didn’t reply last night, but he stared at your chat for hours.] [The other personality usually hides. If the main hadn’t deleted you, he wouldn’t have exploded.] [Comfort the puppy! He’s crazy enough to kill himself!] I woke up and started typing. Ding ding ding. Messages interrupted me. Caleb: [Remember when I pinched your cheek and asked if it hurt? I wanted to tell you to always be honest with yourself.] Caleb: [Now, tell me honestly. You were thinking of me when you sent that, right?] Me: “…?” Changed personalities? Caleb: [Screenshot (“Need a girlfriend? I promise I’m a good girl.”)] Caleb: [Not anymore, good girlfriend.] My eyes widened in shock. Before I could react, more messages came. Caleb: [Babe, don’t believe him. He’s not me. He’s just using you to provoke me.] Caleb: [We already agreed you’re my girlfriend. You’re mine! Mine! Don’t talk to him!] Face: completely red. I felt like I was in a furnace. Sweating. Profusely. 6 Thinking about how to reply to Caleb made me distracted all morning. I didn’t even hear the bell. Until someone nudged my elbow. I pretended to listen to the lecture. “Calling your name,” a classmate whispered. I stood up abruptly. “Okay, Mia Smith. Courageous. You’ll play the Princess.” Me: “?” What? Princess? Laughter erupted. Everyone was looking at me. Their eyes full of mockery made me feel like a joke. I realized I’d been played. [The guy playing the Prince is a creep who likes to grope girls. Don’t do it!] [Yeah, don’t go. Or the male lead will get expelled for beating him up to protect you.] My heart sank. I raised my hand to explain the misunderstanding. But my roommates rushed over and covered my mouth, holding me down. I watched the drama club president leave after giving instructions. I was furious. When they let go, I pushed them hard. “Am I not good to you?” “Why treat me like this?” They stole my face wash, my lotion. They always picked expensive places for dinner, and I always paid. They said they’d Venmo me later, but never did. My parents said meeting people is fate, don’t be petty. So I paid because I could afford it. But they were getting worse. And this time it involved Caleb. I wouldn’t take it anymore. “Are you crazy, Mia?” They stumbled back, and seeing the crowd gather, they fell on purpose. Looking pathetic and innocent. “Mia, we just saw you were sad about Caleb rejecting you. We wanted you to play the Princess to cheer up.” “Yeah, maybe you’ll meet other guys. Maybe you’ll find love.” The crowd gasped, whispering among themselves, faces full of disgust. “Did I hear right? A pig wants to date a god? Enough.” “I declare this the worst smear campaign against Caleb ever.” I wanted to stomp my feet. The frustration swelled in my chest until it hurt. My fists turned white. “Who said I got rejected?” “And which eye saw me sad?” “Stop lying, Mia. Your bed shook all night. If you weren’t crying, were you doing something unspeakable?” Laughter erupted again. Some guys looked at me with dirty eyes. My eyes burned. Tears blurred my vision. “I was laughing! Laughing, you idiots!” “Caleb accepted my confession!”

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Before we married, my husband, Caleb Thorne, had a girl who chased him relentlessly for five years. He rejected her because he fell in love with me at first sight. Three years later, that girl returned to the States as an internationally acclaimed photographer. She was radiant, successful, and breathtakingly beautiful. And me? I was a stay-at-home mom, weighing over 180 pounds, with zero achievements to my name. At a party, someone joked with Caleb: “You know, Serena Vance is still saving herself for you…” Caleb immediately snapped, “Don’t talk nonsense!” But that night… I found him on the balcony, chain-smoking until dawn. 1 I was changing my daughter’s diaper when Caleb dropped the news that Serena was back. My hand froze. “Is she going to be at the party tonight?” Caleb buttoned his cufflink, avoiding my gaze. “Yeah. It’s a welcome-back dinner for her, hosted by Ryan, her childhood friend.” “Are you coming?” he asked, purely out of habit. Since giving birth, I rarely went out with him. My world had shrunk to the four walls of our nursery. He expected me to say no. But for some reason, the words that came out of my mouth were: “Yes. I’ll go.” Caleb paused, surprised. But he was a man who prided himself on decorum. He masked his shock quickly. “Okay. I’ll wait for you downstairs.” When we walked into the private dining room at the upscale bistro, the chatter died instantly. At the center of the room sat a woman with long, flowing hair and an aura of effortless elegance. She tilted her head, her gaze locking onto us. “Caleb. Long time no see.” Her voice was bright and melodic. Caleb glanced at her, smiled politely, and placed a protective hand on my shoulder. “Serena. Don’t you recognize your sister-in-law?” Serena blinked. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t recognize her at first. Hi, Lily.” I nodded with a faint smile. “Hello.” Before I could finish, Serena looked away, her eyes slightly red. “Can you blame her?” Ryan, the wealthy heir and Serena’s fiercely loyal friend, drawled from the corner. His eyes swept over me with thinly veiled disdain. “Lily has… changed a lot.” My face burned. I tugged at the hem of my shirt. Post-pregnancy, I had ballooned from a size 2 to a size 14. My once-slender frame was now heavy, my face round and puffy. It was the reason I hid from the world. “Watch your mouth, Ryan!” Caleb grabbed a lighter from the table and tossed it at his friend. Ryan caught it, smirked at me, and downed his drink. “Fine, fine. My bad. I’ll drink to apologize.” The conversation quickly shifted back to Serena. Everyone wanted to know about her life abroad. She was now a famous photographer. Her recent portfolio on African wildlife had just won a prestigious international award. “Remember when Serena used to chase Caleb around with a camera?” someone laughed. “Now she’s a big-shot artist and an influencer! She just launched her Instagram and already has 100k followers!” “Serena, you look incredible. I almost didn’t recognize you. I thought a supermodel had walked in!” Serena soaked up the praise with a graceful smile. She held a slim cigarette between her fingers, her leather jacket draped over her shoulders, revealing a figure that was sharp, sexy, and free. I looked down at myself. Flat shoes. Wide-leg pants. An oversized blazer I had frantically dug out of the back of my closet because nothing else fit. In front of this group of polished, successful young elites, I looked like a joke. 2 My mind drifted back three years. I remembered Serena crying in front of me: “Lily, just let me have him! I loved him first! You have so many guys chasing you, why do you have to take Caleb?” I was soft-hearted by nature. High empathy, low conflict. I hated fighting, especially over a man. I had actually considered breaking up with Caleb. We hadn’t been dating long. But Caleb, usually so calm, had turned red with rage. He dragged Serena in front of me and shouted: “I don’t love you! I will never love you! I only love Lily! Stop interfering in my life!” Serena had crashed her car that night, distraught. She spent two weeks in the hospital. Ryan had called Caleb, screaming at him, but Caleb never visited her once. Back then, everyone saw me as the winner. The queen of this love triangle. And now? I felt like I was sitting on pins and needles. I wanted to leave, but when I looked at Caleb, his eyes were fixed on Serena. She had taken off her jacket, revealing a toned waist and sculpted arms. She was telling a story about her travels. “On the savannah, I watched a lion take down a gazelle. In that moment, I felt the raw power of life and death.” Amidst the gasps of admiration, Caleb spoke suddenly. “Sounds like you didn’t waste your time out there.” Serena turned to him, her smile radiant. “I didn’t.” Caleb fell silent, looking down at his drink. I felt suffocated. I excused myself to the restroom. On my way back, I passed the terrace. Caleb was there, smoking with a few of the guys. “Serena is out of our league now,” one guy said. “Caleb, be honest. You were so cold to her back then. Do you regret it? Even a little?” Caleb’s voice was flat. “Being cold was the kindest thing I could do. Look at her now. She’s successful. I didn’t hold her back. So stop talking nonsense.” “True. It’s all in the past. Besides, Lily keeps you on a tight leash now. She never goes out, but she came tonight? Ha! She’s probably terrified you’ll cheat.” The guys laughed and went back inside, leaving Caleb and Ryan alone. Ryan chuckled darkly. “You know… Serena is still a virgin. She saved herself for you.” Silence. “Shut up!” Caleb snapped. 3 When we got home, my mother-in-law was holding the baby on the sofa, her face sour. Caleb muttered something about work and went straight to his study. His mother glared at his retreating back, then turned on me. “Lily, you’re a mother now. The baby only wants you. Why do you need to go out? Didn’t you think about her needing to eat? How can you come home this late?” My sister-in-law, Ava, was lounging on the chaise, playing a mobile game. “God, Lily, that outfit is way too tight. You look like a stuffed sausage,” she drawled. Ava prided herself on being “brutally honest.” My daughter saw me and immediately started wailing, kicking her legs. “Mommy! Milk! Milk!” I rushed to pick her up and ran upstairs to nurse. As the baby drifted off to sleep, the nanny walked in with a bowl of pigeon soup. Huge chunks of white fat floated on the surface. The smell made me gag. “Take it away. I can’t drink it today.” The nanny’s face was stone. “Your mother-in-law ordered it. If you don’t drink it, I have to tell her.” I went silent. My mother-in-law insisted I breastfeed until the baby was two. To “boost supply,” she forced me to drink fatty, unseasoned soups every day. I had tried to refuse before, but she would launch into passive-aggressive tirades that gave me migraines. The headache was worse than the soup. I held my nose and chugged the greasy liquid, swallowing the chunks of meat like pills. The nanny took the empty bowl and left. That night, I woke up with stomach cramps. I reached for Caleb, but his side of the bed was empty. I looked out the window. Caleb was on the balcony, smoking. He was staring into the night sky, lost in thought. 4 Life returned to its monotonous rhythm. I spent most of my time on the second floor with the baby, avoiding my mother-in-law’s nagging and Ava’s snide comments. Caring for a child consumed every second of my day. It was repetitive and exhausting, but it was safe. It stopped me from thinking. It stopped me from changing. My only joy was watching my daughter grow. She would be two in a couple of months. One night, Caleb mentioned casually: “The gallery is hosting Serena’s photography exhibition. I might be busy for a while.” It took me a moment to process. My brain had become slow. If they were hosting the exhibition, that meant they had already met multiple times to plan it. As the gallery director, Caleb must have seen Serena at least ten times. I stayed silent for a long time. But the pressure in my chest finally burst. “Why her? You know how she feels about you. She’s been sending gifts to the house for years. Shouldn’t you avoid her?” “Enough!” Caleb barked. “Stop being ridiculous! Serena won an international award. Every gallery in the city wants her! It’s just business, Lily. Since when did you become a jealous, irrational housewife?” He looked at me with deep disappointment and coldness. I froze. I caught my reflection in the mirror. Bloated. Tired. There was a yellow stain on my pajama pants—baby poop I hadn’t had time to clean. Shame washed over me. I wanted to disappear under the covers. But I stood my ground. I didn’t argue about Serena. I asked a different question. “You promised we would move out when the baby turned two. Is that still happening?” Caleb’s brow furrowed. Impatience flashed across his face. “I don’t understand you. Why can’t you just be happy? My mom, my sister, the nanny—they all help you with the kid. What is so bad about living here?” I shook my head slowly. “The nanny only cooks. Your mom holds the baby for ten minutes when you come home. Your sister hates it when she cries.” Caleb’s voice dropped dangerously low. “Lily, are you badmouthing my family? You don’t have to work. You just feed the baby and play with her. Isn’t that every mother’s dream?” I looked at the floor. “It’s a dream,” I whispered. “But I’m not happy.” Caleb ignored me and went into the closet to change. Before we slept, he spoke into the darkness. “You know the deal with Serena. If something was going to happen between us, it would have happened years ago. You wouldn’t even be in the picture.” “And stop complaining about my family. They don’t owe you anything.” 