Upon learning that the aloof senior I had a crush on was raising a zebra finch, I seized the opportunity to DM him. “Hey. Let me see your bird.” “Heard zebra finches are loud, is that true?” It took a long time for him to reply with a cold “Mm.” Just when I thought he didn’t like me and planned to give up, bullet screen comments (danmu) appeared before my eyes: [LMAO, the senior thought our girl wanted to see THAT bird. He finally convinced himself to take a mirror selfie, only to realize she meant the zebra finch. Sky falling moment.] [The senior is silent, only taking pictures of the bird. As for which bird, don’t worry about it for now.] 1 I had a crush on the campus heartthrob, Julian Thorne. But he was cold and unapproachable. I chased him relentlessly for over a year, outlasting wave after wave of competitors, and finally won! The title of “Simp King.” So what? My best friend Kenzie couldn’t stand it anymore and advised me: “If it really doesn’t work, let’s just switch to another handsome guy. Three-legged toads are hard to find, but two-legged men are everywhere!” That being said, Julian was truly handsome. Nearly 6’3″, broad shoulders, narrow waist, and a face that was flawlessly crafted. His brow bone was high, making his eyes look exceptionally deep. Even when he stared at you emotionlessly, you could somehow read a hint of affection in them. The first time I saw him at a competition, I made up my mind to catch him. But a year and a half later, I started to waver. Maybe we were just not meant to be. But before giving up, I wanted to try one last time, unwillingly. Coincidentally, I heard someone gave Julian a zebra finch, so I used it as an excuse to DM him. [Hey. Let me see your bird.] [Heard zebra finches are loud, is that true?] I swear! If he doesn’t reply in one minute! I’ll stop chasing him! Forget it, three minutes. Five minutes is my bottom line. Actually, ten minutes is also— Buzz. My phone vibrated suddenly. Julian finally replied! There’s still hope for us! “Hehe.” I opened my phone with a silly smile, but froze when I saw the content. [Mm.] Yes. Just this one word. Haha. Turns out I’m the clown in the circus. Maybe it really, really is time to say goodbye. I sighed deeply, planning to block Julian and say goodbye to this simp era. Suddenly, a bunch of comments appeared in mid-air. [LMAO, the senior thought our girl wanted to see THAT bird. He finally convinced himself to take a mirror selfie, only to realize she meant the zebra finch. Sky falling moment.] [The senior is silent, only taking pictures of the bird. As for which bird, don’t worry about it for now.] [Our girl missed the pink one just like that, hehe…] … I was dumbfounded. What are these comments? Is this my final fantasy as a simp? But thanks to the comments’ reminder, I belatedly realized how roguish my message to Julian was. But… Julian really took a photo? Tsk. This is getting interesting, folks. Blocking is postponed. I’ll chase a little longer. So, the me who was sad a second ago, happily sent another message to Julian the next second. [Senior, hurry up and send me the bird~] I meant the zebra finch, okay. After a long silence, he sent a bunch of pictures of the zebra finch. From all angles. Except there was a very abrupt photo sandwiched in the middle. It was a man’s mirror selfie. Must be the one the comments mentioned. I turned to look at the pink curtains. Mm. Same color. Strong visual impact. I was completely stunned, but didn’t forget to take a screenshot immediately. We American women have fast hands! Sure enough, the photo was recalled by Julian the next second. The man who was just cold and only sent monosyllables panicked completely. [I sent it by mistake!] [I’m not a pervert!] [Student Mia Wells, you shouldn’t have seen it, right?] I answered honestly: [Sorry, not only did I see it, I saved it too~] Julian went silent. Comments: [The male lead seems to be still there, but actually has been gone for a while.] [Hahaha, laughing so hard the little prince chopped himself into a little princess.] [Sigh, forget it, male lead just give in. You can’t beat her! After all, you two are the main characters of this book, destined to reach the bang-bang-bang stage sooner or later.] [Can we fast forward to the heroine helping the male lead raise the zebra finch, only to find out the finch is the male lead’s avatar, and then pulling feathers in the North Pole?] … Only then did I know that Julian and I were the main characters in a sweet romance novel with a touch of fantasy. Of course, according to international conventions, this is a spicy romance. No need to elaborate on how developed the “traffic” is in there, right? I opened my photo album and watched the saved picture repeatedly. Thinking that I could actually eat a man of Julian’s caliber in the future, the corners of my mouth went up uncontrollably. After admiring, I sent a message to Julian, still wanting more. [Help! I’m known as the pure jade girl in our village, they even built a chastity arch for me. Now every time I open my phone I see this kind of picture, how can I face people in the future! You must marry me.] Honestly, I was just joking, but the man who was just quiet and overwhelmed replied instantly. [Okay.] Me: ? No way, bro, this progress is a bit fast, isn’t it? Comments: [This is different from my first read?] [Male Lead: Been waiting for you to say that.] [No way, I still want to see the plot where our girl doesn’t know the finch is the male lead’s avatar and keeps petting it until the male lead can’t handle it! Author, don’t change the script!] … I swear. I absolutely didn’t do it because I wanted to experience that plot! I did it for the sake of these readers posting comments. So I decided— [Sorry, I was joking.] Julian froze. After a long time, he sent one word. [Oh.] Great, back to being cold. But I’ve already thought of a way to handle him. [As for this photo, how about you treat me to dinner and we chat about its destination in detail?] Yes. I’m threatening Julian. The boy panicked again, as expected. [Okay, what do you want to eat? I’ll make a reservation.] I happily mentioned a BBQ place I’d wanted to try for a long time, missing a comment floating by: [The male lead has wanted to ask our girl out for a long time, finally got his wish.] 2 In the BBQ restaurant, the already aloof Julian became even more silent because of the accidental photo sending. And I, who was wild online, became a bit timid in person, not knowing what to say, only staring blankly at the small red mole at the base of Julian’s middle finger. Mm. His fingers are so long. Comments: [Mia, you’re still looking!!! Wait until the senior holds you, taps that small mole on his finger base and asks if you can eat up to here, then you’ll behave.] [Finger play, huh? Good, good, good, I like to watch!] [Hard to imagine our girl who is so full of memes online having social anxiety in front of her crush.] … Huh? This little red mole has this function?! Worthy of a spicy HE (Happy Ending) sweet romance novel. Making people all shy. I covered my hot face, forcing myself not to imagine that scene. Julian suddenly spoke: “Student Mia, can I trouble you to delete that photo?” His voice was nice, like a clear stream in the mountains, lingering in the ears, tingly and numb, taking away some of the heat. But I wouldn’t agree to him so easily. After all— “If I delete it, what will I watch when I entertain myself at night?” I swear, I originally intended to say this in my heart. But looking up at Julian’s waveless iceberg face, I got a burst of fire. Yes. In the lower abdomen. I wanted to make him blush so badly, and in my excitement, my mouth was faster than my brain. Julian froze, as if he didn’t understand what I meant, his narrow eyes staring straight at me. I didn’t dodge. After a while, pink crept up his ears. He unnaturally avoided my gaze, coughing lightly with one hand clenched into a fist against his lips. “Mia.” Julian called me softly, without the coldness on the phone. I raised my eyebrows, signaling him to speak. He pursed his lips before whispering four words. “That’s not good.” Comments: [You have such a cute male lead entering America.] [Still saying “that’s~ not~ good~”, actually blossoming with joy inside, what a poser.] [Hahaha, our girl is too bold, laughing so hard the little princess sprouted into a little prince!] … I blinked, suppressing the smile amused by the comments, and lowered my head pretending to be disappointed: “Oh… if you don’t like it, I won’t say it in the future…” “I don’t dislike it!” Julian hurriedly denied. Realizing what he said, he paused, put away his emotions, returned to his usual indifferent appearance, and inexplicably changed his words: “It’s fine if you think I don’t like it, as long as… you don’t say it again in the future.” Hearing the sudden loneliness and melancholy in his words, I scratched my head in confusion. Why did we suddenly switch to the “If Melancholy is a Talent” channel? Wasn’t I flirting with him? Fortunately, the comments answered my doubts. [The senior is insecure again, afraid our girl will treat him as a monster after knowing the zebra finch is his avatar, so he dares not respond to her love.] So that’s it. Tsk. Julian really overthought it. I don’t care at all. Especially after seeing that picture, I find it even more interesting. But I didn’t show it. After all, insecurity is the best cosmetic for a handsome guy! 3 I didn’t respond to Julian’s words, just pretended to be sad and kept eating BBQ with my head down. Julian stayed silent at first, but as time passed bit by bit, the atmosphere at the table became more and more oppressive. Finally, after I deliberately sniffled, he spoke. With careful probing. “Do you still want to see the zebra finch?” I looked up at him, my eyes teary because I deliberately hadn’t blinked for a long time: “Did you bring it?” “No, but I’ll be quite busy starting tomorrow and won’t have time to take care of it. Could I trouble you to come over and help me take care of it?” Julian said seriously. But the comments went crazy. [Excuse!!! Obviously he likes our girl too much but is insecure and afraid to approach, so he can only retreat to using the zebra finch avatar to make contact!] [The senior pretends to be busy to cover his lie, making room for our girl and the zebra finch, while he can only stay in the stairwell every day hahaha.] [The senior looks calm, but his hand under the table is shaking the whole time.] … I looked up. Julian was looking at me calmly, waiting for my answer. But if you looked closely, you could see the uncontrollable nervousness in his eyes. “I refuse—” The nervousness in the handsome guy’s eyes turned into sadness. “—Not.” Sadness turned into joy. Julian smiled subconsciously, revealing a very cute little canine tooth. A stark contrast to his usual aloof appearance. I was slightly stunned seeing it. He seemed to realize it too, restraining his smile, and said faintly: “Thank you.” 4 Back in the dorm after dinner, Kenzie leaned in with a gossip face. “How was it? Did you guys kiss?” Me: ? “Not that fast!” Kenzie pouted regretfully. Just as she was about to say something, another roommate, Sarah, spoke first: “Kiss? With whom? Not Julian Thorne, right?” She paused, looked me up and down mockingly, and said rudely: “Keep dreaming, you’re not worthy.” Sarah had also chased Julian, but gave up not long after because she couldn’t stand his coldness, choosing another boy in the same major instead. But she still held inexplicable hostility towards me, always interrupting when Kenzie and I chatted to belittle me. Luckily. Kenzie had strong combat power. “Damn, if you’re blind, go get treated, okay? Our Mia has the face and the body. Not worthy of that dead iceberg Julian? She’s worthy of him eight hundred times over and around the corner! Not worthy? She’s too good for him!” Actually, I wasn’t as good as Kenzie said. Even though I’m the heroine in this novel, the author, like many other creators of female-oriented novels, put a lot of effort into shaping the male lead Julian. I am ordinary, average, so I also felt inferior on the road to pursuing Julian. But whenever I felt inferior, Kenzie would encourage me without hesitation. Not encouraging me to continue chasing love, but encouraging me to be confident. “Everyone has their own shining points. Julian just has an advantage in looks. You have over twenty thousand fans with your drawings, you’re not bad either! Why feel inferior?”

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I spent three years playing the role of the devoted, brainless shadow to Gavin. He hated using protection. Every time, after it was over, he would sit on the edge of the bed with his bare back to me—a canvas of red scratches I’d left behind—and light a cigarette. He’d say, with the air of a man bestowing a great mercy: “What are you worried about? If you get pregnant, we’ll just get married.” A month later, I stared at the two pink lines on the plastic stick. I didn’t tell him. Instead, I ghosted him—a clean, clinical, cliff-edge break. Later, he ran into me at a women’s health clinic. I was leaning against a wall, my hand resting on my baby bump, chatting with another woman in the waiting room. “Don’t let the drama fool you,” I was saying. “I cried like the world was ending when we broke up, but actually having his child? I wouldn’t dare. I know the difference between crying into a pillow and crying over a crying baby. Dating is one thing, but I’ve got someone else in mind for the ’till death do us part’ stuff.” 1 The day I found out I was pregnant, I went to the private lounge where Gavin usually hung out. I was about to push the door open when I heard the guys inside debating which brand of condoms felt the most natural. Someone laughed. “Ask Gavin. He’s got a steady girl; he’s the expert.” There was a pause, and then I heard Gavin’s voice, lazy and dismissive. “Condoms? Never use ’em.” The room went quiet for a beat. “Not once? Aren’t you worried about Mia getting pregnant?” Gavin flicked a lighter. I could practically hear the smoke curling around his words. “It’s fine. She’s a good girl. She always remembers to take the pill afterwards.” The guys erupted. “Man, you’ve got her trained well.” Gavin let out a low, amused huff. “She’s not just ‘good.’ I’ve had her every which way. I know every freckle on her body better than she does.” “But seriously, Gav,” someone pressed, “what if she actually turns up pregnant? What then?” Gavin hesitated, his voice slowing down. “If it happens, it happens. We get married. Mia’s easy to live with. We fit. If I have to settle down, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to do it with her.” Someone teased him. “If I remember right, you used to swap girls like you swap watches. You’re really ready to retire for one girl?” Gavin gave a noncommittal shrug. “Well, she’s not pregnant yet, is she? I’m not losing sleep over the long term. If I get bored, I’ll just find a polite way to end it. She’ll listen. She’s got that people-pleasing streak. Every time we argue, she doesn’t blame me; she immediately wonders what she did wrong and comes crawling back to apologize. Last time, I wanted to try something in the car and she said no. I just threatened to break up, and she folded instantly.” A chorus of whistles followed. “Damn, she’s that easy?” Gavin’s voice softened slightly, but it wasn’t out of love. It was the tone of a collector talking about a fragile antique. “She’s too naive. That’s why I can’t let anyone else have her. She’d get eaten alive out there. She’s a crier. If she were with a real prick, she’d cry herself hoarse. She’s better off with me where I can keep an eye on her.” “Sounds like you’re running a charity, Gav,” someone joked. “But you better watch her. With a face like Mia’s, plenty of guys are waiting for a turn. She looks like a saint but she’s built like a sin. If she were mine, I’d never leave the house.” Gavin’s tone went cold. “Keep dreaming. You wouldn’t stand a chance.” He seemed to drift off then, his voice turning reflective. “But she is… pure. No matter how many times we do it, she cries like it’s the first time. Honestly, the thought of leaving her… I’m not sure I’m ready for that.” The guys started ribbing him about becoming a romantic, but then someone dropped the heavy question. “Seriously though, Gav. If she’s pregnant, do you really settle down? I thought you only started seeing her to spite Sloane. And I heard Sloane just broke up with her guy. She’s working at your firm now, isn’t she? Isn’t this your chance?” This time, Gavin didn’t answer. He just stared at the floor, the cherry of his cigarette glowing bright and then fading in the dark. 2 I looked at the two lines on the test. I hadn’t actually gone to the club to tell him I was pregnant. A friend had called saying he was wasted and needed a ride. But seeing Gavin lose himself in the thought of Sloane… it actually felt like a relief. The truth was, the moment I saw that positive test, I started planning our exit. Everyone knew Gavin only picked me because of Sloane. There’s a specific kind of person in this world—someone who has never known a day of hunger, never felt the sting of a real loss. Their words have this airy, “let them eat cake” quality to them. That was Sloane. She was my college roommate. Every morning, she’d look in the mirror, pump her fists, and whisper, “Good morning, Sloane! You are a ray of sunshine! Today is going to be amazing!” When Gavin chased her in college, it was a circus. Roses, designer bags, jewelry—he threw money at her like it was confetti. She’d mention she liked a certain brand of vintage gold, and the next day, a necklace worth three years of my tuition would be sitting on her desk. Gavin was the sun. When he walked into a lecture hall, phones came out. He didn’t care. He’d just lean against the doorframe in his Arc’teryx jacket, looking like a model, waiting for Sloane. He was perfect, down to the last strand of his dark hair. The first time I saw him, he was confessing his love to her. He had that half-European look—sharp jawline, high bridge of the nose, a smirk that suggested he knew exactly how much he was worth. And he was worth a lot. At the homecoming gala, the Dean sat with Gavin’s father in the VIP section. His elegance wasn’t something he bought; it was in his DNA. Gavin and Sloane were the protagonists of this world. Everything good was destined for them. And me? I was the girl with the dead mother, the gambling addict father, the sick grandmother, and three part-time jobs. I was the “broken beauty” of the campus, the one everyone felt sorry for but no one actually wanted to be. I was a footnote in their story. Sloane once asked me why I worked three jobs. “Because I need the money,” I said, my voice flat. She rolled her eyes. “Just ask your dad. Why are you acting like the world is on your shoulders? It’s so depressing.” How do you explain a life like mine to a girl like her? “My dad is the reason the