Blair Wellington was in love with my roommate. She stood with him in front of both our families, publicly demanding that the ridiculous childhood engagement between us be canceled. She pointed at me and addressed the parents in the room: “I have never loved him, and the thought of marrying him makes me physically ill.” That was the last day I ever loved Blair Wellington. Later, when another girl confessed her feelings to me, Blair tried desperately to stop us from being together. In her hand, she clutched the childish marriage vow she’d written for me when we were kids. “But you promised… you’d only ever marry me when we grew up.” 1 I had just arrived when Blair Wellington started arguing with her parents—with my roommate, Nolan, standing right beside her. I stomped the snow off my boots and reached for the front door. “I already told you, I never agreed to that absurd engagement pact!” The cold sneer in her voice stopped my hand right before I pushed the door open. “That was set when you two were children! Now you bring a boy here? Do you have any idea how much shame you’re bringing to the Rivers family?!” Through the small gap in the doorway, I watched Blair arguing with her father. My own parents sat silently on the side, their faces drawn and tight. “This is my boyfriend, Nolan.” Blair clutched Nolan Pierce’s hand, staking her claim. Her father’s face was turning beet red. “You are going to marry Cam, and that’s final! You don’t get a choice!” My hand trembled, and the door swung open unexpectedly. Every eye in the room landed on me. Blair’s gaze was cold. She pointed a finger at me and looked back at her parents. Her voice rang out, clear and definitive. “I have never loved him, and the thought of marrying him makes me physically ill.” She didn’t wait for a reply, pulling Nolan out the door and past me. Her eyes swept over me without acknowledgment, as if I were a piece of furniture. Behind them, her parents frantically apologized, while my dad’s face was dark with a fury that wanted to chase Blair down and shake her. I just stood there, staring at the retreating backs of the two people who had just humiliated me. Blair and I had grown up together. For years, she had never once denied the engagement pact. When people teased us about it, she’d always laugh along. I thought she loved me as much as I loved her. 2 That night, after two long hours of my parents’ attempts to console me, I was finally allowed to go to bed. Mom had called me in sick for the day, so I hadn’t returned to the dorm. Just as I was drifting off, my phone on the nightstand lit up. A text from Blair. “I’m downstairs. Come down, we need to talk.” I thought back to her words earlier. My childhood sweetheart, my Blair-y-Bear, had deliberately destroyed me to be with another guy. I didn’t go down that night. I didn’t sleep well, either. I kept having fragmented dreams. A tiny Blair, perched at a desk, carefully writing something down. A moment later, she hopped off the chair. She ran toward my young self. “Camden, when we grow up, you have to marry your Blair-y-Bear.” Her soft little hand pressed her self-made “marriage vow” into mine, her bright eyes sincere and earnest. “Blair-y-Bear will be with Camden forever.” The moon cut through the last layer of clouds, the light blurring my eyes. Half-asleep, I wiped a cold wetness from the corner of my eye. 3 I was intercepted by Blair the next morning on my way to school. “Leaving this late? Did you skip breakfast again?” The familiarity of her tone made me pause. Blair held out a bag of pre-prepared breakfast items. “Camden, what I said yesterday wasn’t aimed at you.” “I just got carried away and said things I didn’t mean.” I stepped back, avoiding the breakfast bag. “No, thank you. Taking anything from you right now would be… nauseating.” Blair pulled her hand back, staring at me fixedly. Her voice cooled. “Did throwing my words back at me make you feel better?” “Camden, I need you to leave Nolan alone. He didn’t do anything wrong; I was the one who went after him.” Blair’s request proved to be highly prescient. Though, as it turned out, Nolan was the one who decided to provoke me. I arrived in class shortly after her. Just as I sat at my desk, Nolan walked up, holding a cup of milk. His voice was just loud enough to cut through the quiet hum of the room, drawing everyone’s attention. “Cam, here’s a drink. Can you forgive me?” I glanced at the milk, then up at him. “Forgive you for what, exactly?” Nolan placed the milk on my desk, looking appropriately embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have accepted Blair’s friend request. I didn’t know she was your childhood sweetheart.” His voice was apologetic. He reached up, intending to put a hand on my shoulder. “Please don’t be mad, Cam.” “If you can just let this go, I’ll even give Blair back to you.” The words I was about to say were cut short by another voice—Nolan’s best friend, who was now laughing in disbelief, jumping to Nolan’s defense. “Nolan, you don’t need to apologize! Cam and Blair are just friends, right?” “You didn’t steal his friend, so what’s the big deal?” “And honestly, Cam, can you ditch the moody rich-boy act? Stop being such a jerk.” The pair were putting on a perfect show. “You two really have this down—one playing the good cop, the other the bad cop, huh?” I finished, yanking Nolan’s hand away. I hadn’t used much force, but he gasped and stumbled back dramatically. “Ah!” He crashed into my desk, and the hot milk splashed across his chest. That was the moment Blair walked in. “Nolan, are you okay? Are you hurt?” She pulled a handful of paper towels from her bag and thrust them into Nolan’s hands, her eyes filled with frantic concern. “I’m fine, Blair,” he mumbled. The surrounding students all shot me accusatory looks. “What are you looking at? He walked right into it.” I found it almost funny. Blair must have heard me, but her attention remained fixed on Nolan. “Let’s get you to the nurse’s office to clean up. Try to bear with it.” She helped Nolan stand up and guided him out. The entire time, I was invisible to her. In the afternoon, Nolan’s friend, still furious on his behalf, got his revenge. I was walking out of the communal kitchen with a bottle of warm water and coffee grounds when I ran straight into him. He deliberately slammed into me, spilling the murky liquid all over my front, and then shoved me hard. “Whoops. My bad, man. Didn’t see you there.” He shrugged nonchalantly and walked off. I looked up and met Blair’s eyes from across the hallway. She was watching me, her expression as cold and detached as if she were looking at a complete stranger. … I walked into the classroom moments before the bell rang, my clothes still damp. I was holding an empty bottle. In the kitchen, I had mixed some lukewarm water with old, murky coffee grounds for the “revenge” I had just had. Before anyone could react, I uncapped the bottle. The dark, staining liquid poured straight over the other boy’s head. “That,” I said, looking him dead in the eye, “was intentional. And no, I’m not apologizing.” He screamed, scrambling to his feet. “What is that?! What did you throw at me?!” I just smirked, offering no explanation. It wasn’t until the entire school was involved that I finally clarified to the principal: “It was just lukewarm water mixed with old coffee grounds. It stains, but it’s not caustic.” 4 After that incident, I was completely isolated. Everyone avoided me. I started to question myself. Had I really been wrong? If I was right, why was I the one being ostracized? Meanwhile, Blair and Nolan had become the class’s golden couple, the star students. The night they publicly confirmed their relationship was also the night I finally admitted my truth. “There’s a class party on Friday night. Are you going to come?” The class president hesitated, clearly having asked everyone else first before reluctantly approaching me. My face was calm, but the hand tucked under the desk was clenched tight. “I’ll go.” I thought, maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t been completely shut out. At the club, we were playing Truth or Dare. When it was Blair’s turn, someone grinned wickedly. “Blair, if your childhood sweetie Cam and your… well, your current guy Nolan both fell into the water, who would you save?” At the time, I never imagined that question would turn into a horrifying premonition. Blair and Nolan were sitting right across from me. The air in the room froze. I kept my eyes fixed on the teacup in front of me. I knew I could leave, but something held me in place. Across the table, Blair gave a small, light laugh. Her tone was measured. “What do you mean, ‘current guy’? He’s my boyfriend, didn’t you know?” In my peripheral vision, she looped her arm through Nolan’s. “Nolan, can you swim?” she asked him. “I’m a total brick,” he confessed, looking slightly embarrassed. Blair sighed playfully, her voice dripping with affection. “Then if you fell in the ocean, I’d have to haul you all the way back, wouldn’t I?” She hadn’t answered the question directly, but the answer was chillingly clear. And it made sense. Nolan was her boyfriend. Saving him first was what any girlfriend would do. I briefly closed my eyes, suppressing the sting of humiliation. Everyone started cheering, teasing the straight-A student about her romantic side. I lowered my breathing, shrinking my presence, terrified of being caught in a look of pity or mockery. But Nolan wasn’t going to let me off that easily. When it was my turn, he smiled, looking perfectly harmless. He asked, gently: “Cam, do you have anyone you like here? Or anyone you’ve ever liked?” He spoke the most cruel words in the most casual tone, making everyone think he was just joking. “Don’t lie, or you’ll have seven years of bad luck, promise?” I felt like I was backed into a corner. Making a scene now would mean permanent banishment, guaranteeing those pitying stares. I slowly raised my eyes and met Nolan’s gaze. “Yes,” I said. The moment the word left my mouth, I felt Blair’s eyes snap to mine. Nolan just grinned, wrapping an arm around Blair’s waist. “Good to know.” A few months ago, this would have been unbearable. But now, after admitting I had loved Blair, that raw emotion felt distant. It felt like a final, faint breeze had swept away the last fragile remnant of my feelings for Blair. The wind passed, leaving the surface untouched. At seventeen, I let go of three years of unspoken love. I was finally certain: I didn’t love Blair Wellington anymore. 5 “Camden.” The party was breaking up, and Blair called out to me before I could leave. She came closer, her expression complicated. “Earlier, when you said you liked someone…” She paused for a difficult two seconds. “Was it me?” To be honest, I felt no lingering affection for the girl standing in front of me. “It was,” I confirmed. Then I added, “But it was in the past tense.” “The moment you pointed at me and said the thought of marrying me made you ill, I decided I was done. Especially now that you have a boyfriend—I’ve genuinely moved on.” Blair’s lips were pressed into a thin line, and she said nothing. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ve always thought of you like a brother.” I didn’t want to hear her weak excuses. “Blair, I’ll make it up to you.” I immediately refused. I even used my actions to prove my point: I truly wanted to be rid of her and her boyfriend. But Blair wouldn’t listen, instead piling on useless attempts to alleviate her guilt. She kept insisting on bringing me breakfast, even though I threw it away every time. Her occasional acts of misplaced kindness. Nolan, however, didn’t see my desperate avoidance; he only saw my efforts to steal Blair back. The retaliation started coming in waves. … The day before the results of the mock exams were released, Nolan was called to the principal’s office. He returned crying, collapsing onto his desk. Rumors immediately spread that he had cheated on the exam. Blair and her friends, however, refused to believe it. He was, after all, the second-highest-ranking student in the grade, right after Blair. “Nolan? No way! That crib sheet they found couldn’t have been his.” “Exactly! Nolan isn’t like that, come on.” I didn’t pay much attention. But I did remember that I had done well on the exam, making fewer mistakes than usual. After the scores were posted, my brief feeling of accomplishment was shattered when Blair cornered me after school. “Camden.” “Was it you?” I looked at her, confused. “Was what me?” “Framing Nolan for cheating? Wasn’t that you?” “That little slip of paper—didn’t you plant it?” She was cold, the accusation pressing down on me. “Am I that bored?” I scoffed. “Do you honestly think I care about him enough to start trouble?” Blair scrutinized me, her eyes narrowed. “Then why did your score jump twenty-seven points since the last test?” “Maybe I just studied hard and earned it!” I had reached my limit. “Blair, you’re becoming delusional.” Her expression darkened, and then she let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Camden, how did you turn into this person?” “Sabotage and slander, unrepentant.” Blair shook her head, her eyes full of disappointment. “Is this what your family taught you?” I was so furious I nearly laughed, ready to deny everything. But Blair turned on her phone, showing me a segment of the office surveillance video. Between the time the papers were collected and lunch, I was the only student who had entered the office. This was Nolan’s game. He had deliberately planted the cheat sheet inside his own exam booklet. Since he knew the answers, no one believed he cheated. Combined with the video, I was instantly convicted. Blair looked down at me, distant. She tossed out a cold sentence before walking away. “Camden, everyone has to take responsibility for their actions.” 6 I put my last shred of hope in the principal. After all, this wasn’t about concrete evidence; it was about subjective judgment. But the principal only looked at me with deep disappointment. “Camden! What was your motivation for doing this?!” “Was it jealousy because Nolan’s grades are better than yours?” My throat instantly went dry, and all the fight left me. I couldn’t say a word. When Blair accompanied Nolan into the office, his eyes were still red rimmed. “Cam! Weren’t we close? I always thought of you as my friend, and this is how you treat me?” He grabbed a heavy textbook off the desk and threw it straight into my face. He screamed: “My life was almost ruined because of you! Do you have any idea what you did?” Blair turned her head away, remaining completely silent. The principal scolded Nolan lightly for the violence. But before I could retaliate, he looked at me, a warning in his eyes. Then he quickly changed the subject. “Camden, apologize to Nolan, and I won’t invalidate your test score or record a demerit.” If my score was canceled, I would be removed from the Advanced Placement class for my final year. But I hadn’t done it. How could I apologize? “I’ll only say this once: I did not frame Nolan Pierce for cheating.” The moment the words left my mouth, I felt a cold wetness under my nose. Nolan’s throw had been hard enough to draw blood. I ignored the three people with their varied expressions and walked straight out. “Stop.” Blair chased after me, blocking my path. She frowned when she saw the blood dripping from my nose. But her words were still accusatory. “Camden, you have to apologize to Nolan. He shouldn’t have to carry that slander because of you.” I lightly dabbed the blood with my hand and held it out for her to see. My voice was very quiet. “Blair Wellington, can I at least clean myself up first?” I felt utterly exhausted. Like a person clinging to a cliff edge, I no longer had the strength to hold on to the last life-saving root. I didn’t even want to argue anymore. Blair furrowed her brow. “I’ll take you.” She reached out to grab my hand. I stepped back slightly, looking down, my eyes devoid of emotion. “Blair.” “Please.” “Get lost.” 7 I never apologized to Nolan. But everyone seemed to have tacitly agreed that I was guilty of framing him. Students who had previously ignored me now openly talked badly about me. My test score, the one twenty-seven points higher than before, was nullified. My seemingly stable emotions were starting to crumble. Had I really been wrong? Why was I always the one paying the price? Then came the school-arranged field trip—a mandatory nature hike. This became Nolan’s next opportunity to trap me. “Nolan Pierce and Camden Rivers, you two are a team for collecting brushwood.” … Deep in the woods, Nolan’s true colors emerged. I discreetly switched on the voice recorder in my backpack. “Cam, does it hurt that I stole your childhood sweetheart?” He stood behind me, sounding casual and relaxed. I led the conversation. “So, you deliberately planted that crib sheet to make Blair hate me completely and stop me from trying to get her back?” He glanced around, then smiled, pleased with himself. “Yep. And look, nobody believes you’re innocent, do they?” “How was it? When that heavy book hit your face? That must have hurt, right?” I had what I needed and didn’t want to press him further. With this recording, he could be thoroughly ruined, suspended, or transferred. But he wasn’t finished. The moment I turned to leave, he shoved me hard. “Ah—” As I tumbled down the slope, Nolan, in a moment of arrogant carelessness, also slipped. We both ended up clinging to a tree trunk on the steep incline, precariously balanced. 8 I tried to save myself, but it was useless. Blair, having likely heard Nolan’s scream, was the first to arrive. “Blair, save me…” His face was ghostly white as he looked at her. The girl’s eyes found me, a fleeting look of pity there. “I’m sorry, Camden.” She reached out a hand to Nolan. … “Once Nolan’s up, I’ll pull you up immediately.” Nolan’s face shifted at her words. He used her leverage and started to climb. I forced a weak smile. “Right. Thank you.” I had no right to complain. Nolan was her boyfriend. Saving him first was what any girlfriend would do. I was even surprised she was willing to risk saving me at all. I had thought she would just go back for the principal. But as Nolan climbed, he suddenly stomped his foot down onto my hand. He ground his heel back and forth. He used his other foot to gain purchase, making it look like an accidental slip. The pain made me gasp, and I instinctively loosened my grip. I tumbled down the hill. “Camden!” “Cam!”

