Three years after I walked out of the prison gates, my uncle-in-name-only, Barrett Stanford, dragged me out of the shadows of the underground fight club. He smashed his fist into my face, his eyes nearly popping from their sockets with rage. “Kelly, who gave you the nerve to stay away? And look at you—you’ve turned yourself into a monster!” I wiped a streak of blood from my lip and grinned, a smile void of any soul or shame. “Mr. Stanford, that’s ten grand a punch. If you’re not satisfied, keep going. A few more hits and I’ll have this year’s rent covered.” His fist trembled in mid-air, knuckles white, but his voice lost its edge, softening into something almost pathetic. “Come home with me… just apologize to Harper.” “She’s kind,” he added, desperate. “She stopped blaming you for the slander years ago.” His gaze swept over the jagged scars mapping my arms, his expression twisting into something complex. Pity? Disgust? “Look at you. Covered in blood. How are you any different from a stray dog eating out of a dumpster?” A tremor ran through me, but I turned my heel to leave. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. This blood, this violence—it was the only way I learned to survive inside the cage. “Don’t forget,” he shouted at my back, “I am still your fiancé!” My footsteps faltered. Forget? How could I? Three years ago, on the night of our engagement party, Harper drugged me and shipped me off to a black-market gala. My virtue, my body, my life—put on the auction block like cattle. That night, stripped of dignity, I became the city’s favorite scandal. The desperate, insatiable fallen woman. And the man who signed the papers to sell me? That was my fiancé. … A shrill roar of laughter erupted behind me. Barrett was frantic, humiliated that his pristine reputation was being stained by my existence. He was the wealthiest titan in Seattle, yet his “fiancée” was brawling in a meat market for pocket change, blood and sweat flying everywhere. I ignored him and slipped backstage. Minutes later, I was back in the Octagon. The harsh floodlights blinded me, focused on the opposing iron gate. From the shadows, a guttural, inhuman roar echoed. “Tonight! Number 67 versus The Burmese Tigress! Place your bets!” The curtain was ripped aside. My opponent wasn’t a woman; she was a force of nature, towering and terrifying. I sucked in a cold breath. “Hey, sister.” I looked up to the VIP balcony. There was Harper, draped in designer silk, leaning over the railing with that sickeningly sweet smile. “I heard you’re short on cash. So, I arranged a little gift to help you earn more.” Her tone was innocent, but the cruelty underneath was razor-sharp. “I bet a million dollars on you to win. Don’t let me down.” A million. My fists tightened inside my gloves. I thought of my parents’ estate, seized and sold off. I took a step forward without hesitation. Just then, Barrett burst into the VIP box. Harper practically melted into his arms. “Barrett, I know Kelly has too much pride to ask for help. I just want her to win that million on her own terms.” She looked up at him with wide, doe eyes. “I heard she’s on a winning streak. The owners love her…” Barrett looked down at me, his expression haughty and distant. “Kelly, apologize to Harper right now, in front of everyone, and I’ll give you the million myself.” His voice boomed over the arena. “Refuse, and you’ll have to fight for scraps from the beast.” Every eye in the house was on me, expecting me to break. To beg. Instead, I bit down on my mouthguard and raised my fists. Barrett’s face went dark, his eyes burning with a fury that could scorch the earth. The bell rang. The Tigress lunged. I rolled forward, dodging a blow that would have taken my head off, and kicked hard at her throat. But the weight difference was impossible. Her fists were like sledgehammers. Twice, she nearly cracked my skull open. Barrett stared down, his face growing paler with every blow I took. I wouldn’t tap out. I couldn’t. By the third round, my arms were shredded, my vision blurring red. Thwack. A final, brutal uppercut. The Tigress hit the mat. Barrett threw down his drink, vaulting over the railing and rushing the cage. He grabbed my bleeding arm, screaming, “Do you want to die?!” Blood dripped onto the canvas, mixing with the sweat stinging my eyes. I gritted my teeth. “I didn’t lose. Tell her to pay me.” He grabbed my throat, his fingers cold, staring into my soul. “You are hopeless. If you wanted money this badly, maybe I should have let you go for a higher price at the auction back then!” My body seized. My eyes rolled back, and the darkness took me. Before the silence, the old secret I had overheard that night whispered in my ear. “Mr. Stanford, ruining her reputation tonight finally gives Miss Harper some justice.” “She brought it on herself. This is the price for slandering Harper.” That night at the auction was a recurring nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. Harper had staged it all—leaked her own compromised photos, made herself trending news, and framed me for it. No matter how I begged, how I explained, Barrett refused to believe me. On the night I was supposed to be happiest, he sent me to hell. Through the haze of the drugs, I had seen Harper nestled in his arms, clinging to him like a vine. My heart hadn’t just broken; it had shattered. On stage, men looked at me with greedy, predatory eyes. “The Kelly heiress! Starting bid is open!” I had looked at Barrett, one last desperate plea. I didn’t do it. Through the cigar smoke, his eyes were cold, indifferent. “Mistakes have consequences, Kelly.” The humiliation that followed broke me. The tears, the pain, the absolute betrayal. He hated me that much. When the chaos ended, it was deep into the night. The scandal was already all over the city. I heard him talking to the manager. And that was when I snapped. I lit the match. The fire roared, burning down the venue, burning down our past. The police came quickly. Barrett had kicked me away as they cuffed me. “Harper inhaled smoke! She’s in the ER right now! How could you be so vicious? You tried to burn her alive!” “Just you wait. I won’t let this slide.” On the day of my sentencing, Barrett announced to the press that he was backing Harper to take over the family trust. I lost everything. Three years in prison. I slept near the latrine. I was forced to drink toilet water. I was stripped and humiliated by women who had nothing left to lose. To survive, I learned to use my fists. My only tether to sanity was the hope of buying back my parents’ estate. The day I got out, I scurried into the underground fighting ring like a rat in a sewer, numbing myself to the pain. A million dollars. That money would get me closer to home. I woke up with a start, the harsh white of a hospital ceiling blinding me. “Did the money come through?” The nurse—the fight manager—froze. She hadn’t expected that to be my first question. Silence. My chest felt like it had been caved in by a hammer. Tears, hot and unbidden, spilled over. I was delusional. Why would Barrett let me win? “Forget it,” I rasped. “I’ll fight more matches…” “Kelly.” The manager cut me off, her eyes filled with pity. “Don’t come back. Mr. Stanford put out the word. Any venue that lets you fight gets shut down and sued into bankruptcy.” She dropped a debit card on the bedside table and fled, unable to look at me. The air left the room. I was suffocating. I stumbled out of the hospital, into the pouring Seattle rain. The water mixed with the salt on my face, blurring the neon lights. I clutched the card, knowing my dream was drifting further away. My feet carried me to the Estate on autopilot. Through the iron gates, through the rain, I saw them. Barrett was holding Harper’s hand in front of a wall of reporters. “Starting today, this historic estate is officially gifted to Harper!” “She is now the rightful mistress of the legacy!” The world spun. I pulled out my burner phone and dialed the number I hadn’t dared to call for three years. “Get me out of here.” Harper feigned shock, her hand over her mouth. “But… what about my sister?” Barrett’s eyes flickered, but the cold mask returned instantly. “From the moment she spread those lies about you, she ceased to be family.” “By what right?” My voice trembled with rage. I stepped out of the shadows, soaked, bruised, looking like a revenant. “Is that Kelly?” “It really is her. I thought she’d have the decency to stay hidden.” “Pfft, she’s an ex-con now. What shame does she have left?” “Tsk, tsk. Raising a whore who seduces her own brother-in-law… her father must be rolling in his grave.” I froze. Barrett stepped forward, yanking me under his umbrella. “If you’re hurt, stay in the hospital. Stop making a scene!” I shoved him away. “By what right do you give my home to her?” I screamed. “I am the daughter of this house! She is a foster child! What right—” Slap. My cheek burned, swelling instantly. I held my face, staring at Barrett in disbelief. He placed himself between me and Harper, a human shield. “Your father entrusted both of you to me. In my heart, Harper has never been just a foster child!” “You framed her. You tortured her. You aren’t fit to carry the family name. You have no right to object!” It was absurd. It was a comedy. I flashed back to when I was ten. The day Harper arrived. I gave her my favorite doll. She ignored it. Then, the moment I turned around, she threw herself down the stairs. “Kelly… why did you push me? Do you hate me?” My parents believed me. But from that day on, her tears were weaponized. Mother’s missing jewelry. Father’s broken antiques. Every time she cried, I was the villain, defenseless against her performance. But Barrett… he used to stand by me. “I know Kelly. She wouldn’t do this.” “She has a temper, sure, but I spoiled her that way. And I like it.” I was naive. I thought he would stand by me forever. “You are a disappointment,” I whispered. The cold man in front of me overlaid the image of the boy who once knelt in the grass, crying, promising to protect me. I blinked, and the boy was gone. “Kelly, I’ll give you one last chance. Apologize to Harper. The family, and I, will be your shield again.” I looked at his hand, interlaced with hers. I laughed. It was a dry, broken sound. “No need.” “Give me the million dollars. And from this moment on, we are strangers. Dead to each other.” The silence was deafening. Barrett’s eyes turned predatory, dark and confused. “What did you say?” He stared at the stubborn set of my jaw, and for a second, panic flashed in his eyes. He realized he had miscalculated. “Kelly!” Harper sensed the shift. She lunged forward, dropping to her knees in the mud before me. “Blame me! It’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have come into this family!” “I don’t want the house! I’ll leave Seattle tonight! I’ll give it all back!” She wailed, turning and running toward the stone steps. Then, she tripped. It was theatrical, perfect. She tumbled down. “Harper!” Barrett screamed, his composure shattering. He rushed down. When he saw the blood soaking her white skirt, his voice cracked. “Doctor! Call an ambulance!” He looked back at me, pure hatred in his eyes. “Tie her up! If Harper loses this baby, Kelly pays with her life!” “Mr. Stanford, the patient is in bad shape. The pregnancy… we couldn’t save it. And I’m afraid she may never conceive again.” “What?” Harper wept, biting her lip until it bled. “My baby…” “Who is the father?” Barrett asked, his voice low, suppressing a volcano of rage. Harper buried her face in his chest. “I’m sorry, Barrett. Last month… when you were drunk… you didn’t use protection…” His pupils contracted. Panic, then guilt, washed over him. He pulled her tighter. “No. This isn’t your fault.” Harper let out a guttural sob. “I can never be a mother? Barrett, what am I going to do?” I stood there, handcuffed, staring at her flat stomach. I remembered the excuse Barrett used to avoid touching me. “You’re too young. I respect you too much. I’ll wait until we’re married.” But he got Harper pregnant. Even if the baby was gone now. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t with me. I laughed. A bitter, jagged sound. “Kelly, you are a curse!” Barrett roared, hearing my laughter. He lunged, punching me hard in the stomach. I coughed up bloody foam, mumbling through swollen lips. “She deserved to lose it. It’s karma for what she did to me.” “And if she planned this miscarriage, you better check if that kid was even yours.” He slapped me again, sending me crashing into the corner. Blood from my forehead blinded my left eye. He grabbed me by the hair, dragging me to the open window. He pushed my upper body out over the ledge. Three stories up. One let go, and I was pavement. “You really are insane,” he hissed. “For three years, I wanted to bring you home every single day. I was terrified you were suffering in prison. I pulled strings to keep you safe.” “But you? You’re heartless! Three years, and the moment you get out, you vanish!” “Do you know how long I looked for you? Do you know how it felt seeing you getting beaten to a pulp in that cage?” “Kelly, you don’t know anything.” “You only know how to hurt Harper. You are a complete lunatic!” His eyes were red, brimming with tears that fell onto my shoulder. I hung over the edge, feeling the wind. My heart was colder than the air. “You’re right. We are done.” He hauled me back in and threw me onto the floor like a bag of trash. His voice went icy. “But you made a mistake. And you have to be punished.” I slowly lifted my head. “Confess. Publicly admit to your crimes over the years. Voluntarily renounce your claim to the estate. Do that, and I’ll give you the house back.” My ears rang. I tasted iron. “You…” He looked down at me, a god judging an insect. “Think carefully. This is your last chance.” My fingers brushed the photo in my pocket. My father’s last gift. On the back of the yellowing family portrait, in his shaky handwriting: “Kelly, when Papa gets better, we’ll go to Switzerland. We’ll see the snow.” I remembered his thin, frail arms. Tears hit the floorboards. I bit my own arm to stop the screaming, shaking uncontrollably. “Fine. I accept.” The next day, noon. I knelt in front of the Estate gates. Flashbulbs popped like lightning. I read the “Confession” word for word. “…I caused Harper’s miscarriage. I am wicked.” “…I bullied Harper for years. It was all my fault.” The crowd was furious. Someone threw a soda can. It hit my head. “Die, you poison witch!” “Why don’t you kill yourself to atone?” “Harper is an angel, and this one is a snake!” I curled into a ball on the concrete. Through the legs of the crowd, I saw Barrett lead Harper out of a limousine. “In three days,” he announced to the cameras, “I will hold the wedding of the century with Harper.” As security dragged me toward a garbage truck to haul me away, my burner phone buzzed. “Kelly. I’m back. Let’s burn them down.” … Three days later. The wedding was lavish, grotesque in its opulence. But the guests kept whispering. “Mr. Stanford, Kelly is still family by blood. Did you have to push her that far?” Barrett’s face was thunderous. “I didn’t drive her away! She refused to turn back!” “To her, we mean nothing compared to that house. Don’t mention her name again!” The room went silent. The next morning, Barrett called his assistant. “Find Kelly. Get her to sign the transfer papers for the house. I’m not waiting.” He paused, then changed from his robe into a suit. I used to love seeing him in a suit. He sprayed cologne. Harper watched him, her face twisting. Last night, their wedding night, Barrett hadn’t touched her. He was preparing to see me. He wanted to look good. He was waiting for me to show up, broken and defeated. His assistant’s phone rang. The color drained from the man’s face. “Mr. Stanford… bad news. Kelly is missing.” “And… the Estate. It was just sold at auction to a private buyer for triple the value.”

