I was born with Congenital Insensitivity to Pain (CIP). My adopted little brother, Kian, has a severe form of Osteogenesis Imperfecta—the ‘brittle bone’ disease. So, to keep him safe, my sister, Hannah, always used me to set boundaries and enforce rules for Kian. I did protest, but Hannah always pleaded with me, a look of deep, exhausted helplessness on her face: “Nick, Kian is our adopted brother, and punishing him directly will only bring judgment and gossip down on us.” “Plus, he’s so fragile, so much weaker than you! You can’t feel pain anyway, so just think of it as acting, and please, just go along with it.” When Kian ran off in a crowded shopping mall, Hannah broke one of my legs right in front of him. When he played with scissors, she chopped off five of my fingers, then had doctors reattach them one by one. Later, Kian got involved with a delinquent girl and ran away from home. After Hannah dragged him back, she sliced open several deep cuts on my body and shoved me into the indoor pool where she kept her sharks. Three sharks circled me. I screamed for her help, but she only focused on reprimanding Kian: “Mistakes have consequences. You run away one more time, and I’ll throw him back in.” Kian crumpled in terror, his knees hitting the cold marble floor and leaving a patch of dark bruising. Hannah immediately rushed to cradle him, her face full of anguish, and then turned to leave. I sobbed, begging her to pull me out first, but she never looked back. She had forgotten that Congenital Insensitivity to Pain isn’t the same thing as immortality. You can still die from blood loss.

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Preston Maxwell’s colleague, Daisy Palmer, was very pregnant. She waltzed through the front door, belly first, demanding the last gift from her registry, right as I was putting the finishing touches on our wedding decor. “Are you serious?” I managed, my voice raw. Preston looked utterly bewildered by my reaction. “I just helped her out with a sperm donation, Cathy. I’ve been nothing but faithful to you.” Then, he actually took her to the mall to pick out the gift. I immediately shared the story to our synchronized family group chat, canceling the wedding. But everyone seemed to think I was overreacting. Preston’s mother, Mrs. Maxwell, spoke in a long-suffering, patient tone: “Preston is handsome and has an Ivy League degree. Genes like that should be passed on. It’s practically a public service.” His father, Mr. Maxwell, scoffed: “He didn’t cheat on you. Why are you making such a big deal out of nothing?” My own father was so enraged he nearly had a heart attack: “You stubborn fool! This is a perfect match. You dare throw it away?” My mother wailed dramatically: “Cancel this, and you’ll never find another husband!” “Then I’ll never marry!” I shot back, my eyes burning. But then my phone buzzed with a message from someone else: “Cathy Jensen, when do I finally get the way to the top?” … That evening, Preston gently ushered Daisy Palmer through the door. They had bought a massive box of toys for the unborn baby. Daisy lightly stroked her bump, and they exchanged a look that was undeniably filled with the shared, uncomplicated joy of impending parenthood. When she saw me, Daisy offered a small, neatly wrapped box. “Cathy, this is a gift I picked out just for you. I only found out today how upset you were about all this, so please take this as… a small apology.” I didn’t even look. It hit the bottom of the Restoration Hardware trash bin with a satisfying, hollow thud. Daisy’s practiced smile evaporated. Tears immediately tracked down her cheeks. “Cathy, I… I’m so sorry.” She choked back a sob and instinctively shrank behind Preston. Preston immediately shielded her. He looked at me with a weary, almost patronizing air. “Cathy, don’t be like this.” “I was just doing my part to donate high-quality genes, in line with the department’s initiative. Daisy’s a committed single mother by choice. She just wanted a baby, not a husband.” “We’re just colleagues. Seriously, there’s nothing going on.” “Just colleagues?” My voice shook. “Colleagues who text ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good night’ every single day? Colleagues who share a private Spotify playlist? Colleagues who cover for her at client dinners and drive her the twenty extra miles home after a late shift?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture of exhaustion. “There you go again. I’ve explained all of this. It’s just professional courtesy. You’re being paranoid and reading into things.” I laughed, a sharp, cold sound. His excuses were pathetic and weak—casual workplace exchanges, a mentor looking out for a junior team member. They were full of holes, yet for five years, I had chosen to stitch them shut with my trust. But five years of my life. I couldn’t just let it end like this. I gritted my teeth, pointing at Daisy’s stomach, testing him one last time. “Fine. I’m the paranoid one. I misunderstood everything.” I stared into Preston’s eyes. “She can get rid of the baby. And I’ll consider everything forgotten. The wedding is back on.” “Absolutely not!” Preston’s voice cracked with sudden rage, though he quickly forced it down. “The baby is Daisy’s. I have no right to decide that.” Daisy instantly went pale. Then, with a dramatic gasp, she dropped to her knees. She clasped her hands over her stomach. “Cathy, there’s nothing between Preston and me. The baby is eight months old. He was just kicking me. I can’t, I can’t…” She was sobbing, trembling like a leaf. Preston’s face was a mask of internal conflict. After a few agonizing seconds, his composure broke. He helped her up, his smile forced and weak. “Cathy, asking her to terminate the pregnancy now is like tearing her heart out.” I watched him, a cold smirk twisting my lips. “Oh. Does that hurt your heart?” Preston visibly flinched. A look of genuine pain flashed across his face. “I didn’t think you could be so ruthless. If this is a condition of our marriage, then we truly aren’t the same kind of people… We should break up.” “Preston is innocent, Cathy! Don’t take this out on him!” Daisy suddenly shrieked. “If you want to blame someone, blame me! I can’t give up my baby… I’ll prove our innocence by ending my own life right now!” Before the words were out, she made a stumbling rush toward the balcony, making a show of trying to climb over the railing. My heart flew into my throat. I automatically started toward her. Preston was already moving, pure panic on his face. But before either of us could reach her, Daisy simply collapsed onto the floor, hyperventilating and weeping uncontrollably. Preston immediately wrapped her in his arms, his whole body shaking. After a long moment, he looked up, his eyes glacial as they fixed on me, still standing there. “Charlotte Jensen! Your baseless accusations nearly killed her!” His look was utterly cold, as if he were staring at a stranger. “She’s a young woman, pregnant, and vulnerable. You can stand there and watch her suffer, but I can’t.” His voice was vibrating with emotion. He carefully lifted Daisy into his arms. As he passed me, he growled, “Move.” I stood paralyzed, trying to form the words. “I wasn’t going to…” “Preston, the baby… I think the baby is coming.” Daisy moaned weakly, then went limp in his arms. “Daisy!” Preston’s face went white. He shoved past me with urgent force, carrying Daisy out the door. I sank onto the floor, biting down hard on my lip, trying to contain the freezing despair welling up inside me. I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling until dawn. My phone finally lit up with a text from Preston: I was out of line last night. I said things I didn’t mean. Cathy, I’m sorry. My nose started to sting. Tears immediately welled up. For years, he was always the one to apologize first after a fight, and I would always take the graceful path back to him. But this time was different. This was a line I could never uncross. Before I could reply, he sent a photo. It was of him and a newborn baby. The tiny infant was tucked gently into his arm. He was looking down at her with a tenderness that made his eyes look like soft spring water. Daisy had an early labor, but they’re both safe. The baby looks exactly like me. She’s alone, so I’m staying here at the hospital for three days to help out. Let’s push the wedding back a week. I can’t deal with all the planning right now. These simple, everyday words, every single one of them, felt like a spike driven through my chest. I numbly stood up and began systematically peeling the wedding stickers off the walls. Then I took scissors to the gown, reducing the silk and lace to a heap of worthless scraps. My fingers were shaking uncontrollably as I packed my suitcase. Just as I zipped it shut, Mrs. Maxwell burst in, her face beaming. “Preston asked me to bring him a change of clothes at the hospital. Honestly, I’m so eager to see my granddaughter!” When I didn’t speak, she took my arm with false warmth. “Cathy, look, Preston was wrong. He shouldn’t have kept the ‘donation’ a secret and embarrassed you. But it’s not some unforgivable sin, is it?” “We know you two are solid. You can’t let something this small ruin everything. Just forget what you said in the group chat. It was just heat of the moment.” “Come on, let’s go see the baby together. Give Preston an out, and we’ll forget this whole messy thing ever happened.” Like a puppet, I allowed her to drag me along. When I finally came back to myself, I was standing outside the hospital room. Daisy was lying weakly on the bed, her pale face still streaked with tears, a clear indication of a difficult labor. Preston was holding the baby, softly humming a lullaby. Mr. Maxwell smiled, a rare sight. “Preston’s an airline executive. Let’s call her Clarity. A clear new start.” “Don’t be ridiculous!” Mrs. Maxwell chided. “That’s no name for a baby girl!” She eagerly reached out to take the baby. Preston shifted away. “Mom, don’t. You’ll hurt her. I’ve got her.” He glanced up and caught sight of me. His eyes instantly lit up. “Cathy, come look at her. Look how tiny her hands and feet are.” He leaned down to kiss the baby, then stopped abruptly, looking panicked, like a scolded child. “Wait, wait, Dad can’t give you any germs.” I had never seen him look so tender, so endearingly clumsy. This was the clumsy, gentle side of a new father. He was desperate to show his joy to the world, but I was the one person who should have been excluded from it. My face felt stiff as I managed a tight smile and turned to leave. Preston rushed to catch me, carefully presenting the swaddled infant to me. “Cathy, look. Doesn’t her nose and mouth look exactly like mine?” I looked down. The tiny face was indeed an exact, uncanny miniature of his. The similarity stabbed my eyes. My throat felt instantly thick. I coldly pushed the bundle away. Staring at Preston’s expectant face, I suddenly didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of my pain. “Take her away. She’s ugly. She’s annoying to look at.” The baby started to wail. Preston’s expression instantly turned cold. He gently patted the child, comforting her. Mrs. Maxwell glared at me, her gaze like a knife. “You’re the one who’s annoying!” Mr. Maxwell simply pointed toward the door. “You’re not welcome here. Get out!” Daisy, on the bed, suddenly stirred. “Cathy…” She pleaded with the Maxwells. “Could I please speak with Cathy alone?” As soon as the door closed, Daisy offered a small, apologetic smile. “Cathy, I don’t want to break you two up. Preston really loves you. Actually, that night, he was drunk, and we just…” My mind went blank with a sudden roar. “It wasn’t a sperm donation?” She looked away. “Preston insisted on keeping it a secret so you wouldn’t be hurt.” “By the time I found out I was pregnant, I was three months along. He was furious. He said he’d pay me a huge sum for hush money once the baby was born and told me never to mention it again.” “Then why are you telling me now?” I asked coldly. “Why did you intentionally show up at my house, pregnant? Why didn’t you keep the secret forever?” She clearly hadn’t anticipated my directness. Her face shifted colors before she finally pursed her lips and stayed silent. I laughed with a bitter edge. “You’ve won. Preston and I are over. Your family of three can live happily ever after. What is it you’re still worried about?” She suddenly looked up, her eyes flashing with a strange, triumphant light. The next second, she rolled straight off the bed in front of me, landing on the floor with a loud thud. She immediately began screaming in terrified hysterics. “Cathy! I was wrong! Please don’t hit me!” I was stunned, utterly speechless. Before I could react, a powerful force yanked me away. Snap! My cheek burned, and I instantly tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Mr. Maxwell’s face was dark with fury. He pointed a trembling finger at me. “You brazen fool! This is a hospital! You think you can act like an animal here?” He raised his hand to strike again, but Preston intercepted him. “Dad, she’s my fiancée. I’ll handle it.” He pulled me into the hallway, found a packet of ice, and gently held it to my swelling cheek. “I didn’t push her…” I mumbled, looking down. “Mmm,” he replied softly, neither angry nor curious. I knew him too well. That silence was the worst kind of denial. If he believed me, he would fight for me. If he didn’t, he would simply say nothing. But if he didn’t believe me, why was he being so gentle? Tears finally overflowed, splattering hot and wet onto the back of his hand. He snatched his hand back as if burned. He stood up. “If you’re just going to stand here and upset Daisy and the baby, you should go home.” I reached out, grabbing the edge of his jacket, tears blurring my vision. “Just trust me this once. Please?” He let out a deep sigh. He gently unpeeled my fingers one by one. His face was etched with total disappointment. “Cathy, I can overlook all the crazy things you’ve done. I love you too much not to. But you need to be honest with me.” His phone suddenly rang—Daisy’s specialized ringtone. It was a cheesy, emotional pop ballad called, “Heaven Is a Place on Earth.” I once asked him, “Is it appropriate to have a special ringtone for a female colleague?” He looked baffled. “She likes the song, I set it for her. Don’t overthink it.” I watched him answer the call, then turn and walk away without a backward glance. I sat alone on the bench, my cheek throbbing, laughing and crying all at once, like someone suddenly diagnosed with a terminal illness. He told me I needed to be honest? Had he been honest with me? I went back to the apartment and collected my things. I thought about going to my parents’ house, but they video-called me first. My father clutched his chest, pointing a trembling finger at me. “The Maxwells called! They said you showed up at the hospital like a maniac and attacked the poor girl who just gave birth! What were you thinking? The hospital CEO is my friend! He’s asking what the hell is going on! You’ve embarrassed the Jensen name!” My father started gasping. My mother rushed to get his pills, then glared at me. “Preston already explained everything! She’s just a colleague! You forced him to cheat! You’re driving him away!” She spotted the swelling on my face and sneered. “Serves you right!” “What did I do wrong that you all have to condemn me?” I took a shuddering breath, my voice hoarse. “Why will you believe total strangers over me?” “Believe what? Tell us!” my parents demanded, speaking over each other. Looking at their cold, resolute faces, I just deflated. “Never mind.” I frantically hung up the call. I couldn’t let them see my tears. Otherwise, I’d just hear the usual, “What else are you good for besides weeping?” In that moment, I realized I had nowhere to go. My phone vibrated. Sam Sullivan: “Cathy, when do I finally get the way to the top?” “Now.” I replied instantly, without thinking. Sam, the high school failure who used to be at the bottom of the class, suddenly transformed his senior year and followed me to the same university. He’d relentlessly pursued me for years, and I had rejected his hundred proposals. Who would want the cute, but utterly useless, class clown? Even if his smile made my heart skip a beat, the answer was always no. After college, I got with Preston. Sam went to Switzerland for grad school, but his messages never stopped. From daily check-ins and sharing life updates to the relentless question every few days: “When do I finally get the way to the top?” I had never replied. He was like a tireless robot, never giving up. Thinking of this, I sent him another text: “Three days from now. Straight to the altar. You want that spot or not?” Slam! The apartment door flew open. Preston stood in the doorway, his face a thundercloud, his eyes locked on me. “Charlotte Jensen! What the hell did you do to my shirt!” “Wh—” “Shut up!” He lunged forward, grabbing my wrist and slamming me against the wall. I had never seen him look like this. His eyes were bloodshot, his breath ragged. “I was wearing the shirt you brought me when I held the baby. Within ten minutes, she had a full-body rash and respiratory distress! She’s in the NICU right now!” “She’s a newborn! Cathy, you give me an explanation!” “I didn’t do anything!” My wrist felt crushed. I struggled to break free. “Let me go…” Before I could finish, he swung his fist. I instinctively squeezed my eyes shut and turned my head. There was a sickening crack next to my ear. His fist had struck the wall beside my head. When I opened my eyes, I saw blood seeping from his knuckles. “Preston,” I whispered, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “Were you… were you actually going to hit me?” He seemed to snap out of a trance. He instantly released me and pulled me into a desperate embrace. “Cathy, I… I panicked. I’m so sorry.” “I told you I could overlook anything you did. But this is too far. Daisy is crying, saying she wants to die with the baby. Go down on your knees and apologize to her, okay?” Hot tears dripped onto my neck. “Do it for me, Cathy. I promise you, if you just apologize, we can still get married.” The man who hadn’t cried when he shattered his ribs in a flight training accident was crying now. A man’s tears meant he had a weakness. Daisy and the baby were his. I looked at his trembling shoulders and smiled, a strange, hollow smile. “Fine. I’ll apologize.” He visibly relaxed, relief washing over him. “Good. We’ll go to the hospital right now.” He reached for my hand. I pulled away, my face expressionless. “I can walk myself.” “Okay,” he nodded, but still hurried me. “Come on. I’m worried about Daisy losing it…” When we reached the entrance to the NICU, Daisy dropped to the floor and grabbed my legs, holding on for dear life. “Cathy, please! You can take my life! Just let the baby be okay!” She was screaming hysterically, sobbing and shaking. I was so angry I laughed. I reached down to pull her up. “Stop the act. I should be the one kneeling. Please, Miss Palmer, take my fiancé and leave me alone.” She snapped her head up. A flicker of triumph crossed her eyes, instantly replaced by terror. “No! No, that’s not it! Preston is yours forever. I would never dream of stealing him! I just want to live quietly with my baby.” “Get up!” I’d completely lost my patience. She grabbed my hand. I yanked my hand away in disgust. She used the momentum to throw herself backward, her head hitting the floor with a heavy thud. She let out another bloodcurdling shriek. “Enough!” Preston rushed over to help her up. He looked at me as if I were a terrifying monster. “Cathy Jensen, don’t come back here if you won’t apologize! Daisy just gave birth, and the baby is fighting for her life. How can you be so cruel?” I just looked down, unable to find anything to say. He wouldn’t believe me anyway, would he? After a long silence, Preston gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Forget it. Why do I expect an explanation? I’ve seen you hurt Daisy and the baby with my own eyes. Just go home. You’re only making things worse here.” “The baby’s parents! Who are the baby’s parents?” a doctor suddenly called out. Preston turned without hesitation, escorting Daisy away. The doctor scowled at me. “Non-essential personnel, don’t cause a disturbance.” He was right. They were the parents. I was the extraneous personnel. Twice in one day I had subjected myself to this humiliation. To everyone here, I was just a vicious, insane woman. Suddenly, all my strength left me. I swayed backward, only to fall into a warm embrace. Sam Sullivan steadied me. He looked intensely excited. “Cathy Jensen, you said ‘Now.’ Is the way to the top for real?”