5 After that fight, Caleb bought me diamond earrings and wired $30,000 to my parents. That was his way. Hurt me with words, heal me with money. “Lily, I know my mom can be intense. But I’m the one living with you. Just tolerate it for me, okay?” He kissed me tenderly. My mom called, overjoyed about the money. “You’re so lucky, Lily! You married a good man. Keep him happy. You were always the obedient one, not like your useless brother.” At the playground, the other moms envied me. “Husband with a great job, rich in-laws, a nanny… you’re living the dream.” I started eating uncontrollably. Sweet, salty, soft, hard—I stuffed everything into my mouth. Not because I was hungry, but because I needed to feel full. While I breastfed in my oversized pajamas, Ava sneered at me while on the phone with her boyfriend. “I’ll never be a useless trophy wife. I’m going to be an independent woman!” I didn’t want to be home. I took the baby to the mall every day just to escape. One afternoon, I saw Caleb and Serena. They were doing a promotional interview for the exhibition in the mall atrium. I stood at the back of the crowd with the stroller. On stage, they sat close, knees almost touching. Caleb looked dapper in a suit. Serena wore a black off-shoulder dress, looking like a movie star. “What is your most unforgettable memory? No lying!” the interviewer asked. Serena smiled. “When I was in a war zone, risking my life for a shot, I got a text from someone. He told me to stay safe. That text made me move locations, and I missed an airstrike by minutes.” The crowd applauded. It was Caleb’s turn. He paused, then said: “The day before my wedding.” The reporter laughed. “Cold feet? You must have a happy marriage!” Serena turned and stared at Caleb, her eyes shimmering with emotion. My eyes fell on her neck. She was wearing a dazzling diamond necklace. The center stone matched my new earrings perfectly. I couldn’t breathe. I turned the stroller around and walked away fast. Ryan stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “Leaving without saying hi?” I forced a smile. “Baby needs a nap. Excuse me, Ryan.” He didn’t move. He scoffed. “Uncomfortable seeing them together? They look good, don’t they? If you go up there now—” He stopped. His face changed. “Why are you crying?” “I… just dust in my eye.” I wiped my face and hurried away. I felt a gaze burning into my back as I left. 6 That night, Caleb came home tipsy. When he tried to kiss me, I turned away and noticed a small cut on his upper lip. “What happened to your lip?” “Oh, bit it while eating.” “You bit your upper lip while eating?” I leaned back against the headboard, watching him. His face darkened. “Lily, stop overanalyzing everything. I’m exhausted. I met a lot of people today. I don’t have the energy to baby you.” “…” “Go sleep in the guest room,” I said quietly. He frowned. “What?” For two years, his mother had tried to separate us at night so the baby wouldn’t disturb his sleep. I had always refused. It was the one boundary I kept. Now, I looked at the duvet cover and said calmly: “The baby is teething and fussy. You need your rest. Sleep in the guest room.” “Fine.” He laughed coldly. “Honestly, with the way you look now, it’s a struggle for me anyway. Thanks for understanding.” The door slammed. Silence. I picked up my phone. On the screen was the brand website for the diamond necklace. In the corner, a small graphic read: Gift with Purchase: Matching Diamond Earrings. I closed the tab and opened a livestream app. “Serena’s World” was live. Serena was on camera, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with drink. Comments: [You look happy! New romance?] Serena giggled. “Not yet. But I got what I wanted today.” [Spill the tea!] “Okay, okay! You know I’m wild. The craziest thing I ever did was offer myself to the man I loved… the night before his wedding.” [OMG!] [Did you do it?] Serena stroked her hair. “He rejected me then. He chose someone else. But today… he showed me he regrets it. He regrets it so much.” She ran a finger over her red lips. [It’s not too late! Go get him!] [But he’s married…] Serena rolled her eyes. “The woman he’s with? I used to think she was okay. Now? She’s beneath me. And don’t worry, I won’t be the ‘other woman’.” [So you’re giving up?] “Never. I don’t give up.” She narrowed her eyes, smiling like a cat. “Stealing is boring. I want him to beg. I want him to crawl to me. That’s a real woman’s power.” … I stared into the mirror at the bloated, tired woman reflected there. Outside, thunder rumbled. The first autumn rain was coming. The nanny barged in without knocking. “Lily, drink your soup.” I didn’t move. “Come on! I want to watch my show!” she snapped. I turned slowly. “I’m not drinking it.” Her eyebrows shot up. “Then I’m telling your mother-in-law!” I smiled. My voice was soft as velvet. “Go ahead, you old hag. Go tell her.” Her jaw dropped. “Oh, and next time you enter without knocking, I’ll report you to the police for stealing the old lady’s gold earrings. Your son is applying for a government job, right? A criminal record in the family would be… unfortunate.” Her eyes bulged. She stared at me for a few seconds, then scrambled out of the room. She closed the door very gently behind her.

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I was caught by the paparazzi knocking on the hotel door of Hollywood’s biggest heartthrob, Caleb Vance, in the middle of the night. He slammed the door in my face. The next morning, the internet exploded. The current “It Girl” of pop culture, Serena Hart, posted a vague tweet implying she was dating Caleb and urged men to “protect themselves from desperate women.” Her fans went wild, spamming my comments with hate, calling me a “clout chaser” and a “pick-me girl.” Later that day, Serena hinted on a live show that she was the “Entertainment Industry Princess”—the secret daughter of the CEO of Global Media, the biggest entertainment conglomerate in the country. The only problem? My brother is Caleb Vance, the heir to Global Media. If she’s the “Princess” and I’m the secret daughter… and she’s dating my brother… Does that mean she’s dating her own brother? Or did my dad have a secret family I don’t know about? Honestly, the logic is hard to follow. 1 I knocked on the door at night. The scandal broke in the morning. I was shaken awake by my agent, Peach. “What the hell were you thinking? Knocking on Caleb Vance’s door at 2 AM?!” Peach was pacing, her phone buzzing non-stop. “Serena Hart just jumped into the mix. Between Caleb’s fans and Serena’s rabid stans, we are dead.” I closed my eyes, waiting for the lecture to continue. Silence. I rolled over. Peach was already sending out her resume on LinkedIn. I poked her arm. “Hey, I’m still here.” Peach stared at me with dead eyes. “Physically, yes. Career-wise, you’re already in the grave.” I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. #SofiaStoneCaughtCreeping #CalebVanceRejectsSofia #SerenaHartDefendsHerMan #ProtectCaleb I clicked on a video. The footage was grainy but clear enough. Me, looking suspicious in a hoodie, knocking on Caleb’s hotel door. He opened it, we talked, and then he shoved me out. The angle made it look like I tried to grab his hand and he recoiled in disgust. Then he slammed the door, nearly breaking my nose. I stood there arguing with the door for a minute before storming off to my room… which was right next door. The comments were brutal. “LMAO look at her try to force her way in. Desperate much?” “Protect Caleb at all costs! Get that creep away from him!” “I heard she’s knocked on every producer’s door in Hollywood. Gross.” “She definitely slept her way to her last role. Disgusting.” Then I checked #SerenaHartDefendsHerMan. Serena is my nemesis. We debuted at the same time, and we always end up auditioning for the same roles. I always win because, frankly, she can’t act. But she’s a master of spin. Every time she loses, she posts sad selfies implying I stole the role or used “connections.” Now, she posted a photo of a durian and a washboard. @SerenaHart: “Asking for a friend: which one hurts more to kneel on? PS: Men need to stay safe out there. Some girls see every man as a ladder. Unlike me… I only want to cuddle with the girls. Gross men, stay away! 💅” Her fans ate it up. “OMG is she making Caleb kneel for letting Sofia in? Couple goals!” “Confirming the relationship without confirming it! I love them!” Serena liked a comment that said: “Caleb belongs to Serena! Sofia is just a homewrecker.” Then she replied: “Oops! Fat fingers! Didn’t mean to like that! 🤭” The hate train picked up speed. “Sofia Stone is a serial mistress.” “Ban her from the industry.” “I bet her whole family is trash. Probably raised by criminals.” The person commenting that had a profile picture of… my brother. Caleb. I wondered how she’d feel knowing she just called her idol a “criminal raised by trash.” 2 I logged into my Twitter and posted a clarification. @SofiaStone: “Everyone relax. Caleb Vance is my brother.” Result? Zero people believed me. Someone DM’d Serena asking about it. She posted a screenshot of her reply: “Brother? I’ve never heard Caleb mention a sister. But I have heard Sofia calls a lot of industry guys ‘Daddy’ and ‘Brother.’ Maybe it’s just her… thing? No judgment though! 🤷‍♀️” Great. Now I’m not just a stalker, I’m a sugar baby with a kink. The comments under my post were foul. “If Caleb is your brother, I’m your father.” “Have some shame.” “Call me Grandpa then.” I was equal parts furious and amused. 3 Just then, my agent got a call. A reality show Serena and I were both booked for, “Celebrity Lives: Unfiltered”, was moving up its schedule. And instead of pre-taped, it was going live. They wanted to capitalize on the drama. To hype it up, the producers teased a special guest: “The Secret Princess of the Entertainment Industry.” No one knew who it was. I suspected my dad was behind this. Global Media—my family’s company—runs half of Hollywood. My dad gave Caleb and me a challenge: spend three years in the industry incognito. Whoever is more successful stays in showbiz. The loser has to come home and inherit the multi-billion dollar family business. I knocked on Caleb’s door last night to beg him to take the CEO job because I’m losing. He slammed the door in my face because he wants to act, not sit in board meetings. 