My mother was the most meticulously fair woman on earth. For my sister, Amelia, and me, she insisted on what she called the Law of Perfect Parity. Identical dresses. Identical allowances. Even a bowl of fruit had to be measured with a ruler to ensure perfect size equality. This kind of scrupulous balance was, for the most part, a comforting background hum to my childhood, but sometimes, it became a source of ridiculous, unnecessary stress. Like the recent blueberry season. Knowing Amelia loved them, Mom bought her two large boxes. Then, she insisted on forcing another two huge boxes onto me. It didn’t matter how many times I told her I couldn’t stand blueberries—they were always too tart, too mushy, or both. She was adamant: “You both have to have the same amount!” “What you do with them is your business!” Reluctantly, I offloaded my stash onto a colleague I knew was a berry fan. But later that day, as I was leaving the office, I found the boxes in the trash. And I overheard the colleague snarking to someone else: “I don’t know what she was thinking, deliberately giving me these bitter little bombs. Tastes like garbage.” My blood boiled. That night, I called Amelia to vent. “Blueberries are just… naturally bitter and tart,” I griped. As I was talking, I reached for a small bowl of fruit on her coffee table, popping a berry into my mouth out of habit. The taste, however, was a shocking jolt of sweet, crisp freshness. 1. I froze. Amelia looked confused. “What are you talking about? Blueberries aren’t bitter. They’re perfectly sweet and so crunchy.” The taste in my mouth certainly wasn’t a lie. Sweet without being cloying. With a crisp bite that gave way to a clean, sugary burst of juice. They were nothing like the blueberries I remembered eating, which had always been sour, oddly woody, and sometimes soft and slightly slimy. I was still puzzling over it when Amelia chuckled. “Your taste buds are so weird, Scarlett. You’ve been saying strawberries are sour since you were a kid.” “But Mom always buys the really expensive ones. Huge, perfectly sweet, with a hint of vanilla!” Really? Yet, the strawberries I always tasted were bitter and sharp. They were pretty to look at, but the texture and flavor were consistently disappointing. Why would the fruit my mother bought be so different between me and my sister? The only conclusion, an outrageous one I was desperate not to believe, was that she played the role of Fair Mom in public, while secretly running a two-tier system. Amelia got the Grade-A premium, and I was stuck with the economy-pack duds. I forced a brittle smile onto my face and told Amelia, “Maybe it’s just a taste difference thing.” I fled her apartment, rushing out the door. Next, I called Mom. After a casual chat, I slipped in what felt like an innocent question: “I stopped by Amelia’s earlier, and she’d already finished her strawberries.” “Mom, you really don’t have to buy two portions anymore. I don’t even like them. Just give all of it to Amelia.” “Let her eat her fill.” Mom instantly reverted to her old rule: “Absolutely not. I have to keep the scales perfectly balanced between my two girls.” “If you refuse your portion, I won’t buy any for Amelia.” Hearing that, the jumbled thoughts in my head coalesced into something heavy and hard. The impulse to confront her was almost overwhelming. But in the end, I sighed into the phone. “Fine, fine. Buy them. I’ll choke them down if I have to.” I hung up and started scrolling through a decade of memories. When we were kids, Mom would always buy Amelia’s favorite fruits: strawberries, cherries, and blueberries, a constant supply. I didn’t like those, and would beg for the cheaper, easier-to-eat clementines. She would tell me: “If you won’t take your portion, your sister won’t get hers either.” Amelia would, of course, throw a fit. So, for the sake of the family peace, we developed a system, a kind of secret swap. I’d give her my “good” portion of what she liked, and she’d give me her portion of what I liked. It was the same with clothes. Mom would buy Amelia the beautiful, expensive, picture-perfect party dresses. And she’d buy me the plain, gray cotton tees. At first, I liked the dresses. But those fancy outfits were always scratchy and uncomfortable, like they were lined with tiny, invisible sand. So, I would trade clothes with Amelia, too. This black market exchange continued until we both moved out for work, and swapping became too cumbersome. But now, a sick certainty was settling in: Why did Amelia never complain about the bitter fruit? Why did she always say my scratchy dresses were perfectly comfortable? 2. The week Mom said she was mailing the latest shipment of strawberries, I beat her to it. I drove home and offered to take the boxes myself, claiming I wanted to save her the shipping fee. Before I left, she gave me strict instructions: “The top box is for your sister.” “The bottom box is for you.” “Don’t you dare mix them up.” I feigned ignorance. “Why? Aren’t they exactly the same?” Mom’s expression went rigid for a split second before she recovered. “Amelia’s box is a little riper. She eats them fast, you know.” “Yours, you’ll probably forget about until the cows come home, so I picked ones that are less ripe, so they’ll last a few extra days.” It was a perfectly rational explanation. I didn’t press her. I simply drove off, dropped my box off at Amelia’s place, and kept her box for myself. The minute I broke the seal, the sweet, intoxicating perfume of real strawberries burst forth. I didn’t even bother to wash them. I grabbed one and shoved it in my mouth. A massive, succulent bite. It exploded with sweet, clean juice. Not sour. Not woody. Just the kind of transcendent, deep sweetness I had only ever dreamed of. I kept going, one after another, driven by a raw, primal hunger. I ate until my stomach was painfully full, until I was hiccupping strawberry-scented air. Then, I started to cry. It really was true. They were different. How could she talk about the Law of Perfect Parity and yet, when it came to something as simple as fruit, still have a triple-A grade for one daughter and a failure grade for the other? I was certain now. The first time I ever tasted strawberries and blueberries, they were awful. That’s why I refused to try them again. Amelia’s first taste, however, must have been heavenly, leading to her lifelong love. The bias started so early, from when we were just babies. Mom’s phone call came right on cue. She launched into a furious tirade: “How many times did I tell you, don’t mix them up, don’t mix them up! You are so incompetent! You can’t even handle one small chore…” I cut her off gently. “I ate the strawberries. They were amazing.” The scolding on the other end of the line went completely silent. Then, I continued. “I also finally got to taste Amelia’s blueberries.” “They were a flavor I have never, ever experienced before.” “Mom, you’ve worked so hard all these years. Putting on this elaborate, decades-long production of ‘The Fair Mother,’ all while running a covert operation to keep the good stuff out of my hands. Even a simple box of fruit requires this much emotional labor.” I’m usually a hothead, the type to turn any dissatisfaction into a Category 5 hurricane. But this time, I only felt a crushing, profound weariness. I simply didn’t understand. “We’re both your kids. Why the good stuff for one and the cheap stuff for the other?” “If you didn’t like me, or didn’t want to spend top dollar on me, you could have just said so!” 3. I hung up, then blocked her number. Relatives quickly started calling, trying to mediate. “You’re an adult now. Why can’t you just talk things out?” “Why the standoff? She’s never truly wronged you all these years.” I told them exactly what Mom had done. Since she was capable of such deception, she shouldn’t fear the gossip. After a few calls, the relative intervention ceased. Amelia came to see me, looking awkward. “Mom’s getting old and maybe a little confused,” she stammered. “Scarlett, why are you making such a big deal out of this? You’re successful. You don’t need the money.” I laughed, a cold, sharp sound. “She’s confused now? What about ten years ago?” “Amelia, I’m asking you straight: Back when we did the swaps, were the things I was giving you good or bad?” Amelia was silent for a long time. Finally, she spoke. “The very first ones—the fruit and the clothes—were bad. The fruit was sour, and the clothes were cheap quality.” “After Mom found out about our secret swaps, the things you traded me later were the good ones.” So, it was all true. Mom favored Amelia. She wanted her to have the best. But afraid I’d kick up a fuss, she faked the Law of Perfect Parity. She bought me the cheap knock-offs to make me hate them, then used my voluntary trade with Amelia as the perfect cover to give Amelia the premium products, guilt-free. This was the first time I had ever truly confronted my parents’ bias. And the realization filled me with a sickening disgust. I couldn’t believe how masterfully my mother could perform affection. I cut off Amelia’s attempt to defend Mom, my voice thick with rage. “It’s easy for you to sit there and preach, Amelia. You enjoyed all the best things—the sweet fruit, the perfect dresses—since childhood.” “I was the idiot, happily handing over the prime cut, thinking I was getting a great deal.” “And you, Amelia? You’re no saint, either. When you got the good stuff, the sweet berries and the pretty dresses, why didn’t you ever clue me in?” Amelia scrambled to defend herself. “I didn’t know! If I’d known, I would have told you how good the strawberries and blueberries were!” “Who could have guessed Mom would go to such lengths?” Amelia’s feigned innocence only made her look more repulsive to me. I hung up and blocked her number, too. It wasn’t until my father, Richard, returned from a business trip abroad and learned what happened that I broke my boycott. The holidays were approaching, and he insisted I come home. “Whatever the argument is, you have to say it face-to-face,” he urged. “You’re bottling up this anger, and it’s going to turn into a sickness. Whether you want to cut ties or not, you need to state your case.” It was my father’s words that convinced me to return for Christmas Eve dinner. I was burning with hatred, but the moment I saw my mother’s face, the rage seemed to drain out of me. She refused to acknowledge the issue of the cheap produce, and I, too, couldn’t summon the courage to fight her in person. It was easy to do over a screen, impossible in her presence. After dinner, Mom produced two necklaces, acting as if nothing had happened. “I wanted to get you both solid gold bracelets,” she said. “But the price of gold has skyrocketed. Now I can only afford two necklaces.” Before she could finish, I blurted out, “I suppose you got Amelia the real gold and me the gold-plated vermeil?” The room went instantly cold. I regretted it immediately. Why couldn’t I be direct? Why did I have to be so cutting and passive-aggressive? That wasn’t my personality. Mom’s eyes reddened. Dad shot her a dark look, then told me, “You choose first.” “Your mother’s tendency to run a two-tier system… she gets it from your grandmother.” 4. My father offered a plausible explanation for my mother’s favoritism. “Your mom, Debra, was the oldest. Your grandmother always favored the younger siblings.” “Sometimes, the rare time your mother was given something, her younger brother and sister would immediately try to take it from her.” “She has a soft personality. She was never able to fight them off.” Dad glanced at Amelia. “Your sister has your mother’s disposition—soft, compliant.” “But you, you take after me.” “You are the squeaky wheel. If you’re unhappy, you make a scene. When you were small, if you saw your sister eating something good, you’d try to snatch it.” “So…” I interrupted him. “How small are we talking about, Dad?” “I can remember things from seven or eight, and I never remember trying to snatch anything from Amelia.” Amelia chimed in softly, “I don’t remember that either.” Mom looked defensive. “When you were in a high chair, eating solid foods, you were constantly grabbing at your sister’s plate!” “If you saw her eating something you didn’t have, you’d scream and throw a tantrum. You were so demanding! You ate so much, you nearly bankrupted us.” So, because of something that happened when I was a toddler… Mom decided I shouldn’t have nice things, or else I’d keep fighting Amelia for them? “So, you’ve been fooling me like an idiot for all these years?” Mom didn’t answer, just wiped her tears. “We didn’t have a lot of money back then. We couldn’t buy two of everything.” “And when you ate the good stuff, you wouldn’t stop. I simply decided not to give you any. Later, I saw you were perfectly happy with clementines…” I let out a cold, cynical laugh. Dad, meanwhile, continued to scold Mom in front of me. He concluded: “To prevent your mother from being ‘confused’ again, from now on, you pick first.” “If you feel it’s not enough, you take both.” Since Dad had given me the green light, I unhesitatingly collected both necklaces. I wasn’t about to give up something good now that it was in my hand. It was the only way to appease the anger boiling in my chest, since I couldn’t actually sever ties with my mother. She had her bias, and I had my very real hurt. But she had also done things right—helping with my education, taking care of me when I was sick. Those acts couldn’t be instantly erased. I couldn’t cut the cord, so I settled for taking temporary, tangible compensation. Call it a lesson. But that very evening, I noticed a solid gold bracelet on Amelia’s wrist. I immediately cornered her. “Did Mom give you that?”