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The day the Manhattan heiress proposed to my best friend, he stepped off the skyscraper ledge. “Spencer, I’m sorry, but I have to go home first.” The scene below was a horrifying splash of red against the white marble. Cordelia Hallowell, the usually ice-cold, aristocratic CEO, screamed. She threw herself onto Jude’s body, clinging to him in a frenzy. I merely curled my lips in a wry, mocking smile. I backed up a single step, my heels teetering on the terrace edge. Cordelia’s cousin, Juniper, who was shielded by Cordelia as she cradled a man in her arms, glared up at me. “What, Spencer? Are you trying to use some cheap, tawdry suicide attempt to force Cordelia to marry you, too?” The man was already dead. What use was that slip of a marriage certificate now? Cordelia, you were never my home. I’m ready to leave this stage. I tipped backward, my body plummeting toward the earth. In the instant my weight slammed into the pavement, I heard Cordelia’s raw, gut-wrenching shriek. 1 I didn’t die. The private hospital wholly owned by the Hallowell Group cleared an entire wing just for me. Within twenty-four hours of my fall, a global consortium of top medical experts held a symposium on my condition. And Cordelia Hallowell? She became my shadow, personally supervising my care for an entire month. “Ms. Hallowell truly cares for you, Mr. Hale.” The attending physician’s tone dripped with envy, his gaze falling to my unmoving legs before a flash of pity crossed his face. Yes, Cordelia had spent tens of millions to snatch my life back from the abyss. Unfortunately, money couldn’t solve everything. My legs were useless, and Jude was gone. Lying in that sterile room, the days and nights of semi-consciousness were haunted. I relived the scene of Jude’s jump over and over. He was wearing the simple white t-shirt we’d arrived in—the one he’d worn five years ago. He leaped from the high-rise, looking heartbreakingly beautiful, like an angel embracing freedom. He’d told me, “There’s no home for me here, Spencer. Even if there’s only a fifty percent chance, I have to try.” Five years ago, Jude and I were in a car crash. We woke up here, thrust into this melodrama novel. To “go home” as quickly as possible, Jude nearly destroyed himself. He pulled Juniper Hallowell, the perpetually suicidal, gloomy girl, back into the light. He became her cause. As for me, I spent five years, day in and day out, helping Cordelia—the disgraced, exiled cousin—rise to become the CEO of the Hallowell Group. We had finally done it. The goal was achieved. A month ago, it was Jude’s birthday. When Juniper bowed her proud head and made her tearful confession, I saw the shimmer of unshed tears in Jude’s eyes. Even then, I suspected Jude wouldn’t be coming home with me. But I never thought he would leave me behind like this. Dying before the system’s task was complete meant even the fifty percent chance of returning to our original world would likely result in a shattered body from the car crash. He was decisive. So final. 2 “You’re awake.” The sound of the door closing pulled me back from the void. I looked listlessly at Cordelia as she entered, offering no greeting. She placed the thermal container on the side table, ladled soup into a small bowl, and brought the spoon directly to my lips. “Your favorite beef consommé. I picked out the thyme.” A faint, burnt aroma drifted through the air. I raised an eyebrow, noting the angry red marks on her thumb and forefinger. She had cooked this herself. How novel. Only a month ago, she despised me so much she practically wished me dead. I studied her, oddly intrigued. She was thinner than before. Her eyes were deeply shadowed, which only sharpened the exquisite severity of her features. The look she leveled at me was saturated with self-reproach. My gaze drifted to the doorway. A familiar white t-shirt flashed past. Dax Prescott’s furtive, peering eyes met mine. Ah. No good deed goes unpunished, and no sudden devotion is without a hidden agenda. She was here on behalf of her beloved. For the first time since I woke up, I smiled at Cordelia. A look of relief washed over her, only to freeze when I spoke, my voice devoid of warmth. “Why don’t you invite Dax in? Worried I’ll throw more dirt on him? Don’t worry. My legs are broken. I won’t get a chance to perform an encore.” “Spencer!” Cordelia’s eyes flashed with the chill of a gathering storm. She looked ready to lash out, to reprimand me as she always had. Then she glanced down at my motionless legs, pressed the bridge of her nose, and sighed. “I regret Jude’s death. Dax… he didn’t mean to incite him. None of us knew his depression was so severe. Besides, the Hallowell family couldn’t possibly let June marry someone with a history of that kind of severe mental instability…” Her voice trailed off, a rare moment of guilt crossing her face. I met her eyes with an icy stare and let out a single, contemptuous chuckle. She knew. She knew the whole story. If she hadn’t indulged Dax, he would never have dared to ruin Jude’s proposal. “Jude is dead, Cordelia. That’s an unchangeable fact. Try not to be too upset.” She turned her head away, her lips tightening into a thin red line. “Just focus on getting better. When you’re healed, we’ll get married.” She didn’t dare meet my gaze again. She quickly gathered Dax and left. Before exiting the room, Dax tossed me a look of pure, satisfied provocation. It was the same look he gave Jude and me the day he returned from overseas, a private declaration of war. “Guys, have you heard the expression? The late arrival always triumphs over the long-suffering loyalist. “Trust me. I just have to snap my fingers, and both of them will come running like dogs.” 3 I believed him. Of course, I did. Jude’s mission with Juniper had been a smooth-sailing success, hitting an Affection Rating of 99 in no time. Mine, with Cordelia, was a war of attrition. Cordelia was cold, closed-off. It took me five years and nearly losing my life to save her from a devastating earthquake just to earn one, begrudging line: “You can have the title of my boyfriend, Spencer, but don’t expect anything more.” Jude tried to rationalize it for me. He’d say Cordelia was just reserved, that her Affection Rating hitting 50 was the best proof of her secret devotion. He’d throw an arm around my shoulder, promising that since Juniper’s score was rising quickly, he would wait until Cordelia finally loved me completely. We would go home together. I saw the flicker of reluctance in his eyes even then. I just laughed, teasing him. “We have no family back home anyway. If you really love June, I’ll stay here with you forever. No problem.” I watched his ears turn pink, hiding my own sense of loss. I wasn’t immune to Cordelia. That fragile, nascent feeling, however, was extinguished before it could even take root. By her own hands. In the third year, while accompanying Cordelia on a resort development project, the earthquake hit. When the support beam crashed down, I shoved her toward the only safe recess. In the dark silence underground, my breathing grew shallower with every second. Cordelia finally found a sliver of cell reception. She didn’t call for rescue. She called Dax, who was thousands of miles across the ocean. She didn’t say anything. The silent, desperate confession of love spread through the darkness. The secret, unspeakable depth of her feelings swelled and intensified in the face of death. It was a tidal wave that submerged me and completely extinguished the restless beat of my own heart. 50, 30, 20… Affection Rating: Zero. 4 At the time, I told myself the worst outcome was not being able to go home. Jude still had a choice. As long as he was happy, I was satisfied. Cordelia didn’t visit the next day, only sending a nurse with a custom-made nutrient shake. Undoubtedly, another of her home-cooked masterpieces. She was afraid to see me. She was guilty. Dax, on the other hand, sent a message. [Are you and Jude competing for who can be the bigger joke? One dead, one crippled, and the woman you both wanted is still orbiting me like a puppy. Good riddance.] Attached was a photo. In the frame, Dax wore a tailored tuxedo. Juniper was nestled intimately on his arm, their cheeks pressed together as they smiled for the camera. I recognized the suit. It was the tuxedo Jude had custom-designed for himself for the wedding. Even the enormous, rose-covered archway behind them was a structure Jude had commissioned, built from the pink hybrid roses he’d spent two years cultivating in the Hallowell gardens. Jude had sensed June was finally ready to commit. He’d been secretly preparing this surprise for the proposal day. Instead, on that day, Dax publicly released photos of Jude with other women, announcing that he was going to expose the “gold-digging fraud” to everyone. That was supposed to be the happiest day of Jude’s life. Instead, under the cold, judging stares of the entire social circuit, the color drained from Jude’s face, inch by agonizing inch. Jude snapped, throwing a punch at Dax, only to be shoved hard to the ground by Juniper. “Jude, you knew that woman wasn’t me that night, didn’t you?” It was the first time I had ever seen that raw, naked despair on Jude’s face. He trembled as he stood up. And then, a brilliant splash of crimson erupted from his mouth. 5 Dax followed up the text with a barrage of June’s engagement photos. Apparently not satisfied with just text, he video-called me directly. “Spencer, old friend, I’m so sorry. I love this suit, but my shoulder width is all wrong. Do you think the tailor can rush the alterations before the wedding?” Juniper’s engagement party hadn’t been canceled. I looked at the tuxedo on Dax. He had spent years playing Cordelia and Juniper against each other. A mere frown from him would have two of the world’s most powerful women bending over backward. Was he finally ready to reel in the line? Curious. Ignoring Dax’s taunt, I looked past him at Juniper, who stood silently in the frame. Her features, so strikingly similar to Cordelia’s in their sharp beauty, were marred by a subtle shadow, the same wounded gloom that had marked her before Jude arrived. I glanced down at the system interface on my wrist. Juniper’s entry: Affection Rating: 100. I smiled. “Juniper, want to know why Jude really jumped?” June’s head snapped up. Her eyes held a chilling, manic intensity. “Who said Jude is dead! “We’re getting married in a week! Are you trying to jinx him? Don’t you dare curse him!” Dax’s arrogant expression instantly turned ashen. 6 Juniper was dragged into my hospital room by her hair. When Dax was thrown to the floor, his borrowed suit was shredded, and his famously long, athletic legs were a bloody mess. Blood pooled on the floor, the sight painfully reminiscent of the day Jude died. “Tell me! Where is Jude!” Juniper’s eyes were bloodshot, the whites laced with red. She lunged, clutching my throat. I looked up at the terrifying, pulsing red number above her head, wreathed in black mist. “Jude is dead. He jumped, and as his body turned to pulp, he was still planning his proposal to you. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You didn’t want to marry him because you personally delivered him to the bed of another woman.” Juniper’s grip tightened violently. “I didn’t! “He was planning our wedding! He wouldn’t leave me! If he died, he must have been faking it to make me regret this! “Yes, that’s it! He’s mad at me, so he’s hiding! Isn’t that right? You’re his best friend… Where did you hide him?” June’s words were a torrent. She looked at me with wild, desperate supplication, her grip on my throat increasing, terrified I would offer a negative answer. I was choking, but I laughed anyway. Ha. Jude, she doesn’t believe you’re dead. She can’t. She knows everything, but she refuses to admit it! 7 Just as I was about to pass out, Cordelia burst through the door. She landed a heavy punch into Juniper’s stomach and immediately rushed to check on Dax’s injuries. But when her eyes met my cold, detached stare, her gaze wavered. “Spencer, I…” I looked away, turning my attention to Juniper. The blow from Cordelia seemed to drain her strength. She lay on the floor like a piece of discarded meat, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Bring Jude back,” she whispered. I’d heard she’d lost touch with reality the day Jude died. She had held his corpse all night, until Cordelia had to sedate her and drag her away. The man dies, and now she loves him. Women are pathetic creatures. I tilted my head, smiling as I replied, “Sure. Go ahead and kill Prescott first.” Juniper’s eyes suddenly sparked with manic light. “Spencer!” Cordelia glared at me, ready to argue. But Juniper had already transformed into a beast that had scented blood. She rushed Dax, her eyes burning red. The sound of fists hitting flesh, mixed with Dax’s screams, was surprisingly melodic. I wheeled my chair closer, securing the best viewing spot for the spectacle of a cousin and niece turning on each other over the same man. Jude and I had watched this drama as supporting characters countless times. I had never found it so hilariously absurd. Only after June was finally restrained and dragged away did Cordelia turn to me, her face a mask of dark fury. “Spencer, have you had enough of this circus!” I offered a soft laugh. “I told you. I want Dax Prescott dead.” Cordelia’s chest heaved. She finally dropped the pretense of the devoted, loving partner. Her hands clenched and unclenched, struggling to resist the urge to strike me. “Anything but that. Marriage, or any other condition. I’ll agree to it.” She looked down at me, her tone condescending, full of false generosity. “You’ve helped me for years. Just stop the drama, and we can finally have a real life together.” I looked at her calmly, then slowly offered a faint, tragic smile. “The marriage? I’m walking away. “And Cordelia? I’m walking away from you, too.”