4 The livestream started. We could see the live comments on a monitor. “I heard the Global Media heiress is on this show!” “Knowing her means knowing everyone who matters in Hollywood.” When the host introduced the cast, the audience realized Serena and I were the only young female guests. “It can’t be Sofia. She’s a stalker.” “It has to be Serena! OMG!” A theory started spreading in the chat: “Didn’t the Vance family lose a daughter years ago? Maybe Serena is the long-lost heiress!” “It makes sense! Serena said she came from humble beginnings… maybe she didn’t know!” Serena saw the comments. Her eyes lit up. “Serena, just admit it!” Serena giggled at the camera. “Guys, stop guessing! Some things are better left a mystery. I want to make it on my own, not because of my family.” The chat went wild. “Confirmed! It’s her!” “No wonder she has that expensive aura.” “She and Caleb are literally the Prince and Princess of Hollywood. Perfect match!” I almost laughed out loud. I turned to Serena. “Are you really the Vance family heiress?” Serena winked. “I can’t say. My family prefers privacy. But I want to prove myself first.” She was practically screaming “YES” without saying the word. If she’s the Vance heiress… and Caleb is the Vance heir… and she claims they’re dating… Is she admitting to incest on live TV? But the fans didn’t know Caleb’s background either. One fan caught me smirking. “Look at Sofia smiling. She’s probably plotting how to suck up to Serena now.” “If I were her, I’d be kneeling for forgiveness.” 5 The show began. The first challenge: “The Friendship Test.” Host: “Call a friend and borrow money for today’s activity budget. You have one shot.” “Serena is totally calling Caleb!” “I can’t wait to see who answers Sofia’s call. Probably some old sugar daddy.” Serena dialed. It rang for a minute before connecting. “Hello?” A deep, magnetic voice answered. Caleb. Serena blushed. “It’s me.” “…Who? I don’t have your number saved. I’m on set, make it quick.” The chat paused. “Wait, he doesn’t have her number?” “It’s just a couple’s game! Playing hard to get!” Serena panicked but recovered. “It’s Serena. Can I borrow some money?” The fans went crazy again. “He’s gonna send her a million dollars, watch.” “Caleb spoils his girl!” Serena smiled sweetly. “Not a lot. Just a little bit.” Caleb: “Fine.” He hung up. Ping. A notification sound from Serena’s phone. [Venmo: You received $200.00 from Caleb Vance] Serena’s smile froze. The chat went dead silent. Then the mockery shifted to me. “At least she got money! Let’s see who Sofia calls.” “Bet she calls a married man.” Serena regained her composure. “Who are you calling, Sofia? That older gentleman I saw you with last week? Just clarifying—he looked old enough to be your dad, so I’m sure it’s just a… mentorship.” The chat exploded with slut-shaming comments. I stared at her. “Where did you see this? What time? What did he look like? Any distinguishing features?” Serena stammered. “Uh… tall… maybe I saw wrong.” “You were pretty sure a second ago,” I pressed. The fans defended her. “Stop bullying her! She said she might be wrong!” Host: “Sofia, who are you calling?” 6 “Caleb Vance,” I said. Serena covered her mouth, feigning concern. “If he doesn’t pick up, don’t be sad. He’s probably still mad about last night…” The phone rang once. “What do you want?” Caleb’s voice was completely different—relaxed, annoyed, familiar. “Send me money.” “Are you sick? You have more money than I do.” I rolled my eyes. “Just send it!” “Wait…” Click. The chat was confused. “Why does he sound so different with Sofia?” “They sound… close?” Serena’s face was stiff. “Maybe he’s just being polite. Or maybe he’s messing with you.” She tried to be magnanimous. “If he doesn’t send it, I can split my $200 with you.” Ping. My phone announced loudly: [Bank Transfer Received: Ten Million Dollars.] The studio went silent. I patted Serena’s shoulder. “Thanks, but keep your $200. Caleb sent me 10 mill. I think I’m good.” Then, my phone rang. It was Caleb. “Is 10 million enough? I can send more if you need it.” I put it on speaker. “It’s fine.” “Okay, going back to filming. Call if you need cash.”

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My dad was just a regular Uber driver until he picked up Caleb Vance, the biggest pop star in the world. Because of a traffic jam in downtown LA, my dad took a detour to save time. Caleb accused him of trying to rip him off and beat him senseless on the side of the road. My dad didn’t fight back. He didn’t say a word. But that wasn’t enough for Caleb. Later that night, Caleb sent hitmen to our house. They burned it to the ground with us inside. I died in that fire, screaming. But when I opened my eyes, I was back. I had been reborn. Staring at the face of the superstar on every billboard, I made a vow: I will make him pay. 1 I jolted awake to the sound of chatter. I looked around. My living room. My mom, dad, and little sister were all there, alive and well. I started shaking uncontrollably. I pinched my arm hard. The sharp pain brought tears to my eyes, but it confirmed the impossible. I was back. In my past life, my dad picked up Caleb Vance. A detour led to an accusation, a beating, and then a massacre. Caleb hired men to kill us and torch our home to cover his tracks. I remembered the three stab wounds in my stomach. I remembered the heat of the flames licking my skin as I died. The TV was playing a commercial. Caleb Vance’s perfect face filled the screen. My eyes went red. He was the “King of Pop,” the idol of millions. And he was the monster who murdered my family. My dad was a good man. He had a 5-star rating on the app. He never hurt anyone. And he died for it. Four lives. I would make Caleb pay in blood. “Sarah? Are you okay?” My sister, Mia, walked over, looking concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” It seemed I was the only one who remembered. I had to protect them. I shook my head. “I’m fine. Hey, aren’t you going to visit that film set tomorrow? Is Caleb Vance going to be there?” Mia’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, you’re finally interested? But let me tell you, sis… Caleb is trash. Don’t waste your time on him.” 2 “He’s famous, but everyone knows he’s a nightmare on set,” Mia whispered, leaning in. “He treats the crew like slaves. Honestly, stick to stanning Leo. He’s an angel.” Mia was a hardcore fangirl. If she said Caleb was trash, the rumors were worse than I thought. I pretended to listen as she gushed about Leo, but my mind was racing. I needed to get close to Caleb. I needed evidence. The next morning, I woke up at 3 AM. Mia dragged me out of bed. “Fangirling requires dedication, Sarah!” We arrived at the hotel where the stars were getting their makeup done. A crowd was already there, parting like the Red Sea for the VIPs. I spent the morning infiltrating Caleb’s fan groups. I played the part of the eager new fan perfectly. By noon, I was in three group chats and had the scoop on his schedule. But Caleb never showed up. He had a 5 AM call time. It was now 10 AM. The fans were getting restless. “He’s skipping again?” one girl muttered. “Classic Caleb.” I realized this was my chance. 3 The fan network was terrifyingly efficient. Within minutes, they found him. “He’s at The Velvet Rope,” someone texted. “He’s clubbing.” The horde of fans started moving. I told Mia I was going home, then hailed a cab to the club. I wasn’t going as a fan. I was going as a spy. I slipped into the club, paid a waitress $200 to borrow her uniform, and grabbed a tray of drinks. I found Room 2230 in the VIP section. My heart hammered against my ribs. Inside, Caleb Vance was lounging on a sofa, surrounded by scantily clad women. But what caught my eye was the man on the floor. He was curled into a ball, his face a bloody pulp. Caleb’s designer boot was pressed onto the man’s neck. “You think you tell me when to work?” Caleb sneered, pouring a bottle of champagne over the man’s head. “You’re nothing. You’re a dog.” He ground his heel into the man’s cheek. The man whimpered but didn’t dare scream. It was his assistant. 4 I gripped the tray, my knuckles white. I had my phone in my apron pocket, camera lens peeking out, recording everything. Maybe I stared too long. Caleb looked up. His eyes locked onto me. He stood up and walked over, swaying slightly. He smelled of expensive cologne and stale alcohol. He grabbed my chin, his eyes raking over my body with disgusting entitlement. “Nice rack,” he slurred. “You’re staying with me tonight.” I didn’t think. I slapped him. The sound echoed in the silent room. Caleb froze. The room went dead still. I turned to run, but he grabbed my hair and yanked me back. “You bitch!” he screamed. “You think you can touch me? I’m going to kill you!” He threw me onto the sofa. His hands were everywhere, tearing at my uniform. The other men in the room laughed and cheered. “Get her, Caleb!” I grabbed a glass bottle from the table and smashed it against the wall. I held the jagged neck out. “Touch me and I’ll cut your throat!” Caleb laughed. “Feisty. I like it.” Just as he lunged, the door burst open. A tidal wave of screaming girls flooded the room. “Caleb!” “Oh my god!” Hundreds of phone cameras flashed. I had dropped the location in the fan group chat the moment I found him. 5 Caleb scrambled back, trying to cover his face. “Get out!” he roared. “Get the hell out! You crazy bitches!” The fans were horrified. They saw their idol, drunk, assaulting a waitress, with a beaten man on the floor. “He’s a monster!” one girl screamed, dropping her sign. Chaos erupted. In the confusion, I slipped out the back door. I had the video. I had the witness. I went home, shaking. It was 1 AM. Mia was waiting in the living room. “Where were you?” I showed her the video. She gasped, covering her mouth. “That’s… that’s Caleb? He tried to…?” “He’s sick, Mia. We have to stop him.” Mia wanted to call the police. I shook my head. “Attempted assault? He’ll be out in two hours with his lawyers. We need to bury him.” 6 We sold the footage to TMZ and sent anonymous tips to every major gossip site. By morning, Caleb Vance was trending #1 worldwide. #CalebVanceAssault #CalebVanceExposed The video of him beating his assistant went viral. The photos of him attacking me were everywhere. His reputation was in freefall. But I knew it wasn’t enough. I tracked down his assistant, Sam, in the hospital. He was wrapped in bandages, terrified. “I can’t talk,” he whispered. “He has my grandma. He said he’d kill her.” “We can help,” I promised. “But you have to trust the police.” We called the cops. Kidnapping was a federal crime. They rescued his grandmother within hours. Sam broke down and gave a full statement. Things were looking good. Until my phone rang. “Sarah?” Mia’s voice was trembling. “Dad… Dad’s in the hospital. Someone beat him up.” 7 My blood ran cold. It was happening again. I rushed to the ER. My dad was unconscious, beaten badly. “Where’s the car?” I asked Mia. “The dashcam.” “It’s still on the highway,” she said. I left them at the hospital and took a cab to the scene. I found the taxi on the side of the road. Three men were prying the doors open. “Hey!” I shouted. They turned. They held tire irons and crowbars. “Well look at that,” one of them sneered. “The daughter. We were paid to finish the job.” They walked toward me. I ran. I ran onto the highway, waving my arms. “Help! Help!” A black SUV swerved to avoid me. The three men were closing in. One threw a wrench; it hit my shoulder, numbing my arm. I fell. They stood over me, raising their weapons. SCREECH. The black SUV reversed at high speed, slamming into the guardrail between me and the killers. Four huge men jumped out. The killers took one look at them and ran.

