I flew all the way to Newport on Christmas Eve, determined to give my boyfriend a surprise. I was expecting to find Carter buried in a project at his studio, but his apartment was filled with laughter and shouting. Peeking through a sliver in the blinds, I saw him and a girl surrounded by a dozen of his friends. The girl had lost a game, chosen ‘Truth,’ and was being playfully grilled about her romantic past. Carter Maxwell leaned in, casually placing a hand on her shoulder. “My house, my rules,” he said, his voice easy. “I’ll trade a story about Autumn Clarke for this one. Deal?” The hand I was about to raise to knock on the door froze mid-air. His light, airy voice cut through the glass, clear as a bell, and lodged itself in my ear. “She was assaulted in high school. Followed home and…” … 1 A loud, ringing buzz filled my ears. The room’s atmosphere, however, instantly ignited. “Whoa, dark!” “I thought people with that kind of history were super quiet and guarded? Autumn is always dressed to the nines and seems perfectly outgoing. Doesn’t fit the profile.” Someone else nudged Carter, a knowing smirk on their face. “Maybe she just has a thick skin. Didn’t you say she wears that ‘siren scent’ perfume? Gotta keep the guys interested.” “If it were someone sweet and quiet like Holly, she probably wouldn’t have handled it.” Holly. Holly Jennings. I recognized the name. She was Carter’s assistant. He mentioned her often on our calls, always in passing. Out of respect for his work, I never pressed. At the mention of her name, Holly spoke up in a soft, small voice. “Don’t say that. Autumn might just have a resilient spirit.” “Holly, you’re too kind. Not everyone is as simple and innocent as you are. Some people have complicated pasts and deep baggage.” “Right, Carter?” Carter took a sip of the amber-colored whiskey in his glass, neither confirming nor denying. A tide of whispered commentary rushed in. The hand clutching the handle of my rolling suitcase began to shake uncontrollably. Carter had introduced me to this group before. Back then, they’d crowded around me, calling me ‘the future Mrs. Maxwell.’ Now, they were dissecting my past with the maximum amount of malice, treating my trauma as entertainment. “Alright, that’s enough.” I saw Carter knit his brows, a flicker of displeasure crossing his face. Pathetically, even though my heart was already turning to ice, a faint, desperate spark of hope ignited within me. I hoped he would shut them down, tell them that I wasn’t the damaged goods they were painting me to be. The next second, that hope shattered into shards. “She’s still technically my fiancée. I don’t need this trash talk making me look bad. All this stays in this room.” It wasn’t a defense of me; it was about preserving his own image. “After all that… are you seriously still going to marry her?” Holly pressed closer to Carter, giving his chest a playful but possessive thump. “Then what does that make me? I refuse to be the other woman.” “If you don’t give me a solid answer soon, we’re done.” “No way!” Carter visibly panicked, his fingers tightening around his glass. He had never looked so distraught, so unsettled, because of me. “Someone with that kind of baggage… why should I be the one to clean it up?” “If my folks weren’t so hung up on this ‘take care of Autumn’ garbage, I would have broken things off a long time ago.” As he spoke, a look of cold contempt, almost disgust, involuntarily surfaced on his face. I couldn’t breathe. My arm dropped uselessly to my side. He loathed me. If that was true, why the endless charade? Was the kindness and tolerance he’d shown me for years, the entire history between us, nothing but a fantasy? “I’ll go home right after the holidays and set things straight.” Carter turned and kissed Holly on the cheek, his voice intimate and tender. “Then, I’ll formally introduce you to my family.” A roar of celebration filled the room. Everyone raised their glasses. “A toast to the future Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell!” Inside, it was warm and loud. Outside, I stood in the dead of winter. I don’t know how long I stood there, numb. When my vision finally cleared, my fingers were frozen. I deliberately typed out a message on my phone screen: It’s over. A soft chime sounded in the apartment. Carter picked up his phone, glanced at the notification, and recorded a short voice message: “Mom, I have an overseas client meeting, I really can’t make it home tonight.” “Yes, I’ll let you know the flight details once I book them.” He put the phone down, ignoring the text. It took me a few slow, painful seconds to realize—I wasn’t just not his ‘Starred’ contact; I had been set to ‘Do Not Disturb.’ Living long-distance, he often took a full day to reply to my texts. I always excused it—new business, busy, tired. I never imagined he was just too bored to deal with me. Tears rolled down silently, hitting the cold screen. Unwilling to let it go, I dialed his number. This time, Carter looked at the caller ID. Then, he hit the silent button and tossed the phone onto the sofa cushion. He nonchalantly tore the cellophane off a new deck of cards and started dealing them out. “Who was that?” “Autumn, who else? Calls every three days. It’s annoying.” Someone laughed. “Why not just hang up?” Carter expertly shuffled the deck, his tone utterly dismissive. “If I hang up, she’ll just text nonstop. I’ll let it ring out and tell her I was busy and didn’t hear it.” “Classic Carter. You’ve got her wrapped around your little finger.” I couldn’t listen anymore. I stumbled away, turning my back on the apartment. It was Christmas Eve, and the streets were lit up, crowded with happy people. I dragged my suitcase aimlessly, a lost specter in the cheer. A young couple walked by, laden with shopping bags, sharing one long, cozy scarf. The girl murmured, “Can we really pull off Christmas dinner, just the two of us?” The guy ruffled her hair. “If not, we’ll order takeout. What matters is we’re together. Everything is perfect as long as you’re here.” That was the picture I had drawn for myself when I boarded the plane. I couldn’t fathom it. Why would Carter treat me like this? Not long ago, we were fine. I was twenty-seven, and we had known each other for over two decades. At five, before starting preschool, he grabbed my hand and declared, “Autumn, you’re my future wife. You only get to play with me.” In middle school, before the awkwardness of dating hit, he’d find a reason to sit by my desk after every class, completely unbothered by the inevitable teasing. When he was sixteen, facing academic pressure, covered in stress hives, he’d sunk into a spiral of doubt. “Autumn, am I a write-off?” I took his hand and told him the one secret I had buried deep inside me. “I thought my world had ended back then, too.” “But once you get through it, you realize there’s nothing you can’t overcome. You have to fight this.” The shock and immediate, agonizing pity in his eyes, followed by the way he sobbed and held me tight—it was still vivid in my mind. On my twentieth birthday, the second the clock struck midnight, he confessed his love. “Autumn, I will always take care of you.” We were in college in the same city, separated by an hour-long subway ride. Every week, he made the arduous round trip just to see me, share a meal, or sit quietly with me at the library. After graduation, he stayed in Newport to launch his startup. I moved back to our hometown, Crestview, for a stable job. This year, our families had begun discussing wedding details. I had quit my job before the holidays, ready to move to Newport and end the long-distance relationship after the new year. Now, everything was hollow. Carter had a new girlfriend he planned to introduce to his family. He was annoyed by me. He had turned the secret I shared with him—my deepest, most painful vulnerability—into fodder for casual gossip. As the night deepened, the streets grew sparse. I checked into a cheap motel nearby. Just as I finished unpacking, my phone screen lit up. It was my mother. “Autumn, have you had dinner? We have so much food here!” A photo of the family dinner followed. Relatives crowded around the table, beaming. The chill seeping in from the motel window’s crack sent a shiver down my spine. I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing a cheerful reply: “Just eating now, Mom. The food is great! Don’t worry about me.” I couldn’t bear to tell them the truth and cause them pain. I found a random photo of a lavish dinner online and sent it back. Then, compelled by a cold dread, I opened the chat with Carter. Still silence. Late into the night, the faint crackle of fireworks—early New Year celebrations—kept me awake. Torturing myself, I scrolled through Carter’s social media, searching for any hint of his infidelity. He was careful, protecting her identity fiercely. Finally, in the corner of a team dinner photo, I spotted a distinctive social media handle on Holly Jennings’ phone. A unique nickname. A sudden, sharp thought made me search the name across all platforms. Among the results, I instantly recognized her. Her profile picture was a sickeningly familiar sight—it was the other half of the ‘couple’s avatar’ Carter and I had used briefly. When he had first changed his, I happily found the match and set mine. He immediately frowned, saying he picked the photo randomly and didn’t want to be “too high-school.” He’d half-jokingly, half-insistently made me change it. Holly’s account had few followers, but hundreds of posts diligently documented her relationship with Carter. The trail began last March. “My boss is pushing himself too hard! He’s in the office with a stomach ulcer, I bought him medicine, and his eyes were red. Sigh, I don’t know how his fiancée can be so neglectful.” At that time, Carter’s mother was hospitalized with a recurring back issue. To let him focus on his crucial new project, we hid the news. I took an extended leave to care for his mother until she recovered, missing out on a promotion to department head. “To take me on a relaxing trip to the coast, BOSS canceled several meetings and a business trip. It feels amazing to be his favorite.” That day was our seven-year anniversary and my birthday. I had pulled an all-nighter finishing a report, hoping to squeeze in a few days of vacation with him. He told me he had a critical client he couldn’t push off. “BOSS gave me a bracelet! The braided wrist strap on it was kinda ugly, so I’ll leave that part to him.” I froze, looking down at my own wrist. I was wearing an identical braided wrist strap, the small, seemingly insignificant birthday gift Carter had belatedly given me. I had cherished it, careful not to let it fray. It took me an hour to read every post on Holly’s account. My heart was cold and still. The photos cleverly avoided Carter’s face, but the familiar cuff of his shirt, the matching band on his finger—identical to the one I was wearing—all confirmed his identity. Carter Maxwell had been cheating on me for a long, long time. A cluster of premature fireworks burst outside. Jolted out of my stupor, I violently ripped the braided strap from my wrist and tossed it into the trash can. Ding. Holly updated her status. This time, it was an audio recording. I pressed play and heard her small, teasing question: “Carter, who do you love more? Me or… your placeholder?” “Mmm?” Carter’s voice, languid and rough with affection, was like warm velvet. “You, of course. How could she compare to you?” “Be a good girl, just hold on for a little longer…” The sound of rustling fabric and low, knowing laughter followed, leaving nothing to the imagination. I slammed the phone shut and stumbled into the bathroom, dry heaving. Looking up, I saw my reflection, face streaked with tears. I immediately booked the earliest flight home. I needed to escape this city, escape everything connected to him. I don’t remember the journey home. The next conscious thought I had was two days later. Seeing my dazed, distant state, my parents refrained from questioning me, simply trying to cheer me up with small things. That morning, my mother quietly asked me, “The Maxwells invited us over for dinner. Do you want to go?” I looked at my phone. Carter had only just replied to my text from Christmas Eve. One message was unsent. The latest was a single word: Fine. I agreed. Some things needed to be finished face-to-face. There were neighbors gathered outside Carter’s house. When they saw me, their expressions were a complicated mix of pity and curiosity. My heart sank. As I stepped into the living room, I saw Carter kneeling in the center. Holly stood beside him, wringing her hands, looking distraught. The timing suggested he had rushed back and brought her here the moment he saw my message. Inside, Mrs. Maxwell’s face was red with fury, her hand slamming the coffee table. “You absolute scoundrel! How could you do this to Autumn?” Though Carter looked disheveled, his expression was defiant. “I’ll explain everything to her. I don’t love her anymore. Holly is the one I belong with.” My heart felt like an invisible fist was violently squeezing it. Hearing it spoken aloud was still a sharp, unbearable pain. Mrs. Maxwell laughed, the sound brittle and heartbroken. “Then tell me, what is so special about her that you can throw away eight years with Autumn?” Carter finally found his vent, his face lighting up. “She cooks for me. She helps organize my chaotic blueprints. When the company was facing a funding crisis, she stayed up all night with me, going through the data, getting us through it.” “Autumn just stayed in Crestview, didn’t bother to check on me, didn’t even know I had stomach issues.” “If that’s the case, why should I continue this relationship?” His words were loud, righteous, and self-justifying. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as his parents. Low whispers rippled through the onlookers. “Well, the Clarke girl was a bit neglectful, wasn’t she? Relationships are about support.” I stopped in my tracks, my throat dry and bitter. The irony was suffocating. No one knew I had planned to stay in Newport. I had a path there, a career I loved. But Carter was determined to start his business, and his parents were anxious. They were getting older and wanted their children close. To support his dream, I gave up the city and the career I wanted. I took a secure job in Crestview, looked after his parents, and ran errands for them. During the toughest periods of his startup, I sent him most of my paycheck, living frugally myself. Any small crisis at their house, any doctor’s appointments—I was there. Now, he claimed he needed someone who was simply closer and more attentive. My fingernails dug unconsciously into my palms, the sting a tiny anchor in the storm. Seeing me, Mrs. Maxwell rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Autumn, I am so sorry. Carter is confused, he’s lost his way, I promise I will—” Carter raised his voice, cutting her off. “Autumn Clarke! You were the one who broke up with me! Just tell my parents the truth!” “Tell them Holly isn’t the other woman!” Mr. Maxwell lost it, kicking Carter hard. “You bastard!” “Get that woman out of my house and apologize to Autumn! Otherwise, don’t you dare step foot in here again!” Carter crumpled on the floor, struggling to get up. Holly cried out and hurried to help him. She looked up, her expression hardening with resolve. “Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell, you can’t force affection. Carter doesn’t have feelings for Autumn anymore.” Then, her eyes flickered over me quickly. My heart seized. I knew what was coming. She immediately ratcheted up her volume. “You can’t let your son sacrifice his life out of pity because Autumn was assaulted in high school!” The words detonated like a thunderclap. A collective gasp echoed in the room. All eyes snapped to me, a sudden focus of pity and probing curiosity. My mind went blank. My greatest fear, the thing I had buried so deep, was now public. Terror and blinding fury surged through me. I lost control, charging forward, shoving Holly to the floor, and scrambling over her. A massive force wrenched me away, throwing me hard against the wooden coffee table. A searing pain shot through my side, and my vision swam. Carter shielded Holly, his eyes blazing with pure rage. “Autumn! Are you completely insane?” My voice was hoarse, raw with fury. “Can’t you see she did that on purpose! She wanted everyone to know!” “And so what?” Carter cut me off, his voice venomous. “What she said isn’t a lie, is it?” The muffled gossip around us began to sharpen. “Oh God, it’s true… The Clarke girl is a victim, isn’t she?” “But keeping that a secret wasn’t right, either. It’s like tricking him…” Pity and condemnation washed over me from behind. I swallowed the choking sensation in my throat, but the tears wouldn’t stop. “I told you that secret! To comfort you! Was it so you could announce it to a room full of strangers?” Carter looked at me, all the old affection gone, replaced by glacial indifference. “You told me. If you don’t care about it, why should I protect it?” “Besides, why did it have to happen to you? A fly won’t land on a sealed jar, you know? Maybe if you weren’t so… flashy, you wouldn’t have—” SMACK! Carter’s head snapped sideways, the handprint vivid on his cheek. Mrs. Maxwell was breathing heavily, her eyes full of pain and profound disappointment. “You beast!” “Do you have any idea that what happened to Autumn back then was entirely your fault!”