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My fiancée’s twenty-something assistant loved a good bet, and for the nineteenth time, she’d canceled our wedding because she’d “lost” to him. I warned her again, “Izzy, if you pull this again, I’m marrying someone else.” Isabella Moretti, the CEO of Moretti Global and the woman I was supposed to marry, just laughed, completely unconcerned. “Grant, you literally gave me a kidney. How are you going to marry anyone else?” She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “And besides, who else would take on damaged goods like you?” On the morning of what was supposed to be our twentieth wedding day, the assistant, Chase Blackwood, sent her a picture of an airport departure board with a ticket stub visible in the corner. It was another one of their absurd wagers. “If you can’t find me in the next thirty minutes, you’ll never see me again, Izzy.” Seeing the flight’s destination—somewhere tropical, no doubt—Isabella’s face went pale with urgency. She ripped off her bespoke veil and sprinted for the door, headed for the airport. Thirty minutes later, Chase posted a story on Instagram: “Someone who truly cares will cross any ocean for you.” I watched the post without reaction, my face a cold mask. Then, I quietly dialed a familiar number. “Dahlia Prescott,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “Was that promise you made to marry me all those years ago still good?” Her voice came back, bright with excitement. “Really? Of course, it’s good! If it’s you, Grant, my answer is always yes!” … The guests in the grand ballroom were exchanging bewildered glances. In the elite circles of Manhattan society, this was turning into the biggest scandal of the season—and a massive, embarrassing joke. My closest friends and family were fuming on my behalf. “Isabella Moretti is completely deranged, how can she cancel a wedding twenty times for a glorified assistant?!” “Seriously. Grant gave her everything, even a goddamn kidney! Mr. Kensington actually disowned him over it, you know.” Listening to the hushed, angry whispers, a bitter, hollow laugh echoed in my chest. Even strangers understood that this time, Izzy had gone far, far too far with her game. Mrs. Moretti, Izzy’s mother, scurried onto the stage, grabbing my arm. “Grant, darling, just keep the guests occupied. Tell them Izzy had a sudden corporate emergency. Get them to the buffet, please.” I looked at the older woman, the exhaustion in my heart bottomless. “Mrs. Moretti, I’ve used that exact excuse nineteen times. Izzy has walked out on this exact ceremony nineteen times! Do you think these people are fools?” Her expression soured. “We’ve done it this many times, what’s one more?” “You’ve been ‘desperately in love’ with my daughter for ten years,” she continued, a flicker of disdain in her eyes. “Seems like it was all talk.” The sheer entitlement in her tone made me feel physically ill. Memories flashed behind my eyes. Since Chase Blackwood started as Izzy’s assistant two years ago, our wedding date had become a sick, revolving door. Every time, on the day of our scheduled ceremony, Chase would challenge Izzy to a ridiculous wager. And every single time, Isabella would conveniently ‘lose.’ I wasn’t even sure anymore if the losing wasn’t intentional. The first time, she lost a bet and turned the wedding into a black-tie masquerade. Her dance partner? Chase. The second time, she lost again. Chase claimed he’d never worn a groom’s tux, so Izzy handed him my custom jacket and the boutonnière. They played out the entire ceremony, leaving the guests utterly stunned. The third, the fourth… it was always the same result. Her excuse was always a variation of the same lines: “Grant, you have to be understanding. As CEO, I have to be a woman of my word, or how will my staff respect me?” “Besides, Chase was headhunted at a high price. I can’t let him feel slighted.” Thinking back, it was obvious. They were playing a sick game at my expense, on the day I was supposed to have the happiest moment of my life. Did they really think I was that naive? The nineteenth time, their bet was that Chase had one minute to run from the lobby to the wedding stage. The distance was just over a hundred feet, and Chase is six-foot-three—he could have crawled that distance. Chase took his sweet time, sauntering onto the stage, his eyes sweeping over me with a sneer. “You indulge me so much, Izzy. Maybe you do want to marry me. Come on, let me wear the jacket.” Isabella gave him a doting smile. “Well, since you made it up here. I can’t let you leave empty-handed. That tux jacket really suits you.” That day, she even exchanged rings with him. Her explanation to me afterward? “Everyone’s tired from all the excitement. We can have the actual wedding next time.” I knew then that if I had been the man exchanging rings with her that day, our wedding would have gone off without a hitch. That was the closest I had ever come to happiness. Mrs. Moretti was still trying to get me to cover for Izzy. But before I could respond, the double doors swung open. Isabella and Chase walked in, arm in arm. “Izzy, you lost again, by just one second! You have to honor the bet.” Isabella’s tone was as soft as silk. “Fine, what do you want?” Chase feigned generosity. “You’ve had a stressful day. How about you make it up to me by joining me for dinner?” Isabella’s face instantly lit up. “Chase, you’re the only one who truly understands me.” Watching her casually toss the boutonnière and my ring into a nearby trash can, I realized I felt nothing. No anger, no pain. The last shred of hope was gone. I was finally, completely dead inside. I offered a final, polite warning. “Isabella, are you walking out on the wedding again?” She turned back, looking down her nose at me. “Grant, you’re making a fuss over nothing. The auspicious hour has passed anyway. We’ll reschedule the wedding for another day.” In front of every guest, she and Chase simply turned and walked away. A ripple of laughter swept through the ballroom. The son of the respected Kensington family, publicly shamed by a twenty-something assistant. Watching their retreating backs, I managed a genuine, if cold, smile. I called out to them. “Isabella Moretti, let’s make a real wager. I’m betting there won’t be a twenty-first wedding.” She turned back, visibly annoyed. “I told you, I only play these games with Chase. What makes you think you’re worthy of a bet with me?” Ignoring the rising tide of mockery from the guests, I slowly slid my own wedding band from my finger and dropped it into the trash can beside hers. “I’m betting that if there is, Moretti Global will be gone from Manhattan before you can walk down the aisle.” Hearing the threat, Izzy spun back, her eyes burning with hatred. She marched up and slapped me across the face. “Grant Kensington, you know how hard it was to build Moretti Global! You would actually curse my company just because of a canceled wedding?” “Chase was right about you,” she spat. “You are just a selfish, entitled leech.” I let out a soft, mocking laugh. “If you two have already slept together, just get married. Stop using your pathetic little wagers as an excuse to humiliate everyone else.” My voice wasn’t quiet. The entire ballroom was staring. Chase’s face flushed a deep crimson. “Mr. Kensington, Izzy and I maintain a strictly professional, superior-subordinate relationship. You have no right to slander us.” Then, he leaned in and muttered quickly in my ear. “Izzy didn’t let you touch her for ten years, but she was in my bed the first night we met. She could love anyone in the world, Grant, and it would never be you.” He straightened up, gave me a mocking smile, and walked back to Izzy. “Izzy, darling, you still haven’t honored the terms of the last bet. You promised to transfer Mr. Kensington’s shares to my boy Gus. Did you forget?” My blood ran cold. Gus was Chase’s dog. I stared at Izzy, waiting to see if she was truly twisted enough to insult me like this—to choose a glorified pet over the man who bled for her company. A flash of something—maybe hesitation—flickered in her eyes, but it was quickly gone. She pulled a document from her clutch and thrust it into my hands. “Sign it, Grant. I can’t go back on my word in front of my staff.” Her expression was deadly serious. A fresh pang of agony shot through me, but it was just a fleeting ache. I had been the architect of Moretti Global’s success. It was primarily my work that built the company. I remembered a time when her eyes were full of love for me. “Honey, the company is booming. You don’t have to work so hard. You just take care of me and our home, and I’ll give you the majority of the shares so you feel secure.” She couldn’t be apart from me for an hour back then; she’d video call me even during board meetings. Now, I was worth less to her than her assistant’s pampered dog. “Grant, sign it. Stop acting like a child. It’s just a little welcome gift for Gus.” My eyes widened in disbelief. How could she say that without batting an eyelash? “Isabella Moretti, you’re asking me to sign over forty percent of my shares to a dog?”

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On the eve of the Ridgeline High reunion, two bombshells dropped in the alumni group chat. First, Delilah Chad, the legendary high school queen, was back in town. Second, Lachlan Cole, the once-reckless golden boy, was invited to cut the ribbon for the new science wing. They were the high school couple everyone was obsessed with—the ones who went from a whirlwind romance to a devastating split, and were now, after eight years, finally set for a collision. The messages flew fast, tearing into the complicated history between them. Then someone posted: “Are they both still single?” I glanced at Lachlan, who was asleep beside me, and a strange hollow feeling settled in my chest. 1 “Delilah’s been single on social media forever, but Lachlan… does anyone know?” “He ghosted the group right after they broke up. We only ever see him in the business news now.” “Seriously, the guy hasn’t had a single headline about a fling in years, and he works nonstop. He has to be single.” “Right? When you have a love that intense so young, you don’t settle for less.” “Speaking of, why did they even break up back then?” “Young and stubborn. She wanted to leave the country; he was too proud to beg her to stay.” “Agh! This is literally the definition of a second-chance romance! I am obsessed.” They grew more and more excited, but I stayed quiet. I was too busy wrestling with a question: Was I Lachlan Cole’s settling? After a moment, I turned off the lamp, ready to sleep. Lachlan’s phone screen lit up in the dark. “Lach, I’m back.” No contact name. But only Delilah had ever called him Lach. He was deep in sleep, his arm draped across my stomach, just as it always was. Through the silk of my nightgown, the wedding band on my finger felt especially cold tonight. The discomfort sent a weird panic through me. My first, subconscious impulse was to delete the text. I knew his pass code: 299299. It was the anniversary of their first kiss, repeated. I stared at the lock screen for two full minutes before placing the phone back down. I did nothing. It felt beneath me to snoop. Besides, Lachlan would never indulge me the way he used to indulge Delilah. In high school, I’d watched Delilah sulk because some freshman had been aggressively pursuing him. He just laughed and handed his phone over, a smile playing on his lips. “Jealous, are we? I already blocked her, so give me a break, your majesty. If you’re still worried, check the chat logs, delete any girl you want.” That memory kept me awake. When I finally drifted off, I woke back up at seven. 2 He was a creature of habit, always up early for a workout. But not today. He lay there, staring at his phone for a long time, clearly responding to messages. He finally got up at eight. “Lachlan,” I called out to him. “Are you going to the reunion?” We never had much to talk about. The irony wasn’t lost on me that I’d only found out he was going from the group chat last night. Lachlan turned back, hesitating for a second. “Yes. Are you?” I shook my head. High school wasn’t exactly a trove of happy memories for me. Everyone else would go to reminisce, visit old teachers, and catch up with best friends. All I could recall was a long, three-year stretch of deep-seated humiliation. Lachlan didn’t say anything else. He probably didn’t want me to go with him anyway. In the group chat, the red ‘100+’ notification glowed aggressively. The image of the wild, wealthy boy and the approachable, gentle beauty always made for good gossip. Then, Delilah, the infamous lurker, finally spoke: “Just woke up—see you all next week, friends.” Different profile pictures instantly responded: “The queen is here! Can’t wait to see you!” “Wait, does that mean you saw everything we were talking about last night? I thought you’d muted the group.” “Ugh, I feel like a fan-fic writer caught by the subject of her story…” Delilah replied with a playful cat-waving emoji. “It’s okay, I actually thought it was… pretty entertaining.” The meaning behind her words felt vaguely unsettling, but no one pressed her. They went back to the main topic: “Seriously though, is Lachlan really going to show? I see him jet-setting all over the world in the news. Why would he bother with a little ribbon-cutting?” “No one would guess that the Lachlan who used to skip class to set off fireworks for Delilah and get into fights with kids from the next town is this serious businessman now.” “Can anyone reach out to him? Is the rumor even true?” Just as everyone was wondering if Lachlan would actually attend, Delilah replied: “Don’t worry. He just texted me. He said he’ll be there.” 3 “Sylvia.” Lachlan was standing by the bedroom door, putting on his watch. “You need to get moving. You’ll be late.” It was 8:30 a.m. I pushed away from the phone, flying out of bed. I was due to play Go with Grandpa Henry at nine. I prided myself on my punctuality. I was never late. Except for that one time in high school. It was a Monday. There was a huge pile-up, and traffic was gridlocked. I jumped off the bus and sprinted to the school gate, heart pounding. I had less than a minute. Lachlan was walking unhurriedly, taking a bite out of a breakfast burrito. He was one step from the gate when he suddenly stopped. He crouched down and began to slowly tie his perfectly good shoelace. It was a deliberate delay, like he was waiting. He could have made it, but he stayed outside with me. It wasn’t until I saw Delilah jogging up to the gate that I understood. He was waiting for her. Now, standing in the hallway, I turned back. Lachlan was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping his coffee and reading a newspaper. I suddenly wanted to ask him to drive me. “Lachlan, I’m running late. Are you busy?” “I have a meeting this afternoon,” he said, looking up from the paper. “I can have my driver take you.” I froze. “Oh. Okay. Thank you.” The word “thank you” was a high-frequency fixture in our life. Hanging up each other’s laundry, pouring two cups of coffee—everything warranted a polite thank you. We had achieved true, perfect courtesy—the courtesy of strangers sharing a home. Thanks to the driver, I wasn’t late. Grandpa Henry was waiting for me, smiling, in the garden pavilion of his assisted living facility. We met at a public Go corner in the park. The old man was a sore loser—he’d take back moves, and he was the most irritating backseat player. Eventually, no one wanted to play with him. Coincidentally, as a young woman, no one wanted to play with me either. So we became unlikely friends. I didn’t know he was Lachlan’s grandfather then. In our casual chats, I only heard he had a rebellious, good-for-nothing grandson. That was until Lachlan showed up to pick him up one day. “Rory,” Grandpa Henry waved his hand in front of my face. “What is it? You’re off today.” I looked down at the board, completely losing the game. I forced a smile. “You got me, Grandpa. I concede.” He noticed my distraction. “Did you and Lachlan argue?” I shook my head. We didn’t even disagree, much less argue. “Lachlan is a bit emotionally clueless when it comes to relationships,” he said. “I’ll talk to him about it.” “Clueless” was a funny word to describe Lachlan Cole. In high school, he was the object of countless crushes. Wealthy, handsome—every move he made was peak “swoon.” More than that, he was a hopeless romantic. For Christmas Eve, he gave the entire school apples just so he could secretly give one to the modest Delilah. On New Year’s Eve, he skipped evening study to set off fireworks for her outside her classroom window. I received an apple. I watched the fireworks. All thanks to Delilah. My thoughts were a mess. At some point, the reason for my abnormal behavior since last night suddenly became clear— I was afraid. 4 I have always been a patient person, a person who waits. I’d wait for the half-price zone at the grocery store at 8:30 p.m., even if it meant fighting for the last items. I’d wait for the delayed bus until nightfall before realizing I had to walk home. I waited for one wave of adoptive parents after another at the orphanage, until I was too old and no one wanted me. It was a habit. And I was, instinctively, preparing to wait again. Wait for Lachlan to rekindle things with his first love. Wait passively for the inevitable divorce. All my previous waiting had been numb and dull. This time, I was terrified. A person has to be brave at least once. So, for the first time, I went to Lachlan’s company. On the way, I rehearsed the words I wanted to say a hundred times. “Do you still love Delilah?” “Are you planning to get a divorce?” But I was stopped at the main desk. The receptionist gave me a polite smile. “I apologize, but visitors require at least a week’s notice for an appointment.” I wasn’t sure if Lachlan wanted the staff to know he was married, so I didn’t disclose my identity. I called Lachlan. The first ringtone had just begun when I heard the familiar sound coming from the elevator bank. Lachlan was walking in front of a group of people. He glanced at his phone, a confused look on his face, as if deciding whether to answer. I instinctively hung up. He didn’t seem to care. He slowed his pace deliberately, turning back every now and then to say something to the person behind him. It wasn’t until he walked three yards past me that I saw Delilah, who had been shielded from view. Time had been kind to her face. She had the perfect, pure first-love look. She was identical to the photo on Lachlan’s private social media account from eight years ago. She caught up, walking beside him. Her voice held a note of joy. “Wow, you still haven’t changed your ringtone after all these years? It’s still my favorite classical piece.” Seventeen-year-old Lachlan was a rebel, listening to nothing but hip-hop, reggae, and hard rock. But Delilah was different; she loved pure instrumental music. Lachlan’s taste in music had changed because of her. Perhaps that’s the kind of mark love leaves on Lachlan Cole. The habit had remained to this day. After they were out of sight, the receptionist spoke to me. “Ma’am, as you can see, Mr. Cole has an engagement. If you need anything, you can schedule an appointment with the Executive Office.” I forced a smile. “Thank you. It won’t be necessary.” I was so tired, and my eyes felt scratchy and dry. I thought, I just need to go home and sleep it off. But the group chat kept chiming. “OMG, guess who I just ran into at Le Petit Salon? Lachlan Cole and Delilah Chad!” “No way, are they back together? My high school drama just got its happily-ever-after!” “@Delilah, spill the tea! Is it true?” Delilah replied with a photo. A floor-to-ceiling window, a fancy French place, and a man. His face wasn’t visible, but the prominent veins on his forearm were instantly recognizable. She added a comment: “This restaurant is amazing. Highly recommend, guys.” It wasn’t a direct answer, but everyone understood. I zoomed in on the photo, then zoomed in again. Lachlan’s hands were beautiful, long-fingered and well-defined. I always caught myself staring at them when he adjusted his glasses, turned a page, or signed a document. So it wasn’t hard for me to notice— The wedding ring was gone. 5 Lachlan came home early. Instead of coming straight to the bedroom, he went out onto the balcony for a smoke. He’d quit smoking the moment we got married. But reuniting with Delilah seemed to have thrown him off his game again. After showering, he held me from behind. We never had this kind of pure physical contact unless we were in bed. He whispered, “Do we need to talk about…” Talk about what? The divorce? My breath hitched, and my body involuntarily stiffened. “Never mind,” he diverted. “Why did you call me today?” Our phone numbers were mostly for show. We usually texted, never called. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have the energy to talk about it. “Did you butt-dial me? Makes sense. You hung up so fast.” He quickly found an explanation. Tonight, he kissed me thoroughly, with unusual gentleness. I actually preferred it when he was wild and untamed. In those moments, I could catch a glimpse of the seventeen-year-old boy he once was. They say you become a child when you love someone. I’d seen him mischievously ruffle his sweetheart’s hair, his laughter unbridled and bright. I’d seen him get into bloody fights defending her honor. With me, he was always cool and quiet, never exposing a true feeling. Because I had seen how he loved someone else, I knew, with absolute certainty, that Lachlan Cole didn’t love me. I didn’t know what to do. I had no friends or family to turn to, except for Grandpa Henry. I spent the entire afternoon staring silently at the unsolvable Go game in front of me. The Tenets of Go state: Do not be greedy for victory; when in danger, be prepared to sacrifice. I wondered if the same logic applied to marriage. I asked Grandpa Henry for help. “Grandpa, I can’t figure this out. What should I do?” He smiled, then swept the entire board clean. “Then knock it over.” Yes. Then let it go. Autumn was approaching. I didn’t bother changing my wardrobe. My body wash was running out, but I didn’t stock up on a replacement. I had already packed my books into cardboard boxes. Lachlan looked at the half-empty shelf, confused. “Where are your books?” “I finished them. Planning to donate them to the orphanage,” I lied. I was just preparing, making sure I wouldn’t have to scramble when I left. I had rehearsed the words for divorce hundreds of times. That night, he was working in his study. I stood outside, took three deep breaths, and finally turned the doorknob. Lachlan was sitting at his desk, rubbing his forehead with one hand while holding his phone to his ear with the other. He looked tired, and his voice was softer than usual. “Delilah, the issues on my end can be handled at any time. It’s been too long, and I don’t want to wait anymore…” I didn’t have the courage to hear the rest. I quietly stepped back and gently closed the door. I felt ridiculous. Lachlan was more eager than me, and more composed. For me, divorce was a momentous decision that required careful psychological preparation and the right time. For him, it meant nothing. He was probably just waiting for Delilah to say yes, and the next second, he’d notify me of the divorce and have me “handled.” I had taken this unspoken, transactional marriage far too seriously. That night, I asked for the divorce anyway. I chose the most abrupt moment, using the most casual tone. As Lachlan leaned in to passionately kiss my ear, I turned my head away, my expression calm. “Lachlan Cole, let’s get a divorce.”