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I woke up, and I had swapped bodies with my dog. Tomorrow was the day I was supposed to take her to be euthanized. But now… My dog—no, my owner—is staring at me through the glass door, her face twisted in a snarl that looks horrifyingly human. She pushes the door open, step by step, walking toward me with madness in her eyes. I see it clearly now. The butcher knife she’s hiding behind her back. She’s going to kill me. 1 Abby is a four-year-old Beagle. When I found her, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. A purebred dog, just wandering the streets? Finders keepers. I hid her in my jacket and ran home, thinking I was lucky. I didn’t know it was the start of a nightmare. The moment we got home, Abby revealed her true form: a demon from the seventh circle of hell. She destroyed my furniture. She screamed like a banshee at 3 AM. She used my Persian rug as a toilet. She was essentially a long-eared donkey with a destruction fetish. I questioned my life choices daily. Why did I have to be so greedy? Cheap things come at a high price. Despite the ruined couch and the noise complaints from the HOA, I stuck to my principles. I adopted her, so I was responsible for her. I cleaned up her messes, paid for the damages, and told myself that with enough love and patience, she would change. Until she bit the first person. Then the second. Then the third. I had to swallow my pride and go door-to-door, apologizing, bowing, begging for forgiveness. I was terrified someone would lose their temper and beat her to death. But what made me angrier was Abby’s attitude. She pranced around like she owned the place, looking at me with eyes that said, “What are you gonna do about it, loser?” My heart grew cold. I knew I couldn’t fix her. I contacted a famous dog trainer in the state, a guy known for handling “red zone” cases. I sent Abby to his boot camp. It was her last chance. If she didn’t change, the neighbors would force me to put her down. For months, I only saw Abby through video calls. The trainer was brutal. In the videos, Abby’s fur was matted with dried blood. One of her teeth had been snapped off by the chain. She was pinned under the trainer’s boot, foaming at the mouth, struggling, screaming. She refused to submit. My baby, whom I had fed by hand, was being broken. My eyes burned. I almost said, “Stop, send her home.” The trainer saw my hesitation. He spat on the ground. “She’s a beast, ma’am. You have to show her who the master is, or she’ll never learn. Don’t worry, she won’t die.” He moved the camera closer to Abby’s face. The misery was magnified. I couldn’t look. “Abby, be good, and your mom will come get you.” Suddenly, Abby looked straight into the camera lens. I swear, she was looking right at me. That look… it was pure hatred. 2 Three months later, the trainer brought Abby back. He also gave me a “gift”—a set of heavy chains and iron rods, much larger than anything I had. I was horrified. But to my surprise, Abby had changed. If the old Abby was a demon, this Abby was an angel. I would have settled for “doesn’t bite,” but she was doing tricks! “Sit,” “Shake,” “Stay”—things I had spent months failing to teach her. It was a miracle. I was ready to nominate the trainer for sainthood. Abby was quiet. No more parkour at midnight. No more noise complaints. She didn’t resource guard anymore. She wouldn’t snap at me when I filled her bowl. Even though I still had to walk her at 3 AM to avoid the neighbors, I was moved to tears. This was it. Life was finally good. I started to relax. I took off the heavy chain. I let her roam the house freely. I thought, She’s a good dog now. I should trust her. And Abby repaid that trust by destroying my life. One morning, while I was taking out the trash, Abby slipped through the crack in the door. She ran straight into the neighbor’s little granddaughter in the hallway. When I got off the elevator, I saw a scene from a horror movie. Abby was on top of the little girl, her jaws locked onto the child’s scalp. I could see the white of the skull where the skin had been torn away. Blood was everywhere. “Help… help me…” The girl was sobbing, her voice fading. She looked at me with desperate eyes. Abby growled, her teeth dripping red. She looked at me with pure provocation. Then she yanked her head back. A piece of the girl’s scalp tore off with a sickening sound. “AHHH!” The girl screamed and passed out. I threw myself at Abby. She turned on me instantly. She bit my arm, her canines sinking deep, almost piercing through to the other side. Adrenaline flooded my system. I grabbed Abby by the throat, my fingers digging into her loose skin. I squeezed with everything I had. My nails cut into her flesh. Abby’s eyes rolled back. She was choking. 3 The neighbor heard the noise and rushed out, pulling us apart. I didn’t have time to explain. I pointed at the unconscious girl. “Call 911! Now!” In the chaos, Abby slipped away down the stairwell. I was too panicked to chase her. I rode in the ambulance with the girl. By the time I remembered Abby, it was too late. I called the police and animal control. Thankfully, the girl survived. But the guilt was eating me alive. It was my fault. I brought Abby home. I kept her. I was naive enough to think she could change. She never changed. She just learned to act. She had been waiting for this moment to hurt me. Her teeth were meant for my throat. The neighbor’s girl was just collateral damage. “Ms. Lane,” the girl’s mother said, her voice heavy with exhaustion. “We appreciate you saving her. But we cannot allow that dog to live in this building. We are pressing charges.” “I understand. I’ll cooperate.” I gave up. A beast is a beast. My mercy was a mistake. “I will pay for all the medical bills and the plastic surgery. I am so, so sorry.” The woman nodded and walked away. After getting my rabies shot, I went to the police station. They had caught Abby. She was in a cage, barking maniacally at the officers, foam and blood dripping from her mouth. She looked like a rabid monster. When she saw me, she stopped. She lowered her body, a low growl rumbling in her chest. Her tail was tucked, but her eyes were locked on me. Attack mode. The officer yanked her chain and kicked the cage. “Ms. Lane, do you want us to handle this?” I sighed, shaking my head. “I’ve caused enough trouble. I’ve already scheduled the euthanasia for tomorrow. Since I failed her as an owner, I should be the one to send her off.” It was the last dignity I could give her. “Heh-heh-heh!” Abby made a strange, chortling sound. It sounded like she was laughing at my stupidity. 4 I shouldn’t have been soft. I took Abby home and locked her on the balcony. Tomorrow, we would go to the vet. But the next morning, when I opened my eyes, I was lying on the balcony floor. Everything looked huge. The railing, the plants, the door. My body felt wrong. I ran to the glass door and looked at my reflection. A Beagle stared back at me. I was my dog! This had to be a dream. But the cold tile under my paws felt too real. Click. The balcony door unlocked. “I” walked out. The human “me” was smiling—a twisted, wrong smile. Her eyes were full of excitement. I backed away, my legs trembling. We had swapped bodies. “Abby, time to go to the hospital.” The human crouched down slowly, extending a hand. Her expression shifted into something crazed. In the reflection of the glass, I saw what she was holding behind her back. A butcher knife. She was going to kill me! I ducked under her legs and sprinted for the front door. My only thought: Run! The door was locked. The human “Abby” jingled the keys in her hand. “You can’t run.” She lunged at me. She wasn’t moving like a human anymore. She was crawling on all fours, scrambling across the floor like a spider, knife raised high. It was worse than any horror movie. She swung the knife down at my head. I dodged instinctively. THUNK. The knife buried itself in the wooden door. She couldn’t pull it out. She looked around the room, grinning, and grabbed the iron rod I had hidden behind the sofa. The one the trainer gave me. She knew it was there. She walked toward me, swinging the rod wildly. The living room was being destroyed. I was cornered. She was going to kill me. She hated me. The front door was a dead end. I looked at the balcony. The sliding door was still open. I lived on the eighth floor. But I had no choice. I bit her leg hard. While she screamed, I bolted to the balcony, jumped onto a planter, and leaped over the railing. Weightlessness. Then—CRASH. I hit something hard. I looked up. The human “Abby” was looking down from the balcony, glaring with pure malice. She was coming down. I had to move. I tried to stand, but a net fell over me.