world is on my shoulders,” I said quietly. Because she had never suffered, she didn’t want the billionaire’s son. She wanted the “real” experience. She fell for a broke athlete with a massive ego who fed her sweet lies and gave her nothing but cheap sentiments. Every Valentine’s Day, he’d pick a fight and break up with her, only to crawl back two days later. She didn’t see the pattern. But I knew money. I knew he was just avoiding the cost of a gift. I tried to warn her once. She looked at me with pity. “Mia, you’re so cynical. Do you think everyone is bad just because… you’ve never been truly loved? Are you just jealous?” I never spoke up again. One afternoon, I walked past Gavin’s Porsche. He was throwing a bouquet of lilies on the ground, his face twisted in a sneer. “You’re dating him and you didn’t tell me? You like playing games that much?” Sloane lifted her chin. “Gavin, you only know how to throw money at things. You don’t know the first thing about love.” I expected him to look hurt. He didn’t. He laughed—a dry, self-deprecating sound. “I don’t need to know,” he said, catching sight of me standing a few feet away. He crooked a finger. “Hey. You. I’ll give you whatever you want. Come love me.” I froze. A long moment passed before I heard my own voice. “Okay.” I thought I was helping Sloane get rid of a nuisance. But her face went pale with rage. “Mia, you’re really that pathetic? You’ll take my leftovers?” I didn’t defend myself. I just knew my grandmother’s hospital bill was due, and my father’s bookie was calling. I needed money. I needed enough money to pull myself out of the mud. 3 Gavin was good to me, in his own way. My father never showed up at campus again—Gavin handled him, though I never asked how. My grandmother was moved to a private suite in the city’s best hospital. Every day, the nurses sent me photos of her smiling in the garden. He made my problems vanish with a swipe of his black card. He made me quit my jobs. He showered me with gifts—handbags, custom jewelry, and when I mentioned I wanted to learn about finance, he hired a private tutor. Because of him, I learned how to read balance sheets and manage investments. I wasn’t just spending his money; I was learning how to make my own. Outside of that, we were a normal couple. We hugged, we kissed, we went to hotels. The first time we were together, I remember the cool line of his shoulder in the moonlight. When he leaned down to kiss me, the silver chain around his neck brushed against his collarbone, swaying with his rhythm. My heart hammered so hard I thought I’d faint. He chuckled against my lips. “Silly girl. Remember to breathe.” Gavin’s appetite was voracious, and I learned to play the part he wanted. He hated condoms, so I took the pills. He wanted excitement, so I followed him to whatever daring location he chose. But he was still a dog. Even with me, the women never stopped. His Instagram was a revolving door of models. At parties, women clung to his arm, and he never brushed them off. Some even called my phone, their voices dripping with provocation. I cried about it once. He looked at me like I was a stranger. “I’m dating you, Mia, I’m not joining a monastery. If you can’t handle it, fine. Let’s break up. I’ll find someone who can.” After that, I became “good.” I stopped asking questions. But I wasn’t as obedient as he thought. I was a woman with needs, and Gavin was rich and incredibly attractive. He was a great choice for a phase of my life. He had charisma. He had saved me when I was at my lowest. I was grateful, and for a while, I genuinely loved him. But that was the problem. He was born at the top of the pyramid. He didn’t know how to love because he had never had to sacrifice for it. He could mimic it, though. When we were in bed and I’d whisper that he was hurting me, he’d cradle my face and kiss me over and over, telling me he loved me. He was a spoiled, beautiful beast. As long as you stroked his fur the right way, he’d stay. But I was twenty-seven now. I couldn’t play forever. I was just waiting for the right moment to walk away. 4 The morning after the club, Gavin called. His voice was thick with sleep. “Mia, bring those files to the office. I need them for the board meeting.” At the office, I ran into Sloane. She was wearing a cheap, faded blazer, clutching a stack of papers. Her hair was pulled back tight, but she couldn’t hide the hollow look in her eyes. A friend had told me her father’s business had collapsed and her “soulmate” athlete had run off with her remaining savings. Now, she was a junior clerk at Gavin’s firm. She didn’t even have the security clearance to see him. She stared at me, her mouth dropping open. “Mia? You look… so different. You used to be…” “Mia, where are my files?” Gavin’s voice cut through the air. He walked up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my head. It was a gesture of practiced intimacy. Sloane watched him—the man she had rejected, now powerful and untouchable—and her knuckles turned white as she gripped her papers. Gavin never showed affection in the office. I knew exactly why he was doing it now. He was performing for her. The second time I saw her was on our five-year anniversary. Gavin booked a corner table at the most expensive steakhouse in the city. Halfway through dinner, he said, “I asked Sloane to drop by. You don’t mind, do you?” I blinked, startled. He smiled. “Don’t be nervous. I just want her to take some photos of us. She’s got a good eye.” When Sloane arrived, Gavin pulled me close. He took my phone and handed it to her. “Make us look good.” He kept his eyes on me, tucking a stray hair behind my ear, his thumb lingering on my cheek. Sloane’s hands were shaking as she held the phone. The sight seemed to thrill him. He hooked an arm around my waist, pulling me into his chest. “Smile, baby. It’s been five years.” His breath caught the shell of my ear. He looked like he was about to kiss me, but I could feel his focus shifting. He was watching her out of the corner of his eye. “Enough…” Sloane suddenly dropped the phone. Her voice broke, and tears began to stream down her face. “Gavin, I know I was stupid. I know I rejected you. But why do you have to be so cruel? You’re doing this on purpose—being this way with her just to make me watch. Do you enjoy seeing me regret it? We’ve known each other forever… why do you have to hurt me like this?” She was trembling, her eyes wide with misery. Gavin’s body went rigid. His grip on my shoulder tightened until it was painful. Sloane threw my phone onto the floor and ran out of the restaurant. Gavin swore under his breath. “Damn it.” He pushed me aside, grabbed his coat, and chased after her. I knelt down and picked up my phone. The screen was shattered. On our five-year anniversary, Gavin left me standing there alone.

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On the day of our three-year anniversary, my otherwise surgically precise, clean-freak doctor boyfriend, Greg, surprised me by coming home early. He wanted to cook a grand meal for me himself. But when I returned to our apartment, the place was empty. My call went straight to voicemail, and he texted back an apology. Emergency surgery, he explained. He’d been called back to the hospital to scrub in. I ended up microwaving a pathetic frozen lasagna for one. Later that night, after I’d finished eating in the quiet apartment, I saw a new post on Instagram from Summer Fields, one of the resident interns at Greg’s hospital. The photo was close-up: a pair of pale, delicate feet resting on a velvet cushion. Beside them, a set of defined, surgeon’s knuckles held a cotton swab, carefully tending to an injury. I knew those hands. I knew the way they held a scalpel, the way they checked my designs, the way they had intertwined with mine for the last three years. Summer’s caption read: “My mentor says it’ll be a long recovery for this sprained ankle. What will I ever do? Waaah.” I watched the likes and heart emojis pile up, and suddenly, all the tension just left my body, replaced by a profound, weary flatness. I pressed the ‘Like’ button and commented, perfectly calm: “Considering the bedside service, should I start prepping for the bridal shower?” 1 It took less than three minutes for a dedicated ringtone to rip through the silence. Greg Elliott. I answered, laid the phone on the desk, and continued modifying my design draft on the computer. It was a silver filigree pin, its fluid lines inspired by the architectural geometry of a place Greg had once taken me—a memory I now found myself mentally dissecting. “Kendall Blair! What the hell is that supposed to mean?” His voice was strained, pressed through his teeth, barely contained. “Delete that comment, now!” I nudged my mouse, zoomed in on a detail of the pin, and adjusted a curve. “Do you know the entire department is laughing at me? You completely humiliated me! My reputation is shot!” His voice grew louder, thick with the indignation of a man whose control had been publicly challenged. “Why are you being so dramatic?” I stopped working, leaned back in my chair, and looked out at the darkening city sky. The city lights were coming on. Usually, at this hour, I’d be bustling around the kitchen, timing dinner for when his rigorously punctual SUV pulled into the garage. “Can’t you just be a little more mature?” He began his usual lecture. I picked up the phone, held it to my ear, and said softly: “Greg Elliott.” He hesitated. He hadn’t expected me to use his full name, or to sound so utterly devoid of emotion. “I’m tired,” I said. “I’m going to go to bed early.” Then, before he could form a response, I hung up. The phone immediately started ringing again, relentlessly. I didn’t answer. I powered it down, unplugged the charging cord, and tossed it into a drawer. The whole world instantly went quiet, leaving only the sound of my own breathing and the distant hum of traffic outside. On the screen, the unfinished pin design shimmered with a cold, elegant light. I stared at it for a long time, then picked up my stylus and deleted the single, small dewdrop I had originally designed to cling to the silver filigree. No dewdrop. The pin stood alone. It didn’t need any flourish to justify itself. 2 The faint sound of a key turning in the lock came from the front door. He was home. My stylus didn’t stop moving. I was now sketching the fine detail of a ring band. After I’d deleted that metaphorical dewdrop the night before, the entire design had felt like it came alive. The ideas were flowing, unobstructed. Greg walked in, bringing with him the familiar scent of disinfectant and exhaustion. He hung his blazer on the hall rack, his movements precise and methodical. I didn’t turn around. I heard him change his shoes, followed by the long, unbroken sound of running water—he was washing his hands, from wrist to fingertip, over and over, his habitual ritual. Finally, his footsteps stopped right behind me. “About yesterday.” He spoke, his voice carrying the tone of a superior offering a condescending truce. “Summer is just a young resident, fresh out of school. She twisted her ankle. As her mentor, it’s completely normal for me to help with a minor wound dressing.” He said it so casually, as if stating an indisputable medical fact. I simply hummed in acknowledgement, zooming in on the design to check the structure of a prong setting. He clearly hadn’t anticipated that reaction. He paused, then his voice gained a sharp edge of impatience: “Your comment on social media created a huge problem. The whole floor is talking. How am I supposed to manage the residents now? You’ve made me look ridiculous.” My pen slipped, distorting the line. I pressed ‘Undo,’ and started again. “She’s just an intern. She has a fragile personality. Why are you making a fuss over her?” Seeing my continued silence, he raised his voice again, using that tone I knew so well—the impatient, irritated cross-examination. “Can’t you just be mature about this?” I finally put down the pen, swiveled my chair, and faced him. He was wearing an immaculately pressed white shirt. His eyes, behind the gold-rimmed glasses, were heavy with fatigue and a distinct irritation that his schedule had been disrupted. He had probably planned an entire speech: a mixture of calm reassurance, mild chastisement, and ultimately, a path for me to admit my fault, allowing him to be the magnanimous one who Greged forgiveness. It had been our fixed script for three years. Unfortunately, I wasn’t playing the part tonight. “Are you finished?” I asked. He looked stunned, as if I’d spoken in a foreign language. “Because if you are, I need to get back to work.” I gave him a brief nod, a courtesy acknowledgment, then turned my chair back around and picked up my pen. “The deadline is tight.” He just stood there behind me. I could feel his gaze—cold and sharp. The air was so still I could hear the faint hiss of the humidifier misting the room. It was a long time later, after I had drawn the final polishing line on the ring, that he spoke again. His voice was cold, flat, carrying the non-negotiable tone of a physician issuing a command. “Stop drawing.” He said, “The Chair is hosting an important dinner this weekend. You need to prepare to attend with me.” 3 I didn’t even look up at him. I simply rotated the ring on the tablet screen and replied calmly: “I can’t this weekend. I have plans.” The air went silent for about three seconds. In those three seconds, I could perfectly picture the look of sheer disbelief on Greg’s face. “Plans?” he repeated, the word twisted into an absurd interrogation. “With who?” “Phoebe Davies,” I said. “We booked this weeks ago.” “Cancel it.” He clipped the word out, treating it like a mandatory medical order. “You know how important this dinner is for you. The Chair’s wife admires your design work. I went to great lengths to secure you this access.” Oh, he helped me. He made it sound like a selfless act for my career. In the past, I might have felt a rush of grateful tears, but now, I just found it vaguely insulting. This opportunity felt less like a gift and more like a prop—one he’d handed me so I could play the part of the ‘respectable, agreeable girlfriend’ in his elite social circle. I finally raised my head and looked straight at him. “Save your effort for dressing your resident’s wounds. I told you, I have plans with Phoebe. I’m not canceling.” His brows furrowed into a tight knot. The gold-rimmed glasses couldn’t hide the temper that was beginning to boil up behind the lenses. He was used to my compliance, my ‘It’s okay, I understand.’ He was used to the routine where he’d toss me a small reward and I’d gratefully snap it up. “Kendall Blair.” He weighted my full name heavily. “What is with this attitude? You’re going to throw away this kind of opportunity for a pointless night out? Can’t you just be mature for once?” There was that phrase again. I didn’t reply. Just then, his phone rang. Sharp, intrusive. He glanced at the caller ID, his brow instinctively twitching, and walked onto the small balcony to answer. His voice was a low murmur, but I still caught a few key phrases: “Supply closet,” “locked from the outside,” “stay calm.” I kept still, putting on an earring. A few minutes later, he returned, snatching up his car keys. “Summer got locked in the hospital’s supply closet. She has claustrophobia. I have to go deal with this, now.” His words were clipped, an urgent notification that left no room for discussion. I watched him in the mirror, silent. He must have anticipated a breakdown or a fight because he added, impatiently: “The dinner is important. Take a cab and call me when you get there.” The door slammed shut with a sharp CRACK. My phone buzzed. A text message, as concise as a surgical report: Summer emergency. Dinner you drive. G. He hadn’t even bothered with punctuation. I looked at my reflection and slowly, I smiled. I picked up my phone and called Phoebe. “So, what’s the verdict? Are you going to that boring old doctor shindig or not? If you bail, I swear I’ll drive over and cut up that fancy dress of yours!” Phoebe’s voice was loud and excited on the other end. “He left,” I said. “He went to rescue his junior resident. He told me to go by myself.” Silence stretched for three full seconds, then erupted into a thunderous laugh: “Hahaha! Fate, Kenna! The universe is handing you the damn knife! Go! You have to go! Put on the ‘Soliloquy’ and slay the whole damn room! Let him see that you can fly without him as a crutch!” I hung up, walked to my closet, and pulled out the garment bag holding the dress I’d prepared for this evening. The dress was called “The Soliloquy.” A floor-length gown of moon-white silk, sharply tailored, with a scattered belt of tiny, pale blue sapphires tracing a winding star river across the waist. It was my most ambitious work, and originally, my armor to announce my status as “Greg Elliott’s girlfriend.” Now, it was just Kendall Blair’s armor. 4 The moment I walked into the grand ballroom alone, I drew every eye. No one recognized me, but they were all curious about the woman who arrived solo, yet held a self-possession that easily dominated the space. I didn’t gravitate toward a corner. I walked directly to the buffet, poured myself a flute of champagne, and took a slow sip. “Ms. Blair?” a kindly, cultured voice asked. I turned and saw a distinguished gentleman standing with an elegant woman in a cheongsam. I recognized them instantly: Dr. Lee, the hospital’s Chair, and his wife. “Dr. Lee, Mrs. Lee.” I smiled and gave a slight nod. “Where is Greg? Why did you come alone?” Dr. Lee asked. “He had an urgent surgical consult. A doctor’s life, you know—it’s never truly his own.” I dismissed it lightly, my voice devoid of any complaint. Mrs. Lee, however, was focused on my brooch. “That ‘Morning Star’ pin is extraordinary. Did you design it?” “I did,” I said, smiling. “It’s my pleasure.” We fell into an easy conversation that flowed from jewelry design to the latest art exhibitions, from Paris fashion trends to the specific needlework of the embroidery on her dress. Mrs. Lee found me so engaging that she insisted on introducing me to her friend, a prominent gallery owner. I had become the focus of the room. I was no longer anyone’s appendage. I was Kendall Blair, the designer. Just as the atmosphere reached its peak, the heavy ballroom doors swung open. Greg stood in the doorway, looking disheveled. His blazer was crumpled over his arm, his shirt collar was undone, and his face was etched with the fatigue and anxiety of having just dealt with a ‘crisis.’ His eyes instantly found me in the center of the crowd. I was holding a champagne flute, laughing easily with the Chair and his wife. The light hit me, making me look more luminous than he had ever seen me. He stared at me, his eyes wide with a confusion and loss of control I’d never witnessed. He looked like a late, irrelevant supporting actor, while the spotlight of the entire stage was fixed only on me.