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After yet another chilly standoff with Cam, my partner of seven years, I didn’t cave. My friends rallied around me. “She’s just complicated, you know? A little contradictory.” “A woman who battles herself needs a saint for a boyfriend.” “She’s just testing you.” But I was truly exhausted. I had nothing left to give, and no desire left to apologize. All the cold wars, the pointless arguments, the constant emotional dodging over the years had worn me down to the point where I couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Was she genuinely complicated and emotionally unavailable, or was she simply done loving me? So when she tossed “We’re done” at me like a verbal grenade, I simply caught it. “Then let’s be done.” 1 Cathy Riley visibly froze. I kept my head down, my voice low and steady. “I’ll pack my things and take them out as soon as I can. Anything we bought together can stay with you. As for the clothes you left at my place, if you want them back quickly, let me know. Otherwise, I can box them up and ship them to you.” The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by my own clipped speech. Cathy’s expression shifted from stormy anger to a blank, startling composure. She cut me off. “What about Toby? How do we split custody?” Toby was the stray cat I’d found outside our apartment complex. I’d adopted him, paid for his food, vet bills, and toys—everything. Yet, he was utterly indifferent to me. Eight out of ten times, he refused to be held, and a few times, he’d actually clawed my wrist. Cathy, meanwhile, was aloof and rarely interacted with him, but Toby adored her. He’d rub against her legs and purr with an annoying, entitled meow. “He’s yours, too,” I sighed. Even my deep affection for the cat couldn’t withstand that kind of obvious favoritism. It felt like a tiny, final betrayal. “Nolan James,” Cathy hissed, her voice tight with suppressed fury. “You missed Valentine’s Day, and now you’rethrowing a tantrum?” Hadn’t she been the one to say “break up”? Maybe she’d forgotten. She’d used the phrase so often; it was a cheap, effective tool to leverage control, a threat she knew always worked on me. “I told you, the flight was delayed. I got here as fast as I could.” Cathy scoffed. “An excuse. Why couldn’t you have taken an earlier flight?” I’d spent over twelve hours working non-stop to condense my meetings just so I could catch the last flight home that day. But Cathy wouldn’t listen. She was ready with a hundred more reasons to indict me. I fell silent, a deep, weary sense of futility settling in my chest. She turned and walked a few steps toward the door, then paused, turning back with a cold, superior tone. “Until you realize your mistake, I won’t be back.” “We are broken up,” I corrected her. She acted as if she hadn’t heard me, tilting her head. “I’ll give you one more chance. My anger isn’t just about your delay.” This was new. Usually, she just slammed the door and vanished. “Think carefully, Nolan. Then come and apologize.” 2 I sat on the sofa for a long time, trying to summon the energy to clean up the living room. Then, I retrieved the gift from the wastebasket. It was the result of a frantic search across a dozen stores in a foreign city. She hadn’t spared it a glance, hadn’t valued it at all. It lay there, worthless, among the other detritus of the argument. After tidying the living room, I went to the bedroom to pack. This was Cathy’s house, but my life was imprinted everywhere: the matching coffee mugs, the cozy throw blanket, the couple’s cutlery we’d picked out together. I only grabbed a few changes of clothes, then picked up my suitcase to leave. As I reached the front door, a flash of orange-and-white streaked toward me. Toby, the traitorous cat, planted himself squarely in the middle of the carpet, his round eyes fixed on me as if to block my exit. When I’d found him, he was filthy and malnourished. Now, his fur was glossy and thick. He looked the picture of health. I crouched down. Surprisingly, Toby didn’t pull away. I gently stroked his head. “I’m leaving now. She’ll take care of you.” I assumed he’d be happy with that arrangement. He preferred Cathy anyway. Unlike me, he never sought my affection. I peeled Toby’s claws from where they were firmly hooked into my jeans and ignored his sudden, frantic meowing, walking out with my suitcase. 3 I was outside the building when my phone rang. It was one of Cathy’s friends, her voice heavy with accusation. “Nolan, what did you do to Cam this time? She’s out drinking, and no one can stop her. She’s throwing things. Get down here and haul her home before she trashes my bar.” I felt a weariness that went bone-deep. “I don’t know why she’s angry. She walked in and just started smashing glassware.” There was a pause on the other end, followed by surprise. “You don’t know? She found out you had dinner with another woman, and that woman dropped you off at your hotel. Cam’s furious. She’s jealous.” I explained, “That was a client. The dinner was business, strictly professional. She drove me back because it was raining, and I couldn’t get a taxi.” So, that was the real reason. Cathy had always been this way. If I exchanged more than two words with another woman, she’d spiral into a jealous fit. I used to rationalize it, telling myself it was possessiveness born of love. But now, all I felt was exhaustion. “I could have explained everything, easily. But I don’t understand one thing.” My voice was quiet, aimed at the friend, but meant for Cathy. “Why does she tell you everything, but she won’t just ask me?” I once asked a buddy what he did when he fought with his girlfriend. He thought about it and said, “Depends on who’s wrong. We just wait for both of us to cool off, talk it out, and move on.” Cathy never did that. She bottled everything up. I was always left guessing what was wrong, forced to go through her friends for intel. I couldn’t fathom why she refused to communicate directly with me, why she preferred to vent to others instead of seeking clarity from her partner. Later, I learned the term for her behavior: emotionally withholding. Cathy was the most complicated, sensitive, and volatile person I’d ever known. She only knew how to retreat and push back, using veiled barbs and cold silence as her weapons. Everyone warned me people like that weren’t suitable for serious relationships. I didn’t believe them. I rushed in, heart blazing with hope. But now, I was lost. If a relationship always required one person to be the only active participant—the one who pursued, placated, and apologized—could it truly last? 4 I moved back to my own apartment. We might have avoided each other socially, but professionally, we still overlapped. We worked at the same research institute, though in different departments. During a project handover, I saw Cathy with a young man. He had bright, earnest eyes, a new graduate student named Finn O’Connell. Cathy’s eyes lit up the moment she saw me. But I didn’t look at her. I calmly handed over the documents and reports. Just as instantly, her warm expression chilled into aloof indifference. She brushed past me without a word, her gaze fixed straight ahead. I heard Finn, ever the curious gossip, whisper, “How did Professor Riley get that huge scar on her arm? It startled me when I first saw it.” Someone quickly supplied the backstory. “You’re new here. Professor Riley and Professor James—our Nolan—they were the golden couple. That scar is from an emergency drill back in college. She injured her arm carrying him. They say the injury kept her from qualifying for the pilot program she always wanted. That’s why she switched majors and ended up here.” Finn’s eyes widened with admiration. “That’s incredible. They really are a dream couple.” The workplace gossip flared up. Everyone praised Cathy’s sacrifice—giving up her dream for me, following me to the Institute. They lauded her devotion and expressed envy toward me. Our recent cold war was dismissed as playful bickering. “I bet Nolan is the first one to apologize this time.” “Last time, he bought us all lattes. What’s it going to be this time? I want the fancy macarons.” “I don’t agree. You’re cheating. Nolan always caves first. I’ll take that bet only if you back Cam to apologize.” I stood in the corner, listening to their laughter and assumptions. But they were all wrong this time. “Cathy and I have broken up. Please don’t mention it again.” My unexpected statement shut down the conversation instantly. Everyone looked at each other, then quickly dispersed. Our relationship was nowhere near the fairy tale they imagined. The constant arguments and emotional standoffs had left it deeply wounded and fragile without anyone noticing. I wanted to know: If I stopped trying to fix it, stopped fighting to keep it alive—what would Cathy do? Would she notice? Would she fight for me? Would she finally, just this once, apologize first? 5 A whole month passed. Cathy and I were like strangers, locked in a silent, exhausting battle of wills, neither willing to yield. Meanwhile, Finn and Cathy grew noticeably closer. They ate lunch together, left work together, and during the team weekend retreat, Cathy chose him as her hiking partner. Finn looked a little hesitant. “Are you sure this is okay? What about Nolan?” Cathy’s voice was sharp and cold. “We broke up, didn’t we? Why would I care what he does?” She didn’t bother to lower her voice. “Besides, he loves running off and having dinner with other women. I’m sure he’ll do the same on the mountain.” Suddenly, everyone was looking at me differently. I heard the murmurs. “She’s too good for him. He cheated on her, no wonder she broke up with him.” When I walked past, the gossiping cluster scattered. Later, going up the trail, Finn twisted his ankle. Cathy immediately abandoned the climb to tend to him. Finn apologized profusely. “I’m sorry, I ruined our hike. Now we’re last.” Cathy comforted him, her voice soft and gentle. “It’s fine. It was just a casual trip to relax. The ranking doesn’t matter.” I was walking further behind them. Since the number of attendees was odd, I hadn’t wanted to split anyone up, so I was hiking alone. I’ve never had great stamina, and I was already breathing heavily. The two figures ahead of me were cozy and harmonious. I even heard someone praise Cathy for being so responsible and nurturing. 6 Cathy was responsible and nurturing. She was polite and gentle with everyone… except me. Back in college, she was the student-body leader. During that emergency drill, everyone ran outside. She ran to me, hauling me up—my foot was in a cast from an injury a few days prior. The whole campus heralded it as an act of pure devotion. But what they didn’t hear was her spitting words at me. “Do you know how much trouble you are? Why did you even come to class with that foot? Now our whole group is last. Nolan, you are absolutely useless.” I wanted to tell her I had a medical exemption and wasn’t supposed to participate. But listening to her harsh criticism, I kept quiet, unwilling to provoke her further. Her friends later told me she was “speaking backward.” She was genuinely worried about my injury and wanted me to rest at home. They said she specifically tracked down a specialist to prescribe me the expensive herbal medicine. “She only made a hundred dollars a day at her part-time job, but your medicine was eighty dollars a dose. She bought a two-week supply without blinking.” My friend was envious. “She’s just complicated, but she truly loves you. That whole ‘ice queen’ act is the best kind of drama.” But seeing Cathy comfort Finn, I realized the bitter truth: She wasn’t incapable of warmth; she simply chose to reserve her kindness for everyone but me. I could hear about her love for me through the accounts of others, but I never felt it from her attitude. She only hurled cruel words, rolled her eyes, and gave me the cold shoulder. She called me clumsy, she called me shallow. She cut up a scarf a coworker gave me and smashed a gaming console a colleague loaned me. I always told myself she was just jealous, that she cared too much. So, after being repeatedly pushed away, after every refusal to communicate, I’d talk myself down. I would be the patient one, the proactive one, the one who apologized again and again. But even love, even enthusiasm, needs reciprocity. I wasn’t invincible in this relationship. I felt hurt, too. Emotional unavailability and a lack of love look so identical. I was so heartbroken I couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Was Cathy truly just complicated, or had she stopped loving me? 7 I stopped walking and quietly dropped out of the retreat. I texted my boss, claiming I felt ill. Back at my place, I systematically gathered up everything Cathy had left behind, along with all the gifts she’d ever given me. I packed it all up and shipped it to her address. When I was done, I stared blankly at the sofa for a while. Then, I picked up my phone and typed three short words. “We are done.” Last time, it had been a desperate test, a small, fragile hope that she would ask to reconcile. But this time was real. I genuinely wanted to walk away.

The deal was simple. Cruel, but simple: My wife, Alisa, was a Traveler—a soul thrown into this world—and the only way for her to permanently stay was to successfully complete her mission: conquer the second Male Lead. But somewhere along the way of her mission, she fell in love with me, the actual Male Lead. She was caught between her survival, tied to the world’s directive, and the genuine affection she’d developed for me. A difficult choice, I thought at the time. Then I flew overseas to finalize a massive acquisition, only to be ambushed and snatched by an international criminal cartel. For three agonizing hours, I endured tortures that felt less like an interrogation and more like a depraved inventory—every piece of equipment they owned was tested against my body. In a momentary lapse of their attention, drowning in a pain that rendered me delirious, I managed to dial her number, a desperate plea for rescue. The line connected, but it wasn’t Alisa’s voice that answered. It was static, followed by her unconsciously picking up the call, allowing me to listen to her conversation with her secretary. “Ms. Sebastian, are you sure about this? Ordering the cartel to… put Mr. Hawthorne through that? It’s extreme.” Alisa’s voice was frighteningly devoid of emotion. “He won’t die. He can’t.” Once the secretary left, I heard her whisper to herself. “Noel is the Male Lead. He has the shield of the main character. He can’t die.” “This ordeal is the key—it breaks his narrative power, shifts him into Tristan’s role, the Male Lead 2. Once he becomes Tristan, the mission ends, and I get to stay and have him. It’s the only way to have both.” The words were a bucket of ice water, washing away the pain and replacing it with a bone-deep chill of understanding. The marriage, the love, the devotion—it was all a tactical play. When the thugs eventually dragged me, a broken, shivering mess, back to the torture rack, I offered no resistance. … The long, surgical needle pressed deep beneath my nail beds, but I barely reacted. I was numb. Not just from the pain, but from the utter emotional obliteration. “Damn, this guy’s tough as nails,” one of the thugs grumbled. “I’ve lost count of how many implements we’ve used. Not a single sound out of him.” The cartel leader frowned. “The employer said he must be brought to the brink of death. Repeat the last sequence!” After another relentless sequence of agony, the concrete floor was slick with my blood. Even the men administering the punishment looked uneasy. The leader, visibly unnerved, took a call. It was Alisa. “Ms. Sebastian, we’ve put this man through hell twice now. If we continue, he won’t make it,” he cautioned. Alisa instantly cut him off. “You have to keep going for three full hours! The torture cannot stop! And every man must take a turn on his… on his person. Ten cuts total, ten segments—not one segment less!” The leader glanced at my bloodied, unrecognizable form, a flicker of something that looked like pity in his eyes. “But, Ms. Sebastian…” “No buts. You took the money. Do the job. I promise you, he won’t die! How many cuts so far?” A raw, involuntary scream tore from my throat as a new wave of fire ripped through my body. “Ah!” Hearing my cry, she stopped the cartel leader from answering. “Enough,” she said, her voice catching with what I now knew was a performance of distress. “I can’t bear to hear his screams anymore. I’m… heartbroken.” Alisa inhaled deeply, her voice trembling slightly. “Do as we planned. Inject the virus into him last, then you can scatter.” Then, as if she couldn’t stand another second of hearing the echoes of my torment, she hung up abruptly. I knew exactly what “virus” she was referring to. I had traveled here a month ago for the deal. Before it was finalized, a lethal, rapidly spreading virus had caused the country to lock down. Alisa had shown up shortly after the outbreak began. I had been foolishly moved, believing she risked her life to be by my side. Now, I realized she had arrived early only to orchestrate this entire nightmare. The leader sighed, waving his hand for the men to continue. The next hour was a blur of suffering I can’t recall clearly, a period where my body ceased to feel like my own. When they finally lifted me off the rack, there wasn’t an inch of undamaged skin left, and I couldn’t even stand. The leader stepped forward, gripping my hair, and administered an injection into my neck. I was past feeling the prick of the needle, but I knew what he was doing. When the room finally fell silent, I opened my eyes. With the last ounce of strength, I focused on my left hand and forced the wedding band from my ring finger. I stared at the plain, platinum band. So many memories flashed through my mind. Our marriage was initially a strategic merger between the Hawthorne and Sebastian families. I was open to it, but Alisa fought it fiercely—after all, she was supposed to be conquering Tristan Bellweather. I had met with her, intending to break the engagement amicably. To my surprise, the moment she saw me, she reversed course. She insisted on marrying me. “I’m not impulsive, Noel,” she had said, her eyes wide and sincere. “I fell in love with you at first sight!” I had reservations about “love at first sight,” but she was so resolute, so beautiful, that I eventually agreed. It didn’t seem to matter who I was merged with. In the ensuing months, Alisa had proven her devotion in countless small ways, gradually melting the ice around my heart. She had placed this ring on my hand on our wedding day. She had told me it was a simple band because she’d made it herself, even sourcing the raw materials from a remote mine. Her sincerity had touched me deeply, and I had worn it ever since. Now, looking at it, I felt nothing but an absurd, choking mockery. This was Alisa Sebastian’s love. Ignoring the excruciating pain, I swung my arm. The ring, once a symbol of my devotion, arced through the dim light, struck the wall with a sharp, pathetic clink, and settled silently in the dust. I lay there, feeling the terrifying, subtle changes beginning inside me. The virus had begun its work. It was fast-acting, lethal, and started with crippling weakness and dizziness. It wasn’t instantly fatal, but that was if the body was intact and healthy. After three hours of unrelenting torment, my immune system was nonexistent. Injecting this now was a death sentence. The initial symptoms hit me like a sledgehammer. Within thirty minutes, I felt trapped between freezing cold and searing heat, my body racked by spasms. Without the counter-agent—the specific anti-viral vaccine—I had less than forty-eight hours to live. I had assumed the cartel wanted a ransom, given I was the CEO of the Hawthorne Group, worth billions. Instead, this entire horror show was orchestrated by my wife to turn me into Tristan Bellweather’s plot device. Tristan had been a constant shadow in our lives since the start of our marriage. I hated the man for his thinly veiled challenges, and the worst part was Alisa’s consistent defense of him. “Noel, you know I only interact with Tristan because of the World Will’s instructions. It’s the only way for me to stay here, for us to have a future. Please, just be patient with me.” “He’s only a friend, I swear. I love you, truly. Trust me, when this is over, I will make it up to you.” She had confessed everything about the Traveler premise on our wedding night. It was a fantastical, almost unbelievable story, but I loved her, so I chose to believe. For her, I had tolerated every provocation from Tristan. Alisa would always return with gifts and apologies, her eyes brimming with what I believed was genuine distress, begging for more patience. And I always forgave her. For our future. But this. This went too far. She had orchestrated my death. In that instant, the heart-wounding betrayal surpassed the physical agony. As my consciousness began to drift, I heard the rapid, panicked sounds of footsteps, followed by Alisa’s voice—a perfect blend of forced panic and manufactured distress. “Noel, stay with me! I’m getting you to the hospital now. You’re going to be fine!” She immediately directed her men to gently lift me onto a waiting gurney. Even with their careful movements, the raw pain was an oceanic wave, overwhelming everything. Seeing the grimace on my face, Alisa’s eyes welled up. She reached for my hand, then hesitated, unable to find an untouched spot to grasp. Suddenly, her gaze snagged on my bare finger. The lack of the ring made her body stiffen almost imperceptibly. She clearly wanted to ask about it, but seeing my condition, she swallowed the question. In this state, who would care about a piece of jewelry? She pushed down a flash of annoyance and leaned closer. “Just a little longer, Noel. We’re almost at the hospital!” Before, her concerned tone would have made me feel safe and cherished. Now, it made me sick. The pain in my body was a constant, searing reminder of the person responsible for it. Every ounce of love I had felt for Alisa curdled into a corrosive hatred. I clenched my fists, reopening the wounds on my hands, the sharp, distracting pain the only thing keeping the rising bile of hatred from consuming me completely. Alisa sat beside the gurney in the ambulance, her face etched with anxiety and pity. Looking at her tear-filled, concerned features, I found her utterly repulsive. If I didn’t know the entire sequence was her own macabre play, I might have believed she was heartbroken. My gaze hardened. My voice was cold, razor-sharp. “You had my GPS tracker. Why are you only showing up now?” The warehouse where I was held was only two blocks from the hotel. I had a subcutaneous tracker linked directly to her phone. She would have known my exact location the moment she checked. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Of course. She wasn’t nearby waiting for the timer to run out—she was waiting until the coast was clear. Hearing the caustic sound, Alisa flinched, assuming my bitterness was only about her delay. She looked contrite, tears spilling over. “I am so sorry, darling. It’s my fault. My phone broke while I was searching for you.” She reached for my face. “But I promise, you’ll have the best care. I’ll make sure you recover completely.” “And those savages who hurt you? They won’t get away with this!” I couldn’t stomach her hypocritical show any longer. I closed my eyes, seeking darkness to shut out her face. The ambulance sped to the nearest hospital. When the surgical team saw the state I was in—a body covered in blood—they gasped. They had never seen such extensive trauma. Inside the operating room, the doctors were visibly shaken. All my fingernails had been pulled out. My body was a roadmap of knife wounds, stab marks, burns, and needle punctures. It was a level of systematic cruelty that defied comprehension. Most people would have succumbed to despair after the first hour, yet somehow, I had survived. Just barely. Some of the nurses, overcome with emotion, wept silently, whispering curses against the inhuman kidnappers. Alisa waited outside. When the surgeon emerged, she rushed forward. The doctor removed his mask, sighing heavily. “It’s dire, Ms. Sebastian. The worst case I’ve ever seen. Thankfully, he maintained consciousness and possessed an unbelievable will to live. That’s why he’s alive now.” Relief washed over Alisa’s face. Then, the doctor’s expression turned grim as he described the extent of the physical damage. “The brutality of the perpetrators… Mr. Hawthorne… he is no longer whole. The injuries to his groin area were inflicted with such deliberate cruelty—ten distinct, severed segments. The damage is irreversible and beyond any current surgical repair…” Alisa’s face drained of color. She stumbled backward, hitting the wall. “Stop!” she cried out, cutting off the doctor’s sentence. She slid down the wall until she was on the floor, tears streaming down her face as she murmured, “Don’t say it… please don’t say it…” The doctor, believing her distress was due to her husband’s horrific suffering, decided to withhold the last piece of crucial information: the viral infection and the need for immediate vaccination. He figured he would simply have the nurse administer it shortly. When the anesthetic wore off, I woke up to Alisa’s concerned face hovering over me. A powerful wave of pure disgust and loathing surged through me, so intense it made my stomach churn. Unaware of my internal collapse, Alisa brightened, pressing the call button and immediately asking if I was in pain. Her fake concern felt like a physical violation. When the doctor arrived and finished his check-up, he turned to Alisa. “He’s stable, but we need to address the viral infection immediately. I’ll have the nurse come in with the vaccine.” At the mention of the virus, a flicker of panic crossed Alisa’s eyes, quickly followed by a strange, frantic motion as she ushered the doctor out. She returned to my bedside, whispering, “Don’t worry, once you get the shot, the virus will be harmless…” Just then, the door swung open, and a voice I equally despised chimed in. “Alisa, how is Noel holding up?” Tristan Bellweather walked in, an expression of studied worry on his face. But I saw the thinly veiled triumph dancing in his eyes. Alisa shook her head, unable to speak, then looked at the hypodermic needle in his hand, assuming it was the antiviral. Knowing Tristan had a medical background, she didn’t question it and quickly gave up her spot. “Why are you delivering it? Never mind. Give Noel the shot now, then I’ll arrange a flight for you back home.” Tristan frowned. “What about you?” Alisa gave me a look of staunch devotion. “I’m staying here until Noel is completely recovered.” I couldn’t stand her nauseating performance and turned my head away. Tristan sighed dramatically. “Alisa, I know how devoted you are, but you forgot about the mess waiting for us back home.” She met his gaze and remembered. Her sudden departure to execute this plan meant the Hawthorne Group’s board was already questioning her authority. She rubbed her temples wearily. “Fine. I’ll go back with you.” I laughed internally. Of course. Everything—the board, the company, the mission—was more important than me, her husband, who was fighting for his life. Alisa gave Tristan a few quick instructions, then left to contact the airport. The moment she was gone, Tristan slid onto the edge of my bed, intentionally pressing down on my wounded leg. I frowned, pulling my hand away. I refused to look at him. Tristan scoffed, his voice dripping with schadenfreude. “I never thought the great Noel Hawthorne would fall this far.” “How does it feel? To be crushed into the dirt?” I turned my head and met his gaze, my voice strained. “Even like this, she still hasn’t divorced me.” Tristan’s triumphant smile evaporated. He glanced at the syringe he had placed on the side table, then the grin returned, crueler than before. He picked up the needle. “Do you know what this is? This is a high-dose sedative. Enough to keep you asleep for at least twenty-four hours.” “Alisa told me to bring it. She needs that time to swoop in, steal the multi-billion-dollar medical contract you’ve been working on, and hand it straight to me.” My eyes widened in shock. “What are you talking about!” Our companies were fierce, equally matched rivals in the medical equipment sector. This contract would solidify the Hawthorne Group as the industry titan, completely eclipsing Tristan’s Bellweather Medical. I had spent two weeks working non-stop, even drinking myself to the point of a near ulcer with the client, to secure this. Alisa knew how critical this deal was to my legacy. How dare she hand it to him! Tristan reveled in my stunned expression. He knew he was running out of time, so he grabbed my wrist, pushed the needle into my vein, and emptied the syringe into my system. As the fog of the sedative overtook me, I heard Tristan’s voice, thick with exhilaration. “Noel Hawthorne, everything you have—it’s mine now!” Tristan’s intent was quickly thwarted. My body was too ravaged, the pain too overwhelming. I only slept for an hour before the agony tore me back to consciousness. I opened my eyes to see a fully masked doctor standing by my bed. The doctor looked confused. “I specifically asked the nurse to administer the antiviral shot. Why are you still presenting with such aggressive viral symptoms?” I gave a bitter, gasping laugh. “Because the vaccine was swapped.” The doctor’s eyes widened in horror. “What! Who would do such a thing? Swapping a vaccine at a time like this—it’s murder!” I gripped his sleeve, my voice thin and desperate. “Doctor, it’s only been seventeen hours since the injection. There’s still time. You have to give me the vaccine.” I would not die. Not until I made them both pay. The doctor’s face fell. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hawthorne. The hospital is completely out.” I yelled, despair rising in my chest. “How can you be out!” He sighed. “We’re not in the main infection zone. All remaining stock was rerouted to the areas with higher confirmed cases. The vial that was swapped… that was the last one.” I instantly thought of my rivals. “Tristan! Alisa! They haven’t boarded yet. Call my secretary, Harrison. He needs to intercept them!” The doctor understood the urgency. He nodded and rushed out to contact Harrison Cole. Infected and isolated, I could only wait, paralyzed by the fever and the pain. Ninety minutes later, Harrison returned, his face pale and etched with defeat. He stood outside the glass partition, shaking his head. “I tried, Mr. Hawthorne. I demanded the vaccine. Tristan insisted he had already given it to you.” “And Alisa!” I pleaded. “She was right there! She should have forced him!” Harrison looked away, a pained expression crossing his face. “Mrs. Hawthorne… she believed Tristan. She told me to tell you to stop playing games and that she would come back to you once her affairs were sorted out.” Rage blinded me. I swept everything from my bedside table, sending instruments and water flying. “Who needs her company! I hope she dies! I just need the vaccine!” The moment the words left my lips, a searing pain erupted in my chest, and I violently spat out a mouthful of dark, clotted blood.

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The day my sister, Rylee, ran off with Cruz, the low-life she was dating, I did what my parents, Helen and George, told me to do: I went to find her. I never thought I’d be the one dragged into a dark alleyway and brutalized by Cruz and his friends. Rylee passed out cold right there, a neat little heap of shock. Me? I was left a mess of torn skin and spilled blood, fading in and out of consciousness for ten months in the ICU. When I finally woke up, Mom and Dad were holding a newborn baby. I broke. I tried to take the baby and myself off our apartment building’s roof several times. I only stopped when my family, literally kneeling on the worn gravel of the rooftop, begged me to live. Rylee, my once-rebellious little sister, was inconsolable, swearing on everything she had. “Stella, I promise I’ll never make a mistake again.” Mom and Dad knelt with her, their voices thick with commitment. “Your uterus was removed to save your life,” Mom choked out. “We had to save your right to be a mother. That’s all that matters.” Dad’s hands were shaking as he spoke. “You just focus on rebuilding your life. We will raise Wyatt. You won’t have to do a thing.” But when I finally, tentatively, started to accept the boy’s existence—when I reached out to pull the blanket over him one night—Mom burst out of the kitchen. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she shoved me onto the floor. “Are you trying to hurt him? Can you really not tolerate this child?” “Your sister is already staying away because of you! What else do you want?” Then came the line that severed the last thread of my sanity. Her voice was flat, laced with pure, casual disgust. “You know, for someone who always felt like she was in Rylee’s shadow, getting to sleep with her man—even like that—you must have gotten some twisted satisfaction, didn’t you?” A flicker of contempt crossed her eyes as she scooped up the baby and walked away. My fingers trembled. I climbed the stairs to the rooftop for the thirty-ninth time. I didn’t look back. … 1 The sound was a hollow, sickening thud. My body hit the lawn by the first-floor entrance just as Mom stepped out of the elevator. She didn’t see me. She just heard the noise and muttered a curse. “What in God’s name was that awful noise? Don’t you dare scare my precious grandson!” She cooed to the child in her arms. “Wyatt, don’t cry, baby. Grandma is taking you far away from your mean mommy.” I drifted in the air, looking down at my broken, shattered body, a grim, pathetic smile playing on my lips. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard my mother’s true thoughts. The first New Year’s after Rylee left, Mom cried looking at Rylee’s empty chair at the dinner table. Later, after I’d gone back to my room, I heard her sighing to Dad. “Stella has grown up, I guess. She sends us money every month now.” “But no matter how hard I try, Rylee won’t come home. Money is hard to earn out there. Our little girl, who never lifted a finger, shouldn’t have to suffer like this.” “George, she’s afraid of seeing Stella. If Stella had just… died that day, maybe…” “Enough,” Dad snapped, cutting her off, glancing nervously toward my closed door. The second time was Wyatt’s second birthday. There was a rare burst of laughter in our small apartment. Dad closed down the diner early, and Mom lit the candles on a tiny, three-layer cake. But in the warm glow of the candles, looking at the child’s eyes—the exact shape and hue of Cruz’s—I was instantly pulled back to that dim alley. Cruz, Rylee’s boyfriend, leered at me. He snapped his fingers, and seven, then eight, then nine other thugs swarmed out of the shadows. Rylee fainted. I was trapped. They piled on top of me. They used shards of glass to slice my skin, and they used something else to tear into me. It was all a bloody, churning, sickening mess… And my family was celebrating the birthday of my rapist’s child. A wave of phantom pain seized me, and I started convulsing right there in the middle of the cheer. The smashed candles set a small fire on the cake, and Wyatt started to scream. Dad was frantic, trying to keep me from hurting myself. Mom looked at the red scalds on Wyatt’s arm and her face crumpled in agony. She sank to the floor, her voice a broken whisper. “George, when will we ever have a happy day again?” “Will it only happen when Stella…” Dad froze. His hand, pressing on my face, loosened for a second. But only for a second. He pressed harder, a tear dropping onto my cheek. “Stella, we didn’t consider your feelings. We are sorry.” “We will never celebrate Wyatt’s birthday again. We promise.” … Two years later, floating above them, I watched Mom carry Wyatt directly to the back office of our family diner. Dad, already waiting, pulled out a cake. It read: Happy 4th Birthday, Baby Wyatt. Dad eagerly took the boy, hugging and kissing his chubby cheeks. “How was it? Did Stella suspect anything?” he whispered. Mom gave him a smug, knowing look. “I intentionally picked a fight with her. She’s probably stewing in her room right now.” Dad sighed. “Well, let her sulk. We can’t ignore our grandson every year just to cater to her.” Mom nodded. “Her temper is getting worse every year. Ignore her. Come on, let’s sing for our little man!” Dad smiled mysteriously. “Hold on. We have one more person joining Wyatt’s party today.” As if on cue, a familiar voice rang out from the doorway. “Dad. Mom. I’m home.” 2 Dad, Mom, and I all turned our heads at the same time. Rylee stood in the doorway, carrying big bags. Four years. She was thinner, a little harder around the edges. Mom’s eyes instantly filled with tears. She rushed over and grabbed Rylee’s shoulders. “Rylee! You stubborn girl, why did it take you so long to come home? Your mother has been worried sick!” Rylee forced a strained smile. As soon as she sat down, the tears started to fall. “Mom, Dad. Something has been weighing on me for four years.” “The truth is, I didn’t faint that day.” I froze in the air, my mind exploding in a silent burst of shock. “I heard Stella calling out. I heard her screams. But they were like rabid dogs. I was so scared…” Before she could finish, Mom clamped a hand over Rylee’s mouth. “Silly girl, don’t say it. Your mother knows.” Now it was Rylee’s turn to stare, her eyes wide with shock. Mom wiped the tears from Rylee’s cheek. “When you were stammering and speechless at the police station, your father and I knew. We knew you couldn’t look your sister in the eye, and that’s why you haven’t come home.” “But we’ve made our choice. We have to keep up the lie. Don’t ever speak of this again.” Dad remained silent. He knew too. I hovered there, feeling as if I had been plunged into a freezing pit. Mom and Dad’s faces looked utterly alien to me. I had never expected them to openly favor me. Since the diner kept them busy, I was raised by relatives until I was five. Rylee had been with them since birth. Of course, they were closer to her. So I accepted it. The bigger of the two chicken thighs on the dinner table always went to Rylee. The prettier doll at Christmas belonged to her. But what Rylee had, I eventually had too. That was enough. I convinced myself that a slight tilt of the scales was normal. Now I knew the chilling truth. The weights had never once fallen on my side of the scale. After a long silence, Rylee dug into her bags and pulled out gifts: a massage device for Dad, a wool coat for Mom, and a learning tablet for Wyatt. Finally, everyone’s eyes went, by silent agreement, to one final, unopened gift. It was thin, like a piece of paper, but it was the heaviest object in the room. Rylee unwrapped it and placed it on the table: a bank card. “Mom, Dad, there’s fifty thousand dollars on this card.” Dad’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Where did you get that kind of money?” Mom’s hands trembled. The card seemed to scald her eyes, and she threw her arms around Rylee, sobbing. “My baby! How much suffering did you go through out there? We don’t need you to earn this much!” Rylee lowered her head. “Stella needs it.” “I came home because I made a decision. I want to formally adopt Wyatt as my son. I’m giving forty thousand of this to Stella as a clean slate fund, a dowry, so she can marry someone she loves without shame.” My heart plummeted. I looked at the bank card, my emotions a confusing storm. Mom shot up to her feet. “Absolutely not! A young, unmarried woman with a child? What will people say?” Rylee countered, “What will people say about Stella? She’s an unmarried woman with a child.” Mom banged her fist on the table in desperation. “It’s not the same! You’re different!” “How are we different?!” “She’s damaged goods! She was trampled by seven or eight guys! Who is going to want her?!” Mom shrieked the words, so loud that people passing by the diner peered in. Even as a ghost, I felt a white-hot spike of shame, as if I had been nailed to a cross of dishonor. The word “damaged goods”—coming from my own mother—felt like a hand squeezing my heart until it bruised. Dad rushed to pull down the rolling shutter. “Stop fighting!” “Rylee, keep the fifty thousand. For yourself.” Rylee tried to argue, but Dad cut her off. “Your sister’s wedding fund is taken care of. You’re not a child anymore. You need to focus on your own future.” “As for Wyatt, as long as your mother and I are alive, he is our responsibility. We made the choice to save him!” “If you insist on doing this, you are trying to kill your mother and me!” With that final declaration, Rylee’s throat bobbed. She asked the one question left. “Why did you make my sister carry the rapist’s child?” Mom reacted violently, slapping Rylee across the face. I knew the trigger. She was remembering me screaming that exact question at her. “He’s not my son! He’s the rapist’s son!” “I was unconscious! I had no choice! Didn’t you care about my life? I have to look at this abomination for the rest of my life!” Mom was trembling, distraught. She cradled the red mark on Rylee’s face. Her voice was thick with a twisted kind of devotion. “Your sister lost her innocence, Rylee. Her uterus was ruined. No one will ever truly claim her. If we don’t leave her this child, who will protect her? Who will take care of her when we’re gone?” “We are her parents! Would we ever hurt her? We did this for Stella’s own good!” That one crushing phrase—for Stella’s own good—choked the fight out of Rylee. 