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I died three years ago. Tossed into the freezing pitch-black of the Pacific by the man I loved and the sister I trusted. Tonight, as the sleek, black cruise ship, The Acheron, sliced through the high seas, the ghost they thought they’d buried was finally ready to collect her debt. I hadn’t even had a chance to announce my return, but from my private suite on the second deck, I watched the main event unfold. My former fiancé, Greg Sullivan, had my half-sister, Brooke Dalton, draped over his arm as he addressed the glittering, oblivious crowd. “Tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” Greg announced, his voice dripping with smug theater, “I present all the surviving relics of Juliet Caldwell!” A cheer rippled through the black-tie crowd. “We’re starting the bidding at one dollar for everything! And yes, that includes her most intimate underthings!” Down on the main floor, I saw my mother, Helen Caldwell—three years his senior and now shockingly frail—pleading, trying to cling to the last shreds of my dignity. But her desperate whisper was met with Greg’s amplified cruelty. “Dignity for a dead woman? If you feel so sorry for her, Helen, why don’t you go join her?” I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, the crystal wine glass in my hand fracturing beneath my grip. I had planned to wait until we hit the mainland. I had planned a subtle, surgical dismantling. But they had made it easy. They had brought the damn reckoning right to my doorstep. This account, I decided, would be settled with their lives. … 1 Snap! The harsh spotlight instantly centered on Greg. He held up a piece of pale pink lace—a silk chemise, something ridiculously expensive I’d bought in Paris—swinging it like a trophy. “Behold, everyone! The favorite battle-gear of the late, lamented, and clearly loose Juliet Caldwell!” He brought the lace to his nose, inhaling with a repulsive, theatrical sniff. His smile made me want to jump through the glass and claw the skin from his face. “Pre-owned, original scent, and the starting bid… is a single dollar!” The hall exploded in laughter and whistles. “A dollar? Sullivan, the Caldwell heiress’s value has definitely plummeted!” “I’ll offer a dollar fifty! I need a new chew toy for the bulldog!” Up here, in my soundproof VIP suite, I was hidden behind one-way ballistic glass. The crunch of the wine glass in my hand was the only sound I heard. Three years. Everyone believed Juliet Caldwell was fish food. They never imagined I was fished out by the King of the Deep, the true owner of this luxurious, floating hell. The real owner of The Acheron—this casino and pleasure palace—was right here, cold-eyed, separated by glass, already calculating their expiration date. Near the edge of the stage, my mother, her hair now white and her dress threadbare, was being wrestled to the ground by two hulking security guards. Gone was the elegant poise of the Caldwell matriarch. She was gaunt, but her eyes, bloodshot and frantic, were locked on that piece of lace. “That’s Juliet’s… Give it back! Please, give it back!” “What is that mad dog howling about?” Brooke, looking sickeningly chic in a designer gown, sauntered over. The sharp heel of her stiletto slammed down onto my mother’s hand, twisting viciously. “Ahhh!” Mom cried out, her body spasming, but she stubbornly refused to pull her hand away. “Brooke! That was your sister’s… How can you let your fiancé…” “Sister? We might share a father, Helen, but we certainly don’t share a mother.” Brooke seized a handful of Mom’s white hair, yanking her head back, forcing her to look up at the degrading display. “That short-lived fool is feeding the fish! If her cheap relics can earn Greg a little pocket money, it’s her damn blessing!” “If you love her so much, why don’t you buy it back? Oh, wait. Didn’t you spend your last penny on that pathetic little journal a moment ago?” I took a deep, shaky breath, fighting the seismic surge of homicide in my chest. For three years, I had trained in my Godfather’s compound—hell on earth—night and day. I morphed from a delicate debutante into the ruthless CEO of a multi-billion dollar syndicate. All for this moment. I was going to teach them the true meaning of poetic justice. “No cash, huh?” Greg seemed bored by the lack of true spectacle. He hopped off the stage and, like he was teasing an animal, dangled the lace in front of my mother. “Helen Caldwell, I’m feeling generous. I’ll give you a chance.” He pointed a shoe toward a spot on the marble where a guard had just spat a thick wad of phlegm. “Lick that clean, bark three times like a dog, and scream that Juliet Caldwell was a worthless tramp.” “Do that, and I’ll gift you this little scrap.” The hall fell silent for a beat, then erupted in the most insane chorus of cheers. “Lick! Lick! Lick!” Mom lay on the floor, trembling. That was her daughter. Even dead, she’d fight tooth and nail to protect her last shred of dignity. Now, to protect that single thread of memory, she’d have to personally grind it into the dirt. “I… I will bark…” Mom threw herself forward, grabbing Greg’s leg with the desperation of a true animal. “Woof! Woof! Woof!” “Juliet… Juliet was…” “Cut the crap!” Brooke slapped her face. “No curse, no gift! Security, burn the rag!” “No! I’ll curse her! I’ll curse her!” Mom shrieked in horror, slamming her forehead into the marble. Blood instantly bloomed. “Juliet is… is…” Tears poured down her face. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t utter the vile words, instead only repeatedly striking her head against the ground in utter, helpless despair. “Enough.” My eyes burned with unshed tears. My fingers pressed so hard into my palm that the veins stood out like cords. Devlin, my head of security, was beside me. He spoke into my ear, his voice low and tight. “Ma’am, shall we move?” “Not yet.” I watched Brooke prepare to light the lace on fire. A cold smile curled my lip. “Seal every exit. Take the ship to the deepest point of the international zone.” “The louder the laughter now, the sweeter the weeping will be later.” “No one on this boat leaves alive tonight.” 2 “Ugh, so anticlimactic.” Brooke wiped her hands with an exaggerated gesture of disgust and kicked Mom away. “If you can’t say the words, you don’t get the souvenir.” She snapped her fingers. A guard lit a lighter. “No!” Ignoring the blood pouring down her face, Mom clung to the guard’s leg. “Give it to me! Please!” “Get off!” The guard kicked her in the chest. Flames licked the delicate lace. The silk instantly curled into a puff of ash. Mom stared blankly at the dust, a choked, dying animal sound escaping her throat. “Stop the theatrics, it’s bad luck!” Greg straightened his tuxedo tie and returned to the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, the appetizer is over. Now, for the main course… Juliet Caldwell’s private journals!” He held up a thick, yellowed notebook. “Starting bid, still one dollar!” The crowd instantly erupted. “One hundred! I want to read what kind of dirty secrets this heiress had!” “Five hundred! I’ll use it as a bedside read!” Mom’s head snapped up. That was my diary from childhood—my deepest, most innocent secrets. They absolutely could not be desecrated. She fumbled with a small cloth pouch, spilling a handful of crumpled bills onto the floor. “I’ll buy it… I’ll offer everything I have…” She raised her blood-stained hand. “Three thousand two hundred dollars total… Please, give it to me…” “Three thousand two hundred?” Greg sneered, kicking the scattered bills away. “Trying to buy a yacht with spare change, Helen?” He looked toward a planted bidder. A balding man immediately shouted, “Three thousand two hundred and one dollar!” The room roared with laughter. Mom’s face went white. “I can write an IOU! I’ll sell my blood! Please, I beg you…” “Oh, Aunt Helen, no money means no power.” Brooke approached, sipping a glass of red wine. She pointed to a half-full sack of dog kibble in the corner. “See that? Our poodle, Bijou, passed away. It would be a shame to waste her food.” “Eat that entire half-bag—every single piece.” “And I’ll make a charitable donation to your cause by giving you the journal.” In the suite upstairs, Devlin’s hand clenched the hilt of his tactical knife, veins visibly bulging. I watched, expressionless. My nails dug deeper into my palms. Downstairs, Mom looked at the dog food, which was stale and covered in flies. Her stomach turned. But as Greg made a show of threatening to tear the journal, she had no choice. “Fine… I’ll eat it.” She crawled over, grabbing a handful and stuffing it into her mouth. Dry, rancid, gritty. “Gag…” She immediately retched. “Don’t you dare throw up!” Brooke ground her heel into Mom’s back. “Spit out one piece, and I’ll rip out one page!” “Nngh!” Mom clamped her mouth shut, forcing the disgusting mass down her throat. Her esophagus was scraped raw; every swallow tasted like blood. “Ha ha ha! Look, everyone! The former Caldwell Matriarch is eating dog food!” Greg shoved his phone in her face, snapping photos. “This video is going viral!” The flash went off like repeated slaps across her cheek. She mechanically grabbed, mechanically chewed, mechanically swallowed. Half a bag—over a pound of dry kibble. By the end, her mouth was a slurry of blood and crumbs. Her stomach was painfully distended. “Done… I finished it…” She weakly held out her hand. “The journal… Give it to me…” Greg casually tossed the book onto the floor. “Here, take your trash.” Mom clutched the journal to her chest like a newborn, rubbing the cover again and again. “Juliet… Mommy got it back…” As she tried to crawl away, Brooke suddenly stretched out her foot and tripped her. Thump! Mom fell. The journal flew from her embrace, landing directly in a decorative charcoal brazier. “Oops! Butterfingers!” Brooke covered her mouth with a feigned gasp, her eyes shining with malicious glee. Flames instantly devoured the paper. “NO!” Mom let out a soul-shattering scream. Without a second thought, she plunged both her hands directly into the burning charcoal. 