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I was walking off the heavy guilt of another microwave meal when I stumbled upon the heir to a Manhattan dynasty on his knee, flashing a Centurion Card at the heroine of our little drama. Suddenly, a flurry of text scrolled across the sky like dense pop-up comments: [The Heroine has been Reborn! In her previous life, she accepted the sicko heir’s confession, only to be imprisoned like a gilded bird—living a life of luxury but zero freedom.] [In this new life, she’s decided to reject the heir’s offer and run into the arms of the poor-but-free school sweetheart hero instead!] [Wow, with no possessive villain standing in their way, this book is going to be a pure, sweet romance, right?] [What good is all the heir’s money if the heroine won’t even look his way?] I stared, stunned, at the celestial commentary. The next second, I heard the heroine’s cool, aloof voice. “Hmph. I would never accept your proposal.” “You will never understand the value of freedom. A man as pathologically possessive as you? No woman could ever love you.” I fought my way to the front of the small crowd, raising my hands high in a dramatic, opportunistic claim. “I can love you! I don’t mind the lack of freedom!” The heir, his eyes rimmed with red, looked over at me. “I have severe separation anxiety. If you’re with me, you’ll have to check in constantly. I’ll need cameras installed in the bedroom and the living room—” I cut him off, feigning shock. “Why not the bathroom? Are you telling me your love for me is… reserved?” 1 The comments section went ballistic. [Wait, who is this woman who just popped out of nowhere?] [Just some disposable cannon fodder who died poor in the original plot. Weird, she didn’t have a scene here before. She must smell the money and is trying to snag a payout.] [Just wait until she’s actually with the sicko heir. She’ll find out just how terrifying his possessiveness is.] The comments scrolled so furiously, my eyes started to sting. They confirmed I wasn’t hallucinating from cheap instant ramen. The stream revealed: The world I inhabited was a “Captive Romance” novel. Gia Bellwether, the girl being proposed to, was the heroine, the object of forced affection. In her first life, after accepting the sicko villain’s proposal, she had endured a humiliating cycle of buying things she didn’t need and living without autonomy. This endless, suffocating existence led her, in the third year of her captivity, to run away to find the one true love she had kept secret. Jett had found her. On the way back, Gia, in a desperate struggle for the steering wheel, crashed their car into an oncoming truck. Both died instantly. Reborn, Gia flat-out refused the villain’s love and ran to the poor school sweetheart, Sam Miller—the official hero. This was meant to be their sweet, pure, second-chance love story. Her moment of rebirth was this very proposal scene. Gia gave me a dismissive, head-to-toe once-over, letting out a soft, contemptuous sneer. When her eyes landed on Sam, however, her face melted into a saccharine smile. She darted into his arms like a butterfly finally freed. “Sam, fate gave me this second chance to get away from that life of confinement and finally love you.” Their four arms were locked in a tight, syrupy embrace. The intensity of their emotion was almost repulsive. Jett, the possessive villain, stood alone, staring at them with a dark, brooding expression. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his side. The Centurion Card in his hand curved sharply, then was successfully shoved into my arms. “Since Gia doesn’t care for this card, then… take it.” I clutched it with both hands, excited. “Possessiveness? That’s just another way of saying he loves me. I happen to adore possessiveness.” Gia’s peripheral vision snagged on the black card. Her head went higher, her chin more aristocratic. I heard her sneer: “Pathetic display. Always flaunting that blood money to humiliate people. I’d love to see how far this gold digger lasts in that cage without her precious ‘freedom.’” 2 On the drive back to my cheap off-campus apartment, Jett Coleman’s expression was a study in shadow. “Thank you for getting me out of that situation. Consider the black card a gift.” His voice was low and troubled. “Even though Gia rejected me because of my possessiveness, she is the only person I have ever loved.” He sounded exactly like the tragic second male lead in every melodramatic novel—the one whose heart belongs only to the heroine. The stream of comments was scrolling thick and fast: [LOL. Does this cannon fodder really think she has the heir’s attention? She’s just a tool to make the heroine jealous.] [Exactly. Jett has been obsessed with Gia since he first saw her. That’s why the proposal was such an insane public spectacle.] [In the original plot, his possessiveness over the heroine was off the charts. He couldn’t go a minute without seeing her.] [Waiting for the cannon fodder to be discarded and return to her predetermined fate of dying poor.] That last one startled me. I could see my own tragic future unfold: graduating, renting a cramped basement apartment, miserable commutes for a pitiful salary, subsisting on instant ramen, and wearing cheap, synthetic fabrics—my last shred of dignity. I shuddered and looked up at Jett’s sharp brow, his clean, powerful jawline. His eyes were dark, swirling with the ink-black storm of Gia’s rejection. He was still lost in the image of the hero and heroine embracing. I couldn’t let this money tree escape. Mustering all my courage, I reached out to take his hand. Snap! An electric spark jumped between us. A sudden, crackling flash of manufactured intimacy. Jett recoiled instantly, like he’d touched a live wire. He was utterly shocked, the dangerous aura surrounding him dissolving into bewilderment. He stared at me, then at his hand, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “What was that? I… I felt a static charge.” I flung myself into his arms, burying my head into his expensive, custom-made shirt. “Yes! Because I am your soulmate! Your destiny!” I declared dramatically. “Love at first sight is cheap. Love that grows over time is enduring. Just spend a little time with me, and you’ll see how amazing I am.” Jett actually looked down at me nestled in his arms. After a moment of genuine hesitation, he wrapped his arms tightly around me. He muttered softly, “Could… could you really be the one?” We stayed locked in the embrace for a long time. In a place Jett couldn’t see, I subtly tugged down the hem of my synthetic, fast-fashion dress—just to make sure the static cling didn’t strike again. 3 The next day was my university graduation. Students were everywhere, hauling boxes and suitcases, ready to leave. I spotted Gia Bellwether in the same dorm complex. It was her last day, too. She looked every bit the beautiful, aloof campus queen. When her eyes met mine, her expression turned instantly contemptuous. “Hmph. A gold digger. Sees a pile of cash and scrambles right to the top of it.” Behind us, a group of girls gasped. “Look, everyone! A Rolls-Royce! Who is that here to pick up?” At the same time, the comments began to scroll again. [Wow, that Rolls-Royce Ghost is gorgeous! Has to be over half a million, minimum. The Elite Heir is here for our heroine!] [Aww, but she won’t get in his car this time. No matter how much he begs, she won’t give him the time of day.] [Heroine, go start that sweet romance with the hero already! I can’t wait!] Gia held her neck perfectly straight, like an elegant swan. She walked down the steps under the envious gaze of every girl there. Her tone was sharp and unwelcoming as she addressed Jett Coleman. “I have told you many times, I will not accept your confession. Can you please stop stalking me?” 4 The sounds of admiration from the other students continued to swell. Gia seemed to bask in the spotlight. She slowly descended the last step. But Jett’s voice was calm. “I’m sorry, Gia. I’m here to pick up my girlfriend. Not you.” He paused, then added: “That electric shock feeling I felt last night was a bolt of fate. The person I love is Lana.” Gia’s face instantly drained of color. The humiliation and shame made her bite her lower lip until it was white. Jett bypassed her completely, waving at me. “Lana, my driver will take your bags.” Then, his face slightly darkened. “Lana, why were you talking to someone just now? Even if it was a girl, I’ll get jealous—” Gia’s expression relaxed slightly, a scornful smile crossing her lips. She looked completely familiar with this behavior, waiting for me to break under his overbearing possessiveness. Instead, I glanced at my wrist and frowned, cutting Jett off. “We agreed on 10:30 AM. Why are you one minute late?” He froze. “I… I got held up by traffic.” “I don’t believe you. A whole minute! You could have done a lot in sixty seconds. Were you looking for another woman?” “No! Lana, you have to believe me. One minute is barely enough time to look for a woman!” “Then were you looking for another man?” The chatroom exploded in shock: [What is happening? This cannon fodder is more possessive than the Elite Heir!] [Hah, just wait until she’s actually confined like a golden canary and has to check in for everything she does. She’ll regret this.] [@SecretSleuth, look, your favorite dual-male plotline is bleeding into the forced-love narrative! Come witness!] I shot a cold, confident look at the comments. Jett Coleman was that rich. If I wasn’t strict, what if someone else snagged him? In the end, Jett had to pull up his dashcam footage to finally satisfy my suspicion. Gia stood on the sidelines, seething. In her past life, it was always Jett who strictly monitored everyone she contacted. She never had to question his social circle. Her memory was broken by a clear shout: “Gia! I’m here to help you with your bags!” Gia smiled again, turning toward Sam Miller, the school sweetheart who had secretly adored her for years. The smile vanished instantly. Sam had pulled up on a beat-up electric scooter. 5 Gia stared at the miserable vehicle in disbelief. In her past life, she had been chauffeured everywhere. An army of staff ensured she never had to lift a finger. Now, she had to pack her own bags, and she’d already chipped two nails. Even the comments couldn’t handle it. [Why is Sam so poor? How is he supposed to carry all that luggage on a scooter?] [I came for a sweet romance, not a tiny rental apartment novel! He rented a place off campus—is the heroine going to live in a basement apartment with him?] [He was a successful entrepreneur in the first life! He’ll succeed in this one, too. Don’t worry.] Gia seemed to latch onto that last thought. She forced down her displeasure and reluctantly climbed onto the back of the scooter. They set off for their tiny apartment outside of campus. The Rolls-Royce Ghost blew past the electric scooter, spewing exhaust in the hero and heroine’s faces. I clearly saw the resentment and regret in Gia’s eyes. The gilded cage villa she had desperately tried to escape in the first life was now my home in this life. 6 Sitting on a sofa that cost more than my entire extended family, Jett leaned forward, trapping me between his arms. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and his jawline was sharply defined. His expression was the familiar, slightly dangerous one from our first meeting. He smiled, that slightly wicked, mesmerizing smile. After several of those “electric shock” moments, he was now convinced I was the one. His low voice rumbled in my ear. “Baby, you are the first woman to embrace my possessiveness. But you have to understand, I grew up with zero sense of security.” “This entire estate is riddled with cameras so I can see you at all times.” “You can swipe my card whenever you want, but you must have a security detail with you when you leave—” “Enough,” I interrupted impatiently. What was he rambling on about? I was the one dating this ridiculously rich man! I was the one who had no security! I wanted to keep Jett locked to my hip 24 hours a day. I reached up, grabbed his jaw, and lightly patted his cheek to relax his muscles—to make him look less like a brooding anime villain. Then, I pulled out a handwritten A4 paper from my pocket. I shook it open, cleared my throat, and began to read aloud: “From this moment on, you must check in with me wherever you go.” “You must be back in the villa by 10 PM sharp every night. If you’re late, you must send me your live location, and I will track you until you return.” “Also, we need to install a camera in the bathroom. This ensures I have a seamless, 24/7, 360-degree view of you.” “Don’t look so shocked. We’re dating. What do you have that I haven’t seen?” “When you are at the office, you must report your activities every hour. What you did, what you ate, who you met. Everything.” “Jett, you have to understand. I love money… and if I don’t hear from you for an hour, I’ll worry so much I can’t eat or sleep…” Jett Coleman’s wicked smile froze solid. His pupils slowly dilated. The ‘sicko villain’ aura evaporated instantly. He leaned back, sinking into the sofa cushions. He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling lazily from his fingers. After a long, drawn-out silence, he finally made a decision. “Lana… maybe… maybe you should go get a job.”

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On the long drive to my in-laws’ town, I was scrolling through a toxic, viral social media thread. The post title was: [My brother married an outsider, and she acts like a guest when she visits. She never helps Mom with chores. She’s coming for the holidays—what should I do?] The comments section was predictably explosive. The original poster (OP) was replying to every piece of advice with aggressive details: [She’s from the city and won’t eat our local food. After Mom cooks a huge dinner, she just sits there picking at her plate, looking miserable. It’s so irritating! If she hates it so much, why doesn’t she cook? Does she not have hands?] [This holiday, I’m going to properly discipline her.] [I’m going to make Mom pretend her arm is broken. Let’s see how she can justify sitting around then.] The car was just reaching the town limits. I quickly closed the thread, ready to brace myself for the visit. But before my husband, Bryce, could even pull the SUV to a stop, I got a text from his younger sister. **Maddie: June, Mom broke her arm. Maddie: She’s being discharged today. Can you guys pick us up at the hospital? ** 01 I stared at the screen, then turned to Bryce Harrington, who was maneuvering the car into a parking spot. “Your mom broke her arm? Why didn’t you tell me?” His hands on the steering wheel tensed, and the SUV jerked to a stop. “My mom broke her arm? When? Who told you? I had no idea.” Seeing the genuine shock on his face, I knew he was clueless, too. I showed him the message. He immediately pulled out his phone and called his mother, Beverly. She picked up quickly. “Hello, sweetie, you’re here already?” Bev’s voice was too cheerful for someone in pain. “Your sister, bless her heart, I told her not to bother you two. She just never listens.” “It’s nothing major, just an unfortunate fracture. I saw the doctor, no need to worry.” She sighed theatrically. “It’s just impossible to grab an Uber here. Would you mind having June drive the car to the hospital to get us?” “You don’t need to come. You’ve been driving all day—go home and rest.” Listening to the don’t-overexert-my-son spiel on the speaker, I pursed my lips. It was always this way. Bryce, the precious son, was to be shielded. I, the daughter-in-law, was perfectly disposable. Resigned, I took the keys and drove to the hospital. I saw Bev and Maddie the moment I pulled up. They were standing outside, laughing. As the car stopped, Maddie yanked open the passenger door. She froze when she saw Bryce. “Bryce, what are you doing here? Mom told you to go home and rest!” She looked over at me with a judgmental frown. “June, honestly, you’re so inconsiderate. My brother is exhausted from the drive. Why couldn’t you have just let him go rest?” I almost laughed out loud. We’d driven cross-country from San Francisco to his little town in Idaho. I drove the first twelve hours; he drove the last eight. I was just as exhausted. Before I could fire back, Bev slipped into the backseat. She shot Maddie a warning look. “Madison, don’t talk to June that way. You’re being rude.” Then, she smiled apologetically at me. “June, you must be worn out from the trip.” “I was planning to make a beautiful dinner, but then I slipped and fractured my arm. Now I have to bother you to pick me up.” I forced a smile and shook my head. “It’s no trouble, Bev. We’re family. Is your arm okay?” Bev avoided my gaze, her voice a little too light. “It’s fine. I just can’t do any heavy lifting. I’m afraid the housework is all going to fall on you.” On the way home, I remembered the awful thread I’d been scrolling through. The situation was similar—a broken parent. But the details felt wrong. The OP claimed the sister-in-law wouldn’t cook. When Bev had been sick a couple of years ago, I didn’t cook, but I hired a professional chef. The food was great. Maddie, however, had spent the entire time making snide remarks. “Big city girls are something else. Asking her to help Mom is like asking for her life. She’d rather spend a fortune on a chef than get her hands dirty.” “If you have money to waste, you can just give it to me. I need it.” I’d been so angry that I took her plate right off the table. If you don’t like the food I paid for, don’t eat it. Had she been holding onto that grudge this whole time? That seemed too petty, even for Maddie. While waiting at a red light, I reopened the thread. It was still being updated. [My sister-in-law is picking us up from the hospital right now. We’re on the way home.] [When we get there, I have a HUGE surprise waiting for her.] [Discipline Step Two: Changing the master bedroom she commandeered into my princess suite. We’re going to grind away her arrogance little by little.] Reading that last line, I finally relaxed. I didn’t live with Bryce’s family. 02 When Bryce and I got married, my parents, Laura and George, bought a three-bedroom townhouse in Bryce’s hometown as part of my settlement, knowing we’d return for holidays. We lived here when we visited. Bryce’s family lived in their own house nearby. Sometimes, they’d come over to my house and cook dinner for us before going home. So, when we reached the turn-off, and Maddie called out, “June, take us straight to the new house,” I didn’t think much of it and turned onto the street leading to my townhouse. We soon arrived. When the elevator reached the 18th floor, I stepped out first to open the door. It was the same biometric lock, but my fingerprint failed several times. I tried the old code. That failed too. I frowned, turning to Bryce. “The lock’s broken. Can you call a handyman?” “Broken? No way. I was here on business last month, and it was fine.” When he saw me fail one more time, he reached for his phone. Maddie stopped him. “Bryce, don’t. The lock isn’t broken.” She squeezed past us and placed her finger on the reader. The lock clicked open. Maddie saw my confused look and waved her hand dismissively. “Oops, sorry, I accidentally deleted the old fingerprints a while back. And that old passcode was way too simple, so I changed it.” “You don’t mind, do you, June?” Her face held no trace of apology. I looked at her, my voice low. “What’s the new code?” “My birthday, obviously.” With that, she ushered Bev into the house, leaving me and Bryce standing in the hallway. The old code had been my birthday. Now it was hers. And this was my house. I looked for Bryce, but he was already inside, laughing and chatting with his family. The hallway light timed out, plunging me into darkness while they stood together in the light. I took a deep breath and slowly stepped inside. After a moment of searching, I found my indoor slippers crammed into a corner. One of the white velvet slippers had a dark, muddy footprint on it. I changed my shoes, my lips pressed into a thin line, and headed for the master suite to drop my bags. On the way, I noticed unfamiliar anime figures on the TV stand, and plates of old, uncovered takeout on the dining table. The wall of the open office—my office—was covered with several framed school awards that weren’t mine. A knot tightened in my chest. When I reached the master bedroom door, I saw a pink, beaded curtain hanging on the frame, and a fluffy pink cartoon cover on the doorknob. These were not there before. The word “surprise” from that thread flashed in my mind. The moment I pushed the master bedroom door open, the heart in my chest plummeted. The original charcoal and white furniture—my furniture—was gone. In its place was a monstrous pink canopy bed and a huge white armoire. A fuzzy, deep-pile carpet covered the floor, stopping me from taking another step. The room that belonged to the owners of the house was completely transformed into Madison’s princess suite. The person on that disgusting thread—the arrogant, hated sister-in-law—was me. A sudden, sharp chill pierced through my body, as if I had been plunged into a lake of ice. A sound of hurried footsteps came from behind me, followed by Maddie’s voice, full of manufactured outrage. “June, why did you just open my door without knocking? Bedrooms are private spaces! Didn’t you learn any basic manners in the city? That’s so rude!” She then feigned a look of shocked realization, covering her mouth as she looked at me with faux embarrassment. “Oh, June, I’m so sorry! I forgot to tell you—we changed the master bedroom into my suite. You and Bryce can take the small guest room.” “I mean, you only come back a couple of times a year. This huge room would just sit empty. Why not let me use it?” I looked at her, my voice glacially cold. “No. I mind. Change it back immediately.” Maddie glared, ready to fight. “Why should I?” “Because this is my house.” Maddie let out a cold, dismissive laugh. “Your house? Get it straight, June. This is my brother’s family’s house, not yours. Your home is in San Francisco, Princess.” “If you want to play the mistress of the house, go back to California. Don’t think you can throw your weight around in our family’s home!” She shoved past me, planting her hands on her hips, standing guard at the bedroom door like she was defending a fortress. I looked at her with a bitter smile. Bryce didn’t even have the right to call this his house. How dare she? “My parents bought this house for me, and the title is in my name. Does that make this my house? Does that make me the mistress?” Maddie’s face instantly paled, but then she shrieked. “Mom! Bryce! Come quickly! She’s bullying me!” Bryce and Bev rushed over, standing immediately on either side of Maddie as she spun a tale. “She’s tormenting me!” “I’m in my final year of high school. I need a quiet, spacious place to study! And she’s saying I stole her room and told me to get out!” Bryce frowned, looking at his sister with disapproval. “Maddie, you should have at least asked us before moving into the master. That’s inappropriate.” “Apologize to June!” Maddie pouted, looking at her mother. Bev was instantly defensive. She shielded Maddie and looked at me with a pained expression. “June, this is my fault, not hers. Please don’t blame her.” “The old house’s plumbing failed, and we couldn’t stay there. We had to move into the new house temporarily.” “There are only two bedrooms here, and I didn’t want to affect her studies, so I told her to use the master suite.” “I meant to call you, but I was so busy, and with the accident… I just forgot. If you’re angry, be angry at me. Please don’t blame Maddie, she’s still a child. She doesn’t know any better.” 03 A child? She was eighteen, perfectly capable of running a calculated online smear campaign about me and twisting the narrative about occupying my master suite. Still a child? I laughed without humor. I looked at Bryce. “Your family moved into my house. Why didn’t you tell me?” I’d bought this place specifically to avoid conflict with his family. When we bought it, I made it clear to Bryce: this was my property. They could visit, but they could never move in permanently. He had agreed. But now… Before Bryce could speak, Bev cut in. “Bryce, your sister is at a critical point in her studies. Please just let her stay here.” “The moment she finishes her exams, I promise I’ll make her move back to the old house. We absolutely won’t impose on you anymore.” “As for me and your dad, we’ll move back today. We’ll just manage with the leaking pipes.” Bryce’s face darkened at the thought of his parents suffering. He quickly rushed to prove his filial devotion. “Mom, don’t talk like that. My house is your house. Stay as long as you want. I would never kick you out!” “If you left, what would the rest of the family say? They’d think I’m a terrible son.” He turned to me, his voice pleading and helpless. “Honey, we’re only here for a few days anyway. Let her use the master for now.” “We’re family. There’s no need to make a fuss over something so small.”