3 The three of them, each burdened by their own secrets, swallowed the birthday cake. The sweet cream felt like lead in their stomachs. On the walk home, no one dared to mention the matter again. Arriving at the apartment, Mom pushed the door open and announced, falsely cheerful, “Stella, your sister is home!” There was no response from my room. “That stubborn girl, sulking again,” Mom complained, her smile gone. “She’s a mother now, and still throwing tantrums.” Dad looked at the silent, closed bedroom door and the empty space around it. His voice was unusually stern, almost a command. “Stella, come out and greet your sister.” Still no response. Rylee started to walk toward the door, but Dad stopped her, his expression tight. “If she wants to sulk, let her stay there until she comes to her senses!” He raised his voice, making sure I could hear him. I longed to defend myself. But now, they couldn’t hear a word I said. That night, the dinner table was filled with a rare, strained laughter. Mom and Dad constantly piled food onto Rylee’s plate until it was a small mountain. Mom pulled out her phone and started scrolling through contact lists. “This is your Aunt Carol’s son. He’s in corporate finance, has a car and a condo. Take a look, is he your type?” “And this one, Mrs. Amanda’s nephew. Ivy League grad, bright future. You young people should get together for dinner.” As she scrolled through the photos, I watched Rylee. She had the simple, easy path I used to believe I had. Rylee offered polite excuses, her eyes constantly flickering toward my closed bedroom door. Late that night, after Mom and Dad had put Wyatt to sleep, Rylee got up to use the bathroom. The moonlight spilled through the window, lengthening her shadow down the hallway. Just like when we were kids and she’d upset me, she crept toward my door. She put her ear against the wood and tapped softly. “Stella, Sis, are you still mad at me?” she whispered. She slid the bank card through the gap under the door. “I’m sorry. Is this enough of an apology?” “Sis, we haven’t slept in the same room in ages. I miss you.” The old me, if I were still angry, would have angrily shoved the card right back out. But there was no movement from the room. Rylee assumed the silence was an assent. She giggled softly. “I knew you still loved me. I’m coming in.” She grabbed the handle, pushed the door open, and her smile froze. The bed was empty. The room was deserted. 4 “Mom! Dad! Wake up! Stella’s gone!” Rylee’s frantic screams shook them awake. The three of them stared at the empty bed, confusion turning to panic. Mom was the first to lash out. “See? I told you! We spoiled her. Now she’s running away from home!” Dad was the first to realize the gravity of the situation. “Rylee, you didn’t say anything too harsh to her today, did you?” Mom’s eyes darted away. “No, no, of course not.” “I speak to her softer than I speak to the Virgin Mary. How could I have said anything out of line?” She was still more annoyed at my absence than worried about it. Rylee made a move to rush to the rooftop, but Dad blocked the door. “Don’t go. It’s not safe for you to be out there at night.” “Besides, we took her elevator key card months ago.” “And the stairwell…” He paused, a strange confidence settling on his face. “She won’t go up the stairwell. Not after what you left there for her.” Rylee’s frantic steps halted. She remembered. A confident smirk—part of her old self—returned. “You’re right. I know her better than anyone.” “She saw those notes. There is no way she went to the rooftop.” My heart clenched. I saw the image of the stairwell flash in my mind. Yes. They were this close to holding me back. But I looked at Mom’s face—a face already settling into an expression of weary indifference—and a wave of finality washed over me. Mom stretched and yawned, sounding exhausted. “Stop looking. She’ll come back tomorrow.” Rylee was still worried and insisted on checking the neighborhood. Mom’s temper flared. “What if you find her? Then what? Do we bring her back so we can walk on eggshells again?” “Let her go out and suffer in the cold. Let her realize how good she has it here.” “But Mom…” Rylee tried to argue. Mom slammed the door and locked it. “No one is leaving this apartment tonight to look for her!” “All the other grandmothers are beaming with pride, and I have to live in shame with this child. I am done catering to her moods!” The apartment fell into a chilling silence. Wyatt’s cries drifted from the bedroom, and Rylee’s anxiety only grew. Mom walked in to soothe the boy. “Don’t cry, don’t cry, baby. It’s all your bad mommy’s fault. She’s always causing trouble.” Just as she spoke, the landline in the living room rang. “Hello, is this the owner of unit 1205?” Dad frowned. “Yes. Why is your property management calling at three in the morning?” “Sir, our night patrol found a female body on the lawn. The police are already on site. We need you to come down immediately to confirm the identity…”

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I saw the moment the transfer student slipped a foil packet into my childhood best friend’s pocket. He noticed me and offered a smirk. “Relax, bro. It’s not for me and your girlfriend.” Tessa explained, her voice already edged with exhaustion. “We ran out of the rubber sheaths we need for the lab experiment. This is a substitute. Don’t make a big deal out of it, Locke.” She was bracing herself for my usual display—the jealousy, the possessiveness, the scene she’d come to find both frustrating and entirely predictable. But I simply lowered my head, my expression vacant, and went back to my reading. Tessa didn’t know that the day she shared a single melting ice cream cone with Jax Riley, I had already decided to leave. As far as I was concerned, she had checked herself out of my life weeks ago. 1 “We’re using it for a science project, Locke. Don’t be unreasonable.” She preempted me, already rubbing the bridge of her nose as if preparing for the headache of my inevitable cross-examination. I hadn’t said a word. The only reason I’d even looked up was that their whispers had become too loud, disrupting my focus on the advanced calculus lecture I was streaming. I rewound the audio to catch the missed equation, pulled my earbuds back down, and tuned them out. Tessa froze. Jax nudged her with an elbow, his grin wide. “Did your boyfriend change his strategy? Realized being a tyrant doesn’t work, so he’s trying the silent, wounded act?” He spoke loudly enough for me to hear. “Go on, your little flame is waiting for you to comfort him.” “Comfort what?” Tessa snapped, her tone dripping with annoyance. “He’s not my husband. Go coddle him yourself.” “Ooh, strong words. Be careful, he might never speak to you again.” Tessa’s cold gaze landed briefly on the top of my head. “I pray he doesn’t.” Jax let out a laugh. “You’re a cruel girl, Tessa Harrington.” The classroom began to fill up, the ambient noise muffling their chatter. I checked the answer for my last listening exercise and got a call from Mr. Davies, our estate manager. “Mr. Montgomery, the paperwork is finalized. Your departure is scheduled for seven days from now. I’ve also forwarded Ms. Harrington’s recent activities to the Chairman.” “Good,” I replied, my eyes momentarily drifting to Tessa, who was now leaning in, whispering conspiratorially to Jax. He laughed, then—and I felt a flicker of the revulsion return—slipped his hand behind her shirt collar. I returned my focus to my notes, my voice calm. “After my mother reviews the situation, inform her to cancel the engagement agreement immediately. All joint ventures with the Harrington family are to be halted indefinitely.” 2 I left the Headmaster’s office. He’d been all smiles and obsequiousness after I confirmed that the funding for the new computer lab and gym equipment would proceed, even with my abrupt departure. I rounded the corner of the administrative hallway and ran straight into Jax and Tessa. “Tessa, what’s your rich boy doing coming out of the Headmaster’s office? Did he go full snitch over a tiny foil packet?” Jax adopted a mock-pathetic look and tried to drape his arm over my shoulders. “Come on, buddy. It was for a lab. We didn’t break any rules.” I pulled my arm away. A wash of purely aesthetic distaste came over me. “I’m not your ‘buddy.’ And my name is Locke Montgomery.” Jax blinked, then exaggerated a flinch. “I just thought it sounded friendly. My apologies, I shouldn’t have presumed to high-five a millionaire. Please, Locke, don’t report us. I’ll stop talking to Tessa if that’s what it takes!” Tessa had had enough. She stepped forward, placing herself between us, her eyes blazing with distinct accusation and impatience. “Locke, this is a high school, not the boardroom. Stop flexing your power. You need to go back inside right now and tell the Headmaster you were only joking. Jax and I are just friends. Our relationship is completely above board.” “It’s fine, Tessa,” Jax cut in, peeking over her shoulder with a pained look. “Everyone knows you two are the school’s golden couple. I shouldn’t have tried to befriend you.” He turned, looking heartbroken, about to storm off. Tessa grabbed his arm, her gaze fixed on me, radiating cold contempt. “Locke, do you know how disgusting you are? I’m a person, a free agent. Why do you need to chain me to you every single day, dictating who I can and can’t speak to? Did you buy me?” They’d left a gap in their rehearsed performance, and I finally had space to speak. I looked into the blatant disgust in her eyes and asked softly, “Didn’t I?” 3 I was born with a certain emotional flatness. Outside of my parents, I’ve always found it difficult to form genuine attachments. I was five years old when my father’s business rivals kidnapped me. While running away, I was cornered, nearly recaptured, when Tessa, who was just playing nearby, intervened. She distracted them, allowing me to escape, and she was the one who was caught and beaten—breaking two of her ribs. Later, in her hospital room, I surprised everyone. To my usually anxious and distant parents, I said, “I want Tessa to be my friend.” They were stunned. It was the first time I had ever expressed a desire for a companion. After a thorough background check on the Harrington family—a background check they passed easily enough, being respectable, if not wealthy—my parents enthusiastically agreed. Tessa’s parents, sensing the opportunity of a lifetime, were positively glowing. My mother came from old-money New England society. My father was the patriarch of a global financial empire. Their daughter, aligning with me, meant the Harringtons would skyrocket into the upper echelon of the DC/New York social scene. In the years that followed, Tessa’s parents never missed an opportunity to subtly push us together. My mother, seeing how my relationship with Tessa seemed to ease my social difficulties, eventually asked if I would consider making the arrangement permanent. I didn’t feel anything, but meeting my mother’s worried gaze, I nodded. I didn’t want my parents to worry about my small affairs. A quiet, verbal promise of an engagement, made during a holiday party, was all it took. That simple, non-binding agreement was enough to launch the Harringtons into the core circle of the East Coast elite. Tessa’s parents were ecstatic, constantly pressuring her to stay close to me, to keep me happy, terrified that I would change my mind. But as she grew older, Tessa changed. The girl who used to patiently read with me, the one whose eyes held genuine amusement and kindness, slowly replaced that warmth with visible annoyance and resentment. She hated it when people at school called us the “Golden Couple.” Then Jax arrived. The first time I saw him, he was sitting at my desk, rifling through the items I kept there. “Tessa, is your desk mate really a guy? He has so much stuff. And so many bright colors.” Tessa was leaning against the desk, a genuine smile playing on her lips as she looked at him. “He’s not like you, Jax. You’re messy and only like black, white, and gray.” Jax playfully swiped at her, accidentally knocking over my insulated tumbler. It hit the floor and shattered into a dozen pieces. Tessa saw me suddenly standing there and her smile vanished. “Jax just transferred in. He didn’t know better, Locke. Don’t make a big deal.” I looked only at Jax, my voice flat. “That tumbler was a limited edition. Twelve hundred dollars. I want payment within three days.” Jax scoffed, incredulous. “Twelve hundred dollars for a water bottle? Are you insane? You act like you’re some rich kid from a movie!” Someone nearby whispered, “He is a rich kid from a movie. His family donated the new Arts Center and half the STEM wing.” Jax’s face flushed a deep crimson. He stammered, “C-come on, I didn’t mean to! Why should I have to pay?” He tugged at Tessa’s sleeve. “Tessa, your friend is a snob.” Tessa frowned. “Locke, he didn’t do it on purpose. And twelve hundred dollars is nothing to you. Stop being so aggressive.” “Fine. You pay for him, then. Twelve hundred dollars. Transfer it now.” Tessa’s face hardened. “Seriously? For a cup? You’re unbelievable.” “Unbelievable, but serious,” I said, meeting her gaze. “My family’s money is not Monopoly money.” With the rest of the class watching, Tessa was forced to transfer the funds. Once the transaction was confirmed, she started gathering her books. “Jax, you wanted me to tutor you? I’m moving. I’m taking the desk next to yours.” She said it to Jax, but she was looking at me, clearly expecting me to beg, to plead for her to stay. I merely stepped aside, giving her more room to move. She paused, then, fueled by a renewed rush of anger, she slammed her books down on the empty desk next to Jax. I watched her go, and in that moment, I knew I had to find a way to let her go for good. My life was complicated enough. If I couldn’t have a genuine friend, I didn’t need a transactional one, either. 4 The Headmaster, on his way out, smiled as he passed us. “Ms. Harrington, are you also in line to file your withdrawal paperwork?” Tessa looked confused. “Also? Where are you going, Locke?” “A program. Overseas,” I said neutrally. The Headmaster’s eyes flickered, then he seemed to understand and only offered a few final words of academic encouragement before leaving. Back in class, our English teacher began announcing the recipients of the Quarterly Improvement Scholarship—a fund specifically designed to reward the most improved students. While the teacher droned on about grading curves, I heard Jax whisper thanks to Tessa. “Tess, thanks for the tutoring. I’ll take you to dinner once I get the money.” Tessa smiled. “It’s nothing.” But the teacher read out another girl’s name. Jax shot up, forgetting himself. “Wait! It’s supposed to be Paige Stevens?” The teacher frowned. “Any disputes can be settled after class. Do not interrupt the lecture.” After the bell, Jax chased the teacher down and returned to his seat, eyes red-rimmed and miserable. “So much for the rich having a heart, huh?” he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. The class surrounded him, asking what happened. Jax walked directly up to my desk, his expression a mask of wounded pride. “Locke, I know your family set up this scholarship, but you can’t be this vindictive. Just because Tessa and I got close, you changed the name to punish me. How can you be so unfair?” The entire class gasped. The eyes on me shifted from neutral curiosity to judgment. I looked up from my book. “Did the teacher tell you that, specifically?” Jax’s eyes darted away. “Do you think I’m lying? Everyone knows Tessa doesn’t bother with you anymore, and you have that engagement hanging over her head. Of course, you’d try to hurt me.” He lowered his voice, making it sound desperate. “I know you don’t need the money. You don’t understand what it’s like to be poor, but I really need that few thousand dollars. I’ll stop seeing Tessa. I’ll give her back to you. Just give me the scholarship.” Tessa, who had just returned from the hall, watched Jax’s pale, distraught face, and her expression softened with pity. “Locke, if you have a problem, take it out on me, not him.” Bully him? A rare surge of genuine emotion—disgust—prickled beneath my skin. “First,” I said, my tone deadly quiet, “I don’t stoop to bullying anyone.” “Second,” I shifted my gaze to his face and held up my phone, which was clearly recording, “I have the right to report you for slander and defamation.” Jax froze, his face draining of color. He mumbled something and tried to hide behind Tessa. “It’s fine,” he whimpered. “I can’t fight the elite. Let Paige Stevens have it. Maybe it’s good for me to realize how the world works.” Tessa’s eyes shone with sympathy. “Locke, Jax improved his grades by over 100 points. You can’t involve other people in our spat.” “We are living, breathing people, Locke, not props for your controlling games!” I was about to respond when a quiet, usually shy girl in the back row abruptly stood up. Her eyes were red, and her entire body was shaking with nerves. She walked over, stared directly at Jax, and spoke, her voice trembling but firm. “Locke Montgomery has not abused his power. This scholarship is mine, and I earned it.” She took a shaky breath. “My parents passed away, and my grandmother is in a nursing facility. We rely on government aid. Locke’s family only set up this particular fund after he learned about my situation.” “Even so, I struggled with my grades. I didn’t receive it for two years. But this semester, I raised my score by 109 points and my class rank by over 300 places. I worked hard. I deserve this.” “Hundreds of students benefit from the Montgomery Foundation’s grants every year. Mr. Montgomery does not deserve to be slandered like this!” Paige’s face was beet red, and tears streamed down her cheeks. 5 The classroom fell silent. Then, the low murmurs began. “Locke is aloof, but he’s never condescending or cruel.” “Right? That fund gives six thousand dollars four times a year. Hundreds of students across the school benefit. That’s genuinely kind.” “Paige is quiet, but she doesn’t fight for attention. If she improved that much, she deserves it.” The consensus quickly shifted to Paige and me. Jax’s face went through several shades of white and red before he couldn’t stand it anymore. He muttered an apology to Tessa and ran out of the room. Tessa looked at me, her expression a confusion of guilt and contempt. “Even if you didn’t manipulate the outcome, did you have to humiliate him like that? We’re all classmates.” I lifted my head, my patience snapped. “Tessa, you truly have no self-awareness.” I had never used such a sharp tone with her before. In the past, I’d tolerated her behavior to a point, seeing her as a necessary, if flawed, social buffer for my parents. This was the first time I’d directly challenged her. She was clearly humiliated, her face flushing crimson. She spat out, “You’re impossible!” and stormed out. Jax and Tessa skipped the remaining two classes. Due to the time difference, my mother’s notice hadn’t reached the Harrington family yet. That evening, after my usual routine of washing up and reading a financial journal, I received a text from an unknown number. It was a photo of several torn foil packets scattered on a bed, paired with a message: [You stole my scholarship, so I stole your woman. Idiot. Did you actually believe we were using these for chemistry?] I had expected it, but seeing the visual proof made my stomach clench with cold, clean disgust. I didn’t reply. I simply screenshotted the image and text and sent it to Mr. Davies. [Attach this to the official termination of the engagement agreement when you send it to the Harringtons.]