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The ink wasn’t even dry on the lease when I noticed them: four dark, jagged shadows in the corners of the bedroom ceiling. I snapped a picture and threw it up on Reddit, captioning it with a heavy dose of sarcasm: “Pro tip: Always tour the place in person before signing. Otherwise, you won’t know about the leaks until you move in. My bedroom ceiling is basically a mold colony.” At 2:00 AM, insomnia kicked in. I unlocked my phone to scroll through the comments. The top comment made my blood turn to ice water. “That’s not mold. Look closer. Those are footprints. If you don’t believe me, look up right now. Tell me if you see four women hanging upside down from your ceiling.” 1 The moment I read those words, the hair on my arms stood up like an agitated cat. My hands shook so violently I could barely grip the phone. I yanked the duvet over my head, cocooning myself in darkness. Because I was sleeping in that exact bedroom. I had moved in that morning. Sure, the location was in the middle of nowhere—a forgotten edge of the city where the streetlights flickered and died—but I couldn’t say no to the price. Six hundred dollars a month. In this economy, that wasn’t just a deal; it was a miracle. I hadn’t even toured the place. I’d wired the deposit and signed the digital contract faster than you could say “scam,” terrified someone else would snatch it up. When I first walked in, seeing the furniture draped in white dust sheets, the living room looked spacious. The sunlight hitting the hardwood floors felt clean, almost cinematic. “I won the lottery,” I’d whispered to myself, grinning like an idiot. I was satisfied with everything. The square footage, the vintage furniture, the decent renovation. Until I walked into the bedroom and saw those black stains in the corners. They looked like water damage, not too dark, just ugly enough to be annoying. “A leak?” I’d frowned. But the ceiling was dry to the touch. I shrugged it off. I’d hire a handyman to paint over it later. After unpacking, I sat on the bed, doom-scrolling. That’s when I posted the photo, subtly bragging about the price under the guise of complaining. And now, lying in the dark, I wasn’t seeing envy in the comments. I was staring at a sentence that made my soul leave my body. “That’s not mold… tell me if you see four women hanging upside down.” I lay stiff as a board under the covers, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. A single sentence had painted a picture I couldn’t scrub from my brain. Four women. In the corners. If they had long hair, gravity would pull it down… like black curtains reaching for me. I couldn’t look. I kept my head buried and typed a reply with trembling thumbs. “Dude, please stop. It’s 1:00 AM and I live alone. You’re literally terrifying me rn.” The internet, being the internet, just wanted blood. “OP, take one for the team. Peek out and update us.” “+1. We need to know.” “I’ll Venmo you zero dollars to check.” There were the skeptics, of course. “Lame. Quit trying to scare a girl living alone.” “You feel big making people panic?” “Don’t listen to him, OP. He’s trolling. Ghosts aren’t real.” The thread turned against him, burying him in downvotes and insults. He didn’t get angry. He just posted one more calm, chilling reply. “Real or fake… why don’t you let her look for herself?” Within minutes, curiosity weaponized the comment section. Everyone wanted me to look. I knew if I didn’t check, I’d never sleep again. My imagination was worse than any reality. Driven by a mix of morbid curiosity and a desperate need to debunk the fear, I took a deep breath. I lowered the blanket, inch by inch, until my eyes cleared the fabric. The room wasn’t pitch black. I’d left the curtains open, and the silver moonlight washed over the floorboards, casting long, pale shadows. I held my breath and looked up. Nothing. The four corners were empty. Just shadows and plaster. I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for an hour. I sat up, leaned against the headboard, and typed back. “Nothing there! Just a false alarm. You guys got me good. lol.” 2 The comment section seemed almost disappointed, the engagement dropping off. Then, he replied again. “Nothing? Take a picture. Show me.” I gritted my teeth. Seriously? If it weren’t for his creepy comment, I’d be asleep right now. I wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted to humiliate him. I exited the app, opened my camera, and aimed it at the ceiling. My hand jerked. The phone tumbled from my grip and clattered onto the floor. Before it fell, the facial recognition software had locked on. Four yellow squares. Four faces. And in that split second on the screen, I saw them. Four women with long, matted hair, hanging straight down from the four corners like human stalactites. My scalp prickled with electricity. I dove back under the covers, pulling my knees to my chest, my body rigid as a brick. It wasn’t a hallucination. The phone saw them. I was hiding under a duvet, and four dead women were hanging directly above me. The silence in the room changed. It became heavy. Thick. I felt it then—a physical weight of being watched. Four pairs of eyes boring into the back of my neck. My throat was sandpaper. I swallowed hard, the sound deafening in my own ears. I didn’t move a muscle all night. I waited until the morning sun hit the duvet before I dared to peek out. My eyes were swollen shut, my brain foggy with adrenaline fatigue. I grabbed my glasses from the nightstand. I looked up. The black stains in the corners… they weren’t just shapeless blobs anymore. In the daylight, they looked exactly like footprints. Like someone had been standing on the ceiling for a very, very long time. Did they stand there and watch me sleep all night? A shiver raked down my spine. I scrambled out of bed, snatched my phone from the floor, grabbed my charger, and bolted. I didn’t stop running until I hit the pavement outside. I found a diner a few blocks away, ordered coffee and a bagel just to rent the table, and plugged in my phone. The second the screen lit up, I opened the Reddit thread and DM’d the user with the black profile picture. “Dude I saw them! I saw them on my camera! There are actually four women on my ceiling! Please help me! I’m twenty-four, I don’t want to die!” Radio silence. I sat there charging my phone until I had to go to work. I walked into the office like a zombie. I was late. My supervisor, a woman who thrived on passive-aggression, chewed me out for five minutes. I didn’t hear a word she said. All day, I stared at my phone, waiting for a notification. Finally, during my lunch break, it buzzed. “I knew I wasn’t seeing things. Now do you believe me?” I replied instantly: “I believe you! Please help me. I signed the lease and the landlord is in Cabo or something, she won’t text me back. I’m broke. I can’t afford a hotel. What do I do?” My face must have been ghost-white because I felt a hand on my shoulder. I screamed. “AH!” Sasha recoiled, looking at me like I’d lost my mind. “Whoa, easy. It’s just me.” Sasha smiled, holding out an iced latte. “You look like hell. Rough night?” I didn’t have the energy to lie. “My apartment is haunted. Like, actually haunted.” Sasha blinked, then burst out laughing. “No way. Really? Do we need to call a priest? Or maybe the Ghostbusters?” I took a sip of the coffee, my hands still shaking. “Sasha, I’m not joking. There are things in there.” 3 Sasha’s smile faded slightly. “You’re serious?” I nodded. “Dead serious.” She narrowed her eyes, then grinned again, tapping my shoulder. “Okay then. I’m coming over tonight. I’ve always wanted to see a ghost. This is gonna be content gold.” I shook my head violently. “No. I’m not going back there.” I looked down at my phone. The netizen had finally replied. “Don’t leave tonight. Stay in the house.” I typed back, tears stinging my eyes. “I can’t. I’m terrified.” He sent a smiley face emoji. The creepy, passive-aggressive kind. Then: “If you don’t listen to me, I can’t save you.” I couldn’t hide forever. I had a twelve-month lease. If I didn’t fix this, I was homeless. I gritted my teeth. “Okay. I’ll do what you say.” He sent a wall of text. “Tonight, stay inside. Don’t go anywhere. Find a hiding spot. At midnight, they will come looking for you. As long as they don’t find you, you and the house will be clean. Don’t worry, just hide anywhere. They aren’t good at seeking.” “I’m not far from you. Send me the address. I can be there tonight.” I felt sick. I sent the location pin. “What happens if they find me?” He just sent the smiley face again. By 5:00 PM, I had begged Sasha to come with me. She didn’t mock me. In fact, she seemed thrilled. I showed her the chat logs on the subway ride over. Sasha’s eyes went wide. “You’re trusting a random stranger from Reddit? What if he’s a serial killer?” I rubbed my temples. “He knew about the footprints before I did, Sash. He’s the only one who knows what’s going on.” “Maybe he’s a medium,” I speculated. “Or a psychic?” Sasha didn’t answer, just gave me a pitying smile, like I was a cute but dumb puppy. Back at the apartment, I avoided the bedroom like it was radioactive. We sat in the living room. I was manic, rambling about hiding spots. Sasha wasn’t listening. She was looking around, impressed. “Six hundred bucks? In this city? For this? Piper, I’d live here even if Dracula was my roommate.” “I saw actual ghosts, Sasha,” I snapped. “Relax,” she grinned. “I’m here, aren’t I?” We made fried rice for dinner. Having another human being there, laughing and talking, made the terror recede. The apartment felt normal. By the time we finished washing up, it was 11:00 PM. I pointed to the large wardrobe in the bedroom. “I’m hiding in there. You? Want to squeeze in?” It was the only place that felt like a fortress. Sasha looked at me, incredulous. “You’re really doing the hide-and-seek thing? Because the Reddit guy said so?” I slapped my forehead. Was she dense? Did she still think this was a bit? “Sasha,” I said, my voice dead level. “Yes. Whether you believe me or not, hide. Or leave. Right now. Because if you stay out here, something bad is going to happen.” The memory of the four faces flashed in my mind. I shivered. Sasha pouted but nodded. I heard her mutter, “Uber surge pricing is insane right now anyway…” 4 At 11:30 PM, I cleared a space in the wardrobe, pushing my coats aside until there was a niche just big enough to crouch in. I shoved my phone in my pocket and hissed at Sasha, who was taking her sweet time. “Hurry up! I don’t want you getting hurt.” I pulled the wardrobe doors shut. Click. Darkness and the smell of cedar chips swallowed me. I checked my phone. The blue light illuminated my terrified face. I DM’d the Reddit user: “Are you here?” He replied: “Almost.” I clutched the phone to my chest, burying my face in a wool sweater. “Hehe, I’m hidden! This is kinda thrilling!” Sasha’s voice came from outside. “Turn your brightness down!” I whispered aggressively. “Text me only. No talking!” A WeChat notification pinged. Sasha sent an ‘OK’ sticker. Silence descended. The apartment felt like it was holding its breath. I watched the clock on my lock screen. 11:58. 11:59. Midnight. Thump—Thump. My heart was louder than the noise. Tap. Tap. Tap. The second the clock turned, footsteps started. In the dead silence, they were amplified. I curled tighter into a ball. The steps were light, leisurely. Like a stroll. But my hands shook uncontrollably. Because the sound wasn’t coming from the floor. It was coming from the ceiling. Tap. Tap. Tap. They were getting closer. I imagined the dry rasp of hair dragging against the top of the wardrobe. I clamped a hand over my mouth, forgetting to breathe. Mercifully, the footsteps passed over me. They moved away, a shuffling, chaotic rhythm, heading toward the living room. The layout was simple. Bedroom opens to the living room. Off the living room is the bathroom and a kitchenette. There’s a spare room I used for storage next to the bedroom. The idea of four dead women walking on the ceiling, hunting for me… I wanted to scream. Tap. Tap. The sound continued in the living room. Then—Knock. Knock. A rhythmic, slow rapping. Not a human knock. Who knocks on a door at midnight inside a locked apartment? Then the realization hit me. They weren’t knocking on the front door. They were knocking on the internal doors. I shrank into my coat collar. I pulled up Sasha’s chat. “You okay?” Sasha replied instantly: “I’m good. Do you hear the ceiling walking?” “Yes. They’re here. Be careful. Do not come out.” “Holy shit it’s real! I’m not going anywhere! I’m literally shaking rn.” (Sticker: A yellow bean sweating and laughing nervously) A moment later, I heard the bathroom door creak open. I froze. Wait. They were on the ceiling. I remembered the visual. Upside down. Arms hanging… but still feet from the floor. The bathroom door handle was waist-high. How did they reach the handle?

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I was ten years old when I watched a sedan lose control and tear my brother out of this world. The driver didn’t stop. The taillights just dissolved into the rain, leaving my brother dying in my arms and my right leg shattered, a ruin of bone and blood that would leave me with a limp for the rest of my life. After that, the concept of “family” evaporated. I thought that was it. I thought my life was destined to be a series of limping steps through an endless gray corridor. I was just surviving, dragging my bad leg through the shadows. Then I met Harrison. He was the definition of a lifeline—gentle, attentive, a rising star at one of the city’s top law firms. He didn’t look at my leg with pity. He didn’t mind the uneven rhythm of my walk. When the nightmares came, he would hold me until my shaking stopped, whispering against my hair that the past couldn’t hurt me anymore. On our three-year anniversary, he invited me to his parents’ estate. It was time, he said, to make it official. Harrison came from money. Old money. His father was a retired federal judge; his mother, a titanium-spined businesswoman. Their home was the kind of sprawling colonial revival mansion I’d only ever seen in architectural digest spreads. Dinner was an exercise in high-stakes etiquette. The crystal gleamed; the conversation was polite and airless. Then his mother, Victoria—a woman who wore her sixty years like a tailored suit, impeccable and expensive—decided to break the ice with a charming little anecdote from her youth. “Oh, I was a menace back then,” she laughed, swirling her Cabernet. “I’d just gotten my license and decided to ‘borrow’ your father’s prized vintage Jaguar. I was terrified, driving way out in the boonies. I hit something—a large dog, I think—and I panicked. Just drove right off.” She took a delicate sip of wine, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “The front bumper was caved in. I spent my entire allowance paying a mechanic to fix it in secret. Your father still doesn’t know.” She winked at her husband. “Thank god that road was deserted. No cameras back in the nineties. It would have been a scandal.” The silver fork slipped from my fingers. It hit the porcelain plate with a violence that silenced the room. The make of the car. The stretch of road in the suburbs. The timestamp—a rainy evening in late autumn. Every detail locked into place, sliding over the jagged edges of my trauma with terrifying precision. I looked at Harrison. His face had drained of blood. He was staring at his water glass, refusing to meet my eyes. And in that split second, the air left the room. I understood. He wasn’t my savior. He was the hush money. 1. The sound of my fork hitting the china echoed like a gunshot. Victoria’s smile faltered, a hairline fracture in a perfect porcelain mask. She looked at me, a flicker of annoyance crossing her brow, as if I’d committed a minor social faux pas. “Nora, dear? Is something wrong with the steak?” Harrison’s father, the Honorable Judge Montgomery, lowered his Wall Street Journal. His gaze behind his wire-rimmed glasses was heavy, judicial. I didn’t look at them. My eyes were locked on Harrison. His hand was resting on the white tablecloth, knuckles gripping the stem of his wine glass so hard the skin had turned translucent. Sweat beaded at his temple, but he was too paralyzed to wipe it away. “Harrison.” My voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried a chill I didn’t know I possessed. “That road your mother mentioned… was it Blackwood Road?” Harrison flinched as if I’d struck him. The elegant veneer on Victoria’s face cracked. Her eyes narrowed, sharp and predatory. “How would you know that name?” I tried to smile, but I felt the muscles in my face contort into something grotesque. “Because that is where my brother died.” I pushed the words out through the constriction in my throat. “He was killed by a hit-and-run driver in a vintage car.” “On a rainy evening. Just like the one you described.” Silence descended on the dining room, heavy and suffocating. It felt like the oxygen had been vacuumed out. Victoria’s expression shifted—confusion, then realization, then pure, unadulterated terror. Her face went ashen. Smash. Her wine glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor. The red wine splattered across the Persian rug like a fresh arterial spray. “You… you’re talking nonsense!” Her voice pitched up, shrill and jagged. “Blackwood Road? I don’t remember any road names! It was a deer! Or a dog!” “You don’t remember?” I repeated slowly. I turned my head toward the window, toward the garage where a shiny new Porsche sat. “That Jaguar… the license plate ended in 77, didn’t it?” I leaned forward. “My brother… with his last breath, he managed to whisper two numbers.” Victoria’s lips trembled. The silence stretched, thin and taut. Harrison finally moved. He shot up from his chair, grabbing my wrist. His grip was bruising, desperate. “Nora! Stop. You need to calm down. This is a misunderstanding. My mother, she—” “A misunderstanding?” I ripped my arm away from him and stood up. My bad leg buckled under the sudden movement, pain shooting up my hip. I grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself. “Tell me, Harrison. What part of this is a misunderstanding?” “You knew who I was the day we met, didn’t you?” “You approached me. You courted me. You loved me. All because your mother slaughtered my brother. Is that it?” “Your love, your kindness, your patience—it’s all counterfeit. It’s guilt money! Isn’t it?” My voice rose with every sentence, climbing a ladder of hysteria. Harrison! He looked at me, his handsome face crumbling into gray ash. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He couldn’t deny it. “Enough!” The shout came from the head of the table. Judge Montgomery slammed his palm down on the wood. He stood up, his presence looming large. The cold detachment of the courtroom settled over his features. “Miss Vance. Watch your tone.” He adjusted his cuffs. “The police closed that case decades ago. Insufficient evidence. It was an unfortunate accident.” “To come into my home, eat my food, and accuse my wife of a felony based on a coincidence? It is not only rude, it is slanderous.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of authority. The threat was implicit. I looked at them. The panicked murderer. The lying coward. The complicit enabler. Perfect. A perfect American family. A laugh bubbled up in my throat, wet and bitter. Tears spilled over my lashes. “You’re right. I’m being rude.” I wiped my face with the back of my hand. Slowly, painfully, I turned toward the door. “Excuse me, Judge. I seem to have lost my appetite.” 2. I thought I would run. I thought I would get in my car and drive until the gas tank ran dry. But I barely made it past the wrought-iron gates before Harrison caught me. “Nora! Wait! Please, you have to listen!” He wrapped his arms around me from behind, burying his face in my neck. I could feel his hot tears on my skin. “I’m sorry. Nora, God, I am so sorry… I didn’t mean to hurt you.” “I first saw you in my father’s old case files. There was a photo of you at the scene, holding your brother, screaming. It haunted me.” “I admit it. I found you because I wanted to help. I wanted to… to balance the scales for what my mother did.” “But I fell in love with you! You have to believe me. The last three years were real!” His grip tightened, as if he were trying to physically hold me together. An hour ago, this confession might have moved me. It might have broken my heart. Now, it just made me want to vomit. Balance the scales? He thought his affection was currency? That his love could purchase a life? I stood rigid in his embrace. When his sobbing subsided, I spoke. My voice was dead. “So, you admit it.” Harrison froze. “I…” “Your mother killed Toby.” Silence. The silence was the verdict. I shoved him away. I looked at his face—that face I had kissed a thousand times—and saw nothing but a stranger. “Harrison. We’re done.” “No! Nora, you can’t do this!” He grabbed my shoulders, his eyes frantic. “We were going to get married. We talked about Paris. We talked about a life…” “Married?” I let out a sharp, incredulous bark of laughter. “To you? Am I supposed to sit at Thanksgiving dinner across from the woman who ran over my brother?” “She didn’t mean to! She was young, she was scared…” “So she left a ten-year-old boy to bleed out in a ditch? And she’s slept soundly in her silk sheets for twenty years?” He had no answer. Behind him, the heavy oak door of the house opened. Victoria stepped out. She had wrapped a cashmere shawl around her shoulders. The panic was gone, replaced by the icy, transactional demeanor of a woman who negotiates hostile takeovers. “Miss Vance. Let’s cut to the chase.” She walked down the steps, her heels clicking on the stone. “I know your background. I know the struggle. Let’s talk numbers.” “A condo in the city. Fully paid for. A new car. And let’s say… five million in cash.” She paused, gauging my reaction like she was appraising a piece of real estate. “That’s enough to ensure you never have to work another day in your life. Forget the past. Stay with Harrison if you want, or don’t. But take the deal. It’s best for everyone.” I looked at her. I looked at this woman who had crushed my brother’s body and now wanted to crush his memory with a checkbook. To people like her, pain is just a line item in a budget. I smiled. “Okay.” Harrison blinked. Victoria exhaled, a triumphant smirk touching her lips. I held her gaze. “I don’t want your money.” “I want you to go to my brother’s grave. I want you to get on your knees. And I want you to beg him for forgiveness.” 3. Victoria’s face mottled with rage. “You’re out of your mind,” she hissed. “You expect me to kneel in the dirt for a dead boy? Who do you think you are?” “Mom!” Harrison stepped between us, terrified. I ignored her outburst. I kept my eyes on Harrison. “That is the price. Take it or leave it.” “If you don’t, I go to the police. Tonight.” The word police hit Victoria like a physical blow. She swayed. The Judge stepped onto the porch. “Miss Vance,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Be very careful. Scorched earth tactics rarely work against people with resources.” “I have friends in the DA’s office. I have friends in the press. If you drag this out, you will find yourself buried in litigation and slander suits until you can’t afford a loaf of bread.” It was a naked threat. They were telling me that truth didn’t matter. Power mattered. “So, no deal?” I asked. The Judge glared at me. “Fine.” I pulled out my phone. I started dialing 9-1-1. “Wait!” Harrison lunged, grabbing my hand. He spun around to his parents, his face twisted in agony. “Dad, Mom. Just do it.” “We… we owe her this.” “Harrison! Have you lost your spine?” Victoria shrieked. “You want me to—” “Mom!” Harrison shouted, his voice cracking. “Please! If you don’t, she’ll destroy us. All of us!” Victoria trembled. She looked at me with pure, distilled hatred. If looks could kill, I would have joined my brother right then. Finally, she slumped against Harrison, defeated. “Fine,” she spat. “Fine. I’ll do it.” “Tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow.” I lowered my phone. “Not tomorrow.” “Tonight.” I wasn’t going to give them time to call their lawyers, to spin the story, to find a way out. Harrison paled. Victoria looked like she might faint. “Tonight? It’s almost midnight! The cemeteries are closed!” “Then we go to Blackwood Road,” I said, my voice steel. “The exact spot where you hit him.” “I want you to kneel where he died.” 4. The night was suffocatingly dark. Blackwood Road was a tunnel of trees and shadows. The wind howled through the branches, a mournful, hollow sound. We parked on the shoulder. It was deserted. Victoria, shivering in her expensive dress, lowered herself onto the wet asphalt. Her knees hit the grit. She was shaking—from cold, from rage, from humiliation. Harrison stood beside her, looking like a ghost. The Judge stayed in the Mercedes, the headlights cutting through the darkness, illuminating us like actors on a stage. “Is this enough?” Victoria gritted out through chattered teeth. “I’m kneeling. Are you happy?” I didn’t answer. I reached into my purse and pulled out a photograph. It was Toby. He was twelve in the picture, grinning, missing a tooth, holding a baseball bat. I placed the photo on the wet road in front of her. “Look at him.” “Tell me,” I whispered. “Why did you kill him?” Victoria flinched, turning her head away. “I… I told you, it was an accident. It was dark. It was raining…” “You didn’t see him?” I laughed, a broken sound. “You stopped the car, didn’t you?” Victoria’s head snapped toward me. Her eyes went wide. “How… how do you know that?” “Toby told me.” Tears finally spilled over, hot and fast. “He wasn’t dead immediately. He was conscious. He saw your brake lights. He thought you were coming to help him.” “But you didn’t.” “You waited. Five seconds. Maybe ten. And then…” I choked on the bile rising in my throat. “Then you hit the gas. You felt the bump as the tires went over him.” I was shaking now, vibrating with the memory I had suppressed for a decade. I was there. Hiding in the rhododendrons, paralyzed by fear, too young to understand, too terrified to scream. “No! That’s a lie!” Victoria screamed, shaking her head violently. “I didn’t run him over! I just drove away! I just left!” “Is that so?” I crouched down, forcing myself into her eyeline. “Then look at him. Look at his eyes and say it again.” I shoved the photo closer. Victoria looked. Really looked. And something in her snapped. “Get it away! Get him away from me!” She scrambled back on her hands and knees, screeching like a banshee. She broke. The façade of the elegant socialite dissolved into pure, primal guilt. Harrison rushed forward, shielding his mother, looking at me with betrayal. “Nora! That’s enough!” “She apologized! She knelt! What more do you want?” “Do you want blood? Is that it?” I looked at him. The man who claimed to love me, now hugging the monster who ruined my life. “Blood?” I stood up, wiping my face. “Harrison, you have it all wrong.” “I don’t want you dead.” “I want something much worse than death.” I turned my back on them and walked into the darkness.