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My daughter, Tracy, has always been the little judge, the tiny, biased referee of our house. Every single time Carl and I fought, she’d immediately side with her dad, demanding I be the one to apologize. This year, we went to Carl’s parents’ place for Christmas. Carl, ignoring all my pleas, had gotten completely hammered. When I suggested he sleep on the pullout in the guest room to avoid his midnight antics, he slurred his way into a fight. That’s when Tracy, just six years old, stepped up like a tiny, self-righteous grown-up. “This is Daddy’s house,” she shouted, burrowing into her father’s side. “He can sleep wherever he wants, and you don’t get to boss him around!” Her voice escalated into a scream, pointed right at me. “If you don’t like Daddy, then leave! Go back to your place! This isn’t your house, and you have no right to speak!” She pointed a furious little finger at the front door. “Go now! And you can’t take Daddy’s truck, because that’s his too!” The whole family—Carl’s mom, Carol, his brother Travis, and various cousins—were all chuckling, watching the spectacle with satisfied smiles. They cooed over her obedience. “Look at Tracy, all grown up, sticking up for her poor daddy.” I stared at her small, triumphant, challenging face. She was becoming more and more like her father, and her grandmother. That was the moment I checked out. Decisively. I didn’t just want out of the marriage; I wanted out of them. And the terrifying part? I realized I was willing to leave behind the one person I thought I couldn’t live without. 1 Carl, when he drank, didn’t just get drunk; he got belligerent and needed constant attention, often disrupting the whole night. I had spent the entire day cooking the huge Christmas dinner—a meal that had taken me eight hours, all by myself. I was exhausted and in no mood to play nurse. So I suggested he crash in the guest room next to his brother, Travis. Instead, he just mumbled and started a fight. No one in his family intervened. They just watched the drama unfold. Carol, his mother, casually cracked a pecan and chimed in. “Naomi, you’re being a bit insensitive. Carl is drunk. He needs his wife there to look after him. As a spouse, why can’t you be a little more caring?” I finally snapped. “You’re right, Carol. I guess I’m not nurturing enough,” I shot back, forcing a smile. “But you’re his mother—you love him. Why don’t you play nurse tonight? I’m done. He’s all yours.” Carol’s face went instantly sour. Just then, Tracy piped up. Huddled in Carl’s arms, she took up her usual post as the house’s moral guardian. “Mom, Daddy is the man of the house, and you have to listen to him. He can sleep wherever he says.” She lectured me with a solemn, forced-adult tone. “Daddy works so hard for us. It’s no big deal if he has a few drinks. You’re his wife, so taking care of him is your job.” I was physically and emotionally drained. This time, I didn’t indulge her performance. “Your dad works? And I don’t? Who pays for your school? Who buys your clothes?” “You don’t work! Daddy provides everything!” Tracy yelled, placing her hands on her hips. “You don’t even go to an office! You’re just a parasite!” Her voice was high-pitched and sharp. I froze, stung by the word. I was an online instructor, running my business from home. I taught virtual classes every day, and on top of that, I was the sole manager of the house: cleaning, cooking, laundry, homework—it had all defaulted to my tasks. Yet, Tracy didn’t see any of it as valid. How laughable. I turned back to Carl. He was still smiling a goofy, drunken smile, looking entirely detached. “Carl. Tell your daughter. Do I contribute to this family, or don’t I?” He raised an eyebrow, dripping with sarcasm. “Sure, babe, you contribute. You pay for everything, you do the most, the whole family should just kiss your feet. Is that what you want to hear?” He hugged Tracy close and kissed her cheek. “Tracy, stop fighting with your mom. We can’t compete with her.” “Hmph. Mommy is just unreasonable,” Tracy grumbled. Carol smiled, thrilled. She reached out and patted Tracy’s face, then feigned the role of mediator. “Oh, you little darling, don’t say that. You’ll just get your mother all worked up, and then your daddy will have to apologize.” Tracy pouted. “Daddy works too hard. Why should he apologize to her?” Carol sighed dramatically. “Well, your mother is the boss around here, sweetie. Even Grandma has to watch her step.” “No, she’s not! Daddy is the boss!” The relatives around the table continued their playful, mocking banter. Carol was the loudest. “Our Tracy is all grown up, standing up for her poor daddy.” Seeing my face harden, she turned to me. “Naomi, they’re just kids and jokes. Surely you won’t take offense at a child’s silly words?” Travis also jumped in to smooth things over. “Yeah, Naomi, chill out. She’s tiny. Don’t get so worked up over a kid.” They all went back to their holiday chatter, laughing and talking, quickly dismissing my hurt as a minor overreaction. Watching them, the sudden realization that I was utterly alone in that room—that my pain was their punchline—left me feeling chillingly cold. 2 The conversation had moved on, but the atmosphere felt brittle. Travis was scrolling through TikTok when he found a trending video. In the clip, a parent asks their child: if the world was ending and they could only save three things, what would they choose? The boy in the video chooses his mom, dad, and grandma. Travis, holding Tracy close, asked her, “Hey, big niece, what about you? What would you pick?” Tracy blinked thoughtfully for a few seconds. She pointed at the screen. “End of the world? I’d throw out Mom first!” “Why?” Travis prompted, clearly delighted. “Because Mom’s the most useless! I’d stay with Dad, Grandma, and my stuffed bear, Mr. Snuggles.” Carol burst into laughter. “Oh, Tracy, you little thing! You’d keep a stuffed bear over your own mother?” She pretended to defend me, but I knew she was stoking the fire. Tracy repeated it, adamant. “Yes. Because Mom’s the most useless.” To be so casually dismissed and devalued by the daughter I loved more than anything else was the final, fatal blow. My heart wasn’t just sinking; it was a frozen stone. Watching their display of cozy, loving family unity—a circle I was clearly outside of—made me sick to my stomach. I stood up to leave. Carl reacted first, grabbing my arm. “Whoa, Naomi, where are you going? You’re not actually mad, are you?” Travis, seeing the mood shift, finally stopped smiling. “Naomi, we were just joking around.” “Is that what this is? A joke?” I pulled my arm free. “Well, you all have a great rest of your Christmas. I’m not sticking around to service it.” “Naomi! Stop being dramatic! It was nothing!” Carl’s face hardened, and his grip on my wrist tightened. Tracy bounced up, furious. “Bad Mommy! Walk home! The car is Daddy’s, and you’re not allowed to drive it!” I laughed, a harsh, dry sound. I turned back to her, speaking slowly and distinctly. “Listen to me, Tracy. That car is not your father’s. It’s mine. And yes, I’m taking it. I’ll drive it whenever I please. And you won’t be riding in it again.” With that, I opened the door and walked out of Carl’s parents’ house. The drive was over two hundred miles. It was late, and snowing lightly. But nothing—not the darkness, the distance, or the weather—could have stopped me. I had snow tires on my SUV. I drove for almost six hours, fueled by adrenaline and cold rage, until I finally reached our house. Carl’s call didn’t come until the next day. His voice was lazy and demanding. “Where did you go? Get back here. The whole family is waiting on you to cook breakfast.” “You had to start drama on Christmas, now Tracy’s complaining she wants your cinnamon rolls. Stop being so stubborn and get back here.” My voice was flat. “I’m already home.” A few seconds of silence passed. He didn’t ask if I was okay. He only demanded. “…You left? Then who’s going to cook the food today?” I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to unleash every curse word I knew. “I cooked a massive holiday meal, and your sister-in-law and brother-in-law didn’t even lift a finger. I was the only one you all expected to wait on you. I’m not doing it anymore. You want food? Find someone else to make it.” I hung up before he could respond. 3 I spent the entire Christmas break alone at home, and it was glorious. The only things that spoiled it were the occasional texts from Carl. He finally went nuclear in the family group chat, tagging me directly. Carl: [@Naomi. Do you have any idea how hard this is for Mom, cooking for the whole family because you just ran off? You’re so immature!] I didn’t hold back. Naomi: [Oh, you’re so dutiful, Carl. Why don’t you take care of your mother’s cooking? Stop trying to outsource your guilt.] He was silenced, but Carol jumped in. Carol: [There is no reason for a man to be in the kitchen! I cook for my son because I want to! I do it willingly! Naomi: Good for you, Carol. Then cook more. I don’t want to.] Then, I exited the group chat. On the last day of the holiday break, Carl and Tracy finally came home. He looked exhausted, covered in a thin layer of travel dust. He started complaining the moment he walked in the door. “This is your fault, taking the car. I had to lug Tracy and all the luggage onto a train. Do you know how inconvenient that was?” Tracy chimed in. “Bad Mommy!” Carl continued, listing his demands. “Get the bags. All the laundry from the trip is in there. I need you to wash it immediately. I need my blue puffer jacket for work tomorrow.” I didn’t even look up from my phone. “Wash your own clothes. And stop ordering me around.” “Naomi! Enough of this drama!” He was gearing up for war. But I was suddenly tired. Too tired to fight. Too tired to even argue. I laid my cards on the table. “Carl, I want a divorce.” He froze. “…Are you kidding me?” “I’m not kidding.” I pulled the signed divorce papers out of my bag and slapped them onto the kitchen counter. That was the moment panic finally hit him. “No… This is all over that Christmas thing? Tracy and I were just joking, babe.” “Yes, it’s all over that Christmas thing.” I met his eyes, my own glacial. “Because those ‘jokes’ showed me everything I needed to know. You, and Tracy, don’t need a wife or a mother. You need a free housekeeper who can be mocked and degraded at will. I’m done. Sign the papers.” He was quiet for a long moment. Then he tried the sweet-talk approach. “Come on, don’t be like this. I was wrong, okay? I’m sorry.” He tried to include Tracy. “Tracy, honey, talk to your mom. She’s going on strike. Tell her you’re sorry.” Tracy shot me a glare. “I didn’t do anything wrong! I won’t apologize! Mommy’s mean and petty!” “Tracy!” Carl yelled, a rare moment of parental discipline. Tracy burst into tears, but instead of blaming her father, she took it out on me. She unhooked the small water bottle she carried and, without a word, hurled it at me. The bottle slammed painfully into my shin. “You’re a mean, bad mommy! I don’t want you anymore! Daddy, divorce her! I like Aunt Piper…” “Tracy!” Carl’s voice was suddenly a high-pitched shriek. He smacked her hard on the butt. It took me a few seconds to process the name. I raised my eyes and focused on Carl. “Who is Aunt Piper?” 4 Carl’s face immediately drained of all color. “Don’t listen to Tracy! Kids make things up all the time!” “Naomi, look, I’m sorry about everything. I never should have let things get so bad. I didn’t care for your feelings, and I was wrong…” He had finally dropped the arrogance. He forced Tracy to apologize, using a rare, brutal authority. Tracy was crying, her eyes filled with hate, but she spat out an apology. I knew, with absolute certainty, that neither of them meant it. But I accepted it. Because I needed to know who Aunt Piper was. Tracy wouldn’t pull that name out of thin air. Had Carl been cheating? If he was, I needed irrefutable proof. Not just for my sanity, but to ensure I got a better deal in the divorce settlement. I pretended to forgive them and moved on, but I immediately began investigating this “Piper.” If I remembered correctly, there was a new colleague at Carl’s office named Piper Ling. That night, I checked his phone. His normal social media and chat apps were clean. Spotless, in fact. That made me even more suspicious. I clicked on his battery usage settings, checking the power consumption ranking. That’s when I saw a strange app near the top of the list: “The Gallery Vault.” Carl never used photo editing or storage apps. There had to be a catch. I managed to open the app, and found it was a secure photo-sharing/messaging system. His only contact was nicknamed… Pixie Dust. I tapped on the private messages. The chat logs were sickening. People who want to cheat will find a million ways. Carl had resorted to a disguised chat app. The messages were explicit. Blurry, filtered nude photos and cringe-worthy, explicit talk. Clicking to view the full image confirmed my fear: it was his new colleague, Piper Ling. Their most recent exchange was from just three hours ago. Pixie Dust: [Brother… Aunt Flo finally left. Little bunny is so lonely. Want you to come stay.] Carl: [Can’t, sweetie. It’s Tracy’s birthday tomorrow. That old battle-axe will expect all three of us to go out.] Pixie Dust: [Ugh, that hag. She’s hogging both you and Tracy. Why don’t you just divorce her already?] Carl: [I want to, but where else am I gonna find a free maid who cleans, cooks, and takes care of the kid? I’d hate for my Pixie Dust to have to do all that.] The dialogue stopped there. A sharp, searing pain tore through my chest. I didn’t cry. I was shaking, but determined. I used my own phone to take clear, time-stamped screenshots of every single message and photo. I immediately texted my lawyer, instructing him to rewrite the divorce agreement. It was no longer about splitting assets. It was about Carl walking away with nothing. 5 The next day was Tracy’s birthday. We had made reservations at a nice Italian restaurant a month ago. But now, I saw no reason for us to celebrate anything together. The following morning, I lied to Carl. I told him my boss had called me in to teach a mandatory, all-day, in-person training session in a city a few hours away. I wouldn’t be able to make it to Tracy’s dinner. “But we already made plans…” Carl complained, but he couldn’t quite suppress the tiny, excited smile playing on his lips. I saw it all, but pretended to be oblivious. I grabbed a small suitcase and walked out the door. I didn’t go far. I drove two blocks away, parked, and waited. I waited until Tracy’s kindergarten let out. I hid in a corner across the street, watching. Soon, Carl’s SUV—my SUV—pulled up to the curb. I saw a woman sitting in the passenger seat. It was Piper. Tracy, backpack slung over her shoulder, skipped out of school. The moment she saw Carl and Piper, her face lit up. She ran, jumping directly into Piper’s arms, throwing her own around Piper’s neck. It was a level of closeness I, her biological mother, had never once been shown. The trio drove off and ended up at the very Italian restaurant I had booked. They looked like the perfect, happy family of three. They laughed and chatted easily. Tracy was eating the sugary dessert I had expressly forbidden her to have. She beamed up at Piper. “Aunt Piper, you’re so nice, a million times better than my mom.” “You’re prettier, too. My mom’s old and fat, and her tummy has rolls like a pig. I’m embarrassed for her to come to school events. I’m scared the other kids will laugh at me.” “I wish you were my mom.” Piper smiled, wiping a smear of red sauce from Tracy’s mouth. “I wish I had a sweet, obedient daughter just like you, honey.” Carl interjected, smiling widely. “Go on, Tracy. Call her ‘Mom.’” Tracy didn’t hesitate. “Mommy!” Watching the sickeningly sweet scene, I fought back the acidic surge of nausea. …This was the daughter I had sacrificed everything for. A spoiled, ungrateful viper, just like her father. I fought down my rage and disappointment. I didn’t rush in to confront them. Instead, with a hand that trembled slightly, I recorded the entire exchange on my phone. After dinner, Carl drove my car, carrying Piper and Tracy, back to my house. I didn’t need to wonder what would happen next. I watched them enter the house, then quickly made my way to the garage. I accessed the vehicle’s dashcam and pulled the recent footage. In the car, Carl and Piper were totally uninhibited, even with Tracy strapped into her booster seat. They started making plans for the night. “It’s been two weeks. I’m starving for you!” Carl said. “You haven’t been… with your wife these past few days?” Piper purred. “Hell no. Seeing that harpy just turns me off. She could be naked in bed, and I couldn’t get it up.” Piper giggled. “My new lingerie arrived. I’m wearing it for you tonight.” “You little demon. I’m going to make sure you can’t walk tomorrow.” I saved the video footage. Then, I walked back toward the house. Standing on the front porch, I called Carl. While the phone rang, I created a new group chat, adding Carl’s sister, his brother, and his closest college friends—everyone he cared about saving face with. As soon as the call connected, I hung up and immediately uploaded the compromising dashcam video to the group chat. It was a time bomb. I tagged everyone. Naomi: [Urgent. Get over to the house. You won’t want to miss the surprise.]