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“Did you put this proposal together? Then you present it.” Mr. Thompson, the client, flipped the PowerPoint to slide seventeen, pointing to a diagram of a reverse logistics workflow that had cost me three all-nighters. A two-second silence dropped over the conference room. Beau Miller’s practiced smile evaporated. She glanced at me. I didn’t move. “Uh… well…” she fumbled with the printed handouts in her hand, “This section mainly addresses…” The client cut her off, his voice flat. “Slide seventeen. The reverse algorithm for the distribution nodes—what’s the derivation?” Beau’s face went bone-white. I picked up my water glass and took a slow sip. 1. The story really starts three months earlier. I didn’t know it then, but the sharpest knife in corporate life is often delivered with a smile. It was early March when our firm, Ascend Consulting, landed the big lead. Apex Retail Group, the largest chain retailer on the East Coast, was looking to overhaul its entire omni-channel supply chain. If we signed this deal, it was easily a thirty-million-dollar contract. Mr. Davies, our CEO, was practically glowing when he announced it at the morning meeting. “I’m putting Beau Miller in charge of the account,” he said, looking at the seat next to mine. “Beau’s been with us for two years. It’s time for her to step up and lead.” Beau stood up, composed and charming. “Thank you for the trust, Mr. Davies. I’ll give it everything I have.” I sat beside her, keeping my expression neutral. It was expected. Beau was the CEO’s wife’s niece—it was an open secret in the office. But the next sentence stunned me. “For the technical architecture, Paige, I want you to be the lead writer.” I looked up. “You’ve been in supply chain consulting for five years, Paige Harrington. Your experience is unmatched,” Mr. Davies continued. “This project is critical to the firm. The solution has to be flawless.” Beau’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Then, she instantly recovered. “That’s fantastic. Paige is incredibly experienced. I’m eager to learn from you.” “Sure,” I nodded. After the meeting, I returned to my desk. I opened my laptop and created a new folder: Apex Project. I had no idea that this single folder would become the most expensive lesson of my career. — Apex’s requirements were brutal. They needed to integrate online and physical retail, achieving shared inventory, coordinated order fulfillment, and intelligent replenishment. Simple in theory, lethal in execution. I started living at the office. The first week, I visited three of Apex’s warehouses, two fulfillment centers, and interviewed a dozen department heads. Every night, I’d return to the office, transcribe audio, diagram workflows, and write up interview summaries. I dropped eight pounds that week. Beau? She was in charge of “Project Coordination.” Her actual work involved: forwarding my documents to the client, and forwarding the client’s feedback back to me. Occasionally, she’d write a line in her weekly report: “Maintained close communication with client to ensure smooth project progression.” I didn’t say anything. After five years in consulting, I’d seen every variety of corporate bloat. As long as she didn’t interfere with my work, I wasn’t going to rock the boat. — By the third week, the proposal framework was complete. An 87-slide deck, 38 workflow diagrams, and 12 data models. I sent the proposal to Beau, with a courtesy copy to Mr. Davies. “Beau, the initial draft is ready. Review it. We have the internal critique on Wednesday.” Ten minutes later, Beau replied: Got it! So much appreciation, Paige! At the Wednesday internal review, I presented for forty minutes. From current state analysis to pain points, from the solution architecture to the implementation roadmap, from budget breakdown to risk mitigation. When I finished, Mr. Davies nodded. “The proposal is solid. Beau, when can we schedule the client presentation?” Beau said, “I have a good rapport with Mr. Thompson’s executive assistant. I should be able to get us in next week.” “Good.” Mr. Davies looked at me. “Paige, polish the proposal further. Take the details to the absolute limit.” Fine, I thought. I stayed at the office until 2 a.m. that night. I verified every number in the proposal and checked every piece of logic. When I finally sent the final, final version to Beau, I glanced at the clock. 2:47 a.m. Beau’s latest social media post, uploaded at 8 p.m., read: “Grinding keeps me happy! Just another late night for this office warrior. #ConsultingLife” The photo was a flat lay of a Starbucks cup and an open laptop. The screen of the laptop showed the title slide of my proposal. I stared at the post for three seconds. Then I closed the app. — The following Monday, Beau approached me. “Paige, we’re presenting the proposal to the client on Wednesday. I want to familiarize myself with the content beforehand, just so I can introduce it properly.” I sent her the source file. “Thank you!” she smiled brightly. “Don’t worry, Paige. When I present, I’ll make sure to highlight all the incredible work you’ve done.” I told her not to bother; she could just lead it. I hated being in the spotlight anyway; my job was to build the best solution. That was my first mistake. On Wednesday, the presentation day. I was planning to attend. But that morning, Mr. Davies gave me an urgent assignment: revise the technical section of another client’s proposal. It was due that day. “Beau can handle Apex alone. It’s straightforward,” Mr. Davies said. Fine, I said. I spent the day revising the other proposal, working straight through until 4 p.m. Beau returned then. Her face was flushed with excitement. “Paige! We nailed it! The client loved it!” I managed a tight smile. “That’s great.” “Mr. Thompson said our proposal was incredibly professional, clear logic, solid data,” Beau chirped, setting down her bag. “He said right there, in the room, that we were eighty percent certain to get the contract.” “So, follow-up on the next phase—” “Don’t worry, Paige, I’ll take it from here,” Beau cut in. “You did so much heavy lifting up front. Just hand the rest off to me.” I nodded. At the time, I thought: Beau might be light on skill, but her attitude is okay. Later, I realized some people only have a good attitude when they still need you. — By the sixth week, the Apex contract was officially signed. At the signing ceremony, Mr. Davies posted on his professional network: “Thrilled to announce Ascend Consulting’s partnership with Apex Retail Group on their supply chain transformation. Huge congratulations to Project Lead Beau Miller for her hard work and leadership!” The photo was Beau shaking hands with Mr. Thompson. I scrolled past the post while sitting at my desk, drafting the PPT for Phase Two of the proposal. The comments section was full of colleagues praising Beau: “Strong leader,” “Future CEO,” “Power Woman.” Beau replied to all of them: Oh, it was a team effort! I didn’t like the post. I didn’t comment. I told myself that getting credit was irrelevant. After five years in consulting, it was normal for the Project Manager’s name to be on the deck. What I needed was experience, skill, and a strong resume. Reputation, I told myself, was secondary. That was my second mistake. — The seventh week, the shift happened. On Thursday afternoon, I walked toward the break room for water. Passing the small conference room, I heard voices. It was Beau. “…Yes, I was definitely the primary driver for the architecture. Paige just helped with the execution side…” I stopped. “Really? I heard Paige has five years of consulting experience,” the other voice—Janice from Admin—asked. “What’s experience without vision?” Beau scoffed. “She’s a doer, an executor. I set the framework, and she just fills in the content. Do you really think I couldn’t have made an 87-slide deck if I hadn’t slept?” “I guess you’re right…” “Plus, she’s just not a people person. Look at the signing event—she didn’t even like Mr. Davies’s post,” Beau lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Total low emotional intelligence.” I stood outside the door, my hand gripping my water cup tightly. Three seconds later, I turned and walked away. I didn’t go in. I told myself: Let it go. People will talk. I can’t control it. I’ll just focus on my work. That was my third mistake. — The eighth week, the company’s quarterly awards gala. The “Outstanding Employee” award went to Beau Miller. Mr. Davies personally presented the award. “Beau demonstrated exceptional performance on the Apex Project. Her professional presentation and client management skills secured a huge win for the firm.” The applause was deafening. Beau went to the stage, took the mic, and her voice wavered slightly. “Thank you for this recognition, and thank you, Mr. Davies, for believing in me. I truly worked countless late nights on this project. There were times I thought I couldn’t push through…” Someone from the crowd shouted, “Go, Beau!” I sat in the back corner, my face blank. Countless late nights? I checked the memo on my phone. Apex Project, my recorded overtime: 47 sessions. Left the office after midnight: 31 times. All-nighters: 6 times. Beau? I thought back. Her latest departure was around 9 p.m. That night, she posted that she was a “work martyr” with a photo of the office lights. That light was from my desk. 2. Three days after the gala, Mr. Davies called me into his office. “Paige, the firm is setting up a new Consulting Center. We need to standardize and replicate the Apex Project success.” I nodded. “I want Beau to head this center,” Mr. Davies looked at me. “I want you to be her Associate Director, focusing primarily on the technical solutions.” I froze. “Mr. Davies, the Apex proposal—” “I know you wrote the proposal,” he cut me off gently. “But Beau has the client-facing skills and the knack for building relationships. You two are a great pairing.” “Mr. Davies,” I said. “I’ve been with the firm for five years.” “I know.” “Beau has been here for two.” “I know.” Mr. Davies sighed. “Paige, I value your ability, but the corporate ladder isn’t just about raw competence. You’re too quiet. You keep too low a profile. The senior leadership team doesn’t have a strong impression of you.” I was silent. “Look,” he offered. “Start as Associate Director. When the next opportunity comes up, I’ll make sure you get the promotion you deserve.” “Fine,” I said. As I walked out, a voice echoed in my head: Paige, are you too easy to walk over? I ignored it. I went back to work. — Beau changed quickly after she became the Center Director. She started calling me “Paige,” dropping the “Paige” sister. In meetings, she sat at the head of the table; I sat to the side. When assigning work, she’d say, “Paige, I need you to develop this new framework. Deliver it to me by Monday.” To her? My proposals went to her for review, then out the door under the Consulting Center’s name. I swallowed my frustration. But what truly choked me was the pay stub. After her promotion, Beau’s salary went up by $4,000 a month. Mine? A $500 raise. “Paige, as Associate Director, your increase won’t be as high as the Director’s. That’s policy,” the HR rep explained. I stared at my monthly figure: $8,500. Beau’s: $12,500. A $4,000 difference. I had five years. She had two. I wrote the 87 slides. She spent ten minutes copying and pasting. — A month after the Apex contract was signed, the client requested the Phase Two deep-dive proposal. Beau announced in the weekly meeting, “The Phase Two solution is crucial. It dictates the scope of our future engagement. Paige, you’re the lead writer.” Fine, I said. “Also,” she paused. “The client gave some feedback on the Phase One solution that needs optimization. Tweak it while you work on Phase Two.” “What specific feedback?” I asked. “Just… that reverse logistics algorithm. They said it wasn’t clear enough.” I blinked. The reverse logistics algorithm was the intellectual core of the entire proposal. I had spent three all-nighters on those workflow diagrams, built eight data models, and ran four test cycles to finalize it. “Where exactly did the client say it was unclear?” I pressed. Beau’s eyes darted away. “Just… the overall clarity. Just refine it.” I stared at her. She avoided my gaze. After the meeting, I privately reached out to Mark, the client liaison. Mark said, “Paige, we thought the proposal was excellent. No issues with it.” “But Beau said it needed optimization—” “Oh, that.” Mark sounded embarrassed. “Beau proactively told us she wanted to optimize it and asked for input. We just casually mentioned, ‘You could maybe add more detail,’ and she took it from there.” I understood. Beau needed the outcome of this “optimization” to report to Mr. Davies. The proposal didn’t need to be fixed. She needed proof that she was contributing. — That night, I was back at the office until the early hours. I finished the revisions and sent them to Beau. She replied: Received. Thanks. No “Paige,” no emojis, no appreciation. I closed my laptop and looked out the window. The office tower across the street was still brightly lit; other people were still working. I asked myself: Paige, what are you fighting for? You do the work; she gets the credit. You take the stress; she takes the bigger salary. You thought burying yourself in work would make you visible. The truth is, the quieter you are, the more invisible you become. I couldn’t sleep that night. I lay in bed, thinking for hours. I reached a conclusion: I can’t tolerate this anymore. But how to fight back? I hadn’t figured that out yet. — The turning point came in the third month. Mr. Thompson, the Apex CEO, was visiting our office and wanted a detailed briefing on the Phase Two solution. Mr. Davies was treating it as high-stakes. He called a preparation meeting. “Beau, you’ll lead the presentation,” Mr. Davies instructed. “Paige wrote the solution, but you’re the Center Director. The client recognizes you as the lead.” Beau nodded. “Understood, Mr. Davies.” “Paige, be ready to provide support. If Beau can’t answer a question, you supplement.” Fine, I said. The meeting was set for Friday at 10:00 a.m. On Wednesday, I sent the final version of the solution to Beau. “Familiarize yourself with the solution. Ask me questions if you have them.” She replied: Will do. On Thursday, I asked, “How are you feeling about the presentation? Anything you need me to walk you through?” She replied: I’m almost finished reviewing it. I’ve got it. I arrived at the office at 9 a.m. Friday. Beau was already printing copies of the deck. I glanced at the printout. It was my file. “Ready?” I asked. She smiled confidently. “Of course. Your solution is excellent, no real challenges.” I said nothing. At 9:30 a.m., the Apex team arrived. Mr. Thompson, Mr. Kennedy (the Supply Chain Director), Mr. Chen (the IT Director), and two assistants. Mr. Davies personally ushered them into the large conference room. The briefing started precisely at 10:00 a.m. Beau held the laser pointer, facing the screen, and began her pitch. “Good morning, everyone. I’m Beau Miller, the lead for the Phase Two solution…” Her opening was slick. Her voice was pleasant, her expression confident, and she navigated the slides smoothly. By slide eight, I started to sense trouble. Her presentation was only about seventy percent consistent with what I’d written. In several places, she had clearly misremembered details. For instance, the data on slide ten: she said “18% efficiency increase.” The slide said “28%.” The timeline on slide thirteen: she said “eight weeks.” The slide read “six weeks.” Mr. Thompson didn’t interrupt, occasionally glancing down at the hard copy in his hands. Beau pushed through, reaching slide seventeen. The reverse logistics workflow diagram. The part that cost me three all-nighters, twelve revisions, and eight models. The intellectual core of the entire solution. Beau paused when the slide appeared. I watched her brow furrow slightly. Then she said, “This section covers the reverse logistics design…” Mr. Thompson suddenly spoke up. “Hold on.” The room went silent. Mr. Thompson pointed to the diagram on the screen. “I want a detailed understanding of the algorithm behind this specific node.” Beau froze. “Uh… that algorithm is based on… based on the client’s…” Mr. Thompson rephrased the question, his tone clinical. “Slide seventeen, the reverse algorithm for the distribution nodes—what’s the derivation?” Beau’s face went white. She scrambled through the printout, searching page by page. She wouldn’t find it. Because the derivation process for that algorithm was not in the PPT. It was in my source files. In the spreadsheet named Reverse Logistics Model v12.xlsx. In the record of my six all-nighters. The conference room was deathly quiet. Mr. Davies’s face tightened. Beau panicked and looked at me. “Paige, could you supplement here?” I picked up my water glass and took a sip. Then I set it down. “Me?” I said. “But this solution was your work, Beau. You’re the Director.” 3. The air in the conference room seemed to solidify. Beau’s face cycled through a spectrum of colors: white, then red, then a mottled purple. “Paige, what are you doing?” she hissed, keeping her voice low. I didn’t answer. I just looked at her. I had waited three months for this moment. — Mr. Kennedy, Apex’s Supply Chain Director, stepped in. “Ms. Miller, reverse logistics is the heart of this solution. Can you walk us through the core concept?” Beau bit her lip. “That… this part is quite technical. I recommend Paige explain it…” “Then what is your understanding of the solution?” Mr. Thompson asked pointedly. Beau stammered. “My… my understanding is…” She started rambling about “integrated resources,” “collaborative innovation,” and “digital transformation.” Corporate noise. Empty calories. Mr. Thompson’s expression grew colder. I saw Mr. Davies, sitting next to him, start to sweat. “Paige,” Mr. Davies snapped, “explain it.” I didn’t move. “Paige?” I looked at Mr. Davies. “Mr. Davies, this solution is the result of the Consulting Center, led by Beau. I was only the executor.” Beau’s face turned an even paler shade. “Paige, you—” “Beau said it herself,” I said calmly. “She told Janice in the break room that the architecture was her idea, and I just helped with the execution. Right, Beau?” The silence was absolute. I stood up. “Since this solution was directed by Beau, she is the most qualified person to present it. I’m just a doer. I don’t understand the ‘vision.’” I gave Mr. Thompson a slight, respectful nod. “Mr. Thompson, my apologies, but I need to excuse myself.” Then I picked up my bag and walked out of the conference room.