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“Director, we have a situation. It’s about your son. The kidnappers… they threw him. He didn’t make it.” Declan froze. He was still buttoning his shirt, the warmth of the woman on the couch behind him still clinging to the air. His pupils contracted into pinpricks. He slammed his hand onto the mahogany desk, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot. “Why am I only hearing about this now?” The aide wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, his voice trembling. “Three days ago, sir… you gave a direct order. You said you thought your wife was pulling another stunt to check up on you. You said, under no circumstances were you to be disturbed.” Declan’s face drained of color. The blood in his veins turned to ice. … After my son – Neil died, I excised every habit of mine that Declan despised. I stopped calling to check on him. Even when he didn’t come home for days, I didn’t cry, I didn’t plead, and I certainly didn’t ask where he had been. When I fractured my arm during a training simulation and the medic asked to contact my next of kin, I just stared at the white wall. “I don’t have a husband,” I said, my voice flat. The doctor paused, recognizing me. “Mrs. Kensington? Director Kensington is literally two floors up in the briefing room. Shall I send someone for him?” Right. I had forgotten. This military hospital fell under his jurisdiction. I shook my head. “No. Don’t bother.” But thirty minutes later, Declan walked in anyway. He wore his authority like a second skin—the sharp cut of his suit, the heavy brow, the invisible weight of power that followed him into the room. “Why didn’t you call me?” I lowered my gaze to the sheets. “It’s just a hairline fracture. It’s not important.” My tone—so detached, so light—seemed to irritate him. In his memory, I was the fragile one. When we were dating, a paper cut was enough reason to curl into his lap and demand a kiss to make it better. But now, with my arm in a cast, I didn’t even frown. Declan opened his mouth to speak, but the chatter of nurses in the hallway drifted in through the open door. “Director Kensington is obsessed with Ivy. She just twisted her ankle, and he called in the entire orthopedic surgical team. He hasn’t left her side. He actually carried her to radiology.” Declan glanced at me sideways, bracing himself. He expected the old Nora—the one who would explode in jealousy, the one who would scream. Instead, I closed my eyes and leaned back against the pillow. I didn’t even twitch. The silence unnerved him more than the screaming ever did. His voice dropped, heavy with frustration. “Don’t listen to the gossip. Ivy twisted her ankle during field ops. I was just dropping her off.” “Okay,” I whispered. “Do you not believe me?” His temper flared, sudden and defensive. “I believe you,” I said, and I meant it. “She’s your subordinate. She’s your foster sister. It’s only natural you’d take care of her.” In the past, he would cold-shoulder me, lecturing me with that condescending tone: Ivy is family. I can’t just ignore her. It’s a sibling bond, Nora. Stop being psychotic. Now that I was finally acting exactly how he wanted—quiet, compliant, reasonable—he didn’t look relieved. He looked like he was suffocating. Just then, a nurse burst in. “Director! Miss Ivy is saying her ankle pain is unbearable. She’s asking for you.” Declan snapped. “If she’s in pain, get a doctor! I’m not a medic. What the hell am I supposed to do?” The nurse flinched and scrambled out. Declan turned back to me, his expression shifting to something resembling guilt. “Nora… are you still thinking about Neil? Look, what happened… it was a lapse in judgment on Ivy’s part. I’ve already reprimanded her.” He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for my hand. “We’re young. We can have other children. I’ll clear my schedule for the next week. I’ll stay here with you. Okay?” I pulled my hand away. It was a subtle movement, quiet and fluid. Declan frowned, his jaw tightening, ready to argue. But then, a commotion at the door stopped him. Ivy stumbled into the room, leaning heavily on a crutch, and dramatically collapsed in the doorway. Declan was there in a heartbeat, scooping her up. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be on bed rest.” “I heard Nora was hurt,” Ivy sobbed, clinging to his lapels, looking up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. Then she looked at me. “Nora, please don’t hate me. I didn’t mean for Neil to get taken… I didn’t mean for it to happen…” I didn’t speak. I just closed my eyes. Declan lowered his voice. “I’m going to take her back to her room. I’ll be right back.” He carried her out. He didn’t come back that night. Instead, my phone buzzed. It was a secure line from Special Operations Command. “Agent Ruan, are you confirming your participation in Project Chimera?” “Once you’re in, you’re deep cover for ten years. Zero contact with the outside world. That includes spouses.” “I confirm,” I said into the dark room. “Don’t worry. I’ve already filed for divorce. The cooling-off period ends in a week. I’ll have the decree in hand. I’ll be a free agent. This mission is perfect for me.” The handler on the other end hesitated. “Agent Ruan… are you sure? Everyone knows how devoted you are to Director Kensington. You turned down the General Staff promotion for him.” My chest ached, a sharp, physical pang. I was supposed to be the rational soldier. But when it came to Declan, my logic always failed. We had been rivals at the Academy. “The Power Pair,” they called us. The results were always the same: Declan first, Nora second. I hated it. I trained until my muscles screamed, trying to beat him. But Declan was a natural tactician, born for command. On the surface, I competed with him. Beneath it, I worshipped him. Before graduation, I cornered him, my face burning. “Declan, if I beat you in the final war games… will you be my boyfriend?” I expected him to laugh. Instead, he leaned in, his voice low and smoky. “If you take first place in the joint exercises… I’ll marry you.” For that joke, that half-promise, I nearly killed myself training. I took first place. And Declan didn’t back down. At the commendation ceremony, in front of the entire corps, he proposed. There were helicopters trailing colored smoke in the shape of a heart. It was the grandest gesture anyone had ever seen. “Nora, I love you. Marry me.” I thought I was the protagonist of a fairy tale. I didn’t know then that the spectacle wasn’t for me. It was a smokescreen. He needed a massive public distraction to bury a scandal involving him and Ivy. I was the decorated female soldier, the media darling. I was the perfect shield. “Agent Ruan? You still there?” The handler’s voice was gentle. “Are you having second thoughts? You loved him a lot.” “I’m not regretting anything,” I said, cutting him off. “And I won’t. Because I don’t love him anymore.” The door clicked open. Declan stood there. The air around him was frigid. His eyes were dark, dangerous pools. “What did you say?” He walked closer. “You don’t love who? Say that again.” I had hung up the phone the second I heard the latch. Now, I lay still, eyes shut, feigning sleep. Declan loomed over the bed. Seeing my closed eyes, he let out a breath he’d been holding. He thought I was talking in my sleep. But the relief was short-lived. Even in my dreams, he couldn’t tolerate my indifference. He shook my shoulder. “Nora? Wake up. You were having a nightmare. Were you dreaming about Neil?” I opened my eyes, staring past him. “Nothing. I just dreamt Neil asked me why his mommy doesn’t love him anymore.” Declan flinched as if I’d slapped him. He pulled me into a hug, too tight. “Neil’s death isn’t your fault. Stop torturing yourself. We’re young. We can have a dozen kids if you want.” I stayed silent. I was cold, all the way through to my marrow. I could have another child, yes. But my son was dead. Did he think children were replaceable? Like goldfish? I was too tired to fight. “Why are you here in the middle of the night?” He pulled back, looking at me. “Tomorrow is the seventh day since… since it happened. The vigil. I’ll go with you to the cemetery.” My body went rigid. “Director,” a nurse called from the hallway, terrified. “Miss Ivy had a nightmare. She’s screaming your name. She’s hyperventilating.” “Understood,” Declan said. He looked at me, a long, searching look. “Rest, Nora. We’ll say goodbye to Neil together tomorrow.” I stared at the ceiling until dawn. The next day, Declan drove us. The Kensington family estate was draped in black crepe. The atmosphere was heavy, suffocating. I hobbled into the main hall on my crutches, desperate for one last look at the small casket. But before I could cross the threshold, my mother-in-law, Eleanor, launched herself at me. “You have the nerve to show your face!” She slapped me. The force of it knocked me sideways. Then her hands were in my hair, pulling, tearing. “You killed my grandson! You knew you were a target, yet you paraded him around town! Why didn’t the kidnappers kill you? You poisonous bitch, you wanted him dead!” I froze, stunned. Ivy was the one who took Neil out. Ivy was the one who lost him. Why was Eleanor screaming at me? I looked at Declan. He turned his head away. The rest of the family swarmed, feeding off the matriarch’s rage. “Heartless woman!” “Get her out of here! She doesn’t deserve to be at the funeral!” I had dragged my broken body here to say goodbye to my son, and they were treating me like a criminal. A rock thrown from the crowd struck my forehead. Blood trickled into my eye. Someone kicked my crutch away. I fell hard, the impact jarring my broken arm. Finally, Declan stepped in. He stood over me, his voice booming. “Enough! This isn’t Nora’s fault. Anyone who touches her again answers to me. Do you want to spend the night in a military brig?” The crowd parted. He was the head of the family now. He carried me upstairs to the guest room and opened a first aid kit. I watched him clean the blood from my forehead. “Ivy took Neil to the mall. Why does your mother think it was me?” Declan’s hand paused. He didn’t look at me. “Nora… you know Ivy’s position is fragile. She’s a foster child. The family never really accepted her.” He sighed, finally meeting my eyes. “If they knew she was the reason Neil died… they’d destroy her. She wouldn’t survive it.” “But you,” he continued, “you’re my wife. You’re strong. I can protect you. No one can actually hurt you.” “So,” he finished, voice soft, “just take the blame for her. Please. As compensation, I’ll transfer the deed to the lakeside villa to your name.” He braced himself for the explosion. He expected me to scream, to throw things. “Fine,” I said. “Whatever.” He blinked. “Don’t overthink this. Ivy is like a sister to me. We grew up together. When she found out she was adopted… she lost her whole world. I can’t abandon her.” “I understand,” I said. “You don’t need to explain. Explanations are for people who care. I don’t love you anymore, Declan. I don’t need your reasons.” Before he could process that, a security guard burst in, panting. “Director! Disaster! Miss Ivy came to pay her respects and got into a fight with Harper!” Harper. The Kensington’s biological daughter, kidnapped years ago and raised in poverty. She hated Ivy—the girl who lived the life that was stolen from her—with a burning passion. Declan panicked. He dropped the gauze. “Wrap it yourself. I have to go down there before Harper kills her.” He ran out. The moment he left, Eleanor marched in. She wasn’t alone. She had two of the house staff with her, and she was holding a heavy wooden cane. “Declan’s gone,” she hissed. “No one to save you now.” “You killed my grandson. I’m going to make you wish you were dead.” The staff grabbed me. They hauled me up and slammed me onto the hardwood floor. Eleanor stepped on my broken hand, grinding her heel down. “I bet it hurt when those men threw Neil, didn’t it? Did his bones snap like this?” The pain was blinding. I curled into a ball. Did Neil hurt this much? When he hit the ground… did he call for me? Eleanor nodded to the servants. They lifted me up and threw me down again. And again. “You’re special forces!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “You could have saved him! You let him die to punish Declan! You were jealous of Ivy!” I laughed. Through the blood in my mouth, I laughed. Even the old woman knew. Everyone knew Declan chose Ivy. Only Declan pretended it was “brotherly love.” They beat me until I stopped moving. “Madam, stop! She’s barely breathing!” Darkness took me. I woke up back in the hospital. I struggled to sit up. My phone had two notifications. One from the City Clerk: Divorce Decree finalized. Please collect within 3 days. One from Special Ops: Project Chimera initiates tomorrow. Send extraction coordinates. I stared at the screen, and for the first time in forever, I smiled. But I had one stop to make. I heard Ivy had been injured by Harper and was in the VIP wing. I grabbed my crutch and dragged myself down the hall. “Nora? Here to gloat?” Ivy lay in bed, looking pristine. “You’re pathetic. You’re half-dead and Declan isn’t even there. I twist my ankle and he holds my hand all night.” I ignored the bait. “Ivy. I want the truth. That day at the plaza. Did you lose Neil, or did you let him go?” Ivy laughed. It was a cruel, ugly sound. “You really want to know? Fine. Declan was there.” I froze. “Declan was there,” she repeated, savoring the words. “I led Neil to the alley. I let go of his hand. When the men came… Declan was twenty feet away. He saw it. But he ran to me. He tackled me to ‘protect’ me because I screamed. He watched them take your son because he was too busy being my hero.” The room spun. Declan was there. “And the best part?” Ivy smirked. “He knew I was carrying a concealed weapon. I didn’t need saving. In his heart, you and your son combined aren’t worth my little finger.” Tears blurred my vision, but I wiped them away instantly. That was the last tear I would ever shed for Declan Kensington. I turned and walked out. I took a cab to the City Clerk’s office. I sat on the steps all night until they opened. I got the certificate. I asked them to mail Declan’s copy to his office. A black military Jeep was waiting at the curb. Before I got in, I took out my phone. I uploaded the recording of my conversation with Ivy to the internal military network. Neil’s death wasn’t an accident. It was negligent homicide, covered up by a high-ranking official. The law couldn’t touch them, but the court of public opinion—and the military tribunal—would destroy them. I tossed the phone into a trash can. I climbed into the Jeep. The engine roared. I was free.