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I used to think that the maid’s daughter, Daisy Carmichael, was born with a fatal flaw: she always had to be the center of attention. Every time she stepped out, she managed to look more dazzling, more the main character, than me, the actual heiress of the Bellwether name. In my past life, at my own engagement party, she cut up every single one of my custom evening gowns. She then swept in, decked out in the one she’d stolen, and became the undeniable focus of the entire room. Everyone murmured that shewas the real leading lady. My fiancé, Tate Donovan, was instantly smitten. They sealed their perverse bond right under my nose. When I finally uncovered the truth, I flew into a furious, irrational rage and tried to tear them apart. That decision cost me everything. My parents were framed, ruined, and died. As for me? Tate and Daisy tied me to his yacht and drowned me in the middle of the ocean. A second chance. I woke up back on the day Daisy had my dresses in her sights. I watched her through the security feed, her smile sickly sweet as she brought the scissors to the first panel of silk. I simply smiled back. Please. I am Charlotte Bellwether. I own the world she breathes in. How dare a low-grade parasite who eats my food and sleeps in my house think she can compete with me? 1. The first person I saw when I opened my eyes was Mr. Alistair, our butler. “Miss Charlie, it’s dreadful! The custom lavender gown you ordered has been sneakily taken by Daisy Carmichael.” I chased him out the door just in time to see the dust kicking up from the tires of my sports car as Daisy peeled out, leaving me nothing but the bitter, rich exhaust fumes. Tch. I should have never let her tag along when I took my driver’s test. Back inside the manor, Mr. Alistair confirmed the inevitable: every single one of my haute couture dresses in the upstairs closet had been deliberately slashed, making them completely unwearable. Just like last time. I stood at the entrance of the walk-in closet, surveying the wreckage—the beautiful, expensive fabric scattered across the floor—and gave a calm, measured command. “Alistair, call the police.” Then I took out my phone and dialed my mother’s number. As soon as she picked up, I switched my voice to a ragged cry. “Mom, something terrible happened! We’ve been robbed!” In the previous timeline, Daisy had stolen the dress and ruined the rest. I was so consumed by rage that I grabbed a random dress and sped to the engagement party. I hit traffic. By the time I burst through the doors, looking dishevelled and frantic, Daisy was basking in the spotlight. Tate, my fiancé, and even my stupid, blindly loyal brother, Spencer, were orbiting her like planets. I lost my head. I stormed the party like a lunatic, humiliating my parents in front of the entire elite social circuit. I still married Tate, but I walked right into his trap. He used my father’s trust to gain a high-ranking position in the company, smuggled goods through illegal channels, and then expertly dumped the entire scandal onto my dad. Dad went to prison. Mom, overwhelmed by grief and stress, got into a massive car accident and died from her injuries. Spencer, my idiotic, worshipping little brother, was also framed by Tate and Daisy and thrown into jail. Finally, Tate took me to the middle of the Pacific on his yacht and shoved me overboard so he could be with Daisy. “You are not even worth one of Daisy’s manicured fingernails,” he hissed, his face contorted with disgust. “Marrying you was the most nauseating thing I’ve ever done.” As the icy water closed over my head, the last thing I saw was Tate’s face, softened with sickening adoration, as he pulled Daisy into a deep kiss. 2. I arrived at the banquet hall with a police escort. Pushing open the massive doors, the scene was a perfect, sickening replica of my memory. Daisy was surrounded. She wore my pale lavender gown—the sleek, soft fabric molding perfectly to her deceptively demure figure. Tate and Spencer stood guard on either side of her, like two knights attending their sweet, innocent queen. The only difference was my parents. Last time, they were frantically trying to call me. This time, because I had warned them and told them to stay put, they sat quietly at their table, watching the unfolding scene with cold, appraising eyes. The lead officer walked straight up to Daisy. “Are you Daisy Carmichael?” The sight of the uniform startled her. “Yes, I am.” “We have a report of grand larceny and criminal destruction of property. We need you to come with us for questioning.” Daisy looked at me, her eyes immediately welling up. “Charlie, how could you do this to me?” I took a deliberate step back. “Do what to you? Please, don’t start with the waterworks. It’s not like you’re the only person who knows how to cry.” She turned back to the officer. “Officer, this is a misunderstanding. My older sister is just playing a joke! We’re like family, she and I—” I cut her off, my voice sharp. “Don’t you dare! Sister? Who said I was kidding around? This is grand larceny!” I turned to the officer. “My sports car is missing. All the household staff confirmed they didn’t touch it. And all the dresses in my closet have been damaged. I have arranged for the security footage to be copied and delivered to the precinct. The evidence will speak for itself.” The buzz among the guests intensified. They looked at Daisy with sudden suspicion. Daisy’s tears finally spilled over. “Charlie, I know you come from a high-born family, but that doesn’t give you the right to insult me! I may be poor, but I have my pride! You can’t just humiliate me in public, step on my self-respect like this!” “Hold it right there.” I held up a hand. “I’m rich. So what? My parents worked for that money. Does having money make me a monster?” I swept my gaze over the room. “Everyone here has means. Does that make us all soulless villains? Even if I were the villain you claim, it certainly doesn’t fall to the maid’s daughter to dispense justice.” “And while we’re talking about pride and justice: you’re wearing my custom gown right now, standing cozied up to my fiancé. What kind of justice is that? Before you preach about your self-respect, maybe you should hand over the dress I had custom-made for my engagement. It’s not meant to be your wedding veil.” The focus in the room became laser-sharp—every eye on the gown Daisy was wearing. “I thought that dress looked a little ill-fitting on her. She stole it?” “I heard she was the maid’s daughter. No wonder I’ve never seen her at an event.” “The sheer audacity! Stealing from your employers and then preaching about dignity. She’s truly shameless.” Daisy’s face cycled through white, green, and red. She was trapped. She couldn’t take the dress off, but she couldn’t stand the judgment. It was then that Tate finally stepped forward. 3. “Enough!” Tate moved in front of Daisy, shielding her. “Charlotte, you’ve gone too far!” He looked at Daisy with a tenderness that made my stomach churn. “It’s just a dress. She looks far more beautiful in it than you ever would. Why can’t you be the bigger person and simply gift it to her?” He met my eyes, his cold and dismissive. “On such an important day, did you really have to cause such a scene? Do you have to make everyone uncomfortable?” He then addressed the police officers. “This is clearly a huge misunderstanding. Thank you for your time, gentlemen. You can go now.” The lead officer gave him a skeptical look. “Are you the person who filed the report, sir? If not, please stand back.” Tate was the product of Harrison Donovan’s extramarital affair. After Harrison’s legitimate wife died, he immediately brought Tate and his mother into the family. That illegitimate status was an open secret in our social circle. In my past life, I was obsessed with Tate. I chased him, threw myself at him, and gave him everything he asked for. He repaid that devotion by killing me. But I was no longer the lovesick fool I once was. My gaze landed on Harrison Donovan, who was hiding near the back of the room with his new wife. “Mr. Donovan,” I said, my voice ringing out clearly. “This is only the engagement. I haven’t even officially married into your family, and Tate is already treating me like this—for the sake of another woman, no less. Do you think this engagement is still necessary?” The Donovan family’s standing was leagues below the Bellwethers’. Tate’s and his mother’s only claim to status was their impending marriage alliance with my family. Harrison, hearing his name called out publicly, had no choice but to awkwardly approach the front. He glared fiercely at Tate. “Apologize!” Tate jutted his chin out. “I did nothing wrong. Why should I apologize?” Tate’s mother rushed over and subtly dug her nails into his arm, but he was too stubborn to back down. My father walked up, his eyes full of contempt for Tate. “Who do you think you are? If my daughter hadn’t, inexplicably, been interested in you, you wouldn’t even be allowed to stand here.” My mother pointed at Daisy. “Officers, we insist on pursuing this investigation. Please take her in.” My brother, Spencer, who had been silent, suddenly burst out. “Dad!” “Shut up!” My father’s glare was like ice. “Look at you, Spencer. Like a hungry penguin begging for scraps at the zoo. You’re an embarrassment.” Spencer could only watch, his eyes burning with resentment, as the police led Daisy away. 4. The security footage was damning. It clearly showed Daisy walking into my closet, taking the lavender dress, and walking out. When she reappeared, she was wearing the stolen dress, but now she was holding a pair of shears. She systematically opened the dress bags and cut through the expensive garments, one by one. The garage footage then showed her getting into my sports car and driving off. The evidence was ironclad. Daisy had no room to deny it. At the police station, she pleaded with me through torrents of tears. “Charlie, I’m so sorry, I made a mistake! It was just a stupid joke, I didn’t mean to ruin your engagement. Please, please forgive me!” I pulled out my phone, pressed a few buttons, and handed it to her. “All the damages, the dress, the car—it comes to seventy-five thousand dollars. If you transfer the full amount, I’ll sign an agreement not to press charges. You messed up. You take responsibility. That’s how it works.” Seventy-five thousand dollars. Her mother, Mrs. Rodriguez, earned maybe seven thousand dollars a month. There was no way Daisy could produce that much cash. Tate was grounded by his father because of the scene, so he wouldn’t be riding in on a white horse. Even if he could, Tate, with his illegitimate status, was far from financially independent. No one in our circle would lend that kind of money to an ambitious bastard who’d just disgraced himself. No one except the old me, the lovesick fool. But the new me was not the old me. I signed the non-prosecution agreement and walked out of the police station feeling victorious. It wasn’t until I reached the car that I realized how Daisy had managed to gather the funds so quickly. It was my dear brother, Spencer. Daisy had merely whined “Ah-hao” over the phone, and the idiot had immediately transferred the money from his account to hers. My blood boiled as I watched them embrace, the transfer essentially moving my family’s money from one pocket to the other. To make matters worse, Spencer had the gall to bring Daisy right back to my house. 5. The next morning, I stepped out of my room and immediately heard the sickeningly sweet voices of Daisy and Spencer downstairs. I walked down to the dining room and saw Daisy plastered against Spencer like a barnacle. They looked up at me with a shared expression of resentment, as if I were the monster for having Daisy arrested. A lavish breakfast was set before them. My place setting was bare, like a locust-stripped field. Not even a glass of water. In the kitchen, Mrs. Rodriguez, the maid, saw me, gave me her back, and continued tidying up, pointedly ignoring me. This was her attempt to give me a subtle punishment for taking her daughter in. I cleared my throat twice. Silence. I called out to Mr. Alistair. “Alistair, if a maid can’t even manage a simple breakfast, perhaps it’s time to find a replacement.” Alistair nodded crisply. “Very good, Miss Charlie. I’ll see to the hiring process immediately.” Daisy shot out of her seat. “Charlie Bellwether, you can’t fire my mother!” “Why? Because I’ve been downstairs for almost ten minutes and haven’t seen a glass of water? This is a household, not a charity. I have no interest in paying a useless employee.” Spencer pulled Daisy back into his arms. “Don’t you have hands, Charlie? Get your own damn water!” I shot him a withering look. “Spencer, don’t force me to slap you before 9 a.m. She’s an employee; she’s supposed to work. What do you think we hire her for? To sit around and collect a paycheck?” “And you, my brother, are defending an outsider without even knowing the facts. Is your brain filled with lukewarm oatmeal?” Mrs. Rodriguez stepped out from behind Spencer, her expression surprisingly composed. “Miss Charlie, I was hired by the Master and the Mistress, not you. You don’t have the authority to dismiss me.” “I have been here for over ten years. I treated you like my own daughter. To speak to me, your elder, with such disrespect—do you have no manners?” “Mrs. Rodriguez,” my mother’s voice cut in from the second-floor landing. She looked down at the maid. “If my daughter’s lack of manners offends you so much, perhaps you should find a family with more polite children to employ you.” Mrs. Rodriguez’s composure shattered. “Madam, I didn’t mean that! I only meant to look out for Miss Charlie, to ensure she wasn’t taken advantage of.” “Exactly, Mom! Mrs. Rodriguez is right. It’s Charlie who’s always being a bully to Daisy!” Spencer chimed in, completely oblivious to the frostiness in Mom’s eyes. “If Daisy weren’t so forgiving, I would have—” “Spencer!” Mom snapped, cutting off his pathetic rant. “Go back to your room. You are grounded until I say otherwise.” He didn’t dare cross Mom. He glared at me, then stomped up the stairs. As he passed me, he muttered, “Charlotte, you’ll pay for this.” 6. In the end, Mrs. Rodriguez was not fired. I had intervened, pleading with my mother to let her stay so that I could monitor her behavior. Telling Alistair to hire a new maid was merely a scare tactic. This mother and daughter had ruined my life once; I couldn’t let them off the hook so easily. Mrs. Rodriguez bowed and scraped, thanking me profusely, but when she lifted her head, the look of seething hatred in her eyes was barely concealed. That was exactly what I wanted. Tormenting them would be so much more satisfying.