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After I moved into the new apartment, I always felt like someone was watching me. It wasn’t until I saw a man with binoculars in the window across the street that I finally understood. A primal terror seized me. I stormed over there to confront him, but he just smiled a sickening, entitled grin. “You’re showering with the blinds open—don’t tell me you weren’t asking for it?” he sneered. “Maybe you wanted me to notice you, huh?” “Besides,” he continued, the smirk widening into a leer, “I had this place first. You chose to rent here, right across the street from me. You’re playing coy, but you’ve got a crush. Come on, sweetie, you liked being watched.” Enraged and disgusted, I fought him. In the struggle, he pulled a knife and stabbed me repeatedly. When I opened my eyes, the cold shock of the blade was gone, and I was back on the day I first discovered I was being watched. 1 The fluorescent light in my bathroom made me squint, but the phantom coldness of the knife still clung to my skin. It wasn’t a dream. I was back. According to the last timeline, I would turn my head any second now and lock eyes with that man—Kevin—holding the binoculars across the alley. My heart hammered against my ribs, and a cold sweat instantly soaked through my shirt. No. Not this time. I couldn’t confront him. He was a psychopath. If he knew I’d found him out, he would attack me just as he did before. I couldn’t panic. Panic was what killed me. I forced myself to be calm and stepped out of the bathroom, carefully avoiding looking toward the window opposite. Once I was in the visual dead zone of the apartment, I grabbed my phone, hands shaking, and called the police. After hanging up, I quickly texted my closest friends and my mom. Their responses were immediate and frantic. “Honey, don’t you dare move! Lock all the doors. Mom’s on her way!” “Harper, stay on video call with me, sweetie, I’ll keep you company. Don’t let me hang up.” A knot tightened in my chest. I couldn’t let them get involved. He knew this building. Who knew what he might do if he ran into them? “The police will be here fast,” I replied. “If you rush over now, you’ll just be panicking. And if he’s downstairs and you bump into him… it’ll be more dangerous.” After assuring them I was safe and everything was locked, I went through the entire apartment, double-checking every window latch and deadbolt. Even after all that, I still felt that awful, prickly sensation—the feeling of eyes glued to me. The discomfort of being watched wrapped around my chest like suffocating vines. I didn’t dare sit down. I huddled in the corner by the front door, staring fixedly at the peephole. I have no idea how long I waited. My phone screen kept lighting up with texts from my mom and my best friend, Maya, asking if the police had arrived yet. I kept replying not yet, and my impatience grew into a sickening dread. I couldn’t help it. I lifted my gaze toward the building across the way. My heart lurched. Kevin and his binoculars were gone. He wasn’t there? I blinked, then stared, confirming the window was empty. There was no silhouette, no figure. Did I make too much noise calling the police? Did he spot me? Or was he off doing something else? A dozen terrifying scenarios flooded my mind, but one small, cowardly thought brought a sliver of relief: As long as he wasn’t staring at me from over there, I could breathe. I leaned back against the wall, my tense muscles easing fractionally. Just a little longer, and the police would be here. I would be safe. Knock. Knock. Knock. The sound, sudden and sharp, echoed through the quiet apartment. My heart leaped into my throat, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The police? Already? I crept to the door and pressed my eye to the peephole. The moment my vision focused, my body seized up. It wasn’t the police. It was him. Kevin. “Come on out, sweetie. I know you’re in there.” His voice was muffled, but its oily undertone slithered right through the door. “You thought calling the cops would stop me?” “Too bad for you. I got here first.” The blood drained from my face. How did he know? Then I remembered his delusional rambling from the last timeline. He had rented this place before. He had been casing it. He was watching me—every move I made was under his surveillance. His voice, thick and repulsive, came through the door again. “I knew you were different from the others. You chose my old apartment. You feel something for me, right?” That sickening, twisted logic. My stomach churned, and I fought the urge to vomit. He started rambling, a horrifying domestic fantasy. “I know, you’re just too shy to admit it. There’s nothing shameful about having a crush on me.” “I’ve got it all planned out. Once we’re together, we’ll redecorate this place. Get a big sectional sofa in the living room, and we can curl up and watch Netflix together every night.” Goosebumps prickled my entire body, but I knew I couldn’t let my fear show. I had to play along. I had to buy time for the police to arrive. “That sounds… that sounds nice,” I managed, keeping my voice shaky but soft. “Actually, I’ve always thought you seemed… kind of sweet. I just didn’t know how to talk to you.” He took the bait. His voice instantly became excited and possessive. “I knew you liked me!” I pressed on. “Maybe… maybe we could start talking. See where it goes.” He immediately agreed. Feeling that his erratic emotional state had stabilized slightly, I let out a minuscule breath of relief. Just a little longer. The police had to be close. That’s when I heard a sound that froze the breath in my lungs. Shk-ting. The slick, unmistakable sound of metal sliding against a sheath. A knife being drawn. His tone instantly curdled, the earlier obsession replaced by a cold, murderous fury. “But… you called the cops. Why did you call the cops? Are you playing me for a fool?” My heart leaped back into my throat. “I was just so scared! I panicked and made a mistake! I’m calling them right now to say everything is fine!” He slammed his body against the door. “Too late! Calling the police is a betrayal! You’re a liar! I’m going to kill you!” The door panel groaned and shuddered under the force of the impact. I scrambled backward. With a sickening CRACK, the deadbolt gave way. He burst through the doorway, knife raised, his face a mask of contorted rage. “Die, you backstabbing little cheat!” I snatched a chair and shoved it up, blocking his attack. CLANG! The blade bit into the chair leg, sending splinters flying. I used the distraction to retreat, my mind screaming with the memory of the last time, the knife tearing into my abdomen. “The police are here! Stop right now, or you’ll be too late!” He didn’t listen. He raised the knife again and lunged. I dodged desperately, scrambling over furniture, the apartment descending into chaos. Just as my strength was about to give out, I heard the sound of a siren and a bullhorn outside. “Police! Inside! Drop your weapon immediately!” Kevin froze. His movement was a split-second pause, but it was all I needed. I shoved the broken chair at him with all my strength, and he stumbled backward, momentarily disoriented. The police officers—two men and a woman—swarmed through the broken doorway. Within seconds, they had him pinned to the floor, the knife kicked out of his grasp. He was still thrashing and screaming a litany of obscenities. “She’s mine! Don’t you touch her!” As I watched them cuff him and haul him away, the adrenaline drained out of me. My legs buckled, and I crumpled to the floor, my back slick with icy sweat. Safe. Finally safe. A wave of intense relief washed over me, and I couldn’t stop the tears that poured down my face. I thought it was over. But one week later, I was sitting on my living room sofa, trying to relax and watch TV, when that familiar, crawling sensation of being watched returned. Just then, my phone rang. It was Detective Miller from the precinct. “Ms. Harper, the suspect who harassed you… Kevin…” His voice was low and serious. “He attempted suicide during transport to the correctional facility’s health wing. He escaped while we were taking him to the hospital.” “We’re mobilizing all units for a full manhunt,” he continued. “You need to be extremely vigilant. Do not leave your apartment alone. Lock everything down. Call us instantly if anything happens.” I stood paralyzed, the receiver pressed to my ear. That’s why the feeling was back. Rigidly, I turned my head and looked across the street. The window where Kevin had once stood with his binoculars was dark, but now, a soft, solitary light was on. Oh God. He was back. He had come for me. I slammed the phone down and immediately redialed the police. “Detective Miller! He’s back! He’s in the building across the street! The light is on in that apartment!” After hanging up, my mind filled with the vivid image of Kevin bursting through my door with the knife. I have to lock it down harder. I went through the apartment again, checking the locks, then pulling a heavy shoe rack in front of the front door as a barricade. I went to the windows and drew the curtains tight, making sure there wasn’t a single crack of light visible. But the feeling didn’t fade. It grew stronger, as if a hundred unseen eyes were boring into me from every corner of the room. I couldn’t sit, couldn’t stand still. I paced the length of the living room, back and forth, trying to burn off the panic. I don’t know how long I walked. Eventually, I realized I desperately needed to use the bathroom. I crept toward the door, paranoid of making any noise. Afterward, I turned on the faucet to wash my hands. The cold water against my skin sent a shiver through me. I looked up into the mirror. The woman staring back was pale, her eyes wide and rimmed with fear. She looked utterly pathetic. Staring at that terrified reflection, a terrifying thought flickered through my mind. For a split second, I had the bizarre, terrifying impression that the person in the mirror wasn’t me at all. It was Kevin. He was right there, staring out with that same cold, possessive, obsessed look he’d given me the moment before he stabbed me last time. I clutched my chest, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. It’s a hallucination. Just my mind playing tricks. I repeated the mantra over and over, but my body wouldn’t stop trembling. Then, a knock on the front door. “Ms. Harper, this is the police. Are you home?” The sound jolted me out of my paralyzing fear. The police! I rushed to the door and peered through the peephole. Two uniformed officers were standing outside. Relief flooded me, and I quickly unbolted the door. “Officers! Was he… was he caught?” I asked desperately, glancing down the hall, terrified Kevin might appear at any second. The officer shook his head, his expression grim. “Ms. Harper, we checked the unit across the street. The one you pointed out? There’s no one in there.” I stared at him, my mind spinning. “But… but that’s impossible! I saw the light on just now!” “We went in and conducted a thorough search. It’s empty.” The other officer spoke up. “We spoke to the building manager. They reported a break-in earlier. A petty thief likely turned the lights on when they were rummaging. We’ve apprehended the thief.” My mouth fell open, but the terror inside me refused to subside. It intensified. “Then… where is he? The man who escaped? Where did he go?” The lead officer’s voice became stern. “We are still looking. He has not been located yet.” “We have patrol units covering the perimeter of the complex, but you must be careful. Do not go out alone.” After the police left, my mind was a mess. I glanced toward the dark window across the street, sure that a pair of unseen eyes were watching me from behind the drawn curtain. Where was he? Was he hiding somewhere, still observing me? Another week crawled by. Kevin’s wanted poster was shared in our condo’s group chat and on every social media platform. But the police, the neighbors, and the building security all had nothing. He had simply vanished. My life was a constant state of hyper-vigilance. I never left the apartment. The windows and door locks were never opened. Not even during the day could I pull back the curtains. I felt that if I exposed even the slightest crack, a pair of eyes would immediately seize on it from the shadows. Every corner of the apartment felt saturated with his presence. The feeling of being watched never truly went away. To make matters worse, I started hearing strange noises at night—a faint, intermittent sound coming from deep inside the apartment. Terrified, I would huddle under the covers, barely breathing. But whenever I finally gathered the courage to investigate, I’d find nothing. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I called Maya and begged her to come stay with me. Maya walked through the apartment with me several times, but she didn’t hear anything. I clutched her hand tightly. “I swear I’m not making it up. Every night, there’s this weird noise. I think… I think he might be hiding in the walls of this apartment.” Maya squeezed my hand and sighed. “You’ve developed PTSD, sweetie. Look at these locks. The windows. How could he possibly get in here? Besides, the police are looking for him. If he were here, they’d have found him.” I was about to argue when she suddenly wrinkled her nose. “What is that smell? It’s gross. Like… like something rotting. A dead mouse, maybe?” I paused, inhaling deeply, but I didn’t smell anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps I was just used to the stale air in the apartment. “I don’t smell anything,” I told her. Maya tugged me toward the bathroom. “I definitely do. You’ve been cooped up here too long. You should do a deep clean. Even if it’s a dead mouse, that’s unsanitary. You’ll get sick.” She was right. Dead mouse or not, a deep clean would help settle my nerves. After Maya left, I started scrubbing every surface. After half a day of work, the air quality improved noticeably, and the oppressive, heavy feeling in the apartment seemed to lift slightly. But when I stepped into the bathroom, the stench Maya had mentioned hit me full force. I covered my nose and surveyed the room. The floor, sink, and toilet were spotless. No mouse corpse. I followed the smell, and to my horror, I realized the odor was strongest near the mirror. The closer I got, the more acrid and suffocating it became. Frowning, I reached out to wipe the mirror. But the moment my hand made contact, I froze. Instead of the usual smooth, cold glass, the mirror was slick and tacky. It felt greasy and slimy, making my skin crawl. I quickly withdrew my hand and looked down. It was covered in a pale, yellowish, viscous film. That’s where the worst of the smell was coming from. “Ugh—” I gagged, turning to wash my hands. Just then, the sound began. Shk-shk-shk. Shk-shk-shk. The noise… it was the weird, intermittent sound I’d been hearing every night! Every hair on my body stood on end. I turned, rigid with terror, and fixed my eyes on the mirror. The sound wasn’t coming from anywhere else; it was coming from inside the mirror. My pale, horrified reflection stared back at me. Nothing else. But the shk-shk-shk continued. I was shaking uncontrollably, but my feet felt nailed to the floor. I knew if I didn’t find out what this was, I would never have a moment of peace again. Trembling, I found a screwdriver in my toolbox. After taking several deep, ragged breaths, I wedged the flat head into the narrow gap at the edge of the mirror frame. I pried hard, and a large section of the mirror crashed to the floor. An avalanche of foul, toxic air rushed out of the cavity, making me gasp and choke. Instinctively, I peered into the dark space behind where the mirror had been. The horror I saw in that brief moment made me scream and collapse onto the cold tile floor.