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The news broke online that I was merely one of Damon Maxwell’s thirty-eight mistresses, a counterfeit Mrs. Maxwell. I was eight months pregnant at the time, busy running damage control for Damon after his latest round of leaked bedroom photos with a twenty-two-year-old model. Everyone in the Elite East Coast Circle called me the most professional PR Queen, the ultimate fixer. My husband’s scandals would fly, and I would clean up the wreckage without a tremor in my voice or a hitch in my stride. I’d handled hundreds of crises for Damon, sending out countless cease-and-desist letters and hush money checks to women he’d slept with. I just never imagined I would become the object of the public relations crisis myself. When I finally tracked Damon down, he was naked with Sally Bell in the sun-drenched nursery I had spent three months designing for our baby. Used condoms littered the plush, pastel rug. Seeing me, the man who was typically too lazy to lift a finger shushed me. “Take it outside, Jules. Sally is a light sleeper.” I didn’t react, only asking calmly, “Do you need me to handle today’s news?” Damon chuckled, recalling the photos Sally had posted—photoshopped wedding pictures, of all things. “Be a good girl, Juliet. Sally is fragile. Don’t ruin her fantasy.” “Understood,” I said. I turned and issued the statement online. [I confirm that Mr. Maxwell and I are not married. I wish Mr. Maxwell a very happy new beginning.] The public response was a bonfire of mockery. Damon, however, was satisfied, pulling me closer. “Once you deliver the baby, we’ll hold the official wedding you’ve always wanted.” I didn’t answer. He didn’t know that once I delivered this child, the ten-year debt I owed the Maxwell family would be repaid in full. And the man who had waited a decade for me was finally coming home. Someone had already planned my wedding. … The man on the other end of the line was ecstatic. “Jules! You finally said yes to me!” “Wait for me! I’m taking the first flight back to marry you!” Hanging up, I realized Damon had appeared behind me. “Did you take care of the press? Is it handled?” he asked. I looked down at my contact list. The screen was a long scroll of journalists, editors, and lawyers. I hadn’t realized I hadn’t made a personal call in years. My life had been revolving around his crises for so long, I had no friends left to call. It was no wonder Damon assumed I was talking to a reporter. Seeing my silence, he frowned slightly, leaning closer. “What are you looking at?” I pressed the power button, dismissing him. “Nothing important.” Behind him, staff carried in a mountain of designer bags and boxes—luxury goods, many of which I had long coveted but could never bring myself to buy. Seeing the smug satisfaction on his face, I automatically reminded him, “I’m due any day now. I can’t exactly fit into any of that—” Before I could finish, Damon was already directing the staff excitedly. “Tear down the crib. Convert the nursery into a walk-in closet. Put all this in there.” Then, he held out his hand to me for a key. “Sally went home to pack. She loves this place. Jules, you need to move out for now.” I froze for a moment, convinced I had misheard him. “What did you say?” Damon’s smile was careless as he met my reddening eyes. He handed me a property deed. “A bonus for your hard work on this latest mess.” I watched the staff gut the apartment that had been our home, even tearing down the drapes I had personally chosen. The sudden, unfiltered afternoon sunlight was blinding. I remembered the first time Damon and I walked into this apartment. The sun had been just as bright. He had pressed the key into my hand, the notoriously lazy East Coast heir looking me in the eye with a rare seriousness. “Juliet, this is your home now. No one will ever kick you out.” I had confided in him, obliquely, that my mother and I had been thrown out of our home years ago. He knew that the one thing I wanted most was a safe haven. He gave it to me. I fell in love with him for the security he offered in that moment. That feeling had fueled me for ten years. It sustained me through every night he didn’t come home. It weathered the endless parade of women who challenged me. It endured the relentless scrutiny and sneers of the elite. Now, he was asking for the key back. Ten years later, I was being thrown out again. It doesn’t matter, I thought. I was leaving anyway. I handed him the key, took the deed, and walked out. Damon looked surprised by my lack of drama. I wasn’t the picture of stoic composure the media painted me to be. Every time he cheated, I had fought him like a maniac. I had threatened to end my own life. Each time, Damon had only soothed me lightly, tossing me a few checks or a piece of jewelry. But this time, I had no energy to fight. I had been resigned to staying—for the baby—to become the dignified society wife. Damon could have slept with anyone, but not Sally Bell. She was the living, breathing evidence of Victor Bell’s betrayal. Sally and her mother had driven my own mother to her death. When my mother fell from the thirty-second-floor window, her eyes were wide and staring. I knew she died filled with burning, unforgiving resentment. Damon grabbed my wrist. His fingers instantly recoiled, however, when they touched the crisscross of old, mottled scars. He scowled, unable to hide the brief flash of revulsion. Meeting my gaze, a flicker of guilt crossed his face, a look I rarely saw. “I’ll have the driver take you. The new house gets great light too. You’ll love it.” I nodded calmly. Halfway there, the driver suddenly looked back. “Mrs. Maxwell, Mr. Maxwell wants us to return to the apartment.” When I walked back in, the air was thick with smoke. The household staff stood nervously along the walls. Damon was standing over a scorched, ruined pot, his face a grim mask. Seeing me, he urgently pulled me into the kitchen. “Juliet, you need to show me how to make that soup you used to make for me.” I looked at him, truly seeing him. I watched him sweat nervously as he turned on the gas burner, struggling against his long-held phobia of fire. He was meticulously trying to cook a meal for his beloved, all because of one casual post in her social feed: “If someone could deliver a bowl of hot soup on this cold day, I’d owe him everything!” And so, Damon Maxwell, the man who had never done a household chore in his life, was awkwardly attempting to make soup for a flippant social media joke. A few days earlier, I had slipped and fallen in this very kitchen. Damon had kept his distance, acting as if he hadn’t seen anything. Later, he had posted the security footage of me struggling to pull myself up to a restricted social circle, a circle that purposefully excluded me. He had captioned it, “Looks like a stupid pig rolling around on the floor.” I silently prepared a fresh pot of soup for him. He was absorbed, intently listing every step in his phone’s notepad. His ringtone chirped. He answered without a second’s hesitation. My eyes fell on his screen. The contact name for the incoming call was listed as: “Wife.” A moment of dizzying realization hit me. If Sally was his wife, then who was I? As Damon walked out onto the balcony, cradling his phone, I instinctively called his number. I heard the rapid busy signal. He had blocked me. I laughed a quick, self-deprecating laugh and hailed a car. Lorelei Maxwell, Damon’s mother, was waiting for me at the family’s estate. She sighed when she saw me. “Juliet, you promised you would stay for the baby…” I didn’t let her finish. I placed the finalized divorce agreement on the table and looked her in the eye. “Mom, according to our agreement, once I produce an heir for the Maxwell family, the debt for my mother’s medical expenses will be nullified.” “My due date is in three days. Let me go after the birth.” Ten years ago, I met Damon at a dive bar. He was the reckless heir to an East Coast dynasty; I was a temporary dishwasher in the kitchen. He saw me once and chased me for eighteen months. His mother found me when my mother’s prognosis was terminal. She told me I was the only woman Damon had ever truly been obsessed with. She offered me a proposition: Marry Damon, manage him, and give the family an heir. The payment: All of my mother’s future medical bills. I agreed without hesitation. After the wedding, Damon and I had a brief, intensely sweet period. Then, he grew bored. Like all the women before me, I became the ‘mosquito on his chest’—the thing he took for granted. Seeing my resolve, Lorelei finally nodded. “Damon is the one without luck.” “After the birth, I will arrange your release.” As I walked out of the estate, Damon, for the first time ever, posted a personal update. He must have forgotten to block me. The video showed him smiling with deep, doting affection. “Formal apology to my Wife. I missed the agreed-upon soup delivery time by one minute.” “My punishment is a lifetime of making soup for her.” The video quickly went viral. My social media mentions exploded in a new round of digital abuse. [Oh, so she really was the fake Mrs. Maxwell. The untamable Damon never posted sweet stuff like this for her!] [A mistress being this arrogant? Our Sally must have the patience of a saint!] [Bitch! How dare you try to take Sally’s place as the main squeeze? Why don’t you just die!] [PR Queen? Pfft. More like a dirty whore!] I closed the app. A text from an unknown number came in. [I’m coming to your place tonight. Will be home late.] Ten years married, and this was the first time Damon had proactively messaged me his plans. It was from a burner phone. Was he worried Sally would see it and get upset? I didn’t reply. A minute later, the text came again. [It’s Damon Maxwell.] I lowered my eyes and blocked the number. I drove to the old, tiny apartment my mother and I had rented years ago. A notification popped up. [That was me. Why aren’t you responding?] Damon had removed me from his block list. I saw he had changed his profile picture. It was a candid shot of a girl in profile, smiling radiantly in front of a grand manor. The house was the one where I had lived for eighteen years. I blocked him again. I lay down on my mother’s narrow bed and, for the first time in weeks, slept soundly. I was woken by a loud knocking in the early morning. I opened the door to Damon, who was scowling fiercely, clutching a massive bouquet. “Why aren’t you answering your texts?” he demanded. “You didn’t have to run away if you didn’t want to move. You could have just said so.” He handed me the flowers, a gesture of grudging forgiveness. I didn’t take them. I looked him in the eye, unable to contain the question. “Ten years, Damon. Did you ever realize I’m severely allergic to pollen?” The shock on his face quickly morphed into a dark, angry color. He threw the bouquet away in a fit of pique. “Juliet Abbott, enough already. I was just fooling around with a minor celebrity. It’s not the first time. Why are you so damn dramatic?” He glanced dismissively at my large stomach. “You don’t think having a kid is going to give you leverage over me, do you?” He grabbed my arm and pulled me to his car, ignoring my protests. “Fine, you don’t want to move, I won’t force you. Just come home with me.” I sat in silence, scrolling through my phone. Sally had updated her social media again. She was sitting inside a heart shaped by a sea of red roses, holding a property deed. The caption: [I told him I didn’t want someone else’s leftovers, so my hubby bought me a gorgeous penthouse with a river view. This silly man even snipped the stamens off all 999 roses because he knows I’m sensitive to pollen!] I clutched my chest, trying to suppress the wave of sour despair. My baby, sensing my distress, began to kick violently. Damon saw my troubled expression in the rearview mirror. He slowed the car. “What’s wrong?” I gasped out, “Stomach pain. I need to go to the hospital.” Damon immediately turned the car toward the nearest emergency room. Then his phone rang. A soft, tearful voice came through the speaker. “Damon, darling, my period just started, and my cramps are awful. Could you please come be with me?” He slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched a sickening sound. The seatbelt bit painfully into my abdomen. I was drenched in cold sweat. The next second, Damon unlocked my seatbelt. His voice was urgent. “The hospital isn’t far. Just take a cab from here.” Clutching my stomach, I gritted my teeth. “Take me first. It won’t take long—” He cut me off, shoving me out of the car. He sounded impatient. “A young girl’s pain is real, Jules. She can’t handle it. Not like you…” The car sped away, tires eating the pavement right next to me, the wind whipping away the end of his sentence. I fumbled for my phone to call 911. I managed to give the address before the pain overwhelmed me, and I passed out. When I woke up, it was the middle of the night. The doctor’s expression was grim. “A little later, and we would have lost both the mother and the child.” “The baby is breech. We have to do an emergency C-section. Where is your family? We need a signature.” I was reaching for my phone to call Damon when he burst into the room. I had rarely seen such a look of naked desperation on his face. He violently yanked me off the bed. “I need your help with something.” The IV needle was ripped clean out of my arm. Blood pulsed onto the sheets, but Damon didn’t notice. I struggled, fighting the intense pain, but Damon pushed me toward his security detail. “You take a separate car. Sally is in mine. She doesn’t like the smell of the hospital on you.” When I was dragged into the private dining room, everyone looked at me with smirks and knowing smiles. Franklin Calder, the man seated in the center, smiled a little too broadly. “Long time no see, Mrs. Maxwell. Oh, wait, I suppose I should call you Ms. Abbott now.” Seeing the man, my body began to tremble uncontrollably. I instinctively hid behind Damon. But he pushed me forward. He whispered, low and fast, “Sally has a movie deal stuck because of Calder. He specifically requested you to be the one to seal the deal.” “Jules, get this for her, and I promise I’ll never look at another woman outside again.” I stared at him, unable to breathe, barely finding my voice. I whispered, “You forgot? He almost sexually assaulted me ten years ago.” Damon dismissed it with a shrug. “But he didn’t, did he?” Before I could react, he had pushed me down into the seat next to Franklin Calder. Calder’s greasy eyes roved over me. He offered me a glass of champagne. “Since Ms. Abbott is here, would you do me the honor?” I refused coldly. “I can’t drink.” I tried to stand up, but Damon’s hand clamped down on my arm. Sally leaned into Damon’s ear, crying plaintively. “If Juliet won’t help me, I’ll just toast Mr. Calder myself.” Damon immediately snatched the glass from her hand. “Absolutely not. You’re too young to drink.” Then, he turned a dark, angry face toward me. “I asked the doctor. You can eat anything before delivery. It’s just one toast. Stop being a drama queen.” At that moment, a deafening ringing filled my ears. When I married him, I was Sally’s age. To close a deal or cover a scandal for him, I attended countless parties like this. I went from never drinking to having stomach bleeds. And now, heavily pregnant, he didn’t spare a single thought for me. Calder suddenly lunged forward, forcing the bottle into my mouth. “Ms. Abbott is still so proud. I guess I’ll have to feed you myself.” I choked, struggling, my eyes locked on Damon. He didn’t even look at me. He was calmly and meticulously peeling shrimp for Sally. Bottle after bottle was poured down my throat amidst the drunken laughter of the room. My consciousness flickered, only to be dragged back by the wrenching pain in my abdomen. A hand forcefully grabbed and squeezed my breast. The horror of that terrifying night years ago flashed through my mind. The dark room. The fat man’s hands roaming my body. SLAP! I instinctively lashed out, striking the man in front of me. The room fell silent. Calder chuckled, holding his cheek. “I guess Ms. Abbott isn’t interested in this partnership.” Sally immediately clung to Damon’s arm, whining. “Damon, darling, if I lose this movie, the whole industry will laugh at me!” Damon finally set down the shrimp shell. He looked at me blankly. “Apologize to Calder.” When I didn’t move, Damon signaled to his bodyguards. “Make her kneel and apologize to Mr. Calder.” Sally, eager to please, chimed in. “I heard Mr. Calder likes to watch animal tricks. Maybe Ms. Abbott could crawl around like a dog for him?” The men in the room roared with laughter, encouraging her. I looked at Damon, tears streaming down my face. “Damon Maxwell, I’m carrying your child. Please, let me go.” Perhaps the sheer agony in my eyes stunned him. He froze. I swayed, forced myself up, and staggered toward the door, leaving a trail of bloody footprints. But the moment I reached the doorknob, Sally dramatically chugged a glass of wine, coughing violently. “Mr. Calder, don’t be mad. I’ll drink with you.” Damon furiously snatched the glass away. “No! You’re not drinking!” From behind me, his voice, cold and sharp as ice, sliced through the air. “Stop. Who said you could leave?” He pulled out a familiar jade locket, laying it on the table. “Get this deal for Sally, or else…” The locket was the last remaining possession my mother had given me before she died. I resigned myself. I sank to my knees and began to crawl around the perimeter of the room. Blood continued to seep out, soaking my pants. They cackled. “Look at the dog in heat! She’s peeing on the rug!” “Yeah, yeah, she says no, but in the end, she still becomes Calder’s bitch.” My vision grew hazy, and I could no longer move. The severe abdominal pain was a constant, blinding fire. Franklin Calder walked toward me, smiling, and ordered his men to hoist me up. He addressed the room. “You’re all too much. Ms. Abbott is pregnant. Don’t tease her so badly.” “I’ll take Ms. Abbott to the room next door to rest.” I fought to keep my eyes open, whispering Damon’s name. I saw him embracing Sally, kissing her passionately. I closed my eyes in absolute despair. I used every last ounce of my strength to twist the diamond ring—the one I had worn for ten years—off my finger. I threw it onto the floor. In the dark room, the greasy man leaned over me. “You little bitch. If Damon Maxwell hadn’t had your back all those years ago, I would’ve had you then.” “He’s done with you now. He just sold you to me.” The moment my clothes ripped, the man above me cried out in pain and collapsed. A strong pair of arms lifted me in the darkness. “I’m sorry, I was late.” … The next morning, Damon’s hotel room door was kicked open. Lorelei Maxwell walked in, her face etched with a dark fury, clutching an infant. She slapped Damon hard across the face, several times. Woken abruptly, Damon was about to lash out, but he stopped when he saw his mother. “Mom, what’s wrong?” Lorelei shoved the baby, purple and lifeless, into his arms. “Look at your child before I take him for cremation.” Sally screamed at the sight. Damon stared at the infant, a terrible panic rising in his chest. Just then, news broke that the Maxwell family’s illegitimate son, who had been raised abroad, had returned home and announced his engagement. When Damon registered the familiar name in the article, he bolted out the door.