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I sat in the corner of the bar, staring at the blurred faces under the dim, smoky light, and felt like the biggest fool in Veridian City. All it took was one hushed line: “The real reason the Pete-Davies wedding was postponed? Pete’s ex got kidnapped. He dropped everything—even his wedding—to save her.” And I actually flew here, to this grimy, neon-lit corner of New Orleans, just to see if it was true. Pete Hawthorne. The city’s golden boy. The kind of man who belonged on the cover of Forbes, the kind of philanthropist who gave measured, eloquent speeches at charity galas. How could he possibly be found in a place like this? I was preparing to leave, my glass half-empty, when— “Bang!” A gunshot ripped through the music. … The bar door slammed open. Two men covered in blood stumbled in, collapsing onto the sticky floor. “Pete!” one of them yelled, clutching his arm. “You went clean a decade ago! You break your vow for a woman today? Don’t you fear divine retribution?” Pete stood in the doorway. He looked down at the mess, his voice low and utterly cold. “I do fear it,” he admitted. “I swore I’d stay out of the blood and shadows. I was going to be a legitimate businessman.” He took a step into the light. “But you knew Quinn was mine, and you still touched her. Did you really think I wouldn’t come for you?” The man standing there was utterly foreign to me. The bar had gone silent, yet a ringing started in my ears, drowning out the sudden, dreadful quiet. “Quinn doesn’t play by the rules! She shut down three of our operations!” The leader spat the words out, fierce with pain. “Pete, you’re helping a criminal! Causing all this chaos for that woman! Aren’t you afraid your journalist fiancée will hear about this?” Pete gave no answer. He simply raised a hand. His security detail surged forward. A few dull thuds, and the confrontation was over. “Send these three to Quinn,” he ordered to the man beside him. As he turned to leave, his gaze swept across the room and paused momentarily near my dark corner. I thought, for a desperate second, that he saw me. But then a man rushed up to him, reporting urgently: “Quinn’s awake, sir, but she’s hysterical. She’s got a piece of broken glass and is threatening to hurt herself.” Pete’s eyes instantly moved away. He didn’t look back as he strode quickly out the door. The music stuttered back on. The dancers in the center of the room began to sway again. Only I remained rooted to my spot, watching the doorway where Pete had vanished, an absolute chill settling over me. “Miss, are you alright?” the bartender asked kindly. I shook my head silently. The bartender chuckled, wiping down a glass. “First time here? It’s normal to be shocked. Haven’t seen the boss—Pete, I mean—make that kind of entrance in years. We all thought the story was over between him and Quinn. Guess not.” My fingers tightened around my empty glass. “The story?” “Yeah, them.” He sighed. “Quinn and Pete. They were practically inseparable in the old days, fought their way through the worst of the city’s underworld together. He went straight because of her, they shared the whole territory. Only problem is, they were too damn proud. Had a huge fight, nobody backed down, and he left and never came back. Now she’s in trouble, and he blows off his society wedding to come save her.” My throat felt constricted. The bartender leaned down, rummaging under the counter, and pulled out a faded, dog-eared photo. “See? We still have this. It was taken the night he proposed. Perfect match, right?” In the center of the photograph, Pete knelt on one knee. He wore a simple black T-shirt, but the confidence and recklessness of his youth still radiated from the image. He was looking up at Quinn, his smile wide, untamed, and utterly defiant. He was a world away from the “Mr. Hawthorne” I knew—the one whose shirt buttons were always secured to the top, whose cuffs were never wrinkled, whose smile was measured and brief. I looked at the woman’s face… I snatched my gaze away, my hand trembling as I held the glass. The bartender’s eyes flickered between my face and the photo. “You know, you and Quinn look a little alike, actually. But the vibe is completely different. She’s all edge and fire. You look like a professor.” I sat there all night, nearly self-destructively, listening to the bartender recount the legendary history of Pete and Quinn. Only then did the awful realization hit me: this is how he loves. Wildly, possessively, all in. Not like he loved me—politely, gently, and never, ever from the heart. Daylight was just breaking as I left the back alley. My phone vibrated. It was my father, Mr. Davies. The instant I answered, his furious interrogation assaulted me. “How could you be so useless?! You chase a man for three years, and on the day of your wedding, you let him abandon you? You’ve made a fool of the Davies name!” “Get Pete back and complete this wedding, or I swear, I’ll disown you!” “I’m not doing it.” I hung up, cutting off his torrent of curses. As I crossed the street, I saw a corner diner. Through the window, Pete and Quinn sat by the glass. Quinn’s dark hair was loose, and she was sipping slowly from a bowl. Pete was meticulously tearing up a beignet—the New Orleans version of you tiao—into small, manageable pieces on her plate, then pushing it toward her. It was the easy, thoughtless intimacy of years. I suddenly remembered when I had a terrible flu last year. I called Pete, miserable, and got only a cool, professional instruction to rest. His assistant brought the soup and medication later. I had defended him then: He’s focused on his career; I should be the understanding one. I landed in Veridian City and went straight to the newspaper’s office. “Al, I’ve finished collating the final draft on the Hawthorne Group’s suspected profit manipulation.” “Calla?” Al looked up from his computer. “Weren’t you on a week’s wedding leave? It’s only day two…” “Work first.” I handed him another document and slid it across his desk. “This is a fellowship application. Headquarters has an exchange program with the LSE in London. I want to go.” Al’s gaze moved from the application to my left hand resting on the table’s edge. My ring finger was bare. The platinum wedding band was gone. He understood instantly, and signed the form without a word. “The company already wanted you to go. With your talent, expanding your horizons will solidify your place in investigative journalism.” I managed a faint smile. “Thank you.” I buried myself in the mountainous pile of documents all day, not surfacing until the ache in my lower back finally broke my concentration. My phone screen was a tapestry of unread messages. A string of increasingly angry texts and missed calls from my father. Worried queries from friends. And one brief message from Pete. I locked the screen and left the building, turning into the familiar alleyway beside the office. The Crescent City Diner’s neon sign glowed a warm yellow. “Miss Davies! You’re here!” The owner, a sweet, middle-aged woman, smiled. “Just you today? Mr. Hawthorne isn’t joining?” “He’s busy.” I walked to our usual booth. “The usual, please.” The diner was quiet. Soon, a large bowl of seafood gumbo was placed before me. The white steam rushed upward, blurring my vision. For a moment, I imagined Pete sitting across from me, just as he had on our first official date. That night, my elaborate plan to impress him had fallen apart. I’d missed our reservation at the city’s fanciest rooftop restaurant because I was chasing a breaking story until midnight. Defeated, I pulled out my phone, and his message popped up first: Done working? Send me your location. He was still waiting. The only place open was this late-night diner. Our perfect first date ended here, imperfectly. Later, it became our spot. I used to think that a man of his stature, sitting on a plastic chair in a late-night diner for me, must have some feeling. Now I knew the truth was written on the menu: the gumbo recipe was an exact duplicate of a legendary, decades-old New Orleans spot—the one he and Quinn used to frequent when they were younger. It was a memory of another person, not a courtesy to me. My stomach turned. I forced myself to eat a few spoonfuls. The wooden door was kicked open. A blast of cold air, followed by a few thuggish-looking men, entered. The one in front had bleached-blond hair. “Old man, you’re the only one on this block who hasn’t paid, right?” The few remaining customers fled. In a blink, I was the only patron left. Seeing the place empty, the blond man smirked. “Smash it up.” Tables flipped, dishes shattered. The owner and the chef were shoved aside, and the men closed in, ready to strike. “Stop.” I stood up and pulled out my press credentials. “I’m a journalist. If you continue, your photos will be on tomorrow’s front page.” “Another brave one, huh?” The blond man narrowed his eyes, walking slowly toward me, his gaze slimy. “Pretty face. But before you get involved, you should worry about saving yourself.” “Stay away from me.” My voice was ice. “Feisty, too.” He reached out to touch me. I violently slapped his hand away. “Crack!” The sharp sound echoed through the wreckage. The shop went silent. The man stood there, his face stinging, a red print blooming on his cheek. “Dammit, you asked for this!” He snarled, raising his hand high, ready to slap me back. “That’s enough.” A deep, measured voice came from the doorway. Simultaneously, the blond man’s arm was seized and twisted behind his back. Two men in suits appeared, flanking a third man in a dark overcoat: Pete. He surveyed the chaos, his gaze finally resting on me, pausing for a brief, unsettling moment. The situation instantly reversed. The blond man and his thugs were handed over to the police. The owners, tearful, thanked Pete and me profusely. Pete’s expression was remote. “Send them to the hospital for a check-up,” he ordered his assistant. The diner fell silent again. The late-night breeze made me shiver, and I instinctively wrapped my arms around myself. An overcoat, still warm, draped gently over my shoulders. Pete stood beside me, his voice softer than before. “Let me take you home.” I stayed still, staring at the shattered ceramic pieces on the floor. “Are you angry?” Pete asked quietly. “The wedding… it was my fault.” “I’m not angry.” I cut him off, finally preparing to say the words that had been churning in my throat. But a cold, sharp female voice intervened. “Pete, you rushed all the way back just to see her?” I turned around. It was the first time I met Quinn. Pete’s brow furrowed. “Why aren’t you resting your injuries?” “Mind your own business.” Quinn scoffed. “You obviously don’t care. You’re too busy playing the hero here.” He walked two steps toward her, speaking gently, persuasively. “Don’t be difficult. You’re not well. I’m having someone take you back.” That gentle, real tenderness was a spark of the man I never knew. I said nothing, turning and walking away alone. The next morning, the wedding planner called. “Miss Davies, I’m sorry to bother you. The valuable items for your and Mr. Hawthorne’s wedding are still in the hotel vault. Do you have a moment to collect them?” I rubbed my temple. “Could you please mail them?” Her tone was difficult. “Miss Davies, the value is quite high. Hotel policy requires the couple to confirm and collect these types of items personally.” I paused. “Fine. I’ll come.” The manager, a young woman, greeted me with a professional, sympathetic smile. “Miss Davies, please follow me.” In the vault, the centerpiece was the pair of diamond rings. They flashed under the light. Pete had bought the pink diamond at auction, saying the color suited my sophisticated elegance. I had secretly rejoiced for weeks over the gesture. Next to them were the two gowns. The train of my dress was hand-embroidered with complex French Lily-of-the-Valley patterns. Pete had them flown in from Paris. I actually preferred Baby’s Breath. The matching jewelry, the veil… everything was immensely valuable. The manager spoke with genuine pity, but I merely stared at the items. “Oh, and this, too.” The manager copied a video file onto a tablet and handed it to me. “This is the ‘How Well Do You Know Your Partner’ video we recorded. The planner said it was wonderful and was going to be played during the warm-up.” I stared blankly, just remembering the segment. The planner had asked us five questions to test our synchronicity, the answers to be revealed at the reception. “Thank you.” I reached for it. But someone bumped the tablet, and the large screen immediately lit up. The video began to play. Pete appeared on the screen. He sat in a warmly decorated interview room, wearing a simple white T-shirt—a rare, casual look for him. The planner’s lively voice filled the room: “Mr. Hawthorne, ready? Question one: When was the very first moment you fell for Miss Davies?” Pete seemed to pause. “That’s a question Calla and I might answer differently. Because she didn’t see me that time.” “Oh?” the planner pressed. “Can you tell us? Was she incredibly beautiful? Love at first sight?” Pete gave a light, dismissive laugh. He shook his head. “No, she didn’t look beautiful at all. She was actually a bit of a mess. Her hair was tangled, and she had a nasty bruise on her face.” The planner was confused. “Then why?” “She’d been ambushed and cornered by the people she was investigating. They were telling her what to write and what not to write. But Calla?” Pete’s smile deepened slightly. “She just looked at them, gave a small, faint smile, and said, ‘If I wrote it, it was worth writing.’” “I just thought… how could a woman in that situation look so utterly scrappy and cool?” The planner gasped. “Wow, Miss Davies seems so gentle, I wouldn’t have guessed she had that spirit.” The video kept playing, but I couldn’t hear it anymore. The ringing in my ears returned, overlaid with another sound, muffled by the bar’s chaotic music: the bartender’s lazy drawl. “Don’t let the sharp suit fool you. When Pete talks about Quinn, he’s poetic. Once, at a game of truth or dare, someone asked why he liked Quinn, since her temper was so explosive.” “Pete said it was because she had a defiant spirit no one else did.” “The time she was tied up, to humiliate Pete, they demanded he kneel. But Quinn wouldn’t let him. She shouted at him, ‘It’s just life or death, who cares?’ and started cutting the ropes herself.” “Pete said then, he realized: when completely isolated and helpless, she could still say the most defiant, coolly contemptuous things.” The two voices, separated by time and context, slammed together in my mind. I finally had to admit the crushing truth: in Pete’s eyes, I was merely a stand-in. Even the memory of our first moment of affection was a cheap, one-to-one copy of his feelings for Quinn. A suffocating feeling filled my chest. I had nowhere to put it. My phone vibrated. It was my mother, Joyce. “Calla, come home for dinner tonight? Come and apologize properly to your father. He’s just worried and his temper got the better of him.” Hearing my mother’s perpetually timid and placating tone, my chest tightened. I thought of the woman who had spent her entire life under my father’s thumb. I sighed. Okay. I could ignore Mr. Davies’s rage, but I couldn’t ignore the one person who had tried her best to give me warmth. I pushed open the door to the house, carrying a gift bag, and immediately heard Mr. Davies’s angry shout: “Who told you you could come back!” My mother, carrying a dish fresh from the kitchen, emerged, giving an anxious, forced smile. “She’s just in time. Wash your hands, dinner’s ready.” The comment redirected my father’s rage. He lashed out, knocking the dish from my mother’s hand. “It’s your fault! I shouldn’t have brought you two back in the first place! All you do is embarrass me!” I watched the hot sauce splatter all over my mother’s clothes. She stood there, head bowed, helpless and ashamed. My breathing seized with rage. I stepped forward, putting myself between them. My mother immediately pulled at my arm, shaking her head in silent plea. “What are you doing? Let her speak!” The veins in my father’s forehead pulsed. “She ruined everything! And she thinks she’s right?!” I met his rage-contorted face. “We are less embarrassing than you are.” “Ignoring your first wife and daughter for over a decade, taking your mistress to Europe to live the high life. Only when she leaves you, do you remember you have a long-suffering family waiting here. So you deign to bring us back as an act of charity!” “The Davies name? You tore that up and threw it away the moment you abandoned us!” “You insolent girl!” My father trembled with fury. He raised his hand, ready to strike my face. The force of his approaching palm rushed toward me. I did not flinch. “Father-in-law.” A familiar, steady baritone cut through the air. I froze. Pete stood in the entryway. His expression was clear and composed, though his eyes were cool. Only when he pulled me securely to his side did his face soften slightly. “The wedding delay was my fault,” he said smoothly. “Calla and I agreed to come back tonight to apologize to you both. I detoured to pick up gifts for you, which is why Calla arrived ahead of me.” He paused, his eyes sweeping over the scattered mess. “Is there a misunderstanding between you and Calla, Father-in-law?” The two mentions of “Father-in-law” made Mr. Davies’s smile bloom. “Misunderstanding? Between family? None at all! Come in, come in.” “That’s good. This is a small gesture of goodwill.” Pete nodded. His assistant stepped forward and handed over a legal folder. Mr. Davies’s eyes lit up when he opened it—it was the title to a highly contested piece of prime downtown real estate, one he had been coveting but couldn’t finance. The Hawthornes, of course, were too rich to care. I lowered my eyes. He had saved me, again. It seemed whenever I was in a difficult situation, he would appear and solve my problems with a flick of his wrist. An inappropriate memory flashed through my mind: Pete said I didn’t see him the first time he fell for me. Actually, I did. When those thugs attacked me, I thought I was finished. Then someone burst in and saved me. As I was rushed out, I saw the retreating back of the man who had done it. A firm hand on my waist pulled me back to the present. Pete whispered in my ear: “Let’s eat.” With Pete there, dinner was smooth and cordial. My father was satisfied. My mother was grateful. For me, the food tasted like ash. Afterward, as we walked out, I stopped. I turned back, examining him under the glow of the streetlamp. This was the Pete Hawthorne I had known for three years, the man I had once believed I would spend my life with. I gave a light, almost imperceptible smile, and took a step back. “Mr. Hawthorne, thank you for rescuing me tonight. But as for the wedding rescheduling we discussed at dinner… Let’s forget it.” Pete frowned, as if he didn’t understand. The news report on the Hawthorne Group’s capital maneuvering caused a massive public outcry. The interest was so high that a mysterious venture capital firm sent me an invitation, requesting a “friendly dialogue about some details in the reporting.” A waiter led me down a carpeted, sound-dampened corridor and stopped before a heavy walnut door. The private room was furnished in a classic, refined style. A woman stood inside. I looked at her face and momentarily lost the ability to think. Quinn. “Ms. Davies, the famous journalist. A pleasure.” Quinn walked forward, extending her hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. Quinn, CEO of Sentry Capital.” I forced myself to raise my hand for a brief, cold clasp. “Why… are you here?” I asked. Quinn was elegant and composed. “Why the pretense of surprise? Didn’t you know all along that Pete was the true owner of Sentry Capital? Approaching him, publicly chasing him, and trying to marry him—wasn’t it all just to investigate him and get your firsthand evidence?” The insulting conjecture made me involuntarily clench my fist, using the pain in my palm to retrieve my senses. “I never had any such intention.” “It doesn’t matter.” Quinn didn’t care. “I just find you slightly pathetic. Giving up all your self-respect to chase a man, only to be tossed aside like trash on your wedding day.” Quinn’s lips curved into a slight smirk. “Girls need to retain some decorum. When Pete realized he loved me, he pursued me. Every confession, every proposal, came from him. Because he said a man should take the lead on such things. He would never let the woman he loves do the chasing.” I had heard countless variations of this sentiment from various people since I began pursuing Pete. I should have been immune, but hearing it from Quinn made the shame and heartbreak sharper than ever. I quickly regained my composure, meeting her gaze steadily. “I never believed that loving someone and bravely pursuing them was anything to be mocked,” I said, my voice steady despite the subtle tremor in it. “As for you,” I met her eyes, “meddling in another couple’s relationship—what position do you have to mock my sincerity?” Quinn’s eyes flashed with anger, then she laughed. “The famous journalist has excellent composure.” She rose, walking toward the other side of the room. “Let’s see if you can keep it up now.” She pressed a button on the wall. A panel of dark wood silently slid open, revealing a much larger private room behind a one-way glass window. The voices from the other room filtered through the glass. “Pete is still Pete. He stays clean for a decade, but when he makes a move, he changes the entire leadership of the underworld. No one here can match that ruthlessness.” A familiar male voice teased. “I heard that Miss Davies sold all the wedding jewelry and gowns secondhand. Your running out on the wedding must have infuriated her. Are you even going through with it?” This was the voice of a socialite. A short silence followed, broken by Pete’s voice. “Yes. We’ll reschedule.” “Still rescheduling?” The socialite’s tone was clearly disapproving. “Pete, honestly, just call it off. You only care about Quinn, anyway. You should just cut ties with the Davies family. Your grandfather might dislike Quinn, but if you’re firm, he’ll relent eventually. Why drag Calla into this? She’s a good girl, a simple journalist. She’s not one of us.” My fingers started to feel numb. I watched Quinn’s cool, composed profile and finally understood the purpose of this trap. “She is a very suitable person to marry,” Pete’s voice came