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Jasper and I were the definition of a forced pair: all scorching chemistry and sheer, mutual hatred. Once the crisis that brought us together was over, I told him I wanted out. He wouldn’t say yes, but he wouldn’t say no, either. Instead, he went off on some ridiculous tangent, asking if I preferred cats or dogs. “Dogs,” I said, frowning. “Why?” He dropped his head and gave a pathetic little yelp. “Woof.” I glared. “Don’t do that.” He cleared his throat, a devilish smirk playing on his lips. “You misunderstand.” “I just wanted to make sure you remembered,” he drawled, his smile completely unapologetic. “You’ve already kissed a dog.” My jaw dropped. 01 The day Christopher Morgan and I broke up, I cried a ridiculous, snotty, heaving mess of tears. It was devastating. I genuinely loved that man—the one who was always so gentle, so thoughtful, so frustratingly handsome. With a double dose of heartbreak weighing me down, I spent the entire afternoon crying all over Jasper. He tried everything. He argued, he negotiated, he exhausted his entire supply of soothing words. Finally, seeing that I knew every logical reason to stop crying but just couldn’t, he told me the ancient joke about the old woman and her two sons. “So, what’s your takeaway?” he asked, once he was done. “It means you have to look at the positive side of life, right?” I sniffled. “Christopher and I breaking up isn’t just a sad thing, it’s also a chance to—” He cut me off with a massive, exaggerated X sign. “Wrong! It means that if an old woman can manage to pop out two sons, the world is absolutely overflowing with men!” I was deep in my misery, but Jasper always knew the exact line to make me snort-laugh through my tears. Jasper and I have been on each other’s nerves since kindergarten. We’d been in each other’s orbit, fighting and arguing, for over two decades, but I’d always had a serious question mark over his sexuality. I’d at least dated Christopher. Jasper, on the other hand, hadn’t even held a girl’s hand since preschool. Objectively, he was gorgeous, charming, and a master conversationalist who could turn on the flattery like a faucet. He regularly left girls completely dazed. But no matter what type of girl—or how beautiful—sent him a love letter or a gift, he always turned them down flat. He never gave a reason. Over time, the rumor spread: Jasper Reid preferred men. Girls who knew we were close would sneak up and ask me about it. I’d shake my head in genuine confusion. “I honestly don’t know, but he’s never actually dated a guy, either.” He was still single when we graduated college and started our careers. A sudden, brilliant idea—a desperate, stupid, childish idea—flashed through my mind. I stared at Jasper with wide-eyed intensity. After a long pause, I leaned in. “Jasper, let’s pretend to be a couple.” He frowned. “Are you finally going to use me as a rebound?” “No!” I threw myself forward, grabbing his sleeve tightly. “Just hear me out…” Jasper was initially confused. But as I kept talking, his expression slowly transformed. His eyes narrowed. His lips curled up. I could almost visualize a big, bushy fox tail unfurling behind him, swishing happily from left to right, right to left. When I finished, he kept his eyes narrowed. “Sounds great,” he said. And just like that, I foolishly coerced Jasper into playing my fake boyfriend. 02 After seeing Jasper out, I lay spread-eagled on my bed. The reason I’d given him was that my parents, who were constantly abroad, would definitely start pressuring me to find someone after my breakup with Christopher. Fake-dating Jasper would get them off my back. But I’d lied. The real reason was pure, unadulterated spite. I wanted to make Christopher jealous. I wanted him to see that even after he let me go, I could immediately find someone better. It was a tantrum. I couldn’t understand why our relationship felt so emotionally sterile. I wanted to introduce all my friends to Christopher, but he said a relationship was between two people, and we didn’t need to “bind our social lives.” I wanted him to check in with me throughout the day, but he told me I was being “too sensitive” and that “adults need their own rhythm.” And just the other day, I was having a meltdown after a horrible day at work, and all I wanted was for him to tell me I was right. Instead, he coolly analyzed the situation, pointing out who was at fault and telling me the workplace required “rationality.” Rationality my ass. I’d go talk to an AI if all I wanted was logic. What did I need him for? In a burst of anger, I broke up with him. He looked genuinely heartbroken, I’ll admit—a flicker of that deep, familiar melancholy in his eyes. But in the end, he agreed, saying he respected my choice. I was stunned. Why was it so hard for him to just fight for me? The problem was, I truly loved him. His quiet strength, his formidable intellect, and his underlying warmth were incredibly appealing to me. Completely lost, I cried to Jasper for what felt like hours. Hearing his ridiculously crude joke about having plenty of men in the world, a spark had ignited. If Christopher truly loved me, could using Jasper be the push I needed? But what if I was making a terrible mistake? What if I was poisoning an already struggling relationship? Was it fair to Jasper? He didn’t like me anyway, so a little cooperation couldn’t hurt, could it? Besides, the words were already out. If I backed out now, I’d look insane. I was lying on my bed, clutching my head in misery, when Jasper texted. Jasper: I’ve been gone three hours. Not one text? Is this how you ‘date’? Me: ? We agreed it was fake. Jasper: … You’re supposed to fawn over me. Me: Fuck off. I threw my phone down in a fresh wave of frustration. 03 To my surprise, I ran into Christopher much sooner than expected. Jasper, who had taken over his family’s business early, invited me to a gala a few days into our “relationship.” He sent a driver to pick me up. I was dressed to the nines… and immediately started watching the drama with Jasper. “Seriously? That Mr. Thompson looks so respectable, and you’re telling me he has four illegitimate kids?” “No way, Ms. Chen is that beautiful, and she’s dating her driver?” I was sweeping the room, asking Jasper about every recognizable face, when I spotted a tall, distinguished figure in the distance. I gasped and jabbed Jasper in the ribs. “Oh my god, is that Christopher Morgan?” Jasper followed my gaze. Christopher was wearing a perfectly tailored gray suit. His hair was meticulously styled. He was holding a glass of scotch and exchanging pleasantries with an older CEO. I sighed internally: He’s still the same. Elegant, formidable. A sleek, black Persian. “This is Noah Caldwell’s event,” Jasper said smoothly. “He’s looking to reshuffle his legal team. Christopher’s a high-profile lawyer, so it’s not surprising he’s here.” I listened, my mind racing as I hatched my secret plan. Jasper noticed my excitement. “Why are you so worked up? We live in the same city, our circles intersect. Why the surprise? You still have feelings for him?” I kept silent. Jasper adjusted his tie in the reflection of a nearby floor-to-ceiling window. Then, he casually took my hand. “Come on. Time to show off.” I tried to pull away. But with so many eyes in the room, I couldn’t make a scene. “No, no, I don’t want to,” I hissed. Christopher noticed us. He knew Jasper and I were childhood friends. He excused himself from the CEO and walked over. Jasper gave him a mocking, overly-sincere smile. “Long time no see, Mr. Morgan. You’re looking as pristine as ever.” Christopher gave him a polite nod. Then he turned to me. “Kenna, it’s good to see you.” I managed a strained smile, looking down. “Y-you too.” Christopher’s eyes landed on my hand in Jasper’s. I snatched my hand back as if burned. Jasper smoothly stepped between us, separating me from Christopher. “Mr. Morgan, I heard Mr. Zhang is looking to partner with you. We’re going over there to discuss it—I can make the introduction for you. You owe me one, okay?” Jasper pointed toward the billiards table. Christopher smiled. “That would be appreciated.” I don’t play, so I stood by and watched them shoot pool, interjecting occasionally. But Jasper was completely insufferable. Every time I tried to talk to Christopher, he jumped in to interrupt. When it was Christopher’s turn, I pulled Jasper aside. “What is your problem?” Jasper’s brow was furrowed enough to kill a mosquito. “I want to punch him. That sanctimonious fake!” “He’s a great guy! Don’t ruin this. If you mess with him, you’re dead to me.” He argued, self-righteous: “You two broke up! Why can’t I rough him up a little? He made you cry so much!” I yanked his arm. “No matter what, you will not do anything ridiculous. Do you hear me?” Christopher was looking over, waiting for Jasper. Under my fierce glare, Jasper sighed, grumbled “Fine,” and reluctantly agreed. Then, he suddenly swooped in and kissed me, quick and possessive, right on the corner of my mouth. Before I could react, he turned and strolled off to Christopher, looking utterly triumphant. I was fuming. For the rest of the evening, I desperately tried to find a moment to explain things to Christopher, but Jasper kept me on a short leash. Finally, I clutched my stomach. “Ow, my stomach hurts.” Jasper looked concerned. “What’s wrong? Do you need to leave?” “No, I think I just got my cramps. I’m going to the ladies’ room.” Jasper nodded knowingly and released my arm. We’d been through school together. When I was younger, I was embarrassed about my period and would just sit there, pale and silent. Jasper was always the one who noticed, raised his hand, and claimed he had a stomachache so he could run out and buy me supplies. As I brushed past Christopher, I secretly poked his side and walked straight toward the restroom. He was waiting by the door a few minutes later. 04 He offered a polite smile. “Kenna, you’re still as mischievous as ever.” “Christopher, Jasper and I aren’t actually—” I took a step forward, intending to grab his sleeve, but then I remembered my “role” and let my hand drop. Christopher’s voice was gentle. “Kenna, this isn’t good for you, for me, or for Jasper.” “I know you’re feeling resentful, but I’ve come to realize that our personalities simply aren’t compatible.” “You want me to regret things, to change everything and come back to you. I wish I could be the man you need, but I can’t. You are a wonderful woman—beautiful, vibrant, confident, and fun. Being with you is easy.” “But I cannot be the lover you envision. If you truly care for Jasper, I wish you both the best, and I’m genuinely happy for you. If you don’t care for him, then you need to figure out what you truly want and find the right person.” My eyes dropped. I couldn’t look at him. My entire petty scheme felt transparent and embarrassing in the face of this mature, rational man. Before I could speak, Jasper’s loud shout echoed down the hallway. “Kendall! What are you two doing here?! Stomach all better, is it?” I winced, a feeling of deep mortification washing over me. Jasper swaggered over, muttering a stream of passive-aggressive remarks. “Jasper has no ill will toward you,” I quickly explained. Christopher’s smile only broadened. “I know.” Jasper was getting closer. “What are you two chatting about? Speak up, I can’t hear you!” I leaned toward Christopher. “My birthday is in a few days. Will… will you still wish me happy birthday?” “Of course,” he said warmly. I smiled, nodded, and quickly ran toward Jasper. “Why are you yelling? There are so many people here! It’s humiliating to be with you!” I grabbed him and pulled him back toward the billiards table, terrified he’d start a brawl with Christopher. “Why am I yelling? I want to see what that hypocrite is going to do to you next!” He was scowling fiercely. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh, sealed sanitary pad. “Are you on? Was there one in the bathroom?” “Where did you get that?” A flush of awkward redness spread across his face. “Never mind that. If you’re on, go use it.” I giggled. “Nope. False alarm. I just ate too much cold food.” On the ride home, Christopher’s words kept echoing in my mind. I glanced over at Jasper. He’d had a few drinks. He was leaning against the car door, the window cracked open. The wind rustled his hair, sweeping a few strands across his perfect nose. He caught my eye, his own eyes slightly red at the corners from the alcohol. He looked vulnerable, but he was still trying to look menacing. He bared his teeth. “What? Thinking of yelling at me again? Let me guess, you’re mad I kissed you? I just wanted to show that fake that plenty of people want you!” The things I wanted to say got stuck in my throat. I sank into my seat and picked at my fingernails. He leaned closer, playful. “Seriously, are you mad?” I shook my head. “I just… I don’t know what I want anymore.” “I do,” he said decisively. “What you need right now is a stable relationship and a successful career.” “Not that phony, fake gentleman Christopher Morgan!” 05 Nothing happened after that night. I kept meaning to tell Jasper we should stop the charade. But then I saw how excited he was about it, and I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. On my birthday, I was slumped over my desk at work, feeling miserable. My mom had texted: Kenna, your dad and I are swamped with work, so we can’t be there. We ordered a massive cake for you, sweetie. Don’t forget to pick it up. She followed up with a massive transfer. I flipped my phone face down in frustration. My parents had barely been there for my birthday growing up. This year, though, I really wished they would come home. Christopher and I were done, which made me sad. Playing house with Jasper felt wrong and confusing. A knot of tangled, messy emotions tightened in my chest, making it hard to breathe. And lately, work had been one crisis after another. All I wanted was to have a carefree birthday with my parents. Why was it so difficult? The sunset cast long shadows across the huge office. My colleagues were slowly trickling out. Someone asked why I wasn’t leaving. I told her I was tired and needed a minute to rest. “Kenna, don’t let it get to you,” she said softly. “Briana messed up the numbers and passed the buck to you. You’ll get yelled at, but who hasn’t dealt with that? Just learn your lesson for next time.” I turned my head to watch her go, the sunlight blinding me. I was new to the corporate world. I made mistakes and was easily manipulated. The world felt predatory. I just wanted to go home and have my mom hug me. A loud ring broke the silence. I grabbed my phone. It was Jasper. His bright, clear voice came through the speaker. “Happy birthday, Kenna! You haven’t left work yet, have you?” “How did you know?” I muttered listlessly. “I drove past your place and the lights were off. Get down here! I’m outside your building. I’m taking you to a great dinner.” I didn’t answer right away. My parents’ apartment was inside a gated community. He clearly went out of his way to check on me. “Do you know how hard it is to get a table at that fine dinning place? I pushed off a massive meeting just to spend your birthday with you.” He rattled on, urging me to hurry. I stood up, shoving my things into my tote bag. Stepping out of the elevator, I saw Jasper waiting in the lobby. Long legs propped against his car, one hand in his pocket. He had a lollipop sticking out of his mouth, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Always trying to look cool. I walked toward him. The moment he saw me, his face lit up. But when he saw my downcast expression, he bent down, turned his head, and looked straight into my eyes. “What’s wrong, Birthday Girl?” “You’re unhappy?” “Yes! Unhappy!” I’d been waiting all day. Waiting for my parents to surprise me by flying back from France. Waiting for Christopher to keep his promise. Nothing. And then I got humiliated by a colleague. In the car, Jasper drove and spoke casually. “Christopher didn’t send you a birthday message, did he? That’s what’s got you down.” “How did you know?” “Ugh, classic fake-gentleman move. Tell you what, I’ll go buy him some rat poison to verify his species.” I turned to him, confused. “If he takes the rat poison and dies,” Jasper explained with mock gravity, “he’s a rat. If he takes it and doesn’t die… he’s a demon rat who needs a stake through the heart.”