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The girl I’d been talking to online mentioned she had a thing for the “clean-cut, preppy” look. Before we were set to meet in person, I silently purged my closet. Out went the faded hoodies and gym shorts; in came the crisp, white button-downs. That’s when the text started scrolling across my vision, glowing like a neon news ticker suspended in mid-air: [Why is the Side Character changing his wardrobe? If he actually cleans up, how is the Hero supposed to impersonate him to get the Girl?] [Relax. The Hero will make one snarky comment, and the Side Character will feel so insecure he’ll change back into his rags.] [Actually… the Side Character has broad shoulders and a runner’s build. He’d honestly look better in that shirt…] [Who cares about looks? The Hero is the Golden Boy of the Finance Department. This guy reeks of poverty. How could he ever match with the Simona heiress?] My fingers froze on the buttons. The dorm door swung open. Brody walked in, spinning a basketball on his finger, his eyes landing softly on my new shirt. “Carter? You bought that?” He walked over, his voice dripping with that practiced, effortless charm. “Honestly, man? That style just… isn’t you. It looks like you’re playing dress-up. It’s a little awkward.” 1 Awkward. The word was a needle, sliding precisely into my insecurity. My parents always raised me to be practical, invisible. Keep your head down, Carter. Wear clothes that last. So, I lived in oversized sportswear. But what twenty-year-old guy doesn’t want to look good? Brody patted my shoulder, flashing that winning, sunlight-bright smile. “I’ve got a new tracksuit I haven’t worn. You can have it. I just don’t want you going out there and getting laughed at.” If this were yesterday, I would have burned with shame. I would have stripped off the shirt and buried it in the bottom of my laundry hamper. Countless times I’d wanted to elevate my style, and every time, Brody was there to “gently” steer me back to mediocrity. I truly believed he was looking out for me. That is, until I overheard him in the hallway telling our other roommates that I actually had better bone structure than him, and if I ever figured out how to dress, he’d lose his spot as the campus heartthrob. Brody gave me the silent treatment for three days after that conversation. I was the one who apologized. I begged for his friendship back. I thought he was my best friend. I was so paralyzed by my own low self-esteem that the idea of competing with him never even crossed my mind. But today… I shook my head. I looked in the mirror. I didn’t see a charity case. I saw a man. I hooked a smile onto my face. “I’m good, thanks. I want to try something new.” Brody’s smile faltered. It was like a glitch in the simulation. The ticker in my vision flared up again: [What is the Side Character doing? Does he actually think he looks good?] [If he keeps this up, how is the Hero going to steal his identity and bag the Heiress?] [Don’t worry, everyone. The Side Character never sent a face pic to the Girl. The Hero is smart; he’s already planning the ‘accidental’ meet-cute. Carter is about to become the imposter in his own life.] [Exactly. The Hero just has to play the victim, and Tiffany Simona will melt. Who cares about Carter?] It hit me then, with the force of a physical blow. I was just a prop. A “cannon fodder” character in a trashy romance novel. My existence served one purpose: to make Brody look better and to facilitate his romance with Tiffany Simona. In the original ending, Brody frames me for trying to sabotage their love. I get expelled, blacklisted, and end up working manual labor in some godforsaken place, miserable until the day I die. Well. I’m awake now. And I’m not playing by the script anymore. I wanted to see what happens to a romance novel when the side character decides he’s done hating himself. I straightened my spine, squaring my shoulders in the mirror. I looked Brody dead in the eye. “My girlfriend said she likes guys in white shirts. I figured it was time for a change.” The corners of Brody’s mouth tightened. “Is that so? Carter, come on. You can’t take online flings seriously. She probably just said that…” “Maybe,” I interrupted, adjusting my collar. “But let’s test the theory. Who knows? I might just pull it off.” 2 That night, Brody didn’t try to talk me out of it again. But the air in the room was thick with his irritation. He tossed and turned all night. We didn’t have classes the next morning. When I woke up, Brody’s bed was empty. I washed up and checked my phone. A message from T-Simona. T-Simona: You mentioned yesterday you wanted to change up your look. I hope I didn’t pressure you. Just be yourself. No pressure with me, ever. I stared at the screen, a warmth spreading through my chest. We met in an online book club six months ago. She didn’t say much, but every word she typed felt like it had weight, like it came from a deep, quiet place. We clicked. We’d been “dating” for two months, but I’d always been too insecure to send a face reveal. I looked at the mirror. The white shirt was crisp. I looked clean. Capable. I snapped a photo. No filters. Just me. And I hit send. Carter: No pressure at all. I wanted the change. What do you think? Almost instantly, the mental ticker scrolled past: [He actually sent it! Too little, too late. The Hero already has her schedule. He’s probably initiating the encounter right now.] [The drama! The Hero is wearing a nearly identical shirt today. He’s going to wait for her to mistake him for Carter!] [Carter sends the photo now, but the Girl will just think he’s the copycat. The Hero is going to spin such a sob story.] [The Hero and the Heiress are destiny. Why is this garbage character fighting it?] My heart dropped into my stomach. I texted her: Where are you? No reply. I shoved my feet into my shoes, grabbed my bag, and sprinted. I reached the bottom of the stairs when my phone buzzed. It wasn’t her. I remembered vaguely that the book club organizer mentioned she was in the Fine Arts program. I ran toward the Arts wing. From fifty yards away, I saw them. Under the sprawling shade of the old oak tree near the side exit. A guy in a crisp white shirt, hair styled perfectly. He was looking down at a girl, his profile sharp and handsome. It was Brody. The woman had her back to me. She was slender, wearing a simple, elegant beige dress. Brody reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was practiced, tender. The ticker screamed in excitement: [Yes! That’s the look! The soulful second lead energy! Look at him, Tiffany! He’s the one!] [The Hero looks so vulnerable. If he says Carter stole his photo, she’ll believe him in a heartbeat!] The next second, Brody leaned down and kissed her forehead. The small flame of hope in my chest hissed and died. The woman looked up. Her gaze drifted past Brody and collided with mine. She didn’t look away. Brody followed her line of sight. When he saw me, his smile froze, then shattered. “Tiffany.” His voice was tight. “Let’s go. We’re going to be late for the gallery.” I found my voice, stepping forward. “Actually, I’m the one who—” “He’s my roommate, Carter,” Brody cut in, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, practically trembling. “I… I didn’t want to tell you…” He looked at her with wide, wet eyes. “He bullies me in the dorm constantly. He even stole my photos to catfish people online…” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing angry red scratches on his forearm. “Yesterday, I tried to ask him to stop, and he… he came at me with a utility knife…” The woman’s expression shifted instantly. When she looked at me again, the curiosity was gone. Replaced by a cold, aristocratic disgust. “Brody is my boyfriend now.” Her voice was ice. “If you touch him again, or try to use his identity…” She paused, looking me up and down like I was something she stepped in. “I will make sure you don’t just leave this university. I’ll make sure you disappear.” She turned her heel. They walked away. I stood there, the summer breeze feeling like liquid nitrogen against my skin. I pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling as I opened our chat. Carter: Why would you believe a stranger over me? Sent. Thirty minutes later. The vibration buzzed against my palm. T-Simona: Something urgent came up. I’ll find you. My heart hit the floor. I laughed, a dry, cracking sound, as a tear hit the screen. Carter: I get it. I hope you’re happy. I hit send. Then I tapped the corner of the screen. Block. Delete conversation. 3 If I couldn’t change the plot of this damn novel, I could at least remove myself from it. I would stay in my lane. I wouldn’t touch their toxic love story. But the tree craves silence, and the wind won’t stop blowing. The anonymous post on the campus forum—”The Preston Whisperer”—went live the next morning. The headline was in bold, aggressive red: EXPOSED! Psycho Stalker Carter steals Roommate’s Photos for Catfishing, Bullies Victim into Silence! The post was a masterclass in fiction. It wove a narrative of a jealous, psychotic loser terrorizing the golden boy. I was the villain. The comments section was a dumpster fire. [Whoa, for real? Carter looks so quiet though.] [It’s always the quiet ones. I heard he’s on financial aid—probably jealous of Brody.] [I’m next door to them. I hear Brody sighing all the time. Now it makes sense. Terrifying.] [Expel him! We don’t need freaks like that at Preston!] I scrolled, my fingers numb. When I walked into my lecture hall, the stares felt like physical pricks. My desk was covered in blue ink. The sticky liquid dripped onto the floor, a dark stain against the linoleum. After class, I was cornered in the stairwell. Three guys. The leader was one of Brody’s frat brothers. He crossed his arms, sneering. “Well look at that. The Great Pretender. You have some nerve showing up.” “Move,” I rasped. Another guy leaned in. “Check the forum? Ten thousand views. You’re famous, stalker.” They formed a semi-circle. Down the hall, leaning against a locker, was Brody. He was watching, a faint, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. One of the guys grabbed a fistful of my hair and shoved my head toward the trash can. “Get off me!” I struggled. “You’re defending a liar! Brody is the one bullying me!” “I never used his photos! He’s impersonating me!” Someone kicked the trash can. Coffee grounds and old noodles splashed all over my white shirt. “Garbage human,” someone spat. People walked by, averting their eyes or whispering that I deserved it. I broke free and ran, hiding in a dead-end corridor of the Science building until the sun went down. My phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. Unknown numbers. Get out of Preston, freak. Die, stalker. By evening, my stomach was eating itself. I had to go to the dining hall. The moment I stepped in, someone “tripped” and splashed a cup of scalding tea on me. I yelped in pain. The cafeteria went silent. All eyes on me. The guy was Brody’s shadow, always trailing him like a puppy. “What is wrong with you?!” I shouted, my patience snapping. He gritted his teeth and slammed his food tray onto my chest. Marinara sauce exploded over me. “Stop whining! You fake piece of trash, using Brody’s face to scam girls and then cutting him up?” “I caught you today, so I’m settling the score for Brody!” I opened my mouth to argue, but his friends circled me. Up on the mezzanine level, looking down from the VIP balcony, was the woman in the beige dress. She frowned, looking at the commotion. Her friend whispered something like, “Tiffany, ignore him. He deserves it.” Down below, I was being shoved, my hair pulled. Suddenly, Brody’s voice cut through the noise. “Guys! Stop! What are you doing?” The crowd parted. He rushed in, looking like a saint, reaching out to help me up. “Are you okay, Carter?” He frowned, turning to the mob. “Don’t do this. As long as Carter learns his lesson…” Watching his performance made bile rise in my throat. I instinctively slapped his hand away. He threw himself backward like he’d been shot. As he fell, his sweatpants caught on the edge of a chair. RIIIP. The fabric tore from the knee up, revealing… thermal long johns. In June. Time stopped for a second. Then Brody started wailing, curling into a ball on the floor. “Carter! I was trying to help you! Why would you attack me again?” The woman on the balcony, Tiffany, came sprinting down the stairs. 4 She ripped off her designer cardigan and draped it over Brody, helping him up. She turned to me. If looks could kill, I’d be a stain on the floor. “Carter.” Her voice was a low growl. “I warned you yesterday.” “Get out of my sight. Now.” In this broken narrative, arguing was useless. I turned and walked out, humiliated, sauce drying on my skin. I needed to transfer. I needed to leave. Then came the notification. “Emergency Dorm Meeting.” Mandatory. It was a trap. I knew it. But if I didn’t go, I’d be expelled for truancy. I pushed open the door to the student lounge. Brody and his crew were waiting. “Ah, the guest of honor.” I gripped my backpack straps. “Where’s the RA? Where’s the Dean?” “There is no meeting.” One of the guys spun a keychain around his finger. “This is an intervention.” Someone set up a phone on a tripod. “Livestream title: Stalker Carter Confesses. 10k likes and we let him go.” Blood rushed to my head. “This is false imprisonment.” “Imprisonment?” The guy laughed, slapping my cheek lightly. “This is community service. We’re cleaning up the trash.” “Or… you can drop out. Right now. Disappear from Tiffany’s life.” Before I could answer, two guys grabbed my arms. “Let go!” One pulled out a permanent marker. “Should we write ‘LIAR’ or ‘SHAME’ on his face? Oh, right, you like stealing Brody’s look?” The marker tip hovered near my eye. I jerked my right arm free and shoved him. hard. He stumbled back, knocking over a chair. “He fights back?!” Another guy rushed me, twisting my arm behind my back and slamming me against the whiteboard. “Do it the hard way, then.” Brody rushed forward, grabbing the collar of my stained white shirt. He yanked. Buttons popped, pinging against the floor. The fabric tore, exposing my chest and shoulder. Wolf whistles and laughter filled the room. The camera flashed. “Keep going, Brody! Strip him! Let’s make him famous!” “Actually, he’s ripped. Too bad he’s a psycho. Title it: The Real Face of the Stalker.” Humiliation burned like acid. I struggled, but the hands holding me were iron. Another hand grabbed my waistband. “No—!” The scream caught in my throat. The lounge door swung open. Light flooded in. It was her. My online connection. She stood in the doorway, silhouette sharp. “What is going on here?” For a second, I thought I was saved. “Miss Simona! Perfect timing!” Brody’s lackey shouted. “We’re teaching the scammer a lesson. He tried to hit Brody again!” Tiffany walked into the room. Her eyes landed on my face. “Don’t go too far.” Brody immediately latched onto her arm, fake tears welling up. Tiffany was silent for a few seconds. Then she spoke, slow and bored. “…Just don’t kill him.” Five words. They crushed the last bit of hope I had. The goons cheered. “You heard the lady!” “Strip him!” Hands grabbed at my remaining clothes. CRASH. The double doors were kicked open. A figure stood there, backlit by the hallway lights. A long black trench coat, tall, radiating a chill that froze the room instantly.