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My husband kept a mistress in the walk-in closet. Every night, she’d creep out after midnight, giggling, and slink onto the bed. Two bodies, unrestrained in the darkness. I, the oblivious wife sleeping beside them, would occasionally cough. Instead of being deterred, Callan Ashford found it exhilarating. The thrill of the forbidden would send shivers through him, pushing him trembling toward his peak. Afterward, my so-called best friend, Blair, would dig her heel viciously into my face. “Look at her,” she’d sneer, her voice low and venomous. “She sleeps like a tranquilized hog.” “I doubt she’d wake up if the roof caved in.” “But thank God for her little problem, or we wouldn’t be able to have our nightly fun, would we?” Callan, spent and gasping, would mumble, “Adora is a good girl, a placid little wife. Not like you—you’re a fever dream, a goddamn siren. You’re endless.” Then, they would start all over again. I lay facing the wall, a quiet, chilling smile spreading across my lips in the pitch black. 1 The pale, ghostly blue light of the monitor screen reflected off my face. I pulled my arms tighter across my chest, watching Callan, a primal, rutting beast, straining and grinning in excitement. Sweat slicked the two writhing bodies. My own lips curled upward in a slow, uncontrollable arc. My body was shaking slightly, not from fear, but from a surge of heady, victorious adrenaline. I snapped the laptop shut. Turning to the mirror, I studied the woman staring back: dressed in soft, unassuming silks, utterly without pretense or attack. I spoke quietly, barely a whisper. “Perfect. The game is finally on.” “Five years of playing the placid wife. I’d say I’ve played the role long enough.” The next moment, I couldn’t help but laugh. I wasn’t the only one who’d been acting, was I? It was incredible. The man who projected such an image of gentle composure and steady temper—the distinguished Callan Ashford—had this subterranean side. Cheating on me with my best friend was one thing. But to sneak her into my house and hide her in the walk-in closet? To exploit my infamous ability to sleep through a hurricane—my deep, near-comatose sleep cycle—just to release her onto my marital bed, right next to me? And he’d kept this sick little charade going for a month. If I hadn’t feigned sleep that night—if I hadn’t actually bought him a surprise anniversary gift to celebrate our fifth year and then overheard those noises—I would have remained the perfect fool. It was too rich. He craved this furtive thrill, this lick of honey from a knife’s edge. The more dangerous the risk, the more satisfied he felt. He had concealed it so well over the years. Honestly, he’d genuinely impressed me. My phone vibrated. A text from Blair: “Tell me what you think of this bangle?” The accompanying photo showed a high-carat opal bangle, its surface glowing with rich color, encircling a slender wrist. It rested casually against a man’s forearm. Near the crook of the thumb was a tiny, almost invisible black mole. It was Callan’s hand. A mocking smile touched my mouth. So, she couldn’t hide it anymore. Was this her subtle little provocation? I tapped the screen, typing cheerfully: “Gorgeous color! Must have cost a fortune?” Blair replied instantly: “It’s a newly-excavated, intensely colored opal. The auction houses were fighting over it, but he loved it, paid triple the asking price, and had it cut for me on the spot.” Based on the clarity of the stone, the uncut gem would have been worth well over three million. Triple… I clicked my tongue, a pang of calculated disdain. The most expensive gift Callan had ever given me was a ten-thousand-dollar branded brooch—and that was just a required purchase to access something else at the boutique. Yet, Blair had acquired this in a matter of weeks. Clearly, Callan was obsessed with her. I didn’t know how she’d stumbled upon his forbidden kink, but her approach—lowering her standards to meet his perverse needs—was undeniably clever. It made me recall a scene from years ago. I was in my tiny rental, meticulously going through the dossiers of various eligible bachelors from prominent families, choosing a suitable husband. Then, I saw his file, and a shudder ran through me. His mother died giving birth to him, leading to cold neglect from his father. He was constantly undermined by his two older brothers, which fostered a personality defined by deep reserve, extreme caution, and profound cunning. The family had repeatedly instilled the belief that he was responsible for his mother’s death, making him instinctively averse to childbirth and children—yet, he also harbored a deep, desperate longing for maternal comfort and tenderness. His history guaranteed he would guard himself against everyone. Even his wife would not necessarily be privy to his wealth. Since I was kicked out of my stepmother’s house at fifteen and forced to survive on my own, I knew one truth: nothing in this world is reliable except the money you hold in your hand. Callan was high-difficulty. He wasn’t the most suitable choice. But I liked a challenge. Easy wins had no flavor. Hard bone was worth the satisfying crunch. The process of securing him was arduous. He liked a blank slate. So I bleached myself into a virgin canvas. He liked the soft, flowing nature of water. I presented myself in the most gentle and agreeable manner every single time. It took painstaking effort, but I finally became Mrs. Ashford. I thought I knew him. I was wrong. My best friend understood him better. But… I walked barefoot to the liquor cabinet and poured myself a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid swirled, mirroring the subtle, devious light in my eyes. Darling, I’m the one playing the long game. You want to replace me as Mrs. Ashford. But that title? That’s not what I care about at all. I shot a reply back to Blair: “He sounds like a keeper. I approve, sis.” Then, I snapped a photo of the pre-prepared pregnancy test results and posted it to my private social media. Caption: “An angel is on the way.” 2 The next morning, I deleted a text message that read, “Grandma is fading fast. Maybe two weeks at most.” I looked up to see Callan, who had just rushed back on a redeye flight. He was haggard, but his eyes held a layer of terrifying, chilling malice. “What the hell is this? How are you pregnant?” I pretended not to notice the fresh hickey he hadn’t bothered to cover on his neck. I gave a flawless performance of bewildered innocence and terror. “I… I don’t know, honey. I just started feeling nauseous and unwell, so I went for a check-up… I truly don’t know how this happened…” “Stop acting! What did you do to sabotage our agreement?” He lunged forward, gripping my wrist so tightly I nearly cried out. Blair, who’d followed him in, rushed to restrain him. “Callan! Don’t you dare! This is your wife! Even if she went against your solemn childfree pact—look, a woman needs security, doesn’t she? Even if her motives are selfish, it’s because she loves you too much, not because she’s cheating!” Callan shot her a look, took a deep breath, yanked off his tie, and sat down hard on the sofa. Blair rushed to hand me a glass of water. “Adora, as a woman, I understand your need for security. But from Callan’s perspective, he’s being forced to accept this. Isn’t that unfair?” “And you told me yourselves, Callan always uses protection, right? So, how did you… how did you get pregnant?” Callan’s head snapped up. His eyes were dangerously dark. Blair picked up the results again, examining them closely. She murmured, “Seven weeks. That means two months ago… Hmm. The timing seems off. I recall Callan was overseas meeting clients that whole period, wasn’t he?” Callan sprang to his feet, enraged. “Aha! I get it now! Adora Bellwether! No wonder you’re pregnant! You found yourself another man outside!” My heart gave a practiced jolt. My eyes immediately filled with tears. “Callan Ashford! What are you saying? Five years of marriage! Don’t you know what kind of person I am? How can you accuse me of that?” He looked at my tear-streaked, pitiful face. His brow twitched. He was starting to realize that for five years, my life had revolved entirely around him. Apart from my friendship with Blair, I had no social life. I was the perfect, standard-issue trophy wife and homemaker. This kind of woman was like a perfectly trained dog. Give her a bone, and she’d wag her tail for life. How could she possibly have the guts to carry another man’s bastard? His expression softened slightly. But then Blair cried out, “Oh!” “Two months ago… I think I remember… It was pouring rain that night. I dropped Adora off, and as I walked away, I saw a man waiting for her near the lobby. Adora looked really nervous and rushed me away…” She suddenly covered her mouth, looking at me with feigned anxiety. “Adora, I didn’t mean anything by it! I’m just worried about you both!” Ah, the scent of fresh, high-grade petticoat poison. I had to clench my palms until my fingernails dug in to keep myself from bursting out laughing. Callan’s face, however, went utterly slate-gray after hearing Blair’s words. He reached out, seizing my jaw with his large hand, his entire body radiating cold fury. “Adora Bellwether, who was the man?” 3 Look at my devoted husband. No matter how filthy his own actions, he couldn’t tolerate even the suggestion of disloyalty from his wife. How ridiculously predictable. A flash of malice crossed Blair’s eyes, though her tone remained frantic. “Callan, don’t get worked up. Let’s talk this through calmly… Adora, please, just explain it to him.” I laughed suddenly, but the tears flowed in earnest this time. “Callan Ashford, you still doubt me, don’t you?” He grabbed my shoulders, squeezing so hard he nearly crushed my bones. “Doubt? Are you saying Blair is lying?” He turned to Blair, his voice involuntarily softening. “Blair, tell me, what else did they do that day?” Blair glanced at me in apparent distress, then stammered, “Well, she was holding an umbrella for him, and they spoke for a while… then the man followed Adora into the building… Oh!” Before she could finish, she let out a shriek and stumbled backward. Her lower back slammed heavily against the staircase railing. As she fell, she grabbed my dress, making it look as though I had shoved her. “Blair!” Callan shoved me aside without thought. I lost my balance, my head hitting the cold, hard wall with a muffled groan. Callan rushed past me, carefully helping Blair up. The woman leaned into his chest, tears streaming down her face. “Adora, why did you push me? Is it because you think I’m a bad friend for telling the truth? But this pregnancy is suspicious. Callan is your husband. He has a right to know the truth…” He helped Blair to sit safely aside, then slowly turned and walked toward me. The rage in his eyes threatened to incinerate me. “Adora Bellwether, you commit a disgusting act, and then you try to hurt an innocent person?” Before I could even process his movement, he clamped his hand around the back of my neck, slamming me against the wall again. “Tell me! Whose bastard is this?” I didn’t struggle. I just closed my eyes, letting the tears fall freely. Just as his hand drew back, ready to strike my stomach with devastating force, the housekeeper, Mr. Davies, rushed into the living room with a woman in tow. “Mr. Ashford, this is Mrs. Chen, the cleaning lady from the community. She insisted on thanking the Mistress.” The middle-aged woman, with short hair and a broad, sturdy build, bowed deeply to me, tears in her eyes. “Mrs. Ashford, thank God. After two months of treatment, my son is finally improving. I had to come and thank you.” “If you hadn’t told me to wait for you by the door that night, and given me that money for the hospital bills, I honestly might have lost him… I would have buried my own child. Mrs. Ashford, you are a saint! I can never repay your kindness…” She broke down into sobs, quickly wiping her eyes before offering him a few boxes. “Mr. Ashford, you were away last time. I remember the Mistress saying you love tea. These are some simple leaves from my hometown. It’s a small gift, please accept it.” Callan froze, his gaze snapping back to me. Blair’s face drained of color. I spoke calmly. “Mrs. Chen, I only did what I could. Please don’t be so formal.” Then I looked deeply into Callan’s eyes. My gaze was one of icy calm. “You can call Dr. Albright and ask if the embryo implantation date is subject to variation. A few days’ margin is perfectly normal. If you still don’t believe me, we can go right now. Amniocentesis, DNA test, whatever you want.” I turned to walk away, but my body swayed. I quickly grabbed the wall for support. Callan looked at my ashen face, then at the genuinely distraught Mrs. Chen. His suspicion immediately evaporated. Before he could speak, Blair, who had been frozen in shock, quickly recovered. 4 “Callan, I knew Adora loved you too much to ever cheat! But still… Adora, you shouldn’t have used a trick to get pregnant and break the agreement you made with Callan! You were only thinking of securing him with a child. Why weren’t you thinking about your husband?” Callan’s face went instantly dark. “That’s right! I will not be having this child! Go to the hospital immediately while it’s still early and terminate it, or else—” The phone in his pocket suddenly rang, cutting him off. “Hello?” “You said what?” I pretended not to notice the flicker of utter astonishment in his eyes, lowering my head to wipe the last tears from my cheek. The next second, he scooped me up into the air. “Wife! You are absolutely incredible!” A sudden, earth-shattering shift in fortune. The Ashford Patriarch had just made a declaration: he had three sons, and the one who gave him the first grandson would inherit the family’s control. Five years married to Callan, I knew how brutal the struggle was between the three brothers. And now, I had effortlessly handed him the key to crush his siblings. No matter how much he hated children, he wouldn’t turn down this opportunity. Watching the excited, avaricious gleam in his eyes, I smiled internally. The so-called famous Clairvoyant was just a con man. Years ago, after Callan had him brutally beaten and left for dead, I had saved him. He proved surprisingly loyal and thrived in his new profession. All it took was a few well-placed suggestions to the ailing Patriarch about the family’s “lineage stability” and “destiny tied to the first heir” to make him believe that only by handing the entire Ashford legacy to the first grandson could the family’s prosperity be ensured. Blair was stunned. The venom in her eyes was now undisguised, like a cold needle aimed directly at me. I walked silently back to the room. I didn’t turn on the light. The cruel, pleased curve of my lips finally unfolded in the total darkness. Blair and I were truly kindred spirits. Both of us, once we decided on a course of action, would pursue it to the bitter end. Three years ago, she engineered a chance encounter while I was grocery shopping, eventually becoming my one and only, my very best sister-friend. She waited three full years. She finally discovered Callan’s weakness, and finally secured her secret relationship with him. Her tenacity was, I admit, impressive. But the moment I first saw her, I knew exactly what she was after. I guessed that the day she started catering to Callan’s perversion, hiding in the closet, she began planning how to usurp my place entirely. So, I deliberately allowed her to witness me meeting a vaguely defined “man.” It was all for the sake of the theatrical performance I’d watched unfold today. Life is too tedious. One must find ways to entertain oneself. A week later, at the Ashford Family Manor. Dr. Albright moved the cold ultrasound wand from my abdomen without looking up. “Eight weeks. The heartbeat is strong. Congratulations.” His single sentence immediately changed the complexion of every face in the room. The Ashford Patriarch was ecstatic. The elder brother, Garrett, and the second brother, Preston, frowned deeply. Their wives’ faces were tight with jealousy. The Patriarch raised a hand. Mr. Davies immediately produced a file and three sets of keys. “Adora, these City View condos are now in your name. They are a family safeguard for you. And this offshore trust fund has been transferred to your account. You rest well and care for the child. Once the baby is born… there will naturally be more.” The Patriarch didn’t finish the sentence, but everyone understood the implication. After the others departed, their faces a mixture of emotions, Callan took an envelope from his suit pocket and handed it to me. “This card is for you, Wife. Spend whatever you want. Don’t deprive yourself or the child.” In five years of marriage, this was the first money he had given me outside of my monthly household allowance. It was a start. But… I curled my trembling fingers around the card. I looked at the envelopes and the legal documents. What was this? In the Ashford family’s vast financial empire, this was less than a crumb. It didn’t even cover the edges. Not enough. Far from enough. I put on a performance of being still deeply affected by the accusations from a few days ago. I moved away, avoiding his attempt to touch me. “You go home first. I need to walk alone for a while.” 5 By the entrance, I ran into Dr. Albright, who was leaving. I gave him a polite smile. He reacted as if he’d seen a ghost, quickly turning and walking away. I clicked my tongue in displeasure. All I did was discover that his academically brilliant son, who was about to go overseas for research, was involved in serious academic plagiarism. So I asked him to casually misrepresent my examination results to buy me a few days of time. Was that so much to ask? That afternoon, I arrived at a suburban coffee shop. Blair was waiting for me in a corner. Her perfectly made-up face looked stressed. “Did the Patriarch really say that whoever produces the first grandson gets control of the whole corporation?” I covered my mouth, my shoulders shaking, tears rolling down my cheeks. “Yes, Blair, he did. He only agreed to keep the child because of the leverage it gives him in the family succession… If it weren’t for that, he wouldn’t even look at my stomach…” I sobbed, almost suffocating, then coughed. But out of the corner of my eye, I clearly saw a calculated glint ignite in Blair’s eyes. “Adora, stop crying. It’s bad for the baby… Listen to me. Now that you’re pregnant, no matter the reason, Callan has to treat his own flesh and blood well, and he has to treat you well! Don’t worry, I’ll help you protect that baby.” I raised my tear-filled eyes, looking at her with manufactured gratitude. “Blair, you’re so good to me.” She smoothed the stray hair back from my ear and gave me a sweet smile. “Of course. We’re the very best of friends, aren’t we?” My gaze settled on our clasped hands. My lowered lashes concealed the cold detachment in my eyes. Yes, Blair. We are the best of friends. And only you deserve to be my opponent. That same evening, Blair moved into our home, claiming I was too emotional and needed company. Every night, in the deepest hours, the two of them resumed their routines. And now, they were no longer satisfied with waiting until I was asleep. I’d be cooking soup in the kitchen, and Callan would have Blair pressed against the bathroom wall. I’d be reading in the study, and he’d be pulling Blair’s hair right outside the door, his eyes locked on the sliver of light beneath it. I repeatedly replayed the surveillance footage, scrutinizing his face after each release. A cold smirk played on my lips. Callan was already getting bored with these amateur theatrics. He was addicted to the thrill of theft. He only became excited when he was close to total destruction. Simply being caught by his wife no longer satisfied his palate. Human desire, once awakened and left unchecked, only grows larger. The next day, news came from the Ashford Manor. The 90-year-old Ashford Family Matriarch had passed away. Three days earlier than I had anticipated. Given the circumstances, the funeral rites had to be perfectly orchestrated. I, who hadn’t spoken to Callan in days, took the initiative to break the silence. “Let’s go. We should see Grandmother off.” Blair suddenly interjected. “Callan, Adora is pregnant. A funeral might be too uncomfortable for her. Plus, there’s the vigil, the kneeling, the crying. What if she has a miscarriage? Why don’t I go with you both? I can help look after Adora.” I turned, addressing her with an unprecedented iciness. “Blair, this is Ashford family business. What are you doing there as an outsider? Are you vying for the role of the Ashford Third Granddaughter-in-law, hoping to kneel and mourn for Grandmother in my place?” Her eyes immediately filled with wounded tears. “Adora! Why would you say that? I just wanted to help!” Seeing her distress, Callan quickly spoke up. “You’ve accompanied Adora to visit Grandmother before. She was fond of you. It’s not inappropriate for you to see her off. You can come with us.” He turned a cold gaze on me. “Blair used to spend time with Grandmother, talking poetry and literature, keeping the old woman happy. Grandmother used to quietly nag me about her, saying she was graceful, educated, and far better than my always-dull wife. She even asked why I didn’t marry her instead.” “Since Grandmother liked Blair so much, her soul will be happier to see Blair at her send-off. It’s certainly preferable to seeing you.” An undeniable look of triumph flashed across Blair’s face. I lowered my head, a faint, bitter smile on my lips, and didn’t argue. I replied softly, “Fine. As you wish.” Callan continued, “Is the Shroud of Passage ready?” According to Ashford tradition, the youngest granddaughter-in-law must personally drape the deceased with the Shroud of Passage, symbolizing peace on the journey to the afterlife. I pointed to the purple sandalwood box by the door. “Grandmother wasn’t well for a while, so it was prepared long ago.” “Good. Let’s go.” Watching their backs, I sighed softly. Grandmother. I warned them, but they wouldn’t listen. The stage is set. The actors are about to make their entrance. A funeral. A wake. Relatives. A lover in a figure-hugging black dress. Ultimate danger. Ultimate sacrilege. Ultimate transgression. It is the very scenario your grandson craves most. If he does anything highly disrespectful to your memory later, please try to be tolerant.