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I caught the transfer student slipping an ultra-thin condom into my childhood fiancé’s pocket. She clapped a hand over her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh, please don’t misunderstand, little sister. I’m not planning on using these with your sweet boyfriend.” Gavin, my so-called fiancé, quickly explained, “We ran out of the rubber membrane we needed for a science experiment. We’re just substituting. Don’t get the wrong idea, Ainsley.” He braced himself, anticipating my usual spoiled tantrum. I saw the familiar, weary impatience settle between his brows. But I simply lowered my head and continued with my studies, my face expressionless. Gavin didn’t know it, but the day he shared an ice cream cone with that girl—Kylie—was the day I finalized my plans to leave the country. As far as I was concerned, he was already out of the game. 1 “We’re just using it for a lab experiment. Ainsley, don’t be so unreasonable.” I hadn’t uttered a single word, yet Gavin was already launching a preemptive strike. He rubbed the bridge of his nose in irritation, preparing himself for the relentless questioning and demands he expected from me. I hadn’t actually been paying attention to what he was saying. I only looked up because their noisy little exchange was disrupting my English listening comprehension practice. Annoyed that I’d missed a sentence, I rewound the audio track, dropped my gaze, and started listening again. Gavin froze. Kylie nudged him in the arm, a sly, teasing look in her eyes. “Oh, is your little childhood fiancée trying a new tactic? Realized that being aggressive doesn’t work, so now she’s playing hard to get?” “Better go, childhood darling. She’s sulking and waiting for you to beg her to be okay.” Gavin’s voice was laced with frustration. “Beg her for what? She really acts like she’s my wife. If anyone needs begging, you do it.” “Ooh, tough guy. Be careful, or your little fiancée might stop talking to you forever.” Gavin’s cold gaze landed on the top of my head. “Then I pray she actually follows through with it.” Kylie snickered. “You are seriously the most ungallant man, Gavin.” The classroom was slowly filling up. The buzzing, fly-like noise around my ears gradually faded. I finished checking the final question on my listening quiz just as my housekeeper called. “Miss Ainsley, all the paperwork has been processed. You will depart in seven days. I have also forwarded all the information regarding Mr. Gavin’s recent behavior to the Chairman.” I hummed in response, glancing diagonally ahead at Gavin, who was whispering something into Kylie’s ear. I didn’t catch what he said, but Kylie giggled and playfully reached her hand into the back of his shirt collar. I looked away, speaking calmly into the phone. “Once my mother reviews the file, inform her that I am canceling the verbal agreement of the engagement with Gavin and that all projects with the Henry family are to be immediately halted.” 2 I walked out of the Principal’s office. The Principal had been smiling deferentially after I confirmed that the campus supply donations, promised long before my departure, would not be withdrawn. As I turned the corner from the office corridor, I ran straight into Kylie and Gavin. “Hey, Gavin, why is your little fiancée coming out of the Principal’s office? She wouldn’t be reporting us for the thing this morning, would she?” Kylie put on a pitiful, frightened expression and reached out to take my hand. “Oh, please, little sister, don’t get the wrong idea. We really were just using that thing for a science experiment. We didn’t break any school rules, honestly.” I pulled my hand back, a surge of distaste rising in my chest. “We aren’t friends. Please call me by my name, Ainsley.” Kylie looked momentarily stunned, her eyes welling up with contrived hurt. “I… I just thought it sounded friendlier to call you that.” “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have tried to climb the social ladder with a rich person like you. Ainsley, please, I beg you, don’t report me. I promise I’ll stop talking to Gavin completely!” Gavin stepped in, shielding Kylie behind him. “Ainsley, this is a school. Cut the Upper East Side Queen Bee routine.” His eyes held an obvious mix of rebuke and impatience. “Go back inside right now and tell the Principal you were lying and playing a joke. Kylie and I have a completely innocent friendship.” “Stop it, Gavin,” Kylie said, peeking her head out, her tone one of long-suffering helplessness. “Everyone in the grade knows you two are childhood sweethearts, inseparable. I shouldn’t have been delusional enough to think I could be your friend.” With that, Kylie adopted a look that suggested she was about to burst into tears and turned to walk away. Gavin grabbed her arm, stopping her, then glared at me. “Ainsley, do you know how disgusting you are? I’m a person, a living, breathing human being. Why do you insist on shackling me to you every day, denying me the freedom to even have a friend? Am I for sale?” They kept up their dramatic back-and-forth, giving me no space to speak until now. I looked at the undisguised loathing in Gavin’s eyes and asked softly, “Aren’t you?” 3 I was born emotionally detached; connecting with anyone outside my parents was always difficult. When I was five, I was kidnapped by an enemy of my father. After escaping and nearly being caught again, it was Gavin who blocked the abductor, allowing me to be saved. He took the beating, breaking two of his ribs. Later, in his hospital room, I, the usually distant child, voluntarily told my parents that I wanted Gavin to be my friend. My words shocked them both. It was the first time I had ever expressed a desire for a friend. After a thorough investigation of the Henry family background, they readily agreed. Gavin’s parents were ecstatic, their eyes alight with greedy ambition. My mother came from a prominent old-money family in New York; my father was the patriarch of a top-tier London financial powerhouse. Their son aligning himself with me meant that the Henry family, who barely registered in the city, would suddenly have unlimited prospects. After that, whenever Gavin’s parents visited for the holidays, they would intentionally or unintentionally try to push us together as a couple. My mother privately asked me if, since I was only willing to accept Gavin, I should perhaps secure an engagement with him first. I didn’t feel strongly one way or the other, but meeting my mother’s anxious gaze, I nodded my agreement. I didn’t want her and my father to worry or feel sad over my small affairs. And so, during yet another instance of Gavin’s mother praising us as a perfect couple, my mother promised a verbal engagement. That simple, non-binding agreement was enough to rocket the Henry family into the core circle of New York’s elite. Gavin’s parents were overjoyed. They made Gavin spend every day with me, constantly trying to keep me happy, terrified that I might change my mind. But as he grew older, Gavin’s intentions began to shift. The patience and happy smiles he once offered me gradually curdled into irritation and contempt. He grew to hate hearing people at school call us childhood sweethearts. Until Kylie appeared. The first time I saw her, she was sitting at my desk, rifling through my things. “Gavin, your deskmate is really a girl? Why is all her stuff so ugly? Her taste is so weird.” Gavin leaned against the desk, looking relaxed, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes when he looked at Kylie. “She’s not like you. You like things that are all pink and immature.” “I am not immature!” Kylie pouted, gesturing wildly as she spoke, and promptly knocked over my ceramic mug, sending it crashing to the floor. Gavin’s smile vanished when he saw me suddenly standing there. “Kylie just transferred; she didn’t know any better. Don’t hold it against her.” I kept my gaze fixed on Kylie, my voice flat. “That mug was eight hundred dollars. Pay me within three days.” Kylie gasped, disbelieving. “Eight hundred dollars for some stupid cup! Who do you think you are, a billionaire heiress?” Someone nearby whispered, “She is a billionaire heiress. Her family donated the new middle school dorm and the high school computer lab.” Kylie’s body trembled, her face suddenly flushed red. “But, hey, I didn’t mean to! Why should I pay?” She tugged on Gavin’s sleeve, whimpering softly, “Gavin, your deskmate is such a snob.” Gavin tightened his lips. “Ainsley, it was an accident. Besides, eight hundred dollars is nothing to you. Don’t be so petty. We’re all students here. Stop being such a bully.” “Fine. Then you pay for her. Eight hundred dollars, transfer it to me today.” Gavin’s face turned instantly ashen. “It’s eight hundred dollars! Are you serious?” “I am.” I nodded. “My family’s money doesn’t grow on trees.” With other students watching, Gavin couldn’t back down. He pulled out his phone and transferred the money. Then, he started gathering his books. “Kylie, didn’t you say you needed my help with tutoring? From now on, I’m moving to your desk.” He said it to Kylie, but his eyes were glued to me. It was as if he was waiting for me to plead with him to stay. I merely stepped aside, gesturing for him to hurry up and move his things. He paused, then slammed his books onto the seat next to Kylie in a renewed fit of rage. I remember thinking then: How should I convince my parents? Even if my personality was odd, their love was enough. Whether I had a friend or not truly made no difference. 4 The Principal was leaving to run an errand and chuckled when he saw us standing by the office door. “Gavin, are you also here to withdraw?” Gavin looked confused, turning to me. “Also? Where are you going?” “A competition,” I replied tonelessly. The Principal’s eyes flashed with understanding, and he wished me well before departing. Back in the classroom, the teacher announced the list for the mid-term Most Improved Student Scholarship. It was an award specifically for students who showed significant progress, one per class, given every semester. As the teacher discussed the exam results, I overheard Kylie quietly thanking Gavin. “Gavin, thank you for tutoring me. I’ll buy you dinner when I get the scholarship money.” Gavin smirked. “It’s nothing.” But a moment later, the teacher announced the winner’s name, and it was a different girl. Kylie let out an involuntary, horrified squeak. “How could it be Grace!” The teacher frowned. “If you have an issue, see me after class. Don’t disrupt the room.” After class, Kylie immediately rushed out to corner the teacher. When she returned, she slumped onto her desk, sobbing. “Is it because you rich people think you’re so high and mighty?” Hearing her, everyone gathered around to ask what the teacher had said. Kylie walked toward my desk, her expression a mix of wronged innocence and defiance. “Ainsley, I know this scholarship was set up by your family, but you shouldn’t use your power for private revenge! Just because Gavin and I are friends and you’re jealous, you yanked my spot. How could you be so awful?” That statement stunned everyone. The way they looked at me changed instantly. I looked up from my textbook. “Did the teacher tell you that directly?” Kylie’s eyes darted away. “Do you think I’d lie? Everyone knows that the minute I arrived, Gavin lost interest in you. I even heard you two were engaged. Of course you’d resent me and try to ruin me.” “I know you don’t need the money, and you can’t understand the struggles of people from poor backgrounds like mine. But I desperately need those few thousand dollars. Please, I’ll give Gavin back to you, just give me the scholarship spot, okay?” Gavin, who had just walked back in, saw Kylie crying her eyes out in front of me, and his face hardened. “Ainsley, deal with me if you have an issue. Don’t bully a younger girl.” A younger girl? I felt a fresh wave of disgust. “First, the ‘younger girl’ you speak of is a college repeater who’s older than both of us.” “Second.” I shifted my gaze to Kylie’s face and held up my phone, which was clearly recording. “I have every right to report you for slander based on everything you just said.” Kylie froze, her face turning chalk-white. She stammered and hid behind Gavin. “Forget it, I can’t fight you. I’ll let Grace have the spot. I’ll just swallow my pride and accept that I had to learn the harsh truth about society early.” Pity flashed in Gavin’s eyes. “Ainsley, Kylie improved her score by over a hundred points on the diagnostic. Don’t drag other people into your personal grudge with me.” “Kylie and I are real people, not just tools for your spoiled little power trip!” Before I could say anything else, a girl from the corner of the room, usually quiet and shy, suddenly stood up. Her eyes were red, and her whole body was shaking with the tension of what she was about to do. She walked over, stared at Kylie, and spoke, her voice trembling but every word clear and impactful. “Ainsley didn’t abuse her power. This scholarship is mine by merit.” “My parents passed away, and my grandmother is paralyzed. I live on meager public assistance. Ainsley’s family only set up this scholarship after she learned about my situation. I’m not very smart, and I’ve struggled with certain subjects, so even though it was set up because of me, I haven’t won it in two years. Until this time. I improved my score by 109 points and my rank by 305 places.” “I live honestly and study diligently. I earned this scholarship. Nearly a hundred students benefit from this fund every year, and Ainsley does not deserve to be slandered like this!” By the time she finished, Grace’s face was bright red, and tears were running down her cheeks. 5 The classroom fell silent. Then, low murmurs began to surface. “Ainsley might be cold sometimes, but she’s never looked down on anyone or been a bully.” “Totally. And the payout is six thousand dollars. Four times a year, across dozens of classes. Her family genuinely spends a ton of money. That’s really kind.” “Grace is usually quiet and keeps to herself. She improved that much? Choosing her is definitely the right call.” The room’s sympathy shifted entirely to Grace and me. Kylie’s face cycled through white and crimson before she couldn’t take it anymore and ran out crying. Gavin looked at me, his expression complex. “Even if you didn’t pull strings, did you have to humiliate Kylie? We’re all classmates.” I looked up, a rare flash of genuine anger sparked by his blindness. “Gavin, I’ve tolerated enough.” I had never spoken sharply to Gavin. Firstly, there was no need, and secondly, as my only friend, I was willing to keep him around to manage my parents, provided he didn’t cross the line. This was the first time I had ever confronted him like this. Gavin was stunned. He seemed to feel utterly humiliated by my words, and his face instantly flushed. He gritted his teeth, spat out, “You’re completely impossible,” and stormed out of the classroom. Kylie didn’t return for the remaining two classes. And Gavin, surprisingly, skipped out as well. My mother was three hours behind the domestic time zone, so the news of the engagement cancellation hadn’t yet reached the Henry family. That evening, after showering, I was reading a foreign policy journal when a text from an unknown number flashed on my screen. It was a photo of several opened condom wrappers, thrusting themselves into my view. The photo was accompanied by the text: [You stole my scholarship, so I guess I’ll steal your man. Moron. Did you really believe we were using these for science?] I had expected this, but seeing the visual still made my stomach turn with a sense of nausea. I didn’t reply. I screenshotted the image and the text and forwarded it to the housekeeper. [Send this with the engagement cancellation statement to the Henry family.]

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Nine months pregnant, and my husband was demanding a sex doll. I reluctantly agreed. The day it arrived, he banished me to the guest room. He then spent the night tucked away in our marriage bed, presumably riding roughshod over his new synthetic fantasy. I swallowed the acidic burn in my chest and tried to sleep alone. The next morning, my husband burst into the guest room, white as a sheet. “It’s over! The sex doll… it came to life!” I just stared at him. Funny coincidence. I had a sex doll of my own waiting to be resurrected. 1 Tate hadn’t touched me since I got pregnant. To deal with his personal problems, as he called them, he had a genius idea. “Ainsley, what if I got one of those sex dolls? I hear they’re pretty awesome.” I frowned instantly. “Don’t you think using something like that is… creepy?” He bristled. “Creepy? No way, it’s completely normal, actually.” But seeing the thunderous look on my face, he switched tactics, launching into a month-long campaign of relentless emotional manipulation. “Come on, Honey… please just let me buy one. Can you really stand to see me suffering so much every single day?” Tate Wells was a man who wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted. He spent thirty days browsing models on his phone, softening me up with constant pleas and sighs. I finally cracked, just for the sake of silence. At least I’d have some peace and quiet. Tate immediately clicked “Buy” on the expensive, silicone mannequin he’d been eyeing. A few days later, he came home, beaming, carrying a massive box. I didn’t have the energy for him. I lay on the couch, scrolling through my phone, refusing to even look his way. But he actually dragged me off the cushions. “What is wrong with you?” I demanded, utterly bewildered. He winked conspiratorially, pushing me toward the living room. “I’m opening the package, you need to be out here. I’ll be too self-conscious with you watching… unless, of course, you want to join the fun?” I was too disgusted to speak. He slammed the master bedroom door shut and locked it. The sound of tape ripping and cardboard tearing soon followed. I couldn’t describe the sick feeling swirling in my stomach. I couldn’t stop imagining him tucked away in our marriage bed, conquering his synthetic fantasy. A wave of painful, acidic sadness washed over me. I took a deep breath and walked to the guest room. I was already telling myself what I needed to hear: the moment I finished my maternity leave, I would file for divorce, cutting him out entirely. This marriage had ceased to exist the second he first proposed that grotesque purchase. Half an hour later, Tate emerged. I was morbidly curious about the doll and wanted to see what he’d bought, but he blocked the doorway, refusing to let me in. If I needed anything, he’d fetch it. I glared at him, pure venom in my eyes. He instantly softened his voice. “Come on, please. And… you should sleep in the guest room tonight, okay? You’re the best, Ainsley!” My blood was boiling. I wanted to scream, to tear him apart, but thinking of his relentless, nauseating campaign over the past month, a tidal wave of exhaustion washed over me instead. I just didn’t have the fight in me anymore. I turned and walked away. The next morning, before I was even fully awake, he slammed open the guest room door. “It’s over! It’s all over! The sex doll came to life!” I sat up in bed, my brain sluggish with sleep. What in the hell does that even mean? I spent a few seconds waking up, and then the truth hit me with a cold, hard certainty. My face went utterly expressionless. He was cheating. 2 Tate clearly didn’t realize I’d instantly seen through his pathetic lie. He pulled me into the living room to look. I sized up the young woman standing in the middle of the room, her face completely blank. She was slender, thin, and wearing only a piece of cheap, ill-fitting lingerie. “This is… your sex doll?” I asked, my voice flat. Where did he even find her? He managed to hide his mistress this well? And she was striking, slender, and attractive. How desperate do you have to be to go after Tate? He was decent-looking and charming before we married, but afterward, he’d bloated into a selfish, entitled pig. Since I got pregnant, he’d been a nightmare. Did they start this before the wedding? The thought was deeply unsettling. “Yes!” Tate clapped his hands together, frantic and sweating, pacing in a tight circle. “I finished using it last night, and just kept it next to me while I slept. I woke up this morning, and she was on the bed! The doll was gone! No one else could have gotten in, so it has to be the doll coming to life!” I stood silent for a long moment. “So, the heavy package you brought home yesterday… woke up?” I asked, watching the woman’s expression. She didn’t react, her eyes remaining wide and vacant, as if she didn’t understand what I was saying. “That’s exactly it! Ainsley, what are we going to do?” I nodded thoughtfully. Then I raised my hand and slapped him hard across the cheek. He clutched his face, his eyes wide with shock. “Why did you hit me? You don’t believe me? But I’m telling you the truth!” I almost yelled, Do you think I’m an idiot? That I’d fall for that imbecilic lie? But I swallowed the words. Instead, I leaned in, my voice dripping with weary irritation. “Tate Wells! How dare you even ask me what to do? This is a national incident! A sex doll achieving sentience! You should be reporting this to the Pentagon immediately! Do you have no sense of civic duty?” Tate froze. He glanced quickly at his ‘sex doll,’ then back at me. “But…” I pointed a sharp finger at him. “The government must regret ever investing in your education.” Then I reached for my phone to call 911. The police would run her fingerprints, check her ID, and the whole pathetic truth would unravel instantly. A sex doll came to life, indeed. I bet his entire family was a bunch of inflatable knock-offs. Before I could dial, Tate lunged and snatched the phone from my hand. I gave him a look of utter bewilderment. He lowered his gaze, chewing on his lip, looking profoundly uncomfortable. “The police… maybe we shouldn’t call them?” “Why not?” He remained silent, only giving me a shifty, guilty sidelong glance. I pressed him, asking Why? Why? Why? My voice rising with each repetition. Finally, he cracked, gritting his teeth and spitting out the truth. “Because she’s a gift from Heaven!” “Why didn’t anyone else’s doll come to life? Only mine! That means she’s a sign—a great blessing to make up for all the suffering I’ve endured!” “I’ve had to live in such subservience for so long, trying to please you. And now I finally have the chance to have my cake and eat it too! Can’t you just let me enjoy it? Why are you so jealous? She’s not even fully a person!” 