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The day after I graduated from college, my father threw me out of the house. He made the announcement in the family chat thread. “I didn’t raise him all these years just so he could be a deadbeat mooching off me.” “Two hundred dollars is more than enough to get him started until he finds a job.” “If he can’t make something of himself, I won’t call him my son.” The likes and agreements from relatives poured in immediately. To pay off my student loans, I was forced to rent the cheapest room available and take on the toughest, most exhausting jobs, often juggling three shifts a day. Eventually, I collapsed from sheer exhaustion and died while making a delivery run. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day I was expelled from the mansion. The first thing I did with the two hundred dollars was buy a train ticket to my grandparents’ house. If you won’t let me mooch off you… Then none of us will! 1 I found myself standing in the familiar, yet chillingly cold, living room of the mansion. My father, Victor Caldwell, stood opposite me, his gaze entirely devoid of warmth. There was only unconcealed disappointment and a deep-seated annoyance. My half-brother, Jace Caldwell, slouched on the expensive leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other, a smirk of malicious glee playing on his lips. My stepmother, Sibyl Sinclair, stood at my father’s side, one hand resting on his arm in a show of concern. With the other, she was gently dabbing at tears that weren’t there with a tissue. “You’ve graduated from college, you’re a grown man. Do you plan on just idling around, waiting for the world to hand you a living?” Victor’s voice was like chips of ice, every word a solid blow to my chest. “I didn’t feed and clothe you for two decades just so you could be an unproductive piece of trash, a freeloader!” Sibyl immediately cut in with fake solicitude: “Victor, don’t talk about Kellan that way.” “Kellan is still young, just starting out. He doesn’t know anything.” “If you rush him out so quickly, what if he can’t take care of himself? It breaks my heart to think about it…” Her words, though seemingly meant to soothe, were meant only to fan the flames. Predictably, Victor’s temper flared even higher. He flung Sibyl’s hand away and jabbed a finger right into my face. “Young? He’s twenty-two! What are you talking about?” “Kids from poor families start working after high school to support their families!” “I put food on your plate, gave you clothes on your back, and paid for your college education. My duty is done!” “Starting today, you’re on your own. Get out and make a life for yourself!” With that, he yanked two bills from his wallet and violently slapped them across my cheek. “Two hundred bucks. That’s enough to tide you over until you find a job! Don’t you dare say I didn’t help you!” The floodgates of memory burst open. In my last life, I had listened to those harsh words, seen Jace’s delighted smile and Sibyl’s performance, and felt nothing but righteous fury and injustice. I argued vehemently, insisting I needed time to find a job after graduation, explaining that the world wasn’t as simple as they imagined. I even brought up the student loans—loans Father had insisted I take out, saying it would “keep me focused” during my college years. The response was a thunderous slap. It was heavy and brutal, stunning me into silence. My cheek instantly swelled, my ears rang, and I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. I stared at Victor in disbelief. The man who once carried me on his shoulders now looked at me with cold disgust. Sibyl pretended to gasp and rushed to intervene, while Jace barely managed to stifle a laugh. That moment was the complete shattering of my dignity, the bleak starting point of my miserable last life. I was tossed out with my humiliation and those two hundred dollars, beginning a dark, relentless struggle that ended on the side of a road… This time, I didn’t argue. I took a deep breath, lifted my head, and met my enraged father’s eyes with a calm that was utterly foreign to him. “Yes, Dad. I understand.” “Before I leave, I just have one question.” “When Jace graduates, will you do the same thing to him?” “Will you hand him two hundred dollars and kick him out of this house to fend for himself?” 2 The living room fell into a sudden, deadly silence. Victor froze, then his face turned a ghastly shade of white. Jace’s smile vanished, and he instinctively sat up straight. Sibyl shrieked, “Kellan! What are you talking about? What does this have to do with your brother?” Victor lunged forward like a lion whose tail had been stepped on. “You ungrateful little bastard!” Instead of another slap, he grabbed my suitcase with a crude jerk. He threw it with all his might out of the open front door, like it was a piece of trash. The suitcase hit the concrete driveway with a dull thud. The latches sprang open, and a few of my faded, worn clothes spilled out. “Get out! Get out now!” “I don’t have a son like you!” He stood there, chest heaving, pointing frantically at the door. Jace raised his phone, openly snapping pictures. His face was a mask of excitement, as if he were watching an incredibly entertaining show. Sibyl gently rubbed Victor’s back, cooing, “Victor, don’t get so worked up. He’s not worth it.” “The boy is foolish; we’ll teach him slowly…” But the flash of triumph in her eyes did not escape me. I silently gathered my scattered clothes, picked up my college diploma, and carefully brushed the dust off the cover. Then, clutching the two wrinkled hundred-dollar bills, I straightened my spine and walked, one step at a time, away from this grand, yet utterly devoid of warmth, “home.” Behind me, I heard Victor’s continued, angry roaring, Sibyl’s feigned comfort, and Jace’s barely suppressed low laughter. The wrought-iron gate of the estate slowly closed behind me with a heavy clank, separating two worlds. The sunlight was harsh. I squinted, looking at the distant city traffic. This time, I wouldn’t be the blind fool of the last life, rushing headlong into the bottom rung of society, letting cheap labor drain my life away. Two hundred dollars was enough. Enough to buy a train ticket back to my grandparents. If you won’t let me mooch, then neither will you! After hours of travel, I finally arrived in the small town, full of the scent of earth and the warmth I remembered. Grandpa Robert (“Bob”) was sitting on his porch swing, rolling a cigarette. Grandma Martha was busy in the kitchen. The smoke from the wood stove curled into the sky, carrying the unique, delicious aroma of home cooking. “Kellan? What are you doing back here?” Grandpa looked up, surprised, then a flicker of confusion crossed his wrinkled face. Grandma heard his voice and came out, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes crinkling into a warm smile. “Oh, my sweet boy is home! Come in, come in! Have you eaten? Grandma is making scrambled eggs just for you!” Seeing the genuine, unreserved joy in their faces, my heart swelled, and my eyes stung with unshed tears. At the dinner table, as my grandparents constantly piled food onto my plate and asked after me, I didn’t hold anything back. I recounted my experience exactly as it happened, without exaggeration. Grandma’s eyes welled up as she listened, gripping my hand tightly. “My poor baby… your father is just… just completely out of his mind!” Grandpa listened in silence, his face growing darker, the veins on the back of his hand bulging. When I repeated Victor’s line—”If he can’t make something of himself, I won’t call him my son”—he slammed his fist onto the table with a loud thud. “That son of a bitch!” Grandpa shot up, his chest heaving. “Victor Caldwell, he thinks he’s something special, does he? How dare he treat my grandson this way?” He pulled out his old flip phone and dialed Victor’s number. The moment it connected, he roared into the receiver: “Victor Caldwell! Get your sorry self back here now! Now! Immediately!” Victor on the other end seemed to try and explain something. Grandpa didn’t give him a chance, hanging up the phone immediately. A few hours later, Victor’s Maybach pulled up outside Grandpa’s rural farmhouse. He frowned as he got out, his face etched with impatience. “Dad, why the emergency? I have work back at the office.” When he saw me sitting next to my grandparents, a look of displeasure and dawning comprehension crossed his face. “What is it?” Grandpa fought to suppress his fury. “I’ll tell you what it is! I’m asking you, is this how you treat your own flesh and blood?” “Kicking him out the day after he graduates with two hundred dollars?” “Have you completely lost your mind?” A flash of guilt and embarrassment crossed Victor’s face, but it was quickly replaced by self-righteous indignation. “Dad, I’m doing this for his own good!” “It’s called ‘tough love,’ the most prevalent parenting philosophy in the world!” “He’s twenty-two! A man! Should he keep living at home as a mooch? Kids in other countries are independent by eighteen. I’m already late on this!” 3 He spoke with great eloquence, as if he were an expert in child psychology. Grandma shot him a sideways glance. “Tough love? I think that snake Sibyl is the one who put you up to this!” “She can’t stand Kellan, so you go along with her, tormenting my grandson?” Victor’s face changed, and he immediately denied it. “Mom! What are you saying?” “This has nothing to do with Sibyl! It was my decision entirely.” “And Jace is my son too. I’ll treat them both equally in the future, I promise!” He said this with absolute certainty. As if he hadn’t completely lost his temper when I brought up Jace just yesterday. “Equally?” Grandpa Bob let out a cold laugh, full of irony and disappointment. “Fine. ‘Equally,’ you say! Victor Caldwell, you’ve gotten awfully big for your boots, using some foreign parenting fad to turn against your own son.” Grandpa stood up, his gaze like a torch. “Since you believe that once a child is an adult, he shouldn’t be managed and should rely on himself…” “Then fine, I ask you, how old are you this year?” Victor was taken aback, not grasping Grandpa’s meaning. “Fifty-three… Dad, why do you ask?” “Fifty-three. Much older than twenty-two, isn’t it!” Grandpa’s voice suddenly rose. “You go on and on about your son not mooching, but what about you?” “That mansion you live in, the three prime rental properties you collect rent from every month, even the seed money for your company—how much of that did you earn?” “Wasn’t it all built from the ground up by me?” Victor’s face went white instantly. He seemed to sense what was coming and hurriedly said, “Dad, that… that’s not the same! I’m your son. All these businesses will eventually be…” “Eventually?” Grandpa cut him off, his tone glacial. “There is no eventually! You think relying on your parents is shameful and independence is necessary?” “I’ll grant you your wish!” “Starting today, I’ll notify the tenants of those three properties to deposit the rent directly into your mother’s account.” “And the mansion you live in? I’m taking that back, too!” “The three of you, go find your own place to live and be independent!” The words hit Victor like a lightning bolt. He was stunned. He could no longer maintain the facade of his “parenting philosophy.” His face was covered in panic and disbelief. “Dad! You can’t do this!” “I’m your only son! How can you take the family property back?” “This… how are we supposed to live? The company’s cash flow relies on that rent!” He rushed forward, his voice a mixture of pleading and confusion, a stark contrast to the high-minded father of just hours ago. Grandpa looked at his desperate, ugly face, his disappointment deepening, leaving only cold resolve. “Only son? You remember you’re my son now?” “Did you remember you were my son when you were kicking my grandson out?” “You’re in your fifties! You force your newly graduated son to be independent, yet you happily live off the wealth I built?” “Victor Caldwell, have you no shame?” “Get out! Get out now! Take your philosophy with you, and go be ‘independent’!” Victor stood frozen, his color cycling from white to green to red. He looked at Grandpa’s freezing face, then at Grandma’s tear-filled yet resolute eyes, and finally, his gaze settled on me. His expression was complex: anger, resentment, and perhaps a faint, barely perceptible flicker of regret? The air hung heavy for a few seconds. “Dad, Mom, I… I was wrong.” Victor’s voice was dry, a strained attempt at conciliation. “I was foolish, I didn’t think it through. I shouldn’t have treated Kellan like that.” 4 Grandpa looked at him coldly, remaining silent. Grandma turned her face away, wiping the corner of her eye. Seeing the situation wasn’t improving, Victor quickly turned to me. “Kellan, your father was wrong. I was just too eager for you to succeed.” “Please… don’t take it to heart. I promise I’ll change and be a better father to you!” He spoke earnestly, his eyes full of what seemed like sincerity. But I remembered the last life clearly. The rain was heavy that day. I was riding my scooter when a sudden, sharp pain in my chest made me lose control and crash onto the side of the road. My vision blurred. Rain and mud poured into my nose and mouth. In my last flickering moment of consciousness, I saw a familiar black Maybach slow to a stop five feet away due to traffic. The window lowered, and I saw my father. His gaze casually swept over me, without stopping, without confusion, without the slightest ripple of emotion. It was like seeing a dying stray dog on the roadside. The window went up, and when the light turned green, the car sped away. The promises spilling from his mouth now were nauseatingly fake to me. He was giving in, not because he recognized his error, but because Grandpa had cut off his financial lifeline. Once the crisis passed, he would revert to his old self, or perhaps even intensify his cruelty because of today’s humiliation. Unfortunately, my grandparents were ultimately soft-hearted. Grandpa snorted. “You know you were wrong now? What took you so long?” “Victor Caldwell, I’m telling you, this is the last time!” “If you ever dare to mistreat my grandson again, I will change my will immediately. I’ll donate everything, and you won’t get a single penny!” Victor, reprieved, nodded rapidly. “Never again, absolutely never again!” “Don’t worry, I promise I’ll turn over a new leaf.” Before leaving, I said I wanted to buy something at the town store and asked Grandpa to walk with me for a bit… Back in the city, Victor asked me to move back into the mansion and arranged for me to take a middle management position at the company. The following days were calm. Sibyl and Jace greeted me with smiles. But I knew the undercurrents were strong beneath the peaceful surface. At the company’s annual Fall Gala, I was toasted by management until I felt woozy and slipped into an empty private room next door to rest. As I was drifting off, the door was suddenly shoved open. A strange woman rushed in and, before I could react, began to scream. “Help! Rape!” At the same time, she aggressively tore at her own skirt and stockings, exposing her pale legs. My drunken haze instantly evaporated. Before I could process what was happening, Sibyl rushed in with several colleagues and pinned me down. The room erupted into chaos. Someone immediately called the police. Victor was the last to arrive when the officers got there. He stood beside the police, his face a picture of distress. “Officers, this is my failure as a father.” “I never imagined he would do such a thing. Please process this according to the law. I will not interfere.” “He should serve whatever sentence he deserves. The Caldwell family will not harbor a disgrace like this!” Sibyl pointed at me, tears streaming down her face. “Officer, he’s always been bad! When he was a child, he… he used to peep on the maid in the shower!” “I was too scared to say anything, but now I’m terrified to think about it!” Jace instantly backed her up. “I saw it too! I saw my brother stealing the maid’s stockings!” “And his computer is full of porn and shady websites!” The mother and son’s accusations caused a commotion. Colleagues began to whisper. “You can’t judge a book by its cover. He seemed so normal.” “I noticed him staring at the women’s legs in the office! Now he’s drunk, the real colors show. He’s clearly a pervert!” “With a son like this, no wonder Victor Caldwell is acting like a saint.” “It’s dangerous to work with a man like this. Kellan Blackwood belongs in jail!” The murmurs weren’t loud, but I heard them clearly. An officer approached. Just as the handcuffs were about to be clamped onto my wrists, I spoke calmly. “Officer, before you take me, I request to make a phone call.” Victor sneered, crossing his arms. “A phone call? It won’t help, no matter who you call!” “Don’t bother with your grandfather. Not even God himself can save you now!” Jace snickered, his eyes filled with contempt. “Bro, stop struggling. Just confess and maybe you’ll get a shorter sentence.” I ignored them both, speaking clearly, word by word. “According to procedure, I have the right to notify family or legal counsel before being subjected to mandatory measures.” The officer hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Fine. Make the call.” Under the varied stares of everyone in the room, I pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper—a scrap from Grandpa’s tobacco pouch. When he saw the number on the paper, Victor’s eyes narrowed suddenly.

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Calvin West noticed the silence first. It had been a full week since I’d filed a single Amex Centurion expense report to the company portal. He must have assumed I’d finally given up my petty habits, because he tossed the heavy black card onto the breakfast table like a bone for a stray. “I’ve covered your dad’s next round of dialysis, Sandy,” he said, not looking up from his phone. “Stop bothering me with these pauper problems. I know your family’s a money pit, but as a West, try to look less starved when you’re feeding.” He didn’t know that when I reached for that black card, I had already signed the divorce papers and the organ donation forms for my father. The gray, pilled sweatshirt I wore was a five-year-old handout he’d given me on a whim. No one would believe that Sandy West, the wife of the man who held half of Hollywood in his palm, had to photograph the receipt for a five-dollar box of tampons and submit it to his assistant for approval. He’d always claimed that a woman like me—a social climber from the wrong side of the tracks—would become “spoiled and unmanageable” if she had her own money. A week ago, my father, Robert, needed an emergency blood filtration. I’d knelt, practically begged, for a simple thirty thousand. Cal’s indispensable executive assistant, Kendall Price—the so-called “One Who Got Away”—had intentionally reversed the wire transfer and told me, with a sweet, condescending smile, that she was helping me “kick the habit of avarice.” Cal didn’t know I endured this ritual of shame only because my father’s life support was tied to Cal’s exclusive, private clinic. But now, they’d pulled the plug due to outstanding balances. Dad was gone. His ashes were scattered. There was no reason for me to be his obedient, well-fed dog anymore. … 1. My phone vibrated. A text from Cal popped up, dripping with the same tone of high-handed charity. “I’ve reinstated your father’s treatment. Try to behave. Stop lying to nickel-and-dime me. I know people from your background struggle, but my money isn’t that easy to swindle.” I stared at the two lines. The strange, cold calm inside me was a revelation. My reply was a single, detached word: “Got it.” I put the phone down and slid the signed divorce agreement across the mahogany desk. Cal probably thought my three-day silence on expense reports was a pathetic attempt at a “cold war.” After all, for the last three years, I had lived like a supplicant for my father’s escalating medical bills. I had no income. Cal had forbidden me from working, saying a West wife never clocked in. But he also refused to give me a household budget. Every single dollar I spent had to be approved through his company’s corporate expense system—Concur, or some equally bureaucratic nightmare. Groceries required approval. Tampons required approval. Even a five-dollar subway ticket required uploading a scanned receipt. The approver was his personal secretary, Kendall Price. The woman who’d been at his side since college, the one he proudly referred to as his “Corporate Muse” and “The Only Woman I Trust.” Three days ago. The hospital had issued a critical notice. Dad had suffered a major stroke and needed emergency surgery. Two hundred thousand dollars. To Cal, it was the cost of a single, decent bottle of wine. I called him, frantically. After a dozen attempts, someone finally answered. It was Kendall. “Sandy, honey, Cal’s in a high-level strategy meeting. Is there something urgent?” I was beyond pride. I sobbed into the phone. “Kendall, please, let me speak to Cal! My father is dying—I need two hundred thousand for emergency surgery!” Kendall chuckled—a delicate, knowing sound. “Sandy, you know the rules. Two hundred thousand isn’t petty cash. You have to submit it through the proper Concur process.” “Cal hates rule-breakers. If you try to jump the queue, he’ll be furious. Just submit the ticket. I promise I’ll approve it as fast as the system allows.” She hung up. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely type. I logged into that goddamn system. Reason: Father’s Emergency Surgery. Amount: $200,000. Attachment: Critical Condition Notice. Submit. I watched the screen. One second, two seconds. Ten minutes later. The phone buzzed. It wasn’t a transfer notification. It was a Concur rejection email. Rejected by: Kendall Price. Reason for Rejection: Attachment format is blurry. Please rescan and upload a high-resolution image. The blood drained from my head. 2. I reshot the photo. My hands were shaking, so it was a little fuzzy. I took another one. Every second was a life lost. I submitted again. Five minutes later. Rejected. Reason for Rejection: Amount too large. Requires a detailed line-item expenditure breakdown, precise down to the unit price of each medication. I lost it. The surgery hadn’t even started; the doctors were just trying to stabilize him. Where was I supposed to get a price list down to the milligram? “Please, for God’s sake, approve the money first! It’s life-saving cash!” “I’ll file the details later, Kendall, please! It’s a human life!” Kendall replied with a cute, laughing emoji. “Sister, it’s not that I don’t want to help. But the CFO rules are the CFO rules. I have to manage expectations. You’re just too chaotic. You can’t bring poor-people habits into a luxury lifestyle, can you? Cal said he needed me to help you set boundaries.” I stood outside the operating room, clutching my phone. I felt like a beaten mutt whose spine had been removed. I texted Cal. I sent voicemails. “Cal West, I’m begging you.” “Just send the money, and I will do whatever you say. I won’t fight you anymore. I won’t be jealous of Kendall. Please, save my father.” Thirty minutes later. Cal finally replied with a brief voice note. The background was loud and brassy; his voice was slurred with slight intoxication and deep annoyance. “Just do what Kendall tells you. Stop bothering me.” In that moment. The surgery light turned off. The doctor emerged, pulling down his mask, and shook his head with a deep, weary regret. “I’m sorry. If we could have administered the medication even ten minutes earlier…” I didn’t hear the rest. The world went silent. The man who had raised me through sheer grit, who’d sacrificed everything to put me through graduate school. He died in this glittering, indifferent city. Because of a Goddamn expense report “format error.” His body grew cold. My love for Cal West went cold right along with it. For three days. I handled the funeral. The cremation. The scattering of the ashes. I never told Cal. There was no need. He was so afraid I would swindle him out of his money. From now on, I would never ask him for a dime. I looked at the patronizing text he’d just sent me. A slow, chilling smile spread across my face. He thought I was playing games for attention. He didn’t know I was offering him the last shred of dignity. A notification flashed on my screen. A red dot on Instagram. It was Kendall. The photo was high-end omakase sushi, and a man’s hand—Cal’s hand—wearing the custom Patek Philippe watch I’d once saved for two years to buy him. The caption: “Thanks to the boss for the excellent meal. Some people only know how to beg for money. So tasteless.” I tapped the ‘Like’ button. Truly. It was the first time I’d ever liked one of Kendall’s posts. The phone rang immediately. Cal. He must have seen the ‘Like’ and thought I was being passive-aggressive. I didn’t answer. Another text came through: “Sandy, who are you trying to shade? Don’t let people misunderstand Kendall. She’s just being professional. Delete that like immediately or I’m shutting off your access to the accounts.” Professional? Professionally murderous? I laughed. I went back to the post and left a comment. “A toast to the secretary who climbed her way to the top by rejecting the boss’s wife’s life-or-death emergency fund. I hope you two soulless vultures lock it up forever. Thieves deserve each other.” Send. Block. Power Off. The world was finally, blessedly quiet. 