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Everyone used to tell me I hit the jackpot. I got the trophy wife—beautiful, smart, and a whiz with a budget. Only my five-year-old, Quinn, looked at me like I was a textbook case of bad judgment. That was until my wife’s “close colleague” moved in, wearing my tailored blazers and using my shaving kit. Quinn shook me awake in the middle of the night. “Dad, what on earth are you still holding onto with a snake like that?” I stared at her. “What did you say?” She sighed. “I lived to be twenty-five in my last life. I watched you put up with her for your whole adult life.” “This time, just listen to me. Get a divorce.” “Once you do, I’ll set you up with a real stunner. Hotter than Mom, sweeter than Mom, and the key thing? She’ll only have eyes for you.” 01 Geneva’s cheating was broken to me by my daughter, Quinn. She was five, just started kindergarten. She walked in that day, tossed her pink backpack onto the sofa, and came straight over to me. “Dad, Mom’s seeing someone else.” I was wiping down the kitchen counter. My hand froze for a second, then I kept wiping. “Don’t talk nonsense.” “It’s not nonsense.” She climbed onto a high barstool, swinging her little legs. “I saw her today at the mall. She was wrapped around some guy—tall, wearing a black leather jacket.” I tossed the rag into the sink, splashing water onto my hand. “You must have been mistaken.” “I wasn’t mistaken.” She hopped off the stool and stood in front of me, looking up. “Dad, it’s okay to cry. You’ll feel better if you let it out.” I didn’t cry. I actually laughed. “Kid, you’ve been watching too many soap operas.” She shook her head, reaching for my hand. It was so small and soft. “Dad, I’m not a kid.” She spoke slowly, every word measured. “The truth is… I came back from eighteen years in the future.” I froze. “Eighteen years from now, you’re dead,” she said, her eyes turning red fast. “Lung cancer. Stage four, right out of the gate. Mom was remarried by then. Three months after your funeral. She said a house couldn’t run without a man, and Daisy was still young.” The kitchen light flickered. I felt a sudden rush of dizziness. “I didn’t cry, honest.” She wiped her eyes, leaving a wet streak on her hand. “I didn’t cry at your wake. Grandpa Rose said I was cold, said I had no heart. But I knew. I remembered the last six months, you hurting, unable to sleep all night, and not one of them was there to ease the pain.” I stumbled back, leaning against the refrigerator. One of Daisy’s little art magnets slid off and hit the floor with a hollow clack. “Dad.” She came closer, hugging my leg this time. “Stop doing all the chores for her. Your cooking is the best, but she always found something to pick at. She’d complain that all you did was ‘hang around the house,’ and still couldn’t even keep the place clean.” I wanted to deny it, to say, Gen wouldn’t say that. But the words wouldn’t come out. Because last Wednesday night, she did say exactly that. I’d made her favorite Sticky Ribs, and she said they were too sweet, not salty enough, and the meat was tough. Then she took a call, said her friend had an emergency, and walked out. “Dad.” Quinn looked up, tears blurring her face. “Come with me. I can make money. I can take care of you.” “You’re only five…” “I’m twenty-three,” she cut in, her voice suddenly rock-steady. “In my timeline, I was twenty-three, a Vice President at a major investment bank. I could afford a house, a live-in nanny. I could let you sleep in every day and not have to be up at six to make breakfast.” I knelt down, meeting her gaze. Those eyes were too familiar. They weren’t a five-year-old’s eyes. There was something in them I didn’t understand, but I knew it wasn’t a lie. “Why did you come back?” I whispered. “Because I missed you.” The tears started again. “I missed you for eighteen years. Every night. I remember those last days, you were so thin, just a pile of bones, but you still insisted on getting up to make Daisy and me breakfast. You said you didn’t want us to be late for school.” She reached out and touched my face, her small fingers trembling. “Dad, she’s not worth it,” she said. “She’s not worth it, and neither are we. You ran yourself into the ground, and it didn’t even help us grow up right. I was twenty-three and terrified to date, afraid I’d turn into you. Daisy was worse. She ended up…” She didn’t finish the sentence, but I knew it wasn’t good. A key turning in the lock outside. Quinn instantly wiped her tears, pulled away from me, and ran to the sofa to grab a picture book. When the door opened, she was already pointing at a bear on the page. “Dad, this little bear is so cute.” Geneva walked in, dropping her handbag by the door. She glanced at me. “Why are you just standing there, Adam? Is dinner ready?” I didn’t move. Quinn jumped off the sofa and ran to her. “Mom, Dad isn’t feeling well today. Let’s order takeout.” Geneva frowned. “What’s the drama?” “No drama.” Quinn tilted her head up, giving her a sweet smile. “I really want a burger. Dad’s cooking every day gets boring. Let’s mix it up.” Geneva looked at me. “You’re not well?” I looked at her face. I’d seen this face for seven years—five years married, two years dating. I used to think she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Now, I suddenly noticed the fine lines around her eyes, the constant edge of impatience around her mouth. When she looked at me, there was very little warmth. “Yeah,” I said. “Headache.” “Fine. Order takeout.” She put down her bag. “I have a video conference in half an hour. Call me when the burgers arrive.” She walked into the bedroom. Quinn ran over and pulled my hand. “Dad, let’s go change.” “Change into what?” “That black suit. The really sharp one,” she dragged me toward the walk-in closet. “The last time I saw you wear it was my fifth birthday. You never wore it again after that.” There was a black suit in the closet. We bought it for our anniversary. Geneva said it was too formal for daily wear. Quinn pulled it out and shook it open. “Put it on.” “Why do I need to wear this now?” “Wear it for me.” She insisted. “Dad, you’re thirty-one. Not seventy-one.” I changed into the suit. The man in the mirror was a stranger. My body wasn’t bad, but my complexion was dull, and there were dark circles under my eyes. Quinn climbed onto the dressing table and picked up my hair gel. “This one holds well.” She uncapped it and handed it to me. “A little spray.” I sprayed it. She then opened the aftershave, her movements unnervingly practiced for a child. She dabbed some on my face, straightened my collar, her touch gentle. “You’ll get even hotter,” she said. “A hundred times hotter than this. Lots of people will chase you. There’s this gallery owner who’s obsessed with you, chased you for three years. But you never said yes.” I looked at her. “How do you know that?” “Because I saw it.” She put the aftershave down and scrutinized my face. “Before I came back to this world, I visited another one in my dreams. In that world, you didn’t die. You divorced, opened an auto repair shop, you dressed sharply, and had a ton of friends. When you were fifty, you took up mountain climbing and posted pictures on Instagram, smiling so genuinely.” She jumped off the dressing table and pulled my hand toward the door. “In that world, every time I saw you, I cried,” she said. “Because I knew that dad wasn’t my dad. My dad died at thirty-one. His last words were, Don’t forget the noodles on the counter.” She pushed the door open. Geneva was coming out of the bedroom just then. She saw me and stopped dead. “You…” She tried to speak. “Why are you so dressed up?” Quinn cut in before I could answer. “Dad’s taking me out for dinner. Mom, you can order your own takeout. We’re getting French.” She yanked me toward the exit. Geneva called from behind, “Adam Kincaid!” I didn’t look back. Quinn tiptoed to open the door, pushed me out, then squeezed out herself, pulling the door shut behind us. The motion-sensor light in the hallway flickered on. She pulled me down the stairs, skipping two steps at a time. She pushed open the main door on the ground floor, and the evening breeze rushed in, lifting her hair. She stopped under a streetlamp, catching her breath, and looked at me with a smile. “Dad,” she said. “From today, I’ve got you.” I looked at her glowing eyes, and suddenly felt like I really had died once already. And now, I was alive again. 02 That steak dinner cost us three-hundred-and-eight dollars. Quinn sat across from me, cutting her steak with a scary level of expertise. She even ordered a whiskey for me. The waiter looked at her like she was an alien. “Kids can’t drink,” the waiter said. “It’s for my dad,” Quinn said without flinching. “He needs it.” When the drink arrived, she poured me a glass. “Drink it, Dad. When was the last time you had a drink?” I thought about it. I couldn’t remember. Probably at the wedding, the champagne toast. Gen said I had a low tolerance and told me to stop drinking. And I did. I picked up the glass and took a sip. It was strong. Quinn watched me, and then suddenly said, “Dad, do you remember taking me to the amusement park when I was three?” “I do.” “Mom had promised to come, but she canceled last minute, saying her friend had an emergency.” She cut the steak, the knife and fork clinking against the plate. “You took me on the roller coaster all by yourself, waited in line for ice cream, and carried me for two miles looking for a bathroom. When we got home, I fell asleep on your shoulder, and your arm was sore for a week.” I remembered. Gen definitely didn’t come that day. She said a very important friend had broken up with her and she couldn’t leave. She didn’t get home until ten that night, and I smelled men’s cologne on her. When I mentioned it, she snapped that I was being ridiculous, and it was the friend’s boyfriend’s. “I remember thinking,” Quinn put the steak in her mouth and chewed slowly, “when I grow up, I’m never going to let my dad be this tired.” She swallowed and looked up at me. “But when I grew up, you were already gone.” Other tables were loud with laughter, couples feeding each other, a kid throwing a fit. Only our table was hushed, like a funeral reception. “Dad.” She put down her silverware. “Get a divorce.” I stayed silent. “The house, the car, the savings—take everything you’re entitled to. She has a high-end PR firm, shares, and you’re the legal husband. You can split it all,” she said, her expression as cool as if she were discussing a stranger’s affairs. “I know you’re soft-hearted, but don’t be this time. In the last life, you were too soft. You took nothing but custody of Daisy and me. And what happened? She kept dragging her feet on the support payments.” I looked at her. A five-year-old face, a twenty-three-year-old gaze. “How do you know all this?” I asked. “I read your journal,” she said. “I found it under your desk after you died. A hardback notebook, the cover was worn thin. You wrote about everything, starting from the day you got married, right up to the day you were diagnosed with cancer.” She paused, her voice dropping. “The last entry read: My greatest regret was giving everything I had to others, and keeping nothing, absolutely nothing, for myself.” My hands were shaking. She saw it and reached over to hold them. “Dad, this time is different.” Her grip was firm. “I’m here now. I know all her tricks. I know what Grandma Rose will say. I know how to find the evidence and the right lawyer. Trust me this once, okay?” I looked at her for a long time. Then I said, “Okay.” She smiled. Her eyes curved up, and for the first time, she looked like a five-year-old kid. 03 We got home at ten. The living room light was still on. Geneva was sitting on the sofa, a pile of snack wrappers in the trash can next to her. “Decided to show up?” Her voice was ice. Quinn stepped in front of me. “We went out for dinner.” “Did I ask you?” She looked past Quinn to me. “Adam Kincaid, are you getting brave now? No dinner, no watching your kid, just running off dressed like a runway model?” I stood my ground, saying nothing. Quinn tugged my hand and whispered, “Dad, go take a shower. I’ll handle the rest.” I hesitated, but she pushed me. “Go.” I went into the bathroom. As the hot water ran, I heard their voices outside the door. Quinn’s voice was calm. “Mom, let’s talk.” “What is there to talk about with you?” “Let’s talk about you and the guy in the black leather jacket,” she said. “I took pictures. Want to see them?” There was a few seconds of silence outside. Then Geneva’s voice, low and sharp. “What are you talking about?” “Fifth floor of the mall, outside the Boba shop, three p.m. yesterday.” Quinn recited it like a police report. “He had his arm around your waist. You bought him a watch—$5,200, swiped your card. The receipt’s in your bag. Want me to go grab it?” I turned off the water and pressed my ear to the door. Geneva’s voice was starting to sound rattled. “Did your father make you take those pictures?” “I took them myself,” Quinn said. “Mom, I’m only five, but I’m not an idiot. I know your phone password is my birthday. I’ve known it forever. The guy in your texts, ‘Troy E.’? That’s Troy Evans, your firm’s new twenty-four-year-old marketing coordinator. Fresh out of college. Really, Gen? Him?” “Quinn Kincaid!” Geneva roared. “Shh, Dad’s showering.” Quinn’s voice remained even. “Mom, if you want to play around, fine. But don’t bring it home. If you insist on bringing him home, then file the papers first, split the assets cleanly, and then you can bring home whoever you want.” I heard the sound of a handbag being opened—Geneva was likely searching for the receipt. “Honey, you’re too young to understand,” Geneva’s tone softened slightly. “Mom has a lot of pressure at work. Sometimes I need to decompress. But that doesn’t change how much I love your father and this family.” “Really?” Quinn chuckled. “So last Wednesday, when you said your friend had an emergency, you were actually watching that romantic drama with him? Back row of the theater? You two were holding hands while Dad was home reheating your soup for the third time.” The silence outside was absolute. I pulled the door open and stepped out. Geneva saw me, and her face fell. Quinn ran over and grabbed my hand, her palm slick with sweat. “Dad, you’re done?” I nodded, looking at Geneva. “Is what she said true?” Geneva stood up, reaching for me. “Adam, let me explain—” “Just tell me if it’s true or false.” She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. I looked at her and felt a strange, cold amusement. Seven years. I’d done her laundry, cooked her meals, earned the money, and looked after her parents. When she was struggling to launch her firm, I gave her my entire savings for my own venture. She told me to focus on the family, so I shifted my career from project lead to support and logistics. And now, she was telling me she was under pressure and needed to decompress. “Gen Rose,” I said. “We’re getting divorced.” She was stunned. Quinn gripped my hand tighter. “What did you say?” “Divorce,” I repeated. “The house, the car, the savings—everything gets split. I want half of the firm’s shares. The kids stay with me. You pay child support.” Geneva looked at me like a stranger. “Adam Kincaid, are you out of your mind? Do you know what my firm is worth? You want half? Do you even understand how to run it?” “I don’t,” I said. “But the law does.” Her face darkened. Quinn suddenly spoke up. “Mom, if you don’t agree, I’ll send the pictures to your firm’s group chat. Your phone is synced to your office computer. I know the password. I can access the chat.” Geneva snapped her head toward Quinn, her eyes murderous. “You wouldn’t dare!” “Try me,” Quinn said, meeting her gaze without flinching. “I’m five. I could probably get away with murder. Want to find out?” Geneva raised her hand, and I stepped forward to shield Quinn. “Try to hit her.” Her hand froze in mid-air. We stood there locked in a silent standoff, the living room clock ticking away the seconds. Finally, Geneva dropped her hand, smoothing her dress. “Fine, Adam. You’re playing hardball. You have guts.” She grabbed her bag and slammed out the door. The moment the door closed, my legs went weak. I nearly collapsed onto the floor. Quinn caught me. “Dad, are you okay?” I shook my head, looking at her. “Those photos… did you really take them?” She blinked. “I lied. Where would I get a phone to take pictures?” “Then the mall, did you really see it?” “I saw it,” she confirmed. “But no photos. I just said that to scare her.” I was speechless. She led me to the sofa and leaned against my shoulder. “Dad, with people like her, you have to be tougher. The softer you are, the more she’ll walk all over you.” I stroked her hair, a hollow space in my chest. “Quinn,” I asked. “Was the last life… really that awful?” She didn’t answer, just hugged me tighter. After a long while, she said, “Dad, not this time.” “I promise.” 04 Geneva didn’t come back the next morning. When Quinn woke up, she went to the kitchen and warmed milk, toasted bread, and fried an egg for me. “Dad, breakfast.” She carried the plate to the bedside. I looked at the perfectly fried egg, the edges crisp and golden. “When did you learn to cook?” “Last life.” She climbed onto the bed next to me. “I learned when you were sick. After you were gone, I had to take care of Daisy.” She took a bite of her toast, chewing slowly. I suddenly remembered to ask, “Where’s Daisy?” “At kindergarten. It’s Friday, so we pick her up this afternoon. Dad, go see the lawyer today. Before Mom has time to think.” I sat up. “So fast?” “Fast,” she nodded. “She’s definitely going to meet up with Troy to plan their next move. If they get their story straight and come up with a strategy, we’ll be on the defensive.” She hopped off the bed and pulled a piece of paper from her tiny backpack. “This is the best divorce lawyer in the city. I looked him up in the last life. Mr. Alistair Cross. Specializes in this exact kind of case. Tell him I sent you.” I took the slip of paper. It had a name and number. “How did you…?” “I did my homework before I came back.” She smiled. “Your daughter is pretty smart, Dad.” I looked at her smiling face, and my last bit of hesitation vanished. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”