3 Tate’s speech made my stomach heave, the bile rising in my throat. My unborn baby kicked gently, responding to my sudden distress. I rubbed my chest, trying to calm the nausea, and addressed him with heavy gravity. “The most important thing you need to do right now is uninstall every single trashy romance novel app on your phone.” “And what is this ‘subservience’ you’re talking about? Has marrying me truly made you this miserable?” Tate pursed his lips and kept his eyes downcast, constantly stealing glances at me—the picture of an oppressed, long-suffering spouse. He whispered weakly, “What else? I’ve been living like a monk, staying loyal just for you… you have no idea how much simple male pleasure I’ve had to sacrifice…” “Look at you now. You’re not affectionate, you’re moody, you snap at everything, and you’re so big and…” He trailed off, but I knew what he was going to say: fat and ugly. I was furious, followed immediately by another wave of nausea. The fetal movement grew frantic. Everything was telling me not to lose my temper. Nine months pregnant, I had to be smart—smarter than him. Arguing with this vile man was not the priority. The pregnancy hormones made controlling my emotions a Herculean task. I clutched my stomach, took several deep, measured breaths, and finally managed to find some calm. I looked at the ‘sex doll.’ She stood awkwardly in the center of the room, curiously scanning her surroundings. The vacant, bewildered look in her eyes didn’t look faked. Could she actually be a doll that came to life? The absurd thought flashed through my mind. I picked up a throw blanket from the couch and draped it over her shoulders. She wrapped it tightly around herself and gave me a soft, thankful smile. The strange feeling in my stomach intensified. “Does she need to eat?” I asked suddenly. Tate blinked. “…I guess so? I checked her over. She’s definitely a living human.” Checked her over? How, exactly? I frowned, saying nothing, and gently touched the exposed skin of her forearm. The warmth, the pulse, the fine veins—definitely a real person. The woman looked at me, confused, clearly not understanding why I was poking her. “Does she speak? Does she understand English?” Tate shook his head. “Doesn’t seem to.” “Hmm.” I nodded thoughtfully. “So, you’ll have to teach her to speak?” Tate suddenly gave me a slimy, oily smile and walked over, gently stroking my pregnant belly. “Perfect! We’re going to teach the baby to speak soon, so this is great practice. And when the baby is born, we can have her take care of you during your maternity leave. Isn’t that perfect?” Have her take care of me? Absolutely not. Tate held my hands, his tone pleading again. “Please, Ainsley… what if you call the cops and they take her away for live testing? Would you really want that? You have a good heart.” I kept my face cold, saying nothing. I hated the way he begged. It was the same relentless, grating plea he’d used for a month to get the doll in the first place. “Honey, come on! It’s like earning good karma for our baby! Plus, we get a free, live-in nanny. A two-for-one deal!” It was, in fact, an extremely practical arrangement. It only meant one extra mouth to feed, and with our savings and income, we could easily afford it. I bit my lip, mulling it over. A plan began to solidify in my mind. I held out my hand to him. “Let me see your phone.” Tate looked confused but handed it over quickly. I opened his shopping app and checked his purchase history. There it was: the sex doll, marked as “Confirmed Delivery.” Could I request a refund based on the doll coming to life? I wondered wryly. I memorized the company name and returned the phone to him. I then adopted a sharp, commanding tone. “Fine. Let her stay, but we’ll observe her first. If she’s useful, I won’t call the police. If she’s not, I’m sending her away, no matter what.” “And you are solely responsible for teaching her the language and house chores. Don’t expect any help from me.” Tate’s face lit up with undisguised joy. “That’s amazing! I knew my wife was the best!” He hugged me quickly, then took the woman’s hand, led her into the master bedroom, and locked the door behind them. I rolled my eyes at the closed door, completely indifferent to whatever obscenity was about to unfold inside. I walked into the guest room and locked my own door. I opened my phone, looked up the doll company, and browsed their catalog. I quickly saw he’d bought their cheapest model—a half-body model, lacking a head. The full-figure model was twice the price. I let out a cold, cynical laugh and opened the customer service chat. Me: [Do you have male sex dolls?] The representative took a while to respond. They sounded like a veteran of the e-commerce wars, completely unflappable. Customer Service: [No, but we can do a custom order.] Perfect. Who says I couldn’t have a ‘sex doll’ waiting to be resurrected, too? Me: [Please customize one for me. Half-body is fine.] The agent immediately sent a deposit link. I paid it without hesitation, then asked for more details. Me: [Will the doll be wearing clothes when delivered?] Customer Service: [Female dolls wear lingerie. Male dolls will wear shorts, but nothing else.] Me: [Where is the inflation port?] 4 An hour or so later, a satiated Tate left for work, leaving me alone with the ‘sex doll.’ He sent me a few texts. [I named her Doll.] [Have her make you breakfast later.] [I already showed her tutorial videos for cooking. She’s a fast learner.] Me: [Fine.] Have her cook for me? Was I trying to win a Darwin Award? I changed my clothes and left the guest room. Passing the kitchen, I saw Linh—the name I was using for her in my head—wearing my silk nightgown, skillfully washing the pile of dishes in the sink. Remembering Tate’s claim that she was a fast learner, I narrowed my eyes, examining her hands. Were they smooth, like those of someone newly born, or rough, like those of a woman who’d spent years doing manual labor? She turned around and looked at me, a slight panic in her eyes. She stared for a moment, then made a gesture for eating, nodding and smiling sweetly, indicating that breakfast would be ready soon. I found the scene strangely unsettling. I jerked my chin at her and waved my hand, indicating she should just eat by herself. Then, I went into the master bedroom and scanned the space. The huge shipping box was still there, but the contents were gone. It would be hard to dispose of a synthetic body that size without a trace, I thought. But then I remembered: the community trash truck collected all garbage at 5 AM sharp. Tate had woken me up just after five. Was it a coincidence? Or was he deliberately timing his trash run? Just in case the ‘sex doll’ was also a thief, I locked up all the valuables in the master bedroom. Only when I was sure everything was secure did I leave the house to grab breakfast at a coffee shop downstairs. Sipping my oat latte, a sudden, ridiculous thought struck me. I opened a messaging app, found the profile of an old university friend, Brooks Carrington, and sent him a cryptic message. Me: [Want to be my sex doll?] Brooks was a bored, eccentric millionaire—a perfect blend of rich playboy and goofy performance artist. He was constantly looking for the next spectacle. I knew the story of a sex doll coming to life would hook him immediately. My due date was less than a month away. After the birth and my recovery, I’d ditch Tate and keep the baby. But before then, I needed to make my own ‘fun’ and exact my revenge on this pathetic man. I couldn’t suppress the smile on my face as I imagined the look on Tate’s face when he found out my sex doll had also achieved sentience. But when I returned home and found that woman slumped over the toilet, dry-heaving… I stopped smiling. I panicked.

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I have never tasted my wife’s cooking. Not once. We’ve been married for five years. Every morning, she wakes up an hour early to bustle around the kitchen. The sounds are methodical, rhythmic—the crack of an egg, the hum of the toaster, the precise chopping of fruit. The aromas drift into the bedroom, filling the air with the scent of caramelized onions, fresh coffee, and searing meat. I asked her once, early on, “Could you make a plate for me, too?” She didn’t even turn around. “Don’t you have a cafeteria at work?” I never asked again. Until one day, I found a bento box in her car. It was empty. Stuck to the lid was a neon-yellow Post-it note. The handwriting was jagged, masculine, sprawling: “The chicken today was insane. Craving those roasted short ribs tomorrow ~” That wasn’t my handwriting. 1. I stared at that sticky note for a long time. “Craving those braised short ribs tomorrow.” The tone was playful, demanding. Like a spoiled child who knows exactly how to get what they want. I flipped the note over. On the back, in the same scrawl: “Meredith is the best!” Meredith. My wife. I placed the container back exactly where I found it and closed the car door. That night, I didn’t say a word. Meredith came home a little later than usual, carrying a grocery bag heavy with premium cuts of meat. Short ribs. “I’m making braised short ribs tomorrow,” she announced, kicking off her heels. “Who for?” I asked, keeping my voice level. “A colleague,” she said, not meeting my eyes as she headed for the kitchen. “There’s a boy at the office, poor health. Immune system issues or something. I’m just helping out.” “Just helping out?” “Mmhmm.” She pulled the cooking wine and pepper salt from the pantry, moving with a practiced efficiency I didn’t recognize. She began to marinate the ribs. Her movements were fluid, almost artistic. I stood in the doorway, watching her back. Five years. In five years, I had never seen her treat a piece of meat with such tenderness. “What do you want?” she asked suddenly, breaking the silence. “What?” “For dinner,” she said. “Should I order something?” I paused. The absurdity of it hit me, and I let out a dry, short laugh. “Whatever. You decide.” “That Thai place again? The basil chicken?” “Sure.” She tapped her phone screen, ordering the takeout. On the stove, the ribs were marinating, filling the kitchen with a rich, savory promise. On her phone, the delivery tracker read: Estimated arrival: 30 minutes. This was our marriage. She cooked; she ate. She ordered out; I ate. I don’t know how long I had been blind to this, but from that moment on, I started paying attention. The next morning, she was up at 5:30 AM. I feigned sleep, listening to the symphony of her affection in the kitchen. The rhythmic chopping, the sizzle of the pan, the soft beep of the microwave. At 6:15, she slipped out the door, quiet as a ghost. I waited five minutes, then got up. The kitchen counters were wiped spotless. The ribs were gone from the fridge. In the trash can: eggshells, onion skins, and an empty bottle of premium sauce. I opened the cabinet where we kept the spare Tupperware—a wedding gift from her mother that I thought we’d never touched. One was missing. I put it together. That bento box left the house every morning at 6:15 and returned before 8:00 PM. It carried meals cooked with my wife’s own hands. It went to a “sickly” male colleague. I called my best friend, Davis. “I need a background check,” I said. “Guy at Meredith’s firm. Male. Supposedly has health issues.” Davis was silent on the other end for a few seconds. “You found out?” “Found out what?” “…Nothing,” he said quickly. “I’ll handle it.” By evening, my phone pinged with a file. Silas Vane. 28 years old. Meredith’s college classmate. They had dated in university. The “one who got away.” The tortured artist type. Three years ago, Silas was hired at Meredith’s company. Same department. The photo attached showed a man who looked like he was made of glass—pale skin, messy hair, thin frame. He looked like a strong wind would shatter him. I zoomed in on the photo. Then I found his social media. His bio read: “Lucky enough to have a personal chef.” Posted two days ago. I scrolled through his feed. It was a culinary diary. Chicken drumsticks, roasted ribs, ham salad, cream corn soup, wild mushroom risotto. Every single meal was presented in the bento box I had seen in the car. I scrolled back. One year. Two years. Three years. Three years. My wife had been cooking for him for three years. And I had been eating takeout for three years. I lowered the phone. My hand was trembling. Not from anger. From the cold. It felt like someone had poured a bucket of ice water down my spine, the chill settling deep in my bones. That night, Meredith came home early. “You’re back early,” I said. “Yeah, just wanted to spend some time with you.” She walked over, reaching out to hug me. I sidestepped her. “I need a shower,” I said. Standing under the spray, the hot water did nothing to thaw the ice inside me. I started to replay the last five years. Did she ever cook for me? Yes. The first year. Maybe a handful of times. Then it stopped. I had asked her why. She said, “You’re not picky. You’re easy to feed.” I believed her. I thought she was just lazy about cooking. I thought she didn’t enjoy it. I thought— I thought I knew her. I knew nothing. 2. The next day, I took the afternoon off. I went to Meredith’s office building. I didn’t go to her floor. I went straight to Administration. The receptionist, a young girl named Sarah, knew me. I’d dropped off forgotten keys and umbrellas enough times. “Guru? What are you doing here?” “I need a favor, Sarah,” I said. “Silas Vane. He works in Meredith’s department.” “Silas?” She blinked. “The guy in Meredith’s team?” “Yeah.” “Is… is everything okay?” “Just need to check something.” She looked around, then lowered her voice. “Guru, I really shouldn’t, but… honestly, take a look.” She turned her monitor toward me. Silas Vane’s employment file. Start date: Three years and four months ago. Referred by: Meredith Hayes. I let out a sharp breath. “Referred by.” “Guru…” “What else?” She bit her lip and opened another folder. “Attendance logs.” I scanned them. He punched in and out like clockwork. But one data point stood out. Lunch Breaks (M/W/F): Off-campus. “What does this mean?” “We have a subsidized cafeteria,” Sarah explained. “If you eat there, it logs on your badge. He doesn’t eat here Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.” “Where does he eat?” “I don’t know. But…” She pulled up a screenshot. It was from an internal company chat group. A female colleague had posted: “Meredith brought another bento for Silas today. It smells amazing.” The replies underneath: “So jealous.” “Meredith is literally a saint.” “Silas must have saved the galaxy in a past life.” Date: 18 months ago. I stared at the words until they blurred. “Guru?” “I’m fine,” I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. “Thanks, Sarah.” “Don’t do anything rash, okay?” “I’m not rash.” “But—” “I just need to understand.” I walked out of the building and stood on the curb. Three years and four months. Meredith and I had been married five years. That meant Silas came into the picture when we were barely two years into our marriage. Back then, I thought we were in the honeymoon phase. I thought we were solid. I pulled out my phone and texted Davis: “You knew the whole time, didn’t you?” He replied instantly: “Do you want to see him?” “Yes.” “Friday noon. The small park behind the office complex. He eats the lunch there every Friday.” I stared at the screen. I typed out a response: “No. I need to see her give it to him.” Davis sent a thumbs-up emoji. Then: “Guru, I’ll come with you.” “No need.” “You shouldn’t be al—” “I can handle it.” I hung up and looked at the sky. It was a brilliant, blinding blue. A memory surfaced. Last month. I had a fever of 102. Shivering, teeth chattering, unable to leave the bed. I called Meredith. I told her I was sick. She said: “Just take some Tylenol and sleep it off. I have to work late. I’ll be home when I can.” She did come home late. Eleven o’clock. The next morning, she was up at 5:30 AM as usual to make the bento. I asked her, “What were you working on so late?” She said, “Just catching up on project timelines.” Now I knew. The overtime was real. The timelines were real. But it wasn’t work. It was the timeline for simmering bone broth for Silas. I checked my phone records. That night, at 11:00 PM, she had made a call to Silas Vane. Duration: 27 minutes. And the call to me? The one where she told me to “sleep it off”? 15 seconds. 3. Friday noon. I went to the park behind the office tower. I found a bench in the shadows of an oak tree and waited. At 12:10, Meredith appeared. She was carrying an insulated lunch bag, walking with purpose. I watched her pass right in front of me. She didn’t even see me. Her eyes were fixed on a destination about fifty yards away. There was a bench there. A man was sitting on it. Messy hair, white button-down shirt, looking like a gust of wind would knock him over. Silas. Meredith walked up and sat next to him. She unzipped the bag and pulled out the bento box. “I made the roasted ribbs you like,” she said. I was close enough to hear them. The air was still. “You make the best ribbs,” Silas said, taking the fork with a smile that looked practiced. “And here’s the cream corn soup. Be careful, it’s hot.” She unscrewed a thermos cap and handed it to him. “Meredith,” Silas said suddenly. “Does your husband know?” My heart skipped a beat. Meredith hesitated, then shook her head. “He doesn’t know.” “How long do you plan to hide this?” “It’s not hiding…” Meredith sighed. “We’ve been married five years. The feeling… it’s just gone.” Silas looked down, picking at a piece of rib. “Then why don’t you divorce him?” “It’s not the right time.” “When is the right time?” Meredith was silent for a moment. “When your health is better. When the project is done…” “When, when, when.” Silas put down his fork. “Meredith, I’ve been waiting for you for three years.”