3. I started packing. There wasn’t much to pack. I had lived in this so-called home for three years. My possessions were pathetic. The walk-in closet was enormous. The left side was Cal’s custom-tailored Italian suits. The right side was several locked cabinets. That’s where the jewelry and the designer bags lived. The keys and the biometric access were all controlled by Kendall. Every time I attended a gala, I had to request the accessories from Kendall as if I were borrowing props for a movie. When I was done, I had to return everything immediately. Once, I accidentally snagged the hem of a designer dress. Kendall made me write a three-thousand-word essay on financial responsibility in front of the housekeeper. She also docked my allowance for the following month. Cal just watched, commenting mildly, “Kendall is helping you learn a lesson. These things are expensive. You can’t afford to replace them.” He was right. I couldn’t afford it. I was an orphan, a “bottom-feeder” in their lexicon. I opened the tiny corner that was mine. A few pilled sweaters. Several pairs of faded jeans. The only thing that mattered was the crisp white T-shirt I’d worn three years ago, when I first got married. Back then, I wasn’t Sandy West. I was the youngest Physics Ph.D. candidate at State, a brilliant student with a limitless future. Cal had said he loved my quiet brilliance. He’d promised, “Sandy, marry me, and I’ll give you a real home.” I believed him. I gave up a scholarship abroad. I ignored my professor’s pleas. I devoted myself to being a trophy wife, trapping myself in a gilded cage and becoming a joke. I stripped off the sweatshirt he hated. I put on the slightly yellowed white T-shirt. The jeans were a little loose. I had lost nearly twenty pounds in three years. I dragged out a battered, worn-out suitcase. I put in my few books, a couple of photos, and my father’s small, black wooden urn. That was all. Everything else in this mansion was utterly meaningless to me. I walked downstairs. Mrs. Petrov, the housekeeper, was polishing a vase. She rolled her eyes when she saw my suitcase. “Trouble again, Mrs. West? The Master said if you walk out this time, don’t even think about coming back.” “Also, Mr. West wants his bouillabaisse for dinner. Don’t forget to make it.” Even the help looked down on me. They knew I, the mistress of the house, didn’t even have the authority to sign their paychecks. My “allowance” was less than their salary. I stopped and looked at Mrs. Petrov. “Make your own damn soup.” “Or better yet, ask Kendall to do it.” Mrs. Petrov froze, unused to my tone. “What is your attitude? I’ll tell the Master…” “Be my guest.” I pulled the suitcase and walked out the front door without a backward glance. The sun was blinding. I shielded my eyes. Three years. I had finally walked out of this tomb. 4. Cal returned faster than I expected. My comment must have infuriated him. He wasn’t there to placate me. He was there to defend his corporate darling. I was struggling to get a taxi outside the estate gates when a black Maybach screeched to a halt in front of me. The door flew open. Cal stepped out, his face a mask of cold fury. Kendall followed, her eyes red, the picture of a woman deeply wronged. “Sandy, what the hell is wrong with you?” Cal grabbed my wrist. “Apologize to Kendall—now!” “What kind of insane lies are you spreading? What good does slandering her name do for you?” I looked at the face that had once made my heart race. Now, I felt only disgust. “Lies?” I yanked my hand free and looked pointedly at Kendall. “Does the Secretary know the truth?” “Three days ago, my father was on an operating table waiting for money.” “Secretary Price rejected my application because of ‘incorrect format’ and ‘excessive amount’.” “Did the CEO know that detail?” Cal paused. He clearly hadn’t known the specifics. He only knew I asked for money, and Kendall said it wasn’t by the book. He looked at Kendall instinctively. Kendall visibly trembled. The tears arrived instantly. “Cal… I didn’t mean to…” “I was just following the company’s financial guidelines. And… and Sandy was so aggressive, I didn’t realize it was life-or-death money…” “Besides, I told the finance department to prepare the transfer later! Sandy just… never resubmitted the form!” What a silver tongue. What a beautiful “never resubmitted.” Was I supposed to submit it to the Grim Reaper? Cal frowned deeper, turning to me with a look of utter disappointment. “Sandy, you constantly let me down.” “Kendall was just doing her job. Why are you being so malicious?” “Your dad was just sick, right? It wasn’t that serious. You’re defaming Kendall online just for this amount of money? Where is your dignity?” Dignity? Talking about dignity to a murderer? I laughed without humor. “Cal West, you are terminally blind.” “If you trust her that much, there’s nothing more to say.” “The divorce papers are on your study desk. Sign them.” I started to walk, pulling my suitcase. My attitude enraged him. He grabbed the suitcase and slammed it on the ground. The old zipper snapped. My pathetic few belongings spilled out. A few threadbare shirts, a couple of books. And a small, black wooden box. The urn rolled a few times, stopping at Cal’s feet. Cal froze. He stared at the box, his pupils constricting violently. “What… what is this?” I bent down, carefully retrieved the urn, and wiped the dust off the surface. “This is my dad.” “Cal West, are you satisfied now?” 5. Cal stood rigid. His eyes darted between the urn and my face, struggling to process the image. “D-dead?” His voice was dry. “How is that possible? He was fine three days ago…” “Yes. He was fine three days ago.” I looked at him calmly. “If that two hundred thousand had arrived promptly, he would be recovering in the ICU right now.” “But alas, Secretary Price found the format incorrect.” “And alas, CEO West assumed I was trying to swindle him.” The air thickened to a solid mass. Kendall’s face was ashen. She instinctively moved to hide behind Cal. “Cal, I truly didn’t know… I thought she was making excuses to buy a new designer bag again…” Cal took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure and control. “Why didn’t you just come directly to me for something this critical?” he demanded. “If you had just asked me properly, I wouldn’t have said no! You insisted on using Concur, you chose to spite Kendall, Sandy—you caused the delay!” Ah. That was Cal West. The man who was never wrong. Even with a corpse at his feet, he could find a way to shift the blame to me. I didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. It was exhausting. “You’re right. It was all my fault.” I nodded. “So, I’m leaving. I won’t pollute your sight anymore.” “Give me my suitcase.” But Cal planted his foot firmly on the clothing scattered on the ground. It was the faded white T-shirt. “Leave? Where do you think you’re going?” “Don’t think using a dead person as leverage will make me forgive you. Get back inside!” He reached for me. I sidestepped his touch, grabbed his arm instead, and hauled him toward the villa. “What are you doing? Let go!” Cal roared. I ignored him, dragging him all the way up the stairs and into the master closet. Kendall scrambled behind us, panicking. “Sandy, please, don’t do anything crazy…” I pointed to the huge wall safe. “Open it, Kendall.” Kendall hesitated. I picked up a nearby golf club. “I said, open it.” The club crashed against the safe door with a deafening CRACK. Cal was stunned. He’d never seen me lose control like this. “Sandy, are you insane!” “Are you opening it or not?” I glared at Kendall. Terrified, Kendall pressed her thumb to the scanner. Beep. The safe door swung open. It was packed with dazzling diamonds, Hermès bags, and limited-edition watches. Cal scoffed, regaining his arrogance. “See? Have I not been good to you? Every single item in here is worth millions!” “Good to me?” I laughed. I dropped the golf club and pulled a thick wad of printed documents from my pocket. I slapped them hard across Cal’s face. The papers drifted down like snow.

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Five years after I lost my hearing, my world suddenly flooded back with sound. I was about to call for my wife, to tell her about the miracle, when I overheard her conversation with her assistant. “Mrs. Caldwell, they’ve harvested almost every organ they can from Mr. Ashworth. Are you really going to replace his heart with an artificial one now?” “This is the seventh operation. First, Grant Kingston killed Mr. Ashworth’s parents, and you planned that crash to cover the truth—to leave him a quadriplegic, a useless dependent.” “He is no threat to you or Grant now. Why won’t you even leave him his last, natural heart?” Sabrina’s voice was unnervingly calm. “I only ever approached Nolan because his tissue matched Grant’s perfectly. And he was a brilliant forensic investigator—I couldn’t risk him finding the truth. It would have ruined Grant for life.” “Once Nolan’s heart is transplanted into Grant, I can finally take the children and return to their real father.” “As for Nolan… I’ll care for him forever. I suppose that’s my compensation to him.” I collapsed onto the floor, my chest tearing open with a pain far greater than any surgery. The one who had orchestrated the brutal death of my entire family was the woman I had loved and trusted for twelve years. She had stayed by my side all this time, not for love, but to use my life, organ by organ, to save her true love! Sabrina. If this is what you truly wanted, then I will grant your wish. But not the way you think. 1 “I had to terminate three of Nolan’s children before I could finally carry Grant’s twins to term. I will never allow anything to happen to my children’s biological father.” “Once this heart transplant is complete, tell the surgeon to permanently cripple his hands, too. Grant can’t sleep at night, knowing those hands once touched me.” “Crippling him will put Grant’s mind at ease.” Cameron, Sabrina’s long-time assistant, spoke with a tremble in his voice. “Mrs. Caldwell, those hands are the only thing Mr. Ashworth can move. Your wedding to Mr. Kingston is scheduled, and you have his children… is it necessary to go to such an extreme? To destroy him so completely?” “If, by some remote chance, Mr. Ashworth ever learned the truth, I’m terrified of the consequences.” Sabrina frowned slightly. “What consequences could a living corpse, who relies on a machine to beat his heart, possibly bring me?” “Nolan is depressed and shuts everyone out but me, which is perfect—I can keep him hidden. Besides, what truth could a deaf man possibly hear?” “We’ll revisit all this after I’ve secured my future with Grant and the children.” Cameron’s face registered a flash of resentment, but he was resigned. He instructed the men to lift me onto the gurney. Tears pooled in the corners of my eyes. Through the door, I heard the doctor pleading. “Mrs. Caldwell, in Mr. Ashworth’s current state, this operation is tantamount to murder…” Sabrina’s voice cut through the air, cold and definitive. “Do as I say. I will take full responsibility for him, crippled or otherwise. If he dies, I’ll arrange a beautiful funeral. Now, start the procedure.” The doctor sighed, accepting his grim assignment as the gurney rolled into the operating room. Even a stranger showed more compassion than the woman who had shared my bed for a decade. The anesthesia hit me instantly, blurring my vision. But the pain in my soul only sharpened. I heard Sabrina’s assistant lower his voice and give his final report. “Mrs. Caldwell, the driver who took the fall for Mr. Kingston pleaded guilty in court. He insists he accidentally killed Mr. Ashworth’s parents.” “This must remain confidential. Nolan is physically and mentally shattered after so many operations. He cannot handle any more stress.” “Grant has been suffering from anxiety attacks since the drunk-driving incident. Once the surgery is a success, we can finally hold the wedding. There can be no mistakes this time.” “Understood.” The drugs paralyzed my body, but my hearing remained intact. Sabrina and her team were right outside the door, but I felt a gaping, cold wound in my chest. Grant Kingston was the one who had murdered my parents and mutilated their bodies! And Sabrina, my wife and a sharp lawyer, had broken the law by finding a scapegoat to protect her lover. Afraid I would uncover the truth, she then personally orchestrated the car crash that turned me into a useless dependent! She had even mercilessly aborted our three children, and then lied, claiming the twins were ours. I had clung to those two boys as my only reason to live. The depth of my pity was horrifying. “Tell the surgeon to be gentle. Nolan has already endured seven operations. I’m afraid he can’t take much more.” Sabrina covered her eyes, a look of manufactured guilt crossing her face. “It’s been so many times now. It still hurts my heart to see him wheeled into the operating room.” Cameron, who had been silent, finally couldn’t hold back. “Mrs. Caldwell, Mr. Ashworth worked night and day to put you through law school. Now, he’s the only one left of the Ashworth family. Even if you have no loyalty, shouldn’t you consider your future?” Sabrina glared at him. “Why are you suddenly taking his side today?” “What is so wrong with his life now? He doesn’t have to struggle; I provide him with everything. Even if everyone else is gone, he still has me, doesn’t he?” “For Grant and the children to have a complete family, isn’t it Nolan’s duty to make this sacrifice?” Her words twisted the knife deep in my sternum. The shattering pain of my hand bones being broken forced a gasp out of me. But the physical agony was nothing compared to the desolation in my heart. Twelve years of love—a catastrophic, bloody joke. Sabrina, your lies have damned us both. 2 When I woke again, I was tethered to a dozen tubes and wires. Seeing my eyes open, Sabrina quickly wiped away her tears, forcing a gentle, grief-stricken smile that looked painfully sincere. “Nolan, you scared me to death. I was so afraid you wouldn’t wake up this time.” “The doctor says your hearing is miraculously back, but your paralysis is permanent. Don’t worry, you are my beloved husband, and I will take care of you.” I turned my head away, unwilling to meet her gaze. A searing, needle-sharp pain shot through my chest, causing the artificial heart to emit a piercing, urgent alarm. “Nolan, don’t move. You struggled unconsciously during the surgery, and it caused permanent nerve damage in your hands. I authorized the amputation.” “But it’s okay. Even if you have to lie in bed forever, we still have our healthy twin boys, darling.” She motioned for the twins to come over, but the sight of them, knowing my three children were brutally erased, made my blood run cold. I wanted to kill them all. Seeing the cold sweat beading on my brow, Sabrina’s voice was full of manufactured concern. “Nolan, are you angry with me? Please don’t upset yourself. It hurts me to see you like this.” When I remained silent, she dropped to her knees beside the bed. Her wounded expression suggested she loved me desperately. For twelve years, I had drowned in this meticulously crafted illusion. Now, the veil had been ripped away. I silently waved my hand, finally managing a weak, choked phrase. “Stop it.” Sabrina cautiously took my hand. “Nolan, do you know? They replaced your heart with the newest model.” “The doctor said this artificial heart can support you for at least twenty years. Now I can finally rest easy. You’ll be by my side forever.” She continued to sing the praises of the machine heart, deliberately twisting the knife in my psyche. I stared blankly at the ceiling. Grant merely suffered from anxiety attacks, and she ordered my healthy, beating heart to be cut out. Again and again, she used my healthy organs to save the man who had murdered my family. She reduced a living man to a living corpse, and she was still lying. “Enough!” Sabrina, seeing my rage, gently wiped the sweat from my forehead, her movements as careful as if I were fragile, priceless art. “Nolan, if you don’t want to hear it, I won’t say it. Just calm down, okay?” To any observer, the scene would evoke a gasp of admiration: Attorney Caldwell truly is devoted to her husband. But they didn’t know the blade concealed beneath that tenderness. They didn’t know the deadly poison in every loving word. She had woven a twelve-year-long nightmare for me. Now, the dream had to end. Since I was still alive, I would personally settle the accounts, every last one of them. 3 A few days later, I told Sabrina I wanted to go home to visit my parents’ memorial. She couldn’t refuse, so she brought me back. All the way there, Sabrina talked about how the day after tomorrow was our twelfth wedding anniversary, and how she had prepared a big surprise for me. I looked at her, expressionless. If this was a fake marriage, what was the point of celebrating an anniversary? Even her pretense of love was physically sickening. Once we were home, Sabrina quickly found an excuse to leave the room. My parents’ black-and-white photos gazed down at me, their eyes gentle. I could only lie here every day, head bowed before those two urns, regretting my impotence, unable to seek vengeance or justice for them. I had prayed countless times for their peace and happiness in the next life. But when I overheard the maids’ conversation, the blood froze in my veins. “Oh, Mr. Ashworth is here again. Mrs. Caldwell ordered us to keep absolutely silent, but my conscience is killing me.” The maid’s voice dropped to a whisper, tinged with a deep sigh. “I know. Those urns—they don’t hold the remains of the old Mr. and Mrs. Ashworth!” “Before their funeral, Grant had the real ashes mixed into dog food and fed to the strays in the alley!” My fingers, gripping the wooden frame of the altar, trembled violently. “Poor Mr. Ashworth, kneeling here for twelve years, talking to an urn full of concrete dust…” For twelve years, I had bowed and wept before my enemy’s careless insult—cement dust! My parents, whom I begged for peace, had been utterly erased, their remains tossed to feral dogs by the killer! My vision blurred with rage, and I passed out. When I next opened my eyes, Sabrina and Grant were shamelessly having sex on the sofa in the living room. Sabrina’s voice was a soft, gasping moan. “Grant, is this a good idea in front of Nolan? Besides, we’re getting married in two days, can’t you wait?” Grant’s movements became more aggressive, his low, husky laugh dripping with malice. “Wait? I’m doing it right in front of this waste! It’s the ultimate rush! You always told me he was impotent, anyway.” “All these years, every time the waste wanted to touch you, you turned off the lights! You wanted to sneak me in, didn’t you?” “He still has no idea he never slept with you. He was sleeping with those escorts you hired, right?” Every word was a poison-tipped needle, plunging into my already ruined heart. I used the tiny, almost imperceptible movement I had left in my fingers to fish out my hidden phone. I sent a single text to the familiar number: [Get me out.] Almost the moment the message sent, the screen lit up faintly with a reply: [You’re finally awake. Wait for me. Tomorrow.] Sabrina, Grant. I will have blood for blood. 4 After sending the text, I immediately feigned unconsciousness. The next morning, Sabrina came to push my wheelchair, ready to celebrate our anniversary. Looking at her beaming face and the hickeys she had tried to conceal beneath a high collar, I felt an intense wave of nausea. Grant stepped forward, volunteering to take my wheelchair. Sabrina gave him a tender smile and walked ahead to the car. Grant immediately leaned down and shoved his phone toward me in a deliberate act of provocation. The screen lit up, showing a gruesome scene. It was the complete, uncensored video of my parents’ brutal murder and dismemberment! Their piercing screams shredded my eardrums; every cut felt like it was slicing through my own heart! Grant laughed cruelly, pressing his mouth close to my ear. “I killed them on purpose. Who told you to always be better than me? I wanted your woman, and I wanted your parents dead!” “And I was never sick. The anxiety attacks were fake. But your woman never asked questions, she just offered up your heart.” “I had your healthy heart preserved as a specimen. Oh, and your parents’ heads? I cut those off too. They’re right next to it. Want a tour?” My eyes were burning with pure, unadulterated hatred! I used every ounce of my meager strength to slam the wheelchair into Grant! He tumbled to the ground. Sabrina and her parents rushed over when they heard the commotion. Her parents immediately cradled Grant, then turned to yell at me. “You machine-dependent waste! How dare you lay a hand on Grant?!” “Exactly! Look at yourself! How do you compare to Grant?” “Our daughter is a successful lawyer! You’re nothing but dead weight! If you had any decency, you’d disappear yourself!” I shook with fury. Without me, their daughter would never have afforded law school, and they would never have escaped their impoverished life in the country. Yet now, they spat venom at me. Grant clutched his arm, feigning unbearable pain. Sabrina looked at me, her eyes arctic cold. “Nolan, are you done with this tantrum? Honestly, your parents deserved to die! You were hit by that car because you brought it on yourself!” I clutched my chest, coughing up a mouthful of blood. My parents deserved to die? I brought the crash on myself? I pointed a trembling finger at Sabrina, my voice raw and choked. “Who planned the murder of my parents? Where are our children? Sabrina, you know everything!” A flash of genuine panic crossed her eyes. “How would I know! Stop trying to change the subject!” She waved her hand dismissively, ordering the staff. “Throw him onto the back forty. Drag him back only when he has calmed down and is ready to apologize.” I gave her a long, cold stare. She was momentarily startled by the intensity of my look, then tried to coo. “You know I only love you, but you’re being unreasonable. Go calm down, and I’ll come get you. We can go have a private anniversary celebration later.” With that, she turned to walk away. I let out a silent, bitter laugh. The person coming to get me was already waiting, just across the street. I looked past her, toward what was once the Ashworth estate. It was now fully decorated, the scene set for her wedding to Grant. Her “surprise” was just a ploy to clear me out of the house, making room for their ceremony. It didn’t matter. Just as Sabrina and Grant raised their glasses for the toast, Cameron rushed in, interrupting the ceremony. “It’s terrible, Mrs. Caldwell! Mr. Ashworth knows the truth—he took his bags and left the country, alone!”