3 “AUGH!” Mom writhed in pain, but those hands held the burning journal, refusing to let go. “She’s insane! A total lunatic!” The guests in the front row gasped at the gruesome sight. A few squeamish ones covered their eyes. Mom finally pulled the charred book out, curling into a ball around it. The hands that had once been meticulously manicured were now bubbling and melting, the skin peeled back to raw flesh. “Juliet… Juliet…” Huge tears splashed onto the blackened cover. “Tsk-tsk. Truly touching maternal love.” Brooke waved her hand, fanning the air, before turning to Greg. “Greg, darling, Aunt Helen’s hands look pretty bad. Shouldn’t we help her?” “Help? Of course.” Greg smirked, walking to the bar and grabbing a bottle of high-proof vodka. “They say liquor is the best disinfectant.” He walked over to my mother, unscrewing the cap. “Hold still, Helen. This is for your own good.” Without warning, he dumped the entire bottle of vodka over her already raw, bloody hands! “Aaaahhhh!” Mom screamed, rolling violently on the floor, banging her head against the marble until it bled again. “Ha ha ha! Doesn’t she look like a maggot?” Brooke laughed uncontrollably, filming the whole thing. “Stop yelling!” Greg, annoyed, jammed his foot onto her wrist and twisted. “This is premium vodka, you know! Disinfecting you is a privilege!” In the suite. Snap! The tactical pen in Devlin’s hand snapped in half. His eyes were bloodshot as he looked at me. “Ma’am! Are they even human?! Let me go down there and end this!” I stared at the screen, my fingernails piercing my palms. “It’s not time.” I ground the words out, each one a shard of ice. “I need them to believe they’ve won. I need them to show me all their cards.” “The only way to ensure they’re annihilated is to let them fall from the highest possible point.” Downstairs, Mom was beyond screaming. Her mouth was wide open, struggling for silent breaths. “Alright, enough. No need to kill the old bat; we have one last order of business.” Greg knelt, pulling a document from his inner jacket pocket and tapping Mom’s cheek. “Helen Caldwell, stop playing dead.” “I know you’re still holding on to the deed for the Caldwell ancestral home.” That was the last of my family’s foundation, the house where Mom and I lived for twenty years. Mom saw the transfer agreement and violently shook her head. “No… That’s for Juliet… That’s her home…” “Home? The person’s dead, who needs a home?” Brooke laughed coldly, leaning in close to my mother’s ear, dropping her voice. “Aunt Helen, if you sign this, we’ll show you the last auction item.” “It’s… a piece of your precious sister’s body.” Mom’s clouded eyes suddenly flashed with terrible clarity. “Body… Juliet…” “That’s right. Something the search team recovered with great difficulty.” Greg offered the lure. “Don’t you want to see it? Don’t you want to take her home and bury her?” “I do… I want to…” Mom grabbed the lure like a lifeline, struggling to sit up. “Show me… Please…” “Sign first.” Greg shoved a pen into her hand, pointing to the signature line. “Sign this, and I’ll give you the item.” Her burned hands couldn’t hold the pen. She trembled, clamping the pen between her two wrists, enduring the searing pain to scrawl her name in a shaky, crooked line. “It’s signed… Give it to me…” Mom pushed the agreement back, her eyes pathetically desperate. Greg snatched the document, checked it, and exchanged a look with Brooke. They exploded in triumphant, deranged laughter. “Ha ha ha ha! The Caldwell ancestral home is finally ours!” “The Caldwells are officially wiped out!” Brooke stuffed the agreement into her purse and clapped her hands. “Fine, since you were a good girl, we’ll give you a peek.” “Bring out the main event!” The lights dimmed. A hostess brought out a tray covered with a deep red cloth. The entire audience held its breath. Greg ripped off the cloth. It was a large glass jar, filled with pale yellow formaldehyde. In the center of the liquid floated a grayish-white human heart. “Everyone!” Greg’s voice echoed in the stunned silence. “This is the heart recovered during Juliet Caldwell’s autopsy!” 4 “My… My Juliet…” Seeing that heart floating in the formalin, the last spark of life seemed to drain from my mother. She stumbled toward the display, pressing her face against the cold glass, staring ravenously at the grayish-white tissue. “It’s Juliet’s… I knew she was still here… Mommy’s taking you home…” She was muttering incoherently, reaching out with her scabbed, burned hands to pick up the jar. “Hold on!” Brooke slapped her hand down on the lid. “Aunt Helen, this is our main event tonight.” She raised an eyebrow, smiling a blend of seductive and savage. “You want it? The starting bid is ten million dollars.” “Ten million…” Mom collapsed onto the floor in despair. The journal had drained her savings, the deed was signed away. She couldn’t even produce a single dollar. “I don’t have any money… I truly don’t…” She was on her knees, bowing and banging her head until her forehead was a bloody mess. “Brooke, Greg, please have mercy… Let me take Juliet home…” “No money?” Greg stroked his chin, his gaze running over my mother’s body. Then, a twisted, predatory smile stretched his face. “No money, no problem. We can trade, can’t we?” He pulled a sharp utility knife from his pocket and threw it, clang, onto the floor in front of her. “Helen Caldwell, they say, ‘a heart for a heart.’” “Since you want your daughter’s heart so badly, why don’t you… carve out yours and trade it with us?” The room burst into a horrified murmur. This was beyond cruel—it was psychological murder. Mom stared at the knife, her body shaking violently. But when her eyes returned to the glass jar, the fear vanished, replaced by a terrifying, desperate finality. “Fine…” She picked up the knife, gripping the handle tightly with both hands. “If it brings Juliet back… I’ll give it… I’ll give everything…” “No! Don’t do it!” “Juliet Caldwell is dead! You need to snap out of it!” A few guests, genuinely disturbed, shouted out. But Brooke, phone in hand, screamed excitedly, “Dig it out! Let’s see if the Caldwell Matriarch’s heart is black!” Mom ignored the noise. She looked at the heart in the jar, and a look of profound relief crossed her face. “Don’t be afraid, Juliet… Mommy is coming to join you…” The tip of the blade pressed against her chest. Blood instantly soaked her gown. “Juliet, Mommy is here…” She closed her eyes, bracing her muscles, preparing to plunge the blade deep into her own heart. In that critical, heart-stopping instant! “ZZZZZZZZ!!!” A deafening microphone feedback screech ripped through the hall! Everyone instinctively covered their ears. Then, every single light in the ballroom died. “Who’s there?!” Greg screamed in panic. “Security! What the hell is going on?!” No one answered him. The next second. WHUMPH! A blinding spotlight snapped on, aimed at the second-floor VIP balcony. The glare was so intense no one could see clearly. I stood in the center of the light beam, microphone in hand, looking down on the ants below. “Greg Sullivan. Brooke Dalton.” “Using a pig’s heart to mock my own?” “Did you truly think you could do that without my permission?”

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My mother always drilled one idea into me: you have to maintain a fiercely high sense of deservingness. When I was in school, some wannabe copycat roommate intentionally bought the same jacket as me, then had the nerve to ask if it made her look fat. I just shook my head. “Wouldn’t know, darling. My body is divine.” Later, after I started working, a male colleague was pursuing me. I casually mentioned I was taken. He looked at me with genuine anguish, asking if I might consider him if I ever broke up with my boyfriend. I gave him a chilly smile. “Clearly, you don’t love me enough. Otherwise, you’d be petitioning for the mistress position right now.” Because of my ridiculously high self-worth, they all secretly called me an entitled bitch behind my back, saying I didn’t know my place or who I thought I was. Until the day my blind date heard about my “flaw” and immediately insisted on taking me home for the New Year’s holiday to meet his parents. “My mother is obsessed with self-sacrifice. She’s constantly saying she doesn’t deserve anything good. I’m being driven crazy by it.” “If you can cure her of that toxic habit, I’ll give you anything you ask for.” The request was certainly novel. I patted my chest. “Don’t worry. You’ve got yourself a deal.” 1 Garrett Stone sat across from me in the café, his expression laced with worry. “My apologies, Ms. Hawthorne. This coffee shop was a last-minute choice; it’s a bit basic. Hope you can overlook it.” I glanced around the slightly generic, stripped-down space. “It is a bit basic. Good thing you recognize it.” Other dates would have immediately scowled and demanded we split the check. Instead, Garrett’s eyes seemed to light up, as if genuinely relieved. “Ms. Hawthorne, I won’t waste your time. I heard everything from the matchmaker. You perfectly fit my requirements, and I was hoping you’d be willing to spend New Year’s with me, meeting my family.” The speed was unsettling. I rejected him without thinking. Garrett’s face fell for a moment, then he let out a bitter laugh. “I’ll be honest with you. While I run a company that brings in eight figures a year, my mother is tormenting me. I genuinely need someone like you to shock her out of it.” That caught my interest. I leaned forward and listened as he laid out the problem. Garrett’s father died when he was young. Growing up in a small town, his mother, Martha, and he were easily bullied as a single-parent family. This forced her into a habit of extreme frugality—pinching every penny until it screamed. But while that was necessary when they were poor, it had become a perverse affliction now that Garrett was a major success, running his own firm. Garrett took her on a European trip, and she refused to spend a dime. Instead, she brought two dozen stale dinner rolls from the States and subsisted on them, washed down with plain hot water. He bought her expensive bird’s nest and ginseng to boost her health. She hoarded it, refusing to eat it because she “didn’t deserve it,” until it went moldy. Then, she decided to cook the spoiled stuff for Garrett, sending him to the hospital with acute gastroenteritis for two weeks. Exhausted and at his wit’s end, Garrett asked her why. She’d just look tearful and say, “These wonderful things are for you. I’m just an old woman. I don’t deserve to eat such luxury.” It was unbelievable. A successful CEO with a mother who lived like a pauper. And every time Garrett tried to correct her, the rest of the family—the extended relatives—would instantly accuse him of being an ungrateful, unfilial son. “That’s why I need you. You’re the only person who can help. Ms. Hawthorne, please. If you can break her of this awful habit, I’ll give you a million dollars. No, five million. How about five million?” I wasn’t doing it just for the money. The sheer challenge was exhilarating. “I’ll help you. But if your mother has a stroke or a heart attack, I claim no liability.” Garrett nodded grimly. “I’d rather her have a heart attack than die of food poisoning from eating a sprouted potato or a moldy apple.” 2 Words mean nothing without paper. After we signed the legal agreement, Garrett immediately took me to a high-end department store and bought me several luxurious outfits, all on his card. The day before New Year’s Eve, Garrett and I drove to his house. The first thing he did after becoming a big shot was buy his mother a mansion outside the city. We stood on the threshold. Garrett took a deep breath and looked at me. “Prepare yourself, Ms. Hawthorne.” He pushed the door open. Instead of the opulent, clean interior I expected, the vast foyer was crammed with stacks of cardboard boxes and plastic water bottles. A faint, cloying stench permeated the air. My smile froze. A grand mansion, used as a recycling depot. The old woman certainly had peculiar hobbies. “Now you know how terrifying my mother is,” Garrett whispered, his voice low. “Garrett’s home!” His mother, Martha Stone, emerged from the interior. She was dressed simply in worn-out sweats and had a free supermarket apron tied around her waist. She looked less like the lady of the house and more like the cleaning lady. “Mom. Meet my girlfriend, Bella.” We’d decided to drop the initial ‘Jewel’ name and just stick with my first name. I offered a polite, practiced smile. “Hello, Martha. This is a little gift for you.” “Oh, you shouldn’t have, dear. Why spend money? An old woman like me doesn’t need anything. Come in, come in.” Martha led me inside, apologizing as she went. “I’m so sorry about the mess. Please don’t mind it.” This huge, expensive villa, completely wasted on garbage. I couldn’t tolerate it. I immediately took her bait. “It is messy, yes. Honestly, I thought I’d wandered into a transfer station.” I looked back at Garrett, my expression hardening. “This doesn’t exactly feel welcoming, Garrett. Are you sending me a message by having your house full of garbage? I swear, I’ll call my father right now!” (Garrett and I had agreed that my current identity would be the daughter of a key business partner, a high-stakes heiress—that would give me the necessary leverage). Garrett immediately played along, turning to his mother. “Mom! What is this? I told you to stop hoarding junk in the house!” “It’s not junk! This all sells! It’s valuable. You young people just don’t understand thrift,” Martha grumbled, genuinely upset. “Call someone now and get this cleaned up. I will not spend the New Year holiday in a trash heap.” I pulled out my phone to contact a cleaning service. “No, wait! You can’t throw it away! That’s all money!” Martha rushed forward to stop me. Garrett held her back. “Mom, this is the daughter of Mr. Hawthorne. Don’t upset her. Her dad could ruin me with one call. We’d lose the villa, and you’d be back to scavenging for the rest of your life!” A cleaning crew quickly arrived, bringing a huge truck. A team of people worked from daylight until dark, finally clearing out every piece of refuse. Martha stood by, watching the empty, echoing space, as if the very life was being drained out of her soul. I turned my gaze to Martha and twisted the knife. I said deliberately, “Auntie, this time I’ll forgive it. But don’t ever hoard trash again. Once I move in, this house will stay immaculate. I don’t tolerate dirt.” “This is an outrage. The daughter-in-law is already riding roughshod over the mother-in-law,” Martha muttered, glaring at me. I pretended not to hear her. This is just the appetizer, old woman. 