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“Sign it. You walk away with nothing.” Jocelyn Pierce slid the divorce settlement across the conference table, her tone as detached as if she were discussing quarterly earnings. Next to her sat her attorney, Mr. Stone. Next to him sat her new partner—her young, handsome former executive assistant, Andre Blake. Andre looked at me with a faint air of pity. “Nolan, Jo’s been more than fair. You get to keep the condo and the car. Just sign the papers.” I picked up the pen. Jocelyn frowned. “Aren’t you going to look at the terms?” “No need.” I signed my name: Nolan George. Then I smiled. Jocelyn’s composure faltered. 1. Jocelyn said that line at exactly three in the afternoon. The conference room was quiet, the late-day sun slanting through the floor-to-ceiling windows and illuminating the cold, white paper of the divorce agreement. I stared at my name on the page, feeling a complete stranger to it. Nolan George. Thirty-two years of my life condensed into two words. Five of those years belonged to Jocelyn. When we married five years ago, she wasn’t “Jo, the CEO.” She was just a market director who’d just been fired by her company, with nothing but three months of severance pay in her bank account. I remember her telling me she wanted to start a business. I asked what she wanted to build. She said an enterprise SaaS platform. I told her the market was already saturated. She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. She had the network, she had the vision, she just needed a technical co-founder who could write the code. At the time, I was a Lead Engineer at a major tech player, pulling down a solid six-figure salary. I said, “I’ll do it.” She froze for a second, then broke into a smile. It was the most honest, unfiltered happiness I’d ever seen from her. “Seriously? You’d actually quit your job for this?” I told her I would. That’s how it started. I resigned. She cashed out her severance. We wrote the first line of code in our tiny, rented apartment. There were only two people in the company: her and me. Jocelyn handled the sales, the partnerships, and the investor pitches. I handled all the technology. All of it. I built the server architecture. I designed the database. I wrote the front-end and the back-end. I optimized the core algorithms. The day the first version of the product went live, Jocelyn posted an update on her feed. “Day 127 of the startup journey. Product launch is a go! Grateful for everyone who supported me.” The photo was her, shot from the back, sitting at her laptop—resilient, focused, and utterly beautiful. It was the perfect CEO origin story. I saw the post at two in the morning, right after I’d finally deployed a fix for a critical live bug. I’d had three cups of coffee, and my eyes felt like they were packed with sand. I just smiled to myself. I didn’t say anything. That post was just the beginning. The day we signed our first client, Jocelyn took them out to dinner. She didn’t invite me. The day the first round of seed money hit the bank, Jocelyn posted, “Thank you to our investors for believing in us, and thank you to my incredible team.” The photo was her and the lead investor. Team? The entire tech department was one guy: me. I brought it up once. “When you post things, could you maybe just mention me?” Jocelyn was on a call, but she looked up at me. “You’re my husband, Nolan. Why would I tag you? People would think I lack professional boundaries.” “I’m the company’s Head of Technology.” “You’re my husband,” she insisted. “What you build is what we build. What’s the difference?” I told her there wasn’t one. I thought she meant it. The company grew from two people to twenty, and then from twenty to eighty. Jocelyn hired sales reps, operations managers, finance directors, and administrative staff. The one thing she avoided hiring was more senior tech staff. It wasn’t that she didn’t try. She hired three people over the years. They all quit. Because she couldn’t keep them. Only I truly understood the core code. Only I could maintain the central system. The new hires couldn’t take over, or they’d inevitably screw it up. Jocelyn told me to just keep doing it. “You’re used to it, anyway.” I said fine. I did it alone for five years. Five years. Over eighteen hundred days. More than fifty thousand hours. The logged overtime alone exceeded eight thousand hours. That’s four and a half extra hours of work every single day, practically zero weekends off. The only time I ever took off was when I landed in the emergency room with acute gastroenteritis. She visited me on the first day. She came in with a bouquet, stayed for three minutes of small talk. Then she asked: “What’s the root password for the main server?” I was lying in the hospital bed, IV drip running. I gave her the password. She said thank you and left. She didn’t come back on the second day. Or the third. On the fourth day, she sent a driver to pick me up. In the car, I asked her what the server problem was. She said it was nothing major, just a small bug. Fixed now. I told her to let me look at it. “Don’t worry about it, Nolan, it’s been handled.” I asked her who fixed it. “An external contractor.” A faint flicker of alarm went off in my mind right then, but I couldn’t quite catch it. I should have. In the company’s third year, we closed our Series A, valuing the company at thirty million. Jocelyn posted again. “Grateful for the team, the investors, and everyone who believed in me. Three years. We finally made it to this stage.” The photo was her and the investors, with the sales team standing dutifully behind them. The comments section was full of congratulations. I typed three words: Congrats. Jocelyn replied with a hugging emoji. That evening, I asked her about the equity split. She said it was finalized. I asked how much I received. “Five percent,” she said. I stopped typing. Five percent? I wrote the entire system. Front-end, back-end, architecture, algorithms, and maintenance. I did the work of three people for three years. Five percent? Jocelyn saw the displeasure on my face and sighed. “I know you worked hard, but equity isn’t about hours clocked, Nolan. The Head of Sales got five percent, the CFO got five percent. You can’t think you’re special.” “I was the only person with you from Day One.” “And you’re my husband,” she emphasized. “What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine. Why worry about splitting hairs?” She used that line again. She always used that line. I said fine. Five percent it was. At a thirty-million valuation, five percent was one and a half million dollars. One and a half million for three years of my life. That’s five hundred thousand a year. I’d been making a million dollars a year at my old Big Tech job. I was operating at a loss. But I didn’t say it. She was my wife. We were family. And family doesn’t count the cost. Series A led to Series B. Series B led to Series C. The company’s valuation climbed from thirty million to a hundred million, and then to three hundred million. My equity remained five percent. Jocelyn’s equity was forty-two percent. I didn’t ask her why mine hadn’t increased. I was afraid of hearing, “You’re my husband,” again. In the company’s fourth year, we held the annual gala. Jocelyn stood on stage in a custom-tailored suit—sharp, elegant, and radiating success. More than a hundred employees sat below, illuminated by the spotlights. “This year, our revenue surpassed twenty million dollars, and we are finally profitable. This is all thanks to your dedication.” Applause. “Thank you to the Sales Team—you are the company’s vanguard!” Applause. “Thank you to the Operations Team—you are the company’s foundation!” Applause. “Thank you to the Finance Team—you are the company’s guardians!” Applause. I sat there, waiting for her to mention the Technology Team. She never did. After the gala, a new sales rep came over. “Nolan, what exactly is your role here? Are you the CEO’s partner?” I told him I was the Head of Technology. He looked surprised. “Oh. I thought you were Jocelyn’s driver.” When we got home that night, I asked her why she hadn’t mentioned me. She was taking off her makeup and paused. “Why would I mention you? Everyone knows you’re my husband. If I mention you, they’ll say I lack professional boundaries.” “You could have just said, ‘the Technology Team.’” “The Technology Team is just you. Mentioning them is mentioning you. It’s the same thing.” I didn’t argue. Jocelyn came over and patted my shoulder. “Don’t overthink it, honey. I keep track of everything you do. Once the company grows bigger, I’ll increase your equity. I promise.” I said fine. I waited. The fifth year came and went. The equity never increased. But Andre Blake arrived. 2. Andre was hired as Jocelyn’s executive assistant. I met him when he started. Top-tier university, young, good-looking, and very composed. I didn’t think much of it. The company had over a hundred employees, half of them male. He wasn’t the only sharp, attractive person in the office. But I should have thought more of it. After Andre arrived, Jocelyn got busier. She used to be home before ten. Then it was eleven. Then midnight. I asked her why she was so busy. She said we were pushing for Series D, and the workload was intense. I asked if I could help. She said no, just focus on the technical side of things. I believed her. Three months after Andre started, the executive office held a team event. Jocelyn attended. I asked her, “Since when do you join your assistant’s team happy hours?” She said it wasn’t a party, it was employee retention. As the boss, she should make an appearance. I said fine. Six months after Andre started, it was the annual gala. Jocelyn personally managed the planning. I had no part in it. During the raffle, Andre won the grand prize—a ridiculously expensive Swiss chronograph. Jocelyn personally clasped it onto his wrist, and they posed for a picture. She posted the photo of them together, Andre’s smile dazzling under the spotlight. The caption: “Our annual grand prize winner! Some people have all the luck!” I sat in the audience, looking at the screen, a small, cold knot tightening in my stomach. But I didn’t say anything. I had too much I wanted to say, and I was afraid she would accuse me of being paranoid. Eight months after Andre started, I found the evidence. Jocelyn came home late that night and went straight into the shower. She left her phone on the coffee table. I didn’t mean to look. I really didn’t. One unread text. From Andre. Miss you. I stared at the screen for three seconds. Then I put the phone back exactly where it was. Jocelyn came out of the bathroom, picked up the phone, and glanced at it. I asked her, “Who was that?” “Work stuff,” she said. “Oh.” I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, after Jocelyn left for the office, I opened the company’s login system. As the Head of Technology, I had administrator access. I pulled up Jocelyn’s and Andre’s access logs for the last three months. Their attendance was perfectly synchronized. Jocelyn worked until midnight; Andre worked until midnight. Jocelyn worked on Saturday; Andre worked on Saturday. Then I pulled the building’s key card entry system logs. They often entered and left the building at the same time. On multiple occasions, the logs showed Andre swiping his card to enter her private office. At eleven p.m. I put the phone down and took a deep breath. I told myself it was for work. I told myself not to be paranoid. I told myself Jocelyn wasn’t that person. I told myself she was my wife. We were family. And family doesn’t count the cost. I kept silent. One year after Andre started, I knew the truth. That night, Jocelyn didn’t come home, claiming she had a client dinner. I opened the in-car GPS app. Her car was parked outside a luxury high-rise on the West Side. I’d been to that building once. Last year, Andre had invited some of the exec team to his place for a housewarming. I didn’t go inside. I drove to the entrance and sat there for an hour. Just sat. At one a.m., Jocelyn’s car pulled out. Andre was driving. They were talking, and Jocelyn was laughing. I watched from a distance, never getting out of my car. The next morning, Jocelyn came home. She said she’d had too much to drink at the client dinner and slept at the office to avoid a DUI. I said, “Oh.” She asked why I looked so tired. I said I hadn’t slept well. She said, “We’ll go on a trip once the Series D is done. You need a break.” I said fine. After she left, I didn’t cry. I sat on the sofa for a long time. Then I opened my laptop and started working. Code doesn’t betray you. Code doesn’t lie. The code was written by me. It was mine. For the next two months, I didn’t mention the text or the apartment. Jocelyn went on with her life—going to work, attending dinners, and not coming home. I went on with mine—writing code, patching bugs, and optimizing the system. We were pushing hard for Series D, and the workload was genuinely overwhelming. I worked thirty days straight on the system overhaul, sleeping four or five hours a night. Jocelyn never once asked me if I was tired. One night, at two a.m., a server failure threatened data loss. I spent three hours scrambling alone until five a.m., when I finally fixed it. Jocelyn saw me asleep at my desk when she arrived that morning. She nudged my shoulder. “Server fixed?” I said yes. “Good. I have an investor meeting soon. Can you pull together the updated technical performance metrics for me?” I said fine. She walked away. She didn’t ask if I’d eaten breakfast. She didn’t ask if I was okay. I was just a machine. Use me, then keep using me. The Series D funding round closed after three months. A three-hundred-million-dollar valuation, with eighty million raised. Jocelyn was ecstatic, doing three full turns in her office. That evening, she surprisingly came home early and brought a bottle of expensive red wine. I thought she had come to thank me. She sat down, her expression serious. “Nolan, I have something I need to tell you.” I braced myself. Was she finally going to talk about the equity? She said, “I’m pregnant.” I paused for three seconds. Then I laughed. “Congratulations.” Jocelyn looked surprised by my reaction. “You’re not angry?” “Should I be?” “I thought you would….” “Cry? Cause a scene?” I stood up. “Jocelyn, you give yourself too much credit.” She just stared at me. I walked into the home office and locked the door. I slept very well that night. The next morning, I went to the office as usual. Jocelyn didn’t come in; Andre reportedly took her to her first OB-GYN appointment. I sat at my desk, opened my laptop, and started compiling files. Every line of code I’d written over the past five years. Every technical document. Every system architecture diagram. Every algorithm model. I reviewed them one by one. Then I navigated to the U.S. Copyright Office website. Software copyright registration. The applicant can be an individual or a company. I had never paid attention to this before. But I was paying attention now. I found the date I wrote the very first line of code: March 12, 2018. The company was incorporated on April 5, 2018. The core architecture, the core algorithms, and the core modules were all finished before the company was legally created. Whose copyright did that code belong to? Mine. Because I had developed it as an individual, before I was an employee. Jocelyn had only made a verbal request: “Help me write this.” She hadn’t presented any contract. I was her husband, not her employee. I wrote the code as a favor, not as a job. The copyright for that code was legally mine. I stayed in the office all day. Jocelyn returned in the early evening. She looked surprised to see me at my desk. “You’re still here?” “Yeah, organizing some files.” “What files?” “Five years of my work product.” She didn’t press. She walked into her private office and shut the door. An hour later, she summoned me. Inside, along with Jocelyn, were the company’s lawyer and Andre. Jocelyn pushed a document toward me. “Nolan George, we’re getting a divorce. Here’s the settlement agreement.” I picked it up. It was thick, seven or eight pages long. I flipped through it. The gist was: Irreconcilable differences, voluntary divorce. All company equity goes to the wife. All bank accounts go to the wife. Debts are assumed separately. The husband voluntarily waives all claims to marital property. I was walking away with nothing. It was written in black and white. Andre looked on, his eyes holding pity mixed with a hint of undeniable smugness. “Nolan, Jo’s been more than fair. You get to keep the condo and the car. Just sign the papers.” I looked at him, then at Jocelyn. She was sitting in her CEO chair, her expression cool and distant. Five years. From nothing to a three-hundred-million-dollar valuation. I was the one who built the infrastructure. And now she wanted me to walk away empty-handed. I laughed. “Fine. I’ll sign.” I picked up the pen and wrote my name. Jocelyn looked surprised. “Aren’t you going to look at the terms?” “No need.” I pushed the agreement back to her. “When are we filing the paperwork?” “Tomorrow.” “Fine.” I stood up, picked up my bag, and walked out of the office. Andre called out behind me, “Nolan, you still have stuff on your desk!” I didn’t turn back. “Keep it.”