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On New Year’s Eve, I was just tucking the last of the lucky pennies into the homemade nuggets—our ridiculous, yet fiercely cherished family tradition for a prosperous year. That’s when my wife’s voice cracked from the entryway: “Carlton, this poor woman looks absolutely desperate. She’s been sitting out there all day, and it’s the holiday.” “I want to invite her in to celebrate with us.” I wiped the flour from my hands, smiling as I walked toward the hall. “Sounds good, plenty of food for an extra—” The older woman stood awkwardly in the foyer, her eyes wide with an almost frantic mix of deference and hope. “Carlton.” Just two syllables, and the smile instantly froze on my face. Ignoring Selena’s baffled expression, I walked straight past her and yanked the front door wide open. “Get out.” “Carlton, I just wanted to…” I didn’t understand. Why now? After more than two decades of silence, why come back? “Go. Now.” … The door slammed shut with a deafening, visceral THUD. The sudden shock made the festive garland on the frame shake. My daughter, June, still clutched an unwrapped candy in her hand. She tugged at my sweater, her voice a fragile whisper. “Daddy, that lady was crying, I think.” My face was a stone mask. I strode over and snatched the candy right out of her grasp. “Poison.” I didn’t hesitate. I dropped the candy directly into the kitchen trash, right in front of her small, shocked face. “June, how many times have I told you?” “You are never to take anything from strangers. You are never to talk to them. Do you understand?” My outburst terrified her. Tears pooled in her wide eyes, but she bit her lip hard, not daring to let them fall. She just nodded frantically. Selena was equally stunned by my rage. In our seven years of marriage, she had never seen me lose control like this. She walked over and gently took my hand, which was still shaking. Her eyes were filled with confusion and concern. “Carlton, you feed the stray cats in the neighborhood. What is going on? That woman didn’t look like a threat, she was dressed well, and on New Year’s Eve…” I couldn’t explain it. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I pulled my hand away, avoiding the searching look in her eyes. “Just drop it.” I had to shield her from the storm churning inside me. “I’m going to cook the nuggets.” I practically ran, escaping into the humid sanctuary of the kitchen. The water boiled, the plump dumplings tumbling in the white foam. Through the fogged-up window, I glanced down, a compulsive, self-destructive urge taking over. She hadn’t left. She was standing rigid, staring up at our window. The snow was coming down harder now, a thick white layer quickly accumulating on the shoulders of her expensive wool coat. My phone vibrated incessantly in my pocket. The neighborhood group chat was already blowing up. Mrs. Denton, Third Floor: “OMG, look at this old woman! Isn’t that a designer coat? Looks like an old-school Armani!” Sarah_TX: “Probably a knock-off. Who gets turned away by their family in an Armani coat?” Chad_Finance: “She’s probably some poor relative trying to shake down a homeowner for cash.” Grams_1948: “Her face is turning purple. If she freezes to death on our sidewalk, the insurance rates will be hell.” Reading those words, Selena couldn’t sit still anymore. She stood at the kitchen doorway, an umbrella in her hand, hesitating. “Carlton, maybe I should just go down? I could just give her the umbrella. What if something actually happens…” “Don’t you dare!” I spun around, the large slotted spoon in my hand trailing a spray of scalding water onto the floor. I threw the spoon down and lunged, gripping Selena’s sleeve so tight it must have hurt. My eyes were wild with pleading, even a hint of unspeakable terror. “Don’t go, Selena. Please. Don’t go.” She was visibly startled by the sheer hatred in my eyes. She sighed, set the umbrella back down, and took my trembling hand in hers. “Okay. Okay, I won’t. I’ll listen to you. We’ll stay put.” Dinner was silent, heavy with unspoken tension. June, who usually inhaled the nuggets, only managed two before putting down her chopsticks. She gave me a nervous, sideways look and quietly retreated to her room to draw. Selena silently cleared the plates, careful not to mention the woman downstairs again. After the dishes were done, she came out and found me missing. I was huddled in the corner of the balcony, knees drawn to my chest, my body shaking violently. A pair of warm arms wrapped around me from behind. Selena smelled faintly of lemon dish soap and home. She pressed her body against my ice-cold back, her chin resting gently on the crown of my head. “It’s okay, honey. I’m here. You’re safe.” I turned, burying my face in her shoulder, the tears silently soaking her shirt. We stayed like that for what felt like an eternity. Long after the last fireworks had faded outside. Finally, my voice raw and broken, I managed to speak. “Selena.” “That winter was so much colder than this one.” Her name was Sylvie Hawthorne. She was my biological mother, the golden-child princess of the old-money Hawthorne family. I remembered when I was a kid, she would lift me onto her shoulders so I could see the lights at the town carnival. Sylvie had given up a massive fortune for what she called “true love,” eloping with my father to this tiny, nowhere town. Life was hard, but for a while, we were happy. Dad worked as a technician in a factory. She knitted sweaters for extra money. We lived in a cramped duplex, eating simple meals, but the laughter never stopped. Every New Year’s Eve, she would hide a penny in one of the nuggets. She always marked it and made sure I was the one who got it. When I found it, she’d stroke my hair, her eyes crinkling with a beautiful smile. “Our Carlton is a lucky boy.” “You will live a life of peace and fortune, my son. I’ll make sure you have everything good in the world.” I genuinely believed I was the luckiest kid alive. Even without new clothes, even when we couldn’t afford meat. As long as I had her. But when I turned three, the nightmare began. I was diagnosed with a severe congenital heart defect. The doctor handed down the death sentence. The surgery was $100,000. In the early nineties, a time when a gallon of milk was a few bucks, that was an astronomical sum. It was enough to shatter any normal family. Sylvie went mad, selling everything valuable we owned. She even sold her only piece of jewelry, a jade pendant—her wedding gift. It was a drop in the ocean. Dad worked the most back-breaking shifts at construction sites. He even started secretly selling his blood. His arms were riddled with needle marks. But still, we couldn’t even cover the deposit for the operation. Watching me on that hospital bed, my breath shallow and weak, this once-proud woman finally broke. It was a stormy night. She bolted from the room. When she came back, she was a different person. The light had gone out of her eyes, replaced by a dark, volatile rage. She started complaining. She railed against poverty, against fate, against the tragedy of having me—her burden. She smashed things in our tiny apartment, shattering the only glass thermos we had. Dad held me, cowering in a corner, crying silently. And then, one day, she was gone. She left, and she never came back. What arrived instead was a middle-aged estate manager in a sharp, expensive suit. He stood in our cramped, depressing hospital room, holding a handkerchief to his nose in disgust. “Ms. Sylvie has returned to the city.” “She asked me to inform Mr. Tobias that she has realized this marriage was a mistake. A moment of youthful, foolish impulsivity.” The manager took a check from his briefcase and dropped it carelessly onto the nightstand. “This is a certified check for $100,000. It is compensation.” “You are not to contact Ms. Hawthorne ever again.” My father couldn’t believe it. He lunged at the manager’s sleeve, wild with denial. “No! Sylvie wouldn’t leave us! She went to raise the money for Carlton, didn’t she?” “She wouldn’t abandon us! She promised we’d be a whole family!” I, too, thought she was doing it to save me. I secretly rationalized it: Maybe she was forced. Maybe she’d come back for us once I was well. When I recovered. Dad and I stayed in that miserable rental apartment. He was waiting for her. I was waiting for her. Until a few months later. A group of cold-eyed men in black suits stormed our apartment. Their leader said they were acting on Sylvie Hawthorne’s instruction. They were here to sign the divorce papers. Dad refused. He held the one, faded family photo, screaming and pleading to see Sylvie one last time. “You’re making this difficult.” The leader sneered. They broke my father’s leg with a crowbar, right in front of me. The sickening snap of the bone is a sound I will never, ever forget. “Take the little bastard!” “You sign the papers, we release the kid!” I was forcibly dragged into the black sedan. My father, dragging his broken leg, crawled across the muddy ground, his fingernails digging trenches in the dirt. His clothes were soaked with blood. “Carlton! Give me back my son!” “I’ll sign! I’ll sign!” That agonizing scream became the nightmare that woke me up countless nights throughout my childhood. Finally, Dad’s trembling hand smeared a bloody print onto the divorce agreement. That night, he held me, his tears all dried up. He clutched the two halves of a shattered piece of jade—their engagement token. The jade was broken. Our family was broken. Months later, we saw her face on the front page of the paper. A whole spread detailing the upcoming engagement between the Hawthorne Group heiress and Damon Caldwell, the scion of the Caldwell dynasty. In the photo, the woman who once hoisted me onto her shoulders was draped in designer clothes, linked arms with a handsome man, looking radiant. It was a true power match, a merger of two empires. The moment Dad saw the paper. He coughed up a mouthful of blood right onto her smiling black-and-white face. He wouldn’t believe Sylvie had broken her promise. But what could he do? Drained of all savings from my surgery, and needing to care for me, Dad started working three jobs a day. He developed a chronic illness. That broken leg, never properly treated due to lack of money, left him permanently disabled. Every cold, wet day, the pain would be so bad he’d thrash in bed. He began to hallucinate, muttering from his sickbed: “Sylvie, Sylvie… why?” “Sylvie, did you come to see me?” The nurse just shook her head. “He’s fading, son.” I knew Dad wanted to see Sylvie. I heard the news: Sylvie was in town on a project inspection. She was leaving that day. I ran like a maniac to the downtown hotel. I had to bring her back. I had to let my father die without regret. I needed to ask her, was this real? Did she really abandon us? But when I finally reached the hotel entrance, gasping for air. What did I see? Sylvie Hawthorne, holding the hand of that handsome man, cradling a small boy in her other arm. The boy was wearing a pristine blue suit and holding the most expensive, limited-edition action figure of that era. A perfect, happy family of three. Sylvie bent down to kiss the boy’s forehead, her eyes filled with a tenderness that could melt stone. The tenderness that had once belonged only to me. I tried to rush forward, but a guard grabbed me. “Get away, you little tramp! Beat it!” I watched, helpless, as they got into a luxury sedan and sped away. I wouldn’t give up. I chased that car for three city blocks in the snow. My shoes were lost, and the ice was cutting my feet until they were bloody. I was screaming until my throat was raw: “Mom! Mom, look at me! It’s Carlton! Your father is dying! Please turn back!” But the car never stopped, not even for a second. She was sitting inside. Maybe she heard, maybe she didn’t. But she didn’t look back. When I finally limped, bloody and exhausted, back to the hospital. All I saw was a white sheet pulled over my father’s head. The nurse looked at me, her eyes full of pity and helplessness. “Kid, your dad waited for you…” “He kept staring at the door, refusing to close his eyes.” That day, I lost the father who loved me, and the mother who rejected me. I hated her. Reliving those memories, my tears came in a fresh, violent torrent. I grabbed Selena’s shirt, crying like a helpless child. “She killed my dad!” “She left me an orphan!” “Selena, why is she back now? If she was going to leave, why couldn’t she have stayed gone forever?” Selena listened, her eyes red-rimmed. She didn’t try to offer platitudes. She just held me tighter, her arms squeezing me so hard it felt like she was trying to absorb me into her very bones. “Carlton, stop. Don’t cry.” “You have me. You have June. We are your family now.” “You are not alone anymore.” She was right. I wasn’t alone anymore. I had Selena. I had June. But why did my heart still feel so desolate? The next morning, New Year’s Day, Selena had to go to work. June was still quiet and subdued from the night before, so I bundled her up and took her to the park across the street. The park was crowded. I sat on a bench, looking down at my phone to answer a quick holiday text. When I looked up again, June, who had been busy building a snow-fort, was gone! My heart seized in my chest. “June?” “June!” Silence. The horrifying images from two decades ago—the black suits, the forced car ride—flashed in my mind. I screamed her name, asking every person I saw. Until I rushed past a cluster of pine trees behind the playground. And I saw her. Sylvie Hawthorne was holding June’s hand! She was bent over, pushing something into June’s arms. June seemed to be struggling a little. In that instant, all reason evaporated. She was here to take the last remaining piece of my family, just like she took me to terrorize my father! I grabbed a large, hard slab of ice from a snowdrift. I charged. I swung the ice block and slammed it into Sylvie’s back! “Let her go!” A heavy, sickening thud. Sylvie stumbled, collapsing face-first into the snow. She lay there, motionless for a long moment. But whatever she was holding, she shielded fiercely. “Sylvie Hawthorne, you monster!” “You kidnapped me to threaten my father then, and now you’re trying to kidnap my daughter to threaten me?” I was hysterical, grabbing handfuls of snow and hurling them at her prone body. June was terrified by the sudden violence. She rushed forward and wrapped her arms around my legs, screaming. “Daddy! Don’t hit the nice lady!” “She was just giving me a snack!” I froze. Sylvie, grimacing in pain, slowly struggled to her feet. She wasn’t angry. She didn’t even bother to brush the snow off her expensive coat. Her first concern was the food scattered on the ground. “It’s dirty… It’s all ruined…” She looked distraught, like a scolded child, frantically trying to salvage the pieces. “Carlton… I saw the child was hungry…” “I saw her staring at the other kids’ fried chicken.” “This is still hot. I ran to the drive-thru just now and kept it tucked inside my coat so it wouldn’t get cold.” “You used to love this when you were little.” My eyes fixed on the familiar red and white cardboard bucket. When I was a kid, only on my birthday would Sylvie scrape together enough money to take me to KFC. She always ordered one meal, watched me eat it, and claimed she didn’t like grease. I stared at the snow-covered chicken, tears burning in my eyes. But I forced them back. “I don’t like it anymore.” Sylvie’s hand trembled as she reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a bank card. It was one of those old, flimsy magnetic strip cards, the edges worn white. “Carlton, it’s all my fault.” “There’s $5 million on this card. It’s the money from the sale of my grandmother’s estate.” “I know money can’t fix anything, but… please, take it.” “I want you and your father to be able to live comfortably.” She looked up at me tentatively. “Carlton, how is your father? Is he well?” “It’s been so long. I… I’d like to see him.” Hearing that, my crying stopped instantly. See my dad? What an outrageous, obscene joke. I stared at Sylvie, my gaze chilling to the core. “You want to see him?” A flicker of desperate hope ignited in Sylvie’s eyes. “Can I? Just from a distance. I won’t bother him.” “Fine. I’ll grant your wish.” I grabbed the collar of her expensive coat and dragged her back to our apartment. Sylvie stumbled behind me, offering no resistance. Once inside, I shoved her hard into the center of the living room. Then, I pointed to the small, simple memorial table in the corner and roared. “He’s right there! He’s looking at you now!” “Did you see him clearly?! This is the man you wanted to see!” Sylvie’s body seized up. She slowly, shakily, raised her head. Hanging in the center of the living room was a black-and-white photo. The man in the picture was young, handsome, with a gentle smile playing on his lips. The man she had supposedly loved all her life. He was staring down at her, cold and stern. Sylvie was struck as if by lightning. She froze, her whole being collapsing inward. Her lips worked frantically, a rasping sound caught in her throat, unable to form a single, coherent word.