3 Soon, it was time for dinner. Garrett quietly reminded me to only touch the stir-fried greens—nothing else. I sat down. At first glance, the New Year’s feast looked decent: meat, vegetables, even seafood. But a closer look revealed the horror show. In the center of the table was a platter with what looked like a King Crab. It was visibly blackened, the meat mushy and loose—clearly spoiled. Several other dishes were unrecognizable, stewed into a murky sludge. It was impossible to tell if they were days or weeks old. The fish, a holiday centerpiece, was reduced to a bare skeleton. All the meat was gone. Why it was even on the table was a mystery. Perhaps realizing I was not to be messed with, Martha spun the lazy Susan, putting the spoiled meat dishes in front of me. “This King Crab has been saved just for today. You eat it, dear. I’ll just have some of the leftovers.” “Mom! Those pig trotters are from Christmas Eve! You haven’t thrown them out? They must be rotten!” Garrett tried to take the bowl, but she snatched it back. “I kept them in the back of the fridge. They’re fine! You eat the fresh food. I’ll eat these.” The only fresh dish on the table was the sautéed greens. Everything else was ancient. I rolled my eyes. I grabbed Garrett’s phone and instantly placed a massive catering order—an $8,888 New Year’s feast—to be delivered immediately. Then I stood up, took the King Crab platter, and marched straight to the trash can. “Auntie, if you have a problem with me, just say so. Don’t try to poison me with a crab that probably died years ago. Your son is a wealthy man. You think it’s okay for his girlfriend to eat this garbage on her first visit? People will tear his reputation to shreds!” The moment I opened fire, Garrett backed me up. “She’s right, Mom! Are you even my mother? Are you deliberately trying to sabotage my relationship? I’m thirty years old. I finally found someone, and you want me to die alone just to save a few bucks?” Martha looked like she was about to weep, staring at the King Crab in the bin. She reached in, trying to retrieve it. “It’s good! It’s fine! I’ve been keeping it safe in the freezer for years! It’s still edible!” If I was merely pretending to be angry before, I was genuinely furious now. Zombie meat. She was deliberately trying to kill someone. I exploded. “You tried to feed me a dead crab that’s been sitting around for years? What is wrong with you? Garrett, I swear, I’m breaking up with you right now!” “Mom! Hurry up and dump all these leftovers! Look how upset Bella is! What will her father think of me?” Garrett began scooping the food into the bin. I quickly helped him. To ensure she couldn’t retrieve the leftovers, I made sure to spit on every single dish we tossed. That settled it. Even she wouldn’t touch it now. Soon, the delivery arrived. A table groaning with fresh, hot, luxurious food. Martha sighed. “Fine. You two eat. I’ll just have a few crackers. I’m an old woman, practically on my deathbed. Why should I eat such rich food?” I didn’t bother arguing. I just said, “Suit yourself. But anything we don’t finish tonight, I’m throwing out immediately.” “What?! You’d throw out such expensive food?” Martha’s eyes widened in horror. “That’s how I do things at home. I don’t eat leftovers. It’s unhealthy. Once I marry in, this whole house’s habits change to match mine.” Garrett looked at me with a sickeningly doting expression. “Okay, sweetheart. Whatever you say. Your word is law.” At the mention of the coming waste, Martha quickly abandoned the crackers. She grabbed her chopsticks and loaded her plate, stuffing her face, terrified the food would be claimed by the trash can. “Auntie, have some of this lobster. Otherwise, I’m tossing it.” I spun the platter in front of her. “And this red date and chicken soup. It’s too much for just us two.” Used to eating ancient leftovers, the sudden shock of a lavish, freshly cooked meal hit Martha hard. She ate heartily, a flicker of genuine pleasure returning to her face. 4 That night, Garrett gave me a thumbs-up. “Ms. Hawthorne, you are incredible. You handled my mother perfectly. That’s the first genuinely happy New Year’s dinner we’ve had.” “Get some rest. We have to go visit my father’s grave tomorrow morning.” Garrett was a devoted son. His father was originally buried back in the village, but once Garrett made money, he bought a prime plot in a city cemetery and had him moved. The next morning, we woke up before dawn. I was confused about the early start. Martha explained, “It’s a long walk, miles of mountain road. We have to start early.” I looked out at the garage, which housed seven or eight luxury cars. She intended to walk to the cemetery to save money. “Auntie, my shoes have lambskin soles. They’ll be ruined if they get wet. I am absolutely not walking. We’re driving.” Garrett instantly agreed. “She’s right, Mom. Bella’s a delicate flower. She’s always driven everywhere. Just ride with us.” Martha shook her head stubbornly. “Absolutely not. Gas is expensive! I used to walk daily in the village. I’m used to it.” “You young people lack discipline. You ride everywhere; your bodies are atrophying.” I wasn’t going to argue. If she wanted to walk, fine. “Alright, Auntie. You can walk if you like. Garrett and I will drive ahead and wait for you at the entrance.” Before getting into the car, Garrett tried one last time. “Mom, are you really not getting in? The gas price is the same no matter how many people are in the car. Please, just ride with us.” The old woman waved us off, refusing to budge. Garrett was hesitant, but at my insistence, he closed the door and drove away. The car soon arrived at the cemetery gate. Garrett turned off the engine, and we waited for his mother to walk up. But we waited, and waited, and she never appeared. At first, I thought she was just slow. But by nearly noon, there was still no sign of her. Garrett called her phone seven or eight times. No answer. “She probably didn’t charge it, to save electricity. She leaves it at home,” Garrett said, frustrated. He tried again. After a few rings, someone finally picked up. “Are you a relative of this number’s owner? She fell on the mountain trail and was brought to our hospital. You need to come quickly.” We immediately forgot the visit and sped off to the hospital. “It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. If I had walked with her, she wouldn’t have fallen,” Garrett lamented, distraught in the passenger seat. “Forget it. Let her be frugal. I only have one mother. She raised me alone; it wasn’t easy.” The moment Martha was hurt, Garrett was instantly overcome with guilt and softness. This must have been the cycle: he tries to correct her, she hurts herself, he feels guilty and gives up, she repeats the habit. “Ms. Hawthorne, maybe we should end the arrangement. Now that my mother is like this, I just can’t bring myself to be harsh with her.” 5 I had taken the wheel, not wanting an agitated Garrett driving. I stayed silent for a moment before replying. “You need to calm down. This isn’t your fault. Even if you were there today, preventing this fall, she’d be in the emergency room next week from eating sprouted potatoes from the pantry.” “Unless you monitor her twenty-four hours a day, this will happen again and again. Also, I don’t mind canceling the contract, but you still owe me the money.” Garrett took a deep swig from a water bottle and finally cooled down. “You’re right. We can’t cancel. Let’s just see her first.” We soon arrived. The nurse told us Martha fell halfway up the mountain. Luckily, a kind passerby found her and brought her in. The checkup revealed a broken tibia. She needed surgery. “The family needs to pay the fees right away. Your mother will be going into surgery soon,” the nurse urged. Garrett instinctively reached for his phone, but I stopped him. “Oh, son, I’m useless. I fall on flat ground. Don’t worry about the surgery. I’ll just rest at home.” “No way, Mom. You need the surgery to heal quickly. Just relax and don’t worry about anything.” I pulled Garrett aside. “Have you always paid for her accidents?” “She only has me. Who else? You have no idea. She’s in the ER every few months from food poisoning or a cut hand from scavenging. I’m practically a VIP here.” The problem was clear. Martha had it easy. No matter how dangerous or toxic her habit was, her son always bailed her out, with no real personal consequence. Of course, she continued. If only he were my son. I took Garrett’s phone and turned to Martha. “Auntie, where is your bank card? Give it to me. I’ll pay. Your son and I are getting married. His money is for my jewelry and my handbags. He transfers you plenty every month, so it’s time you put it to use.” Martha looked at me warily. “How much will the surgery cost?” “I don’t know. I just know that if you had ridden with us this morning, it would have cost you nothing.” Reluctantly, she handed over her card. Garrett and I immediately went to the payment window. He transferred her a substantial allowance every month. She never spent it, so the card should have had tens of thousands of dollars. After we paid the fees, we checked the balance: there was fifty-three dollars and twenty cents left. Garrett, a businessman, was unnerved by the number. He immediately took the card to the bank across the street to check the transaction history. Meanwhile, I returned to the room and, with the nurse’s help, moved Martha from the crowded, common room into the most luxurious private suite. “I was fine in there. The single room is expensive, isn’t it? It must cost a fortune.” “It’s tolerable. We were actually going to move you to a private clinic. Your son is a major CEO, Auntie. If you stay in a common room, where does that leave his reputation? If you won’t think about yourself, at least think of your son.” Though Martha was pathologically self-sacrificing, she truly loved her son. Hearing this, she immediately quieted down. “Well, alright. I suppose this is nice enough.”