through the panel, cool and rational. “Good family background, gentle, knows boundaries. She can manage the role of Mrs. Hawthorne. She has feelings for me, and besides.” He paused. “I don’t want marriage to restrain Quinn. She should be free.” Boom. A deafening roar filled my ears. My vision tunneled, and I nearly lost my balance. Every illusion I had ever held was crushed by that one careless, rational sentence. I couldn’t stay another moment. I fled, staggering out of the private club. The hallway remained quiet. I didn’t stop until I reached the main exit. My eyes felt burning and swollen, yet I could not shed a single tear. Just then, my phone vibrated madly inside my purse. I answered mechanically. Al’s voice exploded in my ear: “Calla, where are you? Sentry Capital just issued an official statement! They’ve entirely rejected your report, claiming your data sources are false, that your deductions are malicious, and they’re threatening legal action against you personally!” I held the phone, the chilling realization of betrayal consuming me. Sentry Capital was Pete’s. He chose to discredit me publicly, knowing my report was true. But I had no time for despair. I rushed back to the newspaper office, reorganizing and backing up all my data. I couldn’t allow my personal fight to damage the newspaper’s reputation or ruin my colleagues’ work. But when I took the final draft to Al, he wouldn’t meet my eyes. He slid an envelope toward me. It contained a resignation letter, neatly written. “I’m sorry, Calla.” Al’s voice was dry and hoarse. “I mentored you, and I’m proud of the excellent journalist you’ve become.” Al was my boss, my mentor, and my guide. So I only asked one question: “Did someone apply pressure?” Al nodded. “Calla, I hope you understand. I have many people to protect.” I understood. I accepted the resignation letter with both hands. Then, I took a step back and bowed deeply to him. Al’s eyes reddened. He turned his head and steadied his voice. “But I saved your London fellowship application. You can go in a personal capacity. You leave in three days.” “Thank you.” I walked out of the office building and leaned against the railing, silently watching the distance. A commotion and crude shouting broke out nearby. An elderly street vendor selling small trinkets was being shoved and threatened. His wares were scattered across the sidewalk. I instinctively rushed forward, reaching into my pocket, the words “I’m a journalist” almost slipping out— But my fingers only met empty fabric. My press pass was useless now. The man pushing the vendor glanced at me, annoyed. “What are you looking at? Get out of the way!” In that moment, I felt a deep, profound confusion. I did nothing, ultimately. I simply helped the old man silently pick up his scattered items. Then, I went back to the apartment I shared with Pete—my passport and other documents were still there. I assumed Pete would be at his office at this hour. But when I opened the door, I saw him in the open-plan kitchen, wearing a dark gray apron, placing a platter of steamed fish on the island counter. Quinn sat on a high stool, chin propped on her hand, watching him. “Too much salt,” she commented. “Is it?” Pete tasted a bit from her hand. “It’s fine. You just have a bland palate.” “It is too much. You never used to make this mistake,” Quinn complained. “It’s been a while. My hands are rusty,” Pete indulged her. “Oh, really?” Quinn raised an eyebrow, her gaze sweeping past me, freezing on my figure in the doorway. “You don’t cook for her? You used to make me a different meal every day. Why the double standard now?” The air froze. Pete recovered first, looking at me. “Why are you home so early?” “Uh, not much going on at the paper.” I answered vaguely, heading straight for the bedroom. I just wanted my papers and to leave. “Since you’re here, why don’t you join us?” Pete’s voice came from behind me. I glanced at the counter: four dishes and a soup, perfectly arranged and appetizing. I had known Pete for three years, and this was the first time I realized he could cook so well. “No, thank you.” I found my document pouch in the bedroom drawer and quickly left. Behind me, I heard Quinn’s soft, amused voice and Pete’s low reply. I didn’t care what they were saying. As I walked out, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Calla, have you eaten? When can you and Pete come back? We still need to discuss the wedding…” “Mom,” I interrupted her. “I’m not marrying him.” A few seconds of silence followed. My mother’s voice returned, carrying its usual timidity. “Pete is such a good match. He treats you well, and finding a man like that isn’t easy. Don’t be difficult. If the man is good, you can endure the rest.” Endure it. My mother had endured her whole life, sacrificing her dignity, believing this was the fate of all women. My chest ached fiercely. I took a deep breath. “Mom, would you like to come with me?” “Leave? Why?” My mother hesitated. “Your father has finally been treating me better lately. Where would I go? Calla, don’t be impulsive. If you marry Pete, your father is very satisfied, and our family…” I didn’t listen to the rest. I closed my eyes, forcing down the lump in my throat, and whispered, “I’ll call you back.” Then I hung up. A massive LED screen nearby was showing the business news. The anchor’s voice was crisp and professional: “It is reported that Ms. Quinn, from New Orleans, has officially taken up the role of CEO at Sentry Capital, a move supported by a mysterious backer.” “In related news, investigative journalist Ms. Ji, who previously reported on Sentry Capital’s profit manipulation, resigned today. It is currently unknown if Sentry Capital will continue with its planned litigation.” “Furthermore, this station has learned that the journalist in question has a controversial reputation, having reportedly used her position to pressure others and even threatened to put people she disliked on the front page…” The screen cut to the furious interview clip of the blond thug from the diner. The onlookers started to murmur: “These reporters will write anything for attention!” “Exactly, they’re irresponsible. She should be sued!” “I heard it was a woman. So aggressive.” I stood there, watching the scrolling news and listening to the comments, feeling an overwhelming numbness. I had spent years meticulously fact-checking every article, cross-verifying every piece of data. I had never betrayed my badge, never betrayed my conscience. But now, the truth was easily buried. My hard-won integrity was dismissed as “reckless ambition.” Without warning, large raindrops began to fall. People shrieked and scattered, seeking shelter. Only I remained standing. The rain quickly blurred my vision. Through the haze, I saw a family across the street huddling under an umbrella. The father lifted his daughter onto his shoulders, her laughter clear and bright. I saw a young couple squeezed under one umbrella, the boy holding the girl close. Everyone had a place to go. I felt abandoned, alone in the cold rain. I don’t remember walking back to my apartment. I didn’t change out of my soaking-wet clothes. I stumbled to the sofa and collapsed, all my strength drained. As consciousness drifted away, I felt a deep, piercing cold. I knew I had a fever, but my body wouldn’t move. I couldn’t even lift a finger. My mind drifted between sleep and wakefulness. I felt like I was floating above everything. I saw my mother, whose face lit up with a look of pure contentment after a few placating words from my father, forgetting the recent humiliation. I saw Pete, standing beside Quinn, meticulously instructing her on the points to be aware of in her board meeting. I saw the newspaper office, brightly lit, my former colleagues still busy, my departure leaving no trace. Finally, my ethereal consciousness crashed back into my body. When I opened my eyes again, the window was filled with bright sunlight. My throat was raw and painful. I struggled to sit up, found my phone, and checked the date. Three days had passed. I dragged my weak body to the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror was pale and gaunt. I looked at myself, then turned on the shower. After washing, I went to the living room, retrieved the suitcase I had packed earlier, and left without a second thought. The airport announcement was a soothing voice in the terminal. I passed through security and walked toward the international departure gate. Beyond the massive glass wall, planes landed and took off, slicing into different skies. The boarding announcement for my flight came on. I stood up. The plane roared, soaring into the clouds. Outside the window, the sun pierced the cloud cover, turning the sky a brilliant gold.

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The day I personally secured my parents a spot on the billionaire list was the day I found out I wasn’t their biological son. “Rhodes, you’re moving out tomorrow. Before you go, make sure you finalize the repayment for all the upkeep expenses.” That was Victor. “Undergraduates can barely find jobs now, but out of the kindness of our hearts, we’ll let you stay on as a janitor at the office.” That was Lydia. I simply smiled, declining their pitiful offer, and prepared to go home, pack my things, and clear out. I thought their calculated coldness had reached its limit. But when I saw the two large suitcases and a cardboard box—already packed and sitting on the curb—at the front of the house, I couldn’t help but be stunned by their efficiency. After fishing my laptop out of the box, I instinctively typed in the top-tier administrative password I’d used for five years. Idiots. Without me, how do you plan to hold onto any of this? 1 I walked calmly through the throng of people, exiting the gilded, echoing doors of the stock exchange. I hailed a random cab and gave the driver the address of the sprawling house I’d lived in for over two decades. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, probably recognizing me; the bell-ringing ceremony had been live-streamed across every business channel. He said nothing, simply muting the financial news playing on the radio. I leaned against the window, watching the blur of neon lights slide past. My phone was vibrating constantly. I didn’t need to look to know it was the media, scrambling for a first-hand scoop. I just turned it off. The car stopped at the gate of the estate. From a distance, I could already see them: two large suitcases and a cardboard box, standing alone on the cold pavement outside the wrought-iron gate. I let out a soft, cold laugh. They certainly were efficient, desperate to ensure I didn’t waste one extra second inside. I dragged the luggage to the front door and, out of habit, placed my finger on the scanner of the biometric lock. “Access Denied. Please contact the administrator.” The electronic voice was ice-cold. The mockery in my eyes deepened. This entire security system, hardware and software, had been personally designed and deployed by me. The so-called administrator’s top-tier access had, until a few hours ago, been mine. I’d been locked out by my own creation. Perhaps it was better this way. It saved me the energy of going inside to perform the charade of fatherly affection, maternal concern, or brotherly love. I sat down on the stoop and opened my laptop. I swiftly logged into the internal server backend. I was curious to see just how thoroughly they had stolen my things. I typed in the top-tier account and password I’d used for five years. But instead of the familiar admin interface, a blazing red window popped up: User Not Found. They had truly cut all ties. I was contemplating my next move when the phone I’d just turned off suddenly lit up in my pocket. It was the one number I thought I would never see again. 2 The encrypted call request flashed for less than three seconds before it disconnected. It felt like a phantom limb, a brief hallucination. The screen went dark, returning to the pre-power-off black. I tried to turn it back on, but the phone was dead. I gave a wry chuckle. My immediate priority was finding a place to sleep. I flagged down a cab and headed to a moderately respectable budget hotel nearby. “A room, please.” I slid my driver’s license across the counter. “That’ll be three hundred sixty-eight for the room, plus a five hundred dollar deposit. How would you like to pay?” “Card,” I said, handing over the corporate bank card I’d used for years. It was a secondary card Victor Kingston had arranged, where all my salary and project bonuses were deposited. But when the front desk clerk inserted the card into the POS machine, an insistent, high-pitched alarm sounded. “Beep! Beep! Beep!” The young woman looked confused, tried again, and got the same result. She looked at me apologetically. “Sir, I’m sorry, there seems to be an issue with this card. It won’t process.” My heart sank. “Try this one.” I pulled out my personal savings account debit card. I’d opened it in college, and it held the modest savings from various scholarships and side projects—not a fortune, but certainly enough for a few nights in a hotel. The result was the same. “This one too…” Her voice was barely a whisper. I asked the clerk to at least plug in my dead phone for a few minutes. When it finally powered back up, an urgent text message from the bank immediately popped onto the screen. “Dear Mr. Rhodes Montgomery, pursuant to an application filed by Mr. Victor Kingston, all bank accounts registered under your name have been placed under a freeze pending review of ‘Maintenance Fee Reimbursement,’ totaling $XXX,XXX.XX…” I actually laughed out loud. Victor Kingston, you magnificent bastard. You should have been a Chief Financial Officer. So, a hotel was out of the question. I dragged my luggage back out onto the street. The night wind cut through my suit, slightly chilling. I opened my phone and found the number for Wesley. He was my chief programmer, the one I’d personally mentored, who always called me “Rhodes, boss” with an almost worshipful respect. I dialed. It rang for a long time. “Hello? Wesley, it’s me.” The other end was silent, save for a faint, shallow breathing sound. “I need you to help me retrieve the original development logs for the ‘Aether’ system…” “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.” He cut me off, and the line went dead. Disbelieving, I called the number of another core team member. Number not in service. The partners who had once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me—sharing cup noodles through all-night coding sessions and the pure triumph of solving an impossible problem—were either hanging up, turning off their phones, or had become ghosts. This was the complete severance. A cold, calculated move to starve me into submission. I stood at the crosswalk, watching the traffic rush past, feeling a sense of bewilderment for the first time. My money was gone. My home was gone. Even my comrades had been turned into enemies. He was truly trying to destroy me. 3 I dragged the two suitcases across the midnight streets for so long that my legs went numb. Finally, I stopped at the entrance of a dark alleyway, where a cheap, flickering sign advertised an hourly rate. Scribbled crookedly on the wall in red spray paint were the words: ROOM FOR RENT, $300/MONTH. Fine. This will do. The landlady was a woman with a cigarette dangling from her lip, who eyed my expensive suit, then my two obviously high-end suitcases, with suspicious curiosity. She finally tossed me a greasy key. First month’s rent and a deposit, cash only, no questions asked. I emptied my wallet of the last few crumpled bills and traded them for a ten-by-ten-foot space. It contained a narrow cot, a chipped wooden desk, and a buzzing light bulb that flashed sporadically. The walls were covered in the stains of the previous tenant, and the air was thick with the mixed scent of damp mildew and cheap perfume. I lay down on the hard mattress in my clothes, staring up at the stubbornly flickering bulb. I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning, I was woken by a sudden uproar. Footsteps were shuffling loudly in the hallway, mixed with a woman’s sharp cry and a man’s harsh voice. I ignored it, until there was a sharp, insistent knocking on my door. “Ratt-a-tat-tat!” The knock was impatient, almost confident. I assumed it was the landlady, and got up to open it. When I pulled the door open, I froze. It was Preston. He was wearing a perfectly tailored bespoke suit, looking like a prince who had wandered into the wrong side of the tracks. And trailing behind him were several reporters, cameras hoisted on their shoulders, the lenses pointed directly at me. The flashbulbs began popping—click-click-click—stabbing my eyes with painful light. “Rhodes, my brother,” Preston’s eyes immediately welled up with performative tears. “How could you be living in a place like this? Don’t you know Mom and Dad and I have been worried sick about you?” He started to reach for my hand, but I sidestepped, avoiding his touch. He didn’t miss a beat. He pulled out a thick, white envelope and, for the benefit of the cameras, attempted to press it into my hand. “Brother, I know you’re struggling right now. This is from Mom and Dad. Take it, find a better place to stay—don’t punish yourself.” His voice cracked with what sounded like genuine concern. “Just apologize to them, admit your mistakes, and the door to our home will always be open for you.” I looked at him, and the situation was so ludicrous that I nearly smiled. “Preston,” I said, my voice rough from a night without water, “do you honestly believe everyone is as stupid as you are?” The performance on his face fractured. The tears in his eyes nearly spilled. “Brother, how can you say that… I’m only trying to help…” “Cut the act,” I interrupted him. “Did you bring the media here to check on me, or to make sure my death is sufficiently ugly? Is your ‘boy genius’ narrative crumbling so fast that you need to use my corpse as a stepping stone to climb higher?” Preston’s face went completely white. He hadn’t expected me, reduced to this state, to still have the nerve to speak to him like this. He took a deep breath, dropping the innocent-victim routine. He stepped closer, leaning in to deliver his words in a low voice only I could hear. “Rhodes Montgomery, wise men know when to yield. You have nothing left. How do you expect to fight me? I promise you, one word from me, and you won’t even be able to stay in this hole.” He paused, a cruel satisfaction curling his lips. “Settle down and be a non-entity. Admit that everything was mine, and maybe I’ll be merciful enough to get you a job scrubbing toilets. Otherwise, enjoy starving on the street.” He pulled back, instantly restoring his kind, innocent expression, and sighed theatrically for the cameras. “Brother, think carefully about this.” With that, he and the entire media circus noisily retreated. I closed the door, listening to the murmurs and footsteps fade away. Starve on the street? Scrubbing toilets? I walked to the room’s single, dusty mirror. My hair was a mess, my eyes bloodshot, and I looked like a dishevelled wreck. But the light in those eyes, even in the dim reflection, was terrifyingly bright. 4 My world didn’t quiet down after Preston left. The landlady in the hallway, the corner store owner—they all gave me an extra look before leaning in to whisper to their companions. I didn’t need to check the internet to know the latest narrative was already blowing up. I locked myself in the ten-by-ten room and opened the laptop. On the screen, an unfamiliar encrypted communication request popped up. The interface was retro, a program Sawyer Brooks and I had written in college for fun. Only we had the encryption key. We hadn’t used it since graduation. I accepted, and a line of text appeared, written in her familiar, sharp tone. “Well, well, well, Rhodes Montgomery, America’s Most Wanted. How’s the international news treating you?” I could almost see Sawyer’s eyes curving into that mischievous, knowing smile of hers. She was the certified genius of our graduating class, the only one who could go toe-to-toe with me technically. After graduation, she went to Wall Street, and I came back here. We had drifted apart. I wasn’t in the mood for banter. I quickly typed: “Just spit it out.” “Alright, direct. I like that,” she instantly replied. “I did a free due diligence sweep on Kinetic Group, consider it a friend’s discount. Found something interesting. Your technical reports and your financial data don’t align. Especially the recent core patents. Beautiful theoretical models, but the underlying architecture… Tsk tsk. Full of holes. It can’t possibly support that valuation.” My heart plummeted. Sawyer continued: “Then I saw your news. My guess is the real engineering god is hiding in a glorified broom closet right now, contemplating the meaning of life, right?” I remained silent. She knew everything. “Send me your account number,” her next message flashed. “Any problem money can fix is not a problem. If it can’t be fixed, you haven’t spent enough.” I managed a tight-lipped reply: “All my cards are frozen. And I don’t even have a workstation. Money is useless to me right now.” They hadn’t just stolen my work; they had severed every possible avenue for me to fight back. No power, no server access, no tools. I had the knowledge of how to slay a dragon, but not even a rusty butter knife. Sawyer was silent for a few seconds. Then, a message flashed that sent a jolt through my entire body. “Who says you don’t have a weapon? Did you forget? The empire you built with your own two hands—your throne is still waiting.” My mind went blank. The throne? “Rhodes, are you losing it? The ‘Aether’ System’s Creator Backdoor—you forgot?” I felt all the blood rush to my head. My fingertips went instantly numb. How could I forget? To prevent commercial espionage and external hacking, when I designed the fundamental logic of the Aether System, I left myself one single, top-level access point, completely independent of all administrative systems. The activation key for that backdoor was a super-long randomized string tied to my personal biometric data. In the entire world, I was the only one who knew it. Victor and Preston, they thought they had won by taking my admin account and revoking my access. They thought they had the key to my house. They didn’t know that I was the architect of the entire building. And I could, at any moment, pull the foundation out from under the whole damned thing.