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390595”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The first time I met Victoria “Tori” Leighton, my benefactor, was on the day my mother was dying. The figure on the check she slid across the table could have bought my mother a new life, and mine along with it. “Be my boyfriend for three years, Andy. When the contract ends, the money is yours.” And so, I started wearing the clean, tailored white shirts, copying the style of Dominic “Dom” Keller, her idealized first love—her Original Sin. She treated me extravagantly. I wasn’t a hidden pauper; I was publicly her chosen partner. She purchased rare antiques for me, declared to the press that I would be the sole Mr. Leighton. The whole circle whispered that Tori Leighton, the ruthless CEO, had finally fallen for the scholarship boy she plucked from obscurity. It was an arrangement, a transaction, but I sank into it anyway. I let myself drown in the current of her brazen favoritism, allowing my own fragile love to grow unchecked. Until the month before the contract expired. Dom showed up on the Leighton doorstep, begging for help. He was running from a hit-and-run charge. That night, Tori gave me a new contract. “Andy, serve four years in prison for Dom. I’ll ensure your mother’s comfort and care for the rest of her life.” “And if I refuse?” I asked, my voice a shaky wire. “I will stop all of Helena’s treatment immediately. You have no choice, Andy.” She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “As compensation, I will still marry you when you get out.” Outside the window, sirens wailed, growing louder and closer. I looked at her, and the tears fell silently. … It was pouring rain on the day I was released. The winter chill of the rain hitting my skin was agonizing; I was still wearing the thin clothes from the summer day I went in three years ago. Four years of torment had stripped me of my youth and ruined the hands I had once been so proud of. Two fingers had been deliberately crushed, now a crooked, ugly mess of scar tissue that never healed right. The heavy iron gate groaned, slowly swinging open. For a stupid, desperate moment, I indulged a flicker of delusion: would she be there to meet me? But outside the gate, there was nothing but muddy ground and the downpour. I had been too greedy. She never loved me. The affection was a stage performance because I was a good enough stand-in. The public displays of devotion were a lie. She pulled me from the abyss, yes, but it was purely transactional, a way for us both to get what we wanted. I told myself that a thousand times, but the betrayal was still a knife twist, and the tears fell anyway. She was a splinter in my heart, and four years hadn’t been enough to dig her out. Wiping my face, I reached for the letter my mother had written me, tucked in my pocket. The paper warmed my heart. A car suddenly swerved, slamming on its brakes in front of me, splashing a sheet of muddy water over my clothes. Tori stepped out, holding a large black umbrella. Just like that day in the hospital, when I was signing my mother’s critical care forms and had nowhere left to turn, she descended like a god. Only then, my heart had hammered with a terrified kind of adoration. Now, looking at her face, there was only a toxic mix of need and loathing. The passenger window slid down. Dom leaned out and smiled at me. “Oh, look at you. Still in those thin summer clothes? Honestly, Tori, did you forget it’s January?” Tori’s gaze swept over me, her tone flat and distant. “He won’t freeze.” Dom’s spoiled, affected drawl—I’d spent years imitating that cadence for her, a thousand times over. Hearing it now, firsthand, gave me whiplash. The memory of all those days, when I was acting as him and reaping all of Tori’s affection, flashed before my eyes. “Sorry, baby had a little fever this morning, so Tori was delayed coming to pick you up…” I heard a child’s giggle from inside the car, and my hand trembled. In the four years I spent behind bars for Dom, they hadn’t just reunited; they’d built a family. I managed a self-deprecating twist of my mouth. She bundled me into the back seat. Her eyes flickered down to my mangled hand, and she stiffened for a single, fleeting second. There was a look of frustration—hard to read—in her eyes. The next second, she pressed a button on the control panel, and the vent in the back seat pumped out a rush of hot air. Then, a packet of tissues was thrown over her shoulder. I thought, for a desperate moment, it was pity, until her cold voice cut through the silence. “Dry yourself off. Don’t ruin Dom’s favorite cashmere seat cushions.” The last fragile piece of hope in my chest was drowned in that bucket of ice water. “Ms. Leighton,” I said, my voice rough. “Just take me to my mother.” She didn’t answer, slamming her foot down on the gas. The silence was thick with unspoken resentment; only the cheerful babbling of a child broke the tension. She used to hold me close and whisper, ‘Andy, let’s have a baby, just you and me.’ How much of her affection had been real? I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I did everything you asked! Why are you still keeping my mother from me?” I leaned forward, desperation sharpening my tone. “What’s next? What other service do you need? Is Dom facing a new felony that needs covering?” Her eyes finally met mine in the rearview mirror—dark and unreadable. Dom chuckled softly, an arrogant, superior sound, watching my desperation. The car sped through the rain, finally pulling up in front of the County Clerk’s Office—the Registry—in a bright, unambiguous stop. “Andy Virgil,” she said, her voice as calm as if discussing the weather. “I’m honoring the promise I made years ago. We’re getting married.” “Come on,” she added. “Let’s get this done.” The twenty-three-year-old version of me would have been ecstatic, joyously linking my arm through hers and running into the office. The thirty-year-old version of me felt only a crushing sense of dread and incomprehension. She hadn’t kept a single one of her other promises—why would this one matter? A fierce sense of instability washed over me. “Has something happened to my mother?” I asked, trembling. She glanced at me, a hint of mockery in her expression. “Have the letters and recordings my lawyer sent you these past few years been insufficient?” No. Just the day before my release, I had received a letter in Mom’s familiar handwriting. Seeing it had calmed my heart. If something had happened to her, I wouldn’t be standing here. I wouldn’t be alive. “Just go inside first,” she said, her voice softening slightly, a fake show of conciliation. “Sign the papers, and I’ll arrange for the best orthopedic surgeon to see your hand. Andy, be good.” It was always like this: she’d slap me, then offer a poisoned sweetener. She knew my only weakness, and she used the cruelest leverage possible. Dom spoke up from the front seat. “The kid needs a legal father on the birth certificate. My status is a little…complicated. Don’t worry,” he sneered, looking back at me. “A woman like Tori? I’d never let her go to a cheap substitute like you.” I clutched the letter in my pocket. I would see Mom soon. I couldn’t afford any more mistakes. I chose compliance once more, following her into the registry. Filling out the forms, signing, taking the picture. I wrote Andy Virgil one deliberate letter at a time. My twenty-three-year-old self had planned this day: a top photographer, cute props, matching designer outfits she’d made herself. Now, there was nothing. The clerk instructed us to sit in front of the backdrop. “Closer, please. And, ma’am, can you hold his hand? You look too distant.” Tori’s brow furrowed. She instinctively reached for my left hand. Her fingertips brushed the raw, empty space where my little finger and ring finger used to be. Her body froze. There was only jagged scar tissue and cold air where warmth should have been. “It’s… not right,” she murmured, pulling her hand back instantly, her face tight. “Let’s just take the picture.” I quickly tucked the ruined hand into my sleeve, a sick, hollow feeling in my chest. Tori’s face was unreadable, a mask of cold displeasure. The flash went off, and I flinched, instinctively closing my eyes. The unwelcome memory of her kissing my hands flooded my mind: “Andy, has anyone ever told you that you were born for the piano?” She said she chose to sponsor me, a boy whose family was bankrupt, only because she didn’t want me to abandon my musical path. Yet she was the one who personally destroyed me, ensuring I would never touch a piano again. Soon, two red marriage certificates were pushed across the counter. I opened mine. The photo was grotesque. She wore a heavy black designer coat; I was in a threadbare, faded T-shirt. Outside, she lit a cigarette, leaning against the car door and watching me. “The title of Mr. Leighton is yours, but let’s be clear.” Her eyes were cold smoke. “Every penny of the Leighton estate is Dom’s. You are a name on paper. A temporary prop. Don’t start thinking you’re above your station.” I gave a bitter, mocking smile. “Don’t worry. I’m completely under your thumb. How could I possibly have high standards?” She paused, unused to my new lack of obedience. “Sharp tongue. Looks like prison didn’t teach you manners.” I ignored the comment, meeting her glare head-on. “Can we go see my mother now?” In the tense standoff, Dom suddenly took off the silver ring on his finger. “For the sake of appearances, wear this. Just in case the old man gets suspicious.” I took the ring woodenly and tried to slide it onto my remaining middle finger. I was so thin, all bone and stretched skin, that the ring, this symbol of what should have been happiness, slid right off. Clink. It rolled onto the dirty floor mat beneath the seat. Tori let out a cold, dismissive laugh. “A man with no luck, can’t even hold on to a wedding band.” She bent down, retrieved it, and grabbed my hand, trying to forcefully push it back on. She tried several times, but it wouldn’t stay on the thin knuckle. Losing patience, she threw the ring onto the passenger seat with an angry hiss. “You’re nothing but skin and bones. Did you not eat in there?” She had infinite power; finding out about my suffering in prison would have been simple. But she had never once asked. Tori took a final drag, crushed the butt beneath her heel, and looked at me. “Your mother is in a high-end nursing facility out of town.” She got into the car. “We’ll go tomorrow. Tonight, you’re coming home with us.” I stood still, the refusal already in my throat, but I couldn’t speak it. I didn’t even have the cash for a cheap motel. I had nowhere to go. Head down, I climbed back into the car, watching as we drove into the exclusive, gated community downtown. Years ago, when Tori was first starting her company, she brought me to see this complex. She put her arm around my waist, pointing at the grandest villa by the lake. “When I make enough money, I’ll buy that one, and I’ll marry you.” I found out later that she’d already purchased the property. She’d only found me a small, beautiful apartment outside the city—a gilded cage—while this house, her real home, was kept for Dom. I was the kept boy, the substitute. And like an idiot, I had believed I had a place in her future. Dom leaned closer to Tori. “Honey, I’m still a little cold.” Tori reached out, adjusted the heat higher, and then took off her expensive coat to drape it over his shoulders. “Why didn’t you dress warmer? Your hands are ice.” Watching their easy intimacy, my chest constricted painfully. I remembered when I shivered once in her arms, and she instantly took me on a shopping spree, shutting down half the department store. I mentioned, once, that I missed seeing the stars. The next day, there was a massive telescope on our balcony, and a famous astronomer was on a live video call to explain the constellations to me. She used to come home, the first thing she’d do was pull me into a hug, kiss my jaw, and ask what I wanted for dinner. She remembered my favorite dishes, kept my prescription medicine handy for my bad stomach, and quietly covered me with a blanket when I worked late. The love was so overwhelming back then, it felt like it could swallow me whole. That was how I was drawn in, piece by piece. But it was all an act. She was a phenomenal actress, and I, a perfect fool. The housekeeper’s voice calling me upstairs snapped me out of the memory. I walked into the massive en suite bathroom, desperate for a hot shower. The imported, complicated shower system was too advanced. I must have hit the wrong button, because a column of icy cold water slammed down on my head. I gasped, soaked to the bone and shivering uncontrollably. That sudden, freezing drenching made one thing crystal clear: I was still a world away from her. As I fumbled to turn the water off, the bathroom door burst open. Tori rushed in, grabbing me and dragging me out. A gut-wrenching scream rose from downstairs. Dom was crying hysterically, clutching the child. Foam was on the baby’s lips, and blood streamed from its forehead—it looked like it had taken a terrible fall down the main stairs. In the ensuing chaos, I was shoved into the car with the rest of them, heading to the hospital. Watching Dom cry, cradling his child, I simply clenched my own wet clothes, swallowing my own suffering. The doctor was grave after the initial examination. “Severe blood loss. We need an immediate transfusion. However, the child has a rare blood type—Rh-Negative. We’re short on supply…” Suddenly, the reason for my hurried arrival, for my very existence in her life, snapped into focus. She hadn’t just brought me home; she’d brought me back to serve as a blood bag for her son. She grabbed my arm and shoved me toward the nurse. “Use his blood. He’s Rh-Negative, too.” The nurse approached with a needle. I took a stumbling step backward. Tori leaned close, whispering in my ear. “No blood today, no mother tomorrow.” The same leverage. Always my mother. Four years of prison, ruined hands, forced marriage, and now this coerced bloodletting—the new cruelty merged with the old hatred. In a blinding flash of fury, I lifted my hand and swung it at that familiar, commanding face. Smack! Tori’s head snapped sideways. She stared at me, disbelief twisting her features. I had always been compliant, never once even raising my voice, much less my hand. My palm stung, but a dark, twisted satisfaction erupted in my chest. “Tori Leighton,” I spat out, my voice ragged. “I am a person! I’m not a goddamn tool for you to use and discard!” But two fists are no match for hired muscle. The bodyguards quickly pinned me and dragged me to the collection room. “Andy Virgil, everything you are was given by me,” she said, her eyes blazing. “Don’t talk to me about blood. If I ask for your life, you have to give it.” I closed my eyes in despair, tears tracing tracks through the grime on my face. Four years in prison. I survived that. This pain is nothing. The red blood flowed through the clear tube. 200cc. 300cc. 400cc. I lost track of time. My breathing became shallow, and I could hear my heart thudding violently in my ears. “Is that enough yet?” Tori demanded, her voice tight with impatience. The nurse finally stopped, looking apologetic. “That’s plenty, ma’am.” I stumbled out of the collection room, using the wall for support. As I lifted my head, my eyes caught a framed landscape picture next to a notice board—a familiar scene. That corner. That exact painting. It appeared often in the video updates my mother sent me. A gigantic surge of adrenaline and elation shot through my veins. She’s here! She has to be! I stumbled toward the nurse’s station. “Excuse me, please. Is there a patient here named Helena Virgil?” The nurse typed a few keys. My breath hitched in my throat, my heart trying to beat its way out of my ribs. I was frantic to see my mother, terrified Tori would swoop in and stop me. I fixed my desperate gaze on the nurse’s face, only to see pity reflected in her eyes. “Helena Virgil? The late-stage liver cancer patient? She died two years ago.” My heart stopped. A massive ringing sound drowned out all other noise. “You… what?” “Yes. She passed away two years ago. The family signed the Do Not Resuscitate order, said they couldn’t afford treatment anymore. They picked up the ashes.” Couldn’t afford it? Tori promised me she would cover all the costs. I went to prison for her other man, lost my hands, gave her my soul—and she let my mother die, just to save money? A tidal wave of hate and self-loathing washed over me. My limbs went numb; I was suffocating. All those letters. All those videos. They were all fake. I have nothing left. The wind howled outside. I was shaking. I climbed onto the windowsill, taking one last look at this monstrous world. Down the hallway, I saw a doctor quietly relaying good news. Tori put her arms around a visibly relieved Dom. Their child must have stabilized. I didn’t hesitate. I threw myself forward, a final leap. In the blurred rush, I saw Tori, suddenly frantic, lunging toward me, grabbing my wrist. Her hands, usually so steady, were shaking violently.

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