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My annual salary was fifty-five thousand dollars. I happened to glance at the new hire in my team’s pay stub, and the number printed there was a stunning one hundred twenty thousand dollars. I said nothing. I continued to train him, debug his messy code, and prep his progress reports for the management. He used my work to snag the quarterly bonus, swaggering with confidence in the all-hands meeting. When my contract renewal came up at the end of the year, the HR manager smiled and told me, “Young people need to focus on the big picture, not get bogged down by every single dollar.” I pushed my resignation letter across her desk. The next morning, the entire core project my department was responsible for—the system’s backend—went completely dark. 01 Monday’s team meeting was stifling. The air was thick and heavy, like a waterlogged sponge that you couldn’t wring a drop of fresh oxygen from. The fluorescent bulbs overhead emitted a faint, irritating hum, casting a pale, sickly light that made everyone’s faces look greasy with exhaustion. I finished my report on last week’s development progress. Every milestone, every data point, was clear and precise. It was the result of two all-nighters. Mr. Harrington, our department head, gave a curt nod. His expression was as flat as the horizon, as if I were reciting an entirely irrelevant weather forecast. “Mmhmm, noted.” He cleared his throat, leaned forward, and a proprietary, almost smarmy appreciation instantly plastered itself across his face. “Next up, let’s hear from Brody. Brody’s only just started, but he has such fresh ideas, and huge potential!” All eyes in the conference room shifted to Brody Wells, sitting next to me. Brody, twenty-four, private school and an ivy-league graduate, with a résumé that practically glowed. He stood up, adjusted his tie, and opened a sleek, professionally designed PowerPoint. The cover slide, I noticed, was his sole “contribution” after I’d stayed up all night writing the report’s core content. He launched into his presentation, talking fast, using my core analysis and wrapping it in layers of trendy corporate buzzwords. Synergy, deep dive, leveraging the ecosystem, optimizing the critical path. Mr. Harrington and the other leaders nodded along, mesmerized. I sat there, my face a carefully constructed mask of neutrality, my fingers curled beneath the table. My nails dug deep into my palm. Every word, every piece of data, in the foundation of that report was mine. After the meeting, I went to retrieve my documents from the printer. The machine spat out warm paper. As I was stacking the sheets, the corner of my eye caught sight of a forgotten slip of paper lying tucked away. A pay stub. The name “Brody Wells” was printed clearly at the top, searing into my vision. A purely instinctive, almost criminal impulse took over. I picked it up. Base salary, performance bonus, stipends… Finally, the net pay section. A number branded itself onto my retina like a red-hot iron. $120,000. One hundred twenty thousand dollars a year. My hand gave an uncontrollable shake. The flimsy paper in my grip suddenly felt as heavy as a lead weight. The number on my own pay stub was $55,000. The sheer, sickening absurdity of it, the raw, gut-punch of humiliation, washed over me in a tidal wave. I could hear my own heart pounding in my chest—a heavy, slow, painful thud. Snapping back to reality, I quickly slid the pay stub under my own pile of files and walked back to my cube, moving with a calmness that belied the internal earthquake. Brody sauntered over, collapsing into the chair next to mine, and spun his laptop around. “Jessica, quick, check this out. What’s going on with this bug? It’s driving me crazy.” His tone was one of entitled complaint. I glanced at the screen. The bug was the result of a single wrong parameter he’d coded yesterday afternoon—a mistake so low-level it was embarrassing. I didn’t say a word. I took the laptop. I didn’t ask why he couldn’t fix it, and I certainly didn’t explain the underlying logic. My fingers flew across the keyboard: modify, save, compile, run. The whole process took less than five minutes. The green “success” prompt popped up. He peered over my shoulder, a look of easy relief on his face, and tossed out a casual, “You’re a lifesaver, Jen.” Then, he grabbed his coffee mug and headed off to the breakroom. I heard his voice bragging to another colleague over the partition. The words were indistinct, but the smug confidence in his tone cut through the office noise. “…a tiny issue, fixed it in two seconds, no big deal…” I stared blankly at my computer screen. The file open was the core code documentation I was writing. These lines of code were the skeleton of the entire system, built by my own hands, one keystroke at a time. That afternoon, he came over with a USB drive. “Jessica, can you copy those documentation files and maintenance guides for me? I need to, you know, ‘study’ them.” He smiled, wide and harmless. I looked at him. I plugged in the drive. The six months of meticulous work, my personal knowledge base, everything I’d compiled so the company wouldn’t be blind if I took a vacation—I copied all of it to him. No hesitation. After he left, Doris, the test engineer from our team, a woman in her forties who had seen a decade of corporate drama, leaned in. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Jessica, you’re… too generous. You have to be careful.” I managed a smile, one that probably looked more like a grimace. “It’s fine, Doris. It’s just for work.” I knew I wasn’t being generous. I was handing them the rope to hang me with. No, I was handing them a gun, and I’d already loaded the bullet destined for their own heads. The quarterly review meeting included all senior and mid-level management. Brody, armed with my data and my documentation, gave an impossibly polished presentation. On stage, he spoke eloquently, confidently, acting as though he was the one who had spent the sleepless nights solving the impossible problems. Below him, Mr. Harrington listened, his face flushed with pride, whispering excitedly to the executives next to him. When the meeting concluded, Mr. Harrington announced, on the spot, that due to Brody’s “outstanding contribution” and “massive potential” on the core project, he would receive a fifty-thousand-dollar quarterly bonus. Applause erupted. Brody took his bow, his eyes sweeping past me without a pause. I was just part of the background. The next day, to celebrate, Brody ordered a fancy espresso bar delivery for the entire department. Cups of gourmet lattes and artisanal teas arrived at everyone’s desk, their sweet, warm aroma filling the air. My desk was the only one empty. He hadn’t forgotten me. He was deliberate. He presented the last cup, a top-shelf pour-over, to Mr. Harrington. Mr. Harrington accepted it, clapping Brody on the shoulder. “Brody, keep up the great work. You are the future of this department!” I watched them, feeling like I was observing a ridiculous play that had nothing to do with me. The last ember of my hope went cold. Smashed. Reduced to a pile of glacial ash. I wasn’t enduring. I was waiting for my moment. From that day on, I started working even more diligently. I quietly compiled and organized every piece of my work: documentation, code records, and the final System Operational Procedure (SOP) for my role. The definition of every interface, the logic of every module, every potential exception—I recorded it all in the most detailed, standardized language possible. I even wrote independent user guides for every critical script, meticulously detailing the meaning of every parameter and the consequence of modifying it. My work was impeccable, perfect. A masterpiece. A perfectly crafted offering for the grand funeral I was preparing. Doris looked at me with a mix of concern and confusion. She found me again in private. “Jessica, what are you doing? At this rate, he gets all the credit and you’ll get all the blame.” I simply smiled at her. “Don’t worry, Doris. My worth isn’t something they get to define.” But my price, I decided, was something I was going to collect, with interest. 02 By the end of the year, the air was thick with the jittery anticipation of contract renewal season. Ms. Davies, the HR Manager, called me into that familiar, eternally chilly conference room. She greeted me with a professional, flawless smile and poured me a glass of water herself. “Jessica, two years already. Time really does fly.” She slid a renewal contract toward me, her posture elegant. “Have a look. This is the company’s recognition of your contribution.” I flipped it open, my eyes zeroing in on the salary column. A five percent raise. $55,000 multiplied by 1.05 equals $57,750. A raise of twenty-seven hundred fifty dollars a year. A cold, internal scoff escaped me, but my expression remained placid. Ms. Davies launched into her performance. Her voice was as gentle as a spring breeze, yet her words carried an unmistakable corporate weight. “Jessica, I know you have salary expectations. But you need to focus on the big picture, the future.” “This company is a top-tier platform. The projects you’re exposed to, the experience you gain—it’s far more valuable than the number on your paycheck right now.” She paused, taking a sip of water, her eyes meaningfully flicking to the side. “I know you’ve been working hard with the new hire. But that’s a test for you, too. It shows trust from management. Mr. Harrington is watching, you know.” That last sentence was the switch. It instantly ignited the banked-down coals of my anger. But I didn’t let it show. I simply looked up, met her eyes, and calmly cut her off. “Mr. Harrington was watching, Ms. Davies. And then he gave Brody the fifty-thousand-dollar bonus.” Ms. Davies’s smile froze for a split second. The air in the conference room seemed to solidify. She clearly hadn’t expected this silent, reliable employee to confront her so directly. “Uh… Jessica, that… you can’t look at it that way,” she tried to recover. “Brody has a strong background, and he brings a certain type of resource to the company. That is… that is a strategic decision, Jessica. High-level corporate strategy.” I laughed. It was a genuine, visceral laugh—the kind that comes when you realize the sheer absurdity of your situation. “So, Ms. Davies, what you’re saying is: my technical skill is worthless, but his PowerPoint skills and his background are worth $120,000 a year plus a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus?” I’d laid the issue bare. I wasn’t going to play their fake corporate games anymore. Ms. Davies’s composure finally shattered. The professional mask was ripped away, revealing a core of arrogance and impatience. She leaned back in her chair, adopting the cold, official tone of a bureaucrat. “Jessica Reid, I suggest you think carefully. You know the job market is tight right now.” “You shouldn’t be so fixated on personal, short-term gains. People who nitpick every dollar don’t have room to grow professionally. You will hurt your career trajectory.” Classic PUA tactics. In the past, those words would have sparked anxiety and self-doubt. Now, they were just laughable. I stopped wasting time. I reached into my bag and pulled out another document, one I’d prepared long ago. My resignation. I slid it across the table, right next to the contract offering me a paltry raise. “Thank you for the coaching, Ms. Davies.” I stood up, looking down at her. “Perhaps my perspective is too narrow. I can only focus on short-term gains.” “So, I’ll leave this contract, which is focused on the future, for someone with a larger perspective.” I picked up my bag, preparing to leave. Ms. Davies was utterly stunned by my move. She sprang up, her voice sharp. “Jessica! What is the meaning of this? Are you threatening the company?” I paused, turning back, a faint, unreadable smile on my face. “Oh, I forgot to mention, Ms. Davies.” “I’ve already accepted an offer for double my current salary.” The statement was a lie. I hadn’t looked for a new job. But I needed to use it to cut off any avenue for them to try and retain me or lowball me. I didn’t want a raise. I wanted out. And I wanted to watch the magnificent stage I’d personally built, and which they had so carelessly trampled, crumble the second I walked off. Watching Ms. Davies’s face contort from shock to anger to utter disbelief gave me a feeling of release I’d never known. I turned, opened the conference room door, and walked out without a backward glance. Behind me, the silence was absolute. 03 My exit process went surprisingly smoothly. During the handoff, I placed a thick stack of my “perfect” documentation—my magnum opus—on Mr. Harrington’s desk. “Mr. Harrington, all code access has been transferred, and server credentials have been moved over to Brody. This is the handoff document. Every detail is in here.” Mr. Harrington didn’t even look at the documents. He impatiently waved his hand. “Yes, yes, I know.” His face held a look of unconcealed dismissal, as if to say the company would continue to spin perfectly well without me. Brody stood nearby, a smug grin hanging on his lips. To me, he looked like a spoiled heir taking the throne, blissfully unaware he’d inherited a kingdom on the verge of volcanic collapse. After completing all the formalities and walking out the front doors with my cardboard box, Mr. Harrington made a show of saying goodbye. He patted my shoulder, his voice artificially cordial. “Jessica, keep in touch. I wish you all the best.” I smiled. “I’ll hold you to that.” I didn’t look back. I stepped into the afternoon sunlight of the winter day. The sun was a bit blinding, but I felt cleansed, renewed. The air of freedom felt incredible. The day after my resignation was a Monday. An ordinary Monday where I didn’t have to rush to catch the subway. At nine-thirty in the morning, the stock market’s opening bell. I was comfortably sitting at my kitchen table, enjoying a fresh-baked pastry and a hot cup of tea. My phone suddenly erupted in a frenzied vibration, like an agitated beehive. Notifications exploded, lighting up the screen. It was the old department group chat. Though I had already quit it, Doris had added me to a private, smaller chat with a few old colleagues. In that small group, my former coworkers were frantically forwarding screenshots from the main department thread. “Massive crisis! The core trading system backend is showing all red flags!” “It’s crashed! Everything has crashed! All trading modules are offline!” “Client order requests are timing out, the logging system is spamming errors—it’s blowing up!” “What the hell is going on? Is this the apocalypse?”