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It was New Year’s Eve. We’d just finished dinner, and I was reaching for the envelopes to hand out cash gifts to the grandkids. My daughter, Charlotte—Caroline—spoke first. “Mom, we’re not going to be home for the New Year this year.” Then she added, “And you should pack up and go back to your own place, too.” I stared at her, dumbfounded. “Tonight? You want me to leave now, this late?” She replied calmly, “I’m doing this for your own good.” “With you alone in my house, if anything goes missing, you’d have no way to explain yourself.” I didn’t argue. I gathered my things and went home. A week later, they returned from their trip and walked into a shock. The condo they’d lived in for eight years now had a new owner. 01 I was about to pull out the cash gifts when Caroline suddenly produced a stack of airline tickets. “Mom, I booked tickets to Turks and Caicos tomorrow morning.” My heart warmed. Just a month earlier, my girlfriends—my book club sisters—had organized a trip there. I’d missed out because I’d committed to watching Caroline’s kids during the holidays. She’d promised to take me later. I’d been looking forward to it, imagining finally ringing in the new year with my friends on a beach. I smiled. “That’s wonderful, dear. I’ll start packing my suitcase right now…” Before I could finish, she cut me off. “No, Mom. You should pack up and go back to your place.” I froze. “What are you talking about? Are you kicking me out?” Caroline met my gaze, her expression unsettlingly flat. “These six tickets are for Sam’s parents, Sam, and us four. There’s no point in you tagging along.” She rushed to soften the blow. “I’m not kicking you out. It’s just, we’re all leaving early tomorrow, and the place will be empty.” She paused, then delivered the final, calculated line. “If anything were to go missing while we’re gone, you wouldn’t be able to clear your name.” A deep, bone-chilling cold swept through me. I realized that for years, I had run myself ragged to make her life easier, managing her home and her children. Now that she didn’t need my labor, I had been demoted. I was not a mother, but a potential thief. The bitter irony was that the apartment was the one my late husband and I had bought. I forced a cold laugh. “Fine.” Caroline stiffened. She hadn’t expected me to agree so quickly. We’d clashed before when she took her in-laws on lavish trips but left me out. A flicker of discomfort crossed her face. “Well… take care of yourself at home, Mom.” She mumbled. “Call me if you run short of cash.” I shook my head while packing my few belongings. “No need.” It didn’t take long to gather my things. Caroline frantically called her husband. “Sam, drive your mom home…” “Don’t bother. I’ll grab a cab myself.” I interrupted her, my voice sharp and final. I walked straight out the door. Downstairs, the New Year’s fireworks were bursting across the night sky. The brilliant bursts of light sliced through the darkness but failed to penetrate the deep freeze in my heart. I hailed a taxi. The driver, seeing my suitcase, asked kindly, “Heading home for the holidays just now?” “Yes,” I nodded. Perhaps sensing my quiet distress, he offered, “Listen, no matter what’s going on, your own happiness has to come first, ma’am.” Your own happiness has to come first. I pulled out my phone and dialed Kyle, the realtor. “Kyle, list the Magnolia Place condo for sale.” “I want it priced below market value. The faster, the better.” Kyle sounded visibly stunned on the other end. “Mrs. Davis, are you sure? That condo will sell itself, you could easily wait for a better offer…” I cut him off. “No, I need a quick sale.” Hearing the finality in my tone, Kyle agreed. “Understood, Mrs. Davis. I’ll set up showings first thing tomorrow.” I hung up and exhaled, a long, shaky breath. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Happy New Year.” I returned his smile. “Happy New Year.” Back at my old, empty house, I retrieved the deed to the condo from the safety deposit box. Only my name was on it. It was my late husband’s final provision—my security, my “nest egg.” He’d bought it specifically for my retirement. When Caroline and Sam got married and needed a place, we let them move in temporarily. That “temporary” turned into eight years. After my husband passed, I’d moved in with them to help with the kids. I’d even planned to sign the condo over to Caroline eventually, to give her a little security. Now, I knew, that would never happen. 02 The day after New Year’s, Kyle brought a client. I took the spare key and met them at The Magnolia Place Condos. The dining table still held the remnants of the rushed New Year’s Eve feast they hadn’t bothered to clear. Other than that, the place was spotless, thanks to my years of diligent cleaning. As we toured the unit, the client stopped in the spare room. “What’s with the folding cot?” A wave of sharp melancholy hit me. That cot was my bed. I’d only planned to stay through the baby’s first month, but three years later, I was still there. Caroline had promised countless times to get me a proper bed. I’d always assumed they were just too busy and forgot. Now, I realized my role was never meant to be comfortable. Everything I believed was mutual love was just self-deception. I simply smiled and said nothing. Kyle, recognizing the awkward silence, quickly changed the subject. He knew my situation. I’d initially approached him about renting the condo out, but canceled when Caroline needed it. However, I’d kept in touch and sent him other clients, so he was familiar with my family dynamics. The client, Mr. Harrison, was clearly impressed and wanted to close the deal immediately. I took a moment, deciding honesty was best. “Mr. Harrison, my daughter and her family currently live here. We’ve had a falling out. There may be some minor complications later on. If you can accept that, I’m willing to sell the condo for ten percent below the market price.” Mr. Harrison frowned. “Whose name is on the deed?” “Mine,” I replied. His expression relaxed instantly. “Then it’s simple. I’ll pay cash in full. But I require a quick closing.” His swift agreement surprised me. “Done,” I said, recovering quickly. “The moment the county office opens for business, we’ll transfer the title.” The total price was 2.3 million. Mr. Harrison wired half—1.15 million—as a deposit. The money hit my account almost instantly, but I felt nothing. He asked to take possession the following day, and I readily agreed. I hired a moving company, had all of Caroline’s family’s belongings packed that night, and shipped them straight to Sam’s parents’ house in upstate New York. With everything arranged, I checked my phone. Caroline had sent a photo. It was a picture of the six of them—Caroline, Sam, the two kids, and Sam’s parents—beaming from a lavish suite at a resort in Turks and Caicos. The caption: Mom, we made it to the islands! Everything is wonderful. Make sure to take good care of yourself at home. I laughed, a dry, bitter sound. She still remembered I existed. Her hollow, meaningless concern was an insult now. I started typing a message in the chat box. I sold The Magnolia Place Condos… I deleted the whole thing, turned off the screen, and placed the phone on the counter. I hope you enjoy your vacation. Because when you come back, you won’t be smiling anymore. 03 I found a high-end restaurant and ordered a full table of appetizers, an entree, and dessert—all for myself. I hadn’t taken a proper break in years. It was time to reward myself. I was about to pick up my fork when Caroline’s video call came in. I hesitated, then finally answered. The camera showed her family crammed into a luxurious private dining room. The table was covered in exotic seafood. “Happy New Year, Mom!” Caroline’s voice rang out. Then Sam’s mother, Mrs. Miller, leaned into the shot, holding up a massive piece of fish. “Happy New Year, Mrs. Davis! Look at this snapper—isn’t it wonderful?” She was beaming with smug satisfaction. “Thank you for raising such a wonderful daughter to bring us out here and show us the world! You, all alone, make sure you eat well. You shouldn’t skimp on a holiday like this.” I looked at the sheer, unadulterated triumph in her eyes and smiled back. “Happy New Year to you too.” “My dinner is quite good, as well.” I flipped the camera. The table was laid with exquisitely plated, high-end courses—a perfectly seared filet mignon, a glass of fine Merlot, and a molten chocolate cake. It looked expensive. The joyous clamor on the other end of the line immediately died. Mrs. Miller’s face went stiff. Caroline, looking utterly displeased, started to scold me. “Mom, you’re eating all that alone? That’s so wasteful! And it looks terribly expensive! You’re usually so frugal, why would you order something like that?” I laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. “It’s my money. I’ll spend it however I like.” “You…” I didn’t wait for her to finish whatever she planned to say. I hung up, switched my phone to silent, and focused on the exquisite meal. The steak was perfectly cooked, the savory juices bursting on my tongue. My mood immediately lifted. Money well spent, indeed. I’d always tried to support Caroline, penny-pinching for myself while giving everything to their family without reservation. Yet, in the end, her attitude suggested I wasn’t even worthy of being in her house. From now on, I would dedicate myself to enjoying my own retirement. After dinner, I went to a high-end department store. I bought myself a deep, rich cranberry-red wool coat. It cost me nearly two thousand dollars. The color instantly brightened my complexion. Looking in the mirror, I couldn’t help but think, I’m not as old as they made me feel. I got back to my old apartment around ten o’clock. I checked my phone. The screen was bombarded with frantic calls and texts from all six of them. I didn’t need to open them to know they were likely a mix of demands and expectations for an apology. For years, I had held my tongue and tolerated everything for the sake of Caroline’s happiness. But they forgot one crucial thing: I was a mother, but I was also a person. And a person deserves respect. 04 The next few days passed in quiet serenity. Sam’s mother’s social media feed, updating daily, was a relentless stream of boastful photos. When the county offices opened for the new year, Mr. Harrison and I smoothly completed the title transfer. He wired the remaining $1.15 million as agreed. The sale was done. I breathed a sigh of deep, profound relief. The next thing I did was book my own flight to Turks and Caicos. I was leaving tomorrow. The same day Caroline and her family were scheduled to return. Just then, Caroline’s number flashed on my screen. I decided to answer. She started with an apology. “Mom, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to you the other night.” “I was just… too stressed.” “Please, Mom, take the high road and forgive me.” The soft, sweet voices of my two grandchildren, Ben and Sadie, chimed in from the background. “Grandma, please forgive Mommy.” My heart softened, just a little. Maybe I went too far? She is my daughter, after all. Blood is thicker than water. But her next words immediately hardened my resolve. “Mom, we fly back tomorrow. We even brought you some presents.” “Could you please go over to our place and clean up a bit? Sam’s parents need to stay with us for a while.” “Oh, and they’re older and not feeling great, so make sure you clean out the master bedroom for them. The four of us will just squeeze into the second bedroom for a bit.” The last vestige of warmth in my heart froze solid. “I can’t,” I said flatly. “If anything were to go missing, I wouldn’t be able to clear my name.” Caroline stammered on the phone, then a roar of anger burst through. “Mom! When did you become so completely unreasonable?” I laughed, a sound devoid of humor. “You know who’s being unreasonable here, Caroline.” I hung up and started packing for my own trip. The next morning, I took a cab to the airport. When the plane landed in Turks and Caicos, the tropical air, thick with the scent of salt and warmth, washed over me. My girlfriends were waiting at the gate. When they saw me, they rushed over, enveloping me in hugs and warm greetings. The cranberry-red coat stood out brilliantly. “Took you long enough!” Beth, one of my closest friends, squeezed my arm. “We rented an oceanfront villa. I saved the room with the best view just for you.” That night, we sat on the expansive deck, enjoying a seafood boil. The sound of the waves provided a soothing background as the women raised their glasses to a reunion. “You handled that condo situation beautifully, Audra,” Lisa said, pushing a generous piece of lobster onto my plate. “Some kids are just spoiled rotten.” The others agreed, sharing their own stories of parental exhaustion and unacknowledged sacrifice. I looked up at the stars, a sudden wave of release washing over me. When you finally let go of the burden of unending obligation, life can become incredibly light. Meanwhile, Caroline’s family, bags in tow, made a beeline from the airport to The Magnolia Place Condos. When the elevator doors opened, they stopped dead. A brand new security door and an unfamiliar shoe rack stood where their home used to be. Sam fumbled for his phone, frantically cross-referencing the unit number. Caroline’s hand trembled as she called me. I was sipping red wine on the deck of a sunset cruise with my friends. Caroline’s voice, shrill and panicked, ripped through the phone. “Mom, why is there a stranger in our apartment? He says the unit belongs to him!” I took another sip of wine, my voice calm as the evening tide. “That’s right, Caroline. I sold the condo.”

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