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The boy I grew up with, the one who was supposed to be my childhood sweetheart, was nice to every girl in our orbit. Except me. We were playing a round of ‘Never Have I Ever,’ and when one of the other girls giggled and simply smiled at him, he immediately jumped in as her “Black Knight,” downing her drink for her. Then he pointed at me. “Croft, ten laps around the field, or down this shot. Your choice.” When someone started to intervene, he stopped them with a hard stare. “Laney’s got two legs, two hands. She can manage a dare, can’t she?” The time he designed the custom spirit wear for the whole junior class for Field Day—he made a shirt for everyone but me. He just snickered. “The princess doesn’t need to slum it with the rest of us in this trash, does she?” But the one time I actually wore a different top to school, a simple, non-uniform sweatshirt, he crumpled the water bottle in his hand, his eyes burning. “Are you two seriously wearing matching clothes, you little—” 1. Our class had forty-nine students, but the box of custom Field Day hoodies only held forty-eight. The class representative for the Spirit Week committee was supposed to handle the order, but Lachlan Wilder—Lock—had taken over. He stood at the front of the room, slapping his hand down on the podium. The whole class snapped to attention. “Alright, Field Day is next week,” he announced, his voice carrying the easy confidence that made him the unofficial King of our high school. “The school is making us all wear matching gear for the opening rally. My dad knows some hot-shot designers. I took care of the whole thing. What do you guys think?” The initial silence broke into a flurry of cheers. Everyone knew he had the connections and the money to get something genuinely cool, not the usual cheap merch. Lock lifted his gaze, lazily skimming the room until his eyes caught mine. My pen froze above the margin of my notebook, and a cold dread settled in my gut. Lock had changed since middle school. The kid who used to cry if I went anywhere without him, the one who needed to hold my hand in the hallway, had become an expert in subtle cruelty. It started with the teasing. When anyone showed interest in me, he made sure to broadcast it to the entire school, turning it into a punchline. His best friend, Zack, would sometimes chime in, “Hey, Laney, heard some sophomore has a crush on you. Can’t have that, can we?” “You’re our Lock’s future wife, after all. What if you get stolen?” Lock would usually just kick Zack’s chair, looking annoyed. “Shut up, man. I’m not interested in soft girls like her.” Yet, I remembered the afternoon when he was seven, pleading with our parents for a “childhood betrothal.” He’d even snuck his mother’s heirloom gold jewelry out of their safe. “Here,” he’d whispered, pressing a small, intricate gold charm into my palm. “Mom says you need a five-piece set to get married. These are the down payment.” He got grounded for a month that night, but the pact, at least in our childish minds, was sealed. His cruelty escalated from verbal jabs. He started “forgetting” my portion whenever he bought the class pizza, or getting the group text for our study sessions wrong, always telling me to show up an hour late. At first, I’d bite my lip, trying to hold back tears. He’d ruffle my hair and murmur in my ear, “Don’t cry, Little Lane. I just thought you needed to rest a little longer.” Once, twice… After a while, I realized it wasn’t forgetfulness. He was deliberately excluding me, deliberately messing with me. My mother, blissfully unaware, would just say, “Laney, he always makes it up to you later, doesn’t he? And no one ever actually says anything mean to you at the meetings, right? He’s just a teenage boy, trying to get your attention, and totally failing at it. He cares about you more than he lets on, sweetie. You should talk to him.” 2. The talk ended with a basketball whizzing past my head, missing by inches. I flinched. His face was flushed—from anger, or heat, I couldn’t tell—and his lips were pressed into a furious line. “Who the hell wants you to look at me, Laney?” he spat. “I have a line of people chasing me. Stop making everything about you. Stop thinking you’re that special. It was a damn mistake. I told you, my memory sucks. You’re the one who’s psychoanalyzing everything because you want to be my wife so bad.” He walked away stiffly, but then spun back, his brow furrowed with rage. “And for the record, Delaney,” he snarled, “I’ve been looking at you for years. I’m sick of looking at you. And I will never like you.” That night, I cried until my eyes were swollen shut. Every promise he made as a boy—I had believed every word. And I was truly, hopelessly in love with him. As schoolwork piled up, I buried those feelings. But now, seeing the class representative counting the spirit wear, she whispered an embarrassed question. “Wait, there’s one missing again?” I sat frozen, unable to grip my pen, and met Lock’s gaze. His eyes held a flicker of cynical amusement. 3. The low murmur of the class suddenly felt amplified. “It has to be Laney’s again.” “Lock seems so cool and collected with everyone else. He helped me to the clinic when I twisted my ankle. Why is he always so awful to Laney?” “Thank God it’s not me. I’d be mortified. The whole class has one but you? I’d spend all night wondering what I did wrong.” The conversations triggered a sharp memory. Just last week, I’d overheard Lock and Zack talking by the gym. Zack had been laughing. “Lock, messing with Laney is hilarious. She’s like a little rabbit when she deals with you. You bully her, and she just looks at you with those big red eyes. Honestly, the look on her face—I swear, it’s kinda hot.” Zack was immediately slammed against the lockers with a heavy kick. “You stay the hell away from her, Zack. She’s my punching bag. Only I get to mess with her.” Someone else pressed the issue. “Why, man? You got a thing for Laney?” “Go to hell! I hate looking at her, that’s why! She’s always hovering, always smiling at you guys. Every time I see it, I just feel this gut-wrenching fury.” “But dude, we’re in the same class.” The second guy was also shoved hard. In an instant, everything clicked into place. This wasn’t the “special attention” my mother had talked about. This was simple, possessive, mean-spirited fun. My blood ran cold. My teeth started to chatter. Cruelty, I realized, always leaves a trail. Lock finished handing out the hoodies and sauntered over to my desk. “Princess can’t possibly wear this garbage, can she?” I looked up at him, and a strange, liberating calm washed over me. I smiled, genuinely. “You’re right. The trash you’re handing out? Trust me, I already threw mine away.” 4. A collective gasp went around the room. Lock’s eyes narrowed, turning a dangerous, bloodshot red. No one dared to speak. The silence was broken only when Briar Jennings, the class beauty from the junior section across the hall, waved from the window, calling Lock’s name. He ignored her but slammed his hand down on the test paper on my desk. “Is that so? Well, that’s a real shame.” “I was actually going to give you the custom one I designed, but you clearly don’t want it.” A few weeks ago, I would have broken down, pleaded with him, and then, when he inevitably slipped me the gift later, I would have burst into tears of relief and forgiveness. But realizing that all those years of devoted love had been ground into nothing more than a nasty game, I felt only a profound emptiness. Nothing he did now mattered. The belated make-up gift, the supposed “special treatment”… My mind was finally clear. His “being different” was simply setting me up, again and again, to be the public target. Besides, one different hoodie in a class of identical ones would only make me stand out more. It wasn’t kindness; it was a cruel spotlight. While we were still locked in a stare-down, Briar Jennings walked right into our classroom, slipped her arm around Lock’s shoulder, and smiled sweetly. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking me to the soccer game? Why are you wasting time here?” Lock was still glaring at me, fire in his eyes. He wrenched free, stormed back to his backpack, and pulled out a light-colored garment wrapped carefully in plastic. He threw it at Briar. His eyes never left mine. “The princess doesn’t want it. It’s yours.” I recognized the designer label. It was the same exclusive, cult-favorite streetwear line that Lock had always gotten me for my birthday before I turned fourteen. That designer had retired three years ago, and rumors said he only came out of retirement if you literally volunteered as his personal assistant for a month. Lock had disappeared for a month over the summer. To say it didn’t hurt would be a lie. “Ooh, a good one. I’ll take it. But, Laney,” Briar said, looking me up and down, “a joke is only funny if you don’t take it seriously.” She tugged on Lock’s sleeve, and he patted her hand with an air of exasperated resignation. Exasperated resignation. If I was even a step too slow, he would get impatient and snap at me. I forced a bitter laugh. He knew how to be gentle. The bell rang, shattering the tension. 5. The crowd of gawkers dispersed. I took a deep breath, gathered my scattered emotions, and went back to my work. I didn’t acknowledge Lock for the rest of the day. When the final bell rang for evening study hall, Lock came over as usual. For years, he’d waited for me to pack up, always reaching out to take my bag. It was a habit from early childhood, an unspoken rule. This time, I batted his hand away. “Don’t bother. I can manage this fine on my own,” I said, my voice cold. “And you won’t need to anymore.” He froze, then his face hardened. My backpack landed on the floor with a thud. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Laney? You’re cutting me out? Are you seriously that much of a sore loser?” I didn’t know where the line between his “joke” and his true malice was, or how much of his torment was genuine. But none of it mattered. It didn’t justify the pain he caused. Love is love. Unlove is simply that—unlove. Someone gasped. “Woah, Laney is suddenly savage.” I stared at Lock, saying nothing. Spending so much time with him, sharing our commutes, my feelings had taken root. I’d unconsciously suppressed my own personality, my temper, just to keep the peace. There was no need for that now. He wasn’t worth my niceness. I picked up my bag and walked away. Behind me, a chair scraped violently across the floor. 6. The next morning, after the first bell, I pulled a gourmet box of chocolates from my desk and placed it on Lock’s table. “Stop giving me these. I don’t like them.” I was lying. I used to love them. But that was before he changed. Back then, he’d scavenge for the most obscure, delicious things and gift them to me, propping himself on my desk with sparkling eyes, like a puppy waiting for praise and a tail wag. That changed the day Zack gave him a brilliant, cruel idea: hide a dead, slimy garden frog in my favorite box of chocolates. I have a deep-seated phobia of wet, slick creatures. The sticky feeling on my hands that day still made my skin crawl. I’d sat there, paralyzed, a choked scream caught in my throat. That was the first time I recoiled from his touch. And I never ate a chocolate he gave me again. Lock stared at the box, then frowned, his expression turning to annoyed confusion under the scrutiny of the whole class. “You used to love these, Laney. What’s wrong?” I ignored him, walking toward my seat. A sharp, painful grip on my wrist yanked me back to his side. “You tell me, Laney. Say it out loud.” I seized the moment of his confusion, snatched my arm back, and glared at him with cold detachment. “Lock, I don’t need your pathetic apologies anymore, so—” He interrupted, running a hand through his hair and sneering. “Apologies? What the hell are you talking about? Who said I was apologizing? What did I even do wrong?” “Look around, Laney. Everyone has one of these in their desk.” I stiffened, my back rigid, and scanned the room. Sure enough, several people were sheepishly pulling the same boxes from their drawers. Shame, hot and searing, crept from my feet to my fingertips. But in my peripheral vision, I caught the slightest upward twitch at the corner of Lock’s mouth. “I told you before I just forgot to get yours,” he said, his voice laced with false exasperation. “Now I remembered, and I put it carefully in your desk. And you still don’t believe me.” He sighed, shaking his head with forced helplessness. “What do I have to do to make you happy, Laney?” Briar Jennings’s voice cut in from the doorway. “Exactly. Come on, Laney. This time, I can vouch for him. Lock wasn’t messing with you.” 7. They shared a look—a shared joke, a perfect synergy. Lock’s other friends stepped in to smooth things over, but my heart felt colder than ever before. I bit down on my lower lip, preventing the tears from falling. “Lock,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “is this your new trick? Your latest way to mess with me?”

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Seven years into my father’s affair, my mother, Cecilia, was handed a death sentence. Terminal stomach cancer. Her first act was to plead with Dr. Serena, her long-time physician, not to tell my father, Victor. Dr. Serena was so angry she wept. “Cecilia, what is this performance? Do you really think playing the noble martyr will make that scumbag regret anything?” “You’re punishing him with your death, Cee. How pathetic!” But my mother just smiled, her gaze settling on me with a gentle, terrifying softness. “I don’t want his regret,” she whispered. “I want to secure a future for my Willa.” 1. When my mother and I finally left the hospital, my father was gone. He had only left her a text message: [My time is valuable. You were five minutes late. I left.] My mother gripped the phone, momentarily frozen. I remembered the past, too. I have hemophilia, so trips to the hospital were constant growing up. My father, Victor, would always drop everything and wait patiently. My mother would tease him, “Aren’t you bored?” He’d take me from her arms and kiss her cheek, his voice full of warmth. “Never. Every second I spend waiting for you both is happiness.” I would be held between them, warm and secure, and I was happy too. My mother’s fingers trembled as she deleted the text. Then, she opened a new message to Dr. Serena: [Did you send the fake clean bill of health report to Tess?] After receiving confirmation, she led me home. My mother used to walk with a light, quick step; I could never keep up. Now, I had to support her just to keep her moving. As soon as we arrived, she rushed to the bathroom and coughed up a terrifying mouthful of blood. When she looked up, she was staring at the mirror, where our two overlapping handprints rested. The blood in the toilet was a blackish red. Panicked, I immediately called my father. There was a woman’s laugh on the other end, but I was used to it; I pretended not to hear. Sobbing, I told him that my mother had terminal stomach cancer. My father arrived quickly. He saw the violent red in the toilet bowl and immediately scooped my mother up in his arms. “Don’t panic, Cee. We’ll get a second opinion from the best doctors in the country.” “I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.” He’d always told her that the women outside were just flings; she was the one he truly loved. I believed he was a man of his word. But just then, the sharp click-clack of high heels echoed in the hallway. Tess, in her crisp white dress, appeared. She held her head high and slapped a piece of paper onto my father’s chest. “Victor, you’re such an idiot! Your trophy wife has played you for a fool!” “‘Terminal cancer’? It’s just a scheme to get your attention! This came from my friend at the hospital. She is perfectly healthy!” I recognized the paper. It was the fake clean bill of health my mother had asked Dr. Serena to forge. I opened my mouth to explain, but my mother gripped my hand, stopping me. I could only watch as my father’s face darkened. “Faking an illness for sympathy, then dragging Willa into your lies.” He glared at my mother. “Cecilia, you have sunk to a new low.” My father ignored my protests and stormed out, his arm wrapped around Tess. My mother watched them leave, a thin smile on her pale face. I cried hysterically. “Mom, why did you pretend you were healthy?” She sighed softly. “Because Tess is too small-minded.” “She’s too stupid to ever believe that I would be ill, or that I could out-maneuver her. So I had to feed her the evidence.” “This is how we build moral currency,” she explained. “The more guilt he carries, the more Victor will owe you, Willa.” “Besides, once Victor realizes her report was fake, he will never believe anything she presents to him again.” I didn’t understand the strategy. I only knew that my mother was dying, and I cried harder. She wiped my tears away. As she did, she began to cry too. “Victor, you’re supposed to be so smart. How could you fall for a simpleton like Tess?” My mother had been a powerful man’s mistress. My father was a poor businessman, practically begging for investment. They met across a crowded banquet hall—a rose blooming unexpectedly in rotten soil. My mother flirted with her protector and secured a massive investment and countless contracts for Victor. Later, when her protector went to prison, my father was already a titan of industry. Ignoring the scorn of everyone, he tracked down my mother, who had been passed around. There were no grand speeches. They simply got married. In their marriage, my father treated her like the most delicate, cherished woman. He bought her a French chateau, gifted her company shares, and when she was pregnant with me, he spent a fortune to buy the naming rights to a minor planet. They could have been happy forever. Until I was born. 2. Because I have hemophilia and need frequent transfusions, my father hired a secretary with my rare blood type. Her name was Tess. She was a bit clumsy and seemed sweet. My father called her my “walking blood bank.” But slowly, when Tess came to give me blood, my father’s brow would furrow with concern for her. Once, when I was in critical condition, Tess claimed she was afraid of needles, and my father actually disconnected my IV line. I nearly died that day. We were saved only because the hospital was able to contact a blood bank out of state. When I woke up, I saw my father holding Tess’s hand. He was telling my mother: “I’m sorry, Cecilia. I’m in love with Tess.” “If you accept it, you can still be my wife, and Willa will always be my only daughter.” My mother accepted the reality calmly. She said that I was sick, and if they divorced, she wouldn’t be able to afford my care. And so, my mother became the most generous wife in the city. So generous that when my father’s photos with a club girl leaked, she personally handled the PR cleanup. Each time, my father would apologize and transfer a large sum of money into my account. My mother accepted it for me and pretended nothing happened. Until a few days ago, when Tess showed up with a visible baby bump. She was pregnant with my father’s son. “The moment he looked ecstatic, I knew,” my mother said. “That baby will eventually threaten your standing. It had to be eliminated.” “And I’m almost dead anyway… I’ve been a trophy wife all my life. Using my last breaths to set up my daughter? I’m content.” As she spoke, my mother took out a brand new, expensive leather journal. A kept woman who only finished elementary school certainly didn’t have a diary-writing habit. So she had to forge one. Her fingers were swollen, barely able to hold the pen, but she wrote every word, detailing her years with Victor. When she finished, she sent the journal off to be artificially aged, then locked it in her safe. She made me memorize the combination. “When I’m gone, the day your father misses me most, you will lead him to this diary.” It took several days to forge the journal. My mother would clutch her stomach, beads of sweat dripping down her face from the pain. She gave me an Amex Black Card and asked me to buy her some powerful painkillers. It was strange—it was only September, but perfect, heavy snow was falling outside. I didn’t think about it; I just ran, slipping and falling repeatedly on the unfamiliar ice until I reached the pharmacy. I picked up the medication and swiped the card. “Beep. This card has been frozen.” I froze. This was my father’s supplemental card, always unlimited. It couldn’t be frozen. I called my father immediately. But the one who answered, her voice languid and smug, was Tess. “That’s your father punishing your mother, sweetie.” “He told me to tell your mom to stop her pathetic schemes and stick to being the wife she is.” I screamed, “That’s impossible! You must have tricked him!” Tess chuckled softly, then lowered her voice. “I did. So what?” “After all, all I had to say was that my baby brother wanted to see snow, and your father spent millions on cloud-seeding to make it happen.” I looked at the bruises forming on my legs, sobbing uncontrollably. The snow that made me fall and scrape myself raw was my father’s gift to his mistress. By the time I scraped together the money from my piggy bank and bought the medicine, my mother had already passed out from the pain. I gave her the medication. She looked at my raw legs, her eyes filling with tears. I heard her call Dr. Serena. “He loves her more than I imagined,” she said, her voice strained. “I need to accumulate more moral currency for Willa. I need to die more violently.” I woke up sometime later in my mother’s bed. She was packing, breathing heavily. She tossed their wedding photo into the fireplace. Her clothes and jewelry were boxed up for sale. When she reached for the scarf she had knitted for my father with her own hands, I rushed forward to stop her. She gently kissed my cheek. “I know you love it, Willa.” “But I have to ensure you are the only thing left behind to remind him of me.” I couldn’t speak. Then, my father’s assistant called my mother. “Mrs. Victor, Mr. Victor took Ms. Tess for her checkup and the paparazzi got photos. He needs you to film an apology and clarification video immediately, to avoid impacting the company’s stock price.” 3. My mother answered flatly and skillfully set up the camera. I yelled in fury. “It’s Dad’s fault! Why does Mom have to take the blame?” “I don’t want Mom to be humiliated again!” I knocked the camera over, but my mother calmly set it back up. “Be good, Willa. The company will be yours one day.” “Protecting the stock now is protecting your future.” I still didn’t understand, but my mother’s eyes were filled with profound sorrow. On camera, she was gracious and poised: “This is all a misunderstanding. Ms. Tess is an employee… my husband, Victor, simply offered a professional courtesy to take her to the doctor.” When the video was posted, the internet mocked her relentlessly. They called my mother the most subservient wife in Manhattan. But my father was pleased. He finally came home. He first swept me up, twirled me, and put a tiny flame opal on my wrist. Then he kissed my mother and gave her a deep black pendant. “This is my generous Cecilia,” he said. “Don’t worry, the card is unfrozen now.” “I wasn’t angry because you faked an illness, Cee. I was angry because you cursed yourself. We’re going to grow old together. Don’t ever say something so unlucky again, okay?” My father was so gentle. I hoped, foolishly, that he still loved us. I watched him wistfully, and suddenly, the pain in my legs faded. After he left, I happily went to my mother to admire the pendant. She laughed—a cold, humorless sound—and took it off. She stroked my head and showed me a news article on her phone. [Gem Legend! Victor Spends Millions, Cuts Massive Flame Opal, Yields Priceless Bangle!] I stared at the photo of the enormous, perfect flame opal on Tess’s wrist. Then I realized it. My tiny bangle and my mother’s pendant—together, they made up the heart of a bangle. Oh. Our gifts were the scraps. The excess material from Tess’s main attraction. I was furious and wanted to confront my father. But my mother calmly called Dr. Serena, setting the date for her to take the lethal medication: their wedding anniversary. “That way, every time he celebrates his freedom, he will remember my death.” “He needs to remember me for a long, long time. Only that will benefit you, Willa.” I didn’t dare cry in front of my mother. I hid in my room and counted the days. I was going to lose her. Though she held me and said she would become a star in the sky, I was seven years old. I knew it was a lie. I couldn’t expose her; I didn’t want to cause her more pain before she died. The next few days, my mother was busy. She contacted Mr. Harrison, a key investor of my father’s, and they spoke in whispers for a long time. Then she carefully chose a gown. My father was taking her to a major charity gala. Just her. No disgusting mistress. She even helped my father placate Tess. But then, she taught me how to provoke the already-soothed Tess: “He-he, so what if he gave you snow? You’re still just my dad’s plaything.” “Only my mother can be on his arm at a proper event like the Metropolitan Gala!” Tess was so easy to manipulate. She immediately took the bait. On the night of the gala, our family of three had just sat down when Tess, disguised as a staff member, appeared. She didn’t say a word, just stared at my father with red-rimmed eyes. I clearly saw my father’s throat bob as he swallowed. “Victor,” my mother pleaded, “this is a major event. Give me this one night.” But under the gaze of the entire room, my father patted my mother’s hand. “There are too many people here. Tess is pregnant. I’m worried she’ll be jostled.” He went to sit with his mistress. The entire room erupted in hushed whispers. My mother lowered her head, feigning humiliation. In the shadows, she gave a subtle look to Mr. Harrison. 