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The $80,000 year-end bonus had just cleared my account. I was already mentally shopping for luxury gifts for my parents when my mother’s text arrived. “Sharon,” it read, “don’t you dare come home for New Year’s with your usual expensive-but-useless junk. We don’t want it.” “I’ve sent you a list. Stick to it. The items for Dustin’s family are the absolute priority—top-tier only.” Before I could even formulate a reply, the next message pinged. “P.S. Don’t forget to drive that new Mercedes E-Class back. Your father and I need something to brag about to the neighbors.” I almost typed out a refusal, but then I saw it: my brother, Dustin, had posted an Instagram Story. It was a screenshot of three first-class plane tickets. The caption: Big thanks to Mom! Finally upgrading that ride. See you soon, Atlanta! #MercedesLife #FamilyPerks … Below Dustin’s post, the likes from our mutual friends piled up, but the knot in my chest tightened instead of releasing. When Dustin got married, my parents drained their retirement—not just the $40,000 for the wedding, but the $120,000 down payment on his first house. He’d even “borrowed” the entire $30,000 I’d saved from my first few years working. Now they were buying him a car? Where was this money even coming from? Before I could puzzle it out, Mom’s call came, sharp as a drill. “Sharon Marie Reynolds, did you get my messages or are you choosing to ignore me?” I explained I’d been driving, but she cut me off, her tone heavy with accusation. “Since you couldn’t be bothered to look, I’ll tell you now. Your father and I need a full-body Shiatsu massage chair. Don’t skimp. Mrs. Reynolds next door got one for three thousand dollars, yours better be better. And your brother’s house needs a full smart home overhaul—Nest, Ring, all the top brands. That’s at least eight thousand. Oh, and Brielle’s La Mer regimen, and Cody’s full Apple suite. You will not forget a single item. I promised them.” I was listening, jaw clenched, but the five-year-old’s “Apple suite” (iPhone, iPad, Watch) made me crack. “Mom, Cody is five. Why does a kindergartener need a full Apple suite?” Her voice immediately scaled to a shout. “Because I told you to buy it, that’s why! Stop being difficult!” “Brielle says Cody is a ‘high-needs’ child and those things are ‘standard equipment’ for his social group. What kind of aunt are you? Arguing over a few gifts? You’re an embarrassment!” “Mom, that’s not what I—” She cut me off again. “I swear, I can never talk to you without getting angry. You’re going to give me a heart attack. Just follow the list, and you will drive that new car home. If you show up in anything else, you won’t be welcome inside this house.” Slam. The dial tone was a physical pain. My blood felt hot and thick, rushing to my head. I opened the list. Beyond the electronic and cosmetic demands, she’d specified I stop by the seafood market before arriving to buy Maine lobsters and Alaskan King Crab. Every detail was planned out, down to the brand of sparkling water. I immediately texted Dustin. “Hey, what did Mom tell you to bring home?” His reply was instantaneous: “Nothing, she said we just had to show up. Gotta go, boarding now.” A cold fire flared in my chest. I felt sick. From start to finish, I was the designated wallet, the fool. Just then, my cousin, Jessie, called. “Sharon? When you hit the market, grab me a couple pounds of those big shrimp, okay? Aunt Pat said to call you directly if we wanted anything, and you have to get it.” After I hung up, the family group chat exploded. All my aunts and uncles were @-ing me with their own last-minute requests. Finally, my mother summed it up: “Sharon, you got all that? Hurry home once you’ve bought everything. Everyone is excited to taste your cooking tonight.” Not only was I the designated buyer, I was the chef. “Fine,” I thought, the ice forming around my heart. “If they’re so hungry, I’ll make sure they get exactly what they deserve.” New Year’s Day. My phone was on silent. I didn’t get out of bed until noon. Checking my phone, I saw 99+ notifications, nearly all of them “Mom-heavy.” She was throwing every insult she knew. I dressed slowly and started the Mercedes. As I merged onto the freeway, I answered her latest call. “Sharon Marie Reynolds, you little bitch! Are you trying to ruin New Year’s for the whole family? We’re all here waiting for you!” I honked the horn twice near the phone. “Mom, I’m driving, remember? You were so insistent I bring the new car. Did you forget how bad the traffic is on the holiday weekend?” Her tone softened slightly. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” “Okay, listen. I need you to transfer me $3,000 right now for the groceries so dinner is ready when you get here. Then, I need you to hand out $500 cash to everyone as an apology for making them wait. It’s the holidays, don’t be a spoilsport.” Ha. You’re all having fun at my expense. I thought, but I spoke sweetly. “No problem, Mom. I can’t pull over right now, but I promise, the second I step through the door, I’ll Venmo it to you.” Before she could argue, I hung up. I finally arrived at 7:00 PM. The moment I walked through the door, the crowd descended. “Sharon’s here! Patty, you were just saying how successful she is!” “Heard you got another promotion! Gotta be pulling in six figures a month now, right?” I forced a tight smile. “Just a little cubicle job, nothing special.” Dustin’s family rushed over. “Sis, Mom said you’re getting me the smart house system? Just Venmo me the eight grand, it’s easier, and I can pick it out myself,” he said, already holding out his phone. Brielle, his wife, scanned my empty hands, her eyes narrowing. “Sharon? Where are the La Mer and Cody’s Apple box? Oh, they must be in the car! You didn’t even call to let us know you were here! Dustin, go help your sister with the bags! She bought so much, how could a little girl carry it all?” I ignored them, walking straight into the living room. I pulled off my expensive jacket and sank onto the nearest armchair. “Don’t bother,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise. “I didn’t buy anything.” The room went instantly silent. The card players froze. The sound of popcorn chewing stopped mid-crunch. Mom came rushing in from the kitchen. She took one look at my empty hands and her face flushed crimson. “What did you say? You came back empty-handed?” “You useless, ungrateful creature! Did you hear me? I told you three days ago what to buy! Are you trying to deliberately provoke me?” She grabbed my arm and yanked me up so violently I stumbled, my head hitting the heavy mahogany wardrobe. I felt a stinging pain and a thin line of blood started to trace down my temple. My father, Tony, shuffled forward, trying to be the peacemaker. “Patty, calm down! Sharon wouldn’t do this without a reason. Maybe she just wants to give us the cash directly?” “It’s the holidays, honey,” he continued, trying to placate me. “Tech and skincare prices are insane right now. Giving cash is much smarter.” The rage in my mother’s eyes dissipated slightly. She turned back to me. “Is that it? Are you going to give us the money?” Aunt Carol, sensing a shift, immediately pulled out her phone. “Sweetie, Aunt Carol isn’t greedy. Just Venmo us each $500, and this whole thing is over. We waited all day, we deserve compensation for the delay.” One by one, the other relatives held out their phones, their faces contorted by naked greed. I felt a wave of nausea. “I don’t have any money for you. If someone promised you a payment or a gift, you should go ask the person who made the promise.” The room was stunned. They were so used to the compliant, dutiful Sharon that my refusal registered slowly. My mother broke free of my father and slapped me across the face with full force. The inside of my mouth immediately tasted metallic. “How dare you talk to your elders that way? I paid for your college education and this is how you repay me? You think you’re better than everyone because you make a salary? Kneel! Apologize to every single person in this room!” Aunt Carol seized the opportunity. “She’s so rich she can’t look at her poor family anymore! The girl needs a lesson, Patty. You’re being too soft.” My mother raised her hand for another strike, but Dustin suddenly rushed forward and caught her arm. He whispered something in her ear, his eyes flicking to me and back to her. She slowly lowered her hand, glaring at me. “We’ll deal with you later. Get in the kitchen and help!” Dustin then turned to me, playing the concerned brother. “Mom’s just stressed, you know her temper. She loves you best, she always has. Come on, big holiday, let’s not let the others see us fighting.” The sheer hypocrisy of it made me sick. Mom always loved you best. That was the most hilarious lie I’d ever heard. Daughter’s must be spoiled, sons must be disciplined, was their silent mantra. Yet, Dustin always got the best cuts of steak, anything he asked for. I had to earn a new pencil eraser with a week of chores. When I got a perfect score on my SATs and got into NYU on a full ride, Mom said they couldn’t afford the ‘extras’ and tried to stop me from going. I needed the scholarship and two minimum-wage jobs just to survive. Mom, seeing me frozen, stomped over, grabbed my ear, and yanked me toward the kitchen. As she dragged me past Dustin, I saw her give him a subtle but unmistakable look. Because I, the fool, hadn’t bought anything, the kitchen was practically bare. Mom chopped vegetables furiously. “You have ruined this dinner party,” she hissed. “I must have been a sinner in my past life to birth such a worthless viper.” “I’m telling you, Sharon, you will apologize to everyone at dinner, and you will give every single person ten thousand dollars. Do you want me to lose face in front of the entire family?” I glanced at her, saying nothing. I had a feeling the night was about to get much worse. My mother gave me a hard shove with her elbow. “I’m talking to you! Stop playing mute!” I dropped the knife and stared directly into her eyes. “Mom, am I really your daughter?” She froze, staring at me blankly for a long moment before recovering. “What is that supposed to mean? I carried you for nine months! You owe me for this life! Now, stop bringing up useless stuff and talk about the compensation!” She threw a ladle at me. “Hurry up and cook these six dishes. Everyone is waiting.” Before she could leave, Cody, my nephew, stormed in. He saw me and started kicking my shins with all his tiny might. “You mean woman! Give me my Apple set!” he screamed. “My mom said if you don’t, she’ll go to your office and tell your boss what a bad person you are!” Brielle followed him in, all fake concern. “Cody, honey, stop! Sharon, he’s just saying silly things, don’t pay any attention.” But the look in her eyes was pure, cold malice. I laughed, a harsh sound. “Don’t worry, Brielle. What kind of grown-up raises a kid like that? I think I finally understand.” Brielle’s face twisted. She turned to my mother. “Patty! Is this how your daughter talks to me? If you insist on keeping her here, Dustin, Cody, and I are leaving!” She grabbed Cody and made a show of storming out. My mother panicked and chased after them, yelling at me over her shoulder, “You little home-wrecker! You’ll be the death of us all!” Of course, Brielle didn’t leave. Instead, Mom gave her cash to go shopping and told her to come back when dinner was ready. But when it was time to eat, the three of them were nowhere to be found. Their phones were off. Mom had no choice but to tell the twenty-plus relatives to start without them. The six pitiful dishes I’d cobbled together disappeared instantly. The complaints started immediately. Aunt Carol was the first. “Patty, you promised a feast! I haven’t eaten since yesterday, and this is it? If you can’t afford it, don’t promise it!” Mom’s face was crimson as she apologized, quickly deflecting the blame onto me. “It’s all Sharon’s fault! She came home late and didn’t buy anything!” Then, the final, desperate solution. “Don’t worry, everyone! We are all going to The Gilded Spoon! The best five-star restaurant in the city! Order anything you want! Sharon is picking up the entire tab!” The relatives cheered up instantly. “Fantastic! Let’s go right now!” Under the table, Mom’s hand clamped onto my thigh, her nails digging in. “You try to pull one more stunt, you little bitch, I swear I’ll call your CEO. You think your fancy ethics code would approve of an employee who disrespects her family?” I stared back at her, dumbfounded. My own mother was using my career, the one thing I valued most, as a weapon. I knew she was crazy enough to do it. It was just one dinner. I bit down hard on my inner cheek and nodded. Walking out, Mom immediately reached for a cab. “Mom, why are we hailing a cab? I drove the Mercedes, remember?” I said, walking toward my usual spot. When I got there, I froze. The space was empty. I checked my purse—the key fob was gone. “Mom. Where is my car?” Then I remembered the missing family of three. “Mom, did Dustin take my car?” Seeing my expression, she had no choice but to nod. “He’s never driven such a nice car. I just let him borrow it for a quick run.” I pulled out my phone and opened the vehicle’s tracking app. My car was over three hundred miles away, traveling at a steady 90 mph.

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The first time my boyfriend, Kevin, took me back to his family’s small, rural hometown, I stopped at a boutique in the nearby town to pick up several boxes of beautifully packaged pastries as a hostess gift. The moment I stepped through the door, offering the box with a nervous smile, the warmth from the neighbors gathered inside evaporated. An older woman, who had just greeted me with a hug, suddenly backed away, her face draining of color. She spat a disgusted sound onto the floor. “Pah! That girl looks sweet, but she’s clearly mixed up in something foul!” I froze, humiliated. Kevin, seeing the scene, snatched the elegant box from my hand. His face instantly turned to stone. “It’s over! Get out of my house right now!” He slammed the box onto the slate floor. The delicate petit fours inside shattered, turning to dust. Kevin’s father burst from the kitchen, grabbing a shovel leaning by the hearth, ready to drive me out. “Get out! Bringing a thing like that to my door, are you trying to wish death on me?” I stared at the ruins on the floor, my mind utterly blank. 1 “How could they just humiliate me like that? It was just a box of fancy matcha shortbread!” Clutching my phone, I sobbed uncontrollably to Maya, my best friend, recounting the cruelty I’d suffered at Kevin’s family home. “Are you sure they were just… regular pastries?” Maya’s voice was strained with suspicion. Tears streamed down my face, splattering onto my hand. “Of course! I even waited in line at that trendy, artisanal bakery downtown. Each box cost me a fortune!” “And when I first arrived, everyone in the village was so friendly, but the second Kevin’s dad smashed the box, they all looked at me like I was a murderer.” “I’ve been thrown out. I’m standing alone at the edge of town, and I honestly can’t understand it. Are small towns in the South this obsessed with bizarre superstitions?” Hearing my voice crack with despair, Maya quickly tried to soothe me. “Okay, honey, calm down. First, send me a picture of the pastry box and the receipt.” “Don’t worry. If this is just some twisted, localized game they’re playing to bully you, I’ll drive up there with my brother and we’ll trash their porch for you.” That promise of solidarity provided a momentary anchor. My hands trembling, I opened the ordering app, found the receipt, and sent the product page and the order details to Maya. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang. I took a shaky breath, ready to lean into her for comfort, but the voice that answered was tight, barely recognizable, and edged with a terrifying tremor. “That order—is this really what you bought?” “Is that what you intended to bring to his parents?” That familiar, ominous shift in tone—Kevin had asked me the same thing right before he smashed the box. My heart plummeted. I instinctively tried to explain, but Maya’s voice suddenly became sharp and piercing, like she was talking to a complete stranger. “Joanna, I honestly regret every year I’ve known you!” “You psycho. How could you do something so evil, so morally depraved? Those are living, breathing people!” “Don’t ever contact me again. I feel sick.” She hung up, giving me no chance to defend myself. When I tried to call back, I only heard the sterile “The user you are trying to reach is unavailable.” My texts were met with the unforgiving red exclamation point. I stood on the curb of the unfamiliar street, the icy wind biting at me. I felt as if I’d been struck by lightning. Someone please tell me what is happening! 2 In a state of shock, I took a taxi back to my city apartment late that night. I pulled out my keys, but before I could turn the lock, the door was yanked open from the inside. It was my parents. Their faces were ashen and grim. Two of my packed suitcases sat at their feet. My mother, whose eyes were always filled with loving patience, looked at me now with nothing but cold loathing. Before I could step across the threshold, she shoved the heavy luggage out the door, the case nearly slamming onto my feet. “Dad? Mom? What are you doing?” I panicked, scrambling to grab my mother’s arm, my tears starting again. “It’s bad enough Kevin’s family bullied me. Why are you doing this, too?” “I’m your only daughter. You’re supposed to stand up for me right now!” “Please, even if you’re kicking me out, at least tell me what I did wrong!” My father stood behind her, a cigarette burning between his fingers, refusing to even look at me. I was air. My mother violently wrenched her arm free, the force sending me stumbling backward into the hallway wall. The dull ache in my back was nothing compared to the terror seizing my chest. My mother, who never raised her voice, pointed a trembling finger directly at my nose. “Don’t call me Mom! Our family doesn’t breed evil like you!” “Relatives were calling to scream at me, and I defended you—until I saw that order screenshot…” “Joanna, do you have a heart at all? That was a gift for elders! How dare you give them that?” Leaning against the cold plaster, I cried out in despair. “It was just a few pastries! I won’t buy that brand again! Is that it?” “Just because I didn’t understand some ancient custom, did I deserve a death sentence? Did Kevin brainwash you all?” At the mention of the “pastry,” my father snapped. He lunged forward, raising his hand to strike me, but stopped in mid-air, his eyes filled with agonizing disappointment. “You created this mess, and you have the nerve to blame others?” “Bringing that kind of cursed item to their home… you want the entire world to point fingers at us?!” “Get out! Now! If you have any decency left, disappear and never show your face again!” The door slammed shut with a final, brutal sound. The cold, hard click of the deadbolt severed the last connection I had to my home. I sank to the floor in the hallway, hugging my knees. The whole world was spinning, collapsing. If I was truly in the wrong, why wouldn’t a single person explain to me what those boxes of pastries actually represented? To be abandoned like this, over an unnamed crime—I refused to accept it! 3 I slept fitfully in a cheap hotel, my eyes swollen from crying. The next morning, I went straight to the nearest police precinct. On the way, I decided to test the waters. I stopped a kind-looking old woman on the street and showed her the photo of the pastry box on my phone. At first, the woman smiled warmly. “Oh, that packaging is quite elegant. A lovely gift.” My spirits lifted. I quickly asked, “And what if I were to give this to my boyfriend’s parents?” The smile vanished instantly. It was replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated terror and disgust, like she’d just seen a plague rat. “Pah! Such depravity!” She spat a glob of phlegm near my feet and swung the shopping bag in her hand, hitting my shoulder. “Young people today! Doing such despicable, evil things! Why don’t you just get hit by a bus!” Bystanders noticed the commotion and gathered around. They didn’t know the cause at first, but when they heard the old woman reference the reason, their expressions darkened. They looked at me as if they wanted to tear me limb from limb. Terrified, I turned and ran, nearly twisting my ankle. Even so, I was determined to know the truth. At the police station, I poured out the entire absurd story to the officers, feeling like I was finally grabbing hold of a lifeline. Tears running down my face, I placed my phone on the desk. “Officers, I don’t understand. Everyone is acting insane.” “I just bought a few pastries. How did I become a public enemy?” The officer dealing with me, a young woman, was joined by a veteran cop. Both looked grave. The young woman handed me a tissue. “Ma’am, based on your description, if this isn’t some massive cultural misunderstanding, it is highly unusual.” “Rest assured, we are law enforcement. We deal with evidence and law, not emotions. Let us see the photo of this item.” Hearing that, the knot in my stomach loosened a bit. Here, at least, was a semblance of logic. My fingers shaking, I tapped open the product page and slid the phone across the desk. However, the instant the two police officers saw the screen, that same chilling, familiar, and utterly suffocating atmosphere descended again. 