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I was the true daughter of the Parker jewelry dynasty. The moment I stepped inside the house, my mother pressed two bangles into the hands of myself and the other girl, the one they had raised. “Rory, you are my own flesh and blood.” “Evie, I raised you from a baby.” “We expect you both to live in peace. Your father and I promise, absolutely no favoritism!” The Parker assumed I was some ignorant hick from the backwoods. They thought I wouldn’t know the difference between the Flame Emerald Opal Bangle they gave Evie—valued at three million dollars—and the cheap glass knock-off they slipped onto my wrist, the kind you could buy a dozen of for a hundred bucks. They were wrong. Not only was I an expert gemologist, but I had a gift: a kind of clairvoyant eye. I could see through stone and straight into the core of a person’s heart. In the rough gemstone market, people risked fortunes on a single cut, one slice separating them from heaven or hell. For me, it was simply collecting free money. You can dismiss me now, Arthur and Cecilia. It won’t matter. Just promise me one thing: don’t regret it later. … My parents exchanged a self-satisfied look, watching me stare blankly at the glass bracelet. They assumed their deception had worked. My brother, Bryce, sauntered over, his voice dripping with condescension. “Aurora,” he drawled, using my full, hated name. “Spending twenty years in the wilderness, you’ve probably never seen anything this valuable, have you?” He snickered. “Keep it safe! When you finally manage to marry some mountain man, that glass trinket will be your whole dowry, ha-ha-ha—” I didn’t let him finish the laugh. I slammed the fake bangle against the pristine marble floor. The crisp, shattering sound echoed in the foyer. The Parker faces immediately tightened. Cecilia screamed first. “Aurora! What in God’s name are you doing?” Arthur’s face was the color of slate. “Such an ungrateful, ill-mannered girl!” Evie pretended to recoil in shock, but her eyes, when she thought no one was looking, glittered with vicious pleasure. Bryce pointed a finger at my nose. “You bumpkin! No class, no education! You just destroyed millions of dollars worth of jewelry?” “Millions?” I nudged the splintered shards with the toe of my boot. “Even a ‘bumpkin’ recognizes shattered glass, Bryce.” I met his furious gaze, holding it steady. “The Parker are global jewelry titans. You gift your biological daughter a cheap fraud. Are you not terrified of the shame when the world hears it?” They were instantly silenced. Cecilia struggled to salvage the moment, her voice thin and forced. “Rory, darling, it’s not that we didn’t want to give you the real thing. But you’ve only just come back from the mountains. We were afraid your… rough edges… might damage it. Evie is different. She’s always been so composed, so careful. When you’ve mastered her grace and etiquette, your mother will give you a real one.” I just scoffed. I didn’t bother to respond. Arthur’s temper flared. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “Don’t you dare sneer at me! I’m telling you, Aurora, Dr. Celeste Dubois—the most respected clairvoyant in Manhattan—read your chart! You have a Shadow Fate! A life of poverty and shallow luck. You simply cannot bear the weight of truly precious things! If you wore real opal, you’d bring disaster on yourself within three days!” He puffed out his chest, turning his gaze to his golden child. “You can’t compare to Evie. She is a Golden Anchor for this family. Our prosperity for the last twenty years? All thanks to her good karma!” I bit back a reply. They took my silence for submission. Cecilia breathed a sigh of relief. “Come now, don’t talk about this anymore. I’ll show you to your room.” Beyond the entrance hall was a sprawling gallery. Glass vitrines housed an array of opal and precious stones. I instantly recognized the hierarchy: VVS-Clarity Flame Red was the pinnacle, priceless. Ice-Opal was next, also astronomical. Then came the Water-Opal, Lavender, Glutinous, and Bean grades. Opal was the core of the Parker fortune. In one corner, a dozen or so rough, black stones were haphazardly piled. These were the “roughs”—stones encased in an outer crust. Without cutting, no equipment could fully reveal the quality or even the presence of the precious stone inside. It was truly “a gamble only the gods can judge.” Buyers relied on instinct and blind luck. A single cut could mean instant wealth or total ruin. This was the famous “cut-to-heaven, cut-to-hell” game. But they couldn’t see. I could. I flicked on my internal vision. Every secret of those roughs was laid bare. Only three had anything inside. The best was a low-grade Lavender, barely worth anything. And they called themselves a stone-gambling family? What a joke. My foster grandmother, who raised me in the isolated village, held my hand on her deathbed and said: “Rory, those eyes are a blessing from God, and a deep curse. Hide them. Never let anyone know.” My room was in the west wing of the mansion, its window facing a high brick wall. It was perpetually shadowed. Inside, there was only a hard, narrow bed and a chipped wardrobe. A stark contrast to Evie’s “princess suite” with its private balcony, walk-in closet, and marble en-suite. The next day, the house was a flurry of activity. The Parker were heading to the annual International Gemstone Rough Auction in Phoenix. Dr. Celeste Dubois arrived. She wore a flowing, pale-grey silk wrap dress, clutched a faux-Tibetan mala, and projected an air of faux-spiritual serenity. The Parker treated her with religious reverence. I almost choked on a laugh. My eyes saw right through the expensive silk. Underneath, she was wearing a bright red lace thong. A charlatan and a fraud, through and through. Dr. Dubois launched into a dramatic speech about Evie being the “Golden Anchor,” guaranteeing a massive profit at the auction. Arthur beamed, then turned to glare at me. “Listen, Aurora! Don’t you dare speak out of turn at the convention! If your bad aura disrupts Evie’s karma, I will hold you personally responsible!” I adopted a docile, obedient expression. I have two gifts, after all: clairvoyance and playing the fool. The trip was via a luxury sleeper car on the train. Late that night, I went to use the restroom. The door was locked, and a muffled, frantic sound came from inside. Through the wood paneling, my vision pierced the scene: Arthur had Dr. Dubois pressed against the wall. Her silk dress was hiked up, and the tacky red thong was a blazing spot of color. I quietly turned and walked away, pretending to have seen nothing. At the auction hall, the atmosphere was electric. The surface of the rough stones had certain indicators—veins, color patches—that suggested the presence of quality gems. The ones with no external clues were ignored. Bryce darted through the crowd, trying to look like a pro. “This one’s crust looks hot, it’s got to be a winner!” “Look at that vein structure, definitely a high-end deposit inside!” “I’ve studied this for years. I’m going to cut a Flame Red out of here, I swear it!” He spent over three million dollars in a frenzy, buying more than a dozen roughs. Evie was equally aggressive, choosing several large stones and spending even more than her brother. I trailed behind them, my eyes sweeping over every rock like an internal scanner. Good, mediocre, empty… I saw everything. After they finished their spree, I finally spoke. “I’d like to buy one, too.” The Parker erupted. “Do you know the first thing about this? Don’t waste your money!” “A person with a Shadow Fate shouldn’t even touch these things! You’ll cause a loss!” I ignored them and walked to the far corner of the hall, the “Boneyard”—the scrap heap of unwanted, trash-grade roughs that were free for the taking. No one wanted them; they just took up space. I quickly picked out a watermelon-sized stone. The Parker howled with laughter. “Aurora, did a door slam into your head?” “Picking up other people’s trash? Have some dignity!” Dr. Dubois shook her head, offering a theatrical sigh of derision. “That stone is energetically dead. A blight on the table. Touching it is an invitation to misfortune.” I didn’t reply. I carried the stone over and stood by the cutting area. Laugh all you want. You’ll be crying soon enough. The cutting area was a chaotic scene of diamond saws and grinding wheels. Bryce was first, pushing his dozen stones onto the slab. “Every single one of my picks is a winner!” he boasted, puffing out his chest. The saw screamed into life. The first stone: a dud. Just inert rock. The second: inert. The third: inert. All dozen were cut. Not a single piece of viable stone emerged. Three million dollars had vanished. The crowd erupted in jeers. “Big talk for nothing!” “The Parker boy has a terrible eye!” “He has the air of a genuine trust-fund disaster!” Bryce’s face turned beet red. He whirled on me, enraged. “It’s you, Aurora! You and your bad karma! You stood too close and jinxed me, you poor trash!” I raised an eyebrow. “Can’t push a successful turd out, so you blame the earth’s gravitational pull, is that it?” The laughter grew louder. Bryce looked ready to explode. Arthur snapped at me. “Watch your filthy mouth!” Cecilia intervened. “Stop the fighting! Evie’s stones are up next!” Evie’s cutting began. The first two were total busts—no stone at all. Her face went pale, and Dr. Dubois looked highly flustered, grasping for an excuse. The third one, however, flashed red! “Glutinous Opal! Pale red! Not bad!” The fourth yielded a Lavender Opal. The fifth, a low-end Bean Opal. In the end, Evie had spent nearly four million dollars and recovered three medium-grade stones, worth about four million in total. Not a loss, but not a huge win either. Still, after they were polished and set, the profit margin would be significant. It counted as a successful gamble. Arthur and Cecilia sighed in collective relief, their faces wreathed in smiles. “That’s our Evie!” “Truly the family’s Golden Anchor!” Evie smiled smugly and immediately twisted the knife. “Sister, if you hadn’t been standing so close, poisoning the atmosphere, I’m sure I would have cut something even better.” Every eye in the room swiveled to me, filled with judgment. I ignored them, moving forward to present the watermelon-sized stone I’d picked up from the Boneyard. “Master Cutter, please.” “Ha!” Bryce immediately pounced. “This piece of garbage is worth cutting? Don’t waste the diamond saw!” Evie, all sweetness and malice, strongly agreed. “Cut it! Of course, cut it! Maybe my sister can finally find a diamond in a coal mine, yes?” The cutter, looking bored, started the machine. The screeching noise filled the air. First cut, a thin slice. Gray-white. “See! Trash!” Bryce roared. Second cut. Still gray-white. Evie’s smirk deepened. The cutter, impatient, decided to split the rock down the middle to end the farce quickly. The wheel descended. “ZZZZZZ!” The grating sound suddenly changed pitch. A shocking, liquid-clear flash of red exploded into everyone’s sight! “Red! It’s red!” “The clarity… the water… my God!” “Ice-Opal!” “Flame Apple Red!” The hall exploded. The cutter’s hand jumped. He immediately stopped the machine and carefully poured water over the cut. The streak of red became clearer, more brilliant. It was a fresh, crisp apple-red, second only to the true Flame Red in value and desirability. “A win! A massive win!” “That was from the scrap heap?” “Zero cost, a VVS-Clarity Apple Red? What kind of luck is that?” All eyes, stunned and blazing, were fixed on me. Bryce gaped like a fish thrown on the dock. Evie’s smile shattered into a million pieces. She looked like she’d just swallowed something foul. My parents stared at the red stone, their eyes widening with naked greed and disbelief. The Master Cutter carefully removed the remaining crust, revealing a perfect, seamless block of the gem. It weighed over six pounds. The color was uniform, the clarity flawless. The surrounding gem merchants went insane, shouting bids over each other. “Twenty million! Cash!” “Twenty-five million!” “Thirty million! I have to have this piece!” I pointed to the merchant who’d called thirty million. “Done. It’s yours.” He was ecstatic, writing me a check on the spot. Arthur suddenly galvanized, lunging forward to grab my arm. “Hand over that check! It will go toward mitigating your brother’s disastrous loss!” Cecilia rushed over, echoing his sentiment. “Exactly! A girl like you can’t carry so much cash. Give it to your mother for safekeeping!” I shook off Arthur’s grip and looked at them with ice in my eyes. “You put no capital in, so what right do you have to my money?” Arthur was momentarily speechless. He sputtered with rage. “You unfilial wretch! You viper! We raised you for nothing!” “Raised me?” I countered with a cold laugh. “When I was growing up in the mountains, struggling to eat, where exactly were you?” Bryce started stomping his foot. “You just got lucky, you little gold-digger! Don’t act like you’re some kind of expert gemologist!” “Luck is still luck,” I said with utter disdain. “It’s certainly better than the luck of someone who blew three million dollars on a pile of inert garbage.” Bryce looked like he might actually pass out from fury. The first day’s Full Rough Bidding session was over. The second day was the Semi-Rough Auction. Full Roughs are uncut—a blind gamble. Semi-Roughs have a “window” cut into them, revealing a small section of the stone. This makes the risk lower, the price higher, and the bidding highly competitive. The host took the stage, shouting into the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen! The highlight of the day! Lot 001!” Staff wheeled a massive rough stone onto the stage. The window cut showed an intense, liquid red. The quality was VVS-Clarity Ice-Opal, demonstrably better than my score yesterday. Every eye in the room was fixed on the stone. Breathing got shallow. Just before the bidding started, a young man strode into the hall. Tall, impeccably dressed, he possessed an almost unnerving aura of entitlement and power. It was Dominic “Dom” Keller, the sole heir of the rival Keller Luxury Holdings. Evie’s eyes lit up. She quickly smoothed her hair and practically sashayed over to him. She had a long-standing, obsessive crush on Dom and dreamed of marrying into the Keller family. “Dom, darling! I didn’t know you were joining the auction…” Dom didn’t break stride. He didn’t even glance at her, walking straight to the reserved seats in the front row. Evie froze, her face cycling from crimson to white. She stumbled back, furious and embarrassed. Seeing the wry, knowing look on my face, she lost her temper. “Go ahead and laugh! Dom is just playing it cool! He’s always liked me in his heart! He’s a man you could never, ever touch!” I ignored her. The auction began. “Twenty-five million!” “Forty million!” “Eighty million!” The price shot past one hundred million. It was Arthur who called out the bid. His eyes were wild, fully committed. The crowd quieted. One hundred million was the ceiling for many buyers. The host was about to drop the hammer when I calmly raised my hand. “One hundred and twenty million!” The room gasped. The Parker snapped their heads toward me, their shock palpable. “Aurora! Are you insane? You’re bidding against us?” I gave them a cold smile. “We’re not related by affection, Arthur. Why wouldn’t I compete?” Arthur was trembling with fury. “You don’t have that kind of money! Get out! Stop disrupting the auction!” I held my paddle high, my voice perfectly level. “Who says I don’t have it? Dom, darling, would you be willing to lend me a hundred million?” All eyes swiveled to Dom Keller. “Lend?” His eyes flashed with a hint of predatory amusement. “Why borrow when everything I own is already yours?” He stood up, his voice ringing out with confidence. “She is my fiancée! Bid as high as you want, my love. I will light the entire sky for you!” BOOM! The entire auction hall exploded in chatter. The Parker looked like they’d been struck by lightning. Evie’s face was ashen, her eyes burning with pure, unadulterated jealousy. I raised my paddle again. “One hundred and twenty million! Arthur, are you going to raise it?” Arthur’s face was puce, his chest heaving. Evie, however, had completely lost her mind to envy. She shrieked: “Dad! Bid! We cannot lose to her! One hundred and fifty million!” Arthur was trapped. Losing face in public was unthinkable, and losing the bidding star would ruin the year. He gritted his teeth and raised the paddle. “One hundred and sixty million!” I spoke softly. “Two hundred million.” I knew two hundred million was the absolute limit of the Parker’s liquid capital. Bryce jumped to his feet, screaming. “Aurora! Are you deliberately trying to bankrupt us?” I looked him straight in the eye, utterly without fear. “Ruin you? Good. Maybe then you’ll stop taking up valuable space on this planet.” That line sent Bryce into an emotional frenzy. “Three hundred million!” he roared. “We’ll sell the house! We’ll be broke! But we will not lose to you!” Everyone was stunned. Three hundred million for a semi-rough was a colossal risk. Yes, the window showed Ice-Opal Red, but who knew how deep it went, or what grade the rest of the stone was? This price would empty the Parker coffers and leverage almost every family asset. Arthur tried to intervene, but it was too late. Bryce, his eyes red, glared at me. “Come on! Raise it again, you trash! Too poor to keep up? Then get out!” I looked at them, and my smile deepened. My trap had sprung perfectly. My x-ray vision had already told me the truth: this Block of the Day had a paper-thin layer of high-grade Ice-Opal on the surface. The rest of the colossal stone was nothing but the cheapest, most worthless Gritstone Waste imaginable. I had deliberately driven the price up to break them. “Congratulations,” I said, my voice sweet. “You win.” “I’m out.” The host slammed the hammer down. “Three hundred million! Sold to the Parker!”