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I was a world-renowned cardiovascular surgeon. To conquer a rare, complex pediatric heart condition, I emptied my savings and tirelessly fundraised to establish The Second Chance Heart Initiative. The commitment was simple: I would personally perform pro-bono surgery for one hundred underprivileged children. I never imagined that the family of the very first child I saved—a boy named Jerry Walsh, Jr.—would turn around and collude with a professional liability agitator to report me. They claimed I used their son as a “guinea pig in unethical trials” and charged secret, exorbitant kickbacks. The public reaction was immediate and ferocious. The hospital suspended my surgical privileges, and the Initiative’s funds were frozen. Facing the storm of accusations and online vitriol, I called a press conference. Standing before the frantic media, I made a calm, deliberate announcement: “Effective immediately, The Second Chance Heart Initiative is dissolved. My research findings and the surgical techniques I’ve developed will be destroyed as of today.” The flashing of the strobe lights became a blinding chaos as I stepped away from the podium. Reporters shoved microphones into my face. … “Dr. Scott, are you truly giving up on the one hundred children on that waiting list?” “What will happen to the remaining donations now that the foundation is shut down?” “Isn’t this an incredibly irresponsible act?” My face was a mask of cold neutrality as security ushered me through the scrum toward the back exit. My phone was vibrating so hard it felt like it might combust. The incoming messages weren’t from the media; they were from the families of the ninety-nine other children on the waiting list. The tone shifted from initial shock to desperate pleas, and then, inevitably, to savage accusations and curses. Yet, I felt nothing. No sorrow, no regret. My heart had gone cold the moment the first family chose to side with the vultures who were betraying me. Just then, I saw the name of the man who had started it all: Jerry Walsh, Sr. His message was infuriatingly righteous, almost condescending. “Dr. Scott, we saw the news. You can’t be so petty about this.” “You can’t just quit. The public is on our side now, you can’t fight this. You know we’ll win.” I stared at the screen, refusing to reply. He must have taken my silence for fear, because a second message followed instantly. “Look, I know you’re mad, but we were just looking out for our boy. Tell you what.” “Since you’re not going to do the rest of the surgeries, that money is just sitting there. Why don’t you cut us a check? Call it compensation for the emotional damage of our son being your experiment. We get the money, and we’ll go online and clear things up for you.” A cold, sharp laugh escaped me as I read the proposal. Emotional damage? Clear things up? Who did they think I was? A soft touch they could shake down for cash? Still using the hospital’s official account, I posted a single, public sentence for the world to see: “Funds for The Second Chance Heart Initiative were designated for life-saving surgery, not for extortion. The Initiative is officially dissolved today, and all remaining funds will be returned to the original donors, down to the last cent.” The response detonated across the internet. Thousands swarmed the hospital’s official social media pages; the comment section became a riot. Jerry Walsh, Sr. was clearly enraged by my clinical defiance. Within ten minutes, guided by the professional agitator, Rick Keller, he posted a video designed to tug at the heartstrings. In the video, he cradled his son—the child I had pulled back from the edge of the grave—and wept a performance of gut-wrenching grief into the lens. “See that, everyone! He admitted he has the money! But he’d rather return it than give it to us!” “He’s doing this to punish us! To punish us for exposing the monster he really is!” “He never wanted to save lives; he just wanted to pocket the money meant for poor kids!” He ended the video by bowing his head several times, pressing his forehead dramatically to the floor. “Please, help us. Bring us justice!” The public narrative snapped instantly. I went from being a rogue doctor running unethical trials to a venomous thief, pocketing children’s rescue money. The online abuse was a flood: “Serpent-hearted! You don’t deserve the title of Doctor!” “Spit out the cash! That’s a child’s life support!” “He should be driven out of medicine and nailed to a wall!” I switched off my phone and leaned against the cold wall of the backstage area. The story of the farmer and the snake was not just a fable. The next day, Dr. Howard Bell, the hospital Director, called me to his office. The man who had once showered me with praise now looked tired and emotionally detached. He slid a document across the desk. “Cameron, the State Medical Board is under immense pressure. They’re discussing a permanent revocation of your license.” I picked up the file. It listed my supposed “crimes,” each one pointing to the idea that I had used the Initiative as a front for personal enrichment. My hand trembled slightly as I read the blatant distortion of facts. Dr. Bell sighed, a hint of impatience in his voice. “I know you’re the victim here, but the public outcry is destroying our reputation, and yours. Just… fall on your sword a little. Say there were procedural errors in the Initiative’s accounting. We’ll help you manage the fallout and minimize the damage.” “Your career is too valuable. Don’t ruin your life over a petty dispute.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “What if I refuse, Director?” At that moment, the door was shoved open with a bang. Dr. Victor Shaw, the Head of Cardiology and a long-time professional rival, burst in, holding a fresh report. “Director! Cameron! We have a major problem!” He handed the report to Dr. Bell, but his eyes, filled with cold, professional satisfaction, were fixed on me. “This is the latest drug-screen report. I’ve discovered that Dr. Scott administered an unapproved, experimental drug to Jerry Walsh, Jr.!” Dr. Bell’s face went pale. He snatched the report. My chest constricted painfully as I scanned the list of compounds. Every one of them was a high-grade nutritional supplement that I had personally sourced and purchased at vast expense from overseas labs, pulling every favor I had. They were intended to maximize the child’s recovery and minimize long-term post-operative complications. I had never billed the Initiative or the family for them. “Those compounds,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “Were a private donation from me to the patient’s family. I have every purchase receipt and transfer record.” Dr. Shaw had clearly anticipated this. He allowed a smug, triumphant smile to bloom on his face. “Private purchase? Who’s going to believe that?” He turned back to the Director, his tone dripping with false concern. “Director Bell, in the eyes of the public, this is ironclad proof: Dr. Scott used free surgery as a cover to collude with foreign drug manufacturers, running illegal trials on a poor child and collecting a massive kickback from the Initiative funds!” “We have the plaintiff, the public platform, and now, the physical evidence. He won’t be able to talk his way out of this one.” Dr. Bell’s expression hardened into disappointment and a chilling finality. He slammed the report onto the desk. “Cameron Scott, you have profoundly disappointed me!” I watched them—one playing the sympathetic leader, the other the righteous prosecutor—a perfectly orchestrated, sickening theater. The last shred of warmth in my heart vanished. I ignored the Director and stared directly at Victor Shaw, speaking slowly and deliberately. “I welcome an investigation at any level.” “I, Cameron Scott, will not fold.” With that, I turned and walked out. Dr. Shaw’s speed was unnerving. That same afternoon, the “drug report,” twisted into his narrative, was leaked to the entire internet via Rick Keller’s channels. The narrative was now complete and total: I was an absolute villain—a narcissistic surgeon who performed high-risk drug trials on poor children to amass a fortune, attempted to steal the remaining funds when caught, and was now destroying evidence. My home address, cell number, and even my parents’ address were immediately doxxed. Venomous texts and calls poured in without pause. “Murderer! Give back our children’s lives!” “You don’t deserve to exist!” “I’m outside your apartment right now. You better be ready!” I pulled the blinds shut, silenced my phone, and locked myself in my dark apartment. Late that night, a violent smash. A rock had shattered my living room window. Glass fragments glittered on the floor in the moonlight. Sitting in the darkness, I felt a bone-deep cold and, for the first time, raw fear. The silent phone suddenly rang. An unknown number. I hesitated, but finally pressed ‘Answer.’ A deep, steady voice, laced with suppressed fury, cut through the silence. “Cameron, why didn’t you call me when this started?” It was Ms. Blackwood. Evie. The business titan whom I had personally pulled back from death three years earlier with a globally-pioneering surgical procedure. After the operation, she had insisted on adopting me as a godson, a title I respectfully declined, but she had treated me like her own family ever since. Hearing her voice, strong and unwavering, the tight, coiled spring of tension inside me snapped. She didn’t ask for details, or question my side of the story. Her voice held the unshakeable authority of a queen giving an order. “I’m downstairs. The security detail already cleared your street.” “Grab a bag with essentials and come down now.” “You are moving to the estate on the hill, effective tonight.” A wave of unexpected warmth washed over me, chasing away the fear and the cold. I wiped my face, threw a few items into a duffel bag, and walked downstairs. A black Rolls-Royce waited at the curb. Evie Blackwood opened the door for me herself. “Get in. I will handle the rest.” As the car smoothly pulled away from that suffocating neighborhood, a new video popped up online. A man with a heavily pixellated face, claiming to be a hospital nurse, tearfully “confirmed” my drug abuse, going so far as to imply I had unethical relationships with senior hospital staff to secure surgical privileges. The comments section exploded into a new frenzy. I handed my phone to Evie. She glanced at the screen. Her already grim expression turned to frost. After a long moment, she ground out a single phrase from between clenched teeth. “Jumping jackasses.” She picked up her own phone and dialed a number. “I want a full file on the man in this video, and everyone backing him. I want the results on my desk before tomorrow’s sunrise.” She hung up and looked at me, her eyes filled with protective concern. “Cameron, relax. We will not lose this fight.” I nodded, leaning back into the soft leather, watching the city lights blur by. Evie Blackwood did not waste a moment. By the following morning, a team of the country’s top litigation lawyers was assembled. They immediately sent a strongly-worded public letter to the hospital’s board, demanding an immediate, full-scale public hearing—a town hall—with all personnel and media present to clarify the facts. The hospital was clearly stunned by my hard-line counterattack and the undeniable influence of Evie Blackwood. Under immense pressure, they were forced to agree. The hearing was set for 2:00 PM in the hospital’s largest auditorium. When I arrived, the hall was packed to the rafters. Flashing strobe lights, a sea of grim faces—the media, the hospital executives, Victor Shaw, Rick Keller, and the Walsh family. I walked onto the stage in a perfectly tailored suit. The room fell silent. I calmly surveyed the crowd—faces filled with schadenfreude, cold indifference, and naked greed. I picked up the microphone. “Today, I stand here to announce one thing first.” I paused, locking eyes with Dr. Bell in the front row. “Effective immediately, I, Cameron Scott, am formally tendering my immediate resignation from this institution.” The auditorium exploded in a stunned roar. No one had expected me to open with a scorched-earth maneuver. Shock was visible even on the faces of Dr. Bell and Dr. Shaw. Ignoring the reaction, I pivoted, my gaze landing on Jerry Walsh, Sr. “Second, I’d like to address Mr. Walsh’s recent demand for ‘emotional damages.’” The media immediately leaned forward, cameras clicking furiously. I motioned to my assistant, who walked a velvet-lined box, wrapped like an expensive gift, to Jerry Walsh. He accepted it, a bewildered look mixed with greed crossing his face. He likely thought it was a check or a stack of cash. My voice was broadcast loud and clear throughout the hall. “Mr. Walsh, since you believe your son’s successful surgery has caused your family significant emotional distress, it is my obligation as the surgeon to meet your demands. This box contains the ‘compensation’ I meticulously prepared for you. Please, open it.” Jerry Walsh eagerly lifted the lid. His expression of anticipation instantly froze. Inside was not cash, but a clearly printed, itemized invoice. I watched him, my lips curving into a smile that was arctic-cold. “This invoice,” I explained, “details the full cost of your son’s care, from his admission to his post-operative recovery. This includes the customized surgical instruments our team had manufactured specifically for him, the elite German care specialists we hired, and the total cost of the high-grade supplements I personally purchased from overseas…” I let the figures sink into the stunned crowd, then delivered the final sum. “The total bill is two-and-a-half million dollars.” “Since you believe a life can be monetized, I expect you to pay the price.” The auditorium plunged into a momentary, deafening silence, followed by a tidal wave of noise. Jerry Walsh’s face was bloodless; the invoice fluttered from his shaking hand. Dr. Shaw shot up from his seat, pointing a furious finger at me. “Cameron Scott! This is extortion! This is nothing but a threat!” Rick Keller quickly recovered, shouting to the crowd. “Do you see this, folks! He’s retaliating! He’s trying to shake down a poor family in broad daylight!” As the room descended into pandemonium, my phone vibrated violently. It was Evie Blackwood. I answered the call. Her voice was pure ice. “Cameron, they’re live-streaming this. The whole country is watching. But that’s not the main issue.” She paused, the tone shifting to one of unprecedented gravity. “I just got confirmation that someone used top-tier political leverage to file a formal complaint with the National Institutes of Health. They are alleging your PhD and all your published international research are based on academic fraud.” “A joint federal investigative task force has been mobilized. They are en route now.”

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