4 The young officer’s previously gentle gaze sharpened into cold steel. She sprang to her feet, her hand instinctively resting on the equipment belt at her waist, as if I were an extremely dangerous terrorist. The veteran officer’s face was dark, staring at me with contempt and deep suspicion. “Ma’am, are you seriously trying to play games with us?” He slammed his hand on the desk, the sound loud enough to make my ears ring. “You purchase an item like that and then come here claiming innocence?” “We now have serious concerns that you may be attempting to endanger public safety or may be involved in a fraud scheme. We require your immediate cooperation!” I was too stunned by the abrupt shift to speak. My back pressed against the chair, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “Officers, it’s matcha shortbread! I checked the ingredients multiple times—it’s just green tea and sugar!” “What law have I broken?” The veteran officer sneered. “Matcha shortbread? I think you’ve got mush in your head!” Ignoring my pleas, he ordered the young officer to search me and demanded my ID and phone. They began running my information through the system. In that moment, I felt stripped bare, standing under a spotlight, every last shred of my dignity crushed. Half an hour later, they confirmed I had no criminal record, but their attitude did not thaw. The young officer tossed my ID back onto the desk, her voice like ice. “Ms. Bishop, while there is no evidence at this time that you have caused substantive harm, your actions are a severe violation of public decency and order.” “I am warning you: if you dare to parade this item around or attempt to harass the victims’ family, this will be more than just a verbal warning.” I gripped the edge of the table, utterly distraught. “Can you just tell me why? Why is everyone acting like this?” “Even if you sentence me, you have to tell me the crime! I’m going crazy! Am I having a psychotic break, or has the whole world lost its mind?” The two officers exchanged weary, impatient glances. The veteran sighed, pointing toward the door with an expression of dismissive disgust. “You absolutely need to see a doctor.” “Go to Metropolitan General and see a psychiatrist. Maybe a professional can help you clear your head and realize the heinous thing you’ve done.” “Now get out. You’re wasting our time.” I was ejected from the precinct and sank onto the curb, sobbing uncontrollably. Had I truly gone mad? In the memory of buying the pastry, had I actually bought poison or a bomb? To give myself a definitive answer, to avoid being destroyed by an unknown charge, I wiped my eyes, hailed a cab, and headed straight for the mental health ward. In the consultation room, facing an older, professional-looking doctor with graying hair, I fought hard to control my emotions. I recounted the events of the last two days as clearly and logically as possible: the neighbor’s spitting, my parents’ expulsion, the police warning. The doctor listened intently, occasionally making notes on his pad. When I finished, he adjusted his glasses and asked in a calm, even tone: “And the source of all this conflict, the box of pastry—may I see it?” I was a coiled spring of fear. I hesitated, clutching my phone. The doctor seemed to sense my terror and gave me a gentle smile. “I’m a doctor, Joanna. I’ve seen countless bizarre things.” “In this room, the patient is always the priority. You have nothing to fear from me.” His professionalism and compassion gave me the final push. I closed my eyes and handed him the phone, bracing myself to be dismissed like garbage. Time stretched on. Every second felt like an eternity. After a full minute, the doctor returned the phone. His expression hadn’t changed. He remained utterly calm, compassionate, and gentle. There was no anger, no disgust, not even a flicker of surprise. “Ms. Bishop, this box of pastry… you genuinely bought it as a gift for your boyfriend’s parents, correct?” he asked softly. I held my breath, nodding cautiously, worried this was another trap. “Yes. I bought it for them.” The expected explosion of rage never came. Instead, the doctor heavily circled something on his pad, looked up, and held a gaze I couldn’t quite decipher. “It seems my initial hypothesis was correct.” “Ms. Bishop, your cognitive function is unimpaired. Your mental state is completely sound.” Hearing the word “sound,” my tightly wound nerves snapped. Tears erupted from my eyes. I collapsed onto my knees, desperately clutching the doctor’s white coat, like he was the last piece of floating wreckage. “Doctor, if I’m not crazy, then what is it?” “Please tell me why everyone is trying to destroy me over this one box! You know the answer, don’t you? Please!” The doctor sighed, helped me up, and pointed to the phone on the desk, his voice tinged with a weary disappointment. “The answer, Joanna, is not complicated.” 5 “The key to all your problems lies within the pastry itself.” “Because what you bought… is precisely this box of pastry.” That utterly useless statement nearly made me faint. If he hadn’t been so calm moments before, I would have thrown the stethoscope at him. I gritted my teeth, fighting the urge to curse him. My voice shook with frustration. “Doctor, I paid three hundred dollars for this appointment, not to hear circular logic.” “I know I bought the pastry. The question is, why is it universally condemned? If this is some common knowledge taboo, why have I, a person who’s lived twenty-seven years, never heard of it?” The doctor was unperturbed by my outburst. He shook his head and sat back down. “No, Ms. Bishop, you’re still thinking in terms of taboo.” “Some things aren’t taboos; they are imposed narratives.” “In the current social climate, you don’t understand because you are standing in an information silo.” “Go home. Shift your focus from other people’s reactions to the source of this specific pastry. Pay attention to how it came to you.” “Perhaps you’ll realize that many things, from the very beginning, were simply a well-laid trap.” As I was ushered out of the consultation room, the doctor’s vague words were the only thing echoing in my head. Focus on the source? The source was a link Kevin sent me. He told me it was the most respectful gift in his hometown, and that I had to get this specific item, with this exact packaging, from that exact shop. On the ride home, I went over those details again and again. My phone vibrated—a message in the company chat. My supervisor tagged me: “Joanna, there’s an emergency meeting tomorrow morning. No matter what personal issues you have, you must be present.” Staring at the screen, I took a deep breath. Whatever the truth was, life had to continue. I wouldn’t be defeated. At least the doctor had given me a new perspective: this could be a trap. The next day, I arrived at the office with dark circles under my eyes. The atmosphere was palpably wrong. The usually noisy break room fell silent the moment I stepped past it. Several colleagues I considered friends immediately lowered their heads, pretending to work, avoiding eye contact. I walked to my desk. Before I could sit down, my supervisor, Beth, walked over with a file. She slapped the document onto my desk, her eyes filled with unconcealed contempt. Her voice was loud enough for the entire office to hear. “Joanna, the company is conducting a background review. Due to serious concerns regarding your personal character, we believe you are unsuitable for your current position.” “This is your termination letter. Sign it.” I shot to my feet. “Beth, I’ve worked diligently for three years and never made a mistake! Why are you firing me?” “Even if it’s a ‘character issue,’ you need proof! What exactly did I do?” Beth scoffed, pulling out her phone and shoving a picture in my face. “Proof? This is the proof! Sending an item like this as a gift to an elderly couple!” “The entire industry chat is buzzing about it. Our company cannot afford this kind of scandal!” “You have the nerve to ask? Kevin’s family was being kind! If it were me, I’d have had you arrested!” It was the screenshot of my pastry order. My blood turned to ice. Beyond Kevin and me, absolutely no one knew what the final order details looked like. Even Maya, who had since blocked me, only got the product link, not the full receipt with my name and address! The source of the leak was undeniable. The surrounding colleagues began whispering, their voices carrying. “I can’t believe it. She seemed so quiet, but she’s truly wicked on the inside.” “I know. I heard that cake is specifically used for hexes. I’d be afraid of crossing her.” “I’d be worried about bad karma just working with her. Get her out of here now.” Listening to the vicious remarks, a strange calm washed over me. A hex? Specifically for a curse? So that was the narrative they had all received. I didn’t argue further. I picked up a pen and signed the termination letter cleanly. If someone had gone to such lengths to destroy me, extending the siege to my workplace, this was far beyond a simple misunderstanding. This was an organized, full-spectrum ambush.

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My mother was too preoccupied to raise a child, so, in her infinite wisdom, she decided to turn my older brother into a Nanny-Brother. She constantly drilled a single concept into his head: “Everything in the house will belong to you someday, and that includes your little sister.” My brother believed her. And so, while other heirs were out on the town drinking and partying, he was playing dress-up with me. While other trust-fund princes were drag racing and chasing girls, he was watching videos of my childhood, set to ridiculous, soothing soundtracks. Which meant that when I discovered I was a foundling, not a biological daughter, I had only one thought: I’m screwed. My brother is going to lose his mind. But then I saw him smile, his gaze locking onto me like a wolf spotting prey. “That,” he said, the word dripping with dark pleasure, “is just perfect.” 1 It was a Sunday evening family dinner, and my mother, Nadia, was chatting animatedly with my aunt. “You wouldn’t believe it, back at Ava’s first birthday, the ‘Grabbing Ceremony’—she ignored all the toys and candy, and she just grabbed onto Declan and wouldn’t let go.” “And Declan! He was such a handful as a kid, he’d barely smile, and even I, his mother, was nervous around him. Now look at him—he practically raised Ava. He’s like a built-in manny. When Ava said she was moving into the dorms, he looked like the sky was falling.” Manny? Was that a term you could just throw around so lightly? My mouth twitched, but before I could reply, a steaming mug was pressed into my hand. Ginger tea. Declan Sinclair settled naturally beside me. His knee pressed against mine. His arm wrapped loosely around my waist, his fingers beginning a slow, light circular massage on my lower back. “Still aching?” Ever since my first bad cramps, he’d been more attentive to my cycle than I was. Truth be told, I barely felt anything now, but with all the relatives watching, I felt my face flush. I tried to pull away, keeping my voice low. “Dec…” “Hmm.” Declan hummed an acknowledgement, then lifted his eyes, his gaze cool and distant, to the relatives across the table. “It’s getting late. Aunt and Uncle, I think you should head home.” He tossed the blunt dismissal out without apology, ignoring their clearly offended expressions. He only looked down at me, his eyes asking, Is it time for us now? 2 I had truly been raised by my brother. I heard that in the beginning, he hadn’t wanted me. Even as a small child, he had his own sharp logic. He’d argued against my mother’s irresponsible behavior: “She’s your baby, Mom. She’s not my baby.” My mother had been amused. “Why isn’t she yours?” “Everything in the house will belong to you someday, and that includes your little sister.” Declan took the line to heart. From then on, he became my willing, tireless Nanny-Brother, taking charge of everything. When I was sick in the hospital, my mother would stammer in response to the doctor’s questions; Declan would answer fluently and perfectly. Even my mother had once marveled, “Declan, you really have the instincts of a parent.” Declan took it as the highest compliment and doubled down on his care. Even now, he was standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of weary tolerance and total certainty, as if I was the one being unreasonable. I wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Dec, I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.” His voice was flat. “You said that last time, and you ended up in the ER with a migraine.” “That was just an accident—” “I can’t afford another accident.” “But this… this is wrong.” Seeing my hesitation, he pushed the door open, easily slipping inside the room. He tilted his head, his expression a picture of genuine confusion. “What’s wrong about it? You’re mine, Baby.” 3 The first time I realized that pet name was too intimate was during my college orientation week. Freshmen were required to stay in the dorms by our university. Declan showed up, his face a thundercloud, to help me make my bed. He was striking, handsome in a way that screamed ‘elite heir,’ yet he was expertly managing sheets and duvets. He even retrieved my required gym uniform, carefully adding a soft waist belt and specialized insoles. My roommates stared, their faces flushed with envy. “Ava Sinclair, your boyfriend is incredible.” My expression froze instantly. I quickly whispered, “He’s my brother. My actual brother.” “Oh. Then why does he call you ‘Baby’?” “And you guys don’t look alike at all.” I could only mumble an explanation: “He raised me.” From that day on, I strictly forbade Declan from calling me that in public. Although he didn’t seem to understand the reason, he listened. But as soon as we were home, he’d double down, stubbornly calling me Baby. “You are not allowed to call me that.” I grit my teeth, pushing against his chest to keep him away. Declan just nodded, utterly unbothered. “Whatever Baby wants.” I gave up. It was useless arguing with him. 4 I had a lot on my mind last night, and when my alarm went off, my brain was still foggy. Unfortunately, I had an 8 AM class. Declan pulled me out of the covers. “Baby, open up.” I groggily brushed my teeth. He then meticulously washed my face and applied my skincare routine. Only after everything was done did he settle me back on the bed. My clothes for the day were laid out on the chair, already chosen. He tilted his face toward me, seeking his good morning kiss. I gave it to him in a daze. “Thank you, big brother.” “Be a good girl. Tell your brother when you’re dressed.” By the time I was fully dressed, almost half an hour had passed. Twenty minutes of that was silent internal screaming. I thought about how utterly useless I’d been—like a total infant—just hours after my big independence speech. I felt deeply embarrassed. My mind was a blur until my class ended. I tried scrolling through my phone to distract myself. Then I saw a post that stopped my hand mid-scroll. I clicked on it before I realized what I was doing. [My little sister won’t let me eat her leftovers anymore. What do I do?] [This morning, I made breakfast as usual. My little sister loves it, and her cheeks look so cute when she’s finished. When she was done, I went to take her plate, but she wouldn’t let me. If I hadn’t tricked her and said I didn’t make enough for a second portion, I almost wouldn’t have gotten any. This has been happening a lot lately. Has someone been talking nonsense to her?] 5 8 AM is prime time for university students. I refreshed the page, and the comments flooded in instantly. [OMG, is this English? Grandma, the Sibling Suspense update you love just dropped.] [Someone should be talking nonsense to her, lol. The sister is a normal human; the poster is a menace.] [This is a sick trope, right? Honestly, my boyfriend doesn’t insist on eating my literal leftovers.] [“Almost wouldn’t have gotten any…” Dude, what are you regretting? Is your sister’s saliva magical?] Poster: [That just means your boyfriend doesn’t love you enough.] [I’ve taught my sister since childhood that family is the only lifetime bond. Not some short, fragile hormone-fueled connection like a lover.] [I don’t know. Everything she’s tasted just tastes better. We’ve grown up this way. Unfortunately, she’s in college now, so I only get this one meal a day. I can’t compromise on this.] User: [You’re complaining? If I had a brother like this, I’d run away overnight.] Poster: [Why? She asked me not to sleep with her, not to kiss her cheek, and I listened. I’ve been very compliant. She can’t leave me.] User: [Wait, no kissing? I don’t believe it.] Poster: [I keep my word. The morning kiss has been changed to her kissing my cheek instead.] The atmosphere was still relatively playful until the newest comment popped up. Ghosted_by_Venus: [It’s simple. She has a dog outside, of course! She needs to be discrete.] 6 This comment clearly struck a nerve with the poster.