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My engagement to Rhett Prescott, the crowned prince of Atherton’s old money, was decided when we were children. Because of this status, I spent my childhood trying to control his every move. Every time I pushed his limits, Rhett would lash out with the same defiant threat: “Sloan Callahan, mark my words. I am going to blow up this farce of an engagement, and you’ll be the one left holding the pieces.” Then, I discovered I was the fake heiress. I decided to retreat, to make myself small. I stopped asking about Rhett’s business, stopped forcing him to uphold our mandatory couple appearances. After half a month of silence from me, his inner circle threw him a party to celebrate his freedom. But to my surprise, Rhett completely lost it. “Mind your own damn business!” he’d screamed. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Now she’s got someone else’s collar to hold.” 1 “Sloan, Rhett’s out stirring up trouble again with Pierce and the usual pack of trust-fund delinquents.” The music in the Atherton club was deafening. My best friend, Harper, was delivering the latest report on Rhett, but my attention was miles away. I took the phone she handed me. In the video, Rhett looked every inch the rebellious heir. He was leaning against a black Aston Martin, looking lazy in a crimson silk button-down, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He was surrounded by a crowd of hangers-on, all with too-attractive, scantily-dressed women draped over them. I watched it all calmly, then just as calmly handed the phone back to Harper. “It’s fine. Let him.” “What is wrong with you?” Harper pressed her palm to my forehead. “You don’t even have a fever.” She narrowed her eyes, the familiar mischief in them gone. “Are you an alien body snatcher? The real Sloan would be on her way to burn that club down right now.” “Harper,” I gave her a flat look. “Do I need to remind you of the time you accidentally dyed your hair green at your sixth-grade dance? Just to prove I’m me?” I grabbed my clutch and walked toward the exit. It wasn’t surprising that Harper was so alarmed by my change. Since the day Rhett and I were betrothed at age eight, I had taken my role as his handler seriously. I policed his life with an iron fist. Before, I felt I had the right to. Now, I wasn’t so sure. Because I might not be Rhett’s fiancée for much longer. 2 Just three days prior, I’d accidentally discovered that my parents—the Callahans—were not my biological family. I had been switched at birth. It wouldn’t be long before the Callahans’ true daughter was found and brought home. My fate as the discovered fake heiress was brutally clear. For years, I’d leveraged my status as a Callahan daughter and the fiancée of the Prescott heir. In the process, I’d made plenty of enemies in Atherton’s exclusive circles. So many people were waiting to watch me fall from grace. Especially Rhett. Ever since our engagement, I had relied on the authority of the Prescott Chairman, Rhett’s grandfather, to keep him in line. Even after he turned twenty-one, I laid down three unbreakable rules: Rule One: No smoking, no binge drinking, no fighting, and absolutely no reckless benders with his low-life friends. Rule Two: No staying out all night. He had to be home before midnight. Rule Three: We had to maintain appearances, including our fiancée obligations. At least three times a week. Every time I cracked down on him, Rhett would shoot back with his threat: “Sloan Callahan, you wait, I’m going to annul this broken engagement sooner or later.” I never took him seriously. But now, everything was different. In high-society marriages, pedigree and mutual benefit were all that mattered. No matter how fond the Chairman was of me, he would never allow his grandson to marry a woman who couldn’t benefit the Prescott business empire. The engagement was doomed. If I wanted to avoid Rhett’s public scorn and cruelty after my ‘fake’ identity was revealed, I had to cut my losses now. I had to stop controlling him entirely. 3 I didn’t go looking for Rhett. Instead, I went home early. But no sooner had I walked through the door than he returned. Hearing the commotion in the entryway, I instinctively looked up. Our eyes met. Rhett’s face flashed with guilt, but he forcibly held my gaze. He lifted his chin, his voice deliberately loud. “Sloan Callahan, you got it. I was out with Pierce and the guys, and yeah, I was drinking and smoking.” I didn’t engage in our usual sparring match. I merely gave a quiet, neutral “Mhm,” and started to walk toward my bedroom. “Sloan Callahan—” Rhett closed the distance in a few quick strides, grabbing my wrist. His dark eyes were fixed on mine, his tone tight with hidden anxiety. “Did you hear me? I said I was drinking and smoking.” “I know,” I looked at him, my voice flat. “You don’t have to tell me. If you’re happy, I’m happy.” “Alright, Sloan,” his lips curled into a smirk of forced confidence. “I know you’re still pissed.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping slightly. “I was wrong not to escort you to the gala last week. You’ve barely spoken to me for three days.” “No, I’m not—” He cut me off before I could finish. “Fine. Tonight, you can call the shots in bed, too.” With that, Rhett started unbuttoning his shirt. He had a great body—broad shoulders, a lean waist, and solid muscle. It was the kind of body that made me forget my rules. He took my hand and pressed it hard against the sculpted planes of his abdomen. Then he turned his face away, the tips of his ears slowly turning pink. “Consider yourself lucky. You can feel me up however you want tonight.” I glanced at the date on my phone. I’d completely forgotten that tonight was one of our Rule Three nights. Usually, I was the one who had to initiate. Rhett was being terrifyingly proactive. “Rhett, I’m not in the mood tonight.” I dropped the sentence like a grenade and bolted back to my room. 4 I woke up late the next afternoon. Unusually, Rhett hadn’t left the house. He was sprawled on the living room sofa, scrolling through his phone with a casual, bored air. When I walked out of my room, he snapped his phone shut, cleared his throat quietly, and spoke with an indifferent tone. “Sloan Callahan, you complained that all your clothes were out of season. I’ve got some free time today. I’ll take you to the city to get new ones.” “No, thank you. I have plans with Harper.” I rejected him without a moment’s thought. “Wait, Sloan Callahan, how much longer are you going to hold this grudge?” Rhett sprang up and grabbed my wrist, his brow furrowed. He pursed his lips, a slight impatience creeping into his voice. “I’m offering you the olive branch, Sloan! Are you just going to save this up to use against me with my grandfather?” So that was the reason for his strange behavior. He thought I was just laying a trap. I’d certainly done that enough times in the past. “Relax, Rhett. I won’t.” I waved my hand dismissively. “I admit, I was too controlling. All three rules I established? They’re null and void. From now on, you do what you want. I won’t be involved in your life.” “I mean it.” Fearing his disbelief, I raised three fingers in a mock-oath. “I swear.” “Sloan Callahan, you…” Rhett stared at me in disbelief, his eyes clouding with a faint, watery red. His chest rose and fell sharply. Finally, he turned his face away, his voice stiff and hard. “Fine. Whatever you want.” The front door slammed shut with a BAM. Wait!!? What the hell is he angry about? I met Harper at a cafe and told her everything about the identity swap. Harper froze for a long moment before reacting. “So you think the engagement is going to fail, and that’s why you’ve stopped being his warden?” She leaned forward. “But have you ever considered that Rhett might actually like you, and he won’t give up the engagement easily?” “Rhett doesn’t like me.” I managed a thin, self-deprecating smile. “Just last week, he told me so himself.” I sighed. “I only just learned how much he truly loathes our engagement.” 5 After so many years with Rhett, it would be a lie to say I had no feelings for him. The night I learned I was the fake heiress, I desperately wanted to find Rhett and use him to release my pent-up emotion. Instead, I accidentally overheard him talking to his friends: “Prescott, are you really content to be policed by Sloan Callahan for the rest of your life?” “Everyone says you’re whipped, tied up by one woman.” “You haven’t… fallen for Sloan, have you?” “Impossible!” Rhett declared flatly. “I’d fall for anyone but her.” He let out a short, cold laugh. “Sloan Callahan? She’s got pale skin and big eyes, but she is absolutely not my type. If it weren’t for my grandfather forcing me into this, I would never have submitted to her rules.” Standing outside the private room, I felt a tidal wave of unnamable emotions wash over me. The last flickering flame of hope I held for Rhett was extinguished. I left the club quietly and walked alone for a long time on the way home. “Rhett said it himself,” I told Harper, pressing my lips together. “He’s itching to dump me.” Harper opened her mouth to speak, her eyes full of unspoken feeling, but in the end, she said nothing. I explained my worries to her. I’ve always cared deeply about my reputation. When the news breaks that I’m the fake heiress and the Prescott family rejects me, I’ll be the joke of the entire city. So, before the true heiress is found, I intend to break off the engagement myself. 6 Without my restrictions, Rhett didn’t come home for days. Normally, if he wasn’t back by midnight, I’d either bombard him with texts or show up and drag him home. Tonight, just as I was getting ready for bed, Rhett’s lackey texted me a video. [Yo, Mrs. P. The Boss is insisting on hiring a ‘companion’ tonight. You might want to come down and put a stop to this.] I opened the video. Rhett was sitting lazily on a sectional sofa, a saccharine-sweet blonde in a baby-blue dress standing in front of him. A sharp pang hit my chest. He wasted no time taking my words literally. [Got it. Thanks.] I locked my phone, but another video immediately pinged through. Rhett had his arm wrapped around the blonde, and he was stuffing his black card into her hand. “My fiancée doesn’t want to control me anymore. Bring out all your tricks, baby.” My eyes stung. I deleted Rhett’s lackey from my contacts list. Before I broke the engagement, I planned to move out of Rhett’s house. It was originally the luxurious Atherton home the Prescotts intended for our marriage. Since the engagement was ending, there was no need for me to stay. After a few days of searching, I found an apartment I liked and was going today to sign the lease. Stepping out of the elevator, I ran into Nolan Hayes, a friend from college, in the hallway. We were laughing and chatting as we walked toward the exit. But just as we reached the complex gate, I saw a familiar silhouette. Rhett was staring at Nolan and me. His eyes were filled with disbelief, anger, and a flicker of raw instability. He shifted his gaze to my face, his eyes red for some reason, and asked through gritted teeth, “Sloan Callahan, who the hell is he? Don’t forget, you have a fiancé.” “I won’t for much longer,” I murmured, barely a whisper. Rhett’s pupils contracted. He surged forward and gripped my shoulders, his fingertips white with strain. His breathing was ragged, and his eyes were welling up with a thin, angry film of water. “Sloan Callahan, are you throwing me away for this guy?” I parted my lips to speak, but Rhett yanked me violently into his car. His mouth came down on mine, then he bit my earlobe viciously. “Sloan Callahan, we grew up together. We’re us. What the hell is he to you?” “Get off me!” I struggled, pushing him away, but his kisses trailed down my collarbone. “You want me to leave, Sloan Callahan?” He immediately ran his hand up my thigh and pressed his mouth to my neck, threatening me. “If you get out of this car, I will kiss you in front of him.” … That night, Rhett was back in his signature provocative attire, showing off his sculpted abs. “Sloan Callahan, inspect the merchandise.” He grabbed my wrist and forced it against his stomach, then offered an explanation. “I didn’t touch anyone the other night. When you blocked that text from Pierce, I drove straight back.” He leaned in, his voice thick. “Sloan Callahan, you clearly still care.” His words softened something in me. Maybe Rhett did care, just a little. I pushed his chest lightly. “You still smell faintly of liquor. Go wash again.” Rhett looked like he wanted to argue, but he turned and obediently headed to the bathroom. 7 While Rhett was in the shower, the screen of his tablet, which was on the sofa, lit up. I opened it and saw his friends’ group chat messages. [Boss, I tracked down the guy. He’s just Mrs. P’s old college friend, Nolan Hayes.] [The Boss is really fired up about this guy. He must be falling for Mrs. P, right?] Rhett: [Who the hell is falling for Sloan Callahan? I’m just pissed she’s having an emotional affair.] Rhett: [I’d never want a flighty, ungrateful woman like her.] Rhett: [When I’m done training Sloan, when she’s completely obsessed with me, I’m going to drop her like a hot potato!] I gave a bitter, dry laugh. Rhett’s anger and jealousy had all been an act. That was his real plan all along. I closed the tablet, a mix of hurt and fury bubbling up inside me. I was deep in thought when a clean, fresh-smelling Rhett slid next to me. His breath was hot, his kisses trailing down my neck. His voice was husky. “Sloan Callahan, it’s been too long.” I pushed him away, my tone icy. “Rhett, don’t touch me. I don’t want this.” Rhett muttered a low curse and frowned. “Sloan Callahan, you’re not letting me touch you? Are you saving yourself for Nolan Hayes?” Remembering the malicious messages on the group chat, I suddenly saw no reason to explain myself. The engagement was ending anyway. I might as well look like the winner, the one who left with dignity. I pressed my lips together. “Yes. From now on, I won’t concern myself with your family’s business. And you won’t concern yourself with mine. We can both do whatever we want.” “The hell I will!” Rhett’s eyes were bloodshot with anger. “Sloan Callahan, either you cut him off, or we end this engagement now.” “Fine,” I agreed, following his lead. “I’ll call both families tomorrow.” Then, fighting back tears, I slammed the door on my way out. 8 When I returned, the living room looked like a hurricane had passed through it. Rhett was sitting on the sofa, his arms crossed, his gaze a challenge. “Sloan Callahan, you want to break the engagement? Then pack your stuff and get out of my house immediately.” He waved his hand at my belongings. “All these new-season clothes in your room just annoy me now.” He smirked, cruel and calculating. “Once you leave me, do you think Nolan Hayes’s pathetic salary can keep you in clothes like that?” “Even if he can’t, I’d still prefer what he buys me,” I replied, my voice steady. “I’d only worry about him affording it.” I walked straight into the bedroom and dragged out a large suitcase. Then I calmly began folding the scattered clothes, tucking them neatly into the luggage. “Wait, Sloan Callahan, are you serious?” Rhett suddenly rushed over and slammed his hand down on the suitcase, his knuckles white with strain. His breath hitched, and a thin, angry moisture gathered in his eyes. “Are you really breaking up with me for that guy?” He searched my face frantically. “Is he better than me? What did I do wrong?” Rhett stared at me, then suddenly sank to his knees. His face was pale, his body trembling. “Sloan Callahan… I’m sorry. I swear I’ll listen to you from now on.” He clutched the hem of my shirt with one hand, the other clutching his chest, his face contorted in pain. “Sloan Callahan, it hurts. Please. Don’t go.” Rhett’s lips were quivering, and the pain seemed genuine. It was only then that I remembered. He had a serious heart condition. It was the reason the Prescotts indulged him so much. Rhett passed out. I immediately called 911. As he was being rushed into the emergency room and I waited outside, two warring voices fought in my head. Was he really that emotional about me leaving? Did he actually care about me? Rhett had to stay in the hospital for a few days, so I returned home to grab him a change of clothes. “The Boss is pretty clever, huh? Checked into the hospital just to stop his fiancée from leaving.” I heard one of his friends say inside the house. “I only did it because I wanted to wait until Sloan was completely obsessed with me, and then I’d drop her hard!” Rhett’s voice was defiant. “Gotta say, the pity play is working beautifully.” My hand, reaching for the doorknob, froze. I was so grateful I had come back at that exact moment. Otherwise, Rhett would have fooled me again. I should have known. Given Rhett’s arrogant personality, the only one who could end the engagement was him. If I tried to force a breakup now, I had no idea what kind of disaster he would cause. My only option was to play along. I had to continue the performance until the real heiress returned. Then the Prescott family would naturally end the engagement for me. 9 During Rhett’s few days in the hospital, I didn’t mention the breakup again, returning to our old way of interacting. Rhett was ecstatic. It was during this time that Dahlia Song, the real heiress, was found and brought back. The Callahans hosted a lavish welcome banquet for her—it was practically the talk of Atherton. Rhett was discharged from the hospital, and we attended the party together. When he learned I was the fake heiress, Rhett seemed secretly pleased. He grabbed my hand and threatened me. “Sloan Callahan, let’s see you try to break up with me now. Without the Callahans, your only support system is me.” When Dahlia saw Rhett, her eyes lit up. “It’s you. Do you remember me?” Rhett glanced at me triumphantly. “Of course, I do.” From their conversation, I learned Rhett had once saved Dahlia from being harassed by thugs when she was younger. He was her hero. I watched the two of them chatting easily, a knot of deep, unfamiliar bitterness forming in my chest. Back at home, I saw the group chat blinking on the tablet again. [Boss, you and the real Callahan heiress looked really good together today.] Rhett: [Truthfully, a gentle, easy-going type like Dahlia is what I actually like. Sloan is a battle-axe. I hate being bossed around.] [So, why don’t you dump Sloan now and marry Dahlia, Boss?] Rhett: [Not yet. I need to wait until Sloan is totally obsessed with me. Then I’ll drop her.] I closed the tablet, my heart heavy with a dull ache. The day after the banquet, my adoptive parents called me back to the Callahan manor. They felt they owed Dahlia everything. Dahlia had expressed her liking for Rhett and wanted to marry him. They asked me to hand the engagement over to her. I agreed. I had no intention of fighting Dahlia for anything. Everything was rightfully hers, and it was time to give it back. But when the news of Rhett and Dahlia’s engagement broke, I knew I would be subjected to endless ridicule. Atherton would be unbearable. Leaving the Callahan home, I hailed a cab to the private racetrack Rhett frequented. Even though I already knew the answer. To extinguish the final spark of hope, I wanted to hear it from Rhett one last time before I left the city forever. When I arrived, Rhett was leaning against his car, chatting casually with his friends. Someone with sharp eyes spotted me and nudged Rhett’s shoulder. “Yo, Boss, Mrs. P is here.” Rhett looked up, a frown creasing his forehead. “Sloan Callahan, what are you doing here?” He sneered. “I’ve only been gone for a moment, and you’re back to being my warden?” I stared at him, my voice steady. “Rhett, am I just a placeholder? Could any girl from the right family fill this spot?” “Why wouldn’t you be?” Rhett looked at me with bored amusement. “Sloan Callahan, I’m not exactly limited to you.” He put a hand on my hip, pulling me closer in a possessive gesture. “If you stop chasing other men, I won’t break the engagement. Yet.” My nails dug into my palms. I forced my voice to remain perfectly calm. “Good. I needed to know.” Rhett gave a cold snort. “Smart girl. Figured it out, didn’t you, Sloan Callahan?” I left the racetrack, had a quick dinner with Harper, and bought a ticket out of Atherton that afternoon.