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Blair broke up with me again. This time, I thought I’d do what I did the first time she dumped me when we were eighteen: head down to the riverwalk to cool off. But the wind coming off the water was biting, a sharp, physical reminder that I wasn’t a teenager anymore. Forget it, I thought. Just go home. On the walk back, I passed that greasy spoon diner on the corner. I expected my stomach to be in knots, the way it was when I was twenty and heartbreak felt like a terminal illness. Instead, the smell of grilling onions hit me, and I realized the cook was on his A-game. I was starving. Finally back in my apartment, I sat down, ready to do what I’d done at twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four: draft The Essay. The long, groveling text message begging Blair to take me back. But then I opened my phone and saw a notification from my boss. I was being deployed on a business trip. I spent the next month buried in work in a neighboring city, practically revitalizing my career. Blair, finally losing patience with my silence, called me. “Why haven’t you come to apologize yet?” That was when it hit me. I’d forgotten something. I’d forgotten to care. Getting dumped when you’re a little older is a strange thing. It’s less of a tragedy and more of an administrative hassle. I tested the waters, keeping my voice light. “My bad, my bad. Honestly, I’ve been so swamped I forgot to write The Essay.” I paused, letting the silence stretch just enough to be dangerous. “How about… we just leave it broken this time?” 1 We were at drinks with friends when the rumor started floating around that Blair was planning to propose to me. Blair laughed, that cool, dismissive sound that used to make me nervous. She looked completely unbothered. “Why would I need to propose? Griffith isn’t going to marry anyone but me. besides, I need Carter to be the best man. He’s been booking that slot since we were kids.” The sentence was so off-balance I couldn’t tell what mattered more to her: marrying me, or securing a spot for Carter, her childhood soulmate, in the bridal party. I took a sip of water, trying to keep my voice steady. “I have my own friends for groomsmen. My college roommates. We made a pact years ago—we all stand up for each other. No exceptions.” Blair didn’t even look at me. She just swirled her drink. “So add another groomsman.” “I can’t. There are four of them. An odd number doesn’t work for the procession. It’s messy.” She snapped, a flash of irritation breaking her composure. “Then just find some random guy to even it out. Carter has never been a best man before. Can’t you just satisfy him this one time?” The table went quiet. Our friends were used to these inexplicable arguments. They never interfered because they knew the script: I would apologize specifically and profusely, Blair would freeze me out for two days to prove a point, and then she’d graciously allow us to make up. Nobody wants to be a spectator to a relationship where one person is the clown. But this time, something inside me had calcified. “No. It’s not necessary. It’s my wedding, and I want to make the call.” Blair walked over to me, looming slightly. “And if I insist?” I didn’t answer, but the look on my face must have been answer enough. Humiliated and furious, she slammed her hand on the table. “Fine! Let’s break up then! Griffith, don’t you dare contact me.” She stormed out, the door rattling in its frame. The remaining friends looked at their drinks, the floor, anywhere but me. I smoothed things over, murmuring some excuses. The tension broke, and the teasing started. “Griffith’s got this under control. He’s confident,” one guy laughed. “Blair is just… you know. Go buy her a bag, smooth it over. It’s fine.” “Griffith, you can’t spoil women like that,” another said, shaking his head. “The more you indulge them, the worse they get. You’re too soft on her.” “Hey, that wedding date you guys were looking at? My uncle says it’s bad luck. I’ll have him calculate a new one for you. He’s amazing—no one he’s picked a date for has ever gotten divorced.” I smiled, polite and hollow, and didn’t say a word. 2 I walked home alone, stopping every now and then just to breathe. My head was a supercut of the last ten years. High school sweethearts. The brutal years of long-distance during college. The friction of moving in together. We had failed at every stage, and every single time, I had fought tooth and nail to glue us back together. I asked myself, Why? Does loving someone mean you have to strip yourself of all dignity? Shouldn’t love be about mutual compromise? About holding each other up? But whenever I resolved to leave, a treacherous little voice would whisper in my ear: “If you give up now, doesn’t that make the last decade a waste? Doesn’t that make you a joke?” So I gritted my teeth. I endured. I hoped that if I just loved her enough, I could move her. I hoped for a happy ending. My wandering took me past the river again. I used to call it the “River of Tears” because it was close to our campus. Since our very first breakup, this water had witnessed more of my crying jags than my mother had. But tonight, the wind was just cold. Before I could spiral into melancholy, the physical chill snapped me out of it. I pulled my jacket tighter. Forget it. I’ll go be sad in the warmth of my living room. I turned the corner and saw the burger joint again. Funny. I came here a lot. Once, after a fight with Blair, I angrily ordered five double cheeseburgers, intending to eat my feelings, but my throat was so tight from holding back tears I couldn’t swallow a bite. The cook really had improved. The smell of grease and charred beef was hypnotic. I ordered cautiously this time, afraid of repeating history, but after two burgers, I realized I could easily handle a third. Mouth busy, stomach full. The emptiness in my chest didn’t feel quite so vast. It was only when I stood in front of my apartment door that I hesitated. We had lived together for so long; that small space was a museum of our shared life. But when I opened the door, I didn’t feel nostalgia. I saw the trash bag, full to bursting, that she hadn’t taken out. The empty soda bottles on the coffee table. The shoes kicked off in the middle of the hallway. The anger flared hotter than the sadness. The fire in my chest seemed to dry up my tears. I cleaned everything in a frenzy. I sat down to mute her on social media—so I wouldn’t have to see her updates—when a notification popped up. My boss, tagging me in the group chat with feedback on a proposal. By the time I closed the document, the sky outside was turning the color of a bruised peach. Morning. I was surprised to find that the first day of heartbreak had passed so easily. So, in the quiet of that brand-new morning, I did something I had never done before. I blocked Blair on everything. 3 Blair didn’t come back. I knew the drill. She was waiting for me to kneel. I assumed I would, eventually. It was a habit, like biting my nails. Bowing down for love didn’t feel shameful anymore; it just felt like Tuesday. But every time I picked up my phone, life intervened. A proposal needed rewriting. A client called. One day turned into two, then eight, then nine. I hadn’t contacted her. I had accidentally achieved the impossible, and to my shock, I wasn’t in agony. During the morning meeting that day, my director announced a critical project. A client needed a representative on-site, a permanent placement until the project closed. A year and a half, minimum. I raised my hand before the sentence was even finished. He looked at me over his glasses. “Single candidates preferred.” “I’m single,” I said immediately. The conference room erupted in laughter. My “epic saga” with Blair was office folklore. They assumed this was just another dramatic chapter. But the director asked around, and no one else volunteered. Leaving headquarters for eighteen months was a risk. You could come back to find your desk gone and your influence evaporated. For a career trajectory, it wasn’t the optimal move. But for me? It was an escape hatch. And more than that, the client was in San Francisco—a city I had always dreamed of living in. Blair had refused to ever leave our current city. She was comfortable here; her family was here, her world was here. She wouldn’t even let me travel to San Francisco for vacation. Friends joked she was afraid that if I went, I’d realize how big the world was and never come back. I just smiled when they said that. In the end, the director gave it to me. “Don’t bail on me,” he warned me privately before I left. “I don’t care how the soap opera with your girlfriend plays out. You finish this eighteen months.” I smiled. “Mission accepted.” 4 The first weeks in San Francisco were a blur of adrenaline and caffeine. I worked two weeks straight, living out of the corporate hotel because I didn’t have time to apartment hunt. By the third weekend, I finally came up for air. The city was everything the blogs and magazines promised, but being there—feeling the steep hills in my calves, smelling the salt and eucalyptus—was different. I realized I had made the right choice. When my mother called, I was actually surprised. We hadn’t spoken since a blowout argument a year ago. My parents had started the “marriage pressure campaign” when I was twenty-five. By twenty-eight, with no ring on my finger, they had snooped through my phone, found Blair’s number, and called her directly to harass her. I can only imagine the toxic things they said. Blair refused to speak to me for a solid month after that. My mother has a beautiful voice, melodic and soft, which makes the cruel, invasive things she says land with even more dissonance. “You’re not really going to wait until you’re thirty to get married, are you?” she started, skipping the pleasantries. “We dug through the family tree for eight generations and couldn’t find anyone as useless as you.” “Well, I’m breaking new ground then.” “I don’t have time for your sarcasm. Your sister saw on your social media that you broke up with that Blair girl. True or false? Usually, you two are back together by now, but it’s been quiet. Is it done?” “Say what you want to say, Mom. I’m working.” “That temper. Just like your father. No wonder you two can’t be in the same room.” “I’m hanging up.” “Wait, wait!” Her voice pitched up. “Look, if you’re free this weekend, your aunt found someone for you. A nice girl. She works in your city.” “She probably doesn’t,” I said. “I forgot to tell you. I moved.” 5 “You moved?” Her volume spiked. “Why do you always do this? You have these big ideas and you just do whatever you want!” I didn’t have the energy to argue. “Who is she? A client of Auntie’s? Or her boss? There’s always an angle with her.” My mother, usually so strident, suddenly mumbled. “They say it’s your cousin’s boss’s daughter. But her conditions are excellent. Would your aunt hurt you?” I genuinely wondered how she could ask that without choking. “Are you sure about that?” I asked. “Why do you have to be so cynical? Just because she introduced you to someone last year and took a little advantage… she apologized to you crying! She didn’t know about that person’s situation.” I didn’t bother arguing. If she didn’t know the situation, why did she set us up? My aunt had introduced me to a literal con artist. When I rejected the woman, my aunt gave her my home address. If Blair hadn’t come home early that night, finding me cornered in the dark stairwell by a woman demanding money… I don’t know what would have happened. I later found out the woman was the niece of a major client my aunt was trying to woo. She sent my photo without asking, the niece liked it, and my aunt served me up on a platter. When I tried to go to the police, my aunt explicitly told me she wouldn’t testify because she couldn’t afford to offend the client. And now, here we were again. “Tell Auntie to stop using me as currency. Or I’ll come home for Thanksgiving and act so crazy everyone will think it runs in the family.” “You ungrateful child!” 6 The silence after hanging up was exquisite. I finished a proposal, dropped it in the work group chat, and basked in the shower of “thumbs up” emojis from the team. Feeling bold, I posted on my personal feed: [Another day, crushing it.] Usually, I kept a low profile, but the response was immediate. [Griffith is a career man now! I tried to get you out for a week, didn’t know you were grinding.] [Working? Don’t you know your fortress is under siege?] [Why haven’t you deleted the breakup post? You haven’t made up yet? Is the apology gift not big enough this time? You never listen to us.] I replied one by one. [Traveling for work. Drinks when I’m back.] [My fortress is empty. No one lives there anymore.] [Not making up.] As soon as I hit send, my phone rang. It was the boyfriend of one of Blair’s best friends. We used to hang out all the time. “Where are you living the high life, Griffith?” “Working. Just busy.” He paused, lowering his voice. “Are you out of town? I walked by your place the other day, knocked, no answer.” “Yeah, out of town. What’s up?” “Nothing, nothing. Just haven’t seen you. Wanted to grab dinner.” “I’ll hit you up when I’m back.” “Cool, cool.” He hesitated again. “Hey… did you hear about Blair and Carter?” “Not really,” I said honestly. “Like I said, busy.” He didn’t take the hint. “Blair and Carter have been super loud about it. Going to parties together. I heard Blair bought him a massive gold watch for his birthday.” “Everyone’s guessing they’re finally together. Blair hasn’t confirmed it. We figure she’s just waiting for you to come beg for forgiveness.” I laughed. A genuine, short laugh. “What exactly am I apologizing for?” He stammered. “Huh? I mean… you always apologize. I just assumed…” “I apologized when I cared,” I said. “What if I don’t care anymore?” I heard a loud door slam on the other end of the line. And then, Blair’s friend’s voice yelling, “Blair!”