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On our wedding night, Gavin Harrington didn’t uphold his promise to inject capital into the Hale family business to keep it afloat. Instead, he had a crate of scratch-off lottery tickets delivered. He unbuttoned his custom-made dress shirt, his eyes carrying an air of bored mockery. “Two million dollars’ worth of instant winners, Rory. Cash in whatever you get. Learn to be a good girl, and maybe you’ll get a real treat.” I knew he was punishing me. Punishing me for disrupting his meeting yesterday and, more specifically, for dumping a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon all over his skimpily-dressed little secretary. But this time, I didn’t scream or cry. Even when my fingers brushed against a small, dented brass charm in his jacket pocket—a token from our youth that still held a trace of his warmth—I just calmly wiped it clean. The shock in Gavin’s eyes was fleeting, quickly replaced by a smug satisfaction. He circled around me, his warm breath fanning my ear. “That’s my girl. That’s more like the Mrs. Harrington I married.” He slid an unlimited black card into the lace of my bodice. The cold plastic felt like a blade against my skin. “Take it. This should be enough to stabilize your father’s company.” I managed a brittle, forced smile, pulled the card out, and held it back out to him. “I won’t be needing it.” He didn’t know that while he was busy trying to “tame” me these past few days, the debt collectors had pushed my father too far, and he had fallen from the twenty-eighth floor of his office building. And the dead, after all, have no use for money. 1 Gavin’s eyebrows immediately knitted into a furious knot as I pushed the black card back. “Aurora Hale,” he snapped, using my full, formal name. “Playing hard to get is a turn-on once. Do it twice, and it’s just pathetic.” He tossed the card onto the scattered lottery ticket boxes, where it landed with a sharp, echoing clatter. “Suit yourself. I guess your father’s backbone is tougher than I thought. He can probably handle a few more days.” The mention of my father made my heart seize up. Yes, Gavin, how could you possibly know? That backbone, the one that used to shield me from the world, was now shattered and lying in the cold storage unit of a funeral home. I didn’t say anything. I just crouched down and picked up one of the scratch-off cards. My fingernail scraped against the silvery coating, a dry, grating shush that sounded deafening in the silence of our opulent bridal suite. Gavin stood over me, watching. He was waiting for me to flare up, to demand answers, or to clutch at his legs and beg like I used to. But I simply kept scratching. The first card: Try Again. The second: Two Dollars. When Gavin was chasing me, he loved taking me to little convenience stores to play these. Back then, he was the Harrington family’s black sheep, and I was the gilded princess of the Hales. He’d said, “Rory, when I hit the jackpot, I’ll buy you the biggest diamond ring in the world.” I’d replied, “You don’t need the jackpot, Gavin. You’re my jackpot.” Those promises were heavy, crushing me now under their weight. My phone vibrated. It was an urgent text from the funeral director: [Ms. Hale, the body reconstruction requires immediate next-of-kin confirmation. Please come as soon as possible.] My hand shook, and my nail tore through the thin cardstock. Just then, Gavin’s phone rang. In the cavernous, quiet room, his ringtone was a jarring intrusion. He glanced at the screen, and the cold hardness in his expression instantly softened, replaced by a tenderness I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. When he answered, his voice was dangerously gentle. “What is it, Piper? Are you still hurting?” “Don’t cry. I’m on my way.” He hung up, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door without a glance in my direction. “Gavin.” I called out his name, my voice raw and unfamiliar. He paused, turning back with undisguised impatience. “Piper was scared. She had a nightmare. I’m going to check on her.” “Tonight is our wedding night,” I stated calmly, factually. Gavin scoffed, securing his cufflink. “Aurora, are you actually trying to hold me to that?” “You dumped wine all over Piper yesterday. Did you ever stop to think she was acting as my assistant? She wore that sheer dress to cover for me, and you humiliated her in front of everyone.” He walked closer, his expression cooling further. “She’s young. She’s sensitive. Unlike you, Ms. Hale. You’ll stomach anything for money.” Every word was a needle plunged into my lungs. In his eyes, my justifiable anger was a tantrum. His mistress’s calculated manipulation was pure, fragile innocence. “What if I tell you not to go?” I looked up, my gaze steady amidst the wreckage of scratch-offs. The funeral home closed at midnight. If he left now, taking the only car, I’d be stranded in this isolated hillside mansion. I wouldn’t get to the funeral director in time, and my father would spend another day in that cold drawer. Gavin looked at me as if I’d told the funniest joke. “Rory, get your identity straight.” “The Hale name is barely breathing right now. It is hanging on by a thread that I control.” “What right do you have to tell me where to go?” With that, he turned and strode out. The front door slammed shut. Then came the roar of the engine as his car sped away. All that was left for me was the house full of wedding décor and that entire crate of sarcastic lottery tickets. I looked down at the scratch-off I’d torn. It was a winner—a hundred dollars. Too bad the prize section was ruined. It was void. Just like my seven years with Gavin. Utterly, irrevocably ruined. 2 That night, I walked ten miles. I walked down the winding canyon road in paper-thin silk flats that weren’t meant for anything but marble floors. My heels were quickly ground to bloody pulp, and every step sent a sharp, drilling pain up my legs. But that pain was clarifying. By the time I reached the funeral home, the staff was locking up. The attendant, startled by my disheveled, bloody state, looked at me with a measure of pity. “Ms. Hale, you made it.” “Your father’s body sustained significant trauma. We’ve done what we can, but…” “I understand.” I cut him off, picking up the pen to sign the confirmation form. My hand was shaking violently; my signature was jagged, clumsy, and ugly. My father, George, had always prized dignity and wrote a beautiful, steady hand. If he could see my signature now, he’d probably tap me on the head and call me a disgrace. But Dad, your daughter is completely spent. “When is the cremation scheduled?” I asked. “We’re backed up. The soonest we can do it is the morning after tomorrow.” The day after tomorrow. Good enough. By the time the paperwork was finalized, the sky was already turning a pale, sickly gray. As I stepped out of the funeral home, Gavin’s call came through. “Where are you?” His voice was thick with sleep, and in the background, I could hear a woman’s low, soft murmur. “I’m out,” I replied flatly. “Get your ass home now.” His tone turned instantly frigid. “My mother is coming for brunch. Don’t let her see you looking like some whore who stayed out all night.” “Aurora, if you dare embarrass me in front of my mother, the Hale company funds are permanently frozen.” Always the same threat. Always the same routine. A few days ago, I would have panicked, stammered an excuse, and jumped into the first cab home. Now, I just felt a chilling amusement. “Fine.” I hung up. When I reached the mansion, Gavin was at the breakfast table reading a financial newspaper. Piper Wells, the secretary, emerged from the kitchen carrying a glass of milk, wearing my expensive silk wedding night robe. I hadn’t even had a chance to put it on. It hung loosely on her petite frame, yet somehow managed to convey a clear, brazen declaration of ownership. “Oh! Rory! You’re back?” Piper squeaked, looking like a startled doe. “I’m so sorry. My clothes got dirty last night, and Gavin just told me to borrow this…” “I’ll take it right off and give it back!” She made a move to untie the belt, allowing a tantalizing glimpse of the fact that she was wearing nothing underneath. Gavin put down his paper and frowned, his voice sharp. “Don’t you dare. It’s just a robe. It’s not like she’ll miss it.” He looked at me, his gaze dropping to my feet, which were crusted with dirt and blood. His frown deepened. “Where the hell were you carousing all night? You look like a damn beggar.” “I don’t like that robe anymore.” I bypassed Piper and headed straight for the stairs. “It’s soiled. Throw it away.” Behind me, I heard the sound of shattering china. Piper’s voice was tearful and wounded. “Gavin, is Rory mad at me?” “Ignore her,” Gavin said, his tone cold and cutting. “The Hale family is collapsing, but the princess still thinks she’s royalty. It’s a pampered sickness.” 3 Mrs. Harrington arrived shortly after. Piper was perched on Gavin’s lap, feeding him peeled grapes. My mother-in-law didn’t look angry; in fact, she smiled with a rare, approving affection. “Piper is such a sweet girl, so thoughtful. Not like some bad luck charms who walk in the door with a face like a tombstone. Absolutely cursed.” I stood at the top of the stairs, clutching my father’s death certificate. Hearing the word “tombstone” made my fist clench involuntarily. Gavin glanced at me, his eyes indifferent. “Mother is here. Aren’t you going to serve tea? Did your family’s manners die with their wealth?” I walked down silently and picked up the teapot. My wrist was still shaking—a painful souvenir from my ten-mile walk. The muscle spasms were intense. As I poured the tea, Piper shrieked and recoiled dramatically into Gavin’s chest. “Ah! It’s too hot!” The truth was, the water hadn’t even splashed her. But Gavin reacted instantly, shoving me away. The boiling tea cascaded over my hand, scalding my skin and instantly swelling it bright red. “Aurora Hale, was that intentional?” Gavin shielded Piper, his gaze full of disappointment. “She wore a robe, and you can’t stand it? You have to pull this high-school jealousy act in front of my mother?” Mrs. Harrington snorted and heavily tapped her cane on the marble floor. “High society princess? More like a jealous shrew! Gavin, how can a woman like this be your wife? Divorce her now, and put this sweet girl in her rightful place.” If this were a week ago, the word “divorce” would have sent me to my knees, weeping and pleading with my mother-in-law. I loved Gavin with a desperate, self-annihilating passion. But now, hearing it, I felt a peculiar wave of relief. “Fine.” Ignoring the sharp pain in my hand, I looked up at them, my voice calm as a still pool. “Let’s get divorced.” The air in the living room froze solid. Gavin’s initial shock melted into a deep sneer of mockery. He pushed Piper off, stood up, and stalked toward me, his fingers brutally clamping down on my jaw. “Divorce? Aurora, what do you think you have to bargain with?” “Don’t forget, your father’s failing company owes the bank over three hundred million dollars. Without me, how will you plug that hole? Will you sell yourself on the street?” “Or do you want your ‘respectable’ father to spend his old age in a federal penitentiary?” Up until yesterday, these threats would have completely broken me. Now, they were just pathetic. He had held my one and only weakness hostage. But that weakness was gone. The soft spot was dead. “Believe what you want.” I slapped his hand away. I was done with these pointless arguments. “I’m tired. I’m going upstairs.” A moment later, I heard the heavy, resounding crash of a vase shattering. Gavin’s enraged roar echoed through the mansion: “Aurora Hale, get back here! Who gave you permission to speak to me like that?” “Gavin, please don’t be angry. Rory is probably just upset…” Piper’s soft, whiny voice joined the chaos. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have worn her robe. I’ll take it off right now and return it to her, even if I have to walk outside naked…” “You wear it! Keep it on!” Gavin ground the words out. “I want her to see who gives the orders in this house!” I shut my bedroom door, muffling the noise below. The water blisters on my hand were already raised and translucent. I found a needle, sterilized it over a lighter, and, without expression, popped the biggest blister. Pus leaked out. It hurt. But this physical pain was nothing compared to the agony of my father lying in that cold morgue drawer. I rummaged through a box and pulled out my wedding ring. It was a five-carat pink diamond—a dazzling, priceless stone Gavin had given me when he proposed. At the time, he’d said, “Rory, you’re my princess. The best things in the world belong to you.” Now, this ring was the only valuable thing I owned. My father’s funeral needed cash. The burial plot needed to be paid for. The best mahogany urn needed to be bought. Gavin had frozen my accounts, and the Hale company assets were sealed. I couldn’t let my father leave this world in shame. I slipped the ring into my pocket, changed into black clothes, and quietly exited the mansion through the back door. 4 The Meridian Exchange—the city’s largest, most discreet pawn shop. The owner scrutinized the pink diamond, his eyes wide with shock. “Ms. Hale, this is a rare piece. The auction where Mr. Harrington bought it was front-page news. Are you absolutely certain you want to pawn it?” “Yes.” I didn’t hesitate. “Sell it. Final sale.” The owner tutted, then named his price. “Three million. That’s my final offer.” The ring was originally worth over twenty million. But I didn’t have time to haggle; the funeral home needed payment now. “Done. Transfer the funds.” Just as I reached for the pen, a long, well-manicured hand clamped down over the ticket. The familiar scent of cedar and high-end cologne wafted over me, bringing with it a suffocating sense of pressure. “Aurora Hale. Are you that desperate for cash?” My body went rigid. I slowly looked up. Gavin Harrington was standing right behind me. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit. Trailing him was a smirking Piper and a few of his rich friends, who stood with crossed arms, watching the spectacle. Their eyes were full of a cruel, voyeuristic amusement. “Well, well, isn’t that the Mrs. Harrington? Selling her wedding ring? Is Gavin starving you, man?” “Gavin, did you push the lady too hard? Can’t even afford food?” Gavin ignored their taunts, his eyes locked on mine, churning with cold fury. “You rejected the black card I gave you, only to turn around and humiliate yourself at a place like this?” “Do you want the entire city of New York to know that I abuse my wife?” He snatched the ring off the counter, his thumb rubbing the massive diamond. His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Three million? That’s what seven years of our life together is worth to you?” I looked at him, feeling only a profound sense of the absurd. If he truly cared about those seven years, he wouldn’t have brought his mistress home on our wedding night. He wouldn’t have watched my father drown in debt. “The ring is mine. I have the right to dispose of it.” I reached out to grab it back. “Give it to me.” Gavin easily pulled his hand away. He saw my frantic urgency and suddenly smiled—a smile that was vicious and brutal. “You want money, don’t you? Fine.” He pulled out his checkbook, quickly scrawled a number, and tore off the check. He tossed it lightly, letting it flutter onto my cheek and land on the floor. “That’s five million dollars.” He pointed at the check on the dirty floor, speaking to me as if I were a pet dog. “Kneel down. Pick it up. The money is yours. The ring stays with me.” Piper wrapped her arm around Gavin’s, her voice sweet and clinging. “Gavin, this ring is gorgeous. I want it.” Gavin fondly stroked her nose. “You like it? Consider it yours.” He casually took the ring—the symbol of our supposed “forever”—and slipped it onto Piper’s middle finger. It fit her perfectly. “Oh, thank you, Gavin!” Piper lifted her hand, showing off the diamond’s fiery sparkle under the lights, and shot me a triumphant, pitying look. “Rory, since you didn’t want it, I guess I’ll take it.” I watched the scene unfold, my heart clenching so hard it felt like a silent, crushing blow. But I didn’t cry. I slowly bent my knees. In the scornful gaze of Gavin and his friends, I knelt down and picked up the check. If it meant my father could rest in peace. What was my dignity? What was my pride? When he saw that I actually knelt and took the check, the smile vanished from Gavin’s face. It was replaced by a concentrated, violent rage. He must have expected me to tear the check up and run away, weeping as I always did. He was wrong. “Thank you, Mr. Harrington.” I folded the check, put it into my pocket, and turned to leave. “Stop!” Gavin grabbed my wrist, his grip so powerful I thought he might shatter the bones. “Aurora, how did you become so utterly base?” “For five million dollars, you gave up your wedding ring? Do you have any heart left?” I looked up, meeting his furious gaze. “Gavin, you gave the ring to someone else.” “As for my heart…” I gave a dry, empty laugh. “It’s been dead for days.” 5 With the five million dollars, my father’s funeral arrangements were handled smoothly. I chose a sunny burial plot, a spot he always loved, overlooking the entire city skyline. The day of the cremation was gray and overcast. I didn’t call any relatives or friends. Since the Hale family collapsed, everyone who had fawned over us had fled, afraid of catching the contagion of ruin. I walked the empty path of the cemetery alone, holding the urn. The wind was fierce, stinging my eyes. My phone, in my pocket, was vibrating frantically. It was Gavin. I ignored it, but he kept calling. Finally, I answered. “Aurora Hale! Where the hell are you?!” His roar was deafening, mixed with loud music and the clinking of glasses. “There’s a critical corporate mixer tonight, and I need you to get your ass over here!” “I’m busy,” I said softly, looking at my father’s kind face in the stone photo. “Busy? Doing what besides being a parasite at home?” Gavin sneered. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re still sulking over the ring. Play nice tonight, charm Mr. Wallace for me, and I’ll buy you a ten-carat rock.” “Oh, and Piper is here, too. She doesn’t know the business etiquette, so you’ll need to coach her and help her field the drinks.” He wanted me to babysit and be the human shield for his mistress. This was the man I had loved for seven years. “I’m not coming.” I hung up and turned the phone off. The world was finally silent. I sat by the gravestone for the entire afternoon. It wasn’t until the cemetery groundskeeper came to tell me they were closing that I finally stood up. When I returned to the mansion, it was late. The lights were on in the living room. Gavin was slumped on the couch, his tie loose, reeking of alcohol. Piper was kneeling on the floor, helping him pull off his shoes, her eyes red-rimmed and tear-stained. When Gavin saw me walk in, he grabbed the crystal ashtray off the coffee table and hurled it. Smash! The ashtray grazed my forehead and hit the wall, shattering. Shards of glass flew everywhere. A sliver sliced open my brow bone. Warm blood immediately ran down into my eye, turning my vision a horrifying red. “Aurora Hale! You think you’re so tough, don’t you? Hanging up on me? Turning off your phone?” Gavin swayed as he stood up, staggering over to grab my collar. “Do you know how important that deal was to me tonight? Because you didn’t show up, Mr. Wallace was furious! If this deal falls through, how will you pay for it?” I let him shake me, a soulless doll. “Say something! Don’t play mute!” He noticed the blood on my face and momentarily paused, a flicker of something that might have been guilt crossing his face. But the guilt was quickly buried by rage. “A little scratch and you’re playing the victim? Piper was covering for you all night, and she threw up all the meds for her stomach ulcer! That is your failure as my wife!” Piper whimpered, clutching her stomach and leaning weakly against the couch. “Gavin, don’t blame Rory… Maybe she really did have an emergency…” “What emergency could she possibly have?” Gavin sneered. “She probably went looking for some gigolo! Used the five million from the ring to buy herself a pretty toy!” He reached out to frisk my pocket. “Where is the money? Hand over the rest of the money!” I fought him off, fiercely protecting the pocket that held the burial plot receipt and my father’s death certificate. “Let go!” “Never!” During the struggle, a thin slip of paper fluttered out of my pocket. It landed perfectly, right by Gavin’s polished leather shoe. The air seemed to still. It was the cremation certificate issued by the funeral home. The bold, black lettering seemed to scream under the crystal chandelier. [Deceased: George Hale] [Cremation Date: October 15, 2025] Which was today. Gavin’s hands froze.