4. I knew Mr. Harrison. He was one of my father’s biggest investors. He had once suggested my mother leave Victor and go with him. I remembered him as a gentle man. But tonight, he was rough. He rudely grabbed Tess and ordered her to have a few drinks with him. Tess panicked and refused repeatedly. My father stepped in front of her, politely saying she was pregnant and shouldn’t drink. But Mr. Harrison seemed enraged. He dropped a threat: “If Victor can’t even give me this favor, then our partnership is over!” Seeing the terror in Tess’s eyes and the mortification on my father’s face, I felt a swell of triumph. I silently cheered Mr. Harrison, hoping he would give my mother more satisfaction. But the next second, I heard my father laugh. “How about this, Harrison? Let my wife keep you company for a few drinks.” “Tess may be pretty, but my Cecilia is the most beautiful woman in the city.” I was stunned. I couldn’t believe these words came from my mother’s husband. My mother didn’t move as my father grabbed her and pushed her toward Mr. Harrison. “It’s just a few drinks, Cee… You won’t refuse, will you?” I rushed forward to shield my mother. “My mother is sick! Dr. Serena said she can’t drink! It will kill her!” My father grabbed me by the collar and tossed me aside. He glared at my mother. “Look what you’ve taught Willa. The lies never end.” Mr. Harrison wrapped his arm around my mother and, along with several other men, started forcing drinks down her throat. My mother drank one glass after another, numbly. Mr. Harrison, however, seemed to have tears in his eyes. Finally, after an unknown number of drinks, my mother suddenly vomited blood. “Cecilia!” My father’s face changed instantly. He ran toward her. But Tess shrieked. “So much blood, Victor, I’m feeling faint…” My father hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he turned, picked up Tess, and carried her out. “The penthouse isn’t far. I’ll take you there to rest.” The penthouse was my parents’ wedding gift. My mother cherished it and never let outsiders inside. She stared at my father, her voice weak but firm. “No! Take her anywhere, but don’t defile my home!” My father initially tried to reason with her, but my mother was immovable this time. As they wrestled their way to the apartment, Tess’s deliberate moans grew louder. In a fit of rage, my father slapped my mother. “Are you insane? It’s just a house!” “If you think it’s more important than my son, then you can rot inside it!” He shoved my mother into the penthouse, locked the door behind her, and sped away before she could chase him. Mr. Harrison, Dr. Serena, and Dr. Serena’s boyfriend, Detective Miller, waited patiently with me outside the villa. After my father’s car disappeared into the distance, we finally went inside. My mother was still coughing up huge amounts of blood. Her dress and the marble floor were stained red. Her forehead was slick with cold sweat from the pain. But she persisted, directing Mr. Harrison to set up a complicated mechanism. “It must… ensure that the moment… they make love in that bed, my body… drops down onto them.” “Don’t forget to lock the door when you leave… He has to believe I was forced to drink, then locked in and left to die with no way to call for help.” “All traces… must be eliminated with professional forensic skill.” “The infertility drug… Willa, you must find an opportunity to put it in your father’s drink once you get home.” “The report that Tess’s fetus isn’t his… is it convincing enough? Let me see it one last time.” “He must have only one heir—you, Willa. He must.” Her voice was ragged with pain. Finally, with everyone’s help, she used her last ounce of strength to climb onto the skylight mechanism. She placed a white pill in her mouth. A look of profound relief crossed her face. “No flaws,” she whispered. “Thank you, all of you.” “Willa, farewell. Mama loves you, forever loves you…” Her voice faded, until it was gone. The adults were sobbing. Mr. Harrison knelt on the floor, weeping. I was the only one who didn’t cry. I had watched my mother meticulously arrange her own death. My tears had run dry. I looked at the sunflowers in the villa’s courtyard. The manufactured snowstorm had made them wither prematurely. I sat there quietly, waiting for my father to return. The doorbell finally rang around midnight. 5. Hearing the movement, I flew to the kitchen, poured a glass of warm water, and dropped in the tasteless medication my mother had given me. When my father entered, I sweetly handed it to him. He drank it without suspicion, then finally noticed I was alone. A look of annoyance and resignation crossed his face. “Your mother hasn’t come home?” “She’s becoming impossible. To spite me, she’s abandoned her own daughter.” He pulled out his phone. My heart hammered in my chest. I thought he was going to call my mother. But the next words were: “Tess, Willa’s mother isn’t home. Come back here.” Willa’s mother… It was a mercy my mother was already dead. If she knew she no longer had a name in his mind, only a title, how much more heartbroken would she be? My eyes burned again, but I held back the tears. I slept downstairs that night. I could hear sounds from the master bedroom. “Mmm, don’t touch me. I’m carrying your son.” “It’s been three months. It should be safe.” “Nonsense. It’s two days shy of three months.” “Two days… What a coincidence. That’s an important date. I can’t be with you that day.” “What date?” My father chuckled softly and didn’t answer. I copied my mother’s cynical smile. You don’t need his compensation anymore, Dad. The next morning, Tess walked downstairs, her face sated. She shot a smug look at me as I quietly ate breakfast. “Enjoy your meal, darling. This house will have a new mistress soon.” I put a piece of bacon in my mouth. My voice was as gentle as my mother’s had been. “Do you know what that important date is?” The simpleton my mother had pegged him to be looked at me blankly. I smiled. “It’s my parents’ wedding anniversary.” “You see? You will never be able to replace my mother.” It was completely unsatisfying to mess with a fool. No wonder my mother never bothered with Tess before she got sick. Just that one sentence was enough to send Tess storming off to confront my father. After she left, my mother’s phone kept ringing. My father was calling her. I let the screen flash. Then he started texting. [Still angry, Cee? It’s been a night.] [Tess is just a girl, and she’s pregnant. Of course I have to take care of her more than you.] [Alright, alright. You were hurt this time. Tomorrow is our anniversary. I’ll compensate you. Deal?] He sent pictures of expensive jewelry. When there was no reply, he sent photos of luxury properties, promising she could pick one, and it would be placed in my name. I followed my mother’s instructions and sent no reply. My father seemed to grow enraged. [Cecilia, how long are you going to pout?] [Tess was just here, sweet and soft.] [If you keep this up, I’ll spend the anniversary with her!] My heart thumped. He had reached the critical point. The ‘typing’ indicator flashed for a long time. Then my father sent a voice message: “Fine, let’s see who can hold out longer!” “Forget the anniversary. I’m going to be with Tess.” “You didn’t want her in the penthouse? Good. I’m going to have a candlelight dinner with her there.” “You can figure out Willa’s medical bills yourself!” My mother had broken down his reactions step-by-step for me. But hearing it now, my heart ached with a dull, heavy pain. Did you ever love her, Dad? If you did, why would you use my health to threaten her? But it didn’t matter. I texted Dr. Serena and Detective Miller. Everything is ready. On the night of the anniversary, Dr. Serena picked me up, and we waited outside the penthouse. In the darkness, we watched my father enter, his arm around Tess. Candlelight warmed the windows. Tess leaned into his shoulder, giggling. Tess flirtatiously pulled at his tie, but my father hesitated, nervously twisting his wedding ring. Detective Miller clearly read Tess’s lips through the window: “Take off the ring, Victor. Don’t you want to meet your son sooner?” That one sentence sent my father’s blood rushing. He yanked the ring off and tossed it onto the sofa. He picked up Tess and carried her upstairs. Through the faint curtain, we watched their silhouettes as they moved, step by step, toward the bed. The moment he pressed Tess down, there was a deafening CRASH. A woman’s deformed body smashed directly between them.

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My mother, Adriana, was breathtakingly beautiful, but everyone in the forgotten town of Hickory Creek hated her. Every night, a different man slipped into her bed, and every morning, he would shuffle out looking perfectly satisfied. They called her a tramp, a slut, saying only a simpleton like my father, Roy Tucker, would keep her. Dad would even buy her pretty dresses and cheap jewelry, dressing her up like a princess for the viewing. But I knew the truth. Every time, those men would hand Dad a wad of bills and tell him she was worth the price. I hated her. I kept my distance, never seeking comfort. I only felt a cold, hard disgust for the woman who let filth touch her. It wasn’t until a truly repulsive beggar—a man who looked like dirt and smelled of rot—shuffled out of her room and handed Dad a single, crumpled bill that a calculated thought hardened in my mind: If she was going to sell herself, why not help Dad sell her for a fortune? … 1 The forced, triumphant smile vanished from Dad’s face the moment the beggar was out of sight. He stormed into the room and the sound of the slap was dull, sickening. “You worthless bitch! That’s all you pulled in? And you still have the nerve to just lie there!” He kicked the mattress. “Today is Christmas Eve. Get up and go make me a holiday dinner.” Mom lay on the stained sheet, her legs still splayed. She was naked, her pale skin a roadmap of bruises and purple welts. Her breasts were covered in fresh, bloody bite marks. She just stared at the ceiling, not crying, not moving—her eyes empty, wide, and entirely blank. As he stomped out, Dad spat over his shoulder. “Goddamn slut. You get less valuable every time.” I watched her rise, the silence in her movements more disturbing than any scream. She went to the sink, ran the cold water, and washed the evidence of the last man off her body before pulling on a clean, threadbare shirt. Then she walked, stiff-backed, to the kitchen. I didn’t follow. Instead, I went out to the cluster of rusted trailers we called a village. The men in Hickory Creek always smirked when they saw me. “Hey, Dusty,” they’d call me—a name that meant ‘the neglected one’ here. “Is your mama busy tonight? God, her legs are something else.” “Hey, why don’t you drop your pants and let old Butch see if you’re as pale as your mom.” In response, I’d grab a fistful of sharp gravel and hurl it at them, earning their loud, delighted laughter. The women here loathed my mother, gathering daily to trash-talk the beautiful, broken woman. But the men were worse. Their eyes, when they spoke of her, were like a pair of greedy, oily snakes. They all knew one thing, though: I hated my mother, and the subject of her made me snap. That evening, a couple of Dad’s regular card buddies—men with yellow teeth and cheap beer breath—arrived. They settled down, dealing cards and letting their eyes roam the trailer. “Hey, Roy,” one of them asked, looking towards the kitchen. “Where’s Adriana?” Dad took a drag from his cigarette, his eyes squinting against the smoke. “She’s cooking. When we’re done dealing, we can eat.” A man named Mitch gave a leering grin and a thumbs-up. “Man, Roy, you got it made. A wife as beautiful as a movie star, who’s good for a man and brings in the cash.” Another added, “And Dusty, too. Most girls are close to their moms, but you and your old man are tight. She’ll be a good little thing when she grows up.” The praise made Dad puff out his chest. His porcine face wobbled with mirth. “Damn right. You take a look at the women in this house, and they’re both nothing without me.” He slammed his hand on the table. “I tell them east, they don’t go west. They’re more obedient than old man Floyd’s mutt.” They roared with laughter. Floyd’s dog was a filthy, abused animal. The smell of food wafted in, and I went to the kitchen to help carry the dishes. The rule in our trailer—an unspoken law in this whole village—was that women did not sit at the table. They ate in the kitchen, hidden away. In our house, it was worse: Mom and I had to squat with our bowls at Dad’s feet, ready to serve him. I set plate after plate on the table. The last pot was heavy, and as I set it down, I accidentally knocked the small charcoal brazier underneath. The tablecloth immediately caught fire. Mom ran over, grabbing a damp towel and smothering the small flame. It was out in seconds. But Dad, who had just finished his hand, saw her. He lunged, grabbing a handful of her hair. He slammed her head down onto the table with a sickening thud. A grotesque lump immediately swelled on her pristine forehead. “Who the hell said you could stand at the damn table? You trying to jinx my luck on Christmas Eve, you curse!” 2 One hand still twisted in her hair, Dad used his other hand to furiously strike her face. Her cheeks quickly swelled, and a thin line of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. Mom never fought back. She never cried. She was a beautiful, compliant mannequin, silently enduring every horror. She’d be subjected to unspeakable things all night, but every morning, she’d meticulously clean herself up and dress as if nothing had happened. That’s why the women of Hickory Creek called her a natural whore, saying she was the one who craved the men, that she’d cheat on Dad even if he didn’t sell her out. I knew that wasn’t true. Once, she had tried to run. Years ago. She managed to knock out the man in her bed, scoop up my tiny body, and tear through the village in the dark. The wind had whipped her hair around her face—a desperate, tangible vision of hope. The mud of the path was treacherous, and she trembled with effort. I could hear the frantic drumming of her heart. She made it almost to the highway before two men blocked the path. Their voices were wet with lust as they appraised her. “Look at that, the prettiest thing in a ten-mile radius. Even running away, she’s a sight.” It turned out Dad slept soundly and traveled without worry because he’d already made a deal with the village: Anyone who found her trying to escape would be rewarded with a free pass. In the filthy dirt patch behind a rusted-out shed, the two men descended on her like wolves. Mom let out a high, tortured scream, beating the air with her arms. It was the only time she ever actively fought them, but her frantic struggle was only to keep them from letting me see. But no one cares about a toy’s feelings. The moment she tried to leave, her hope became a sick source of entertainment for her captors. That night was the moment I started to hate her, or perhaps, the moment I felt compelled to act like I did. Now, Mitch and Butch were trying to intervene. “Come on, Roy, easy, man. She didn’t mean it.” “It’s Christmas Eve, let’s eat.” Dad finally released her, a few strands of her chestnut hair still wrapped around his fist. He thrust his foot out and shoved her to the ground. “You’re gonna kneel right there and serve us. My hand was bad tonight, and it’s all your fault, you rotten slut.” Without a word, Mom dropped to her knees. She ladled soup, served the pot roast, and listened to their crude, slurred jokes. “Look at that, Roy. You really trained her. I’d wake up laughing if I had a woman like that.” Dad reveled in the compliments. He’d always been that way, never bothering to pretend to be a decent person. Since I could remember, he did nothing but drink and gamble. I’d heard he was a nobody in this village until he married Mom, and then, suddenly, men started seeking his company—all for the chance to take advantage of her. He didn’t care why they praised him; he just loved the feeling of being respected, of being chased. When the men finished the food, they weren’t ready to leave. I knew what that meant. This night of family cheer was about to become Mom’s night of hell. 3 Sure enough, Dad dragged Mom into the back bedroom—the one we all called “The Room”—and one of the men, Butch, followed her inside immediately. Before long, Mom’s screams, sharp and frantic, tore through the winter air. I’d heard them a hundred times, but they still made my body seize up with a cold, terrifying shake. Outside, the men were laughing. Her pain was their pleasure. “Damn, Butch is an animal! Listen to her, Roy, she must be loving it in there!” “You’re a lucky bastard, Roy.” They snickered, their eyes trying to bore holes through the thin curtain over the window. I wanted to leave. I knew she didn’t want me to hear this. “Dad, I’m going to bed.” He hit me hard across the ear. “Go to sleep? I’m not sleeping, you little brat. You wait right here until they’re all gone.” I pressed my throbbing ear and sat down on the stoop of the porch. Eventually, Butch emerged, adjusting his pants. “Whew. That was damn good, Roy.” Dad impatiently demanded the money. Butch pulled out a wad of bills and handed them over, his tone laced with mockery. “Easy, Roy. You’ll get what’s coming to you.” Then, the next man, Mitch, stumbled eagerly inside. They continued the rotation, one leaving, one entering, stretching the night out into a seemingly endless expanse of suffering. Mom’s cries shifted from frantic screams to hoarse, exhausted gasps, and finally, to nothing but muffled whimpers. Each man who left handed Dad the required amount, their faces satisfied and slick with sweat. The last one emerged, looking regretful that it was over. “Roy, you lost a lot of cash at the table tonight, right?” Dad was busy counting the money, not looking up. “Don’t worry, I won’t owe you.” The man gave a sleazy grin. “That’s not what I mean, Roy. One time wasn’t enough for me.” He looked at the remaining men. “How about we do a group deal? We all go in together, and we call your debt to us settled.” Dad looked up, his eyes lighting up with greed. He looked at the others. They immediately agreed, their eyes glowing like famished wolves. Together, the three remaining men stormed into The Room. This time, Mom did not make a single sound. The sky was beginning to lighten when the wolf pack emerged, looking red-faced and utterly satisfied. They finally left. Dad yawned, ready for bed. He muttered as he walked past me, “Worthless hag. You’re getting less valuable by the month.” He looked at me, his eyes unfocused. “Dusty, go check on your mother.” My head throbbed from the night-long vigil. I opened the door. The stench hit me first—a thick, nauseating smell that made me gag. Mom was unconscious on the floor, covered in a sickening mix of fluids. Blood was everywhere, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. I grabbed a basin of ice-cold water and a rag, wiping her body clean, piece by piece. She was covered in fresh red marks, hideous welts, and angry, open wounds. There wasn’t a single clean spot on her body. Though she was passed out, her brow furrowed in a painful, agonizing spasm every time I touched her. I knew, with cold certainty, that if this continued, she wasn’t going to last much longer. 4 The next day, Mom woke up and tried to carry on as if nothing had happened. She stood in front of the broken mirror, trying to fix her hair. But her swollen face and the brutal purple bags under her eyes meant no amount of effort could hide the damage. We were eating when a man—a scruffy neighbor named Mikey—burst in, looking desperate. “Roy, now’s the time! My old lady went to her mother’s. I gotta go back before she gets home.” Mom could be called upon at any moment. These men always had wives, and they couldn’t risk being seen near our trailer. Dad accepted the cash and, grinning, yanked Mom off the floor. Mikey followed her eagerly into The Room and the door slammed shut. Dad beckoned me over to finish waiting on him. He seemed to be in a great mood. He even tossed a chunk of meat into my bowl on the ground. Normally, meat was for him alone. He’d occasionally ‘reward’ me with a piece, but Mom never got anything. This time, however, Mikey came flying out of the room just moments later, his face contorted in rage. “Roy Tucker, you damn well cheated me! That whore is stinking! You rotten liar, Roy. Her pussy reeks—she’s got some kind of disease! Give me my money back!” Dad slammed his fist on the table. “Bullshit! She was fine yesterday!” They argued until they finally threw the door open and looked inside. Sure enough, a horrifying yellow discharge was visible on Mom’s legs. Dad was forced to return the money. Mikey stormed out, cursing the whole way. As soon as the door shut, Dad grabbed a heavy switch from the yard and began whipping Mom. He had a powerful arm. The thin branch whistled as it struck her already mangled body, raising fresh red tracks over old purple bruises. “You worthless slut! When did you get this disease?” he roared, the fear of contamination turning into fury. “Look how filthy you are! You’re disgusting! No decent man would touch you now! You eat my food, you live in my house—and now you can’t even make me money! What good are you to me?” Mom was a ragdoll. She screamed in agony, thrashing and writhing on the bed. I curled up in the corner. Tears welled in my eyes, and I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. He kept hitting her until she passed out, only to be jolted back awake by the next blow. Dad vented his rage until his own arm was tired and shaking. He threw the switch down, his eyes murderous. “You piece of trash! How am I supposed to gamble now?” He turned to leave, but his eyes fell on me, huddled in the corner. Beneath the layers of dirt and fear, my features—small, thin, and currently wet with tears—were undeniably similar to my mother’s. A faint, almost-womanly curve was beginning to show on my frame. Suddenly, he smiled. “Dusty,” he said slowly, his voice changing entirely. “Damn, I never noticed. You’re actually pretty.” He had always insisted I stay dirty, wear the ugliest clothes, and keep my face grubby. I had often resented it, wondering why she got to be a princess while I was a scruffy peasant. Now, I understood. Dad walked over, stroked my hair, and chuckled. “Well, I guess raising you wasn’t a total waste after all.” The next few days passed without any strangers coming to the trailer. Dad grew more and more volatile, returning home daily to give Mom a brutal beating. I knew his money was running out. Mom couldn’t get out of bed, so I was left to do all the work. Today, I was serving Dad his cheap whiskey and cigarettes. He was ranting, calling Mom a worthless cripple who couldn’t earn her keep. I lit his cigarette and handed it to him. I leaned in, speaking in a low, conspiratorial voice. “Dad, I think you’re losing money.” He grunted, drinking deep. “Mom is so beautiful. Since you have to sell her,” I said, trying not to choke on the word, “why are you selling her cheap?”