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A few days before the wedding, the planner scheduled a rehearsal for me and my fiancé. The moment he picked me up in his arms, his sister suddenly burst into tears. “Ethan! That is so disgusting! Why are you groping her in front of everyone?! Does she not have legs? Can’t she walk by herself?” My fiancé immediately put me down to comfort her. Then, he demanded I walk to the wedding car myself. Tradition says the bride’s feet shouldn’t touch the ground until she reaches the altar. My parents tried to argue, but my fiancé of three years threatened to postpone the wedding. “Bella doesn’t like it. If you insist on these archaic traditions, then we’re postponing the wedding!” 1 Both families stared at Bella in shock. The groom carrying the bride—isn’t that standard? “Is she crippled?! Does she not have legs? Can’t she walk?!” Bella screamed, her face twisted in rage. Whispers ripple through the crowd. “On the wedding day, it’s tradition for the bride not to touch the ground,” my mom explained with a strained smile. “Bella, when you get married, it’ll be the same for you!” “I don’t care! I won’t let my brother carry her! If she wants to get married, she can walk! Or I’ll never talk to Ethan again!” Bella stomped her foot. I looked at Ethan in disbelief. His worried gaze, however, was fixed entirely on Bella. Suddenly, his arms loosened, and he dropped me. I stumbled, my expensive Jimmy Choos slamming onto the wet pavement without warning. Mud instantly splattered the hem of my white dress. Just like my mood. “Oh no!” My mom rushed forward to lift my skirt. “Why did you drop her? Thank god it’s just the rehearsal. You can’t do this on the big day!” While everyone gathered around to ask if I twisted my ankle, Ethan was busy hugging Bella, whispering soothingly, “It’s okay, baby. I won’t carry her. She can walk, okay?” “Hmph,” Bella pouted. “Promise you’ll never carry her again!” Never carry me again? Should we just become bros instead? “Okay, okay, I promise. Whatever you say.” My fiancé agreed to her insane demand without hesitation. Bella looked over Ethan’s shoulder, smirking at me with triumph. Ethan once told me he had a “cute” little sister. I didn’t know this was his definition of cute. “Forget it. It’s just a rehearsal. Bella is young, don’t hold it against her,” my future in-laws said, trying to smooth things over. I exchanged a look with my parents, swallowed my anger, and continued the rehearsal. Next, when the officiant said, “You may kiss the bride,” Ethan glanced at Bella’s glaring face. “Let’s skip this part,” he said. Watching him cater to her every whim, the last shred of hope in my heart shattered. The rehearsal ended. We were ushered to the bridal suite. But Bella had beaten us there. She was currently barefoot, rolling around on my new marital bed. My future mother-in-law rushed to pull her off. “What are you doing?” Bella was dragged off, but she immediately bounced back onto the bed, leaving dirty footprints on the pristine red sheets. “What’s wrong? Can’t I lie on my brother’s bed?! I’m just testing the mattress for them!” The room went silent. Even a child knows the marital bed is for the newlyweds. Bella is twenty-two. I turned to Ethan, expecting an explanation. Instead, he smiled dotingly. “Bella is right. My home is your home. Everything I have is yours! Your sister-in-law will spoil you just like I do. She won’t be mad. Right, Harper?” 2 That last sentence was directed at me. It was laughable. I had promised to be a good sister-in-law, but I didn’t sign up for a sister-in-law with zero boundaries. I didn’t answer. I walked over and pulled back the duvet. The bed, which should have been decorated with rose petals, was littered with peanut shells. Worse, right down the middle of the king-sized bed, there was a row of potted cacti dividing it in half. The guests started whispering. “Cacti on the bed? Is this some new trend?” “How are they supposed to sleep? It’s literally a barrier between them. The groom’s family is insane.” “Ethan, care to explain?” I asked. “This…” Ethan looked awkward. “Don’t blame my brother!” Bella stood on the bed, looking down at me. “He promised he wouldn’t touch you! To stop you from throwing yourself at him in the middle of the night, I prepared this. If you aren’t afraid of needles, go ahead and cross the line!” Rage boiled in my chest. I laughed, but it was cold. “Ethan, is this what you want?” “No… Harper, listen, I’ll move the cacti…” I ignored him and walked to the guest room. As expected, the room we planned for a future nursery was filled with Bella’s stuff. Pink curtains, pink sheets, and a framed photo of her and Ethan hugging on the nightstand. “Harper, it’s just a small thing. Do you have to be so dramatic?” Ethan followed me, nagging. “And this?” I pointed at the room. “What does this mean?” By now, the guests had followed us. “You got a problem?” Bella’s voice was dripping with attitude. “I told my brother ages ago: wherever he goes, I go. His house must have a room for me. So I moved in. Right, brother?” Ethan looked guilty. He had never mentioned this to me. But he defended her instantly. “Yes, Harper. I promised Bella. The room was empty anyway, so why can’t she stay? Harper, you’re the older sister now, don’t be so petty!” He gained confidence as he spoke, ending with a tone of accusation. Unforgettable. Truly. I nodded coldly and turned to the wedding videographer. “Please make sure you record all of this.” The cameraman nodded, panning the room. “Mommy, what’s this?” A child’s voice broke the tension. Everyone looked. A six-year-old boy walked out of the ensuite bathroom holding a red thong. The adults blushed. My aunt whispered, “Harper, is that yours?” My face went pale. We hadn’t moved in yet. It definitely wasn’t mine. Could it be…? I looked at Ethan. “Hey!” Bella shrieked, snatching it back. “Why are you touching my stuff?” She realized everyone was staring and pouted. “What are you looking at? Haven’t you seen underwear before? I just changed. I was going to ask my brother to wash it for me.” She looked at me, a sweet, triumphant smile on her lips. “Whenever my brother is home, he washes my underwear. He won’t change just because he got a wife, right, Brother?” 3 “Yeah, nothing will change,” Ethan promised naturally. “Leave it there. I’ll wash it later.” I stood there, frozen. A twenty-five-year-old man hand-washing his twenty-two-year-old sister’s thongs… and it’s a regular thing? Bella looked at me like she had won the lottery. “I’ve seen everything now. A sister-in-law changing her thong in the groom’s suite and asking him to wash it on his wedding day? Shameless!” someone muttered. “Yeah, since when does the sister live with the newlyweds?” my relatives chimed in, unable to hold back. “This is too much! She won’t let him carry the bride, won’t let them kiss, puts cacti in the bed, and moves in? Do you have no shame?” Someone shouted, “She doesn’t want them to consummate the marriage because she wants to do it herself!” Hearing the insults, Bella threw herself into Ethan’s arms and wailed. “Brother! You said you’d be good to me even after you got married! Are you just going to let them bully me?” Ethan hugged her tight, glaring at me. “Harper Vance! Are your relatives always this trashy?” I laughed and pointed at the balcony. “My relatives are being polite. Anyone else would have thrown you two off the roof by now!” “Harper!” Ethan’s voice was a warning. “We’ve been together for three years. We made it this far. Are you really going to treat my sister like this?” Three years. We worked hard, supported each other, built a life. For the sake of those three years, I decided to try one last time. “Ethan,” I said calmly. “I’m a normal girl. I want a normal wedding. I want my privacy. So, please ask your sister to move out.” “If you can accept that, I’m willing to try. If you can’t…” I bit my lip, eyes stinging. I couldn’t say the words. “Enough,” Ethan interrupted. “Bella is my sister. If she doesn’t like me carrying you, or kissing you, we won’t do it. Why do you have to fixate on these little things? How does her living here hurt you?” “If you love me, accept my family! If you can’t, then the wedding is off! Postponed until you figure it out and apologize to Bella!” I nodded, watching them cling to each other. Tears finally fell. I thought today was the start of our life. Turns out, it’s the end. “She isn’t in my way. I’m in yours. I’m out.” I turned and walked away. “Harper is right! Why get married? Just live with your sister!” My family followed me out. Ethan shouted behind us, “What did you say?! Don’t you dare talk about her like that!” Ethan’s mom tried to stop me, but my cousins pushed her aside and escorted me out. My parents were furious, wanting to go back and fight, but I shook my head. Let’s leave the last shred of dignity for the past three years. I went home and immediately sent a cancellation notice to all my guests. Unfortunately, a clean break was just wishful thinking. Ethan and I worked at the same company, different departments. Monday morning, I ran into him in the lobby. Bella was hanging off his arm, saying goodbye like they were lovers in a war movie. She rolled her eyes at me. I ignored her and walked to the elevator. Ethan chased after me. “Harper, have you realized your mistake? I love you, but I only have one sister. I have to prioritize her feelings. The wedding is in two days. If you apologize now, it’s not too late!” “She’s studying for the civil service exam and needs an iPad. Buy her the new iPad Pro. I’ll put in a good word for you.” 4 I laughed at his audacity. “Ethan, don’t you think your sister’s feelings for you are… weird?” I asked. “Weird how?!” Ethan frowned. “Dirty minds see dirt! We grew up together. An only child like you wouldn’t understand our bond!” I shook my head and walked away. Thirty minutes later, the police called. “Is this Harper Vance? You are suspected of a hit-and-run. Please come to [Street Name] immediately.” I was stunned. It turned out my car—my only car, a brand new BMW my parents bought me as a dowry—had hit someone. It was supposed to be parked at the bridal home. Obviously, the gruesome twosome was involved. Rage, hot and blinding, filled me. I rushed to the scene. My beautiful white BMW, worth $80,000, was totaled in the middle of the road. In front of it, a black sedan was flipped over. A man and a woman were lying on the ground, covered in blood, waiting for the ambulance. The crowd saw me and swarmed. “Think you can do whatever you want because you’re rich?!” “Hit and run! You’re going to jail!” “Were you driving?” the officer asked sternly. “It was her! I saw a woman!” a witness yelled. “But wasn’t she wearing white with blonde hair?” someone asked. “Wigs exist! She probably changed clothes!” I realized instantly. Blonde hair. White dress. That was Bella’s outfit this morning. Ethan had given her my car. Just as I was about to speak, Ethan rushed over and grabbed me. He looked at the cop. “It was her! I’m so sorry. My girlfriend caused this mess. I’ll make sure she takes responsibility!” “Wow, good boyfriend,” the crowd murmured. “Better than she deserves.” I was fuming. “No…” Ethan pulled me aside before I could finish. “Harper, just admit it was you, okay?! Bella doesn’t have a license!” “If they find out it was her, her life is over! She can’t take the civil service exam with a record! Do you want to ruin her?!” “Just take the blame! It’s just a fine and a few days in jail. Trust me, if you do this, Bella will forgive you for the wedding rehearsal! I promise we’ll get married as soon as you’re out!” He raised his voice for the crowd. “Harper, just confess! Apologize to the victims! If you show remorse, maybe they’ll go easy on you!” The crowd nodded approvingly. People started filming. Being framed in front of a hundred people made my anger peak. But strangely, the extreme rage made me calm. I pressed ‘Record’ on my phone in my pocket.

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I followed my family’s arrangements and married a serious, stoic man. On our wedding night, I suggested we sleep in separate rooms. Julian Thorne unbuttoned his dress shirt right in front of me, his eyes dark and unreadable. “But,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “I have needs.” 1 My marriage to Julian Thorne was a merger, plain and simple. Profit over passion. No feelings involved. He was my brother’s friend, groomed from childhood to take over his family’s empire—serious, reserved, noble, and polite, yet entirely distant. When I heard he had agreed to this marriage at the dinner table, I froze. But then I thought about it. I had to marry someone for the alliance eventually. Since the candidate was Julian, I decided not to be picky. The wedding had just ended. He was slightly intoxicated. He got into the car, closed his eyes, and didn’t say a word. I was exhausted from the day, but the realization of what might happen tonight suddenly jolted me awake. The fifteen-minute ride to the penthouse felt excruciatingly long; my breathing grew shallow and tense. He’s drunk, so he probably can’t do anything, right? I called his name softly. No reaction. He must be heavily intoxicated. The stone in my chest finally dropped. The car stopped. The man spoke, his voice raspy. “We’re here.” “You’re awake?” He nodded, grabbing my designer purse—which held all the red envelopes and cash gifts—and opened the door. “I can carry it.” He refused directly, his tone flat. “No need. It’s heavy.” In the elevator, it was just the two of us, standing one in front of the other. Silence. The atmosphere was thick with awkwardness. Watching the numbers tick upward, I broke the silence. “Are you drunk? Should I make you some hangover tea?” “No need. I’m not drunk. I still have business to attend to tonight.” Understanding the implication in his words, my cheeks flushed. I frantically tried to mentally prepare myself. The elevator stopped. We entered the penthouse, changed into slippers, and I pushed open the bedroom door. I paused. Champagne roses were scattered across the floor, and subtle, elegant red décor marked the occasion. Julian appeared behind me, his voice cool. “It’s been a long day. Rest early.” “Do you want to shower first?” “I have some things to finish. You go ahead.” Julian went to his study to work. So that was the “business” he meant. I breathed a sigh of relief. I found a relatively conservative set of silk pajamas in the closet. After showering, I tied my hair into a messy bun. My skin was flushed from the steam. I spent an hour and a half applying skincare, stalling. When I finally emerged, Julian was done. He was looking down, unfastening his watch and placing his tie on the table. “…Maybe we should sleep in separate rooms.” Julian frowned. He was silent for a moment before slowly asking, “Why?” “We… aren’t exactly close.” “We have a marriage certificate. It’s legal. You need to adapt to being Mrs. Thorne.” He paused, his fingers moving to his shirt buttons. “Also, I have needs.” My ears instantly burned. I looked at him in shock. I didn’t expect him to be so blunt. His eyes darkened, but he softened his tone. “But if you aren’t willing, I respect your choice. We can let nature take its course.” It had to happen sooner or later. I bit my lip. “Fine. No separate rooms.” The sound of running water came from the bathroom. A subtle, strange feeling crept into my heart, and my pulse quickened. I patted my chest. Calm down, Chloe. Calm down. It’s just basic biology. Ten minutes later, the water stopped. Julian walked out in gray loungewear, his hair damp. The mattress dipped as he sat down. I could smell the faint scent of cedar and sandalwood soap. I tried to keep my voice steady. “Do you want to dry your hair?” “No. I run hot; it dries fast.” “Julian—” “Hm?” I looked up into those dark eyes. Maybe it was an illusion, but there was an intense predatory glint in them. “I’m turning off the light.” The room plunged into darkness, save for a small nightlight casting a warm glow in the corner. I scooted back, putting distance between us. Before I could react, Julian had pulled me into his arms. His skin was cool from the shower but radiated an intense, invasive presence. Even through the thin fabric, I could feel the heat radiating off him. I froze, afraid to move, my mind a chaotic mess. We locked eyes. We both knew what was coming. His voice was low and raspy. “Sleep.” Unexpectedly, after lying there for a while, the man beside me made no further moves. Soon, I heard the sound of even breathing. He fell asleep? His arm was heavy and firm around my waist, our bodies pressed together without a gap. It was an impossible position to fall asleep in. Julian was usually cold and distant. Seeing him this “clingy” tonight was rare. Maybe he really was drunk. 