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After the divorce from Anastasia Stacey, the only option left was a quiet kind of downgrade. I married a woman who spoke little, wore faded, thrift-store T-shirts, and always had her hair pulled back into a hasty, messy knot. She’d haggle over every fifty cents at the grocery store. My old friends, the ones who still spoke to me, would look at my life and make condescending jokes: “Your lifestyle took a hit, Cal, but did your taste have to as well?” I just laughed it off. “I told them how I’d smashed Paul Hayes’s laptop into his head in front of the entire Stacey Capital board,” I’d say. “Anastasia sacrificed me to save him. The fallout was nuclear. I was an untouchable after that.” “When I got out of prison, the shame was a physical thing. Dogs would cross the street to avoid me. I was lucky anyone would have me.” As I spoke, my hand moved with practiced precision, filleting a fresh halibut. I bagged it for the customer and called out to the next person in line. “Fresh catch, ma’am. Take your pick.” The person froze, and then a shaky, unmistakable voice whispered, “Cal… you did all this… just to hurt me? To punish me for sending you away?” 1 I didn’t look up. My dulling fillet knife slammed down on the wood block, scattering scales and blood-tinged water onto the tiled floor. Anastasia Stacey stood there. She was wearing a perfectly tailored, unbothered cream suit that looked wildly out of place next to the stench of the fish market. She stared at my hands. They were raw, chapped, covered in shallow cuts and the winter frostbite. Those hands used to type memos and sign multi-million dollar contracts; now they were coarse and stiff, like dry driftwood. “If you’re not buying, move along. There’s a line behind you.” I wiped my hands on the front of my apron and reached for the next customer’s basket—an elderly man named Mr. Rodriguez. Being ignored seemed to be the worst insult. Anastasia’s composure cracked. She stepped forward and, in a flash of manic impulse, swiped my knife off the counter. It clattered on the concrete floor, bouncing twice. “Calvin Brooks, the youngest executive in Stacey Capital history, a Finance grad from Stanford, is gutting fish?” She practically yelled the last part, her voice a mix of disbelief and tightly coiled rage. It drew the eyes of the surrounding vendors and the morning shoppers. “Do you think this is going to make me feel sorry for you? Do you think I’ll regret testifying against you?” Her eyes were overflowing with the kind of high-society pity that felt worse than contempt. She clearly believed I was performing, trying to use my own degradation to manipulate her. I bent down and picked up the knife, rubbing it against my rough canvas apron. “Ma’am.” I kept my voice flat. “That knife cost me thirty dollars. You’ve chipped the blade. You owe me.” I looked at her, then turned to Mr. Rodriguez. “And I don’t know you.” Anastasia was stunned. She was prepared for a fight, for tears, for an apology—but not for a petty demand for thirty dollars. The crowd began to buzz. “Who is that woman? Dressed like she’s on a magazine cover, coming here to hassle a decent man.” “Looks like an old flame. She’s probably here to gloat now that he’s down on his luck.” “He works hard. She needs to mind her own business.” The whispers drilled into Anastasia’s ears. Her face cycled through shades of white and pink. Her assistant, standing awkwardly behind her, made a move to intervene, but she waved him away. She fixed her stare on me, trying to find some trace of the adoration I used to have for her. There was nothing left. Only a profound, dead emptiness. “Stop playing dumb, Cal.” She ground out the words, lowering her voice to a furious hiss. “Your father would spin in his grave if he saw you like this. Your hands were meant to sign documents, not scoop out guts! If you needed money, why didn’t you go to a proper firm? With your background…” She paused, a sharp, cold smile forming on her perfect lips. “Oh, I forgot.” “You have a felony record. I made sure of that.” “So, what is this? A spiteful act of revenge?” The familiar, self-righteous arrogance returned to her face. I ignored her. I turned back to the tank, netted a fresh red snapper, and brought it to the block. I pressed down, the knife moving expertly. Fish blood sprayed out, splattering directly onto the hem of her designer skirt. Anastasia flinched back, a look of visceral disgust crossing her face. I packaged the fish without a word, handing the bag to Mr. Rodriguez. “That’s twenty-five, sir. The QR code is on the wall.” I never looked at her. That blank dismissal was the only weapon I had left. She pulled out a crisp, white linen handkerchief, her hand hovering as if to wipe the specks of blood from my face. I tilted my head away. The handkerchief froze in mid-air. “Ma’am.” I pointed to the wall. “The knife was thirty. Loss of business is twenty. Total, fifty dollars.” “Pay up and stop wasting my time.” 2 Anastasia’s hand dropped. She crumpled the pristine handkerchief in her tight fist. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she struggled to contain her fury. “Money? Is that all you want?” She sneered, pulling out her checkbook and quickly scrawling a number. Then she pulled a thick wad of cash from her wallet. Splat. She tossed it all—the check and the cash—onto the blood-and-guts-covered counter. “Shut down your stand,” she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. “Come have lunch with me and let’s talk. This is enough for you to sell fish here for a year.” A collective gasp went through the crowd. The stack of bills was easily three or four thousand dollars—a fortune to the market workers. Anastasia stood tall, waiting for me to break down in humiliated rage and throw the money back at her. The old Cal would have. He couldn’t stand being insulted. I looked at the wet, blood-stained bills. I didn’t hesitate. I snatched the damp pile of cash, weighed it in my palm, and stuffed it into my tattered, sewn-up leather waist pouch. “Thank you, boss.” I gave her a curt nod, devoid of any shame. “Anything else? Need me to scale or gut another one?” Anastasia’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Cal… are you serious?” Her voice trembled, her pointing finger shaking. “Have you no dignity left?” “You once froze me out for three days because I didn’t get you a limited edition watch. And now, for this petty cash, you’ll drop all your pride?” I pulled off my fish-stained apron. Underneath, I was wearing a faded, cheap T-shirt with a stretched-out collar. “Dignity, how much does that cost a pound?” I countered, grabbing a nearby hose to rinse the grime off my worn boots. “Let’s go. You wanted lunch, right? But first, a warning: I won’t get past the host stand at any of your high-end places. I don’t meet the dress code.” Anastasia was speechless. She just scowled and followed me. I led her out the back, through the narrow, reeking alleyway behind the market. It was the access point to the run-down walk-up where I lived. The ground was slick with sewage and rotting produce. The air hung heavy with a mildewed stench. Anastasia picked her way along, terrified of ruining her expensive leather heels. “Walk two blocks in these shoes, and you’ll understand why I love cash,” I said, not looking back. At the alley mouth, our landlady, Dolores, was blocking the path, cracking sunflower seeds. Seeing me, she spat out the shells immediately. “Hey, Cal! That power bill from last month? Pay up or I’m shutting off your unit!” “Just opened shop, Dolores. Right now.” I offered a conciliatory smile and pulled out a few of the bills Anastasia had just given me. I handed them over without counting. Dolores’s face instantly softened. “Oh, look at you, hitting the jackpot! Alright, alright. I’ll give you a few more days.” A little further down, Mr. Rodriguez, the junk collector, was pushing his overloaded cart, its wheel jammed in a pothole. I didn’t hesitate; I ran over and helped him heave it free. Afterward, I didn’t forget to haggle. “Mr. Rodriguez, you stiffed me fifty cents on that last batch of cardboard. Gotta square up today.” Anastasia stood watching, her face growing paler, her expression tightening with every transaction. She watched me scrape for pennies, nod humbly to my landlady, and navigate this suffocating, lower-class world with utter familiarity. The stark reality of it was like a series of hard slaps to her face. Finally, she broke. She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. “Stop it!” she hissed. “Cal, stop the act.” “I don’t believe you can live like this. Move out. I’ll find you an apartment. I’ll get you a job.” She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. “I’m transferring you a million dollars.” “Just promise me I never have to see you embarrass yourself in a place like this again.” She was desperately trying to use her wealth to wash away her own guilt, or perhaps just to buy back her peace of mind—to prove that she hadn’t completely destroyed me. I stood still, letting her work. A few seconds passed. Ding. It wasn’t the successful transfer notification. It was a failure message. Anastasia frowned, confused. “What? Bad service?” She tried again. Failure. The system notification flashed: Recipient account frozen due to ‘judgment debtor’ status. Restriction on high-value transactions. Anastasia’s hand froze mid-air. She slowly looked up at me. I met her gaze, a sharp, bitter smile twisting my lips. “Mrs. Stacey, you forget so easily.” “Three years ago, to force my hand, you personally filed the motion to freeze all my assets and blacklist my credit.” “It seems the system you built is still standing.” Anastasia’s face went white. She opened her mouth to argue, but no sound came out. The very tool she had used to break me was now the wall preventing her “charity.” The irony was delicious. A deep engine rumble cut through the alley’s noise. A black Maybach pulled up, ridiculously conspicuous. The door opened. A polished, custom-made leather shoe stepped out. I looked at the car and spoke to Anastasia, my tone completely neutral. “Your husband is here.” “Aren’t you going to greet him?” 3 Paul Hayes emerged from the car, immaculate in a bespoke Armani suit. A limited-edition Patek Philippe glinted on his wrist—the very one Anastasia had purchased at auction last month as an anniversary gift. He pulled off his sunglasses, his eyes darting between Anastasia and me. Then, he pasted a warm, sympathetic smile onto his face and rushed over. “Ana, darling, what are you doing in a place like this?” He slipped an arm around her waist, clinging to her possessively, while his eyes cut me like razor wire. “Ugh, what an awful smell!” He clapped a hand over his nose and dramatically backed up, fanning the air with his free hand. “This stench is sickening. Let’s get you out of here, Ana.” He grimaced, the disgust entirely unfeigned. Anastasia’s body stiffened, but she didn’t push him away. She only looked at me with that same complex, unreadable expression. Paul, seeing my silence, moved closer, feigning sudden recognition. “Oh my God, is that Cal?” He covered his mouth in mock shock. “How could you… how did it come to this?” He extended a hand, as if to pat my shoulder, but stopped short, clearly afraid of contaminating himself. “Cal, I know you were distraught when you smashed my work laptop and nearly cost me my career…” He touched his immaculate new laptop bag, his eyes instantly welling up. “But I forgave you a long time ago. You weren’t in a stable place. Seeing you like this… it truly breaks my heart.” He looked on the verge of tears. Anastasia, whose face had been etched with a flicker of regret, hardened instantly. The memory of the violence erased any nascent pity. “Hey, Cal, how much for this fish?” Paul suddenly changed tack, pointing to the bag in my hand. “Since we ran into you, I have to support your business, right?” He reached out to take the bag from me. I didn’t let go. “Mr. Hayes, your hands are too precious to touch garbage.” I tried to lower the bag to the ground. Paul, however, made a sudden, exaggerated grab for it. “Oh, don’t be shy, buddy!” In that moment, whoosh. The bag turned over. The water, along with the dead fish, spilled out, soaking me completely. My already filthy T-shirt was now drenched and clinging to my chest. “Oops! I am so sorry, so clumsy!” Paul yelped, leaping back to avoid the spill. “This fish is so slippery!” As he cried out, his eyes were glued to Anastasia’s reaction. Seeing her scowl, he instantly changed his tone. He pointed at the fish on the ground and shouted: “Cal, is this fish spoiled? The smell is rank! Are you selling rotten fish to people? What if someone gets sick? And I heard that, you know, being in prison, you can sometimes pick up…” He trailed off, but the implication was clear. The surrounding neighbors and shoppers, who were already enjoying the spectacle, leaned in closer. “What disease? Is it contagious?” “Selling bad fish is terrible. I won’t buy from him again.” The tide of public opinion instantly turned against me. For a street vendor, a bad reputation is a death sentence. I stood there, letting the dirty water drip from my hair. My face was expressionless. Instead of lunging at him like I had three years ago, I simply bent down and scooped the fish back into the bag. Then I stood up, looking Paul straight in the eye. “Mr. Hayes.” My voice was quiet, but every word cut through the noise. “My fish were delivered this morning. The people on this block have been eating them for six months without issue.” I glanced pointedly at his slick, over-gelled hair. “The only way this fish is dead is if it was poisoned by the hair gel dripping off your expensive head.” A wave of laughter rippled through the onlookers. Paul’s face turned the color of raw liver. “You!” He pointed a trembling finger at me. “Cal is honest. He never cheats anyone,” Dolores chimed in, chewing loudly on her seeds. “Right,” Mr. Rodriguez agreed, pushing his cart closer. “He’s a good man. You rich folks should stop bullying him.” The public tide instantly swung back. The working-class crowd disliked Paul’s pompous cruelty far more than my supposed crime. Paul turned to Anastasia for backup. “Ana, look at him…” Anastasia looked at me, soaking wet but standing ramrod straight. A look of sheer, miserable irritation flashed in her eyes. She clearly found the entire scene mortifying. “Enough!” she snarled, yanking her arm out of Paul’s grasp. “Haven’t you made enough of a scene?” 4 After snapping at Paul, Anastasia turned her attention back to me. Her brow was deeply furrowed, her gaze a high-handed judgment. “Cal, if you’d been half this level-headed three years ago, you wouldn’t have gone to prison.” Her tone was filled with a patronizing disappointment. “If you hadn’t been so impulsive, so violent, we wouldn’t have ended up here. This is all your fault.” I felt a sudden, cold wave of laughter rise in my chest. Three years ago, at the shareholder meeting, Paul had leaned in and whispered to me, “Your parents’ car crash was karma. They were in Anastasia’s way.” Then he’d added, “She’s been mine all along. She tells me that every time she’s in my bed.” I’d lost control. I’d grabbed the first thing I saw—a laptop—and thrown it. Anastasia only saw the assault. She didn’t listen to a single word of my explanation. To protect Paul and for the sake of what she called “integrity,” she’d handed the evidence to the police herself. And now, she was standing here, lecturing me on self-control? “Mrs. Stacey is right,” I conceded, wiping the water from my face. My voice was hoarse. “I deserved it.” “I was blind.” Anastasia’s face darkened. “What is that supposed to mean?” She pulled another stack of bills—maybe six hundred dollars—from her wallet and, adding it to the damp pile on the counter, pushed it all toward me. “Paul was childish and ruined your work space. Take this, go buy some clean clothes.” “Don’t make a spectacle of yourself here. Go home.” Paul, though chastised, smirked, seeing his wife use money to shame me. He assumed a man like me would gratefully pocket the cash. After all, what is pride worth when you’re worried about the rent? I looked down at the money, then up at Anastasia’s self-satisfied expression. I reached into my patched-up pouch and took out the cash she had given me earlier—the blood-stained, wet bills. I grabbed the new stack, balled it all up, and threw it with force straight at her chest. Thwack. Anastasia was stunned. Paul was stunned. “I don’t want it,” I said, looking her dead in the eye, each word heavy and deliberate. “Your money is filthy.” “Take your dirty cash and get out of my sight.” Anastasia exploded. She had never been treated with such contempt, especially not by the man who had once worshiped her. “Calvin!” She shrieked, the veins in her neck bulging. “Stop this pathetic performance! What do you have now besides the stench of fish?” “Your life is ruined! Who else in the world would even look at you now, except me?” Paul seized the opportunity, his voice dripping with malice. “Now, Ana, don’t upset yourself. Cal’s current situation is truly regrettable.” He looked me up and down with vicious contempt. “He can’t even hold down a proper job, let alone get married and start a family.” “I mean, I hear men who’ve spent time inside… their bodies, you know…” He paused, letting the rumor hang in the air. “Who would risk marrying him? He’ll probably die alone and childless.” My hands clenched into fists, my fingernails digging crescents into my palms. I was about to break. Just before the explosion, a rush of tiny footsteps echoed in the alleyway. A small figure burst through, crashing right into my legs. A boy, maybe two or three years old, wearing a clean but faded little tank top. He wrapped his arms tightly around my thigh, looked up, and called out in a clear, happy voice: “Daddy!”

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