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The night my husband was hosting a tribute dinner for his mentor, I tracked the party down and walked right in. Every face in the room turned to stone, and I knew exactly what they were thinking: She’s here to catch him. A low buzz of judgment started up immediately, and an older gentleman—a well-meaning peacemaker—stepped in front of me. “Harper, honey, it’s not what you think. It’s a huge night, let’s not make a scene, alright?” Hudson’s face was a mask of furious, mortified red. His voice was a tight, cold hiss. “What in God’s name are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you there was nothing going on with Phoebe?” I gave him the softest, most polite smile I could manage. “I’m here to do exactly what you and your little protégé are doing.” I tipped my head to the event staff, confirmed my substantial gift was delivered to Chef Moreau, and then gave the room a dismissive nod. “Mission accomplished. I’ll be leaving now.” As I passed Hudson’s junior colleague, Phoebe Wells, I paused and let my eyes rake over her. “I hope, darling, that you enjoy your performance. You’re wearing my grandmother’s legacy. Make it count.” It was Chef Laurent Moreau’s sixtieth birthday gala. Hudson and Phoebe were part of the same maître lineage, so yes, it was technically normal for him to attend with her and not me. I had planned to stay home. To suck it up, as I had done for five years. … But before I left, I saw Phoebe’s Instagram story. She was wearing a bespoke, vintage silk robe—the one my grandmother, a renowned textile artist, had designed and worn for her first major exhibition. It had an intricate, hand-stitched floral motif. Phoebe wore the robe, along with an ancient, delicate silver headpiece, standing beside Hudson. She was all wide-eyed, fragile innocence, beaming up at him. The caption read: “First time on such a big stage. So safe with my mentor here.” In the photo, Hudson was leaning over her, his expression soft, his long fingers adjusting the silk collar. It was a look of care and tenderness I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. That robe was the only tangible thing I had left of my grandmother. It was everything. The black Bentley pulled up near the curb. I looked up. Hudson had followed me out. His face was glacial. “Harper, have you had your fun yet?” The night air was sharp and cold. I opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. Hudson’s profile was rigid, his jaw clenched so hard I could see his throat move. It betrayed his rage more than his words did. Five years of marriage, and I felt like I was seeing him clearly, calmly, for the first time. “I’ve thought it through,” I said softly. “Hudson,” I turned away from him, staring out the window. “Let’s call it.” The silence that followed was suffocating. “The reason.” His hands gripped the steering wheel. I couldn’t detect any emotion in his voice, only command. “Give me a reason why you’re having one of your episodes again.” I laughed, a short, hollow sound. It was absurd. I pointed to the rearview mirror. There was a small, white sports car that had followed us, keeping a respectful distance. “I’m guessing it won’t take ten seconds,” I said. “Before someone rushes in to explain it for you.” I watched the mirror and began to count. “Ten.” “Nine.” “Eight.” At seven, the door of the sports car flew open. A slim figure sprinted toward us, her voice already laced with a hysterical cry. “Hudson! Harper! Please, don’t fight!” Phoebe ripped the driver’s side door open and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Harper, I truly didn’t mean to! Chef Moreau insisted I present, and my own ensemble had a stain. Hudson said I could borrow that one. I didn’t know it was… that important to you. I swear I didn’t know.” “This is all my fault! Please, don’t take it out on Hudson. I beg you.” She grabbed my hand, then lifted it, preparing to slap herself. “If this makes it better,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face, “hit me.” “Go ahead. Hit me to get it out of your system.” She was guiding my hand toward her cheek. Hudson’s voice was like ice. “Harper, where is your composure? Did your mother teach you nothing?” I felt a surge of hysterical laughter. See? I don’t have to lift a finger, and I’m already the villain. I snatched my hand back, meeting Hudson’s eyes, which were alight with thin anger. “Do you get it now?” “Hudson,” I didn’t feel heartbreak, just a cold, paralyzing numbness. I unbuckled my seatbelt. “That’s the reason.” “I want a divorce.” I pushed the door open, flashing a tight, genuine smile at Phoebe, whose shock barely masked her triumphant flicker. “Congratulations, Phoebe.” “After all these years—meticulously inserting yourself into every corner of our lives—you’re about to win.” “You can have him. I’m done.” I turned to walk away, but his hand clamped around my wrist, a vise of pure adrenaline and fury. “Harper, what the hell is this insanity? You’re ending our marriage over a piece of clothing?” “Do you know what important meeting I ditched just to rush home and appease you? And this is how you treat me?” “You constantly attack Phoebe, and she’s the one who always tries to mediate and tell me to be more patient with you! Don’t be so ungrateful!” The pain in my wrist made me wince. “Let go!” I yanked my arm away, watching the red marks bloom instantly on my skin. Then, I raised my hand and swung my entire weight into the slap. The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet night. “Hudson Blake!” “I am done tolerating you!” Eight years together, five years married. This was the first time I had ever embarrassed him in public. I didn’t care anymore. I stared at his stunned face, speaking slowly, deliberately. “On my grandmother’s death anniversary, you were with Phoebe, lighting candles at a monastery.” “When I was in the ER with acute gastritis, you were with Phoebe, pulling an all-nighter on her thesis.” “Every single time I have ever needed you, you were with your goddamn mentee!” “And today!” I pointed at the girl who was still dramatically weeping behind him. “You let her wear my grandmother’s only remaining keepsake—a symbol of everything I lost—on stage for her standing ovation!” “And when you saw that silk tear because it didn’t fit her right, you casually dismissed it as ‘just an old thing’!” “Hudson!” “We are finished.” I realized I was crying—full, ugly tears—only after the last word left my lips. I thought I was past crying for him. Hudson’s face shifted through shock, a flash of guilt, and finally, settling on an irritated defensiveness. “I didn’t know that was your grandmother’s anniversary! Chef Moreau’s event is non-negotiable! And Phoebe’s thesis was crucial to her career—I was being a supportive mentor! Why do you always have to make everything so ugly?” He looked at me with profound disappointment. “Harper, when did you become so petty? So unreasonable?” “No man is going to love you like this!” He was right. No man would love me like this. I was barely recognizing this hysterical, frantic woman myself. The tears fell, hot and unstoppable. “Then,” I choked out, “I don’t need your love anymore.” I wiped my eyes and turned to leave. But Phoebe seized my hand again. She cried with me, her grief appearing even more debilitating than mine. “Harper, please don’t do this. Hudson loves you. He really does.” “It’s my fault, I promise! I’ll apply for a fellowship abroad tomorrow! I’ll never see him again! Just please, don’t leave him!” Her pathetic fragility was my least favorite performance. Watching her cry somehow stopped my own tears. I violently shook her hand off and spat out a single word. “Get lost.” Phoebe stumbled back, falling hard onto the asphalt, looking up at me in wide-eyed, wounded innocence. “Harper!” Hudson instantly moved, rushing to pull Phoebe up. When he saw her hand was scraped, he turned and yelled at me. “Are you insane? Apologize to Phoebe!” “In your dreams.” I looked at him, then at the calculating smirk that flashed in Phoebe’s eyes as she hid in his embrace, and gave him my final ultimatum. “Hudson Blake, if you contest this, we’ll meet in court.” I didn’t look back. Behind me, I heard Phoebe’s muffled sobs, Hudson’s low, comforting assurances, and a final, clear sentence: “She’s completely lost it.” I hailed a taxi and went straight to my best friend, Jada’s, place. Jada didn’t ask a single question. She opened the door, let me in, walked to her bar cart, and pulled out a dozen bottles of various liquor—whiskey, vodka, tequila—and arranged them on the coffee table. She only asked one thing. “Is this enough?” I looked at her, and my eyes welled up instantly. Jada sighed and opened her arms. “Come here, sweetie.” I collapsed into her embrace, sobbing until my throat was raw, my body shaking, until I finally had to rush to the bathroom to throw up. When I stumbled back out, I collapsed on the couch. “I’m divorcing him.” “Jada, I’m getting a divorce.” “And I’m going to make Hudson regret everything.” What is love taken to its limit? It’s when the man you thought would be your safe harbor actively tramples on everything you hold sacred, then blames you for not being generous enough. It’s when the love you thought was unbreakable finally shatters into dust after years of gradual erosion and disappointment. I stayed at Jada’s for two weeks. Hudson didn’t contact me. Not a call, not a text. Phoebe’s social media, however, was updated with manic frequency. And every post had Hudson in the background. [Met so many industry legends today. A little nervous, but felt so safe with my mentor.] The picture was from a culinary institute’s private backstage area. Phoebe smiled shyly, and Hudson was in the back, talking earnestly to a renowned veteran chef. [Home-cooked late-night snack from my mentor just wiped away all the exhaustion.] The photo showed a beautifully plated bowl of udon noodles. Next to it, a clearly visible, strong, masculine hand rested on the table—the hand still wearing the simple platinum wedding band I’d bought him. [Must keep up my practice, even on the road.] The photo was a selfie in a hotel practice kitchen. Phoebe, in her chef’s whites, was posing, but the mirror reflection clearly showed Hudson, in a tailored suit, sitting nearby, reading. One post after another. Jada nearly crushed her phone in her hand. She pointed furiously at the screen. “Are you kidding me? This girl has ‘I’m about to steal your husband’ written all over her face! Is Hudson blind? How can he not see this?” Jada was hopping mad, but I felt strangely calm. I had passed the point of agonizing pain. I just offered a detached assessment. “He sees it just fine.” “Bullshit!” Jada sat next to me. “Then why is he enabling this little bitch?” “In his mind, as long as he hasn’t physically crossed the line, it doesn’t count.” Hudson always clung to his ridiculous moral high ground. Whenever I confronted him, he always had a ready defense. “Phoebe and I are strictly professional. You’re just twisted, seeing dirt where there is none.” Looking back on those words now, my heart was still. “The movers will be here soon,” I reminded Jada. If I was getting divorced, I needed to retrieve my personal belongings, especially the few antiques left by my grandmother. They were all still at the house. “Okay. Good. You’re making the right call.” Jada drove back with me. I assumed Hudson was still out of town on business. But the moment I unlocked the front door, I smelled dinner—the scent of his famous tangy, sweet spareribs. I took off my shoes and walked in. Phoebe was sitting at the dining table in my favorite cashmere loungewear, openly eating the dish Hudson had made. Seeing me, Phoebe froze, looking like a child caught in the act. She jumped up immediately. “Harper.” Her voice was barely a whisper. Hudson walked out of the kitchen, holding a pot of soup. The smile on his face vanished when he saw me. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You’re back? Did you eat?” I ignored him, walking straight to the master bedroom. I stopped dead in the doorway. My dresser was ransacked. Jewelry boxes were open, and necklaces spilled out. The bed was disheveled. The closet door was ajar, and the small safe hidden in the back—the door was wide open. A cold dread washed over me. I rushed to the safe. It was empty. “Harper…” Phoebe followed me in, her voice small. “I’m so sorry. I… I accidentally lost a pair of your earrings a few days ago, and I was trying to find a matching set to replace them.” “And I… accidentally opened the safe…” My head spun. I whipped around. She was wearing a delicate, custom-made vintage emerald necklace on her wrist—the one my grandmother had given me, an irreplaceable antique. Now, the chain was broken. The tiny, precious emeralds were scattered across the floor, and Phoebe held only a few broken shards in her hand. “I swear I didn’t mean to.” “Harper, please!” Phoebe suddenly lunged at me, falling to her knees and grasping my arms, sobbing. “I beg you to forgive me!” “I didn’t know it was your grandmother’s! I really didn’t!” She held onto me tightly. “Hit me, Harper!” “Please!” “Just hit me, so I can feel less horrible about myself!” As she spoke, she tried to lower her head to bang it on the floor. A hand shot out between us, catching her forehead just in time. Hudson gently pulled the shaking Phoebe away from me, sheltering her behind his back. He looked at me with an air of detached superiority. “The person is gone. It’s just an object, a relic. You don’t need to terrorize a living person over a relic, Harper. Phoebe is remorseful.” His tone was dismissive, as if the destruction was nothing more than an inconvenient spill. And I was the aggressive, overreacting lunatic. He stood there, her protector, shielding her completely. “Just leave her alone. She’s already devastated.” I couldn’t speak. As long as Phoebe played this pitiful, fragile role, I would always be wrong. From her “accidentally” tearing my robe, to her “accidentally” losing my jewelry, to this moment—her “accidentally” smashing the last physical link I had to my grandmother. Hudson always told me to forgive, to be the bigger person. My mind went blank. My throat constricted. The tremor in my fingertips was the only sign of my rising storm. I looked at Phoebe, still sniffling and hiding in Hudson’s arms, but with a barely concealed glint of smugness in her eyes. I smiled. I took one step toward her. Right in front of Hudson, I lunged, grabbed a fistful of Phoebe’s hair, and slammed her head against the nearest wall. “Ah—!” As Phoebe screamed in shock, I kicked her in the knee. She lost her balance and dropped heavily, this time genuinely kneeling on the floor before me. “That’s not how you beg for forgiveness.” I planted my foot on her shoulder, pinning her down. With the hand still tangled in her hair, I brutally forced her head down to the ground. Thud. I heard Phoebe let out a choked gasp of pain and saw blood immediately seep from her temple. I leaned down and whispered, my voice ragged, for only the three of us to hear. “That is how you beg.” My eyes were burning red. I was about to hit her head again, but Hudson’s hand wrapped around my wrist, his grip iron-hard. He tried to yank my arm away, his face dark with rage. “Let go!” “Never.” Hudson used his other hand, prying my fingers open one by one. My fingernails dug into his skin, but he ignored the pain, relentlessly peeling my grip away. “Harper, don’t push this too far!” Too far? I looked at Hudson, my anger turning into a maniacal laugh. “You and her are too far, you cheating bastards!” “If you want to protect her so badly!” “Fine!” Ignoring the agonizing pressure on my fingers, I broke free just long enough to use every ounce of my strength to deliver a vicious backhand across Phoebe’s face. My nails raked across her delicate skin, leaving several clear, bleeding gashes. The pain of my chipped nails was nothing compared to the satisfaction of watching the face she flaunted on social media every day be momentarily destroyed. Phoebe completely lost it, screaming in terror and clutching her face. I just laughed. “You know what that is?” “That’s karma, bitch!” “Let me tell you something, Hudson,” I glared at his incredulous face, then down at the shrieking Phoebe. “I have never been a good person! You should have known that!” “You have finally messed with the wrong woman!” “I promise you both this!” “This is far from over!”

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