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On the night of the annual family dinner, my husband, who openly disliked children, casually mentioned how “cute” a cousin’s toddler was. I took it as a sign. A signal. I immediately ordered ten packets of expensive, complex fertility herbs to regulate my body. I spent three grueling months dragging him through a high-intensity baby-making routine. My abdomen remained stubbornly, cruelly empty. The truth dropped like a bomb: I found his vasectomy report tucked away in his bedside drawer. Right next to it, I found photographs of his secret twins. A boy and a girl. Four years old. The resulting fight was cataclysmic. 1 The older generation and our friends rallied around me, urging caution. “Carlisle finally agrees to an heir, why make a scene? The Carlisle Group needs a successor.” “The children must have been an accident. Damon probably felt obligated. Why not just raise them as your own, Anna?” I looked at Damon Carlisle, my husband of three years, who stood before me—aristocratic, cold, and emanating the severe authority of a man used to getting his way. “I will agree not to divorce you, on one condition: you never see them again. That is my maximum concession.” Damon stood up, slowly removed his wedding ring, and placed it gently on the glass coffee table. “Vera suffered the ten months of carrying my children. I am their father. It is my responsibility to care for them.” “She won’t challenge your position as Mrs. Carlisle. Why are you being so relentlessly aggressive?” Hearing his cold logic ripped the last remnants of hope from my chest. I finally abandoned the fantasy of things ever returning to normal. “If that is the case, then we are getting a divorce.” BAM! A teacup smashed near my feet. My father, Mr. Welles, his face mottled purple with rage, pointed a trembling finger at me. “Dare to divorce him, and I will break your legs!” “Since when is a small scandal not commonplace in the upper echelons of society? Why must you be so dramatic?” My mother-in-law rose to pull my father back, but her eyes held a distinct look of displeasure when they met mine. “Anna, you are a Welles, a daughter of a respectable family. How can you stoop to the level of those lower-class women who fight over men?” “Look at the chaos you’re causing. If this gets out, it will damage the Carlisle reputation.” The voices of everyone in the room became a chorus of disapproval. My tears finally streamed down my face and landed on my hands as I asked the question that still burned worst of all: “Damon, why did you have a vasectomy behind my back?” Years ago, we had agreed that if I accidentally became pregnant, and he still didn’t want a child, I would respect his decision. I had thought, naively, that a surprise might trigger his paternal instinct, that his preferences might change. But for three years, there was never a single accident. I spent two years believing it was my body, enduring endless appointments and drinking bitter herbs. I was trying to fix myself, when he had already made me redundant. A flicker of guilt crossed Damon’s face. He let out a heavy sigh. “Anna, I had no choice.” He walked over and gently put his arm around my shoulder, his voice now a low, earnest murmur. “Vera grew up poor. She suffered so much abuse and hardship. How could she compete with a Welles heiress? And how could her children ever compete with one of yours?” “I didn’t want them to suffer the same way she did, to be pointed at and humiliated.” “We’ve been in each other’s lives since we were kids, Anna. Surely you can understand my position.” He spoke of the unfortunate necessities of the world, asking me to accept his arrangement. In my heart, all I heard was a tidal wave of shock and revulsion. He loved her deeply enough to plan their entire future—a future that required him to betray me. I was nothing more than a sacrifice for his true love. I shoved his arm away, taking three shaky steps back. I looked at him with utter desolation. “Damon Carlisle, you are truly disgusting.” “We are done. I refuse to share a life with a liar.” Damon’s face hardened, the shame immediately masked by anger. “Anna Welles, as children of elite families, we all have obligations. Why can’t you be gracious and accommodating?” “You were born with the wealth and privilege Vera will never have. I have given you the status and respect of being Mrs. Carlisle. She just wants to be a simple, ordinary woman. Do you really need to force me to abandon her?” 2 He looked past me to my father. “Dad, I don’t want this affecting the merger. Take Anna home and talk some sense into her.” He then grabbed his car keys and strode out, calling his mother and the other guests with him. He was even kind enough to close the door behind him. Instantly, my father’s roar was deafening. “You ungrateful girl! Haven’t you embarrassed me enough? Now I have to take you home for a ‘talking to.’ How did the Welles family raise such a coarse, disrespectful person?” I scoffed. “Poor genetics, I suppose. I’m not just coarse, I’m selfish and cold-blooded, too.” He married into my family and then kept a mistress and had secret children, driving his wife to suicide. I was only asking for a divorce. My father was clearly worse than me. My father flew into a rage. “Anna Welles, you are just as narrow-minded and foolish as your mother! Why can’t you just live a good life? Do you have to cause chaos just to feel satisfied?” He glared at me, his voice icy and menacing. “If you won’t think of yourself, think of Franklin. He’s in his senior year. He’s always been an honor student. You don’t want to force him to drop out of high school, do you?” My shoulders slumped. I collapsed onto the sofa. I couldn’t gamble my younger brother’s future against them. When our mother jumped, he was barely one year old. He was so tiny, just holding my hand and laughing with those clear eyes, having no idea he would never see her again. Since he turned one, he’d been poisoned three times, bitten by a snake, had his ribs broken in a car accident, and almost suffocated from a severe allergic reaction. I had protected him through hell and back. How could I destroy his one chance at a future? My father ultimately slammed the door shut and left. When Damon returned late that night, he found me sitting on the floor, weeping and blurry-eyed from too much liquor. He said nothing, simply picking me up and moving me to the sofa, then taking a cloth to gently wipe my face. He brought me a glass of lemon water and held me, feeding it to me, sip by sip. For a brief, sharp moment, I was transported eighteen years back, to when our affection was true. My mother had just died, and my father immediately moved his mistress in. They forced me to kneel and call her ‘Mother.’ I hid in the attic and cried until my throat was raw. Damon was the one who held me, wiping my face and feeding me water, just like this. He held me and told me he had me, that everything would be okay, and to trust him. The thirteen-year-old boy then knelt before his own father and begged for a shred of protection for me, strategically using the Welles family cooperation to prove my worth. How could I not have loved that boy? The brief, artificial warmth was shattered by a long, heavy sigh. “Anna, I’m not leaving you. The twins were truly just an accident.” I clung to his neck, my voice breaking. “Damon, you know I can’t accept this. I won’t end up like my mother, struggling and suffering until I break.” “Please, send them overseas. We can support them financially forever.” “Why didn’t you make her get an abortion? Why didn’t you talk to me when you suddenly wanted a child?” After a long, cold silence, Damon finally spoke, his tone utterly indifferent. “The Carlisle-Welles merger grand opening is tomorrow. Prepare yourself. You must not be absent. It will only cause speculation.” Watching his tall, unyielding frame walk away, my heart sank to the bottom of the ocean. The next day, Damon sent over a gorgeous gown and the expensive Queen’s Chandelier necklace he had bought at auction. His secretary nervously watched me. I changed and applied a perfect, polished coat of makeup. Damon was right. The business cooperation could not be destroyed. Franklin wasn’t grown up yet. I still had a responsibility to reclaim everything my maternal grandfather left behind. 3 The grand opening ceremony was grand. All the Oakwood Hills elite were present. Stepping onto the grounds of the exclusive estate, my eyes landed immediately on Vera Jenkins. She was wearing a pearl-white silk dress, looking demure and graceful, exuding an air of gentle, maternal warmth. Damon had his arm around her waist, navigating the room and greeting guests. Vera smiled politely, perfectly composed. My mother-in-law was holding the little boy, chatting happily with a group of society matrons. Everyone complimented the child, calling him “a blessing,” “a future titan of industry.” The moment I stepped into the ballroom, the noise instantly died. Every single eye swiveled to me. Damon released Vera, walked over to me with an unnerving ease, and took my hand. “Anna, come see the baby. He really is adorable.” He led me to his mother and gently placed the child in my arms. Looking at the healthy, plump baby, a wave of bitter longing washed over me. I gently touched his soft cheek. If only he were mine. I knew I could have given Damon a child, too. The surrounding looks were a dizzying mix: pity, thinly veiled ridicule, and cold detachment. Vera quickly rushed forward, her hands outstretched, a hint of urgency in her expression. “Sister, Astra is heavy. Please let me hold him.” I froze, looking at her in disbelief. “You… you named him Astra?” “Astra Carlisle. Damon said it symbolizes the way our hearts are forever linked.” A piercing cry erupted. My hands suddenly dropped. I was falling into an endless abyss, consumed by a paralyzing cold. He gave our name to them. He wanted their hearts to be forever linked. Astra. I was eighteen, celebrating my birthday, the first night I gave myself to him. He had held me tight and vowed that our first child would be called Astra—a testament to our souls being eternally bound. Before I could voice the furious question that was choking me, a sharp smack echoed through the vast room. I blinked, realizing I had dropped the baby. He was on the floor, a trickle of blood seeping from his forehead. Damon was instantly kneeling, clutching the child, his eyes blazing with pure hatred directed at me. Beside him, Vera was sobbing hysterically. “Sister, even if you hate my children, you can’t drop him in public like this! He is Damon’s son, too. How could you be so cruel?” She struggled to pull the baby from Damon’s grasp. “Damon, please, just let me go! I love you, and I was willing to be a secret, but I cannot risk my children’s lives! How can she do this? Is it just because I have no one to protect me? Can she just try to kill Star right here, in front of everyone?” Her cries were heartbreaking. Damon was frantic, holding both her and the screaming child tightly. “Vera, look at me. Astra is our baby. I will never let anyone hurt him. I love you both, and I will protect you with my life.” “Don’t worry. I will give you justice. I will make her kneel and apologize to you. I will give you whatever guarantee you need.” Every word Damon spoke was a stab to my heart. He was demanding that I, his wife, bow and apologize to his mistress, and give her a guarantee. What about my guarantee? Was it all just a sick joke? The image of a brilliant, hopeful young man flashed in my memory: “Anna, I love you. I will protect you forever. Anyone who tries to hurt you, I will fight to the death.” Damon grabbed the collar of my gown and with a sudden jerk, flung me toward Vera. “Kneel! Apologize to Vera and Astra.” “And swear on your late mother’s memory that if you ever try to cause trouble or harm Vera and her children again, your mother’s soul will suffer the eternal torment of fire and agony in the afterlife!” I stared at Damon in horror. My mother had treated him like her own son. He had once knelt at her grave, calling her ‘Mom.’ Now, for his mistress, he was willing to curse her so viciously. 4 I wiped the tears from my face and straightened my spine. “Damon Carlisle, I will never kneel and apologize to your mistress. You will have to kill me first.” Damon’s eyes narrowed. He motioned with his hand. Two bodyguards rushed forward, seizing my shoulders. One delivered a powerful kick to the back of my knees, sending me crashing to the floor in front of Vera. I didn’t get a chance to even lower my head before the noise of the crowd surged. “Oh my God, the Welles heiress is kneeling to the mistress. That’s a new low for women.” “She might as well die. Live any longer, and it’s just public disgrace. Her late father must be rolling in his grave.” I raised my chin stubbornly, my eyes bloodshot as I looked at Damon. “Damon, how could you forget the promise we made under the Sycamore tree?” Damon’s gaze was hard and unrelenting. He squeezed my jaw with brutal force. “Anna Welles, I have never forgotten. You are the one who is aggressive, insisting on driving Vera and the twins away. Today, you deserve this lesson.” He forced my head down, slamming my forehead hard against the marble floor. Warm blood immediately trickled down my face and into my eyes, blurring my vision. As Damon prepared to smash my head down a second time, a small, thin figure surged forward. He punched Damon squarely in the face. “Don’t you dare hurt my sister!” Through the haze of my own blood, I saw my brother, Franklin Alexander, standing between us, his body trembling, his arms wide open in fierce protection. Damon recovered his stance, wiped the blood from his lip, and looked at Franklin with cold contempt. “Move.” “No.” “Damon, you can’t do this to my sister! You promised you would protect her forever! Why are you making her kneel to this… this vixen?” Damon’s eyes narrowed further. He spoke in a chillingly low voice. “Franklin, you’re too young to understand. I’m doing this for your sister’s own good, to stop her from harming innocent people.” “That’s a lie! My sister would never hurt anyone! You’re framing her!” “I’m eighteen now, Damon. I’m not a child. If you won’t protect my sister, I will.” The boy’s young face was contorted with grief and outrage. He grabbed my arm, trying to pull me to my feet and away. Damon waved his hand. The bodyguards blocked our path. “Anna, you must face the consequences of your actions. You haven’t apologized to Vera.” Franklin furiously pushed at the bodyguards, but they seized him and pinned his arms behind his back. Seeing them grab my arm, the boy screamed. “Don’t touch her! I’ll apologize! I’ll take the beating, whatever you want!” With that, Franklin collapsed to the ground, facing Vera, and began to slam his head against the floor in a desperate kowtow. “I’m sorry! I’ll pay for my sister’s mistake! Don’t do this to her! She’s a woman! Don’t humiliate her!” Tears sprang from my eyes. I kicked out violently at the bodyguard’s leg, scrambling forward to pull Franklin into my arms. “Franklin, I’m so sorry. I failed you. I’m useless. I’m so sorry…” Franklin’s tears soaked my neck. His voice was hoarse and broken by sobs. “Sis, I’m the one dragging you down. I’m quitting school. Let’s just leave.” The guests watched with complicated expressions. In the upper class, everyone was an expert strategist; they all knew the truth about the Welles family history. But no one dared to speak up and risk offending a powerful business partner. Seeing the tension mount, my father finally stepped forward, his voice cold and commanding. “You embarrassing trash! Fighting over a man and ruining a great day for the merger!” He raised his hand and slapped Franklin hard across the head. “You’re supposed to be a man! Instead of advising your sister, you join her foolish chaos! How can I ever hand the Welles Group over to you looking like this?”

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I was the golden girl of Manhattan General, a thoracic surgeon with hands insured for millions and a reputation that spanned the East Coast. Then came the fall. Accidental exposure to HIV. A source that couldn’t be traced. The board fired me to save face, and the whispers followed me home—my own family looking at me with thinly veiled disgust, convinced my “lifestyle” was to blame. Through it all, Bennett Cole played the saint. My childhood sweetheart, the man who walked out of the light to stand by my side. We lived a life of polite, distant civility until the virus finally took me. It wasn’t until my soul was hovering over my own funeral that the truth shattered me. I watched Kylie Winters, Bennett’s tearful junior protégé, collapse into his arms by my grave. “Bennett, it’s all my fault,” she sobbed, clutching his lapels. “If I hadn’t hidden that patient’s HIV status… Jordan wouldn’t be dead.” “I just wanted him to be saved,” she wailed, playing the martyr. “If everyone knew he was positive, no one would have operated on him.” Bennett didn’t push her away. He stroked her hair, his voice sickeningly tender. “You have too much heart, Kylie. I’ve already atoned for you. You don’t need to blame yourself anymore.” A jagged, white-hot pain tore through my consciousness. I gasped, my eyes flying open. I was blinded by the harsh, sterile glare of hospital fluorescents, tears streaming down my face. I wasn’t dead. I was back. I had returned to the day of the exposure. The day of the surgery. “Dr. Calloway? Still napping?” The voice was chirpy, grating. Kylie Winters walked toward me, a blue medical file in her hand. 1 Bennett and I were the power couple of Manhattan General’s surgical wing. Kylie was his shadow—a junior resident he’d brought in three months ago to assist with anesthesia in General Surgery. Looking at her now, a wave of nausea rolled through me. The image of her face buried in Bennett’s coat at my funeral was burned into my retinas. I took the file she offered. My voice came out colder than the AC venting above us. “This patient. Any hidden history? Did we run the full preoperative viral panel?” Kylie’s eyes darted away for a fraction of a second. “Dr. Calloway, of course. We always screen. The report is right there in your hand. Why are you asking?” I remembered this moment. I remembered the fake report sitting in my drawer in that other life. A hollow laugh bubbled in my throat. “I seem to have misplaced that specific lab report,” I lied, my gaze locking onto hers. “Have him tested again. Stat. Just in case.” The color drained from Kylie’s face. Her voice pitched up, trembling with defensive energy. “Dr. Calloway, are you serious? The OR is booked. We’re close to the incision time. Running a new panel now will delay everything!” My patience for incompetence—and treachery—had evaporated. “It’s a routine cholecystectomy, Kylie. A gallbladder removal. A few hours won’t kill him. Are you the attending surgeon, or am I? Why are you so nervous?” In my past life, I had just come off an eight-hour marathon surgery. My herniated disc was screaming. I was exhausted, defenses down. I had powered through this surgery on autopilot. When the blood splattered into my eye, it was already too late. I had checked the report afterward, just to be safe, but it was a forgery. It made me miss the window for PEP—post-exposure prophylaxis. Now, Kylie stood frozen in the center of the office, vibrating with anxiety. “Why are you still standing there?” I snapped. “Go. You said the surgery was urgent, didn’t you? The sooner you get the blood draw, the sooner we cut.” Kylie dropped her head, big, performative tears splashing onto the linoleum. Before I could dress her down, Bennett walked in, fresh from rounds. “What’s going on? Kylie, why are you crying?” His tone was sharp, his eyes landing on me with a familiar, weary judgment. “Dr. Cole… Dr. Calloway wants to delay the surgery to run labs we already did,” Kylie whimpered. “How am I supposed to explain this to the family?” Bennett wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. The tenderness in his eyes was nauseating. In my last life, I thought they were just close colleagues. I thought my unrequited love for Bennett was a tragic romance. It was a farce. I expected Bennett to defend her. Instead, he surprised me. He sided with the protocol. “It’s fine, Kylie. The surgery isn’t life-threatening. If Jordan wants to be safe, let her be safe. Go tell the lab.” 2 I was stunned. Did he not know? Was I the only one who remembered the future? Less than an hour later, Bennett returned. He handed me a report. I scanned it, and my blood ran cold. Negative. The report said the patient was clean. No HIV. I gripped the paper until it crinkled. Impossible. My memory was vivid—the diagnosis, the decline, the funeral. Was it a hallucination? A nightmare? No. The pain in my lower back was too real. The hatred in my gut was too solid. “Jordan, are you happy now? Can we operate?” Bennett’s voice was laced with impatience. “The patient is waiting. Show some professional ethics. I know you get paranoid, but this is a job.” I looked up at him. I saw the annoyance in his brow, the slight curl of his lip. I took a deep breath, centering myself. “Actually, my back is seizing up. My disc is flaring badly,” I said, testing the waters. “Why don’t you take this one, Bennett? You don’t have a slot this afternoon, right, Mr. Vice-Chief?” I threw his title at him like a dart. We had grown up together, attended the same med school. I was the natural talent, the one our mentor, Dr. Keane, handpicked. Bennett was the luggage—brought along because Dr. Keane had a soft spot for me. Everyone called us the “Golden Pair.” I believed it. When the hospital board was deciding on the Vice-Chief position, Bennett had looked at me with those puppy-dog eyes in the stairwell. “Jordan,” he’d said, looking defeated. “I feel like I’m always running behind you. I’m just your shadow. If you take this promotion… I’ll be the joke of the department again. Do you think I’m useless, too?” I had been a fool. I told him he was the hardest worker I knew. I stepped aside. I let him have the title. Now, hearing me ask him to take the surgery, Bennett’s face turned an ugly shade of gray. “Jordan, are you joking? You’re handing your patient to me?” His reaction confirmed it. He knew. He absolutely knew the patient was HIV positive. Bennett was a competent surgeon. For a minor procedure like this, stepping in for a colleague was standard. He used to volunteer to take my shifts to look like a hero. “I seem to recall you begging to take my cases before,” I said coolly. “Was that just talk?” “I… I…” He stammered, unable to form a coherent excuse. Kylie jumped in, the loyal attack dog. “Jordan, that is too much! Where are your ethics? Why should Dr. Cole clean up your mess? You can’t just bully him because you grew up together!” “If something goes wrong, what happens to Dr. Cole?” She was shouting now, unaware she was tipping her hand. I raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Cole has done hundreds of cholecystectomies. What could possibly go wrong?” Kylie realized her slip and pivoted. “If you don’t scrub in right now, I’m reporting you to the Chief and the family!” Bennett stepped in front of her, shielding her. “Jordan, stop being unreasonable. The family is furious. The patient has been NPO—fasting—for six hours, and you’ve wasted another hour on this wild goose chase. Do you want to destroy the hospital’s reputation?” 3 A crowd of nurses and patients had gathered in the hallway. The spectacle was public now. I had to do the surgery. And honestly, I wasn’t going to let anyone else touch it. I couldn’t legally refuse treatment. And if I didn’t catch them in the act, how would I ever nail these two to the wall? “Fine. I’ll do it,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise. “But on one condition. Kylie is my first assist.” “No!” Bennett barked immediately. Behind him, Kylie actually trembled. “Why not?” I asked, feigning innocence. “You brought her into this department to learn from me, didn’t you? She’s been a glorified anesthesia tech for months. Time to get her hands dirty.” Bennett had dumped her on me initially, claiming he was too busy to mentor her. It was a brilliant move—he looked generous, got free time, and I did the work. “She’s not experienced enough. You…” Bennett started. “She’s my assistant. My OR, my rules,” I interrupted. “We all learned by doing. Unless her degree is just a piece of paper?” I hardened my gaze. “If she doesn’t scrub in today, she doesn’t scrub in ever. I won’t sign off on her residency.” It was her final month. Without my signature, she was finished. Kylie’s eyes hardened. She grit her teeth. “I’ll do it.” “But…” Bennett tried again. “No ‘buts’, Bennett. Don’t worry about me,” Kylie said, putting on a brave face. “Dr. Calloway is the star of the department, right? She says it’s a routine surgery. I’m sure she’s right.” Bennett looked at her, then at me. His eyes held a look I recognized but had never understood until this lifetime. Insecurity. Deep, rotting insecurity. I was Jordan Calloway. Prodigy. Success story. Insecurity was a language I didn’t speak. In the locker room, I suited up for war. Double gloves, face shield, protective eyewear, waterproof gown. Full barrier precautions. When I walked out, I locked eyes with Kylie, who was also wrapped up like she was entering a biohazard zone. “Why the hazmat suit, Kylie?” I asked. “You’re just assisting. Heavy gear will slow your reflexes.” Dani, my usual anesthesiologist and actual friend, frowned at Kylie. “Yeah, what’s with the getup?” Dani had insisted on being in the room, despite me trying to keep her out of the line of fire. She didn’t trust Kylie. I heard Kylie mutter under her breath as she adjusted her mask. “Who knows what kind of dirty diseases people have.” I almost laughed. The irony was rich. Not the time for your savior complex now, is it? The surgery began. The tension was palpable. Every time Kylie handed me an instrument, she recoiled, standing as far back as physically possible. “Who hired this girl?” a scrub nurse whispered. “Did she skip the sterile field training?” “Bennett’s pet project,” another murmured. “I heard she barely graduated. Flunked half her classes.” I tuned them out. Without the verified blood test, only I knew the truth: the blood inside this man was a loaded gun. One slip, and I was dead. Again. “Retractor,” I ordered. Nothing happened. “Retractor! Wake up!” Kylie jumped, realizing the whispers were about her. She grabbed the retractor with visible resentment and jammed it into the incision site. She pulled back hard—too hard, too fast. Blood spurted. Several drops hit my face shield, right over my eyes. I froze for a microsecond, staring at the red smear on the plastic. Thank God for the goggles. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Then, Dani screamed from the head of the table.

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