2 Julian was busy. Three days after the wedding, he flew to France for business. He sent a simple text: [Landed in Paris.] I typed out: [When are you coming back?] but felt it was too intrusive, so I deleted it. He was gone for a week. No video calls, no messages. I almost forgot I was married. One night, I finished my shower and reached for my clothes, only to grab air. I’d forgotten my pajamas and only brought my underwear. I was alone in the penthouse anyway. I walked out of the bathroom and spent eight minutes in front of the massive walk-in closet, finally picking a set of lingerie I’d never dared to wear before. Julian wasn’t home. I could wear whatever I wanted. A thrill of excitement ran through me. I stood in front of the full-length mirror. At first, I was shy, but soon I felt confident, eager to try on another set. Just as I opened the closet door again, the bedroom door clicked open. Caught off guard, I dove under the duvet, leaving only my head exposed. I met Julian’s gaze in a panic. I frowned, complaining, “Why didn’t you knock?” My face felt like it was going to explode. He must have seen everything. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Julian’s expression was stoic, but his Adam’s apple bobbed. His voice betrayed no emotion. “Apologies. I’ll note that for next time.” “Well, get out. I need to change.” The door closed. I scrambled into my old, safe pajamas, splashing cold water on my burning face. Suddenly, a dull ache hit my lower abdomen. My period had arrived. I tossed and turned when I slept, and I was prone to leaks. There were no period panties in the house, and I was too lazy to go out this late. I debated sleeping in the guest room to save myself the embarrassment of staining the marital bed. Julian walked back in. His hair was damp, and he had changed into loungewear. He had clearly just showered. His eyes were dark and deep. “Something wrong?” I pressed my lips together. “I’m going to sleep in the guest room tonight.” “Why?” “The AC in here doesn’t seem to be cooling enough. I’m hot.” “Then I’ll sleep in the guest room too.” “Julian, why are you following me?” His voice was cool. “I’m hot too.” I looked up at him. “Two people sleeping together makes it hotter.” Julian held my gaze, his expression dead serious. “Then we’ll lower the thermostat.” “…” “Fine. Forget it. We’ll sleep here.” I slept fitfully, worried about leaks. When I woke up, the sheets were pristine. Thank god. I washed up and went downstairs. Julian was sitting at the dining table, breakfast already laid out. He looked up. “Morning.” “It’s nine o’clock. Aren’t you going to work?” “Grandmother wants us to visit the estate today.” “Okay, I’ll change.” “Drink this soup first. It’ll get cold. The housekeeper made it.” I looked at the bowl. Red dates, goji berries, longan… “Why did she make this?” “It replenishes blood and Qi. It’s good for you.” “Does your stomach hurt?” “I’m okay. I don’t get bad cramps.” I blinked, then stared straight at him. “Julian, you’re so concerned. Do you have a secret crush on me?” I never understood why Julian agreed to this marriage. He had a perfect match in his childhood friend, Serena. Everyone thought they were endgame. His dark eyes locked onto mine. He denied it instantly. “No.” Then he added, “It’s always been an open crush.” “Oh.” I must be overthinking things. “I brought back some clothes from Paris. They’re on the third floor. Go try them on.” My eyes lit up. My melancholy vanished. Commercial marriage, no feelings, mutual respect, separate lives… this wasn’t so bad after all. 3 We arrived at the Thorne Estate just in time for lunch. At the table, the conversation turned to the Chen family, who had just had a grandson. “When do you two plan on having one?” I choked on my soup. I put down my spoon, embarrassed, and secretly pinched Julian’s thigh under the table. “Chloe is still young. It’s not the right time. Besides, we just got married.” “That’s true. But you both need to take care of your health. You’re almost thirty, Julian. Don’t work yourself into the ground.” “Mom, don’t worry about it. I know what I’m doing.” “We have some ginseng. I’ll have the kitchen stew it for you later. You’re staying the night; your room is ready.” The Thornes had a German Shepherd. After dinner, I took it for a walk. “I can walk him alone. You don’t need to come.” I still felt awkward being alone with Julian sometimes. “If he sees a squirrel, you won’t be able to hold him.” “Oreo looks pretty well-behaved.” “Let’s go.” Julian walked with his hands in his pockets. With his long legs, his pace was leisurely. I walked faster, trying to put some distance between us. Oreo had too much energy. After thirty minutes, I was dying. “You hold him. I need a break.” Julian laughed. “Tired already? You were walking too fast.” I panted, showing him my phone. “Look, I’ve done ten thousand steps. I’m done.” “Sit here for a bit.” There were no benches, just a large decorative rock. “Wait.” He took off his suit jacket and placed it on the rock. “Sit on this.” The top button of his white shirt was undone, hinting at the definition of his shoulders—lean, powerful, intimidating. My heart rate picked up. Julian’s physique was unexpectedly attractive. “Stay here. I’ll buy water.” “Okay.” “Chloe?” Hearing my name, I looked up and froze. It was Liam Carter, my high school crush and neighbor. I planned to confess to him after graduation, but I heard he was going abroad. The romance died before it began, and I spent that summer depressed. “Liam? When did you get back?” “Just recently.” “Do you live around here?” “No, visiting a friend.” “Here.” Julian returned, handing me a bottle of room-temperature water. “Is this your boyfriend?” Liam asked. Julian’s expression didn’t ripple. He extended a hand politely. “Hello. I’m Chloe’s husband, Julian Thorne.” Liam paused, surprised. “You’re married?” “Recently. We haven’t had time to announce it properly yet.” We exchanged a few pleasantries and left. On the way back, Julian was strange. He was quieter than usual. Back in the room, I couldn’t hold it in. “Julian, are you upset about something?” He looked at me for a moment before speaking slowly. “He’s the guy you had a crush on in high school.” I was blank. “Who?” “Liam Carter.” My eyes widened. “How did you know?” Only my brother and I knew. My parents thought I was depressed about my SAT scores. He loosened his tie silently, his voice low. “I guessed.” “You’re a psychic then. But I got over him years ago. We haven’t spoken.” “Why?” “…International calls are expensive.” The corner of his mouth twitched, and he laughed. I felt sticky from the walk, so I showered. When I came out, I found Julian in the study. I didn’t disturb him and went downstairs to watch TV. Grandmother had been busy in the kitchen and brought out a large bowl of soup. “Chloe, you and Julian drink this ginseng and black chicken soup. It simmered all afternoon.” “Thanks, Grandma.” “I’m going to bed. Make sure Julian drinks it. He has dark circles; he needs the boost.” I licked my lips. The walk had made me hungry. I served myself a bowl. The hot soup slid down my throat, leaving a sweet aftertaste. I took the rest to Julian. He was showering. Julian showered fast; he was out in minutes. I scrolled through my phone, not looking at him. “Drink the soup. Grandma made it.” “Did you have some?” I nodded. “I just had a bowl.” “Want more?” I licked my lips. “A little. But that’s for you.” “I’m not hungry.” “I don’t like the meat in it.” “Drink the broth. Leave the meat for me.” I hesitated for one second before grabbing the spoon, smiling. “Thanks!” After the soup and brushing my teeth, I lay in bed, feeling uncomfortable everywhere. “Can you… move over? You’re radiating heat.” Even with the AC on, I felt like I was burning up. I tossed and turned. Julian sat up and turned on the lamp. “Are you okay?” I frowned, whining, “It’s so hot.” I wanted to rip my skin off. “You aren’t hot?” “Maybe too much chicken soup.” “Can you get me some ice water?” My pajamas were stifling. I found a silk slip in the closet and changed. It was much cooler. Julian pushed the door open, froze for a second, then brought the water over. His voice was hoarse. “Drink. Dilute the heat.” “Why is it warm?” “You’re on your period. No ice.” “I’m going to take a shower. Call me if you feel worse.” I blinked. “Didn’t you just shower?” He pressed his lips together, feigning casualness. “I’m a little hot too.” The water helped. Julian’s shower took forever. The water ran for ages. Worried, I walked to the door. “Julian?” Silence, then the sound of heavy breathing. I called again. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” “Why are you taking so long?” His voice was guttural. “Almost done.” Minutes later, the door opened. Julian had changed into fresh pajamas, buttoned all the way to the top. I frowned. “Aren’t you hot? Why is it buttoned so tight?” Maybe the ginseng soup fried my brain, but I stood up, walked over to him, and started undoing his buttons one by one. With the shirt half-open, I could see the definition of his muscles, his abs taut. I held my breath. My fingertips trembled as they grazed his skin. I bit my lip. “Can I touch?” Julian didn’t speak. He looked down at me from his height. Fresh from the shower, his gaze was darker than ever. Panic set in. Just as I tried to pull my hand back, Julian grabbed it. His palm was scorching. His Adam’s apple rolled. His voice was deep, husky. “Yes.” My palm pressed against his muscles—hard and hot. I traced upward, inch by inch. “Enough.” Julian’s gaze burned. His throat was tight. “I’m sleeping on the sofa.”

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After being diagnosed with terminal cancer, I was spending my days in a hospital ward. One day, the weather was beautiful. Rare for me, I put on some makeup. I took a selfie. “Do I look pretty today?” Many strangers liked the post. Then, Lucas Thorne’s sister, Mia, popped up in the comments. “Ugly as hell. Do you think my brother will change his mind? You don’t deserve him.” After a while, I replied. “I don’t need him to change his mind.” 1 My oncologist sighed heavily. “Where is your family?” I shook my head. “I don’t have any family.” “None? How is that possible?” “They’re very busy. They don’t have time for me. Doctor, I’m going back to my room.” Leaving the doctor sighing behind me, I returned to the ward. The lady in the next bed, Martha, looked at me with concern. “How was it, honey? Any good news?” I shook my head. “It’s getting worse.” But I didn’t feel too sad about it. Martha and the family visiting the patient by the window froze. I saw pity in their eyes. It was almost lunchtime. Suddenly, I didn’t want the hospital cafeteria food. The man Martha was caring for, Bill, also hated the cafeteria. I took two hundred dollars out of my wallet. “Martha, when you go home to cook later, can you buy some extra ribs? I really want to eat braised ribs.” She paused for a second. “Sure. I’ll make a big pot today. Don’t go to the cafeteria, honey. I’ll cook, and we can all eat together.” Martha went home to cook. 2 At noon. Our ward was filled with the savory aroma of braised pork ribs and radishes. The ribs were stewed until they were fall-off-the-bone tender. As I ate, tears fell into my bowl. I lifted the bowl higher to hide my face. “Slow down, there’s plenty more. I brought the whole crockpot.” I waited until my eyes were dry before putting down the bowl. In the end, I didn’t have a second serving. In my memories, whenever I refused to eat as a child, my mom would make rib soup for me. The radishes she picked were always so sweet. Since she passed away, I hadn’t tasted that flavor again. But today, Martha’s cooking brought that long-lost taste back to me. Martha refused to take the two hundred dollars. So, I ordered a lot of fruit on Uber Eats and left it in the ward for everyone to share. Our room was known as the “Death Ward.” All three of us had terminal bone cancer. Martha, who was massaging Bill’s legs, suddenly sighed. “Honey, you should ask to switch rooms.” I was confused. “That bed of yours… it’s bad luck. The last one…” I understood. The last person in that bed didn’t make it out of the hospital. Rumor had it she was a successful career woman in her early thirties. I shook my head. “I don’t believe in that stuff.” Actually, there were VIP suites available, and the doctor had recommended them. But I went to look. Everything was nice, but the single room was too lonely. I felt that a shared room like this was better. I could listen to people chat during the day. It felt more alive. After guarding an empty mansion alone for three years, I was truly sick of solitude. I craved the noise of life. 3 When Lucas called, I was sleeping. “You’re not home?” I opened my eyes, my voice thick with sleep. “Mm.” “I brought Chloe over. Don’t give her any trouble.” I didn’t argue. “Okay.” “You’re agreeing that easily this time?” “Anything else? If not, I’m hanging up.” “Hanging up?” “Hmph. Sarah, if you play games with me again—acting one way to my face and another behind my back—I won’t let you off this time.” I didn’t want to listen anymore. I hung up. I stared at the silent TV screen. Chloe was Lucas’s mistress. She was “prepared” for him at a business dinner. It wasn’t the first time something like that happened, but before that night, Lucas had never touched anyone. But Chloe, with her classical elegance, succeeded. They say she performed a traditional dance at the banquet and captured everyone’s heart. She also captured Lucas’s bed. I didn’t understand. Why? Lucas hadn’t even been drinking that night. How did they end up together? Growing up, people always said I was slow to react. Before that, I never doubted Lucas’s feelings for me. We were childhood sweethearts. We grew up together. When we were very young, he said he would marry me. When I found out he had been keeping Chloe for a while, I trembled. I couldn’t believe it. It felt like my world had collapsed. I cried, I fought. But the more I fought, the more impatient he became. Later, he gave all his tenderness to Chloe. I felt old. But I was only twenty-six. Lucas forbade me from seeing Chloe. He forbade anyone around him from mentioning her. But eventually, I saw her. And after that meeting, Chloe had a miscarriage. It was said to be a boy. Lucas slapped me first. Then his mother, Mrs. Thorne, slapped me ten times. Even though I said I didn’t do it. No one believed me. If this were ancient times, I would have been banished to the Cold Palace. After that, the Thorne family never invited me to dinner again. I stayed alone in the empty mansion. Lucas didn’t come back. In those lonely days, I occasionally dreamed. I dreamed of my late parents. I dreamed of when Lucas and I were young, our first meeting on a sunny afternoon. He said, “Sarah Vance, your name is really pretty.” I woke up, my face wet with tears. I slowly opened the curtains and continued to waste away my days. At first, I couldn’t take it. I wanted a divorce. I wanted to go abroad and start a new life. But facing the immense wealth of the Thorne family, my family didn’t dare support my divorce. They ignored my divorce papers. They just waited me out. A mansion, a living allowance—they trapped me with minimal cost. 4 Suddenly, there was a commotion in the hallway. I peeked out. “What happened?” Martha rushed in, shaking her head. “Don’t look.” Then, the sound of crying arose. A bed covered with a white sheet was wheeled away, surrounded by people. I froze. I became even more silent. Here, it seemed someone left every few days. Sometimes, two in one day. Yesterday, the whole floor was peacefully happy. Many people came to ask for Martha’s rib soup. There was laughter in the hallway. Martha sighed as she tidied up. “It’s almost the Mid-Autumn Festival. That family just wanted to make it to the holiday. Fate is too cruel.” Thinking of this, Martha looked at Bill on the bed, turned away, and wiped her eyes. When she turned back, she was smiling again. “For the festival, what kind of mooncakes do you all want? I’ll go home and bake them.” The lady caring for the patient in the other bed, who was older, said, “You’re tired enough. Don’t bother.” “It’s no bother. I’m happy to do it. Whoever eats my mooncakes has to live a long life.” The ward fell silent again. Everyone lowered their heads. It was Bill who held Martha’s hand. “Silly old woman.” 5 The Mid-Autumn Festival arrived. Martha stuffed two mooncakes into my hand. They were the traditional kind. I tore open the wrapper. In the ward, we were all eating. But everyone was taking small bites. First, no appetite. Second, no strength. Just going through the motions for the holiday. Finally, I couldn’t help but let a tear fall. “Mom, don’t give me mooncakes. I don’t like them.” “Mooncakes symbolize family reunion. Even if you don’t like them, you have to eat one.” In my memory, my mom gently pinched the bridge of my nose. I was so small then. I took big bites of the mooncake. With my mouth full, I slowly chewed and swallowed. But then I choked up. On the TV, the news was showing the Thorne family banquet. A huge round table, a feast fit for an emperor. I bit my lip. In the center of the screen were Mr. and Mrs. Thorne. Next to them was Lucas. The woman in the qipao next to him didn’t show her face, only her fair wrist. The shot on the left cut off there. But on the right, all the uncles and cousins were shown. I turned my head, mouth full, and looked out the window. In past years, the Thornes always had grand celebrations and valued family rules. But I didn’t expect them to allow media coverage this time. That woman next to him was Chloe. She loved qipaos.

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